* * * * *
Footnotes:
[182] 'The Conference:' this poem was published by our author inNovember 1763, soon after his elopement with Miss Carr.
[183] 'Dares starve:' this will suggest Burns's noble line, 'We daur bepoor, for a' that.'
[184] 'Shore:' Churchill, sunk in deep debt, was delivered from theimpending horrors of a jail, by Dr Peirson Lloyd, second master ofWestminster school.
[185] 'Ralph:' Mr James Ralph a hack author. See 'The Dunciad,' andFranklin's 'Autobiography.' He was hired by Pelham to abuse Sir R.Walpole, whom he had supported before.
[186] 'Whitehead:' author of 'Manners, a Satire.'
[187] 'Shelburne:' William Petty, Earl of Shelburne, afterwardsMarquis of Lansdowne.
[188] 'Calcraft:' John Calcraft, Esq., M.P., army agent andcontractor.
In Four Books.
With eager search to dart the soul, Curiously vain, from pole to pole, And from the planets' wandering spheres To extort the number of our years, And whether all those years shall flow Serenely smooth, and free from woe, Or rude misfortune shall deform Our life with one continual storm; Or if the scene shall motley be. Alternate joy and misery, 10 Is a desire which, more or less. All men must feel, though few confess. Hence, every place and every age Affords subsistence to the sage, Who, free from this world and its cares, Holds an acquaintance with the stars, From whom he gains intelligence Of things to come some ages hence, Which unto friends, at easy rates. He readily communicates. 20 At its first rise, which all agree on, This noble science was Chaldean; That ancient people, as they fed Their flocks upon the mountain's head, Gazed on the stars, observed their motions, And suck'd in astrologic notions, Which they so eagerly pursue, As folks are apt whate'er is new, That things below at random rove, Whilst they're consulting things above; 30 And when they now so poor were grown, That they'd no houses of their own, They made bold with their friends the stars, And prudently made use of theirs. To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd, And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd: The exotic science soon struck root, And flourish'd into high repute. Each learned priest, oh strange to tell! Could circles make, and cast a spell; 40 Could read and write, and taught the nation The holy art of divination. Nobles themselves, for at that time Knowledge in nobles was no crime, Could talk as learned as the priest, And prophesy as much, at least. Hence all the fortune-telling crew, Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue, Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face, Run up and down from place to place, 50 To gratify their friends' desires, From Bampfield Carew,[190] to Moll Squires,[191] Are rightly term'd Egyptians all; Whom we, mistaking, Gypsies call. The Grecian sages borrow'd this, As they did other sciences, From fertile Egypt, though the loan They had not honesty to own. Dodona's oaks, inspired by Jove, A learned and prophetic grove, 60 Turn'd vegetable necromancers, And to all comers gave their answers. At Delphos, to Apollo dear, All men the voice of Fate might hear; Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool, To take in wise men, play'd the fool. A mystery, so made for gain, E'en now in fashion must remain; Enthusiasts never will let drop What brings such business to their shop; 70 And that great saint we Whitefield call, Keeps up the humbug spiritual. Among the Romans, not a bird Without a prophecy was heard; Fortunes of empires often hung On the magician magpie's tongue, And every crow was to the state A sure interpreter of Fate. Prophets, embodied in a college[192] (Time out of mind your seat of knowledge; 80 For genius never fruit can bear Unless it first is planted there, And solid learning never falls Without the verge of college walls) Infallible accounts would keep When it was best to watch or sleep, To eat or drink, to go or stay, And when to fight or run away; When matters were for action ripe, By looking at a double tripe; 90 When emperors would live or die, They in an ass's skull could spy; When generals would their station keep, Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep. In matters, whether small or great, In private families or state As amongst us, the holy seer Officiously would interfere; With pious arts and reverend skill Would bend lay bigots to his will; 100 Would help or injure foes or friends, Just as it served his private ends. Whether in honest way of trade Traps for virginity were laid; Or if, to make their party great, Designs were form'd against the state, Regardless of the common weal, By interest led, which they call zeal, Into the scale was always thrown The will of Heaven to back their own. 110 England—a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow, Where without culture they arise And tower above the common size; England, a fortune-telling host, As numerous as the stars, could boast,— Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea, Who, versed in every modest lore, Can a lost maidenhead restore, 120 Or, if their pupils rather choose it, Can show the readiest way to lose it; Gypsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor, Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepared by arts, to them best known, To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it As easily as pick a pocket; 130 Scotchmen, who, in their country's right, Possess the gift of second-sight, Who (when their barren heaths they quit, Sure argument of prudent wit, Which reputation to maintain, They never venture back again) By lies prophetic heap up riches, And boast the luxury of breeches. Amongst the rest, in former years, Campbell[193] (illustrious name!) appears, 140 Great hero of futurity, Who, blind, could every thing foresee, Who, dumb, could every thing foretell, Who, Fate with equity to sell, Always dealt out the will of Heaven According to what price was given. Of Scottish race, in Highlands born, Possess'd with native pride and scorn, He hither came, by custom led, To curse the hands which gave him bread. 