RIDDLES.

To thirst he’ll never own,His wife’s a stingy crone,A little bottle, half-filled,mavrone,He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!

To thirst he’ll never own,

His wife’s a stingy crone,

A little bottle, half-filled,mavrone,

He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!

On a Surly Porter.

What a pity Hell’s gates are not kept by O’Flinn—The surly old dog would let nobody in.

What a pity Hell’s gates are not kept by O’Flinn—

The surly old dog would let nobody in.

There’s a garden that I kenFull of little gentlemen,Little caps of blue they wear,And green ribbons very fair.(Flax.)

There’s a garden that I ken

Full of little gentlemen,

Little caps of blue they wear,

And green ribbons very fair.

(Flax.)

I threw it up as white as snow,Like gold on a flag it fell below.(Egg.)

I threw it up as white as snow,

Like gold on a flag it fell below.

(Egg.)

I ran and I got,I sat and I searched,If I could get it I would not bring it with me,As I got it not I brought it.(A thorn in the foot.)

I ran and I got,

I sat and I searched,

If I could get it I would not bring it with me,

As I got it not I brought it.

(A thorn in the foot.)

From house to house he goes,A messenger small and slight,And whether it rains or snowsHe sleeps outside in the night.(Boreen—lane or path.)

From house to house he goes,

A messenger small and slight,

And whether it rains or snows

He sleeps outside in the night.

(Boreen—lane or path.)

On the top of the treeSee the little man red,A stone in his belly,A cap on his head.(Haw.)

On the top of the tree

See the little man red,

A stone in his belly,

A cap on his head.

(Haw.)

A bottomless barrel,It’s shaped like a hive,It is filled full of flesh,And the flesh is alive.(Tailor’s thimble.)

A bottomless barrel,

It’s shaped like a hive,

It is filled full of flesh,

And the flesh is alive.

(Tailor’s thimble.)

As I went through the gardenI met my uncle Thady,I cut his head from off his neckAnd left his body “aisy.”(A head of cabbage.)

As I went through the garden

I met my uncle Thady,

I cut his head from off his neck

And left his body “aisy.”

(A head of cabbage.)

Out in the field my daddy grows,Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.(Ditto.)

Out in the field my daddy grows,

Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.

(Ditto.)

Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.(Bottle of whisky.)

Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,

Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.

(Bottle of whisky.)

’Tis round as dish was ever known,And white as snow the look of it,’Tis food and life of all mankind,Yet no man e’er partook of it.(Breast-milk.)

’Tis round as dish was ever known,

And white as snow the look of it,

’Tis food and life of all mankind,

Yet no man e’er partook of it.

(Breast-milk.)

Mydaddy on the warm shelfTalking, talking to himself.(Pot on the hob, simmering.)

Mydaddy on the warm shelf

Talking, talking to himself.

(Pot on the hob, simmering.)

Up in the loft the round man lies,Looking through two hundred eyes.(A sieve.)

Up in the loft the round man lies,

Looking through two hundred eyes.

(A sieve.)

Out she goes and the priest’s dinner with her.(Hen with an egg.)Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy.

Out she goes and the priest’s dinner with her.

(Hen with an egg.)

Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy.

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbours in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediatelyskinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald; “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he, “you thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better, for look here what I have got for the hide,” showing them the hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. Hehad a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed he left his old mother in his place and lay down in her bed, which was on the other side of the house; and taking the old woman for Donald, they choked her in her bed, but he making some noise they had to retreat and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak Donald got his mother on his back and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing. If she does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “Oh, mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden andDudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.”

That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys at last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.” “Oh, dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?” “Indeed, I do not know,” said he; “it would take a good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.” “Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should; loose the sack, and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.

Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river, and threw him in, where heimmediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.” “Ah,” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream; “there is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want help you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden, jumping in and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in. I know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

Hibernian Tales (a chap-book).

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.O Woman of Three Cows,agragh!don’t let your tongue thus rattle!Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.I have seen—and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true—A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants—’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!Iftheywere forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,Canyoube proud, canyoube stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;Mavrone!for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?Yetyoucan give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—Then ask yourself, shouldyoube proud, good Woman of Three Cows!O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,Because,inagh,[3]you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, thanshehas;That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows—But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!THE SUMMING-UP.Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,And I’m too poor to hinder you—but, by the cloak I’m wearing,If I had butfourcows myself, even though you were my spouse,I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!Translated by James Clarence Mangan.

O Woman of Three Cows,agragh!don’t let your tongue thus rattle!Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.I have seen—and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true—A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants—’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!Iftheywere forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,Canyoube proud, canyoube stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;Mavrone!for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?Yetyoucan give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—Then ask yourself, shouldyoube proud, good Woman of Three Cows!O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,Because,inagh,[3]you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, thanshehas;That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows—But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!THE SUMMING-UP.Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,And I’m too poor to hinder you—but, by the cloak I’m wearing,If I had butfourcows myself, even though you were my spouse,I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!Translated by James Clarence Mangan.

O Woman of Three Cows,agragh!don’t let your tongue thus rattle!

Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.

I have seen—and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true—

A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;

For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:

And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,

Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants—’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!Iftheywere forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,Canyoube proud, canyoube stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants—

’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!

Iftheywere forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,

Canyoube proud, canyoube stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;Mavrone!for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?Yetyoucan give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;

Mavrone!for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;

Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?

Yetyoucan give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—Then ask yourself, shouldyoube proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—

See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!

He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—

Then ask yourself, shouldyoube proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!

O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—

Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;

Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,

And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!

The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,

Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;

Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?

Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,Because,inagh,[3]you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, thanshehas;That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows—But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,

Because,inagh,[3]you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, thanshehas;

That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows—

But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING-UP.

Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,And I’m too poor to hinder you—but, by the cloak I’m wearing,If I had butfourcows myself, even though you were my spouse,I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!Translated by James Clarence Mangan.

Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,

And I’m too poor to hinder you—but, by the cloak I’m wearing,

If I had butfourcows myself, even though you were my spouse,

I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

Translated by James Clarence Mangan.

I have sometimes heard of an Iliad in a nut-shell, but it has been my fortune to have much oftener seen a nut-shell in an Iliad. There is no doubt that human life has received most wonderful advantages from both, but to which of the two the world is chiefly indebted I shall leave among the curious as a problem worthy of their utmost inquiry. For the invention of the latter I think the commonwealth of learning is chiefly obliged to the great modern improvement of digressions: the late refinements in knowledge running parallel to those of diet in our nation, which, among men of a judicious taste, are dressed up in various compounds, consisting in soups and olios, fricassees and ragouts.

It is true, there is a sort of morose, detracting, ill-bred people who pretend utterly to disrelish these polite innovations;and as to the similitude from diet, they allow the parallel, but are so bold to pronounce the example itself a corruption and degeneracy of taste. They tell us that the fashion of jumbling fifty things together in a dish was at first introduced in compliance to a depraved and debauched appetite, as well as to a crazy constitution; and to see a man hunting through an olio after the head and brains of a goose, a widgeon, or a woodcock, is a sign he wants a stomach and digestion for more substantial victuals. Further, they affirm that digressions in a book are like foreign troops in a state, which argue the nation to want a heart and hands of its own, and often either subdue the natives or drive them into the most unfruitful corners.

But after all that can be objected by these supercilious censors, it is manifest the society of writers would quickly be reduced to a very inconsiderable number if men were put upon making books with the fatal confinement of delivering nothing beyond what is to the purpose. It is acknowledged that were the case the same among us as with the Greeks and Romans, when learning was in its cradle, to be reared and fed, and clothed by invention, it would be an easy task to fill up volumes upon particular occasions, without further expatiating from the subjects than by moderate excursions, helping to advance or clear the main design. But with knowledge it has fared as with a numerous army encamped in a fruitful country, which, for a few days, maintains itself by the product of the soil it is on; till, provisions being spent, they are sent to forage many a mile, among friends or enemies, it matters not. Meanwhile, the neighbouring fields, trampled and beaten down, become barren and dry, affording no sustenance but clouds of dust.

The whole course of things being thus entirely changed between us and the ancients, and the moderns wisely sensible of it, we of this age have discovered a shorter andmore prudent method to become scholars and wits, without the fatigue of reading or of thinking. The most accomplished way of using books at present is twofold: either, first, to serve them as some men do lords, learn their titles exactly, and then brag of their acquaintance; or, secondly, what is indeed the choicer, the profounder, and politer method, to get a thorough insight into the index, by which the whole book is governed, and turned like fishes by the tail. For to enter the palace of learning at the great gate requires an expense of time and forms; therefore men of much haste and little ceremony are content to get in by the back door. For the arts are all in flying march, and therefore more easily subdued by attacking them in the rear. Thus physicians discover the state of the whole body by consulting only what comes from behind. Thus men catch knowledge by throwing their wit into the posteriors of a book, as boys do sparrows with flinging salt upon their tails. Thus human life is best understood by the wise man’s rule of regarding the end. Thus are the sciences found, like Hercules’ oxen, by tracing them backwards. Thus are old sciences unravelled, like old stockings, by beginning at the foot. Beside all this, the army of the sciences has been of late, with a world of martial discipline, drawn into its close order, so that a view or a muster may be taken of it with abundance of expedition. For this great blessing we are wholly indebted to systems and abstracts in which the modern fathers of learning, like prudent usurers, spent their sweat for the ease of us their children. For labour is the seed of idleness, and it is the peculiar happiness of our noble age to gather the fruit.

Now, the method of growing wise, learned and sublime, having become so regular an affair, and so established in all its forms, the number of writers must needs have increased accordingly, and to a pitch that has made it absolutely necessary for them to interfere continually with each other.Besides, it is reckoned that there is not at this present a sufficient quantity of new matter left in nature to furnish and adorn any one particular subject to the extent of a volume. This I am told by a very skilful computer, who has given a full demonstration of it from rules of arithmetic.

By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer capable of managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full? and if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller’s shelf; there to be preserved neat and clean for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title fairly inscribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library; but when the fulness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky.

Without these allowances, how is it possible we modern wits should ever have an opportunity to introduce our collections, listed under so many thousand heads of a different nature; for want of which the learned world would be deprived of infinite delight, as well as instruction, and we ourselves buried beyond redress in an inglorious and undistinguished oblivion.

From such elements as these I am alive to behold the day wherein the corporation of authors can outvie all its brethren in the guild. A happiness derived to us, with a great many others, from our Scythian ancestors; among whom the number of pens was so infinite, that theGrecian eloquence had no other way of expressing it than by saying that in the regions far to the north it was hardly possible for a man to travel, the very air was so replete with feathers.

Jonathan Swift(1667–1745).

