AN EPISTLE TO
Gorges Edmond Howard, Esq.
With NOTES EXPLANATORY, CRITICAL,
and
HISTORICAL, BY GEORGE FAULKNER,
Esq
And ALDERMAN.
Cum tot sustineas, et tanta negotia solus.
HOR.
DUBLIN:
Printed for PAT. WOGAN in Church-street. 1771.
Advertisement, by the Annotator.
THIS Poem is justly ranked with the most celebrated Compositions of Doctor Swift, Pope, Major Pack, Cowley, Prior, Mrs. Pilkington, Parnel, Addison, and Henry Jones, whose Works may be had, bound or in Sheets, at my Shop in Parliament-street. I have undertaken, at the Request of my Friends to add Annotations, Remarks, Strictures, and observations, explanatory, critical, and historical, for the Benefit of Strangers, who might otherwise be ignorant of many Persons, Things, and Circumstances, alluded to in the Composition, after the Manner and Form of my Notes on Dr. Jonathan Swift, D. S. P. D. that have not a little contributed to improve, and likewise make his Works be understood.
AN EPISTLE TO
Gorges Edmond Howard
Esq.
Epistle to G. E. H.
]—He hath amassed a considerable fortune by yarious means, and lived in tolerable repute, as a practising attorney, till he quarrelled with the author hereof; who has since exposed him in sundry witty paragraphs, pointed epigrams, stinging repartees, facetious verses, biting epistles, humorous acrostics, sharp railleries, keen retorts, brilliant quibbles, and anonymous stanzas.
LET F—k—r boast
Let Faulkner boast, &c.
]—George Faulkner, printer, bookseller, and author of the Dublin Journal. He hath lived with the first wits of the present age in great credit, and upon a footing of much intimacy and kindness. He is well known to have been the particular friend of the Dean of St. Patrick's, and at this moment corresponds with the Earl of Chesterfield, whose letters will be published by him immediately after the demise of said Earl. He was sent to Newgate by the House of Commons in the year 1738, for his steadiness in prevaricating in the cause of liberty; and sworn an alderman of Dublin in the year 1770: fined for not ferving the office of sheriff in the year 1768. His Journal (to which he hath lately added a fourth column) is circulated all over Europe, and taken in at the coffee-houses in Constantinople, besides Bath, Bristol, Boston, Tunbridge Wells, Brighthelmstone, Virginia, and Eyre-Connaught. In his paragraphs he hath always studied the prosperity and honour of his native country, by strenuosly decrying of whiskey, projecting cellars, holes made by digging for gravel in the high roads, voiding of excrements in the public streets, throwing of squibs, crackers, sky-rockets, and bonfires; by which many lives are lost, men, women, and children maimed; sick persons disturbed out of their sleep; eyes burned out, and horses startled; recommeding it to Archbishops, Dukes, Lords, Privy Counsellors, Generals, Colonels, Field Officers, and Captains, to fall down precipices, tumble into cellars, be overturned by rubbish thrown in the streets, in order to remove nuisances; dissuading all bloods, bucks, smarts, rapparees, and other such infernal night-walkers, from committing manslaughter upon pigs, hackney horses, watchmen's lanterns, and other enormities; prophane cursing and swearing, and breaking the Sabbath, and the commandments; exclaiming against the importation of potatoes, and advising to grow more corn; inciting to virue by characters in his Journal, and calling upon the magistrates to do their duty.—The Earl of Chesterfield compareth him unto Atticus a Roman Baronet, and sundry other compliments.—
N. B.
His nephew Todd, continueth to make the best brawn, and hath lately imported a large quantity of James's Powders.
of rhymes and letters,
To praise himself, and maul his betters;
For law and wit we read your page,
Which guides the courts, and charms the stage,
Which guides the courts, and charms the stage.
]—Howard hath published Pleas on the Exchequer Equity; Rules of Chancery; Almeyda, or the Rival Kings, a Tragedy; The Siege of Tamar, and the Female Gamestr, in manuscript.
The
ermin'd sages
quote your
Pleas,
And children lisp your roundelays.
On Fancy's wing aloft you soar,
To praise Monroe,
To praise Monroe.
]—This hinteth unto the under-written stanzas of said Howard, whereby he adviseth and encourageth a painter to proceed in painting said lady, and likewise publickly declareth, that he himself will be an adven'urer, and will dare to undertake to compleat, and also to finish the piece, by partly supplying some hints, whereby said painter may be forwarded in his work.
To a certain nobleman, on being told he had wished for the picture of a celebrated beauty.
Fond swain, I hear your wish is such,
Some painter shou'd on canvass touch,
The beauties of Monroe;
But where's the adventurer will dare,
The happy mixture to prepare,
Her peerless charms to shew.
Yet, by those radiant beauties fir'd,
And my ambitious muse inspir'd,
Let me some hints supply:
To Nature's stores then straight resort,
Cull ev'ry tint, the goddess court,
This pice to dignity.
—First, let the cheek with blushes glow,
Just as when damask roses blow,
Glist'ning with morning dew;
Contrasted with the virgin white,
With which the lily glads the sight,
Blend them in lovely hue.