150 With want of truth, and want of sense, Amply made up by impudence (A succedaneum, which we find In common use with all mankind); Caress'd and favour'd too by those Whose heart with patriot feelings glows, Who foolishly, where'er dispersed, Still place their native country first; (For Englishmen alone have sense To give a stranger preference, 160 Whilst modest merit of their own Is left in poverty to groan) Campbell foretold just what he would, And left the stars to make it good, On whom he had impress'd such awe, His dictates current pass'd for law; Submissive, all his empire own'd; No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd. This sage deceased,—for all must die, And Campbell's no more safe than I, 170 No more than I can guard the heart, When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,— Succeeded, ripe in art and years, Another favourite of the spheres; Another and another came, Of equal skill, and equal fame; As white each wand, as black each gown, As long each beard, as wise each frown, In every thing so like, you'd swear Campbell himself was sitting there: 180 To all the happy art was known, To tell our fortunes, make their own. Seated in garret,—for, you know, The nearer to the stars we go The greater we esteem his art,— Fools, curious, flock'd from every part; The rich, the poor, the maid, the married, And those who could not walk, were carried. The butler, hanging down his head, By chambermaid, or cookmaid led, 190 Inquires, if from his friend the Moon He has advice of pilfer'd spoon. The court-bred woman of condition, (Who, to approve her disposition As much superior as her birth To those composed of common earth, With double spirit must engage In every folly of the age) The honourable arts would buy, To pack the cards, and cog a die. 200 The hero—who, for brawn and face, May claim right honourable place Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-row:[194] Who might, some thirty years ago, If we may be allow'd to guess At his employment by his dress, Put medicines off from cart or stage, The grand Toscano of the age; Or might about the country go High-steward of a puppet-show,— 210 Steward and stewardship most meet, For all know puppets never eat: Who would be thought (though, save the mark! That point is something in the dark) The man of honour, one like those Renown'd in story, who loved blows Better than victuals, and would fight, Merely for sport, from morn to night: Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue Is with the triple thunder hung, 220 Who cries to Fear, 'Stand off—aloof,' And talks as he were cannon-proof; Would be deem'd ready, when you list, With sword and pistol, stick and fist, Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks, At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box, But at the same time bears about, Within himself, some touch of doubt, Of prudent doubt, which hints—that fame Is nothing but an empty name; 230 That life is rightly understood By all to be a real good; That, even in a hero's heart, Discretion is the better part; That this same honour may be won, And yet no kind of danger run— Like Drugger[195] comes, that magic powers May ascertain his lucky hours; For at some hours the fickle dame, Whom Fortune properly we name, 240 Who ne'er considers wrong or right, When wanted most, plays least in sight, And, like a modern court-bred jilt, Leaves her chief favourites in a tilt. Some hours there are, when from the heart Courage into some other part, No matter wherefore, makes retreat, And Fear usurps the vacant seat; Whence, planet-struck, we often find Stuarts[196] and Sackvilles[197] of mankind. 250 Farther, he'd know (and by his art A conjurer can that impart) Whether politer it is reckon'd To have, or not to have, a second; To drag the friends in, or alone To make the danger all their own; Whether repletion is not bad, And fighters with full stomachs mad; Whether, before he seeks the plain, It were not well to breathe a vein; 260 Whether a gentle salivation, Consistently with reputation, Might not of precious use be found, Not to prevent, indeed, a wound, But to prevent the consequence Which oftentimes arises thence, Those fevers, which the patient urge on To gates of death, by help of surgeon; Whether a wind at east or west Is for green wounds accounted best; 270 Whether (was he to choose) his mouth Should point towards the north or south; Whether more safely he might use, On these occasions, pumps or shoes; Whether it better is to fight By sunshine or by candlelight; Or, lest a candle should appear Too mean to shine in such a sphere, For who could of a candle tell To light a hero into hell; 280 And, lest the sun should partial rise To dazzle one or t'other's eyes, Or one or t'other's brains to scorch, Might not Dame Luna hold a torch? These points with dignity discuss'd, And gravely fix'd,—a task which must Require no little time and pains, To make our hearts friends with our brains,— The man of war would next engage The kind assistance of the sage, 290 Some previous method to direct, Which should make these of none effect. Could he not, from the mystic school Of Art, produce some sacred rule, By which a knowledge might be got Whether men valiant were, or not; So he that challenges might write Only to those who would not fight? Or could he not some way dispense By help of which (without offence 300 To Honour, whose nice nature's such She scarce endures the slightest touch) When he, for want of t'other rule, Mistakes his man, and, like a fool, With some vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again? Or should some demon lay a scheme To drive him to the last extreme, So that he must confess his fears, In mercy to his nose and ears, 310 And like a prudent recreant knight, Rather do anything than fight, Could he not some expedient buy To keep his shame from public eye? For well he held,—and, men review, Nine in ten hold the maxim too,— That honour's like a maidenhead, Which, if in private brought to bed, Is none the worse, but walks the town, Ne'er lost, until the loss be known. 320 The parson, too, (for now and then Parsons are just like other men, And here and there a grave divine Has passions such as yours and mine) Burning with holy lust to know When Fate preferment will bestow, 'Fraid of detection, not of sin, With circumspection sneaking in To conjurer, as he does to whore, Through some bye-alley or back-door, 330 With the same caution orthodox Consults the stars, and gets a pox. The citizen, in fraud grown old, Who knows no deity but gold, Worn out, and gasping now for breath, A medicine wants to keep off death; Would know, if that he cannot have, What coins are current in the grave; If, when the stocks (which, by his power, Would rise or fall in half an hour; 340 For, though unthought of and unseen, He work'd the springs behind the screen) By his directions came about, And rose to par, he should sell out; Whether he safely might, or no, Replace it in the funds below? By all address'd, believed, and paid, Many pursued the thriving trade, And, great in reputation grown, Successive held the magic throne. 