A RHAPSODY ON POETRY.All human race would fain be wits,And millions miss for one who hits:Young’s universal passion, Pride,Was never known to spread so wide.Say, Britain! could you ever boast,Three poets in an age at most?Our chilling climate hardly bearsA sprig of bays in fifty years,While every fool his claim alleges,As if it grew in common hedges.What reason can there be assignedFor this perverseness in the mind?Brutes find out where their talents lie:A bear will not attempt to fly:A foundered horse will oft debateBefore he tries a five-barred gate:A dog by instinct turns aside,Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;But man we find the only creatureWho, led by folly, combats Nature;Who, where she loudly cries “Forbear,”With obstinacy fixes there,And where his genius least inclines,Absurdly bends his whole designs.Not empire to the rising sun,By valour, conduct, fortune, won:Not highest wisdom in debates,For framing laws to govern states:Not skill in sciences profound,So large to grasp the circle round,Such heavenly influence requireAs how to strike the Muse’s lyre.*****Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!How unproportioned to thy pains!And here a simile comes pat in:A chicken takes a month to fatten,Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hourWill more than half-a-score devour.So after toiling twenty daysTo earn a stock of pence and praise,Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;Gone to be never heard of more,Gone where the chickens went before.How shall a new attempter learnOf different spirits to discern?And how distinguish which is which,The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?Then hear an old experienced sinnerInstructing thus a young beginner.Consult yourself, and if you findA powerful impulse urge your mind,Impartial judge within your breast,What subject you can manage best:Whether your genius most inclinesTo satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;To elegies in mournful tone,Or prologue sent from hand unknown;Then rising with Aurora’s light,The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;Blot out, correct, insert, refine,Enlarge, diminish, interline;Be mindful, when invention fails,To scratch your head and bite your nails.Your poem finished, next your careIs needful to transcribe it fair:In modern wit all printed trash isSet off with num’rous breaks—and dashes—To statesmen would you give a wipeYou print it inItalictype:When letters are in vulgar shapes,’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;But when inCapitalsexprest,The dullest reader smokes the jest;Or else perhaps he may inventA better than the poet meant,As learned commentators viewIn Homer more than Homer knew.*****Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing day,Lie snug and hear what critics say,And if you find the general voguePronounces you a stupid rogue,Damns all your thoughts as low and little,Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:Be silent as a politician,For talking may beget suspicion;Or praise the judgment of the Town,And help yourself to run it down;—Give up your fond paternal pride,Nor argue on the weaker side:For poems read without a nameWe justly praise or justly blame;And critics have no partial views,Except they know whom they abuse;And since you ne’er provoked their spite,Depend upon’t, their judgment’s right.But if you blab you are undone,Consider what a risk you run;You lose your credit all at once,The Town will mark you for a dunce;The vilest doggerel Grub Street sendsWill pass for yours with foes and friends,And you must bear the whole disgrace,Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.Your secret kept, your poem sunk,And sent in quires to line a trunk,If still you be disposed to rhyme,Go try your hand a second time.Again you fail; yet safe’s the word;Take courage, and attempt a third:But first with care employ your thoughtsWhere critics marked your former fau’ts;The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,The similies that nothing fit;The cant which every fool repeats,Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,And introduced the Lord knows why;Or where we find your fury setAgainst the harmless alphabet;On A’s and B’s your malice ventWhile readers wonder whom you meant;A public or a private robber,A statesman or a South Sea jobber;A pr-l-te, who no God believes;A p-m-t or den of thieves;A pickpurse at the bar or bench,A duchess or a suburb-wench;“An House of P—rs, a gaming crew,A griping —— or a Jew.”Or oft, when epithets you linkIn gaping lines to fill a chink,Like stepping-stones to save a strideIn streets where kennels are too wide;Or like a heel-piece to supportA cripple, with one leg too short;Or like a bridge that joins a marishTo moorlands of a different parish.So have I seen ill-coupled houndsDrag diff’rent ways in miry grounds;So geographers in Afric mapsWith savage pictures fill their gaps,And o’er unhabitable downsPlace elephants for want of towns.*****Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,Employ your muse on kings alive,With prudence gath’ring up a clusterOf all the virtues you can muster,Which, formed into a garland sweet,Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet,Who, as the odours reach his throne,Will smile, and think them all his own:For law and gospel doth determineAll virtues lodge in royal ermine;(I mean the oracles of both,Who shall depose it upon oath);Your garland, in the following reign,Change but the names, ’twill do again.*****Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creatureLives in a state of war by nature;The greater for the smaller watch,But meddle seldom with their match.A whale of mod’rate size will drawA shoal of herrings in his maw;A fox with geese his belly crams;A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;But search among the rhyming race,The brave are worried by the base.If on Parnassus’ top you sit,You rarely bite, are always bit.Each poet of inferior sizeOn you shall rail and criticize,And strive to tear you limb from limb,While others do as much for him.The vermin only tease and pinchTheir foes superior by an inch,So nat’ralists observe a fleaHave smaller fleas on him that prey,And these have smaller still to bite ’em,And so proceedad infinitum.Jonathan Swift.

