heated conversation between father and son we have a luminous exposition of Sir Pertinax's Rule of Life. Si Pertinax. Zounds! sir, I will not hear a word about it: I insist upon it you are wrong; you should have paid your court till my lord, and not have scrupled swallowing a bumper or twa, or twenty till oblige him. Egerton. Sir, I did drink his toast in a bumper. Sir P. Yes, you did; but how, how? just as a bairn takes physic; with aversions and wry faces, which my lord observed: then, to mend the matter, the moment that he and the Colonel got intill a drunken dispute about religion, you slyly slunged away. Eger. I thought, sir, it was time to go, when my lord insisted upon half-pint bumpers. Sir P. Sir, that was not levelled at you, but at the Colonel, in order to try his bottom; but they aw agreed that you and I should drink out of sma' glasses. Eger. But, sir, I beg pardon: I did not choose to drink any more. Sir P. But, zoons! sir, I tell you there was a necessity for your drinking more. Eger. A necessity! in what respect, pray, sir? Sir P. Why, sir, I have a certain point to carry, independent of the lawyers, with my lord, in this agreement of your marriage; about which I am afraid we shall have a warm squabble; and therefore I wanted your assistance in it. Eger. But how, sir, could my drinking contribute to assist you in your squabble? Sir P. Yes, sir, it would have contributed-and greatly have contributed to assist me. Eger. How so, sir? Sir P. Nay, sir, it might have prevented the squabble entirely; for as my lord is proud of you for a son-in-law, and is fond of your little French songs, your stories, and your bon-mots, when you are in the humour; and guin you had but staid, and been a little jolly, and drank half a score bumpers with him, till he had got a little tipsy, I am sure, when we had him in that mood, we might have settled the point as I could wish it among ourselves, before the lawyers came: but now, sir, I do not ken what will be the consequence. Eger. But when a man is intoxicated, would that have been a seasonable time to settle business, sir? Sir P. The most seasonable, sir; for sir, when my lord is in his cups, his suspicion is asleep, and his heart is aw jollity, fun, and guid fellowship; and sir, can there be a happier moment than that for a bargain, or to settle a dispute with a friend? What is it you shrug up your shoulders at, sir? Eger. At my own ignorance, sir: for I understand neither the philosophy nor the morality of your doctrine. Sir P. I know you do not, sir: and, what is worse, you never wull understand it, as you proceed in one word, Charles, I have often told you, and now again I tell you, once for aw, that the manœuvres of pliability are as necessary to rise in the world, as wrangling and logical subtlety are to rise at the bar: why you see, sir, I have acquired a noble fortune, a princely fortune : and how do you think I raised it? Eger. Doubtless, sir, by your abilities. Sir P. Doubtless, sir, you are a blockhead: nae, sir, I'll tell you how I raised it: sir, I raised it-by booing, [bows ridiculously low] by booing: sir, I never could stand straight in the presence of a great mon, but always booed, and booed, and booed—as it were by instinct. Eger. How do you mean by instinct, sir? Sir P. How do I mean by instinct! Why, sir, I mean by-by-by the instinct of interest, sir, which is the universal instinct of mankind. Sir, it is wonderful to think what a cordial, what an amicable-nay, what an infallible influence booing has upon the pride and vanity of human nature. Charles, answer me sincerely, have you a mind to be convinced of the force of my doctrine by example and demonstration ? Eger. Certainly, sir. Sir P. Then, sir, as the greatest favour I can confer upon you, I'll give you a short sketch of the stages of my booing, as an excitement, and a landmark for you to boo by, and as an infallible nostrum for a man of the world to rise in the world. Eger. Sir, I shall be proud to profit by your experi ence. Sir P. Vary weel, sir; sit ye down then, sit you down here. [They sit down.] And now, sir, you must recall to your thoughts, that your grandfather was a mon whose penurious income of captain's half-pay was the sum-total of his fortune; and, sir, aw my provision fra him was a modicum of Latin, an expertness in arithmetic, and a short system of worldly counsel; the principal ingredients of which were, a persevering industry, a rigid economy, a smooth tongue, a pliability of temper, and a constant attention to make every mon well pleased with himself. Eger. Very prudent advice, sir. Sir P. Therefore, sir, I lay it before you. Now, sir, with these materials, I set out a raw-boned stripling fra the North, to try my fortune with them here in the south; and my first step in the world was a beggarly