Gentle love, the next ingredient in the true hero's composition, is a mere bird of passage, or (as Shakspeare calls it) summer-teeming lust, and evaporates in the heat of youth; doubtless, by that refinement, it suffers in passing through those certain strainers which our poet somewhere speaketh of. But when it is let alone to work upon the lees, it acquireth strength by old age, and becometh a lasting ornament to the little epic. It is true, indeed, there is one objection to its fitness for such a use: for not only the ignorant may think it common, but it is admitted to be so, even by him who best knoweth its value. 'Don't you think,' argueth he, 'to say only a man has his whore,207ought to go for little or nothing? Becausedefendit numerus; take the first ten thousand men you meet, and I believe you would be no loser if you betted ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another, had been guilty of the same frailty.'208But here he seemeth not to have done justice to himself: the man is sure enough a hero who hath his lady at fourscore. How doth his modesty herein lessen the merit of a whole well-spent life: not taking to himself the commendation (which Horace accounted the greatest in a theatrical character) of continuing to the very dregs the same he was from the beginning,
... 'Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto processerat' ...
But here, in justice both to the poet and the hero, let us further remark, that the calling her his whore implieth she was his own, and not his neighbour's. Truly a commendable continence! and such as Scipio himself must have applauded. For how much self-denial was exerted not to covet his neighbour's whore? and what disorders must the coveting her have occasioned in that society where (according to this political calculator) nine in ten of all ages have their concubines!
We have now, as briefly as we could devise, gone through the three constituent qualities of either hero. But it is not in any, or in all of these, that heroism properly or essentially resideth. It is a lucky result rather from the collision of these lively qualities against one another. Thus, as from wisdom, bravery, and love, ariseth magnanimity, the object of admiration, which is the aim of the greater epic; so from vanity, impudence, and debauchery, springeth buffoonery, the source of ridicule, that 'laughing ornament,' as he well termeth it,209of the little epic.
He is not ashamed (God forbid he ever should be ashamed!) of this character, who deemeth that not reason, but risibility, distinguisheth the human species from the brutal. 'As nature,' saith this profound philosopher, 'distinguished our species from the mute creation by our risibility, her design must have been by that faculty as evidently to raise our happiness, as by ouros sublime(our erected faces) to lift the dignity of our form above them.'210All this considered, how complete a hero must he be, as well as how happy a man, whose risibility lieth not barely in his muscles, as in the common sort, but (as himself informeth us) in his very spirits! and whoseos sublimeis not simply an erect face, but a brazen head, as should seem by his preferring it to one of iron, said to belong to the late king of Sweden!211
But whatever personal qualities a hero may have, the examples of Achilles and Aeneas show us, that all those are of small avail without the constant assistance of the gods—for the subversion and erection of empires have never been adjudged the work of man. How greatly soever, then, we may esteem of his high talents, we can hardly conceive his personal prowess alone sufficient to restore the decayed empire of Dulness. So weighty an achievement must require the particular favour and protection of the great—who, being the natural patrons and supporters of letters, as the ancient gods were of Troy, must first be drawn off and engaged in another interest, before the total subversion of them can be accomplished. To surmount, therefore, this last and greatest difficulty, we have, in this excellent man, a professed favourite and intimado of the great. And look, of what force ancient piety was to draw the gods into the party of Aeneas, that, and much stronger, is modern incense, to engage the great in the party of Dulness.
Thus have we essayed to portray or shadow out this noble imp of fame. But now the impatient reader will be apt to say, if so many and various graces go to the making up a hero, what mortal shall suffice to bear his character? Ill hath he read who seeth not, in every trace of this picture, that individual, all-accomplished person, in whom these rare virtues and lucky circumstances have agreed to meet and concentre with the strongest lustre and fullest harmony.