All human race would fain be wits,And millions miss for one who hits:Young’s universal passion, Pride,Was never known to spread so wide.Say, Britain! could you ever boast,Three poets in an age at most?Our chilling climate hardly bearsA sprig of bays in fifty years,While every fool his claim alleges,As if it grew in common hedges.What reason can there be assignedFor this perverseness in the mind?Brutes find out where their talents lie:A bear will not attempt to fly:A foundered horse will oft debateBefore he tries a five-barred gate:A dog by instinct turns aside,Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;But man we find the only creatureWho, led by folly, combats Nature;Who, where she loudly cries “Forbear,”With obstinacy fixes there,And where his genius least inclines,Absurdly bends his whole designs.Not empire to the rising sun,By valour, conduct, fortune, won:Not highest wisdom in debates,For framing laws to govern states:Not skill in sciences profound,So large to grasp the circle round,Such heavenly influence requireAs how to strike the Muse’s lyre.*****Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!How unproportioned to thy pains!And here a simile comes pat in:A chicken takes a month to fatten,Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hourWill more than half-a-score devour.So after toiling twenty daysTo earn a stock of pence and praise,Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;Gone to be never heard of more,Gone where the chickens went before.How shall a new attempter learnOf different spirits to discern?And how distinguish which is which,The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?Then hear an old experienced sinnerInstructing thus a young beginner.Consult yourself, and if you findA powerful impulse urge your mind,Impartial judge within your breast,What subject you can manage best:Whether your genius most inclinesTo satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;To elegies in mournful tone,Or prologue sent from hand unknown;Then rising with Aurora’s light,The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;Blot out, correct, insert, refine,Enlarge, diminish, interline;Be mindful, when invention fails,To scratch your head and bite your nails.Your poem finished, next your careIs needful to transcribe it fair:In modern wit all printed trash isSet off with num’rous breaks—and dashes—To statesmen would you give a wipeYou print it inItalictype:When letters are in vulgar shapes,’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;But when inCapitalsexprest,The dullest reader smokes the jest;Or else perhaps he may inventA better than the poet meant,As learned commentators viewIn Homer more than Homer knew.*****Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing day,Lie snug and hear what critics say,And if you find the general voguePronounces you a stupid rogue,Damns all your thoughts as low and little,Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:Be silent as a politician,For talking may beget suspicion;Or praise the judgment of the Town,And help yourself to run it down;—Give up your fond paternal pride,Nor argue on the weaker side:For poems read without a nameWe justly praise or justly blame;And critics have no partial views,Except they know whom they abuse;And since you ne’er provoked their spite,Depend upon’t, their judgment’s right.But if you blab you are undone,Consider what a risk you run;You lose your credit all at once,The Town will mark you for a dunce;The vilest doggerel Grub Street sendsWill pass for yours with foes and friends,And you must bear the whole disgrace,Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.Your secret kept, your poem sunk,And sent in quires to line a trunk,If still you be disposed to rhyme,Go try your hand a second time.Again you fail; yet safe’s the word;Take courage, and attempt a third:But first with care employ your thoughtsWhere critics marked your former fau’ts;The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,The similies that nothing fit;The cant which every fool repeats,Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,And introduced the Lord knows why;Or where we find your fury setAgainst the harmless alphabet;On A’s and B’s your malice ventWhile readers wonder whom you meant;A public or a private robber,A statesman or a South Sea jobber;A pr-l-te, who no God believes;A p-m-t or den of thieves;A pickpurse at the bar or bench,A duchess or a suburb-wench;“An House of P—rs, a gaming crew,A griping —— or a Jew.”Or oft, when epithets you linkIn gaping lines to fill a chink,Like stepping-stones to save a strideIn streets where kennels are too wide;Or like a heel-piece to supportA cripple, with one leg too short;Or like a bridge that joins a marishTo moorlands of a different parish.So have I seen ill-coupled houndsDrag diff’rent ways in miry grounds;So geographers in Afric mapsWith savage pictures fill their gaps,And o’er unhabitable downsPlace elephants for want of towns.*****Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,Employ your muse on kings alive,With prudence gath’ring up a clusterOf all the virtues you can muster,Which, formed into a garland sweet,Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet,Who, as the odours reach his throne,Will smile, and think them all his own:For law and gospel doth determineAll virtues lodge in royal ermine;(I mean the oracles of both,Who shall depose it upon oath);Your garland, in the following reign,Change but the names, ’twill do again.*****Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creatureLives in a state of war by nature;The greater for the smaller watch,But meddle seldom with their match.A whale of mod’rate size will drawA shoal of herrings in his maw;A fox with geese his belly crams;A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;But search among the rhyming race,The brave are worried by the base.If on Parnassus’ top you sit,You rarely bite, are always bit.Each poet of inferior sizeOn you shall rail and criticize,And strive to tear you limb from limb,While others do as much for him.The vermin only tease and pinchTheir foes superior by an inch,So nat’ralists observe a fleaHave smaller fleas on him that prey,And these have smaller still to bite ’em,And so proceedad infinitum.Jonathan Swift.

All human race would fain be wits,

And millions miss for one who hits:

Young’s universal passion, Pride,

Was never known to spread so wide.

Say, Britain! could you ever boast,

Three poets in an age at most?

Our chilling climate hardly bears

A sprig of bays in fifty years,

While every fool his claim alleges,

As if it grew in common hedges.

What reason can there be assigned

For this perverseness in the mind?

Brutes find out where their talents lie:

A bear will not attempt to fly:

A foundered horse will oft debate

Before he tries a five-barred gate:

A dog by instinct turns aside,

Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;

But man we find the only creature

Who, led by folly, combats Nature;

Who, where she loudly cries “Forbear,”

With obstinacy fixes there,

And where his genius least inclines,

Absurdly bends his whole designs.

Not empire to the rising sun,

By valour, conduct, fortune, won:

Not highest wisdom in debates,

For framing laws to govern states:

Not skill in sciences profound,

So large to grasp the circle round,

Such heavenly influence require

As how to strike the Muse’s lyre.

*****

Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!How unproportioned to thy pains!And here a simile comes pat in:A chicken takes a month to fatten,Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hourWill more than half-a-score devour.So after toiling twenty daysTo earn a stock of pence and praise,Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;Gone to be never heard of more,Gone where the chickens went before.How shall a new attempter learnOf different spirits to discern?And how distinguish which is which,The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?Then hear an old experienced sinnerInstructing thus a young beginner.Consult yourself, and if you findA powerful impulse urge your mind,Impartial judge within your breast,What subject you can manage best:Whether your genius most inclinesTo satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;To elegies in mournful tone,Or prologue sent from hand unknown;Then rising with Aurora’s light,The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;Blot out, correct, insert, refine,Enlarge, diminish, interline;Be mindful, when invention fails,To scratch your head and bite your nails.Your poem finished, next your careIs needful to transcribe it fair:In modern wit all printed trash isSet off with num’rous breaks—and dashes—To statesmen would you give a wipeYou print it inItalictype:When letters are in vulgar shapes,’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;But when inCapitalsexprest,The dullest reader smokes the jest;Or else perhaps he may inventA better than the poet meant,As learned commentators viewIn Homer more than Homer knew.

Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!

How unproportioned to thy pains!

And here a simile comes pat in:

A chicken takes a month to fatten,

Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hour

Will more than half-a-score devour.