clerkship in Sawny Gordon's counting-house, here, in the city of London: which you'll say afforded but a barren sort of a prospect. Eger. It was not a very fertile one, indeed, sir. Sir P. The reverse, the reverse: weel, sir, seeing myself in this unprofitable situation, I reflected deeply; I cast about my thoughts morning, noon, and night, and marked every mon, and every mode of prosperity; at last, I concluded that a matrimonial adventure, prudently conducted, would be the readiest gait I could gang for the bettering of my condition; and accordingly I set about it. Now, sir, in this pursuit, beauty! beauty! ah! beauty often struck my een, and played about my heart and fluttered, and beat, and knocked, and knocked but the devil an entrance I ever let it get: for I observed, sir, that beauty is, generally,-a proud, vain, saucy, expensive, impertinent sort of a commodity. Eger. Very justly observed. Sir P. And therefore, sir, I left it to prodigals and coxcombs, that could afford to pay for it; and, in its stead, sir, mark !-I looked out for an ancient, weeljointured, superannuated dowager; a consumptive, toothless, phthisicky, wealthy widow; or a shrivelled, cadaverous piece of deformity, in the shape of an izzard, or an appersi-and—or, in short, ainything, ainything that had the siller-the siller-for that, sir, was the north star of my affections. Do you take me, sir? was nae that right? Eger. O! doubtless, doubtless, sir. Sir P. Now, sir, where do you think I ganged to look for this woman with the siller? nae till court, nae till playhouses or assemblies; nae, sir, I ganged till the kirk, till the anabaptist, independent, Bradlonian, and Muggletonian meetings; till the morning and evening service of churches and chapels of ease, and till the midnight, melting, conciliating love feasts of the methodists; and there, sir, at last, I fell upon an old, slighted, antiquated, musty maiden, that looked-ha, ha, ha! she looked just like a skeleton in a surgeon's glass case. Now, sir, this miserable object was religiously angry with herself and aw the world; had nae comfort but in metaphysical visions and supernatural deliriums-ha, ha, ha! Sir, she was as madas mad as a Bedlamite. Eger. Not improbable, sir: there are numbers of poor creatures in the same condition. Sir P. O! numbers-numbers. Now, sir, this cracked creature used to pray, and sing, and sigh, and groan, and weep, and wail, and gnash her teeth constantly, morning and evening, at the tabernacle in Moorfields. And as soon as I found she had the siller, aha! good traith, I plumped me down upon my knees, close by her cheek by jowl-and prayed, and sighed, and sung, and groaned, and gnashed my teeth as vehemently as she could do for the life of her; ay, and turned up the whites of mine een, till the strings awmost cracked again. I watched her motions, handed her till her chair, waited on her home, got most religiously intimate with her in a week; married her in a fortnight, buried her in a month; touched the siller; and with a deep suit of mourning, a melancholy port, a sorrowful visage, and a joyful heart, I began the world again; (rises) and this, sir, was the first boo, that is the first effectual boo I ever made till the vanity of human nature. you understand this doctrine? Eger. Perfectly well, sir. Now, sir, do Sir P. Ay, but was it not right? was it not ingenious, and weel hit off? Eger. Certainly, sir: extremely well. Sir P. My next boo, sir, was till your ain mother, whom I ran away with fra the boarding school; by the interest of whose family I got a guid smart place in the treasury; and, sir, my vary next step was in till parliament; the which I entered with as ardent and as determined an ambition as ever agitated the heart of Cæsar himself. Sir, I booed, and watched, and hearkened, and ran about, backwards and forwards, and attended, and dangled upon the then great mon, till I got into the vary bowels of his confidence; and then sir, I wriggled, and wrought, and wriggled, till I wriggled myself among the very thick of them. Ha! I got my snack of the clothing, the foraging, the contracts, the lottery tickets, and all the political bonuses, till at length, sir, I became a much wealthier man than one half of the golden calves I had been so long a booing to and was nae that booing to some purpose? Eger. It was indeed, sir. Sir P. But are you convinced of the guid effects and of the utility of booing? Eger. Thoroughly, sir. Sir P. Sir, it is infallible. But, Charles, ah! while I was thus booing, and wriggling, and raising this princely fortune, ah! I met with many heartsores and disappointments fra the want of literature, eloquence, and other popular abeelities. Sir, guin I could but have spoken in the house, I should have done the deed in half the time; but the instant I opened my