The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase / With Memoirs and Critical Dissertations, by the Rev. George Gilfillan

by Joseph Addison; John Gay; William Somerville

THE LIFE OF JOHN GAY.

This ingenious poet and child-like man was born, in 1688, at Barnstable, in Devonshire. His family, who were of Norman origin, had long possessed the manor of Goldworthy, or Holdworthy, which came into their hands through Gilbert Le Gay. He obtained possession of this estate by intermarrying with the family of Curtoyse, and gave his name, too, to a place called Hampton Gay, in Northamptonshire. The author of the "Fables" was brought up at the Free School of Barnstable—Pope says under one William Rayner, who had been educated at Westminster School, and who was the author of a volume of Latin and English verse, although Dr Johnson and others maintain that his master's name was Luck. On leaving school, Gay was bound apprentice to a mercer in London—a trade not the most propitious to poetry, and which he did not long continue to prosecute. In 1712, he published his "Rural Sports," and dedicated it to Pope, who was then rising toward the ascendant, having just published his brilliant tissue of centos, the "Essay on Criticism." Pope was pleased with the honour, and ever afterwards took a deep interest in Gay. In the same year Gay had been appointed domestic secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth. This lady was Anne Scott, the daughter and heiress of the Duke of Buccleuch, and widow of the well-known and hapless Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded in 1685. She plays a prominent part in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," and of her a far greater poet than her secretary thus sings:—

"The Duchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man well:

For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb."

Dr Johnson says of her, rather sarcastically, that she was "remarkable for her inflexible perseverance in her demand to be treated as a princess." One biographer of Gay asserts—but on what authority we know not—that this secretaryship was rewarded with a handsome salary. With her, however, our poet did not long agree. She was scarcely so kind to him as to the "Last Minstrel" who sung to her at Newark. By June 8th, 1714, (see a letter of Arbuthnot's of that date,) she had "turned Gay off," having probably been provoked by his indolence of disposition and improvidence of conduct.

Ere this, however, he had been admitted to the intimacy of Pope, and was hired or flattered by him to engage in the famous "Battle of the Wits," springing from the publication of the "Pastorals" of Ambrose Philips. This agreeable but nearly forgotten writer published some pastorals, which Steele, with his usual rashness and fatal favouritism, commended in the "Guardian" as superior to all productions of the class, (including Pope's,) except those of Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenser. Pope retorted in a style of inimitable irony, by a letter to the "Guardian," where he professedly gives the preference to Philips, but damages his claim by producing four specimens of his composition, and contrasting them with the better portions of his own. Not contented with this, he prevailed on Gay to satirise Philips in the "Shepherd's Week"—a poem which forms the reductio ad absurdum of that writer's plan, and exhibits rural life in more than the vulgarity and grossness which the author of the "Pastorals" had ascribed to it.

Gay shortly after wrote his "Fan," and his "Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London"—the former a mythological fiction, in three books, now entirely and deservedly neglected; the second still worthy of perusal on account of its fidelity to truth, in its pictures of the dirty London of 1713—a fidelity reminding you of Crabbe and of Swift; indeed, Gay is said to have been assisted in "Trivia" by the latter, who, we may not uncharitably suppose, supplied the filth of allusion and image which here and there taints the poem. In 1713, our author brought out on the stage a comedy, entitled the "Wife of Bath," which met with no success, and which, when reproduced seventeen years later, after the "Beggars' Opera" had taken the town by storm, fell as flat as before.

Gay had now fairly found his way into the centre of that brilliant circle called the Wits of Queen Anne. That was certainly one of the most varied in intellect and attainment which the world has ever seen. Highest far among them—we refer to the Tory side—darkled the stern brow of the author of "Gulliver's Travels," who had a mind cast by nature in a form of naked force, like a gloomy crag without a particle of beauty or any vegetation, save what will grow on the most horrid rocks, and the condition of whose existence there, seems to be that it deepens the desolation—a mind unredeemed by virtue save in the shape of remorse—unvisited by weakness, until it came transmuted into the tiger of madness—whose very sermons were satires on God and man—whose very prayers had a twang of blasphemy—whose loves were more loathsome than his hatreds, and yet over whose blasted might and most miserable and withered heart men mourn, while they shudder, blend tears with anathemas, and agree that the awful mystery of man itself is deepened by its relation to the mystery of the wickedness, remorse, and wretchedness of Jonathan Swift. Superior to him in outward show and splendour, but inferior in real intellect, and, if possible, in moral calibre, shone, although with lurid brilliance, the "fell genius" of St John or Henry Bolingbroke. In a former paper we said that Edmund Burke reminded us less of a man than of a tutelar Angel; and so we can sometimes think of the "ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke," with his subtle intellect, his showy, sophistical eloquence, his power of intrigue, his consummate falsehood, his vice and his infidelity as a "superior fiend"—a kind of human Belial—

"In act more graceful than humane:
A fairer person lost not heaven: he seem'd

For dignity composed and high exploit;
But all was false and hollow, though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels."