350 Favour'd by every darling passion, The love of novelty and fashion, Ambition, avarice, lust, and pride, Riches pour'd in on every side. But when the prudent laws thought fit To curb this insolence of wit; When senates wisely had provided, Decreed, enacted, and decided, That no such vile and upstart elves Should have more knowledge than themselves; 360 When fines and penalties were laid To stop the progress of the trade, And stars no longer could dispense, With honour, further influence; And wizards (which must be confess'd Was of more force than all the rest) No certain way to tell had got Which were informers, and which not; Affrighted sages were, perforce, Obliged to steer some other course. 370 By various ways, these sons of Chance Their fortunes labour'd to advance, Well knowing, by unerring rules, Knaves starve not in the land of fools. Some, with high titles and degrees, Which wise men borrow when they please, Without or trouble, or expense, Physicians instantly commence, And proudly boast an Equal skill With those who claim the right to kill. 380 Others about the country roam, (For not one thought of going home) With pistol and adopted leg, Prepared at once to rob or beg. Some, the more subtle of their race, (Who felt some touch of coward grace, Who Tyburn to avoid had wit, But never fear'd deserving it) Came to their brother Smollett's aid, And carried on the critic trade. 390 Attach'd to letters and the Muse, Some verses wrote, and some wrote news; Those each revolving month are seen, The heroes of a magazine; These, every morning, great appear In Ledger, or in Gazetteer, Spreading the falsehoods of the day, By turns for Faden and for Say.[198] Like Swiss, their force is always laid On that side where they best are paid: 400 Hence mighty prodigies arise, And daily monsters strike our eyes; Wonders, to propagate the trade, More strange than ever Baker[199] made, Are hawk'd about from street to street, And fools believe, whilst liars eat. Now armies in the air engage, To fright a superstitious age; Now comets through the ether range, In governments portending change; 410 Now rivers to the ocean fly So quick, they leave their channels dry; Now monstrous whales on Lambeth shore Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more; And every now and then appears An Irish savage, numbering years More than those happy sages could Who drew their breath before the flood; Now, to the wonder of all people, A church is left without a steeple; 420 A steeple now is left in lurch, And mourns departure of the church, Which, borne on wings of mighty wind, Removed a furlong off we find; Now, wrath on cattle to discharge, Hailstones as deadly fall, and large, As those which were on Egypt sent, At once their crime and punishment; Or those which, as the prophet writes, Fell on the necks of Amorites, 430 When, struck with wonder and amaze, The sun, suspended, stay'd to gaze, And, from her duty longer kept, In Ajalon his sister slept. But if such things no more engage The taste of a politer age, To help them out in time of need Another Tofts[200] must rabbits breed: Each pregnant female trembling hears, And, overcome with spleen and fears, 440 Consults her faithful glass no more, But, madly bounding o'er the floor, Feels hairs all o'er her body grow, By Fancy turn'd into a doe. Now, to promote their private ends, Nature her usual course suspends, And varies from the stated plan Observed e'er since the world began. Bodies—which foolishly we thought, By Custom's servile maxims taught, 450 Needed a regular supply, And without nourishment must die— With craving appetites, and sense Of hunger easily dispense, And, pliant to their wondrous skill, Are taught, like watches, to stand still, Uninjured, for a month or more, Then go on as they did before. The novel takes, the tale succeeds, Amply supplies its author's needs, 460 And Betty Canning[201] is at least, With Gascoyne's help, a six months' feast. Whilst, in contempt of all our pains, The tyrant Superstition reigns Imperious in the heart of man, And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan; Whilst fond Credulity, who ne'er The weight of wholesome doubts could bear, To Reason and herself unjust, Takes all things blindly upon trust; 470 Whilst Curiosity, whose rage No mercy shows to sex or age, Must be indulged at the expense Of judgment, truth, and common sense, Impostures cannot but prevail; And when old miracles grow stale, Jugglers will still the art pursue, And entertain the world with new. For them, obedient to their will, And trembling at their mighty skill, 480 Sad spirits, summon'd from the tomb, Glide, glaring ghastly, through the gloom; In all the usual pomp of storms, In horrid customary forms, A wolf, a bear, a horse, an ape, As Fear and Fancy give them shape, Tormented with despair and pain, They roar, they yell, and clank the chain. Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er The face of Courage it may wear, 490 Is still a coward at the heart) At fear-created phantoms start. The priest—that very word implies That he's both innocent and wise— Yet fears to travel in the dark, Unless escorted by his clerk. But let not every bungler deem Too lightly of so deep a scheme; For reputation of the art, Each ghost must act a proper part, 500 Observe Decorum's needful grace, And keep the laws of Time and Place; Must change, with happy variation, His manners with his situation; What in the country might pass down, Would be impertinent in town. No spirit of discretion here Can think of breeding awe and fear; 'Twill serve the purpose more by half To make the congregation laugh. 510 We want no ensigns of surprise, Locks stiff with gore, and saucer eyes; Give us an entertaining sprite, Gentle, familiar, and polite, One who appears in such a form As might an holy hermit warm, Or who on former schemes refines, And only talks by sounds and signs, Who will not to the eye appear, But pays her visits to the ear, 520 And knocks so gently, 't would not fright A lady in the darkest night. Such is our Fanny, whose good-will, Which cannot in the grave lie still, Brings her on earth to entertain Her friends and lovers in Cock-lane.