The good Scriblerus indeed—nay, the world itself—might be imposed on, in the late spurious editions, by I can't tell what sham hero or phantom; but it was not so easy to impose on him whom this egregious error most of all concerned. For no sooner had the fourth book laid open the high and swelling scene, but he recognised his own heroic acts; and when he came to the words—
'Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines,'
(though laureate imply no more than one crowned with laurel, as befitteth any associate or consort in empire), he loudly resented this indignity to violated majesty—indeed, not without cause, he being there represented as fast asleep; so misbeseeming the eye of empire, which, like that of Providence, should never doze nor slumber. 'Hah!' saith he, 'fast asleep, it seems! that's a little too strong. Pert and dull at least you might have allowed me, but as seldom asleep as any fool.'212However, the injured hero may comfort himself with this reflection, that though it be a sleep, yet it is not the sleep of death, but of immortality. Here he will live213at least, though not awake; and in no worse condition than many an enchanted warrior before him. The famous Durandarte, for instance, was, like him, cast into a long slumber by Merlin, the British bard and necromancer; and his example, for submitting to it with a good grace, might be of use to our hero. For that disastrous knight being sorely pressed or driven to make his answer by several persons of quality, only replied with a sigh—'Patience, and shuffle the cards.'214
But now, as nothing in this world, no, not the most sacred or perfect things either of religion or government, can escape the sting of envy, methinks I already hear these carpers objecting to the clearness of our hero's title.
It would never (say they) have been esteemed sufficient to make an hero for the Iliad or Aeneis, that Achilles was brave enough to overturn one empire, or Aeneas pious enough to raise another, had they not been goddess-born, and princes bred. What, then, did this author mean by erecting a player instead of one of his patrons (a person 'never a hero even on the stage,'215) to this dignity of colleague in the empire of Dulness, and achiever of a work that neither old Omar, Attila, nor John of Leyden could entirely bring to pass?
To all this we have, as we conceive, a sufficient answer from the Roman historian,Fabrum esse suae quemque fortunae: That every man is the smith of his own fortune. The politic Florentine, Nicholas Machiavel, goeth still further, and affirmeth that a man needeth but to believe himself a hero to be one of the worthiest. 'Let him (saith he) but fancy himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to achieve them.' From this principle it follows, that nothing can exceed our hero's prowess; as nothing ever equalled the greatness of his conceptions. Hear how he constantly paragons himself; at one time to Alexander the Great and Charles XII of Sweden, for the excess and delicacy of his ambition;216to Henry IV of France for honest policy;217to the first Brutus, for love of liberty;218and to Sir Robert Walpole, for good government while in power.219At another time, to the godlike Socrates, for his diversions and amusements;220to Horace, Montaigne, and Sir William Temple for an elegant vanity that maketh them for ever read and admired;221to two Lord Chancellors, for law, from whom, when confederate against him at the bar, he carried away the prize of eloquence;222and, to say all in a word, to the right reverend the Lord Bishop of London himself, in the art of writing pastoral letters.223
Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceit. In his early youth he met the Revolution224face to face in Nottingham, at a time when his betters contented themselves with following her. It was here he got acquainted with old Battle-array, of whom he hath made so honourable mention in one of his immortal odes. But he shone in courts as well as camps. He was called up when the nation fell in labour of this Revolution;225and was a gossip at her christening, with the bishop and the ladies.226
As to his birth, it is true he pretended no relation either to heathen god or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of both.227And that he did not pass himself on the world for a hero as well by birth as education was his own fault: for his lineage he bringeth into his life as an anecdote, and is sensible he had it in his power to be thought he was nobody's son at all:228And what is that but coming into the world a hero?
But be it (the punctilious laws of epic poesy so requiring) that a hero of more than mortal birth must needs be had, even for this we have a remedy. We can easily derive our hero's pedigree from a goddess of no small power and authority amongst men, and legitimate and install him after the right classical and authentic fashion: for like as the ancient sages found a son of Mars in a mighty warrior, a son of Neptune in a skilful seaman, a son of Phoebus in a harmonious poet, so have we here, if need be, a son of Fortune in an artful gamester. And who fitter than the offspring of Chance to assist in restoring the empire of Night and Chaos?