These two were the giants of the Tory confederacy of wits. But little inferior to them in brilliance, if vastly less in intellectual size, was Pope, with his epigrammatic style, his compact sense—like stimulating essence contained in small smelling bottles—his pungent personalities, his elegant glitter, and his splendid simulation of moral indignation and moral purpose. Less known, but more esteemed than any of them where he was known, was Dr Arbuthnot—a physician of skill, as some extant medical works prove—a man of science, and author of an "Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning"—a scholar, as evinced by his examination of Woodward's "Account of the Deluge," his treatise on "Ancient Coins and Medals," and that on the "Altercation or Scolding of the Ancients"—a wit, whose grave irony, keen perception of the ridiculous, and magical power of turning the lead of learning into the most fine gold of humour, exhibited in his "Martinus Scriblerus," his "Epitaph on the notorious Colonel Chartres," and his "History of John Bull," still extract shouts, screams, and tears of mirth from thousands who scarce know the author's name—a politician without malice or self-seeking—and, best of all, a man without guile, and a Christian without cant. He, although a physician, was in effect the chaplain of the corps, and had enough to do in keeping them within due bounds; nay, is said on his deathbed to have called Pope to him, and given him serious advice in reference to the direction of his talents, and the restraint of his muse. Prior, though inferior to these, was no common man; and to learning, wit, and tale-telling power, added skill and energy in the conduct of public affairs. And last, (for Parnell, though beloved by this circle, could hardly be said to belong to it,) there was Gay, whom the others agreed to love and laugh at, who stood in much the same relation to the wits of Anne as Goldsmith did to those of George III., being at once their fool and their fondling; who, like Goldsmith, was

"In wit a man—simplicity a child;"

and who though he could not stab and sneer, and create new worlds more laughable than even this, like Swift, nor declaim and sap faith, like Bolingbroke, nor rhyme and glitter like Pope, nor discourse on medals and write comical "Pilgrims' Progresses" like Arbuthnot, nor pour out floods of learning like Prior in "Alma," could do things which they in their turn never equalled, (even as in Emerson's poem, "The Mountain and the Squirrel," the latter wisely remarks to the former—

"I cannot carry forests on my back,
But neither can you crack a nut,")

could give a fabulous excellence to the construction and management of the "Fable;" extract interest from street crossings and scavengers, and let fly into the literary atmosphere an immortal Opera, the "Beggars'," which, though feathered by the moultings of the very basest night-birds, has pursued a career of triumph ever since.

To recur to the life of our poet. Losing his situation under the Duchess of Monmouth, he was patronised by the Earls of Oxford and Bolingbroke, and through them was appointed secretary to the Earl of Clarendon, who was going to Hanover as ambassador to that court. He was at this time so poor that, in order to equip himself with necessaries, such as shoes, stockings, and linen for the journey, he had to receive an advance of £100 from the treasury at Hanover. The Electoral Princess, afterwards Queen Caroline—wife of George II.—took some notice of Gay, and asked for a volume of his "Poems," when, as Arbuthnot remarks, "like a true poet," he was compelled to own that he had no copy in his possession. We suspect few poets, whether true or pretended, in our age would in this point resemble Gay.

Lord Clarendon's embassy lasted precisely fifteen days—Queen Anne having died in the meantime—and the Tory Government being consequently dismissed in disgrace. Poor Gay, who had offended the Whigs by dedicating his "Shepherd's Week" to Bolingbroke, came home in a worse plight than before. He had left England in a state of poverty—he returned to it in a state of proscription—although he perhaps felt comforted by an epistle of welcome from Pope, which did not, it is likely, affect him as it does us with the notion that its tricksy author was laughing in his sleeve.

Arbuthnot, who was a wiser friend, advised Gay to write an "Epistle on the Arrival of the Princess of Wales," which he did, and she and her lord were so far conciliated as to attend a play he now produced, entitled "What d'ye call it?"—a kind of hybrid between a farce and a tragedy—which, by the well-managed equivoque of its purpose, hit the house between wind and water; and not knowing "what" properly to "call it," and whether it should be applauded or damned, they gave the benefit of their doubts to the author. To its success, doubtless too, the presence and praise of the Prince and the Princess contributed. Gay now tried for a while the trade of a courtier—sooth to say, with little success. He was for this at once too sanguine and too simple. Pope said, with his usual civil sneer, in a letter to Swift, "the Doctor (Arbuthnot) goes to cards—Gay to court; the one loses money, the other time." It added to his chagrin, that having, in conjunction with Pope and Arbuthnot, produced, in 1717, a comedy, entitled "Three Months after Marriage," to satirise Dr Woodward, then famous as a fossilist; the piece, being personal and indecent, was not only hissed but hooted off the stage. The chief offence was taken at the introduction of a mummy and a crocodile on the stage. To divert his grief, he, at the suggestion of Lord Burlington, who paid his expenses, rambled into Devonshire, went next with Pultney to Aix, in France, and when afterwards on a visit to Lord Harcourt's seat, witnessed the incident of the two country lovers killed by lightning in each other's arms, to which Pope alludes in one of his letters, and Goldsmith in his "Vicar of Wakefield."

In 1720 he published his "Poems" by subscription. The general kindness felt for Gay, notwithstanding his faults and feebleness, now found a vent. The Prince and Princess of Wales not only subscribed, but gave him a liberal present, and some of the nobility, who regarded him as an agreeable plaything and lapdog of genius, took a number of copies. The result was that he gained a thousand pounds. He asked the advice of his friends how to dispose of this sum, and, as usual, took his own. Lewis, steward to Lord Oxford, advised him to entrust it to the funds, and live on the interest; Arbuthnot, to live upon the principal; Pope and Swift, to buy an annuity. Gay preferred to sink it in the South-Sea Bubble, then in all its glory. At first he imagined himself master of £20,000, and when advised to sell out and purchase as much as his wise friend Elijah Fenton said would "procure him a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day," rejected the counsel, and in fine lost every farthing, and nearly lost next, through vexation, either his life or his reason.

Pope, who occasionally laughed at him, was now very kind, and partly through his assiduous attention, Gay recovered his health, spirits, and the use of his pen. He wrote a tragedy called the "Captives," and was invited to read it before the Princess of Wales. The sight of her and her assembled ladies frightened him, and in advancing he stumbled over a stool and overthrew a heavy japan screen. How he fared afterwards in the reading we are not informed; but as we are told that the Princess started and her ladies screamed, we fear it had been poorly. On this story Hawkesworth has founded an amusing story in the "Adventurer," and it was also, we think, in the eye of the author of the humorous tale, entitled "The Bashful Man." This unlucky play was afterwards acted seven nights, the author's third night being under the special patronage of her Royal Highness.