And truly then that cheek to grace,
Upon her flowing tresses place,
The chesnut's auburn down;
Her lips you may in sort depaint,
By cherries ripe, yet ah 'twere faint,
Shou'd they with her's be shewn.
Next, let two eyes with lustre gleam,
Even as the sun's reflected beam,
Upon the glassy lake;
Tinge it with dye of brilliant jet,
Let it in milk be sweetly set,
Each wand'ring heart to take.
Let the transparent web of lawn,
Be o'er the virgin bosom drawn,
As fair—yet cold as snow;
That love may thro' the veil espy,
What else were more than mortal eye,
Cou'd view and safety know.
But O to trace th' internal grace,
That beams divinely in her face,
How vain the muse wou'd soar:
If e'er celestial cherub came,
To bless thy sight, in mystic dream,
Snatch that—the task is o'er.
and Letty Gore;
Their charms shall last in song divine,
Like embryos preserved in wine.
Your classic pencil finely traces,
The beauties of the SISTER GRACES;
The beauties of the
SISTER GRACES.] —Three Miss Montgomeries, on whom Howard wrote the following under-written verses printed in these notes.
On the absence and return of
THE THREE FAVOURITE SISTERS.
Of late Love's Queen all in despair,
Fled through each region of the air,
Her graces were astray:
To seek them, Maia's winged son,
From Pole to Pole with speed had run,
It was a bustling day.
Cupid, who had to earth been sent,
Return'd, with haste and toil near spent,
And vow'd he saw them there:
That 'twas on fam'd Ierne's shore,
Than which with beauties none shines more,
On the terestral sphere,
Straightway a troop of little Loves,
Who tend their Queen where e'er she moves,
And bask in her sweet eyes:
Flew for the nymphs, whom, when they brought,
Alack! 'twas found the urchins caught,
The three Montgomeries.
Soon as their charms shone full to view,
The Paphian Goddess jealous grew,
She fear'd her future reign:
Her boy she chid for his mistake,
Nor wou'd forgive, 'till he took back,
The three to earth again.
When in an easy vein you tell us,
Of Love's mistake, and Venus jealous.
His sire, his fortune to improve,
To study law young Ovid drove,
To study law young Ovid drove.]
—Ovid, otherwise called Naso, a famous poet in the reign of Augustus. He wrote several books of Metamorphosis, or the changing of one thing into another, Love Epistles, and Fast Days: he was not called to the bar, nor ever practised as an attorney. For further particulars see his works,
In Usum Delphini,
printed and sold by me in Parliament-street.
He heeded naught but verse and love.
The same thy vein;—but happier you;
Can make estates and verses too;
In both you equally succeed,
Resistless when you sing or plead;
Thus by the force of diff'rent arts,
Men lose their lands, and maids their hearts.
Oh how each breast with rapture glow'd,
At your sublime Pindaric Ode:
At your sublime Pindaric Ode.]
—Howard wrote an Ode on his Majesty's Birth-day, which much resembleth Dryden's on the Feast of Alexander. I have consulted sundry of the best critics, judges, and geniuses; Mr. Dexter, who keepeth the Four-Courts Marshalsea; Mr. Kavenagh, attorney at law; Mr. Croker, Ald. Emerson, at the Spinning-wheel, Castle-street, and others; who all assure me they don't think Howard's Ode superior to Dryden's. In my own opinion, Dryden's is preferable.
With your applause the Garden rings,
With your applause the Garden rings.
]—The Garden, commonly called the New-Gardens, or Dr. Bartholomew Moss's Gardens. They were opened in the year 1757, and an hospital erected for lying-in-women. 'Tis an excellent charity, and a stately edifice.—This note was sent me by an ingenious friend, who desires his name may not be made public.
When you describe the best of Kings;
All hearts to loyalty you tune,
All hearts to loyalty you tune.
]—The people of Ireland are remarkable for a great deal of loyalty, and thick legs: as a proof of this, the Government goes in their coaches every 4th of November round the statue of his Majesty King George II. at Stephen's-green, in honour of King William III. with one in College-green, of glorious and immortal memory, whom God long preserve.
'Till Jacobites turn Whigs in June!
Well Bartlemon'
Bartlemon.
] A celebrated musician, who playeth upon the fiddle at the New-Gardens, or Doctor Bartholomew Moss's Gardens. He set Howard's ode to music, on the birth-day of his Majesty George III: whom God long preserve.
Vivat Rex.
you may take pride in
A bard, who soars above old Dryden;
A bard who s ars above old Dryden.
] —John Dryden, a poet, who was well known in the reign of Charles II. He was born of a gentleman's family in Northamptonshire. In order to give his countrymen of Ireland some more intimate knowledge of him, (no author's works having a better sale at my shop in Parliament-street) I undertook a journey to London, to collect materials for his life; but after remaining there 3 months for this purpose, I could only learn that he was accustomed to sit in a big chair among the wits at Button's; and this my friends telling me not being sufficient for a life of said poet, I acordingly discontinued it.
