No More Learning

Jonathan was
admitted an attorney of the King's Inns, Dublin, and was appointed by the
Benchers to the office of Steward of the King's Inns, in January, 1666.
He died in April, 1667, leaving his widow with an infant daughter, Jane,
and an unborn child.

Swift was born in Dublin seven months after his father's death. His
mother after a time returned to her own family, in Leicester, and the
child was added to the household of his uncle, Godwin Swift, who, by his
four wives, became father to ten sons of his own and four daughters.
Godwin Swift sent his nephew to Kilkenny School, where he had William
Congreve among his schoolfellows. In April, 1782, Swift was entered at
Trinity College as pensioner, together with his cousin Thomas, son of his
uncle Thomas. That cousin Thomas afterwards became rector of Puttenham,
in Surrey. Jonathan Swift graduated as B. A. at Dublin, in February,
1686, and remained in Trinity College for another three years. He was
ready to proceed to M. A. when his uncle Godwin became insane. The
troubles of 1689 also caused the closing of the University, and Jonathan
Swift went to Leicester, where mother and son took counsel together as to
future possibilities of life.

The retired statesman, Sir William Temple, at Moor Park, near Farnham, in
Surrey, was in highest esteem with the new King and the leaders of the
Revolution. His father, as Master of the Irish Rolls, had been a friend
of Godwin Swift's, and with his wife Swift's mother could claim
cousinship. After some months, therefore, at Leicester, Jonathan Swift,
aged twenty-two, went to Moor Park, and entered Sir William Temple's
household, doing service with the expectation of advancement through his
influence. The advancement he desired was in the Church. When Swift
went to Moor Park he found in its household a child six or seven years
old, daughter to Mrs. Johnson, who was trusted servant and companion to
Lady Gifford, Sir William Temple's sister. With this little Esther, aged
seven, Swift, aged twenty-two, became a playfellow and helper in her
studies. He broke his English for her into what he called their "little
language," that was part of the same playful kindliness, and passed into
their after-life. In July, 1692, with Sir William Temple's help,
Jonathan Swift commenced M. A. in Oxford, as of Hart Hall. In 1694,
Swift's ambition having been thwarted by an offer of a clerkship, of 120
pounds a year, in the Irish Rolls, he broke from Sir William Temple, took
orders, and obtained, through other influence, in January, 1695, the
small prebendary of Kilroot, in the north of Ireland. He was there for
about a year. Close by, in Belfast, was an old college friend, named
Waring, who had a sister. Swift was captivated by Miss Waring, called
her Varina, and would have become engaged to marry her if she had not
flinched from engagement with a young clergyman whose income was but a
hundred a year.

But Sir William Temple had missed Jonathan Swift from Moor Park.
Differences were forgotten, and Swift, at his wish, went back. This was
in 1696, when his little pupil, Esther Johnson, was fifteen. Swift said
of her, "I knew her from six years old, and had some share in her
education, by directing what books she should read, and perpetually
instructing her in the principles of honour and virtue, from which she
never swerved in any one action or moment of her life. She was sickly
from her childhood until about the age of fifteen; but then grew into
perfect health, and was then looked upon as one of the most beautiful,
graceful, and agreeable young women in London, only a little too fat. Her
hair was blacker than a raven, and every feature of her face in
perfection. " This was the Stella of Swift's after-life, the one woman to
whom his whole love was given. But side by side with the slow growth of
his knowledge of all she was for him, was the slow growth of his
conviction that attacks of giddiness and deafness, which first came when
he was twenty, and recurred at times throughout his life, were signs to
be associated with that which he regarded as the curse upon his life. His
end would be like his uncle Godwin's. It was a curse transmissible to
children, but if he desired to keep the influence his genius gave him, he
could not tell the world why he refused to marry. Only to Stella, who
remained unmarried for his sake, and gave her life to him, could all be
known.

Returned to Moor Park, Swift wrote, in 1697, the "Battle of the Books,"
as well as the "Tale of the Tub," with which it was published seven years
afterwards, in 1704. Perrault and others had been battling in France
over the relative merits of Ancient and Modern Writers. The debate had
spread to England. On behalf of the Ancients, stress was laid by Temple
on the letters of Phalaris, tyrant of Agrigentum. Wotton replied to Sir
William for the Moderns. The Hon. Charles Boyle, of Christ Church,
published a new edition of the Epistles of Phalaris, with translation of
the Greek text into Latin. Dr. Bentley, the King's Librarian, published
a "Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalaris," denying their value, and
arguing that Phalaris did not write them. Christ Church replied through
Charles Boyle, with "Dr. Bentley's Dissertation on the Epistles of
Phalaris examined. " Swift entered into the war with a light heart, and
matched the Ancients in defending them for the amusement of his patron.
His incidental argument between the Spider and the Bee has provided a
catch-phrase, "Sweetness and Light," to a combatant of later times.

Sir William Temple died on the 27th of January, 1699. Swift then became
chaplain to Lord Berkeley in Dublin Castle, and it was as a little
surprise to Lady Berkeley, who liked him to read to her Robert Boyle's
"Meditations," that Swift wrote the "Meditation on a Broomstick. " In
February, 1700, he obtained from Lord Berkeley the vicarage of Laracor
with the living of Rathbeggan, also in the diocese of Meath. In the
beginning of 1701 Esther Johnson, to whom Sir William Temple had
bequeathed a leasehold farm in Wicklow, came with an elder friend, Miss
Dingley, and settled in Laracor to be near Swift. During one of the
visits to London, made from Laracor, Swift attacked the false pretensions
of astrologers by that prediction of the death of Mr. Partridge, a
prophetic almanac maker, of which he described the Accomplishment so
clearly that Partridge had much ado to get credit for being alive.

The lines addressed to Stella speak for themselves. "Cadenus and
Vanessa" was meant as polite and courteous admonition to Miss Hester Van
Homrigh, a young lady in whom green-sickness seems to have produced
devotion to Swift in forms that embarrassed him, and with which he did
not well know how to deal.

H. M.




THE BOOKSELLER TO THE READER.


This discourse, as it is unquestionably of the same author, so it seems
to have been written about the same time, with "The Tale of a Tub;" I
mean the year 1697, when the famous dispute was on foot about ancient and
modern learning. The controversy took its rise from an essay of Sir
William Temple's upon that subject; which was answered by W. Wotton,
B. D. , with an appendix by Dr. Bentley, endeavouring to destroy the credit
of AEsop and Phalaris for authors, whom Sir William Temple had, in the
essay before mentioned, highly commended. In that appendix the doctor
falls hard upon a new edition of Phalaris, put out by the Honourable
Charles Boyle, now Earl of Orrery, to which Mr. Boyle replied at large
with great learning and wit; and the Doctor voluminously rejoined. In
this dispute the town highly resented to see a person of Sir William
Temple's character and merits roughly used by the two reverend gentlemen
aforesaid, and without any manner of provocation. At length, there
appearing no end of the quarrel, our author tells us that the BOOKS in
St. James's Library, looking upon themselves as parties principally
concerned, took up the controversy, and came to a decisive battle; but
the manuscript, by the injury of fortune or weather, being in several
places imperfect, we cannot learn to which side the victory fell.