At the request of the same illustrious lady, he, in 1726, undertook to write a volume of "Fables" for the young Duke of Cumberland, afterwards of Culloden notoriety, and when at last, in 1727, the Prince became George II., and the Princess Queen Caroline, Gay's hopes of promotion boiled as high as his hopes of gain had during the South-Sea scheme. But here, too, he was deceived; and having only received the paltry appointment (as he deemed it, though the salary was £200,) of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa, a girl of two years old, he thought himself insulted. He first sent a message to the Queen that he was too old for the place,—an excuse which he made for himself, but which, being only thirty-nine, he would not have borne any other to make for him. He next condescended to court Mrs Howard, the mistress of George II., and that "good Howard" commemorated in the "Heart of Mid-Lothian;" but this too was in vain, and then he retired from the attempt, growling out probably (if we can imagine him in fable, not as Queen Caroline called him the "Hare," but a Bear) the words, "Put not your faith in princes." He was the more excusable, as, two years before, Sir Robert Walpole had, for his surmised Toryism, turned him out of the office of "Commissioner of the Lottery," which had brought him in £150 a-year.

But now for once Gay catches Fortune on the wheel. There is a lucky hour in almost all lives, provided it be waited for with patience, and with prudence improved. Swift had some years before observed to Gay, what an odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate pastoral would make. On this hint Gay acted, preferring, however, to expand it into a comedy. Hence came the "Beggars' Opera," a hit in literature second to none that ever occurred in that fluctuating region. It was first performed in 1728, although much of it had been written before, and only a few satirical strokes, founded on his disappointment at court, attested their recent origin. Swift and Pope watched its progress with interest, but without hope. Congreve pronounced that it would "either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly." Gibber at Drury Lane refused it; it was accepted by his rival Rich, and soon the on dit ran that it had made Gay Rich, and Rich Gay. On its first night there was a brilliant assemblage. What painter shall give their heads and faces on that anxious evening—Swift's lowering front—Pope's bright eyes contrasting with the blind orbs of Congreve (if he indeed were there)—Addison's quiet, thoughtful physiognomy, as of one retired into some "Vision of Mirza"—the Duke of Argyle, with his star and stately form and animated countenance—and poor Gay himself perhaps, like some other play-wrights in the same predicament, perspiring with trepidation, as if again about to recite the "Captives!" At first uncertainty prevails among the patron-critics, and strange looks are exchanged between Swift and Pope, till, by and by, the latter hears Argyle exclaim, "It will do, it must do! I see it in the eyes of 'em;" and then the critics breathe freely, and the applauses become incontrollable, and the curtain closes at last amidst thunders of applause; and Gay goes home triumphant, amidst a circle of friends, who do not know whether more to wonder at his success or at their own previous apprehensions. For sixty-three nights continuously the piece is acted in London; then it spreads through England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Ladies sing its favourite songs, or carry them in their fans. Miss Fenton, who acted Polly, becomes a universal favourite, nay, a furor. Her pictures are engraved, her life written, and her sayings and jests published, and in fine, the Italian Opera, which the piece was intended to ridicule, is extinguished for a season. Notwithstanding this unparalleled success of the "Beggars' Opera," Gay gained only £400 by it, although by "Polly," the second part, (where Gay transports his characters to the colonies,) which the Lord Chamberlain suppressed, on account of its supposed immoral tendency, and which the author published in self-defence, he cleared nearly £1200.

Altogether now worth above £3000, having been admitted by the Duke of Queensberry into his house, who generously undertook the care alike of the helpless being's purse and person, and still in the prime of life, Gay might have looked forward, humanly speaking, to long years of comfort, social happiness, and increased fame. Dîs aliter visum est. He had been delicate for some time, and on the 4th December 1732, at the age of 44, and in the course of a three days' attack of inflammation of the bowels, this irresolute but amiable and gifted person breathed his last, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The last work he was occupied on was a second volume of "Fables," which was published after his death. He had become very popular, not merely for his powers, but for his presumed political principles, a "little Sacheverel," as Arbuthnot, his faithful friend and kind physician, calls him, and yet his modesty and simplicity of character remained entire, and he died while planning schemes of self-reformation, economy, and steady literary work. It is curious that Swift, when the letter arrived with the news of Gay's death, was so impressed with a presentiment of some coming evil, that he allowed it to lie five days unopened on his table. And when the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry erected a monument to his memory, Pope supplied an epitaph, familiar to most readers of poetry, and which is creditable to both. Two widow sisters survived Gay, amongst whom the profits of a posthumous opera, entitled "Achilles," as well as the small fortune which he left, were divided.