There is, in truth, another objection, of greater weight, namely, 'That this hero still existeth, and hath not yet finished his earthly course. For if Solon said well, that no man could be called happy till his death, surely much less can any one, till then, be pronounced a hero, this species of men being far more subject than others to the caprices of fortune and humour.' But to this also we have an answer, that will (we hope) be deemed decisive. It cometh from himself, who, to cut this matter short, hath solemnly protested that he will never change or amend.
With regard to his vanity, he declareth that nothing shall ever part them. 'Nature (saith he) hath amply supplied me in vanity—a pleasure which neither the pertness of wit nor the gravity of wisdom will ever persuade me to part with.'229Our poet had charitably endeavoured to administer a cure to it: but he telleth us plainly, 'My superiors perhaps may be mended by him; but for my part I own myself incorrigible. I look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune.'230And with good reason: we see to what they have brought him!
Secondly, as to buffoonery, 'Is it (saith he) a time of day for me to leave off these fooleries, and set up a new character? I can no more put off my follies than my skin; I have often tried, but they stick too close to me; nor am I sure my friends are displeased with them, for in this light I afford them frequent matter of mirth, &c., &c.'231Having then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become dead in law (I mean the law Epopoeian), and devolveth upon the poet as his property, who may take him and deal with him as if he had been dead as long as an old Egyptian hero; that is to say, embowel and embalm him for posterity.
Nothing therefore (we conceive) remaineth to hinder his own prophecy of himself from taking immediate effect. A rare felicity! and what few prophets have had the satisfaction to see alive! Nor can we conclude better than with that extraordinary one of his, which is conceived in these oraculous words, 'My dulness will find somebody to do it right.'232
'Tandem Phoebus adest, morsusque inferre parantem Congelat, et patulos, ut erant, indurat hiatus.'233
By virtue of the Authority in Us vested by the Act for subjecting poets to the power of a licenser, we have revised this piece; where finding the style and appellation of King to have been given to a certain pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, of the name of Tibbald; and apprehending the same may be deemed in some sort a reflection on Majesty, or at least an insult on that Legal Authority which has bestowed on another person the crown of poesy: We have ordered the said pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, utterly to vanish and evaporate out of this work: And do declare the said Throne of Poesy from henceforth to be abdicated and vacant, unless duly and lawfully supplied by the Laureate himself. And it is hereby enacted, that no other person do presume to fill the same.
The proposition, the invocation, and the inscription. Then the original of the great empire of Dulness, and cause of the continuance thereof. The college of the goddess in the city, with her private academy for poets in particular; the governors of it, and the four cardinal virtues. Then the poem hastes into the midst of things, presenting her, on the evening of a Lord Mayor's day, revolving the long succession of her sons, and the glories past and to come. She fixes her eye on Bayes to be the instrument of that great event which is the subject of the poem. He is described pensive among his books, giving up the cause, and apprehending the period of her empire: after debating whether to betake himself to the Church, or to gaming, or to party-writing, he raises an altar of proper books, and (making first his solemn prayer and declaration) purposes thereon to sacrifice all his unsuccessful writings. As the pile is kindled, the goddess, beholding the flame from her seat, flies and puts it out by casting upon it the poem of Thulè. She forthwith reveals herself to him, transports him to her temple, unfolds her arts, and initiates him into her mysteries; then announcing the death of Eusden the poet laureate, anoints him, carries him to court, and proclaims him successor.