A sacred standard rule we find,By poets held time out of mind,To offer at Apollo's shrine,And call on one, or all the Nine.This custom, through a bigot zeal,Which moderns of fine taste must feelFor those who wrote in days of yore,Adopted stands, like many more;Though every cause which then conspiredTo make it practised and admired, 10Yielding to Time's destructive course,For ages past hath lost its force.With ancient bards, an invocationWas a true act of adoration,Of worship an essential part,And not a formal piece of art,Of paltry reading a parade,A dull solemnity in trade,A pious fever, taught to burnAn hour or two, to serve a turn. 20They talk'd not of Castalian springs,By way of saying pretty things,As we dress out our flimsy rhymes;'T was the religion of the times;And they believed that holy streamWith greater force made Fancy teem,Reckon'd by all a true specificTo make the barren brain prolific:Thus Romish Church, (a scheme which bearsNot half so much excuse as theirs) 30Since Faith implicitly hath taught her,Reveres the force of holy water.The Pagan system, whether trueOr false, its strength, like buildings, drewFrom many parts disposed to bear,In one great whole, their proper share.Each god of eminent degreeTo some vast beam compared might be;Each godling was a peg, or ratherA cramp, to keep the beams together: 40And man as safely might pretendFrom Jove the thunderbolt to rend,As with an impious pride aspireTo rob Apollo of his lyre.With settled faith and pious awe,Establish'd by the voice of Law,Then poets to the Muses came,And from their altars caught the flame.Genius, with Phoebus for his guide,The Muse ascending by his side, 50With towering pinions dared to soar,Where eye could scarcely strain before.But why should we, who cannot feelThese glowings of a Pagan zeal,That wild enthusiastic force,By which, above her common course,Nature, in ecstasy upborne,Look'd down on earthly things with scorn;Who have no more regard, 'tis known,For their religion than our own, 60And feel not half so fierce a flameAt Clio's as at Fisher's[202] name;Who know these boasted sacred streamsWere mere romantic, idle dreams,That Thames has waters clear as thoseWhich on the top of Pindus rose,And that, the fancy to refine,Water's not half so good as wine;Who know, if profit strikes our eye,Should we drink Helicon quite dry, 70The whole fountain would not thither leadSo soon as one poor jug from Tweed:Who, if to raise poetic fire,The power of beauty we require,In any public place can viewMore than the Grecians ever knew;If wit into the scale is thrown,Can boast a Lennox[203] of our own;Why should we servile customs choose,And court an antiquated Muse? 80No matter why—to ask a reason,In pedant bigotry is treason.In the broad, beaten turnpike-roadOf hacknied panegyric ode,No modern poet dares to rideWithout Apollo by his side,Nor in a sonnet take the air,Unless his lady Muse be there;She, from some amaranthine grove,Where little Loves and Graces rove, 90The laurel to my lord must bear,Or garlands make for whores to wear;She, with soft elegiac verse,Must grace some mighty villain's hearse,Or for some infant, doom'd by FateTo wallow in a large estate,With rhymes the cradle must adorn,To tell the world a fool is born.Since then our critic lords expectNo hardy poet should reject 100Establish'd maxims, or presumeTo place much better in their room,By nature fearful, I submit,And in this dearth of sense and wit—With nothing done, and little said,(By wild excursive Fancy ledInto a second Book thus far,Like some unwary traveller,Whom varied scenes of wood and lawn,With treacherous delight, have drawn, 110Deluded from his purposed way,Whom every step leads more astray:Who, gazing round, can no where spy,Or house, or friendly cottage nigh,And resolution seems to lackTo venture forward, or go back)Invoke some goddess to descend,And help me to my journey's end;Though conscious Arrow all the whileHears the petition with a smile, 120Before the glass her charms unfolds,And in herself my Muse beholds.Truth, Goddess of celestial birth,But little loved or known on earth,Whose power but seldom rules the heart,Whose name, with hypocritic art,An arrant stalking-horse is made,A snug pretence to drive a trade,An instrument, convenient grown,To plant more firmly Falsehood's throne, 130As rebels varnish o'er their causeWith specious colouring of laws,And pious traitors draw the knifeIn the king's name against his life;Whether (from cities far away,Where Fraud and Falsehood scorn thy sway)The faithful nymph's and shepherd's pride,With Love and Virtue by thy side,Your hours in harmless joys are spentAmongst the children of Content; 140Or, fond of gaiety and sport,You tread the round of England's court,Howe'er my lord may frowning go,And treat the stranger as a foe,Sure to be found a welcome guestIn George's and in Charlotte's breast;If, in the giddy hours of youth,My constant soul adhered to truth;If, from the time I first wrote Man,I still pursued thy sacred plan, 150Tempted by Interest in vainTo wear mean Falsehood's golden chain;If, for a season drawn away,Starting from Virtue's path astray,All low disguise I scorn'd to try,And dared to sin, but not to lie;Hither, oh! hither condescend,Eternal Truth! thy steps to bend,And favour him, who, every hour,Confesses and obeys thy power. 