Gay's works lie in narrow compass, and hardly require minute criticism. His "Beggars' Opera" has the charm of daring singularity of plan, of great liveliness of song, and has some touches of light hurrying sarcasm, worthy of any pen. Burke used to deny its merit, but he was probably trying it b too lofty and ideal a standard. Hazlitt, on the other hand, has praised it overmuch, and perhaps "monstered" some of its "nothings." That it has power is proved by its effects on literature. It did not, we believe, create many robbers, but it created a large robber school in the drama and the novel; for instance, Schiller's "Robbers," Ainsworth's "Rookwood," and "Jack Shepherd," and Bulwer's "Paul Clifford," and "Eugene Aram," not to speak of the innumerable French tales and plays of a similar kind. The intention of these generally is not, perhaps, after all, to make an apology, far less an apotheosis of crime, but to teach us how there is a "soul of goodness" in all things. And has not Shakspeare long taught and been commended for teaching a similar lesson, although we cannot say of Gay and his brethren that they have "bettered the instruction?" Of "Trivia," we have spoken incidentally before; of "Rural Sports," and the "Shepherd's Week," it is unnecessary to say more than that the first is juvenile, and the second odd, graphic, and amusing. None of them is equal to the "Fables," and therefore we have decided on omitting them from our edition. In the "Fables," Gay is happy in proportion to the innocence and simplicity of his nature. He understands animals, because he has more than an ordinary share of the animal in his own constitution. Æsop, so far as we know, though an astute, was an uneducated and simple-minded man. Phædrus was a myth, and we cannot, therefore, adduce him in point. But Fontaine was called the "Fable-tree," and Gay is just the Fable-tree transplanted from France to England. In so doing we do not question our poet's originality, but merely indicate a certain resemblance in spirit between two originals. An original in Fable-writing Gay certainly was. He has copied, neither in story, spirit, nor moral, any previous writer. His "Fables" are always graceful in literary execution, often interesting in story; their versification is ever smooth and flowing; and sometimes, as in the "Court of Death," their moral darkens into sublimity. On the whole, these "Fables," along with the "Beggars' Opera," and the delectable songs of "'Twas when the Seas were Roaring," and "Black-eyed Susan," shall long preserve the memory of their author. We have appended these two songs because of their rare excellence.

John Gay had his faults as a man and as a poet, and it were easy finding fault with him in both capacities. But

"Poor were the triumph o'er the timid hare;"

and he was, by his own shewing, as well as Queen Caroline's, "the Hare with many friends." Let us, instead, drop a "tear over his fate," and pay a tribute, short, but sincere, to his true, though limited genius.

GAY'S FABLES.

* * * * *

INTRODUCTION.

PART I.

THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

Remote from cities lived a swain,
Unvexed with all the cares of gain;
His head was silvered o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat, and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penned the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew:
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country raised his name.
_10
A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought
And thus explored his reach of thought:
'Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed,
And the vast sense of Plato weighed?
Hath Socrates thy soul refined,
And hast thou fathomed Tully's mind?
_20
Or like the wise Ulysses, thrown
By various fates, on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities strayed,
Their customs, laws, and manners weighed?'
The shepherd modestly replied,
'I ne'er the paths of learning tried;
Nor have I roamed in foreign parts
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practised in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
_30
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know?
The little knowledge I have gained,
Was all from simple nature drained;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
_40
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind.
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care;
And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.
_50
From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never, with important air,
In conversation overbear.
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise?
My tongue within my lips I rein;
For who talks much, must talk in vain.
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chattering pye?
_60
Nor would I, with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right;
Rapacious animals we hate:
Kites, hawks, and wolves deserve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny, and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
_70
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.'
'Thy fame is just,' the sage replies;
'Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books as affected are as men:
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;
And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise.'
_80

* * * * *

TO HIS HIGHNESS

WILLIAM, DUXE OF CUMBERLAND.[1]

FABLE I.

THE LION, THE TIGER, AND THE TRAVELLER.

Accept, young Prince, the moral lay
And in these tales mankind survey;
With early virtues plant your breast,
The specious arts of vice detest.
Princes, like beauties, from their youth
Are strangers to the voice of truth;
Learn to contemn all praise betimes;
For flattery's the nurse of crimes;
Friendship by sweet reproof is shown,
(A virtue never near a throne);
_10
In courts such freedom must offend,
There none presumes to be a friend.
To those of your exalted station
Each courtier is a dedication.
Must I too flatter like the rest,
And turn my morals to a jest?
The Muse disdains to steal from those
Who thrive in courts by fulsome prose.
But shall I hide your real praise,
Or tell you what a nation says?
_20
They in your infant bosom trace
The virtues of your royal race;
In the fair dawning of your mind
Discern you generous, mild, and kind;
They see you grieve to hear distress,
And pant already to redress.
Go on, the height of good attain,
Nor let a nation hope in vain.
For hence we justly may presage
The virtues of a riper age.
_30
True courage shall your bosom fire,
And future actions own you sire.
Cowards are cruel, but the brave
Love mercy, and delight to save.
A tiger roaming for his prey,
Sprung on a traveller in the way;
The prostrate game a lion spies,
And on the greedy tyrant flies;
With mingled roar resounds the wood,
Their teeth, their claws distil with blood;
_40
Till vanquished by the lion's strength,
The spotted foe extends his length.
The man besought the shaggy lord,
And on his knees for life implored.
His life the generous hero gave,
Together walking to his cave,
The lion thus bespoke his guest:
'What hardy beast shall dare contest
My matchless strength! you saw the fight,
And must attest my power and right.
_50
Forced to forego their native home,
My starving slaves at distance roam.
Within these woods I reign alone,
The boundless forest is my own.
Bears, wolves, and all the savage brood,
Have dyed the regal den with blood.
These carcases on either hand,
Those bones that whiten all the land,
My former deeds and triumphs tell,
Beneath these jaws what numbers fell.'
_60
'True,' says the man, 'the strength I saw
Might well the brutal nation awe:
But shall a monarch, brave like you,
Place glory in so false a view?
Robbers invade their neighbours' right,
Be loved: let justice bound your might.
Mean are ambitious heroes' boasts
Of wasted lands and slaughtered hosts.
Pirates their power by murders gain,
Wise kings by love and mercy reign.
_70
To me your clemency hath shown
The virtue worthy of a throne.
Heaven gives you power above the rest,
Like Heaven to succour the distress'd.'
'The case is plain,' the monarch said;
'False glory hath my youth misled;
For beasts of prey, a servile train,
Have been the flatterers of my reign.
You reason well: yet tell me, friend,
Did ever you in courts attend?
_80
For all my fawning rogues agree,
That human heroes rule like me.'

* * * * *

FABLE II.