For who that Howard's Ode can taste,
Will relish Alexander's Feast?
Shou'd foolish George attempt to turn all
Your works to burlesque, in his Journal,
You'll make him of your wit the butt,
And prove a deadlier foe than Foote.
And prove a deâdlier foe than Foote.
] —Samuel Foote,
Esq
manager of the Theatre Royal in the Hay-market, London. He exposed Alderman Faulkner, under the character of Peter Paragraph, in one of his pieces, acted upon Smock-alley stage in Dublin. He was prosecuted for said offence by Mr. Faulkner, and tried before Mr. Justice Robinson, who inveighed very eloquently against stage-players, and said he might be considered as rubbish or a dunghill, and brought under the head of nuisances.—The learned council for the prosecutor, also compared him unto Aristophanes, and the alderman unto Socrates; adding also, that Socrates was not the worse for the comparison. The play-house would have run with blood on this occasion, and many swords would have been drawn, had not Mr. Faulkner prevailed on his friends (who were present every night of the representation) to hear the piece out, and let him take his remedy by law; to which they very obligingly consented.—
N. B.
Said Foote hath with impunity exposed upon the stage, some of the greatest men, and greatest wits now living; such as the late Duke of Newcastse, Mr. Glover, the late Alderman Beckford, Mr. Langford the auctioneer, Mr. Peter Taylor, and the rev. Mr. Whitfield. He lost his leg by a providential fall from his horse, in company with his late royal highness the Duke of York, at the seat of the Earl of Mexborough. He was taken up much bruised, and the amputation was performed by Surgeon Bromfield.
For tho' good natur'd all your life,
Averse to calumny and strife,
Yet Satire's sting you can impart,
Tho' oft goodnature hides the dart:
On thistles thus soft down we spy,
Yet underneath sharp prickles lie.
In vain the Freeman aid shall bring,
"You're not a bee without a sting;"
"You're not a bee without a sting."
]—There is a pecullar felicity (as I am told) in this comparison of Howard unto a bee, although the Epistle sayeth that he "is not a bee;" for whereas a bee never resteth upon one bud or flower, but styeth about in wandering and uncertain angles, from shrub to shrub, and from Hollyhock to poppy, and never is content until his bags be filled: so Howard hath amassed an ample fortune by different occupations; and also hath compleated a volume of apothegms, from the divers rich spoils of learning which he hath happened to encounter in his poring over books, many of which he hath had access to in my shop in Parliament-street.
Tho' wisely ev'ry sweet you cull,
Of which your apothegms are full.
Of which your apothegms are full.
]—Some of the greatest geniuses of antiquity, and the moderns, have taken particular delight in collecting all the wise sayings, and brilliant proverbs of the cute observers upon men, manners, and things—an exc llent collection of this sort is to be found in one of the last pages of Boyer's French Gentleman's Grammar. But I am informed that the Lord Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Albins, and Plutarch, have been more industriouin this way than any of their contemporaries, the moderns. Howard, in imitation of these supernatural wits, is also the author of a compilation of an octavo volume, under the title of Howard's Apothegms, collected from Bacon, Plutarch, Sir John Fielding, Julius Caesar, The Wit's Vade Mecum, Solon, a Christmas Box for Young Ladies, Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, and the Buck's Companion.
You prove what riches tillage yields,
You prove what riches tillage yields.
] —Howard is the author of several letters, signed Agricola, recommending tillage. I printed them without any expence to the author, before our quarrel, but have since declined it. He hath taken most of his hints from my paragraphs, and endeavoured to imitate my style and spirit; but my friends tell me he hath sailed therein.
And smiling plenty crowns our fields;
Sure all who read you must allow,
You write as if you held the plough.
You prove by ploughs the kingdom's fed,
You prove by ploughs the kingdom's fed.
]—Ploughs, an instrument for turning up the earth, were first invented by Triptolemus, a near relation of the Goddess Ceres, and afterwards much improved by Mr. John Wynne Baker, of the Dublin Society.—The Irish formerly ploughed by the tail with bullocks; but upon Doctor Swift's voyage to the Houynhams being published, and his saying so much in praise of horses, this barbarous, horrid, attrocious, shocking, detestable, cruel, nefarious custom was abolished by act of parliament. See an Abridgement of the Irish Statues, sold by me in Parliament-street.
That
pictures
cannot serve for
bread:
From whence 'tis plain this lazy nation,
Owes to your pen its preservation.
My muse the Architect now greets,
Whose lofty domes adorn our streets
Whose lofty domes adorn our streets.