160But come not with that easy mienBy which you won the lively Dean;Nor yet assume that strumpet airWhich Rabelais taught thee first to wear;Nor yet that arch ambiguous faceWhich with Cervantes gave thee grace;But come in sacred vesture clad,Solemnly dull, and truly sad!Far from thy seemly matron trainBe idiot Mirth, and Laughter vain! 170For Wit and Humour, which pretendAt once to please us and amend,They are not for my present turn;Let them remain in France with Sterne.Of noblest City parents born,Whom wealth and dignities adorn,Who still one constant tenor keep,Not quite awake, nor quite asleep;With thee let formal Dulness come,And deep Attention, ever dumb, 180Who on her lips her finger lays,Whilst every circumstance she weighs,Whose downcast eye is often foundBent without motion to the ground,Or, to some outward thing confined,Remits no image to the mind,No pregnant mark of meaning bears,But, stupid, without vision stares;Thy steps let Gravity attend,Wisdom's and Truth's unerring friend; 190For one may see with half an eye,That Gravity can never lie,And his arch'd brow, pull'd o'er his eyes,With solemn proof proclaims him wise.Free from all waggeries and sports,The produce of luxurious courts,Where sloth and lust enervate youth,Come thou, a downright City-Truth:The City, which we ever findA sober pattern for mankind; 200Where man, in equilibrio hung,Is seldom old, and never young,And, from the cradle to the grave,Not Virtue's friend nor Vice's slave;As dancers on the wire we spy,Hanging between the earth and sky.She comes—I see her from afarBending her course to Temple-Bar;All sage and silent is her train,Deportment grave, and garments plain, 210Such as may suit a parson's wear,And fit the headpiece of a mayor.By Truth inspired, our Bacon's forceOpen'd the way to Learning's source;Boyle through the works of Nature ran;And Newton, something more than man,Dived into Nature's hidden springs,Laid bare the principles of things,Above the earth our spirits bore,And gave us worlds unknown before. 220By Truth inspired, when Lauder's[204] spiteO'er Milton east the veil of night,Douglas arose, and through the mazeOf intricate and winding ways,Came where the subtle traitor lay,And dragg'd him, trembling, to the day;Whilst he, (oh, shame to noblest parts,Dishonour to the liberal arts,To traffic in so vile a scheme!)Whilst he, our letter'd Polypheme,[205] 230Who had confederate forces join'd,Like a base coward skulk'd behind.By Truth inspired, our critics goTo track Fingal in Highland snow,To form their own and others' creedFrom manuscripts they cannot read.By Truth inspired, we numbers seeOf each profession and degree,Gentle and simple, lord and cit,Wit without wealth, wealth without wit, 240When Punch and Sheridan have done,To Fanny's[206] ghostly lectures run.By Truth and Fanny now inspired,I feel my glowing bosom fired;Desire beats high in every veinTo sing the spirit of Cock-lane;To tell (just as the measure flowsIn halting rhyme, half verse, half prose)With more than mortal arts endued,How she united force withstood, 250And proudly gave a brave defianceTo Wit and Dulness in alliance.This apparition (with relationTo ancient modes of derivation,This we may properly so call,Although it ne'er appears at all,As by the way of inuendo,Lucusis madeà non lucendo)Superior to the vulgar mode,Nobly disdains that servile road 260Which coward ghosts, as it appears,Have walk'd in full five thousand years,And, for restraint too mighty grown,Strikes out a method of her own.Others may meanly start away,Awed by the herald of the day;With faculties too weak to bearThe freshness of the morning air,May vanish with the melting gloom,And glide in silence to the tomb; 270She dares the sun's most piercing light,And knocks by day as well as night.Others, with mean and partial view,Their visits pay to one or two;She, in great reputation grown,Keeps the best company in town.Our active enterprising ghostAs large and splendid routs can boastAs those which, raised by Pride's command[207],Block up the passage through the Strand. 280Great adepts in the fighting trade,Who served their time on the parade;She-saints, who, true to Pleasure's plan,Talk about God, and lust for man;Wits, who believe nor God, nor ghost,And fools who worship every post;Cowards, whose lips with war are hung;Men truly brave, who hold their tongue;Courtiers, who laugh they know not why,And cits, who for the same cause cry; 290The canting tabernacle-brother,(For one rogue still suspects another);Ladies, who to a spirit fly,Rather than with their husbands lie;Lords, who as chastely pass their livesWith other women as their wives;Proud of their intellects and clothes,Physicians, lawyers, parsons, beaux,And, truant from their desks and shops,Spruce Temple clerks and 'prentice fops, 300To Fanny come, with the same view,To find her false, or find her true.Hark! something creeps about the house!Is it a spirit, or a mouse?Hark! something scratches round the room!A cat, a rat, a stubb'd birch-broom.Hark! on the wainscot now it knocks!'If thou 'rt a ghost,' cried Orthodox,With that affected solemn airWhich hypocrites delight to wear, 310And all those forms of consequenceWhich fools adopt instead of sense;'If thou 'rt a ghost, who from the tombStalk'st sadly silent through this gloom,In breach of Nature's stated laws,For good, or bad, or for no cause,Give now nine knocks;[208] like priests of old,Nine we a sacred number hold.''Psha,' cried Profound, (a man of parts,Deep read in all the curious arts, 320Who to their hidden springs had tracedThe force of numbers, rightly placed)'As to the number, you are right;As to the form, mistaken quite.What's nine? Your adepts all agreeThe virtue lies in three times three.'He said; no need to say it twice,For thrice she knock'd, and thrice, and thrice.The crowd, confounded and amazed,In silence at each other gazed. 