I must warn the reader to beware of applying to persons what is here
meant only of books, in the most literal sense. So, when Virgil is
mentioned, we are not to understand the person of a famous poet called by
that name; but only certain sheets of paper bound up in leather,
containing in print the works of the said poet: and so of the rest.




THE PREFACE OF THE AUTHOR.


Satire is a sort of glass wherein beholders do generally discover
everybody's face but their own; which is the chief reason for that kind
reception it meets with in the world, and that so very few are offended
with it. But, if it should happen otherwise, the danger is not great;
and I have learned from long experience never to apprehend mischief from
those understandings I have been able to provoke: for anger and fury,
though they add strength to the sinews of the body, yet are found to
relax those of the mind, and to render all its efforts feeble and
impotent.

There is a brain that will endure but one scumming; let the owner gather
it with discretion, and manage his little stock with husbandry; but, of
all things, let him beware of bringing it under the lash of his betters,
because that will make it all bubble up into impertinence, and he will
find no new supply. Wit without knowledge being a sort of cream, which
gathers in a night to the top, and by a skilful hand may be soon whipped
into froth; but once scummed away, what appears underneath will be fit
for nothing but to be thrown to the hogs.




A FULL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE BATTLE FOUGHT LAST FRIDAY BETWEEN THE
ANCIENT AND THE MODERN BOOKS IN SAINT JAMES'S LIBRARY.


Whoever examines, with due circumspection, into the annual records of
time, will find it remarked that War is the child of Pride, and Pride the
daughter of Riches:--the former of which assertions may be soon granted,
but one cannot so easily subscribe to the latter; for Pride is nearly
related to Beggary and Want, either by father or mother, and sometimes by
both: and, to speak naturally, it very seldom happens among men to fall
out when all have enough; invasions usually travelling from north to
south, that is to say, from poverty to plenty. The most ancient and
natural grounds of quarrels are lust and avarice; which, though we may
allow to be brethren, or collateral branches of pride, are certainly the
issues of want. For, to speak in the phrase of writers upon politics, we
may observe in the republic of dogs, which in its original seems to be an
institution of the many, that the whole state is ever in the profoundest
peace after a full meal; and that civil broils arise among them when it
happens for one great bone to be seized on by some leading dog, who
either divides it among the few, and then it falls to an oligarchy, or
keeps it to himself, and then it runs up to a tyranny. The same
reasoning also holds place among them in those dissensions we behold upon
a turgescency in any of their females. For the right of possession lying
in common (it being impossible to establish a property in so delicate a
case), jealousies and suspicions do so abound, that the whole
commonwealth of that street is reduced to a manifest state of war, of
every citizen against every citizen, till some one of more courage,
conduct, or fortune than the rest seizes and enjoys the prize: upon which
naturally arises plenty of heart-burning, and envy, and snarling against
the happy dog. Again, if we look upon any of these republics engaged in
a foreign war, either of invasion or defence, we shall find the same
reasoning will serve as to the grounds and occasions of each; and that
poverty or want, in some degree or other (whether real or in opinion,
which makes no alteration in the case), has a great share, as well as
pride, on the part of the aggressor.

Now whoever will please to take this scheme, and either reduce or adapt
it to an intellectual state or commonwealth of learning, will soon
discover the first ground of disagreement between the two great parties
at this time in arms, and may form just conclusions upon the merits of
either cause. But the issue or events of this war are not so easy to
conjecture at; for the present quarrel is so inflamed by the warm heads
of either faction, and the pretensions somewhere or other so exorbitant,
as not to admit the least overtures of accommodation. This quarrel first
began, as I have heard it affirmed by an old dweller in the
neighbourhood, about a small spot of ground, lying and being upon one of
the two tops of the hill Parnassus; the highest and largest of which had,
it seems, been time out of mind in quiet possession of certain tenants,
called the Ancients; and the other was held by the Moderns. But these
disliking their present station, sent certain ambassadors to the
Ancients, complaining of a great nuisance; how the height of that part of
Parnassus quite spoiled the prospect of theirs, especially towards the
east; and therefore, to avoid a war, offered them the choice of this
alternative, either that the Ancients would please to remove themselves
and their effects down to the lower summit, which the Moderns would
graciously surrender to them, and advance into their place; or else the
said Ancients will give leave to the Moderns to come with shovels and
mattocks, and level the said hill as low as they shall think it
convenient. To which the Ancients made answer, how little they expected
such a message as this from a colony whom they had admitted, out of their
own free grace, to so near a neighbourhood. That, as to their own seat,
they were aborigines of it, and therefore to talk with them of a removal
or surrender was a language they did not understand. That if the height
of the hill on their side shortened the prospect of the Moderns, it was a
disadvantage they could not help; but desired them to consider whether
that injury (if it be any) were not largely recompensed by the shade and
shelter it afforded them. That as to the levelling or digging down, it
was either folly or ignorance to propose it if they did or did not know
how that side of the hill was an entire rock, which would break their
tools and hearts, without any damage to itself. That they would
therefore advise the Moderns rather to raise their own side of the hill
than dream of pulling down that of the Ancients; to the former of which
they would not only give licence, but also largely contribute. All this
was rejected by the Moderns with much indignation, who still insisted
upon one of the two expedients; and so this difference broke out into a
long and obstinate war, maintained on the one part by resolution, and by
the courage of certain leaders and allies; but, on the other, by the
greatness of their number, upon all defeats affording continual recruits.
In this quarrel whole rivulets of ink have been exhausted, and the
virulence of both parties enormously augmented. Now, it must be here
understood, that ink is the great missive weapon in all battles of the
learned, which, conveyed through a sort of engine called a quill,
infinite numbers of these are darted at the enemy by the valiant on each
side, with equal skill and violence, as if it were an engagement of
porcupines. This malignant liquor was compounded, by the engineer who
invented it, of two ingredients, which are, gall and copperas; by its
bitterness and venom to suit, in some degree, as well as to foment, the
genius of the combatants. And as the Grecians, after an engagement, when
they could not agree about the victory, were wont to set up trophies on
both sides, the beaten party being content to be at the same expense, to
keep itself in countenance (a laudable and ancient custom, happily
revived of late in the art of war), so the learned, after a sharp and
bloody dispute, do, on both sides, hang out their trophies too, whichever
comes by the worst. These trophies have largely inscribed on them the
merits of the cause; a full impartial account of such a Battle, and how
the victory fell clearly to the party that set them up. They are known
to the world under several names; as disputes, arguments, rejoinders,
brief considerations, answers, replies, remarks, reflections, objections,
confutations. For a very few days they are fixed up all in public
places, either by themselves or their representatives, for passengers to
gaze at; whence the chiefest and largest are removed to certain magazines
they call libraries, there to remain in a quarter purposely assigned
them, and thenceforth begin to be called books of controversy.