]—Howard owneth many houses in Parliament-street. I built my own house myself, Howard having nothing to say to it, nor shall ever come within my doors, unless it be to pay for advertisements in my Jonrnal, or to buy medicines of my nephew Todd.—It may be worth while to mention a very entertaining anecdote (for the satisfaction of the curious) relating thereunto: When my house was building I happened to be out of the way one morning, penning an advertisement for an agreeable companion to pay half the expence of a post chaise, to see that stupendous curiosity of nature, the Giant's Causeway, about which 'tis still a doubt amongst the learned, whether it be done in the common way by giants, or whether it be an effort of spontaneous nature, and my house was erected without any stair-case; whereby the upper stories were rendered useless, unless by the communication of a ladder placed in the street. But upon considering my misfortune in wanting my member, and the carelesness of hackney coachmen, who drive furiously through the streets at all hours, in a state of drunkenness from spirituous liquors, whereby the ladder might be shook or thrown down when I was ascending it, I thought it better to re-build my house, and it has at present a stair-case, by which there is a convenient and elegant communication between all parts of said tenement.—It is somewhat remarkable that my house in Essex-street had no stair-case, whereby nature seemeth to point out, that having but one leg, I ought not to attempt climbing, and should always remain on the ground floor.
Who, Vanburgh like, claims double bays,
Who Vanburgh like, &c.
— Sir John Vanburgh. He was a great poet and architect. I was not personally acquainted with him any farther than printing his works, because he died before my time. Being imprisoned in the Bastile, and having no light, nor pen or ink allowed him, he amused himself with drawing divers plans of the Bastile, which he hath since introduced into many buildings with great success, particularly Blenheim, which much resembleth the Bastile.
For piling stones, and writing plays.
Your skill instructs Gymnastic schools,
Your skill instructs Gymnastick schools.
]—Howard wrote a treatise on fencing, and is accounted an expert swordsman—He declined accepting a challenge which I sent him to fight my nephew Todd, (in the way of proxy) at the Fifteen Ac
es, with pistols. I could not fight myself, because I am pledged to the public for my Journal, three times a week, and have the care of the city upon me in my capacity of an alderman. My nephew was at first unwilling to accept the combat, but upon my promising to leave him the Journal after my death, and making him take two spoonfuls of his own
Elixir Vitae,
he at last consented. This medicine is only imported by him, and is excellent for preventing accidents by sudden death and megrims: It also cureth all mortal wounds, by gun-shot and other missive weapons.
And Carte and Tierce reduc'd to rules,
Prove you the first of mortal men,
To poise a sword, or point a pen.
New light on ev'ry art you strike,
And matchless shine in all alike;
For who can tell if most you're skill'd in
The pen, the plough, the sword, or building?
A puny author may disclose
Some skill in rhyme, but none in prose;
In prose another shews his wit,
Who can't a single stanza hit:
Your foes unwillingly confess,
In both you equal skill possess.
In both you equal skill possess.
]—This, I conceive, alludeth to the following under-written letter of Mr. Howard's, from Killarney, with the signature of POBLICOLA, with a description, and likewise a comparison of the Giant's Causeway, whereunto he subjoineth an inscription for the tomb-stone of Dr. Averel, bishop of Limerick, and uncle to the right hon. Francis Andrews, Provost of Trinity-College, Dublin, who representeth the loyal city of Londonderry in parliament.—
N. B.
That Killarney is a small village of that name in the county of Kerry. It is a market town, but doth not send two members to parliament, as most other boroughs do. It is part of the estate of Lord Viscount Kenmare, who hath forfeited his title, he being a Catholic nobleman, although very hospitable, and keepeth a most plentiful table, furnished with all the varieties the season affords. I also had the honour to dine with him when I journeyed into these parts, to see the beauties of this wonderous lake.
To the printer of the
DUBLIN MERCURY.
SIR,
Killarney
Sept. 26th,
1771.
I have at length seen what I have long wisted to see, this wonderous lake; to attempt to describe it would require the ablest pen of the antient poets, or, of modern poets, the famous painter of said lake, wherefore, I shall never attempt it:—yet, notwithstanding all the beauties of the lake, I cannot think it, as a curiosity, equal to the Giant's Causeway; I have seen both, I never saw any thing LIKE the first, nor any thing EQUAL to the latter; this distinction is agreed to by all I have mentioned it to. But alas! this lake has been the death of a man, for whom the whole province here is in tears, the late bishop of Limerick, Dr. Averel, our countryman:—To sum up all shortly as I can, I heard the people of Limerick, (where I was shortly after his death) say, that there has not been such a bishop since the time of the apoftles; that the Romish clergy said, they should not wonder, had he lived any time, if they had lost many of their flocks.—What obligations then are due to our Lord Lieutenant, for having appointed such a man their pastor, for though Heaven has pleased to take him away, his successor will hear so much of him, that he cannot but endeavour to imitate him? I heard this acknowledged by several, as also for his concurrence in appointing that well known friend to his country, and their city, especially, speaker: from these and many other like instances of his impartial conduct, it is wished that we may never lose him;—and every day the advantage of a resident Vice-Roy becomes more and more manifest; that from this new mods of government, there is far more likelihood that merit will be rewarded, proper persons appointed to offices, and the laws supported and executed. A gentleman of your city happening to be at Limerick, shortly after the interment of the bishop, and hearing the prodigious great character of him from all persons, wrote the following lines, extempore, as an inscription for a monument.
POBLICOLA.