So after toiling twenty days

To earn a stock of pence and praise,

Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,

Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;

Gone to be never heard of more,

Gone where the chickens went before.

How shall a new attempter learn

Of different spirits to discern?

And how distinguish which is which,

The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?

Then hear an old experienced sinner

Instructing thus a young beginner.

Consult yourself, and if you find

A powerful impulse urge your mind,

Impartial judge within your breast,

What subject you can manage best:

Whether your genius most inclines

To satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;

To elegies in mournful tone,

Or prologue sent from hand unknown;

Then rising with Aurora’s light,

The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;

Blot out, correct, insert, refine,

Enlarge, diminish, interline;

Be mindful, when invention fails,

To scratch your head and bite your nails.

Your poem finished, next your care

Is needful to transcribe it fair:

In modern wit all printed trash is

Set off with num’rous breaks—and dashes—

To statesmen would you give a wipe

You print it inItalictype:

When letters are in vulgar shapes,

’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;

But when inCapitalsexprest,

The dullest reader smokes the jest;

Or else perhaps he may invent

A better than the poet meant,

As learned commentators view

In Homer more than Homer knew.

*****

Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing day,Lie snug and hear what critics say,And if you find the general voguePronounces you a stupid rogue,Damns all your thoughts as low and little,Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:Be silent as a politician,For talking may beget suspicion;Or praise the judgment of the Town,And help yourself to run it down;—Give up your fond paternal pride,Nor argue on the weaker side:For poems read without a nameWe justly praise or justly blame;And critics have no partial views,Except they know whom they abuse;And since you ne’er provoked their spite,Depend upon’t, their judgment’s right.But if you blab you are undone,Consider what a risk you run;You lose your credit all at once,The Town will mark you for a dunce;The vilest doggerel Grub Street sendsWill pass for yours with foes and friends,And you must bear the whole disgrace,Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.Your secret kept, your poem sunk,And sent in quires to line a trunk,If still you be disposed to rhyme,Go try your hand a second time.Again you fail; yet safe’s the word;Take courage, and attempt a third:But first with care employ your thoughtsWhere critics marked your former fau’ts;The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,The similies that nothing fit;The cant which every fool repeats,Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,And introduced the Lord knows why;Or where we find your fury setAgainst the harmless alphabet;On A’s and B’s your malice ventWhile readers wonder whom you meant;A public or a private robber,A statesman or a South Sea jobber;A pr-l-te, who no God believes;A p-m-t or den of thieves;A pickpurse at the bar or bench,A duchess or a suburb-wench;“An House of P—rs, a gaming crew,A griping —— or a Jew.”Or oft, when epithets you linkIn gaping lines to fill a chink,Like stepping-stones to save a strideIn streets where kennels are too wide;Or like a heel-piece to supportA cripple, with one leg too short;Or like a bridge that joins a marishTo moorlands of a different parish.So have I seen ill-coupled houndsDrag diff’rent ways in miry grounds;So geographers in Afric mapsWith savage pictures fill their gaps,And o’er unhabitable downsPlace elephants for want of towns.

Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing day,

Lie snug and hear what critics say,

And if you find the general vogue

Pronounces you a stupid rogue,

Damns all your thoughts as low and little,

Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:

Be silent as a politician,

For talking may beget suspicion;

Or praise the judgment of the Town,

And help yourself to run it down;—

Give up your fond paternal pride,

Nor argue on the weaker side:

For poems read without a name

We justly praise or justly blame;

And critics have no partial views,

Except they know whom they abuse;

And since you ne’er provoked their spite,

Depend upon’t, their judgment’s right.

But if you blab you are undone,

Consider what a risk you run;

You lose your credit all at once,

The Town will mark you for a dunce;

The vilest doggerel Grub Street sends

Will pass for yours with foes and friends,

And you must bear the whole disgrace,

Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.

Your secret kept, your poem sunk,

And sent in quires to line a trunk,

If still you be disposed to rhyme,

Go try your hand a second time.

Again you fail; yet safe’s the word;

Take courage, and attempt a third:

But first with care employ your thoughts

Where critics marked your former fau’ts;

The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,

The similies that nothing fit;

The cant which every fool repeats,

Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;

Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,

And introduced the Lord knows why;

Or where we find your fury set

Against the harmless alphabet;

On A’s and B’s your malice vent

While readers wonder whom you meant;

A public or a private robber,

A statesman or a South Sea jobber;

A pr-l-te, who no God believes;

A p-m-t or den of thieves;

A pickpurse at the bar or bench,

A duchess or a suburb-wench;

“An House of P—rs, a gaming crew,

A griping —— or a Jew.”

Or oft, when epithets you link

In gaping lines to fill a chink,

Like stepping-stones to save a stride

In streets where kennels are too wide;

Or like a heel-piece to support

A cripple, with one leg too short;

Or like a bridge that joins a marish

To moorlands of a different parish.

So have I seen ill-coupled hounds

Drag diff’rent ways in miry grounds;

So geographers in Afric maps

With savage pictures fill their gaps,

And o’er unhabitable downs

Place elephants for want of towns.

*****

Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,Employ your muse on kings alive,With prudence gath’ring up a clusterOf all the virtues you can muster,Which, formed into a garland sweet,Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet,Who, as the odours reach his throne,Will smile, and think them all his own:For law and gospel doth determineAll virtues lodge in royal ermine;(I mean the oracles of both,Who shall depose it upon oath);Your garland, in the following reign,Change but the names, ’twill do again.

Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,

Employ your muse on kings alive,

With prudence gath’ring up a cluster

Of all the virtues you can muster,

Which, formed into a garland sweet,

Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet,

Who, as the odours reach his throne,

Will smile, and think them all his own:

For law and gospel doth determine

All virtues lodge in royal ermine;

(I mean the oracles of both,

Who shall depose it upon oath);

Your garland, in the following reign,

Change but the names, ’twill do again.