In these books is wonderfully instilled and preserved the spirit of each
warrior while he is alive; and after his death his soul transmigrates
thither to inform them. This, at least, is the more common opinion; but
I believe it is with libraries as with other cemeteries, where some
philosophers affirm that a certain spirit, which they call _brutum
hominis_, hovers over the monument, till the body is corrupted and turns
to dust or to worms, but then vanishes or dissolves; so, we may say, a
restless spirit haunts over every book, till dust or worms have seized
upon it--which to some may happen in a few days, but to others later--and
therefore, books of controversy being, of all others, haunted by the most
disorderly spirits, have always been confined in a separate lodge from
the rest, and for fear of a mutual violence against each other, it was
thought prudent by our ancestors to bind them to the peace with strong
iron chains. Of which invention the original occasion was this: When the
works of Scotus first came out, they were carried to a certain library,
and had lodgings appointed them; but this author was no sooner settled
than he went to visit his master Aristotle, and there both concerted
together to seize Plato by main force, and turn him out from his ancient
station among the divines, where he had peaceably dwelt near eight
hundred years. The attempt succeeded, and the two usurpers have reigned
ever since in his stead; but, to maintain quiet for the future, it was
decreed that all polemics of the larger size should be hold fast with a
chain.

By this expedient, the public peace of libraries might certainly have
been preserved if a new species of controversial books had not arisen of
late years, instinct with a more malignant spirit, from the war above
mentioned between the learned about the higher summit of Parnassus.

When these books were first admitted into the public libraries, I
remember to have said, upon occasion, to several persons concerned, how I
was sure they would create broils wherever they came, unless a world of
care were taken; and therefore I advised that the champions of each side
should be coupled together, or otherwise mixed, that, like the blending
of contrary poisons, their malignity might be employed among themselves.
And it seems I was neither an ill prophet nor an ill counsellor; for it
was nothing else but the neglect of this caution which gave occasion to
the terrible fight that happened on Friday last between the Ancient and
Modern Books in the King's library. Now, because the talk of this battle
is so fresh in everybody's mouth, and the expectation of the town so
great to be informed in the particulars, I, being possessed of all
qualifications requisite in an historian, and retained by neither party,
have resolved to comply with the urgent importunity of my friends, by
writing down a full impartial account thereof.

The guardian of the regal library, a person of great valour, but chiefly
renowned for his humanity, had been a fierce champion for the Moderns,
and, in an engagement upon Parnassus, had vowed with his own hands to
knock down two of the ancient chiefs who guarded a small pass on the
superior rock, but, endeavouring to climb up, was cruelly obstructed by
his own unhappy weight and tendency towards his centre, a quality to
which those of the Modern party are extremely subject; for, being light-
headed, they have, in speculation, a wonderful agility, and conceive
nothing too high for them to mount, but, in reducing to practice,
discover a mighty pressure about their posteriors and their heels. Having
thus failed in his design, the disappointed champion bore a cruel rancour
to the Ancients, which he resolved to gratify by showing all marks of his
favour to the books of their adversaries, and lodging them in the fairest
apartments; when, at the same time, whatever book had the boldness to own
itself for an advocate of the Ancients was buried alive in some obscure
corner, and threatened, upon the least displeasure, to be turned out of
doors. Besides, it so happened that about this time there was a strange
confusion of place among all the books in the library, for which several
reasons were assigned. Some imputed it to a great heap of learned dust,
which a perverse wind blew off from a shelf of Moderns into the keeper's
eyes. Others affirmed he had a humour to pick the worms out of the
schoolmen, and swallow them fresh and fasting, whereof some fell upon his
spleen, and some climbed up into his head, to the great perturbation of
both. And lastly, others maintained that, by walking much in the dark
about the library, he had quite lost the situation of it out of his head;
and therefore, in replacing his books, he was apt to mistake and clap
Descartes next to Aristotle, poor Plato had got between Hobbes and the
Seven Wise Masters, and Virgil was hemmed in with Dryden on one side and
Wither on the other.

Meanwhile, those books that were advocates for the Moderns, chose out one
from among them to make a progress through the whole library, examine the
number and strength of their party, and concert their affairs. This
messenger performed all things very industriously, and brought back with
him a list of their forces, in all, fifty thousand, consisting chiefly of
light-horse, heavy-armed foot, and mercenaries; whereof the foot were in
general but sorrily armed and worse clad; their horses large, but
extremely out of case and heart; however, some few, by trading among the
Ancients, had furnished themselves tolerably enough.

While things were in this ferment, discord grew extremely high; hot words
passed on both sides, and ill blood was plentifully bred. Here a
solitary Ancient, squeezed up among a whole shelf of Moderns, offered
fairly to dispute the case, and to prove by manifest reason that the
priority was due to them from long possession, and in regard of their
prudence, antiquity, and, above all, their great merits toward the
Moderns. But these denied the premises, and seemed very much to wonder
how the Ancients could pretend to insist upon their antiquity, when it
was so plain (if they went to that) that the Moderns were much the more
ancient of the two. As for any obligations they owed to the Ancients,
they renounced them all. "It is true," said they, "we are informed some
few of our party have been so mean as to borrow their subsistence from
you, but the rest, infinitely the greater number (and especially we
French and English), were so far from stooping to so base an example,
that there never passed, till this very hour, six words between us. For
our horses were of our own breeding, our arms of our own forging, and our
clothes of our own cutting out and sewing. " Plato was by chance up on
the next shelf, and observing those that spoke to be in the ragged plight
mentioned a while ago, their jades lean and foundered, their weapons of
rotten wood, their armour rusty, and nothing but rags underneath, he
laughed loud, and in his pleasant way swore, by ---, he believed them.

Now, the Moderns had not proceeded in their late negotiation with secrecy
enough to escape the notice of the enemy. For those advocates who had
begun the quarrel, by setting first on foot the dispute of precedency,
talked so loud of coming to a battle, that Sir William Temple happened to
overhear them, and gave immediate intelligence to the Ancients, who
thereupon drew up their scattered troops together, resolving to act upon
the defensive; upon which, several of the Moderns fled over to their
party, and among the rest Temple himself. This Temple, having been
educated and long conversed among the Ancients, was, of all the Moderns,
their greatest favourite, and became their greatest champion.