Beneath this marble stone weep, mankind weep,
Averel, your friend lienwrapp'd in endlefs sleep;
Who, for the poor alone, did fortune crave,
And deem'd himself but rich in that he gave;
From whom, the pray'r of want, or plaint of woe
Ne'er did unpitied, nor unhappy goe.
His mournful flock to their bless'd pastor's paise,
With grateful heart this parting tribute pays.
On a
true
mirrour's polish'd face,
All objects thus we plainly trace,
But if in spots the MERC'RY lie,
A broken image meets the eye.
O Howard! is it not surprizing,
Your wit alone should stop your rising!
Else on the bench you might be thrust,
Tho' flow as snail, that crawls thro' dust,
By self-conceit you might advance,
As quicksilver makes puddings dance.
As quicksilver makes puddings dance.
] —Nothing is more entertaining to a large company, than to see a pudding vibrating, shaking, moving, and dancing upon the dish, by means of quicksilver inserted into the body of it.
From men of sense fools win the day,
As horses fly, when asses bray.
O sons of Dulness! bless'd by fate!
Fittest for law, for church, and state;
Your parent's influence prevails,
And gives her dunces—mitres—
seals!
A Tisdall's depth,
A Tisdall's depth.
]—The right hon. Philip Tisdall, AttorneyGeneral.
a Townshend's wit,
Is not for plodding business fit;
An Eagle's wings were form'd for flight,
A Goose's furnish quills—to write.
I'd also sing, if I were able,
Your generous wine, and festive table;
Where all those wits in crowds assemble,
Who make the vile Committee tremble:
There, Donough's humour mirth provokes,
There Donough's humour mirth provokes.
] —The rev. Doctor Dennis, chaplain to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; author of many ingenious pieces.
While all admire his
Attic
jokes,
While all admire his
Attic
jokes.
]—The people of Attica were remarkable for the goodness of their jok s, and for having the best salt for preserving meat for foreign importation; by which means they undersold all their neighbours in the article of salt provisions. I hope this may be a timely warning to this poor, undone, insatuated country.— Attica wos called the Corke of Greece.
Tho' oft to prove his taste the best,
He laughs alone at his own jest:
Then boasts how once his patron rose,
And told the story of THREE CROWS;
Which he'll insert, with meet apology,
In his new System of Chronology;
In his new System of Chronology.
] —Doctor Dennis is at present engaged in digesting a new system of Chronology, under the title of Chronological and Historical Dissertations; which I shall be glad to print and sell at my shop in Parliament-street:
And after mending Newton's errors,
And after mending Newton's errors.
]—Sir Isaac Newton. He was made a knight by Queen Anne, and master of the mint, a place worth 1000l. yearly. He was reckoned a good mathematician, and was very fond of looking through telescopes.
St. Audeon's-Arch he'll fill with terrors.
The Castle tribe aloud confess,
The Castle tribe aloud confess.
]—This alludeth to the Doctor's being the supposed author of all the political pieces which appear in the Mercury.
Him great Alcides of the press
Like that immortal hero known,
For fathering labours
not his own.
B—w—s, in epigram so smart,
B—w—s in epigram so smart.
]—Doctor Burrows during the administration of the Earl of Hertford, maintained the government by many ingenious pieces, particularly witty epigrams, for which he hath a peculiar facility. I have selected one, which was the most admired by the best judges, as a specimen of the Doctor's abilities.
What! sweet Miss Meredith of Chester,
Espous'd to Alderman Trecothic!
That stupid cit—but what possess'd her,
To chuse an animal so gothic:
Some demon sure her mind misted,
To make a choice so void of reason;
Else what could tempt the girl to wed,
A wretch who soon must swing for treason.
Another one.
A goose in the oven! no, sir, 'tis a slander,
As some, who discover'd the fact can declare,
For it was not a
goose,
but you a poor
gander.
(As fools will be peeping) who thrust your head there,
'Till griping H—rt—d broke his heart,
'Till griping H—rt—d broke his heart.
]—Some of my most familiar and intimate critics and geniuses is of opinion, that the poet meaneth gripping Hertford, and that it ought therefore to be spelled with a double p. But I candidly and totally differ from them, and prosecute my own opinion, in maintaining that it implyeth, that his Excellency the said Earl of Hertford, was grievously afflicted with various disorders of the gripes, brought upon him by windy flatulencies, mortal dry belly-achs, and other pinching sicknesses of the guts, during the time he presided over the chief government of this his native country; and that this was the whole tote of his case is notoriously known to every human creature, man, woman, or children, whether in the Castle, in the city, or the fuburbs of Dublin.
Now deals in Hebrew roots profound,
And only treads prophetic ground;
Jerus'lem's Artichoke supplies,
Those visions that made Daniel wise,
The Doctor proves to all the nation,
No myst'rys couc 'd in Revelation.
'Till every gossip can explain,
What sage divines explore in vain,
No juggler ever play'd such tricks,
As he with John's seven candlesticks,
By whose mysterious lights are spied,
Wicklow's Seven Churches typified.
Next maudlin B—ke,
Next maudlin B—ke, &c.