*****

Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creatureLives in a state of war by nature;The greater for the smaller watch,But meddle seldom with their match.A whale of mod’rate size will drawA shoal of herrings in his maw;A fox with geese his belly crams;A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;But search among the rhyming race,The brave are worried by the base.If on Parnassus’ top you sit,You rarely bite, are always bit.Each poet of inferior sizeOn you shall rail and criticize,And strive to tear you limb from limb,While others do as much for him.The vermin only tease and pinchTheir foes superior by an inch,So nat’ralists observe a fleaHave smaller fleas on him that prey,And these have smaller still to bite ’em,And so proceedad infinitum.Jonathan Swift.

Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creature

Lives in a state of war by nature;

The greater for the smaller watch,

But meddle seldom with their match.

A whale of mod’rate size will draw

A shoal of herrings in his maw;

A fox with geese his belly crams;

A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;

But search among the rhyming race,

The brave are worried by the base.

If on Parnassus’ top you sit,

You rarely bite, are always bit.

Each poet of inferior size

On you shall rail and criticize,

And strive to tear you limb from limb,

While others do as much for him.

The vermin only tease and pinch

Their foes superior by an inch,

So nat’ralists observe a flea

Have smaller fleas on him that prey,

And these have smaller still to bite ’em,

And so proceedad infinitum.

Jonathan Swift.

I shall, without any manner of preface or apology, acquaint you that I am, and ever have been from my youth upward, one of the greatest liars this island has produced. I have read all the moralists upon the subject, but could never find any effect their discourses had upon me but to add to my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and making me more ready in my language, and capable of sometimes mixing seeming truths with my improbabilities. With this strong passion towards falsehood in this kind there does not live an honester man or a sincerer friend; but my imaginationruns away with me, and whatever is started, I have such a scene of adventures appear in an instant before me, that I cannot help uttering them, though, to my immediate confusion, I cannot but know I am liable to be detected by the first man I meet.

“MY IMAGINATION RUNS AWAY WITH ME.”

Upon occasion of the mention of the battle of Pultowa I could not forbear giving an account of a kinsman of mine, a young merchant, who was bred at Moscow, that had too much mettle to attend books of entries and accounts when there was so active a scene in the country where he resided, and followed the Czar as a volunteer. This warm youth, born at the instant the thing was spoken of, was the man who unhorsed the Swedish general; he was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their fire in so soldier-like a manner, and brought up those troops which were covered from the enemy at the beginning of the day; besides this, he had at last the good fortune to be the man who took Count Piper. With all this fire I knew my cousin to be the civilest man in the world. He never made any impertinent show of his valour, and then he had an excellent genius for the world in every other kind. I had letters from him—here I felt in my pockets—that exactly spoke the Czar’s character, which I knew perfectly well, and I could not forbear concluding that I lay with his imperial majesty twice or thrice a week all the while he lodged at Deptford. What is worse than all this, it is impossible to speak to me but you give me some occasion of coming out with one lie or other that has neither wit, humour, prospect of interest, nor any other motive that I can think of in nature. The other day, when one was commending an eminent and learned divine, what occasion had I to say, “Methinks he would look more venerable if he were not so fair a man”? I remember the company smiled. I have seen the gentleman since, and he is coal black. I have intimations every day in my life that nobody believes me, yet I am never the better. I wassaying something the other day to an old friend at Will’s coffee-house, and he made me no manner of answer, but told me that an acquaintance of Tully the orator, having two or three times together said to him, without receiving an answer, “That upon his honour he was but that very month forty years of age,” Tully answered, “Surely you think me the most incredulous man in the world, if I don’t believe what you have told me every day these ten years.” The mischief of it is, I find myself wonderfully inclined to have been present at every encounter that is spoken of before me; this has led me into many inconveniences, but indeed they have been the fewer because I am no ill-natured man, and never speak things to any man’s disadvantage. I never directly defame, but I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I have often made a man say such and such a lively expression, who was born a mere elder brother. When one has said in my hearing, “Such a one is no wiser than he should be,” I immediately have replied, “Now, faith, I can’t see that; he said a very good thing to my lord such-a-one, upon such an occasion,” and the like. Such an honest dolt as this has been watched in every expression he uttered, upon my recommendation of him, and consequently been subject to the more ridicule. I once endeavoured to cure myself of this impertinent quality, and resolved to hold my tongue for seven days together; I did so, but then I had so many winks and contortions of my face upon what anybody else said that I found I only forbore the expression, and that I still lied in my heart to every man I met with. You are to know one thing, which I believe you will say is a pity, considering the use I should have made of it. I never travelled in my life; but I do not know whether I could have spoken of any foreign country with more familiarity than I do at present, in company who are strangers too ... though I was never out of this town, and fifty miles about it.

It were endless to give you particulars of this kind, but I can assure you, Mr. Spectator, there are about twenty or thirty of us in this town (I mean by this town the cities of London and Westminster); I say there are in town a sufficient number to make a society among ourselves; and since we cannot be believed any longer, I beg of you to print this letter that we may meet together, and be under such regulation as there may be no occasion for belief or confidence among us. If you think fit, we might be calledThe Historians, for liar is become a very harsh word.

But, alas! whither am I running! While I complain, while I remonstrate to you, even all this is a lie, for there is no such person of quality, lover, soldier, or merchant, as I have now described, in the whole world, that I know of. But I will catch myself once in my life, and in spite of nature speak one truth, to wit, that I am,—Your humble servant.

Sir Richard Steele(1672–1729).

“GOD BLESS YOU, SIR!”

On a Fat Man.