The mighty mother, and her son, who brings235The Smithfield Muses236to the ear of kings,I sing. Say you, her instruments, the great!Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;237You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed,Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first:Say, how the goddess238bade Britannia sleep,And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep.In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read,Ere Pallas issued from the Thunderer's head, 10Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right,Daughter of Chaos239and Eternal Night:Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave,Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave,Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,240She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind.Still her old empire241to restore she tries,For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies.O thou! whatever title please thine ear,Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver!24220Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair,Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,243Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;From thy Boeotia though her power retires,Mourn not, my Swift, at ought our realm acquires.Here pleased behold her mighty wings outspreadTo hatch a new Saturnian age of lead.Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,And laughs to think Monro would take her down, 30Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,244Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand,One cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye,The cave of Poverty and Poetry.Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,Emblem of music caused by emptiness.Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down,Escape in monsters, and amaze the town.Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boastOf Curll's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post:24740Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines,248Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, Magazines:Sepulchral lies,249our holy walls to grace,And new-year odes,250and all the Grub Street race.In clouded majesty here Dulness shone;Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne:Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fearsOf hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partakeWho hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake: 50Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail:Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,And solid pudding against empty praise.Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep,Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,'Till genial Jacob,251or a warm third day,Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play;How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry, 60Maggots half-form'd in rhyme exactly meet,And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,And ductile Dulness new meanders takes;There motley images her fancy strike,Figures ill pair'd, and similes unlike.She sees a mob of metaphors advance,Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance;How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;How Farce and Epic252get a jumbled race; 70How Time himself stands still at her command,Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land.Here gay Description Egypt glads with showers,Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen,There painted valleys of eternal green;In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.All these, and more, the cloud-compelling queenBeholds through fogs that magnify the scene. 80She, tinsell'd o'er in robes of varying hues,With self-applause her wild creation views;Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.'Twas on the day,253when Thorold rich and grave,Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave:(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,Glad chains,254warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces.)Now night descending, the proud scene was o'er,But lived, in Settle's numbers, one day more.25590Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay,Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day;While pensive poets painful vigils keep,Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.Much to the mindful queen the feast recallsWhat city swans once sung within the walls;Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,And sure succession down from Heywood's256days.She saw, with joy, the line immortal run,Each sire impress'd and glaring in his son: 100So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care,Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear.She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel257shine,And Eusden258eke out Blackmore's endless line;She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's259poor page,And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage.260In each she marks her image full express'd,But chief in Bayes's monster-breeding breast;Bayes formed by nature stage and town to bless,And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. 110Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce,Remembering she herself was pertness once.Now (shame to Fortune!261) an ill run at playBlank'd his bold visage, and a thin third day;Swearing and supperless the hero sate,Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damn'd his fate.Then gnaw'd his pen, then dash'd it on the ground,Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there,Yet wrote and floundered on, in mere despair. 120Round him much embryo, much abortion lay,Much future ode, and abdicated play;Nonsense precipitate, like running lead,That slipp'd through cracks and zig-zags of the head;All that on Folly Frenzy could beget,Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit.Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll,In pleasing memory of all he stole,How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug,And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious bug. 130Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes,262and hereThe frippery of crucified Molière;There hapless Shakspeare, yet of Tibbald263sore,Wish'd he had blotted264for himself before.The rest on outside merit but presume,Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room;Such with their shelves as due proportion hold,Or their fond parents dress'd in red and gold;Or where the pictures for the page atone,And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. 140Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;265There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete:266Here all his suffering brotherhood retire,And 'scape the martyrdom of Jakes and fire:A Gothic library! of Greece and RomeWell purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.267But, high above, more solid learning shone,The classics of an age that heard of none;There Caxton268slept, with Wynkyn at his side,One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; 150There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year,Dry bodies of divinity appear:De Lyra269there a dreadful front extends,And here the groaning shelves Philemon270bends.Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise:An hecatomb of pure, unsullied laysThat altar crowns: a folio common-placeFounds the whole pile, of all his works the base: 160Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre:A twisted birth-day ode completes the spire.Then he: Great tamer of all human art!First in my care, and ever at my heart;Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end,E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig271was praise,To the last honours of the butt and bays:O thou! of business the directing soul;To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true,Obliquely waddling to the mark in view;Oh, ever gracious to perplexed mankind,Still spread a healing mist before the mind;And, lest we err by wit's wild dancing light,Secure us kindly in our native night.Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence,Guard the sure barrier between that and sense;Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread,And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 180As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky;As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,The wheels above urged by the load below:Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,And were my elasticity and fire.Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence)And once betrayed me into common sense:Else all my prose and verse were much the same;This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame. 190Did on the stage my fops appear confined?My life gave ampler lessons to mankind.Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove?The brisk example never fail'd to move.Yet sure, had Heaven decreed to save the state,Heaven had decreed these works a longer date.Could Troy be saved by any single hand,This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand.What can I now my Fletcher cast aside,Take up the Bible, once my better guide? 200Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod,This box my thunder, this right hand my god?Or chair'd at White's amidst the doctors sit,Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit?Or bidst thou rather party to embrace?(A friend to party thou, and all her race;'Tis the same rope at different ends they twist;To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.272)Shall I, like Curtins, desperate in my zeal,O'er head and ears plunge for the common weal? 210Or rob Rome's ancient geese273of all their glories,And, cackling, save the monarchy of Tories?Hold—to the minister I more incline;To serve his cause, O queen! is serving thine.And see! thy very gazetteers give o'er,Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more.What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remainCibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain.This brazen brightness, to the squire so dear;This polish'd hardness, that reflects the peer: 220This arch absurd, that wit and fool delights;This mess, tossed up of Hockley-hole and White's;Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown,At once the bear and fiddle274of the town.O born in sin, and forth in folly brought!Works damn'd, or to be damn'd (your father's fault)!Go, purified by flames, ascend the sky,My better and more Christian progeny!Unstain'd, untouch'd, and yet in maiden sheets;While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. 230Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland,275Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land;Nor sail with Ward276to ape-and-monkey climes,Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes:Not sulphur-tipp'd, emblaze an ale-house fire;Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire!Oh, pass more innocent, in infant state,To the mild limbo of our father Tate:277Or peaceably forgot, at once be blestIn Shadwell's bosom with eternal rest! 240Soon to that mass of nonsense to return,Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn.With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!)Stole from the master of the sevenfold face:And thrice he lifted high the birth-day brand,And thrice he dropp'd it from his quivering hand;Then lights the structure with averted eyes:The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice.The opening clouds disclose each work by turns,Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; 250Great Caesar roars, and hisses in the fires;King John in silence modestly expires:No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims,Moliere's278old stubble in a moment flames.Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's eyesWhen the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head,Then snatch'd a sheet of Thulè279from her bed,Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre;Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. 260Her ample presence fills up all the place;A veil of fogs dilates her awful face:Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and mayorsShe looks, and breathes herself into their airs.She bids him wait her to her sacred dome:Well pleased he enter'd, and confessed his home.So, spirits ending their terrestrial race,Ascend, and recognise their native place.This the great mother dearer held than allThe clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: 270Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls,And here she plann'd the imperial seat of fools.Here to her chosen all her works she shows;Prose swell'd to verse, verse loitering into prose:How random thoughts now meaning chance to find,Now leave all memory of sense behind:How prologues into prefaces decay,And these to notes are fritter'd quite away:How index-learning turns no student pale,Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: 280How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape,Less human genius than God gives an ape,Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,A past, vamp'd, future, old, revived, new piece,'Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakspeare, and Corneille,Can make a Cibber, Tibbald,280or Ozell.281The goddess then o'er his anointed head,With mystic words, the sacred opium shed.And, lo! her bird (a monster of a fowl,Something betwixt a Heidegger282and owl,) 290Perch'd on his crown. 'All hail! and hail again,My son! the promised land expects thy reign.Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise;He sleeps among the dull of ancient days;Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest,Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon283rest,And high-born Howard,284more majestic sire,With fool of quality completes the quire,Thou, Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support,Folly, my son, has still a friend at Court. 300Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come!Sound, sound, ye viols, be the cat-call dumb!Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine;The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join.And thou! his aide-de-camp, lead on my sons,Light-arm'd with points, antitheses, and puns.Let Bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear,Support his front, and Oaths bring up the rear:And under his, and under Archer's wing,Gaming285and Grub Street, skulk behind the king. 310Oh! when shall rise a monarch all our own,And I, a nursing mother, rock the throne;'Twixt prince and people close the curtain draw,Shade him from light, and cover him from law;Fatten the courtier, starve the learnèd band,And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land:Till senates nod to lullabies divine,And all be sleep, as at an ode of thine.'She ceased. Then swells the chapel-royal286throat:God save King Cibber! mounts in every note. 320Familiar White's, God save King Colley! cries;God save King Colley! Drury lane replies:To Needham's quick the voice triumphal rode,But pious Needham287dropp'd the name of God;Back to the Devil288the last echoes roll,And Coll! each butcher roars at Hockley-hole.So when Jove's block descended from on high(As sings thy great forefather Ogilby289),Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log!