330From Caelia's hand the snuff-box fell;Tinsel, who ogled with the belle,To pick it up attempts in vain,He stoops, but cannot rise again.Immane Pomposo[209] was not heardT' import one crabbed foreign word.Fear seizes heroes, fools, and wits,And Plausible his prayers forgets.At length, as people just awake,Into wild dissonance they break; 340All talk'd at once, but not a wordWas understood or plainly heard.Such is the noise of chattering geese,Slow sailing on the summer breeze;Such is the language Discord speaksIn Welsh women o'er beds of leeks;Such the confused and horrid soundsOf Irish in potatoe-grounds.But tired, for even C——'s[210] tongueIs not on iron hinges hung, 350Fear and Confusion sound retreat,Reason and Order take their seat.The fact, confirm'd beyond all doubt,They now would find the causes out.For this a sacred rule we findAmong the nicest of mankind,Which never might exception brookFrom Hobbes even down to Bolingbroke,To doubt of facts, however true,Unless they know the causes too. 360Trifle, of whom 'twas hard to tellWhen he intended ill or well;Who, to prevent all further pother,Probably meant nor one, nor t'other;Who to be silent always loth,Would speak on either side, or both;Who, led away by love of fame,If any new idea came,Whate'er it made for, always said it,Not with an eye to truth, but credit; 370For orators profess'd, 'tis known,Talk not for our sake, but their own;Who always show'd his talents bestWhen serious things were turn'd to jest,And, under much impertinence,Possess'd no common share of sense;Who could deceive the flying hoursWith chat on butterflies and flowers;Could talk of powder, patches, paint,With the same zeal as of a saint; 380Could prove a Sibyl brighter farThan Venus or the Morning Star;Whilst something still so gay, so new,The smile of approbation drew,And females eyed the charming man,Whilst their hearts flutter'd with their fan;Trifle, who would by no means missAn opportunity like this,Proceeding on his usual plan,Smiled, stroked his chin, and thus began: 390'With shears or scissors, sword or knife,When the Fates cut the thread of life,(For if we to the grave are sent,No matter with what instrument)The body in some lonely spot,On dunghill vile, is laid to rot,Or sleep among more holy deadWith prayers irreverently read;The soul is sent where Fate ordains,To reap rewards, to suffer pains. 400The virtuous to those mansions goWhere pleasures unembitter'd flow,Where, leading up a jocund band,Vigour and Youth dance hand in hand,Whilst Zephyr, with harmonious gales,Pipes softest music through the vales,And Spring and Flora, gaily crown'd,With velvet carpet spread the ground;With livelier blush where roses bloom,And every shrub expires perfume; 410Where crystal streams meandering glide,Where warbling flows the amber tide;Where other suns dart brighter beams,And light through purer ether streams.Far other seats, far different state,The sons of Wickedness await.Justice (not that old hag I meanWho's nightly in the Garden seen[211],Who lets no spark of mercy rise,For crimes, by which men lose their eyes; 420Nor her who, with an equal hand,Weighs tea and sugar in the Strand;Nor her who, by the world deem'd wise,Deaf to the widow's piercing cries,Steel'd 'gainst the starving orphan's tears,On pawns her base tribunal rears;But her who after death presides,Whom sacred Truth unerring guides;Who, free from partial influence,Nor sinks nor raises evidence, 430Before whom nothing's in the dark,Who takes no bribe, and keeps no clerk)Justice, with equal scale below,In due proportion weighs out woe,And always with such lucky aimKnows punishments so fit to frame,That she augments their grief and pain,Leaving no reason to complain.Old maids and rakes are join'd together,Coquettes and prudes, like April weather. 440Wit's forced to chum with Common-Sense,And Lust is yoked to Impotence.Professors (Justice so decreed)Unpaid, must constant lectures read;On earth it often doth befall,They're paid, and never read at all.Parsons must practise what they teach,And bishops are compell'd to preach.She who on earth was nice and prim,Of delicacy full, and whim; 450Whose tender nature could not bearThe rudeness of the churlish air,Is doom'd, to mortify her pride,The change of weather to abide,And sells, whilst tears with liquor mix,Burnt brandy on the shore of Styx.Avaro[212], by long use grown boldIn every ill which brings him gold,Who his Reedemer would pull down,And sell his God for half-a-crown; 460Who, if some blockhead should be willingTo lend him on his soul a shilling,A well-made bargain would esteem it,And have more sense than to redeem it,Justice shall in those shades confine,To drudge for Plutus in the mine,All the day long to toil and roar,And, cursing, work the stubborn ore,For coxcombs here, who have no brains,Without a sixpence for his pains: 470Thence, with each due return of night,Compell'd, the tall, thin, half-starved spriteShall earth revisit, and surveyThe place where once his treasure lay,Shall view the stall where holy Pride,With letter'd Ignorance allied,Once hail'd him mighty and adored,Descended to another lord:Then shall he, screaming, pierce the air,Hang his lank jaws, and scowl despair; 480Then shall he ban at Heaven's decrees,And, howling, sink to Hell for ease.Those who on earth through life have pass'dWith equal pace from first to last,Nor vex'd with passions nor with spleen,Insipid, easy, and serene;Whose heads were made too weak to bearThe weight of business, or of care;Who, without merit, without crime,Contrive