THE SPANIEL AND THE CAMELEON.

A spaniel, bred with all the care
That waits upon a favourite heir,
Ne'er felt correction's rigid hand;
Indulged to disobey command,
In pampered ease his hours were spent;
He never knew what learning meant.
Such forward airs, so pert, so smart,
Were sure to win his lady's heart;
Each little mischief gained him praise;
How pretty were his fawning ways!
_10
The wind was south, the morning fair,
He ventured forth to take the air.
He ranges all the meadow round,
And rolls upon the softest ground:
When near him a cameleon seen,
Was scarce distinguished from the green.
'Dear emblem of the flattering host,
What, live with clowns! a genius lost!
To cities and the court repair:
A fortune cannot fail thee there:
_20
Preferment shall thy talents crown,
Believe me, friend; I know the town.'
'Sir,' says the sycophant, 'like you,
Of old, politer life I knew:
Like you, a courtier born and bred;
Kings leaned an ear to what I said.
My whisper always met success;
The ladies praised me for address,
I knew to hit each courtier's passion,
And flattered every vice in fashion.
_30
But Jove, who hates the liar's ways,
At once cut short my prosperous days;
And, sentenced to retain my nature,
Transformed me to this crawling creature.
Doomed to a life obscure and mean,
I wander in the sylvan scene.
For Jove the heart alone regards;
He punishes what man rewards.
How different is thy case and mine!
With men at least you sup and dine;
_40
While I, condemned to thinnest fare,
Like those I flattered feed on air.'

* * * * *

FABLE III.

THE MOTHER, THE NURSE, AND THE FAIRY.

Give me a son! The blessing sent,
Were ever parents more content?
How partial are their doting eyes!
No child is half so fair and wise.
Waked to the morning's pleasing care,
The mother rose, and sought her heir.
She saw the nurse, like one possess'd,
With wringing hands, and sobbing breast.
'Sure some disaster hath befell:
Speak, nurse; I hope the boy is well.'
_10
'Dear madam, think not me to blame;
Invisible the fairy came:
Your precious babe is hence conveyed,
And in the place a changeling laid.
Where are the father's mouth and nose,
The mother's eyes, as black as sloes?
See here a shocking awkward creature,
That speaks a fool in every feature.'
'The woman's blind,' the mother cries;
'I see wit sparkle in his eyes.'
_20
'Lord! madam, what a squinting leer;
No doubt the fairy hath been here.'
Just as she spoke, a pigmy sprite
Pops through the key-hole, swift as light;
Perched on the cradle's top he stands,
And thus her folly reprimands:
'Whence sprung the vain conceited lie,
That we the world with fools supply?
What! give our sprightly race away,
For the dull helpless sons of clay!
_30
Besides, by partial fondness shown,
Like you we doat upon our own.
Where yet was ever found a mother,
Who'd give her booby for another?
And should we change for human breed,
Well might we pass for fools indeed.'

* * * * *

FABLE IV.

THE EAGLE, AND THE ASSEMBLY OF ANIMALS.

As Jupiter's all-seeing eye
Surveyed the worlds beneath the sky,
From this small speck of earth were sent,
Murmurs and sounds of discontent;
For every thing alive complained,
That he the hardest life sustained.
Jove calls his eagle. At the word
Before him stands the royal bird.
The bird, obedient, from heaven's height,
Downward directs his rapid flight;
_10
Then cited every living thing,
To hear the mandates of his king.
'Ungrateful creatures, whence arise
These murmurs which offend the skies?
Why this disorder? say the cause:
For just are Jove's eternal laws.
Let each his discontent reveal;
To yon sour dog, I first appeal.'
'Hard is my lot,' the hound replies,
'On what fleet nerves the greyhound flies,
_20
While I, with weary step and slow,
O'er plains and vales, and mountains go.
The morning sees my chase begun,
Nor ends it till the setting sun.'
'When,' says the greyhound, 'I pursue,
My game is lost, or caught in view;
Beyond my sight the prey's secure:
The hound is slow, but always sure.
And had I his sagacious scent,
Jove ne'er had heard my discontent.'
_30
The lion craved the fox's art;
The fox, the lion's force and heart:
The cock implored the pigeon's flight,
Whose wings were rapid, strong, and light:
The pigeon strength of wing despised,
And the cock's matchless valour prized:
The fishes wished to graze the plain;
The beasts to skim beneath the main.
Thus, envious of another's state,
Each blamed the partial hand of Fate.
_40
The bird of heaven then cried aloud,
'Jove bids disperse the murmuring crowd;
The god rejects your idle prayers.
Would ye, rebellious mutineers,
Entirely change your name and nature,
And be the very envied creature?
What, silent all, and none consent!
Be happy then, and learn content:
Nor imitate the restless mind,
And proud ambition, of mankind.'
_50

* * * * *

FABLE V.

THE WILD BOAR AND THE RAM.

Against an elm a sheep was tied,
The butcher's knife in blood was dyed:
The patient flock in silent fright,
From far beheld the horrid sight.
A savage boar, who near them stood,
Thus mocked to scorn the fleecy brood.
'All cowards should be served like you.
See, see, your murderer is in view:
With purple hands and reeking knife,
He strips the skin yet warm with life;
_10
Your quartered sires, your bleeding dams,
The dying bleat of harmless lambs,
Call for revenge. O stupid race!
The heart that wants revenge is base.'
'I grant.' an ancient ram replies,
'We bear no terror in our eyes;
Yet think us not of soul so tame,
Which no repeated wrongs inflame;
Insensible of every ill,
Because we want thy tusks to kill.
_20
Know, those who violence pursue,
Give to themselves the vengeance due;
For in these massacres we find
The two chief plagues that waste mankind:
Our skin supplies the wrangling bar,
It wakes their slumbering sons to war;
And well revenge may rest contented,
Since drums and parchment were invented.'

