Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call,
To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all;
Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care,
For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare.
I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies,
As friend Virgil has it, I've aliud mercedis;
For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale;
And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal;
And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood,
I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good:
Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health:
High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5]
[Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at
London, in 4to, by subscription.]
[Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her
friends.—N.]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.—N.]
[Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who
died in 1733, at the age of 27.—N.]
[Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had
ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and
the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of
National Biography."—. W. E. B.]
THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST,
ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732
PREFACE
I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in every other qualification. By the multitude of those who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb whore. What are we to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, only allowing for the change of breed and fashion.