to while away their time; 490Nor good nor bad, nor fools nor wits,Mild Justice, with a smile, permitsStill to pursue their darling plan,And find amusement how they can.The beau, in gaudiest plumage dress'd,With lucky fancy o'er the restOf air a curious mantle throws,And chats among his brother beaux;Or, if the weather's fine and clear,No sign of rain or tempest near, 500Encouraged by the cloudless day,Like gilded butterflies at play,So lively all, so gay, so brisk,In air they flutter, float, and frisk.The belle (what mortal doth not knowBelles after death admire a beau?)With happy grace renews her artTo trap the coxcomb's wandering heart;And, after death as whilst they live,A heart is all which beaux can give. 510In some still, solemn, sacred shade,Behold a group of authors laid,Newspaper wits, and sonneteers,Gentleman bards, and rhyming peers,Biographers, whose wondrous worthIs scarce remember'd now on earth,Whom Fielding's humour led astray,And plaintive fops, debauch'd by Gray,All sit together in a ring,And laugh and prattle, write and sing. 520On his own works, with Laurel crown'd,Neatly and elegantly bound,(For this is one of many rules,With writing lords, and laureate fools,And which for ever must succeedWith other lords who cannot read,However destitute of wit,To make their works for bookcase fit)Acknowledged master of those seats,Gibber his Birth-day Odes repeats. 530With triumph now possess that seat,With triumph now thy Odes repeat;Unrivall'd vigils proudly keep,Whilst every hearer's lull'd to sleep;But know, illustrious bard! when Fate,Which still pursues thy name with hate,The regal laurel blasts, which nowBlooms on the placid Whitehead's brow,Low must descend thy pride and fame,And Cibber's be the second name.'— 540Here Trifle cough'd, (for coughing stillBears witness of the speaker's skill,A necessary piece of art,Of rhetoric an essential part,And adepts in the speaking tradeKeep a cough by them ready made,Which they successfully dispenseWhen at a loss for words or sense)Here Trifle cough'd, here paused—but whileHe strove to recollect his smile, 550That happy engine of his art,Which triumph'd o'er the female heart,Credulity, the child of Folly,Begot on cloister'd Melancholy,Who heard, with grief, the florid foolTurn sacred things to ridicule,And saw him, led by Whim away,Still further from the subject stray,Just in the happy nick, aloud,In shape of Moore[213], address'd the crowd: 560'Were we with patience here to sit,Dupes to the impertinence of Wit,Till Trifle his harangue should end,A Greenland night we might attend,Whilst he, with fluency of speech,Would various mighty nothings teach'—(Here Trifle, sternly looking down,Gravely endeavour'd at a frown,But Nature unawares stept in,And, mocking, turn'd it to a grin)— 570'And when, in Fancy's chariot hurl'd,We had been carried round the world,Involved in error still and doubt,He'd leave us where we first set out.Thus soldiers (in whose exerciseMaterial use with grandeur vies)Lift up their legs with mighty pain,Only to set them down again.Believe ye not (yes, all, I see,In sound belief concur with me) 580That Providence, for worthy ends,To us unknown, this spirit sends?Though speechless lay the trembling tongue,Your faith was on your features hung;Your faith I in your eyes could see,When all were pale and stared like me.But scruples to prevent, and rootOut every shadow of dispute,Pomposo, Plausible, and I,With Fanny, have agreed to try 590A deep concerted scheme—this nightTo fix or to destroy her quite.If it be true, before we've done,We'll make it glaring as the sun;If it be false, admit no doubtEre morning's dawn we'll find it out.Into the vaulted womb of Death,Where Fanny now, deprived of breath,Lies festering, whilst her troubled spriteAdds horror to the gloom of night, 600Will we descend, and bring from thenceProofs of such force to Common-Sense,Vain triflers shall no more deceive,And atheists tremble and believe.'He said, and ceased; the chamber rungWith due applause from every tongue:The mingled sound (now let me see—Something by way of simile)Was it more like Strymonian cranes,Or winds, low murmuring, when it rains. 610Or drowsy hum of clustering bees,Or the hoarse roar of angry seas?Or (still to heighten and explain,For else our simile is vain)Shall we declare it like all four,A scream, a murmur, hum, and roar?Let Fancy now, in awful state,Present this great triumvirate,(A method which received we find,In other cases, by mankind) 620Elected with a joint consent,All fools in town to represent.The clock strikes twelve—Moore starts and swears.In oaths, we know, as well as prayers,Religion lies, and a church-brotherMay use at will, or one, or t'other;Plausible from his cassock drewA holy manual, seeming new;A book it was of private prayer,But not a pin the worse for wear: 630For, as we by-the-bye may say,None but small saints in private pray.Religion, fairest maid on earth!As meek as good, who drew her birthFrom that bless'd union, when in heavenPleasure was bride to Virtue given;Religion, ever pleased to pray,Possess'd the precious gift one day;Hypocrisy, of Cunning born,Crept in and stole it ere the morn; 640Whitefield, that greatest of all saints,Who always prays and never faints,(Whom she to her own brothers bore,Rapine and Lust, on Severn's shore)Received it from the squinting dame;From him to Plausible it came,Who, with unusual care oppress'd,Now, trembling, pull'd it from his breast;Doubts in his boding heart arise,And fancied spectres blast his eyes, 650Devotion springs from abject fear,And stamps his prayers