When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,“God bless you, sir!” and lay their rammers by.On a Stingy Beau.Curio’s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,No hands molest, or fingers discompose.A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,For ever still, whose flyers never fly;His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,For Curio dresses nothing,—but himself.On Marriage.Cries Celia to a reverend dean,“What reason can be given,Since marriage is a holy thing,That there are none in heaven?”“There are no women,” he reply’d;She quick returns the jest;“Women there are, but I’m afraidThey cannot find a priest.”John Winstanley(1678–1750).

When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,“God bless you, sir!” and lay their rammers by.

When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,

“God bless you, sir!” and lay their rammers by.

On a Stingy Beau.

Curio’s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,No hands molest, or fingers discompose.A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,For ever still, whose flyers never fly;His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,For Curio dresses nothing,—but himself.

Curio’s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;

Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;

His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,

No hands molest, or fingers discompose.

A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,

For ever still, whose flyers never fly;

His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,

For Curio dresses nothing,—but himself.

On Marriage.

Cries Celia to a reverend dean,“What reason can be given,Since marriage is a holy thing,That there are none in heaven?”

Cries Celia to a reverend dean,

“What reason can be given,

Since marriage is a holy thing,

That there are none in heaven?”

“There are no women,” he reply’d;She quick returns the jest;“Women there are, but I’m afraidThey cannot find a priest.”John Winstanley(1678–1750).

“There are no women,” he reply’d;

She quick returns the jest;

“Women there are, but I’m afraid

They cannot find a priest.”

John Winstanley(1678–1750).

A Lady’s Apartment. Two Chambermaids enter.

First Chambermaid.Are all things set in order? The toilette fixed, the bottles and combs put in form, and the chocolate ready?

2nd Cham.’Tis no greater matter whether they be right or not; for right or wrong we shall be sure of our lecture. I wish for my part that my time were out.

1st Cham.Nay, ’tis a hundred to one but we may run away before our time be half expired, and she’s worse this morning than ever. Here she comes.

Lady Lurewellenters.

Lure.Ay, there’s a couple of you indeed! But how, how in the name of negligence could you two contrive to make a bed as mine was last night; a wrinkle on one side, and a rumple on t’other; the pillows awry, and the quilt askew. I did nothing but tumble about and fence with the sheets all night along. Oh! my bones ache this morning as if I had lain all night on a pair of Dutch stairs.—Go, bring chocolate. And, d’ye hear? be sure to stay an hour or two at least.—Well! these English animals are so unpolished! I wish the persecution would rage a little harder, that we might have more of these French refugees among us.

The Maids enter with chocolate.

These wenches are gone to Smyrna for this chocolate—— And what made you stay so long?

Cham.I thought we did not stay at all, madam.

Lure.Only an hour and a half by the slowest clock in Christendom—and such salvers and dishes too! The lard be merciful to me! what have I committed to be plagued with such animals? Where are my new japan salvers? Broke, o’ my conscience! all to pieces, I’ll lay my life on’t.

Cham.No, indeed, madam, but your husband——

Lure.How! husband, impudence! I’ll teach you manners. (Gives her a box on the ear.) Husband! Is that your Welsh breeding? Ha’n’t the Colonel a name of his own?

Cham.Well, then, the Colonel. He used them this morning, and we ha’n’t got them since.

Lure.How! the Colonel use my things! How dare the Colonel use any thing of mine? But his campaign education must be pardoned. And I warrant they were fisted about among his dirtylevéeof disbanded officers? Faugh! the very thoughts of them fellows, with their eagerlooks, iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked in cravats, make me sick as death. Come, let me see. (Goes to take the chocolate, and starts back.) Heavens protect me from such a sight! Lord, girl! when did you wash your hands last? And have you been pawing me all this morning with them dirty fists of yours? (Runs to the glass.) I must dress all over again. Go, take it away, I shall swoon else. Here, Mrs. Monster, call up my tailor; and d’ye hear? you, Mrs. Hobbyhorse, see if my company be come to cards yet.

The Tailor enters.

Oh, Mr. Remnant! I don’t know what ails these stays you have made me; but something is the matter, I don’t like them.

Rem.I am very sorry for that, madam. But what fault does your ladyship find?

Lure.I don’t know where the fault lies; but, in short, I don’t like them; I can’t tell how; the things are well enough made, but I don’t like them.

Rem.Are they too wide, madam?

Lure.No.

Rem.Too straight, perhaps?

Lure.Not at all! they fit me very well; but—lard bless me; can’t you tell where the fault lies?

Rem.Why, truly, madam, I can’t tell. But your ladyship, I think, is a little too slender for the fashion.

Lure.How! too slender for the fashion, say you?

Rem.Yes, madam! there’s no such thing as a good shape worn among the quality; you fine waists are clear out, madam.

Lure.And why did not you plump up my stays to the fashionable size?

Rem.I made them to fit you, madam.

Lure.Fit me! fit my monkey. What, d’ye think I wearclothes to please myself! Fit me! fit the fashion, pray; no matter for me—I thought something was the matter, I wanted quality-air. Pray, Mr. Remnant, let me have a bulk of quality, a spreading counter. I do remember now, the ladies in the apartments, the birth-night, were most of them two yards about. Indeed, sir, if you contrive my things any more with your scanty chambermaid’s air, you shall work no more for me.

Rem.I shall take care to please your ladyship for the future.[Exit.

A Servant enters.

Serv.Madam, my master desires——

Lure.Hold, hold, fellow; for gad’s sake, hold; if thou touch my clothes with that tobacco breath of thine, I shall poison the whole drawing-room. Stand at the door pray, and speak. (Servant goes to the door and speaks.)

Serv.My master, madam, desires——

Lure.Oh, hideous! Now the rascal bellows so loud that he tears my head to pieces. Here, awkwardness, go take the booby’s message, and bring it to me.

(Maid goes to the door, whispers, and returns.)

Cham.My master desires to know how your ladyship rested last night, and if you are pleased to admit of a visit this morning.