Things were at this crisis when a material accident fell out. For upon
the highest corner of a large window, there dwelt a certain spider,
swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infinite numbers
of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his palace, like
human bones before the cave of some giant. The avenues to his castle
were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes, all after the modern way of
fortification. After you had passed several courts you came to the
centre, wherein you might behold the constable himself in his own
lodgings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to sally
out upon all occasions of prey or defence. In this mansion he had for
some time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger to his person by
swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from below; when it was
the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a wandering bee, to whose
curiosity a broken pane in the glass had discovered itself, and in he
went, where, expatiating a while, he at last happened to alight upon one
of the outward walls of the spider's citadel; which, yielding to the
unequal weight, sunk down to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavoured
to force his passage, and thrice the centre shook. The spider within,
feeling the terrible convulsion, supposed at first that nature was
approaching to her final dissolution, or else that Beelzebub, with all
his legions, was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his
subjects whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length
valiantly resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. Meanwhile the bee
had acquitted himself of his toils, and, posted securely at some
distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from
the ragged remnants of the cobweb. By this time the spider was
adventured out, when, beholding the chasms, the ruins, and dilapidations
of his fortress, he was very near at his wit's end; he stormed and swore
like a madman, and swelled till he was ready to burst. At length,
casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes from events
(for they know each other by sight), "A plague split you," said he; "is
it you, with a vengeance, that have made this litter here; could not you
look before you, and be d---d? Do you think I have nothing else to do
(in the devil's name) but to mend and repair after you? " "Good words,
friend," said the bee, having now pruned himself, and being disposed to
droll; "I'll give you my hand and word to come near your kennel no more;
I was never in such a confounded pickle since I was born. " "Sirrah,"
replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old custom in our
family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I should come and teach
you better manners. " "I pray have patience," said the bee, "or you'll
spend your substance, and, for aught I see, you may stand in need of it
all, towards the repair of your house. " "Rogue, rogue," replied the
spider, "yet methinks you should have more respect to a person whom all
the world allows to be so much your betters. " "By my troth," said the
bee, "the comparison will amount to a very good jest, and you will do me
a favour to let me know the reasons that all the world is pleased to use
in so hopeful a dispute. " At this the spider, having swelled himself
into the size and posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true
spirit of controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and
angry, to urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers
or objections of his opposite, and fully predetermined in his mind
against all conviction.

"Not to disparage myself," said he, "by the comparison with such a
rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or home, without stock
or inheritance? born to no possession of your own, but a pair of wings
and a drone-pipe. Your livelihood is a universal plunder upon nature; a
freebooter over fields and gardens; and, for the sake of stealing, will
rob a nettle as easily as a violet. Whereas I am a domestic animal,
furnished with a native stock within myself. This large castle (to show
my improvements in the mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and
the materials extracted altogether out of my own person. "

"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least that I am come
honestly by my wings and my voice; for then, it seems, I am obliged to
Heaven alone for my flights and my music; and Providence would never have
bestowed on me two such gifts without designing them for the noblest
ends. I visit, indeed, all the flowers and blossoms of the field and
garden, but whatever I collect thence enriches myself without the least
injury to their beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and
your skill in architecture and other mathematics, I have little to say:
in that building of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labour
and method enough; but, by woeful experience for us both, it is too plain
the materials are naught; and I hope you will henceforth take warning,
and consider duration and matter, as well as method and art. You boast,
indeed, of being obliged to no other creature, but of drawing and
spinning out all from yourself; that is to say, if we may judge of the
liquor in the vessel by what issues out, you possess a good plentiful
store of dirt and poison in your breast; and, though I would by no means
lesson or disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are
somewhat obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign
assistance. Your inherent portion of dirt does not fall of acquisitions,
by sweepings exhaled from below; and one insect furnishes you with a
share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the question
comes all to this: whether is the nobler being of the two, that which, by
a lazy contemplation of four inches round, by an overweening pride,
feeding, and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom,
producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb; or that which, by a
universal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, and
distinction of things, brings home honey and wax. "

This dispute was managed with such eagerness, clamour, and warmth, that
the two parties of books, in arms below, stood silent a while, waiting in
suspense what would be the issue; which was not long undetermined: for
the bee, grown impatient at so much loss of time, fled straight away to a
bed of roses, without looking for a reply, and left the spider, like an
orator, collected in himself, and just prepared to burst out.

It happened upon this emergency that AEsop broke silence first. He had
been of late most barbarously treated by a strange effect of the regent's
humanity, who had torn off his title-page, sorely defaced one half of his
leaves, and chained him fast among a shelf of Moderns. Where, soon
discovering how high the quarrel was likely to proceed, he tried all his
arts, and turned himself to a thousand forms. At length, in the borrowed
shape of an ass, the regent mistook him for a Modern; by which means he
had time and opportunity to escape to the Ancients, just when the spider
and the bee were entering into their contest; to which he gave his
attention with a world of pleasure, and, when it was ended, swore in the
loudest key that in all his life he had never known two cases, so
parallel and adapt to each other as that in the window and this upon the
shelves. "The disputants," said he, "have admirably managed the dispute
between them, have taken in the full strength of all that is to be said
on both sides, and exhausted the substance of every argument _pro_ and
_con_. It is but to adjust the reasonings of both to the present
quarrel, then to compare and apply the labours and fruits of each, as the
bee has learnedly deduced them, and we shall find the conclusion fall
plain and close upon the Moderns and us. For pray, gentlemen, was ever
anything so modern as the spider in his air, his turns, and his
paradoxes? he argues in the behalf of you, his brethren, and himself,
with many boastings of his native stock and great genius; that he spins
and spits wholly from himself, and scorns to own any obligation or
assistance from without. Then he displays to you his great skill in
architecture and improvement in the mathematics. To all this the bee, as
an advocate retained by us, the Ancients, thinks fit to answer, that, if
one may judge of the great genius or inventions of the Moderns by what
they have produced, you will hardly have countenance to bear you out in
boasting of either. Erect your schemes with as much method and skill as
you please; yet, if the materials be nothing but dirt, spun out of your
own entrails (the guts of modern brains), the edifice will conclude at
last in a cobweb; the duration of which, like that of other spiders'
webs, may be imputed to their being forgotten, or neglected, or hid in a
corner. For anything else of genuine that the Moderns may pretend to, I
cannot recollect; unless it be a large vein of wrangling and satire, much
of a nature and substance with the spiders' poison; which, however they
pretend to spit wholly out of themselves, is improved by the same arts,
by feeding upon the insects and vermin of the age. As for us, the
Ancients, we are content with the bee, to pretend to nothing of our own
beyond our wings and our voice: that is to say, our flights and our
language. For the rest, whatever we have got has been by infinite labour
and search, and ranging through every corner of nature; the difference
is, that, instead of dirt and poison, we have rather chosen to till our
hives with honey and wax; thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of
things, which are sweetness and light. "