]—Henry Brooke,
Esq
an excellent poet, philosopher, and patriot. He hath for some time retired to his country seat in the Bog of Allen, where he is carrying on great improvements, in laying the country under water, and searching for hidden treasures in the bottom of lakes, ponds, marshes, sloughs, and other navigable rivers. He published a famous Novel, called, The Fool of Quality, which is sold in separate volumes, or together, at my shop in Parliament-street. There is so much variety in this piece, that the best judges agree, 'tis indifferent at what part you begin to read it, being beautifully interspersed with stories of beggars, trouts, foreign birds, and Indian' princesses. The Earl of Chesterfield, as a proof of his esteem for his fine talents, made him a barrack-master. He is a true friend to the religion of his country, and hath written many excellent tracts in defence of Popery, and the Protestant persuasion. He wrote a ballad opera, called, Jack the Giant Queller, being a satire upon the Lords Justices of Ireland, which was accordingly forbid to be represented. The excellent tragedy of Gustavus was also stopped for the same reason, by the Lord Chamberlain, being a noble incitement to sedition, in the cause of liberty. He was at first the conductor of the Free-Press, which trust he executed with great integrity, taking divers sums of money from several public officers, to prevent their being satirized in said Journal; which he did with great integrity. This Journal is not so universally circulated and admired as mine, because it containeth not such a variety of interesting particulars, intelligence from foreign courts, the Transit of Venus, high water at Dublin-bar, assize of bread, sailing and return of packets, births, deaths, and marriages; not to mention curious queries, and ingenious paragraphs.
whose novels please,
Like some old dotard's reveries,
Without beginning, middle, ending,
To
utile
or
dulce
tending.
With equal art, his genius pliant,
Can drain a bog, or
quell a giant.
Whilst one hand wounds each venal brother,
He for a bribe extends the other;
Your character's worth just so much,
As you afford, and he can touch:
With ev'ry virtue he abounds,
Who tips the patriot fifty pounds;
Gold works strange wonders in his eyes,
Makes cowards brave, and dunces wise,
Like Swiss, his hireling muse engages,
On any side that pays best wages;
One while staunch friend to Martin Luther,
He finds pure light and gospel truth there;
Then thro' the realm makes proclamation,
For Popery, Priests, and Toleration.
He first with many a fair pretence,
To public spirit, truth, and sense,
Hatch'd that disgrace to law and reason,
That mass of slander, dulness, treason;
That Journal which the Arch produces,
For singeing fowl, or viler uses.
How chang'd from him whose noble rage,
Brought great Gustavus to the stage,
And rous'd the Patriot's god-like fire,
In strains which Phoebus might admire.
Now Metius' fate and his are one,
By all he's torn, that's true to none.
MACRO, with college dust besprent,
Macro, with college dust besprent.
]—We have not been able to discover whom the author intendeth to describe in these verses: but some ingenious friends conjecture that it is some rev. gentleman, who underslandeth many languages, and keepeth a play-house Miss.
There mingles to give malice vent,
With various tongues thick set as fame,
And ev'ry tongue dispos'd to blame,
In studious Macro may be seen,
The copious Polyglot of spleen:
He searches old and modern lore,
To learn to hate his neighbour more;
Fond of men's follies and their vices,
As beggar of his sores and lice is;
With eyes like fox, and mouth like shark,
That seems lefs form'd to speak than bark.
Let others while their bowls they quaff,
Distend their lungs with heart-felt laugh;
In short shrill shrieks of fiend-like glee,
He proves his risibility.
His knowledge, like a treacherous beacon
Holds out false lights to the mistaken,
And when they wander from their way,
Humanely leads them more astray.
Yet Macro, whose peculiar pride
Is to expose a friend's blind side,
Can to more glaring folly stoop:
Himself a bankrupt
player's
dupe.
There bashful B—n once was seen,
There bashful B—n once was seen.
] —The rev. Mr. Boden, chaplain to the Lord Chancellor of Ireland.
Mistaking dulness for the spleen;
Who says, unsays, agrees, disputes,
And his own arguments confutes.
How eloquent in shrugs and sighs!
In uplift hands, and winking eyes!
What supplications, what contorsions!
His words half form'd, his thoughts abortions!
Such wriggling, grasping, pawing, leering,
You know not if its praise, or sneering.
Such sudden stops, and circumflections;
Such prefacings, and interjections,
With "ah, good Heaven," and "oh, my God, sir,
"I'm wrong, I own, I kiss the rod, sir;
"There's weight and sense in all you utter—"
—Mere prologues to an egg and butter;
That did not pudding sleeves declare him,
Some antic Scaramouch you'd swear him.
But oh, what power more dull than sleep,
Does o'er my torpid senses creep?
Does Morpheus shed his poppies round?
Do fresh-pluck'd cowslips strew the ground?
Do harps AEolian lull my ear?
Are drones of Scottish bagpipes near?
Do beetles wind their drowsy horn?
Are gales from swampy Holland born?
In vain with snuff my nose I ply,
In vain the power of salts I try,
I yawn—I nod—for Cl—ke is nigh.