* * * * *

FABLE VI.

THE MISER AND PLUTUS.

The wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks;
Looks back, and trembles as he walks!
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner prys,
Then opes the chest with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard;
But, now with sudden qualms possess'd,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast.
_10
By conscience stung, he wildly stares;
And thus his guilty soul declares:
'Had the deep earth her stores confined,
This heart had known sweet peace of mind.
But virtue's sold. Good gods, what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice!
O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banished honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
_20
Gold sowed the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill:
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts,
In treachery's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!'
He spoke, and sighed. In angry mood,
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The miser, trembling, locked his chest;
The vision frowned, and thus address'd:
_30
'Whence is this vile ungrateful rant?
Each sordid rascal's daily cant.
Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abused,
Must I be censured, cursed, accused?
Even virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;
And power (when lodged in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
_40
Thus, when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,
And every shocking vice beside.
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dews of heaven:
Like Heaven, it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes;
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawned their sordid souls for pay?
_50
Let bravoes then (when blood is spilt)
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.'

* * * * *

FABLE VII.

THE LION, THE FOX, AND THE GEESE.

A lion, tired with state affairs,
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares,
Resolved (remote from noise and strife)
In peace to pass his latter life.
It was proclaimed; the day was set;
Behold the general council met,
The fox was viceroy named. The crowd
To the new regent humbly bowed.
Wolves, bears, and mighty tigers bend,
And strive who most shall condescend.
_10
He straight assumes a solemn grace,
Collects his wisdom in his face.
The crowd admire his wit, his sense:
Each word hath weight and consequence.
The flatterer all his art displays:
He who hath power, is sure of praise.
A fox stept forth before the rest,
And thus the servile throng address'd.
'How vast his talents, born to rule,
And trained in virtue's honest school:
_20
What clemency his temper sways!
How uncorrupt are all his ways!
Beneath his conduct and command,
Rapine shall cease to waste the land.
His brain hath stratagem and art;
Prudence and mercy rule his heart;
What blessings must attend the nation
Under this good administration!'
He said. A goose who distant stood,
Harangued apart the cackling brood:
_30
'W'hene'er I hear a knave commend,
He bids me shun his worthy friend.
What praise! what mighty commendation!
But 'twas a fox who spoke the oration.
Foxes this government may prize,
As gentle, plentiful, and wise;
If they enjoy the sweets, 'tis plain
We geese must feel a tyrant reign.
What havoc now shall thin our race,
When every petty clerk in place,
_40
To prove his taste and seem polite,
Will feed on geese both noon and night!'

* * * * *

FABLE VIII.

THE LADY AND THE WASP.

What whispers must the beauty bear!
What hourly nonsense haunts her ear!
Where'er her eyes dispense their charms,
Impertinence around her swarms.
Did not the tender nonsense strike,
Contempt and scorn might soon dislike.
Forbidding airs might thin the place,
The slightest flap a fly can chase.
But who can drive the numerous breed?
Chase one, another will succeed.
_10
Who knows a fool, must know his brother;
One fop will recommend another:
And with this plague she's rightly curs'd,
Because she listened to the first.
As Doris, at her toilet's duty,
Sat meditating on her beauty,
She now was pensive, now was gay,
And lolled the sultry hours away.
As thus in indolence she lies,
A giddy wasp around her flies.
_20
He now advances, now retires,
Now to her neck and cheek aspires.
Her fan in vain defends her charms;
Swift he returns, again alarms;
For by repulse he bolder grew,
Perched on her lip, and sipp'd the dew.
She frowns, she frets. 'Good God!' she cries,
'Protect me from these teasing flies!
Of all the plagues that heaven hath sent,
A wasp is most impertinent.'
_30
The hovering insect thus complained:
'Am I then slighted, scorned, disdained?
Can such offence your anger wake?
'Twas beauty caused the bold mistake.
Those cherry lips that breathe perfume,
That cheek so ripe with youthful bloom,
Made me with strong desire pursue
The fairest peach that ever grew.'
'Strike him not, Jenny,' Doris cries,
'Nor murder wasps like vulgar flies:
_40
For though he's free (to do him right)
The creature's civil and polite.'
In ecstacies away he posts;
Where'er he came, the favour boasts;
Brags how her sweetest tea he sips,
And shows the sugar on his lips.
The hint alarmed the forward crew;
Sure of success, away they flew.
They share the dainties of the day,
Round her with airy music play;
_50
And now they flutter, now they rest,
Now soar again, and skim her breast.
Nor were they banished, till she found
That wasps have stings, and felt the wound.

* * * * *

FABLE IX.

THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF.

Seek you to train your fav'rite boy?
Each caution, every care employ:
And ere you venture to confide,
Let his preceptor's heart be tried:
Weigh well his manners, life, and scope;
On these depends thy future hope.
As on a time, in peaceful reign,
A bull enjoyed the flowery plain,
A mastiff passed; inflamed with ire,
His eye-balls shot indignant fire;
_10
He foamed, he raged with thirst of blood
Spurning the ground the monarch stood,
And roared aloud, 'Suspend the fight;
In a whole skin go sleep to-night:
Or tell me, ere the battle rage,
What wrongs provoke thee to engage?
Is it ambition fires thy breast,
Or avarice that ne'er can rest?
From these alone unjustly springs
The world-destroying wrath of kings.'
_20
The surly mastiff thus returns:
'Within my bosom glory burns.
Like heroes of eternal name,
Whom poets sing, I fight for fame.
The butcher's spirit-stirring mind
To daily war my youth inclined;
He trained me to heroic deed;
Taught me to conquer, or to bleed.'
'Cursed dog,' the bull replied, 'no more
I wonder at thy thirst of gore;
_30
For thou, beneath a butcher trained,
Whose hands with cruelty are stained;
His daily murders in thy view,
Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue.
Take then thy fate.' With goring wound,
At once he lifts him from the ground;
Aloft the sprawling hero flies,
Mangled he falls, he howls, and dies.