It is wonderful to conceive the tumult arisen among the books upon the
close of this long descant of AEsop: both parties took the hint, and
heightened their animosities so on a sudden, that they resolved it should
come to a battle. Immediately the two main bodies withdrew, under their
several ensigns, to the farther parts of the library, and there entered
into cabals and consults upon the present emergency. The Moderns were in
very warm debates upon the choice of their leaders; and nothing less than
the fear impending from their enemies could have kept them from mutinies
upon this occasion. The difference was greatest among the horse, where
every private trooper pretended to the chief command, from Tasso and
Milton to Dryden and Wither. The light-horse were commanded by Cowley
and Despreaux. There came the bowmen under their valiant leaders,
Descartes, Gassendi, and Hobbes; whose strength was such that they could
shoot their arrows beyond the atmosphere, never to fall down again, but
turn, like that of Evander, into meteors; or, like the cannon-ball, into
stars. Paracelsus brought a squadron of stinkpot-flingers from the snowy
mountains of Rhaetia. There came a vast body of dragoons, of different
nations, under the leading of Harvey, their great aga: part armed with
scythes, the weapons of death; part with lances and long knives, all
steeped in poison; part shot bullets of a most malignant nature, and used
white powder, which infallibly killed without report. There came several
bodies of heavy-armed foot, all mercenaries, under the ensigns of
Guicciardini, Davila, Polydore Vergil, Buchanan, Mariana, Camden, and
others. The engineers were commanded by Regiomontanus and Wilkins. The
rest was a confused multitude, led by Scotus, Aquinas, and Bellarmine; of
mighty bulk and stature, but without either arms, courage, or discipline.
In the last place came infinite swarms of calones, a disorderly rout led
by L'Estrange; rogues and ragamuffins, that follow the camp for nothing
but the plunder, all without coats to cover them.

The army of the Ancients was much fewer in number; Homer led the horse,
and Pindar the light-horse; Euclid was chief engineer; Plato and
Aristotle commanded the bowmen; Herodotus and Livy the foot; Hippocrates,
the dragoons; the allies, led by Vossius and Temple, brought up the rear.

All things violently tending to a decisive battle, Fame, who much
frequented, and had a large apartment formerly assigned her in the regal
library, fled up straight to Jupiter, to whom she delivered a faithful
account of all that passed between the two parties below; for among the
gods she always tells truth. Jove, in great concern, convokes a council
in the Milky Way. The senate assembled, he declares the occasion of
convening them; a bloody battle just impendent between two mighty armies
of ancient and modern creatures, called books, wherein the celestial
interest was but too deeply concerned. Momus, the patron of the Moderns,
made an excellent speech in their favour, which was answered by Pallas,
the protectress of the Ancients. The assembly was divided in their
affections; when Jupiter commanded the Book of Fate to be laid before
him. Immediately were brought by Mercury three large volumes in folio,
containing memoirs of all things past, present, and to come. The clasps
were of silver double gilt, the covers of celestial turkey leather, and
the paper such as here on earth might pass almost for vellum. Jupiter,
having silently read the decree, would communicate the import to none,
but presently shut up the book.

Without the doors of this assembly there attended a vast number of light,
nimble gods, menial servants to Jupiter: those are his ministering
instruments in all affairs below. They travel in a caravan, more or less
together, and are fastened to each other like a link of galley-slaves, by
a light chain, which passes from them to Jupiter's great toe: and yet, in
receiving or delivering a message, they may never approach above the
lowest step of his throne, where he and they whisper to each other
through a large hollow trunk. These deities are called by mortal men
accidents or events; but the gods call them second causes.
Jupiter
having delivered his message to a certain number of these divinities,
they flew immediately down to the pinnacle of the regal library, and
consulting a few minutes, entered unseen, and disposed the parties
according to their orders.

Meanwhile Momus, fearing the worst, and calling to mind an ancient
prophecy which bore no very good face to his children the Moderns, bent
his flight to the region of a malignant deity called Criticism. She
dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla; there Momus found
her extended in her den, upon the spoils of numberless volumes, half
devoured. At her right hand sat Ignorance, her father and husband, blind
with age; at her left, Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps
of paper herself had torn. There was Opinion, her sister, light of foot,
hood-winked, and head-strong, yet giddy and perpetually turning. About
her played her children, Noise and Impudence, Dulness and Vanity,
Positiveness, Pedantry, and Ill-manners. The goddess herself had claws
like a cat; her head, and ears, and voice resembled those of an ass; her
teeth fallen out before, her eyes turned inward, as if she looked only
upon herself; her diet was the overflowing of her own gall; her spleen
was so large as to stand prominent, like a dug of the first rate; nor
wanted excrescences in form of teats, at which a crew of ugly monsters
were greedily sucking; and, what is wonderful to conceive, the bulk of
spleen increased faster than the sucking could diminish it. "Goddess,"
said Momus, "can you sit idly here while our devout worshippers, the
Moderns, are this minute entering into a cruel battle, and perhaps now
lying under the swords of their enemies? who then hereafter will ever
sacrifice or build altars to our divinities? Haste, therefore, to the
British Isle, and, if possible, prevent their destruction; while I make
factions among the gods, and gain them over to our party. "

Momus, having thus delivered himself, stayed not for an answer, but left
the goddess to her own resentment. Up she rose in a rage, and, as it is
the form on such occasions, began a soliloquy: "It is I" (said she) "who
give wisdom to infants and idiots; by me children grow wiser than their
parents, by me beaux become politicians, and schoolboys judges of
philosophy; by me sophisters debate and conclude upon the depths of
knowledge; and coffee-house wits, instinct by me, can correct an author's
style, and display his minutest errors, without understanding a syllable
of his matter or his language; by me striplings spend their judgment, as
they do their estate, before it comes into their hands. It is I who have
deposed wit and knowledge from their empire over poetry, and advanced
myself in their stead. And shall a few upstart Ancients dare to oppose
me? But come, my aged parent, and you, my children dear, and thou, my
beauteous sister; let us ascend my chariot, and haste to assist our
devout Moderns, who are now sacrificing to us a hecatomb, as I perceive
by that grateful smell which from thence reaches my nostrils. "

The goddess and her train, having mounted the chariot, which was drawn by
tame geese, flew over infinite regions, shedding her influence in due
places, till at length she arrived at her beloved island of Britain; but
in hovering over its metropolis, what blessings did she not let fall upon
her seminaries of Gresham and Covent-garden! And now she reached the
fatal plain of St. James's library, at what time the two armies were upon
the point to engage; where, entering with all her caravan unseen, and
landing upon a case of shelves, now desert, but once inhabited by a
colony of virtuosos, she stayed awhile to observe the posture of both
armies.