Lure.Ay—why this is civil. ’Tis an insupportable toil though for women of quality to model their husbands to good breeding.

George Farquhar(1678–1707).

Richmore.You may keep the letter.

Young Wou’d-be.But why would you trust it with me? You know I can’t keep a secret that has any scandal in ’t.

Rich.For that reason I communicate it. I know thou art a perfect Gazette, and will spread the news all over the town; for you must understand that I am now besieging another, and I would have the fame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town may surrender the sooner.

Y. W.But if the report of your cruelty goes along with that of your valour, you’ll find no garrison of any strength will open their gates to you.

Rich.No, no; women are cowards, terror prevails upon them more than clemency; my best pretence to my success with the fair is my using them ill; ’tis turning their own guns upon them, and I have always found it the most successful battery to assail one reputation by sacrificing another.

Y. W.I could love thee for thy mischief, did I not envy thee for thy success in it.

Rich.You never attempt a woman of figure.

Y. W.How can I? This confounded hump of mine is such a burden to my back that it presses me down here in the dirt and diseases of Covent Garden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst fortune! I am a younger brother, and yet cruelly deprived of my birthright, a handsome person; seven thousand a year, in a direct line, would have straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, in my present circumstances, like a branch of another kind, grafted only upon the stock which makes me look so crooked.

Rich.Come, come, ’tis no misfortune, your father is so as well as you.

Y. W.Then why should not I be a lord as well as he? Had I the same title to the deformity I could bear it.

Rich.But how does my lord bear the absence of your twin-brother?

Y. W.My twin-brother? Ay, ’twas his crowding me that spoiled my shape, and his coming half-an-hour before me that ruined my fortune. My father expelled me from his house some two years ago, because I would have persuaded him that my twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my portion, which was about fifteen hundred pounds, and I have spent two thousand of it already. As for my brother, he don’t care a farthing for me.

Rich.Why so, pray?

Y. W.A very odd reason—because I hate him.

Rich.How should he know that?

Y. W.Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so.

Rich.But did your actions ever express any malice to him?

Y. W.Yes; I would fain have kept him company; but being aware of my kindness, he went abroad. He has travelled these five years, and I am told is a grave, sober fellow, and in danger of living a great while; all my hope is, that when he gets into his honour and estate the nobility will soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. But come, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the world, a brother before me and a hump behind me, and thou art still laying them in my way; let us assume an argument of less severity. Can’st thou lend me a brace of hundred pounds?

Rich.What would you do with them?

Y. W.Do with them? There’s a question indeed. Do you think I would eat them?

Rich.Yes, o’ my troth would you, and drink them together. Look ’e, Mr. Wou’d-be, whilst you kept well with your father, I could have ventured to have lent youfive guineas. But as the case stands, I can assure you I have lately paid off my sister’s fortune, and——

Y. W.Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you know I don’t use to take such things.

Rich.Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you know I don’t use to give such things.

Y. W.Sir, I’ll pawn my honour.

Rich.That’s mortgaged already for more than it is worth; you had better pawn your sword there, ’twill bring you forty shillings.

Y. W.’Sdeath, sir——[Takes his sword off the table.

Rich.Hold, Mr. Wou’dbe—suppose I put an end to your misfortunes all at once.

Y. W.How, sir?

Rich.Why, go to a magistrate and swear you would have robbed me of two hundred pounds. Look ’e, sir, you have been often told that your extravagance would some time or other be the ruin of you; and it will go a great way in your indictment to have turned the pad upon your friend.

Y. W.This usage is the height of ingratitude from you, in whose company I have spent my fortune.

Rich.I’m therefore a witness that it was very ill spent. Why would you keep company, be at equal expenses with me, that have fifty times your estate? What was gallantry in me was prodigality in you; mine was my health, because I could pay for it; yours a disease, because you could not.

Y. W.And is this all I must expect from our friendship?

Rich.Friendship! Sir, there can be no such thing without an equality.

Y. W.That is, there can be no such thing when there is occasion for ’t.

Rich.Right, sir—our friendship was over a bottle only; and whilst you can pay your club of friendship, I’m that way your humble servant; but when once you come borrowing, I’m this way—your humble servant.[Exit.

Y. W.Rich, big, proud, arrogant villain! I have been twice his second, thrice sick of the same love, and thrice cured by the same physic, and now he drops me for a trifle—that an honest fellow in his cups should be such a rogue when he is sober! The narrow-hearted rascal has been drinking coffee this morning. Well, thou dear solitary half-crown, adieu! Here, Jack, take this, pay for a bottle of wine, and bid Balderdash bring it himself. [Exit Servant.] How melancholy are my poor breeches; not one chink! Thou art a villainous hand, for thou hast picked my pocket. This vintner now has all the marks of an honest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a strutting belly, and a jolly mien. I have brought him above three pounds a night for these two years successively. The rogue has money, I’m sure, if he would but lend it.

EnterBalderdash,with a bottle and glass.

Oh, Mr. Balderdash, good-morrow.

Bald.Noble Mr. Wou’dbe, I’m your most humble servant. I have brought you a whetting-glass, the best Old Hock in Europe; I know ’tis your drink in a morning.

Y. W.I’ll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash.

Bald.Your health, sir.[Drinks.

Y. W.Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing, but first sit down; now tell me plainly what you think of me?

Bald.Think of you, sir? I think that you are the honestest, noblest gentleman that ever drank a glass of wine, and the best customer that ever came into my house.

Y. W.And do you really think as you speak?

Bald.May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don’t speak from the bottom of my heart.[Drinks.

Y. W.And how much money do you think I have spent in your house?

Bald.Why, truly, sir, by a moderate computation I dobelieve that I have handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds within these two years.

Y. W.Very well! And do you think that you lie under any obligation for the trade I have promoted to your advantage?

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