* * * * *

FABLE X.

THE ELEPHANT AND THE BOOKSELLER.

The man who, with undaunted toils,
Sails unknown seas to unknown soils,
With various wonders feasts his sight:
What stranger wonders does he write!
We read, and in description view
Creatures which Adam never knew:
For, when we risk no contradiction,
It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.
Those things that startle me or you,
I grant are strange; yet may be true.
_10
Who doubts that elephants are found
For science and for sense renowned?
Borri records their strength of parts,
Extent of thought, and skill in arts;
How they perform the law's decrees,
And save the state the hangman's fees;
And how by travel understand
The language of another land.
Let those, who question this report,
To Pliny's ancient page resort;
_20
How learn'd was that sagacious breed!
Who now (like them) the Greek can read!
As one of these, in days of yore,
Rummaged a shop of learning o'er;
Not, like our modern dealers, minding
Only the margin's breadth and binding;
A book his curious eye detains,
Where, with exactest care and pains,
Were every beast and bird portrayed,
That e'er the search of man surveyed,
_30
Their natures and their powers were writ,
With all the pride of human wit.
The page he with attention spread,
And thus remarked on what he read:
'Man with strong reason is endowed;
A beast scarce instinct is allowed.
But let this author's worth be tried,
'Tis plain that neither was his guide.
Can he discern the different natures,
And weigh the power of other creatures
_40
Who by the partial work hath shown
He knows so little of his own?
How falsely is the spaniel drawn!
Did man from him first learn to fawn?
A dog proficient in the trade!
He the chief flatterer nature made!
Go, man, the ways of courts discern,
You'll find a spaniel still might learn.
How can the fox's theft and plunder
Provoke his censure or his wonder;
_50
From courtiers' tricks, and lawyers' arts,
The fox might well improve his parts.
The lion, wolf, and tiger's brood,
He curses, for their thirst of blood:
But is not man to man a prey?
Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.'
The bookseller, who heard him speak,
And saw him turn a page of Greek,
Thought, what a genius have I found!
Then thus addressed with bow profound:
_60
'Learn'd sir, if you'd employ your pen
Against the senseless sons of men,
Or write the history of Siam, [2]
No man is better pay than I am;
Or, since you're learn'd in Greek, let's see
Something against the Trinity.'
When wrinkling with a sneer his trunk,
'Friend,' quoth the elephant, 'you're drunk;
E'en keep your money and be wise:
Leave man on man to criticise;
_70
For that you ne'er can want a pen
Among the senseless sons of men.
They unprovoked will court the fray:
Envy's a sharper spur than pay.
No author ever spared a brother;
Wits are game-cocks to one another.'

* * * * *

FABLE XI.

THE PEACOCK, THE TURKEY, AND THE GOOSE.

In beauty faults conspicuous grow;
The smallest speck is seen on snow.
As near a barn, by hunger led,
A peacock with the poultry fed;
All viewed him with an envious eye,
And mocked his gaudy pageantry.
He, conscious of superior merit,
Contemns their base reviling spirit;
His state and dignity assumes,
And to the sun displays his plumes;
_10
Which, like the heaven's o'er-arching skies,
Are spangled with a thousand eyes.
The circling rays, and varied light,
At once confound their dazzled sight:
On every tongue detraction burns,
And malice prompts their spleen by turns.
'Mark, with what insolence and pride
The creature takes his haughty stride!'
The turkey cries. 'Can spleen contain?
Sure never bird was half so vain!
_20
But were intrinsic merit seen,
We turkeys have the whiter skin.'
From tongue to tongue they caught abuse;
And next was heard the hissing goose:
'What hideous legs! what filthy claws!
I scorn to censure little flaws!
Then what a horrid squalling throat!
Even owls are frighted at the note.'
'True; those are faults,' the peacock cries;
'My scream, my shanks you may despise:
_30
But such blind critics rail in vain:
What, overlook my radiant train!
Know, did my legs (your scorn and sport)
The turkey or the goose support,
And did ye scream with harsher sound,
Those faults in you had ne'er been found!
To all apparent beauties blind,
Each blemish strikes an envious mind.'
Thus in assemblies have I seen
A nymph of brightest charms and mien,
_40
Wake envy in each ugly face;
And buzzing scandal fills the place.

* * * * *

FABLE XII.

CUPID, HYMEN, AND PLUTUS.

As Cupid in Cythera's grove
Employed the lesser powers of love;
Some shape the bow, or fit the string;
Some give the taper shaft its wing,
Or turn the polished quiver's mould,
Or head the dart with tempered gold.
Amidst their toil and various care,
Thus Hymen, with assuming air,
Addressed the god: 'Thou purblind chit,
Of awkward and ill-judging wit,
_10
If matches are not better made,
At once I must forswear my trade.
You send me such ill-coupled folks,
That 'tis a shame to sell them yokes.
They squabble for a pin, a feather,
And wonder how they came together.
The husband's sullen, dogged, shy;
The wife grows flippant in reply:
He loves command and due restriction,
And she as well likes contradiction:
_20
She never slavishly submits;
She'll have her will, or have her fits.
He this way tugs, she t'other draws:
The man grows jealous, and with cause.
Nothing can save him but divorce;
And here the wife complies of course.'
'When,' says the boy, 'had I to do
With either your affairs or you?
I never idly spent my darts;
You trade in mercenary hearts.
_30
For settlements the lawyer's fee'd;
Is my hand witness to the deed?
If they like cat and dog agree,
Go, rail at Plutus, not at me.'
Plutus appeared, and said, ''Tis true,
In marriage gold is all their view:
They seek not beauty, wit, or sense;
And love is seldom the pretence.
All offer incense at my shrine,
And I alone the bargain sign.
_40
How can Belinda blame her fate?
She only asked a great estate.
Doris was rich enough, 'tis true;
Her lord must give her title too:
And every man, or rich or poor,
A fortune asks, and asks no more.'
Av'rice, whatever shape it bears,
Must still be coupled with its cares.