But here the tender cares of a mother began to fill her thoughts and move
in her breast: for at the head of a troup of Modern bowmen she cast her
eyes upon her son Wotton, to whom the fates had assigned a very short
thread. Wotton, a young hero, whom an unknown father of mortal race
begot by stolen embraces with this goddess. He was the darling of his
mother above all her children, and she resolved to go and comfort him.
But first, according to the good old custom of deities, she cast about to
change her shape, for fear the divinity of her countenance might dazzle
his mortal sight and overcharge the rest of his senses. She therefore
gathered up her person into an octavo compass: her body grow white and
arid, and split in pieces with dryness; the thick turned into pasteboard,
and the thin into paper; upon which her parents and children artfully
strewed a black juice, or decoction of gall and soot, in form of letters:
her head, and voice, and spleen, kept their primitive form; and that
which before was a cover of skin did still continue so. In this guise
she marched on towards the Moderns, indistinguishable in shape and dress
from the divine Bentley, Wotton's dearest friend. "Brave Wotton," said
the goddess, "why do our troops stand idle here, to spend their present
vigour and opportunity of the day? away, let us haste to the generals,
and advise to give the onset immediately. " Having spoke thus, she took
the ugliest of her monsters, full glutted from her spleen, and flung it
invisibly into his mouth, which, flying straight up into his head,
squeezed out his eye-balls, gave him a distorted look, and
half-overturned his brain. Then she privately ordered two of her beloved
children, Dulness and Ill-manners, closely to attend his person in all
encounters. Having thus accoutred him, she vanished in a mist, and the
hero perceived it was the goddess his mother.

The destined hour of fate being now arrived, the fight began; whereof,
before I dare adventure to make a particular description, I must, after
the example of other authors, petition for a hundred tongues, and mouths,
and hands, and pens, which would all be too little to perform so immense
a work. Say, goddess, that presidest over history, who it was that first
advanced in the field of battle! Paracelsus, at the head of his
dragoons, observing Galen in the adverse wing, darted his javelin with a
mighty force, which the brave Ancient received upon his shield, the point
breaking in the second fold . . . _Hic pauca_
_. . . . desunt_
They bore the wounded aga on their shields to his
chariot . . .
_Desunt_ . . .
_nonnulla_. . . .

Then Aristotle, observing Bacon advance with a furious mien, drew his bow
to the head, and let fly his arrow, which missed the valiant Modern and
went whizzing over his head; but Descartes it hit; the steel point
quickly found a defect in his head-piece; it pierced the leather and the
pasteboard, and went in at his right eye. The torture of the pain
whirled the valiant bow-man round till death, like a star of superior
influence, drew him into his own vortex _Ingens hiatus_ . . . .
_hic in MS. _ . . . .
. . . . when Homer appeared at the head of the cavalry, mounted on a
furious horse, with difficulty managed by the rider himself, but which no
other mortal durst approach; he rode among the enemy's ranks, and bore
down all before him. Say, goddess, whom he slew first and whom he slew
last! First, Gondibert advanced against him, clad in heavy armour and
mounted on a staid sober gelding, not so famed for his speed as his
docility in kneeling whenever his rider would mount or alight. He had
made a vow to Pallas that he would never leave the field till he had
spoiled Homer of his armour: madman, who had never once seen the wearer,
nor understood his strength! Him Homer overthrew, horse and man, to the
ground, there to be trampled and choked in the dirt. Then with a long
spear he slew Denham, a stout Modern, who from his father's side derived
his lineage from Apollo, but his mother was of mortal race. He fell, and
bit the earth. The celestial part Apollo took, and made it a star; but
the terrestrial lay wallowing upon the ground. Then Homer slew Sam
Wesley with a kick of his horse's heel; he took Perrault by mighty force
out of his saddle, then hurled him at Fontenelle, with the same blow
dashing out both their brains.

On the left wing of the horse Virgil appeared, in shining armour,
completely fitted to his body; he was mounted on a dapple-grey steed, the
slowness of whose pace was an effect of the highest mettle and vigour. He
cast his eye on the adverse wing, with a desire to find an object worthy
of his valour, when behold upon a sorrel gelding of a monstrous size
appeared a foe, issuing from among the thickest of the enemy's squadrons;
but his speed was less than his noise; for his horse, old and lean, spent
the dregs of his strength in a high trot, which, though it made slow
advances, yet caused a loud clashing of his armour, terrible to hear. The
two cavaliers had now approached within the throw of a lance, when the
stranger desired a parley, and, lifting up the visor of his helmet, a
face hardly appeared from within which, after a pause, was known for that
of the renowned Dryden. The brave Ancient suddenly started, as one
possessed with surprise and disappointment together; for the helmet was
nine times too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the
hinder part, even like the lady in a lobster, or like a mouse under a
canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within the penthouse of a
modern periwig; and the voice was suited to the visage, sounding weak and
remote. Dryden, in a long harangue, soothed up the good Ancient; called
him father, and, by a large deduction of genealogies, made it plainly
appear that they were nearly related. Then he humbly proposed an
exchange of armour, as a lasting mark of hospitality between them. Virgil
consented (for the goddess Diffidence came unseen, and cast a mist before
his eyes), though his was of gold and cost a hundred beeves, the other's
but of rusty iron. However, this glittering armour became the Modern yet
worsen than his own. Then they agreed to exchange horses; but, when it
came to the trial, Dryden was afraid and utterly unable to mount. . .
_Alter hiatus_
. . . . _in MS. _
Lucan appeared upon a fiery horse of admirable shape, but headstrong,
bearing the rider where he list over the field; he made a mighty
slaughter among the enemy's horse; which destruction to stop, Blackmore,
a famous Modern (but one of the mercenaries), strenuously opposed
himself, and darted his javelin with a strong hand, which, falling short
of its mark, struck deep in the earth. Then Lucan threw a lance; but
AEsculapius came unseen and turned off the point. "Brave Modern," said
Lucan, "I perceive some god protects you, for never did my arm so deceive
me before: but what mortal can contend with a god? Therefore, let us
fight no longer, but present gifts to each other. " Lucan then bestowed
on the Modern a pair of spurs, and Blackmore gave Lucan a bridle. . . .
_Pauca desunt_. . . .
. . . .
Creech: but the goddess Dulness took a cloud, formed into the shape of
Horace, armed and mounted, and placed in a flying posture before him.
Glad was the cavalier to begin a combat with a flying foe, and pursued
the image, threatening aloud; till at last it led him to the peaceful
bower of his father, Ogleby, by whom he was disarmed and assigned to his
repose.