I yawn—I nod—for Cl—ke is nigh.
]—The rev. Dr. Clarke, Vice-Provost of Trinity-College, Dublin. He hath a very fine taste for poetry, which plainly appeareth by the specimen annexed to this piece, as it was first published.
On a lady's forgetting her riding-hat. Written by the rev.
Dr. CL.—KP;
when Vice-Provost of Trinity-College.
I.
Fair Anna had no heart to give,
So left her head behind,
Bright MINA on whose smiles I live,
Was not by half so kind.
II.
Both head and heart she with her brought;
And both she took away,
And with her carried all she caught,
THAT'S all THAT gaz'd THAT day.
III.
Ye nymphs that o'er nine wells preside;
Instruct the willing fair,
To give their hearts, whate'er betide,
And hands when they come here.
IV.
So when we see St. John's great eve;
The fires that round do move,
Shall each instruct us to receive
A hand and heart that glow with love.
Let mists and fogs invest my head,
Let all the fathers pen'd be read,
Bid B—nt recite his speech,
Bid B—nt recite his speech.
]—The Earl of B—t; Knight of the Bath; famous for his eloquence and personal accomplishments.
F—ns plead, or Garnet preach;
F—ns plead, or Garnet preach.
] —Counsellor John Fitz—s —Doctor Garnet, Bishop of Clogher. He wrote an excellent Paraphrase on the Book of Job.—The whole edition may be found at my shop in Parliament-street.
Set mayor and aldermen before me,
Bid everlasting C—ll bore me,
Tell o'er again a thrice told tale,
Drench me with Port, or ropy ale,
Be opium mingled with my drink,
My hands shan't fold, nor eye-lids wink:
But these vain boasts avail not now,
More pond'rous Cl—ke to thee I bow.
When wilt thou ease the groaning town,
Thou old cast troop horse of the gown?
What hast thou with the world to do,
Or what the world to say to you?
Thou can'st not now in amorous glee,
Write madrigals to
fifty-three,
Write madrigals to fifty three.
]—Various are the conjectures of the learned on this passage. Mr. Kavanagh is of opinion, that it alludeth unto the political disput es which raged in the year fiftythree; in which the Doctor may be supposed to have wrote madrigals, to appease the minds of the people. My nephew Todd inclineth to believe, that something is intended which he can't discover. For my own part, I opine; that it only refereth to the age of the lady, who had attained her fifty-third year. It certainly is not very genteel to ridicule this passion, which is properly called all-powerful, to shew that it spareth neither age nor condition, station nor dignity; not to mention the example of Anacreon, who was choaked with a grapestone, drinking the health of his mistress, at the age of four-score: I am myself this instant a captive to the charms of a lady who has passed her grand climacteric, and have addressed many sonnets to her, in a style no less tender than the Doctor's, one of which, the most admired by my friends, I have selected, and venture to publish, as a proof of my passion, and a specimen of my poetical endowments.
To the Widow—, on her taking a vomit of Ipecacuanha.
I.
Sost relict whose enchanting charms,
My captive heart enthrall;
Whose frown congeals, whose kindness warms,
Like honey mix'd with gall.
II.
Say, when the nauseous draught you take,
On Faulkner will you think;
And for thy own dear lover's sake,
His health in vomit drink.
III.
Discharge, bright maid, the foul contents,
That now your stomach bind;
But oh! be sure, at all events,
Leave Love and George behind.
IV.
So when in sieve, well pierced with holes,
Where dregs of fires do rest,
With shaking nought remains but coals,
To warm the riddler's breast.
And frisk in rhymes to please the dame,
Which Christmas bell-man would disclaim.
Nor can'st thou now in fulsome strain,
Pen Jacobite address again;
And scandalizing Alma Mater,
And scandalizing Alma Mater.
]—Mater, as may be found in Li tleton's Dictionary, is Latin for mother. My nephew Todd is of opinion, that the Doctor must have had some quarrel with his mother: for my own part, how unwilling soever I may be to find fault with my author, I cannot but agree with Mr. Kavanagh, and other ingenious friends, that it were better not to divulge family brangles.
Of right divine in monarchs chatter;
Nor can'st thou on extortion bent,
Raise insurrections and thy rent.
Raise insurrections and thy rent.
]—This relateth to a recent fact, which passed about ten years ago in the North of Ireland. The Doctor being unwilling, (for the benesit of the incumbent who was to succeed him) that his living should be let at an under value, insisted with his parishioners, who offered him twelve hundred yearly, to be paid fourteen; which they thinking unreasonable went to law, and reduced it to the sum of 700l.
Then buzz no more, thou reverend drone,
But to thy kindred earth begone.
What figure next confounds my fight,
An Austrian Count, an Irish Knight!
Much German pride and Irish blunder.
Much German pride and Irish blunder.