* * * * *

FABLE XIII.

THE TAME STAG.

As a young stag the thicket pass'd,
The branches held his antlers fast;
A clown, who saw the captive hung,
Across the horns his halter flung.
Now safely hampered in the cord,
He bore the present to his lord.
His lord was pleased; as was the clown,
When he was tipp'd with half-a-crown.
The stag was brought before his wife;
The tender lady begged his life.
_10
'How sleek's the skin! how speck'd like ermine!
Sure never creature was so charming!'
At first within the yard confined,
He flies and hides from all mankind;
Now bolder grown, with fixed amaze,
And distant awe, presumes to gaze;
Munches the linen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines:
He steals my little master's bread,
Follows the servants to be fed:
_20
Nearer and nearer now he stands,
To feel the praise of patting hands;
Examines every fist for meat,
And though repulsed, disdains retreat:
Attacks again with levelled horns;
And man, that was his terror, scorns.
Such is the country maiden's fright,
When first a red-coat is in sight;
Behind the door she hides her face;
Next time at distance eyes the lace;
_30
She now can all his terrors stand,
Nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand.
She plays familiar in his arms,
And every soldier hath his charms.
From tent to tent she spreads her flame;
For custom conquers fear and shame.

* * * * *

FABLE XIV.

THE MONKEY WHO HAD SEEN THE WORLD.

A Monkey, to reform the times,
Resolved to visit foreign climes:
For men in distant regions roam
To bring politer manners home,
So forth he fares, all toil defies:
Misfortune serves to make us wise.
At length the treach'rous snare was laid;
Poor Pug was caught, to town conveyed,
There sold. How envied was his doom,
Made captive in a lady's room!
_10
Proud as a lover of his chains,
He day by day her favour gains.
Whene'er the duty of the day
The toilet calls; with mimic play
He twirls her knot, he cracks her fan,
Like any other gentleman.
In visits too his parts and wit,
When jests grew dull, were sure to hit.
Proud with applause, he thought his mind
In every courtly art refined;
_20
Like Orpheus burnt with public zeal,
To civilise the monkey weal:
So watched occasion, broke his chain,
And sought his native woods again.
The hairy sylvans round him press,
Astonished at his strut and dress.
Some praise his sleeve; and others gloat
Upon his rich embroidered coat;
His dapper periwig commending,
With the black tail behind depending;
_30
His powdered back, above, below,
Like hoary frost, or fleecy snow;
But all with envy and desire,
His fluttering shoulder-knot admire.
'Hear and improve,' he pertly cries;
'I come to make a nation wise.
Weigh your own words; support your place,
The next in rank to human race.
In cities long I passed my days,
Conversed with men, and learnt their ways.
_40
Their dress, their courtly manners see;
Reform your state and copy me.
Seek ye to thrive? in flattery deal;
Your scorn, your hate, with that conceal.
Seem only to regard your friends,
But use them for your private ends.
Stint not to truth the flow of wit;
Be prompt to lie whene'er 'tis fit.
Bend all your force to spatter merit;
Scandal is conversation's spirit.
_50
Boldly to everything attend,
And men your talents shall commend.
I knew the great. Observe me right;
So shall you grow like man polite.'
He spoke and bowed. With muttering jaws
The wondering circle grinned applause.
Now, warm with malice, envy, spite,
Their most obliging friends they bite;
And fond to copy human ways,
Practise new mischiefs all their days.
_60
Thus the dull lad, too tall for school,
With travel finishes the fool;
Studious of every coxcomb's airs,
He drinks, games, dresses, whores, and swears;
O'erlooks with scorn all virtuous arts,
For vice is fitted to his parts.

* * * * *

FABLE XV.

THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE PHEASANTS.

The sage, awaked at early day,
Through the deep forest took his way;
Drawn by the music of the groves,
Along the winding gloom he roves:
From tree to tree, the warbling throats
Prolong the sweet alternate notes.
But where he pass'd, he terror threw,
The song broke short, the warblers flew;
The thrushes chattered with affright,
And nightingales abhorred his sight;
_10
All animals before him ran,
To shun the hateful sight of man.
'Whence is this dread of every creature?
Fly they our figure or our nature?'
As thus he walked in musing thought,
His ear imperfect accents caught;
With cautious step he nearer drew,
By the thick shade concealed from view.
High on the branch a pheasant stood,
Around her all her listening brood;
_20
Proud of the blessings of her nest,
She thus a mother's care expressed:
'No dangers here shall circumvent,
Within the woods enjoy content.
Sooner the hawk or vulture trust,
Than man; of animals the worst:
In him ingratitude you find,
A vice peculiar to the kind.
The sheep whose annual fleece is dyed,
To guard his health, and serve his pride,
_30
Forced from his fold and native plain,
Is in the cruel shambles slain.
The swarms, who, with industrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill,
In vain whole summer days employed,
Their stores are sold, their race destroyed.
What tribute from the goose is paid!
Does not her wing all science aid!
Does it not lovers' hearts explain,
And drudge to raise the merchant's gain?
_40
What now rewards this general use?
He takes the quills, and eats the goose.
Man then avoid, detest his ways;
So safety shall prolong your days.
When services are thus acquitted,
Be sure we pheasants must be spitted.'

* * * * *