Then Pindar slew ---, and --- and Oldham, and ---, and Afra the Amazon,
light of foot; never advancing in a direct line, but wheeling with
incredible agility and force, he made a terrible slaughter among the
enemy's light-horse. Him when Cowley observed, his generous heart burnt
within him, and he advanced against the fierce Ancient, imitating his
address, his pace, and career, as well as the vigour of his horse and his
own skill would allow. When the two cavaliers had approached within the
length of three javelins, first Cowley threw a lance, which missed
Pindar, and, passing into the enemy's ranks, fell ineffectual to the
ground. Then Pindar darted a javelin so large and weighty, that scarce a
dozen Cavaliers, as cavaliers are in our degenerate days, could raise it
from the ground; yet he threw it with ease, and it went, by an unerring
hand, singing through the air; nor could the Modern have avoided present
death if he had not luckily opposed the shield that had been given him by
Venus. And now both heroes drew their swords; but the Modern was so
aghast and disordered that he knew not where he was; his shield dropped
from his hands; thrice he fled, and thrice he could not escape. At last
he turned, and lifting up his hand in the posture of a suppliant,
"Godlike Pindar," said he, "spare my life, and possess my horse, with
these arms, beside the ransom which my friends will give when they hear I
am alive and your prisoner. " "Dog! " said Pindar, "let your ransom stay
with your friends; but your carcase shall be left for the fowls of the
air and the beasts of the field. " With that he raised his sword, and,
with a mighty stroke, cleft the wretched Modern in twain, the sword
pursuing the blow; and one half lay panting on the ground, to be trod in
pieces by the horses' feet; the other half was borne by the frighted
steed through the field. This Venus took, washed it seven times in
ambrosia, then struck it thrice with a sprig of amaranth; upon which the
leather grow round and soft, and the leaves turned into feathers, and,
being gilded before, continued gilded still; so it became a dove, and she
harnessed it to her chariot. . . .
. . . . _Hiatus valde de-_
. . . . _flendus in MS_.




THE EPISODE OF BENTLEY AND WOTTON.


Day being far spent, and the numerous forces of the Moderns half
inclining to a retreat, there issued forth, from a squadron of their
heavy-armed foot, a captain whose name was Bentley, the most deformed of
all the Moderns; tall, but without shape or comeliness; large, but
without strength or proportion. His armour was patched up of a thousand
incoherent pieces, and the sound of it, as he marched, was loud and dry,
like that made by the fall of a sheet of lead, which an Etesian wind
blows suddenly down from the roof of some steeple. His helmet was of old
rusty iron, but the vizor was brass, which, tainted by his breath,
corrupted into copperas, nor wanted gall from the same fountain, so that,
whenever provoked by anger or labour, an atramentous quality, of most
malignant nature, was seen to distil from his lips. In his right hand he
grasped a flail, and (that he might never be unprovided of an offensive
weapon) a vessel full of ordure in his left. Thus completely armed, he
advanced with a slow and heavy pace where the Modern chiefs were holding
a consult upon the sum of things, who, as he came onwards, laughed to
behold his crooked leg and humped shoulder, which his boot and armour,
vainly endeavouring to hide, were forced to comply with and expose. The
generals made use of him for his talent of railing, which, kept within
government, proved frequently of great service to their cause, but, at
other times, did more mischief than good; for, at the least touch of
offence, and often without any at all, he would, like a wounded elephant,
convert it against his leaders. Such, at this juncture, was the
disposition of Bentley, grieved to see the enemy prevail, and
dissatisfied with everybody's conduct but his own. He humbly gave the
Modern generals to understand that he conceived, with great submission,
they were all a pack of rogues, and fools, and confounded logger-heads,
and illiterate whelps, and nonsensical scoundrels; that, if himself had
been constituted general, those presumptuous dogs, the Ancients, would
long before this have been beaten out of the field. "You," said he, "sit
here idle, but when I, or any other valiant Modern kill an enemy, you are
sure to seize the spoil. But I will not march one foot against the foe
till you all swear to me that whomever I take or kill, his arms I shall
quietly possess. " Bentley having spoken thus, Scaliger, bestowing him a
sour look, "Miscreant prater! " said he, "eloquent only in thine own eyes,
thou railest without wit, or truth, or discretion. The malignity of thy
temper perverteth nature; thy learning makes thee more barbarous; thy
study of humanity more inhuman; thy converse among poets more grovelling,
miry, and dull. All arts of civilising others render thee rude and
untractable; courts have taught thee ill manners, and polite conversation
has finished thee a pedant. Besides, a greater coward burdeneth not the
army. But never despond; I pass my word, whatever spoil thou takest
shall certainly be thy own; though I hope that vile carcase will first
become a prey to kites and worms. "

Bentley durst not reply, but, half choked with spleen and rage, withdrew,
in full resolution of performing some great achievement. With him, for
his aid and companion, he took his beloved Wotton, resolving by policy or
surprise to attempt some neglected quarter of the Ancients' army. They
began their march over carcases of their slaughtered friends; then to the
right of their own forces; then wheeled northward, till they came to
Aldrovandus's tomb, which they passed on the side of the declining sun.
And now they arrived, with fear, toward the enemy's out-guards, looking
about, if haply they might spy the quarters of the wounded, or some
straggling sleepers, unarmed and remote from the rest. As when two
mongrel curs, whom native greediness and domestic want provoke and join
in partnership, though fearful, nightly to invade the folds of some rich
grazier, they, with tails depressed and lolling tongues, creep soft and
slow. Meanwhile the conscious moon, now in her zenith, on their guilty
heads darts perpendicular rays; nor dare they bark, though much provoked
at her refulgent visage, whether seen in puddle by reflection or in
sphere direct; but one surveys the region round, while the other scouts
the plain, if haply to discover, at distance from the flock, some carcase
half devoured, the refuse of gorged wolves or ominous ravens. So marched
this lovely, loving pair of friends, nor with less fear and
circumspection, when at a distance they might perceive two shining suits
of armour hanging upon an oak, and the owners not far off in a profound
sleep. The two friends drew lots, and the pursuing of this adventure
fell to Bentley; on he went, and in his van Confusion and Amaze, while
Horror and Affright brought up the rear. As he came near, behold two
heroes of the Ancient army, Phalaris and AEsop, lay fast asleep. Bentley
would fain have despatched them both, and, stealing close, aimed his
flail at Phalaris's breast; but then the goddess Affright, interposing,
caught the Modern in her icy arms, and dragged him from the danger she
foresaw; both the dormant heroes happened to turn at the same instant,
though soundly sleeping, and busy in a dream. For Phalaris was just that
minute dreaming how a most vile poetaster had lampooned him, and how he
had got him roaring in his bull. And AEsop dreamed that as he and the
Ancient were lying on the ground, a wild ass broke loose, ran about,
trampling and kicking in their faces. Bentley, leaving the two heroes
asleep, seized on both their armours, and withdrew in quest of his
darling Wotton.

