The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 38

I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, As friend Virgil has it, I've _aliud mercedis_; For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: High raised be her worth above t.i.tles or wealth.[5]

[Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at London, in 4to, by subscription.]

[Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her friends.--_N_.]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.--_N_.]

[Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who died in 1733, at the age of 27.--_N_.]

[Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of National Biography."--. _W. E. B_.]

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732

PREFACE

I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in every other qualification. By the mult.i.tude of those who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb wh.o.r.e. What are we to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, only allowing for the change of breed and fas.h.i.+on.

The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his own species, almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, he is too partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as low as he well could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the a.s.s, the swine, and the ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes them in the article of cunning: so great is the pride of man!

When beasts could speak, (the learned say They still can do so every day,) It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men.

It happen'd, when a plague broke out, (Which therefore made them more devout,) The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The a.s.s approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd, Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was grieved to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excuse a stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard.

'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; Not by his frigid const.i.tution; But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow Of Chast.i.ty, as monks do now: Which he resolved to keep for ever hence And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2]

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind.

Some faults we own; but can you guess?

--Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job.

No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.

The cringing knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case: Why should he longer mince the matter?

He fail'd, because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn: He pa.s.s'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit.

That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and G.o.d forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers.

He cannot help it, for his heart, Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good, Supports their minds with heavenly food: At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack.

In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a-day to prayers.

He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid.

Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practised to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends.

The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'Twas he defeated the excise.[3]

'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station: To serve the king, and please the nation.

Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said, he affected popularity: 'Tis true, the people understood, That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side.

He came to court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out every year; Must, at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound.

He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations, To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother, And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame, (For which he owns himself to blame,) He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play, Except to pa.s.s an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill, he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.

I own the moral not exact, Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up, From fields Elysian, fabling aesop, I would accuse him to his face, For libelling the four-foot race.

Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers, While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents every day.

The a.s.s was never known so stupid, To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be stroked, and fed with pap, As aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.

Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature _bipes et implumis;_ Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.[4]

[Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in fas.h.i.+on. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same name.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, and thus it was dropped.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.--_W. E. B._]

THE PARSON'S CASE

That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, Can wish to die in strains heroic, No real fort.i.tude implies: Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise.

Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, Thy busy, drudging scene of life, Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, Thy want of all-consoling liquor, Thy threadbare gown, thy ca.s.sock rent, Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, Thy week made up of fasting-days, Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, And to complete thy other curses, The quarterly demands of nurses, Are ills you wisely wish to leave, And fly for refuge to the grave; And, O, what virtue you express, In wis.h.i.+ng such afflictions less!

But, now, should Fortune s.h.i.+ft the scene, And make thy curates.h.i.+p a dean: Or some rich benefice provide, To pamper luxury and pride; With labour small, and income great; With chariot less for use than state; With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, And license to reside in town: To s.h.i.+ne where all the gay resort, At concerts, coffee-house, or court: And weekly persecute his grace With visits, or to beg a place: With underlings thy flock to teach, With no desire to pray or preach; With haughty spouse in vesture fine, With plenteous meals and generous wine; Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, Thy years as numerous as thy days?

THE HARDs.h.i.+P UPON THE LADIES 1733

Poor ladies! though their business be to play, 'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: Why should they want the privilege of men, Nor take some small diversions now and then?

Had women been the makers of our laws, (And why they were not, I can see no cause,) The men should slave at cards from morn to night And female pleasures be to read and write.

A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian G.o.ddess weeping Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.