for once sincere.Pomposo, (insolent and loud,Vain idol of a scribbling crowd,Whose very name inspires an awe,Whose every word is sense and law,For what his greatness hath decreed,Like laws of Persia and of Mede,Sacred through all the realm of Wit,Must never of repeal admit; 660Who, cursing flattery, is the toolOf every fawning, flattering fool;Who wit with jealous eye surveys,And sickens at another's praise;Who, proudly seized of Learning's throne,Now damns all learning but his own;Who scorns those common wares to trade in,Reasoning, convincing, and persuading,But makes each sentence current passWith puppy, coxcomb, scoundrel, ass; 670For 'tis with him a certain rule,The folly's proved when he calls fool;Who, to increase his native strength,Draws words six syllables in length,With which, assisted with a frownBy way of club, he knocks us down;Who 'bove the vulgar dares to rise,And sense of decency defies;For this same decency is madeOnly for bunglers in the trade, 680And, like the cobweb laws, is stillBroke through by great ones when they will)—Pomposo, with strong sense supplied,Supported, and confirm'd by Pride,His comrades' terrors to beguile'Grinn'd horribly a ghastly smile:'Features so horrid, were it light,Would put the Devil himself to flight.Such were the three in name and worthWhom Zeal and Judgment singled forth 690To try the sprite on Reason's plan,Whether it was of God or man.Dark was the night; it was that hourWhen Terror reigns in fullest power,When, as the learn'd of old have said,The yawning Grave gives up her dead;When Murder, Rapine by her side,Stalks o'er the earth with giant stride;Our Quixotes (for that knight of oldWas not in truth by half so bold, 700Though Reason at the same time cries,'Our Quixotes are not half so wise,'Since they, with other follies, boastAn expedition 'gainst a ghost)Through the dull deep surrounding gloom,In close array, towards Fanny's tomb[214]Adventured forth; Caution before,With heedful step, the lantern bore,Pointing at graves; and in the rear,Trembling, and talking loud, went Fear. 710The churchyard teem'd—the unsettled ground,As in an ague, shook around;While, in some dreary vault confined,Or riding on the hollow wind,Horror, which turns the heart to stone,In dreadful sounds was heard to groan.All staring, wild, and out of breath,At length they reach the place of Death.A vault it was, long time appliedTo hold the last remains of Pride: 720No beggar there, of humble race,And humble fortunes, finds a place;To rest in pomp as well as ease,The only way's to pay the fees.Fools, rogues, and whores, if rich and great,Proud even in death, here rot in state.No thieves disrobe the well-dress'd dead;No plumbers steal the sacred lead;Quiet and safe the bodies lie;No sextons sell, no surgeons buy. 730Thrice, each the ponderous key applied,And thrice to turn it vainly tried,Till taught by Prudence to unite,And straining with collected might,The stubborn wards resist no more,But open flies the growling door.Three paces back they fell amazed,Like statues stood, like madmen gazed;The frighted blood forsakes the face,And seeks the heart with quicker pace; 740The throbbing heart its fear declares,And upright stand the bristled hairs;The head in wild distraction swims,Cold sweats bedew the trembling limbs;Nature, whilst fears her bosom chill,Suspends her powers, and life stands still.Thus had they stood till now; but Shame(An useful, though neglected dame,By Heaven design'd the friend of man,Though we degrade her all we can, 750And strive, as our first proof of wit,Her name and nature to forget)Came to their aid in happy hour,And with a wand of mighty powerStruck on their hearts; vain fears subside,And, baffled, leave the field to Pride.Shall they, (forbid it, Fame!) shall theyThe dictates of vile Pear obey?Shall they, the idols of the Town,To bugbears, fancy-form'd, bow down? 760Shall they, who greatest zeal express'd,And undertook for all the rest,Whose matchless courage all admire,Inglorious from the task retire?How would the wicked ones rejoice,And infidels exalt their voice,If Moore and Plausible were found,By shadows awed, to quit their ground?How would fools laugh, should it appearPomposo was the slave of fear? 770'Perish the thought! Though to our eyes,In all its terrors, Hell should rise;Though thousand ghosts, in dread array,With glaring eyeballs, cross our way;Though Caution, trembling, stands aloof,Still we will on, and dare the proof.'They said; and, without further halt,Dauntless march'd onward to the vault.What mortal men, who e'er drew breath,Shall break into the house of Death, 780With foot unhallow'd, and from thenceThe mysteries of that state dispense,Unless they, with due rites, prepareTheir weaker sense such sights to bear,And gain permission from the state,On earth their journal to relate?Poets themselves, without a crime,Cannot attempt it e'en in rhyme,But always, on such grand occasion,Prepare a solemn invocation, 790A posy for grim Pluto weave,And in smooth numbers ask his leave.But why this caution? why prepareRites, needless now? for thrice in airThe Spirit of the Night hath sneezed,And thrice hath clapp'd his wings, well-pleased.Descend then, Truth, and guard thy side,My Muse, my patroness, and guide!Let others at invention aim,And seek by falsities for fame; 800Our story wants not, at this time,Flounces and furbelows in rhyme;Relate plain facts; be brief and bold;And let the poets, famed of old,Seek, whilst our artless tale we tell,In vain to find a parallel:Silent all three went in; aboutAll three turn'd, silent, and came out.