He, in the meantime, had wandered long in search of some enterprise, till
at length he arrived at a small rivulet that issued from a fountain hard
by, called, in the language of mortal men, Helicon. Here he stopped,
and, parched with thirst, resolved to allay it in this limpid stream.
Thrice with profane hands he essayed to raise the water to his lips, and
thrice it slipped all through his fingers. Then he stopped prone on his
breast, but, ere his mouth had kissed the liquid crystal, Apollo came,
and in the channel held his shield betwixt the Modern and the fountain,
so that he drew up nothing but mud. For, although no fountain on earth
can compare with the clearness of Helicon, yet there lies at bottom a
thick sediment of slime and mud; for so Apollo begged of Jupiter, as a
punishment to those who durst attempt to taste it with unhallowed lips,
and for a lesson to all not to draw too deep or far from the spring.

At the fountain-head Wotton discerned two heroes; the one he could not
distinguish, but the other was soon known for Temple, general of the
allies to the Ancients. His back was turned, and he was employed in
drinking large draughts in his helmet from the fountain, where he had
withdrawn himself to rest from the toils of the war. Wotton, observing
him, with quaking knees and trembling hands, spoke thus to himself: O
that I could kill this destroyer of our army, what renown should I
purchase among the chiefs! but to issue out against him, man against man,
shield against shield, and lance against lance, what Modern of us dare?
for he fights like a god, and Pallas or Apollo are ever at his elbow.
But, O mother! if what Fame reports be true, that I am the son of so
great a goddess, grant me to hit Temple with this lance, that the stroke
may send him to hell, and that I may return in safety and triumph, laden
with his spoils. The first part of this prayer the gods granted at the
intercession of his mother and of Momus; but the rest, by a perverse wind
sent from Fate, was scattered in the air. Then Wotton grasped his lance,
and, brandishing it thrice over his head, darted it with all his might;
the goddess, his mother, at the same time adding strength to his arm.
Away the lance went hizzing, and reached even to the belt of the averted
Ancient, upon which, lightly grazing, it fell to the ground. Temple
neither felt the weapon touch him nor heard it fall: and Wotton might
have escaped to his army, with the honour of having remitted his lance
against so great a leader unrevenged; but Apollo, enraged that a javelin
flung by the assistance of so foul a goddess should pollute his fountain,
put on the shape of ---, and softly came to young Boyle, who then
accompanied Temple: he pointed first to the lance, then to the distant
Modern that flung it, and commanded the young hero to take immediate
revenge. Boyle, clad in a suit of armour which had been given him by all
the gods, immediately advanced against the trembling foe, who now fled
before him. As a young lion in the Libyan plains, or Araby desert, sent
by his aged sire to hunt for prey, or health, or exercise, he scours
along, wishing to meet some tiger from the mountains, or a furious boar;
if chance a wild ass, with brayings importune, affronts his ear, the
generous beast, though loathing to distain his claws with blood so vile,
yet, much provoked at the offensive noise, which Echo, foolish nymph,
like her ill-judging sex, repeats much louder, and with more delight than
Philomela's song, he vindicates the honour of the forest, and hunts the
noisy long-eared animal. So Wotton fled, so Boyle pursued. But Wotton,
heavy-armed, and slow of foot, began to slack his course, when his lover
Bentley appeared, returning laden with the spoils of the two sleeping
Ancients. Boyle observed him well, and soon discovering the helmet and
shield of Phalaris his friend, both which he had lately with his own
hands new polished and gilt, rage sparkled in his eyes, and, leaving his
pursuit after Wotton, he furiously rushed on against this new approacher.
Fain would he be revenged on both; but both now fled different ways: and,
as a woman in a little house that gets a painful livelihood by spinning,
if chance her geese be scattered o'er the common, she courses round the
plain from side to side, compelling here and there the stragglers to the
flock; they cackle loud, and flutter o'er the champaign; so Boyle
pursued, so fled this pair of friends: finding at length their flight was
vain, they bravely joined, and drew themselves in phalanx. First Bentley
threw a spear with all his force, hoping to pierce the enemy's breast;
but Pallas came unseen, and in the air took off the point, and clapped on
one of lead, which, after a dead bang against the enemy's shield, fell
blunted to the ground. Then Boyle, observing well his time, took up a
lance of wondrous length and sharpness; and, as this pair of friends
compacted, stood close side by side, he wheeled him to the right, and,
with unusual force, darted the weapon. Bentley saw his fate approach,
and flanking down his arms close to his ribs, hoping to save his body, in
went the point, passing through arm and side, nor stopped or spent its
force till it had also pierced the valiant Wotton, who, going to sustain
his dying friend, shared his fate. As when a skilful cook has trussed a
brace of woodcocks, he with iron skewer pierces the tender sides of both,
their legs and wings close pinioned to the rib; so was this pair of
friends transfixed, till down they fell, joined in their lives, joined in
their deaths; so closely joined that Charon would mistake them both for
one, and waft them over Styx for half his fare. Farewell, beloved,
loving pair; few equals have you left behind: and happy and immortal
shall you be, if all my wit and eloquence can make you.

And now. . . .

_Desunt coetera_.




A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK.


_According to the Style and Manner of the Hon. Robert Boyle's
Meditations_.

This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest. It was
full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now in vain does the
busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered bundle
of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now at best but the reverse of what
it was, a tree turned upside-down, the branches on the earth, and the
root in the air; it is now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do
her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other
things clean, and be nasty itself; at length, worn to the stumps in the
service of the maids, it is either thrown out of doors or condemned to
the last use--of kindling a fire. When I behold this I sighed, and said
within myself, "Surely mortal man is a broomstick! " Nature sent him into
the world strong and lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own hair
on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, till the
axe of intemperance has lopped off his green boughs, and left him a
withered trunk; he then flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing
himself upon an unnatural bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that
never grew on his head; but now should this our broomstick pretend to
enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all
covered with dust, through the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we
should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we
are of our own excellencies, and other men's defaults!

But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree standing
on its head; and pray what is a man but a topsy-turvy creature, his
animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head where his
heels should be, grovelling on the earth? And yet, with all his faults,
he sets up to be a universal reformer and corrector of abuses, a remover
of grievances, rakes into every slut's corner of nature, bringing hidden
corruptions to the light, and raises a mighty dust where there was none
before, sharing deeply all the while in the very same pollutions he
pretends to sweep away. His last days are spent in slavery to women, and
generally the least deserving; till, worn to the stumps, like his brother
besom, he is either kicked out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames
for others to warm themselves by.




PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR 1708.