VARIATIONS.VER. 1. The mighty mother, &c. In the first edition it was thus—Books and the man I sing, the first who bringsThe Smithfield muses to the ear of kings.Say, great patricians! since yourselves inspireThese wondrous works (so Jove and Fate require)Say, for what cause, in vain decried and cursed,Still—-After VER. 22, in the MS.—Or in the graver gown instruct mankind,Or silent let thy morals tell thy mind.But this was to be understood, as the poet says,ironicè, like the 23dverse.VER. 29. Close to those walls, &c. In the former edition thus—Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-fair,245A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;246Keen hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,Emblem of music caused by emptiness;Here in one bed two shivering sisters lie,The cave of Poverty and Poetry.VER. 41 in the former lines—Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay,Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day.VER. 42 alludes to the annual songs composed to music on St Cecilia'sFeast.VER. 85 in the former editions—'Twas on the day—when Thorald,290rich and grave.VER. 108. But chief in Bayes's, &e. In the former edition thus—But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast;Sees gods with demons in strange league engage,And earth, and heaven, and hell her battles wage.She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate,And pined, unconscious of his rising fate;Studious he sate, with all his books around,Sinking from thought to thought, &c—VER. 121. Round him much embryo, &c. In the former editions thus—He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay,Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay;Volumes whose size the space exactly fill'd,Or which fond authors were so good to gild,Or where, by sculpture made for ever known,The page admires new beauties not its own.Here swells the shelf, &c.—VER. 146. In the first edition it was—Well-purged, and worthy W—y, W—s, and Bl—-.VER. 162. A twisted, &c. In the former edition—And last, a little Ajax291tips the spire.VER. 177. Or, if to wit, &c. In the former edition—Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand,Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land;Where rebel to thy throne if science rise,She does but show her coward face, and dies:There thy good scholiasts with unwearied painsMake Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains:Here studious I unlucky moderns save,Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave,Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,And crucify poor Shakspeare once a week.For thee supplying, in the worst of days.Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;Not that my quill to critics was confined,My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;So gravest precepts may successless prove.But sad examples never fail to move.As, forced from wind-guns, &c.VER. 195. Yet sure had Heaven, &c. In the former edition—Had Heaven decreed such works a longer date,Heaven had decreed to spare the Grub Street state.But see great Settle to the dust descend,And all thy cause and empire at an end!Could Troy be saved, &c.—VER. 213. Hold—to the minister. In the former edition—Yes, to my country I my pen consignYes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine.VER. 225. O born in sin, &c. In the former edition—Adieu, my children! better thus expireUnstall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire,Fair without spot; than greased by grocer's hands,Or shipp'd with Ward to ape-and-monkey lands,Or wafting ginger, round the streets to run,And visit ale-house, where ye first begun,With that he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,And thrice he dropp'd it, &c.—VER. 250. Now flames the Cid, &c. In the former edition—Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,In one quick flash see Proserpine expire,And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire.Then gushed the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes,When the last blaze, &c.After VER. 268, in the former edition, followed these two lines—Raptured, he gazes round the dear retreat,And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.VER. 293. Know, Eusden, &c. In the former edition—Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise,Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days,Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest,Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest.I see a king! who leads my chosen sonsTo lands that flow with clenches and with puns:Till each famed theatre my empire own;Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne!I see! I see!—Then rapt she spoke no more.God save King Tibbald! Grub Street alleys roar.So when Jove's block, &c.