]— The Germans are supposed in general to be a pround people: Julius Caefar, and Mr. Nugent, give them this character. The Irish are very unjustly charged for a particular talent in blundering; but it is well known, that no people express themselves in their native tongue, the English, with more perspicuity and precision; the Dean of St. Patrick's, who tho' born and bred in England, always declared himself, when sober, to be an Irishman. It will not, I hope, be considered as presumption, that I add the authority of my Journal, which is considered as a standard of our language; whereas I have always consulted the particular propriety of diction, and may be bold to challenge any author now extant, for such a variety of tracts, written in so unblemished a purity, without any abbreviations of terminations, and abounding in the best chosen epithets.
Mark with what ease his brain creates
Speeches
ne'er
spoke,
miscall'd Debates,
'Till at the goddess Dulness' summons,
He makes one C—ll of the commons.
He makes one C—ll of the commons.
] —Doubts having arisen how the deficient vowells are to be filled up, I consulted several friends: my nephew Todd imagineth it meaneth caudle, a liquor drank by lying-in ladies, as it is composed of several mixtures: (I think it best when it is strong of white wine). Mr. Croker very ingeniously hinteth, he makes one
cartfull
of the commons; that is the commons all move together in the same machine. I think, with submission to better judgments, that the word
dunghill
removeth all difficulties, and corresponds exactly with the author's meaning, and with every thing but the text.
No brain but his cou'd e'er contain
Stories so vapid, old and vain;
So Plutarch tells of poison cold,
Which asses hoof alone can hold.
Humour and mirth no more are found,
For C—ll casts a gloom around.
Lethargic dullness loads each eye,
Ev'n dunces please, when C—ll's by!
Thus, sunshine, sparks from flint conceals,
Which darkness of the night reveals.
In Pliny's learned page it's found,
In Pliny's learned page, &c.
]—Pliny wrote many books, and was killed by Mount Vesuvius falling upon his head, though he always wore a pillow fastened to the top of his wig, to save him from that accident.
That lightning cannot sea-calves wound;
That lightning cannot sea-calves wo nd.
]—An annimal that seldom appeareth on our sea-coasts, unless to sishermen in the main Ocean.
Congenial is the dunce's matter,
Callous to wit and pointed satire.
Unsatisfy'd with nonsense said,
He's now resolv'd to read us dead,
With pamphlets nauseating he'll puke us,
On Lord May'r's feasts and Doctor Lucas.
On Lord May'r's seasts and Doctor Lucas.
]—A very remarkable apothecary, and member of parliament. He lived upon Ormond-quay, in Dublin, at the sign of Boyle's Head, who was a famous druggist. He was banished from Ireland by a vote of the House of Commons, which confined him to Newgate. He returned to his native country by the special mercy of his Majesty, whom he hath always continued to oppose (for his good) in two parliaments, where he representeth the city of Dublin.
He sings of beggars blind and dark,
Like some old snuffling parish clerk:
For stanzas vile he racks his brain,
And vainly mimicks Howard's strain!
He writes, he hobbles, bows and leers,
To gain a seat among the peers;
And ev'ry abject art he tries,
To prove he's qualify'd to rise.
With panegyric he bespatters,
Degrading him he meanly slatters.
Ah, purblind knight! thy arts misplac'd,
Think better of a Townshend's taste:
Fools only will such praise assume,
As Hottentots think grease—persume.
But whither, Clio, wou'dst thou rove?
Fond thy descriptive pow'r to prove,
Resume the theme, resign'd too long,
And Howard's praise conclude the song.
Maecenas puff'd by ev'ry quill,
Maecenas puff'd by every quill.
]—Caius Clinius Maecenas, a great lover of learning, and learned men. For his history, and that of the Emperor Augustus, and the whole policy of his reign, see Littleton's Dictionary.
Sits highest on the three-fork'd hill:
And lives for ever in the praise
Of Horace's, and Virgil's lays,
Of Horace's and Virgil's lays.
]—They are both to be had, from the hours of eight in the morning till twelve at night, at my shop in Parliament-street.
I have now gone through the several passages of this admired poem, which I thought required any illustration or comment, and the reader will judge how far I am qualified for the duty of a commentator; tho' the success I have already met with in that capacity, leaveth me little room to doubt of the public indulgence. It would be ungrateful, did I not take this public opportunity of returning my thanks to the many learned friends who have favoured me with their assistance in this arduous und ertaking: they are such a catalogue of names as would do honour to the greatest wits of antiquity; and the man who can boast of the friend-ship of Mr. Deane, sixth-clerk; Mr. Dexter, keeper of the Four-courts Marshalsea; Mess. Kavanagh and Croker, attorneys at law; need not be ashamed of putting his name to any work, in which they have been his coadjutors. My nephew, Thomas Todd, has been so often mentioned in these notes, that 'tis unnecessary to say an thing in his praise, further, than that he is an accute critic, a great traveller, and I have always found him very faithful and diligent in his duty, as my foreman. To him, therefore, this work is inscribed, by
His sincere friend, and paternal uncle, GEORGE FAULKINER.
Yet not one stanza of his own
Has made the poet's patron known.
While Howard to unborrow'd fame,
By his own works asserts his claim:
Then let a double wreath reward
The muse's patron, and their bard.
FINIS.