mouth there they aw fell a laughing at me; aw which deficiencies, sir, I determined, at any expense, to have supplied by the polished education of a son, who I hoped would one day raise the house of Macsycophant till the highest pitch of ministerial ambition. This, sir, is my plan; I have done my part of it; Nature has done hers; you are popular, you are eloquent; aw parties like and respect you; and now, sir, it only remains for you to be directed-completion follows. Eger. Your liberality, sir, in my education, is an obligation I shall ever remember with the deepest filial gratitude. Sir P. Vary weel, sir: but, Charles, have you had any conversation yet with Lady Rodolpha, about the day of your marriage; your liveries, your equipage; or your domestic establishment? Eger. Not yet, sir. Sir P. Poh! why there again, now, you are wrong; vary wrong. Eger. Sir, we have not had an opportunity. Sir P. Why, Charles, you are very tardy in this business. Lord Lumbercourt. [Sings without, flushed with wine.] 'What have we with day to do?' Sir P. O here comes my lord. Lord L. 'Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' [Enters, drinking a dish of coffee.] Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' Very good coffee indeed, Mr Tomlins. 'Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' Here, Mr Tomlins. Tom. Will your lordship please to have another dish? Lord L. No more, Mr Tomlins. Ha, ha, ha! my host of the Scotch pints, we have had warm work. Sir P. Yes, you pushed the bottle about, my lord, with the joy and vigour of a bacchanal. Lord L. That I did, my dear Mac; no loss of time with me: I have but three motions, old boy-charge, toast, fire-and off we go. Ha, ha, ha, that's my exercise. Sir P. And fine warm exercise it is, my lord; especially with the half-pint glasses. Another characteristic speech by Sir Pertinax, addressed also to his son, is: Conscience! why you are mad! Did you ever hear any man talk of conscience in political matters? Conscience, quotha! I have been in parliament these three and thraty years, and never heard the term made use of before. Sir, it is an unparliamentary word, and you will be laughed at for it. There are careful Lives of Macklin by F. A. Congreve (1798) and Parry (1891). Those by Kirkman (1799) and Cooke (1804) must be used with caution. George Lillo (1693–1739), born in London of mixed Dutch and English Dissenting parentage, succeeded his father as a jeweller, carried on the business successfully, and left a modest fortune. Devoting his leisure hours to writing tragedies founded on the sorrows of real life in the lower and middling ranks, he wrote in all seven dramas, among them George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham. The last is a weak version of an anonymous tragedy written in 1592, where, and in the Yorkshire Tragedy and one or two other plays founded on domestic occur rences, the style of Lillo may be said to have been foreshadowed. These realistic plays, however (see Vol. I. p. 334), were rude and irregular, and were driven off the stage by the romantic drama of Shakespeare and his successors. At all events such 'domestic tragedies,' which had disappeared during the Commonwealth and Restoration, were revived by Lillo and his school, who had great influence on French dramatists. Lillo had a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style was generally smooth and easy. His George Barnwell (1731) describes the career of a London apprentice hurried on to ruin and murder by an infamous woman, who at last delivers him up to justice and to an ignominious death. The characters are natural; and George Barnwell drew more tears than the rants of Alexander the Great! Lillo's Fatal Curiosity (1736) is a far higher work. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich stranger who takes shelter in their house, and discover too late that they have murdered their son returned after a long absence abroad. The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted; the agonies of old Wilmot, the father, make an appalling picture. The other plays were Marina, an adaptation of Shakespeare's Pericles; Scanderbeg, or the Christian Hero; Elmerick, based on a passage of Hungarian history; and a feeble masque, Britannia and Batavia. Fielding's friendship helped Lillo's popularity; and after the dramatist's death Fielding said of him that he had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to the innocence of a primitive Christian.' A parallel to Lillo's realism has been sought, not merely in a succession of imitations on the stage, but in Fielding's novels and in Lessing's rebellion against French taste in the German theatre. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and commonplace; but he was a forcible painter of the darker shades of humble life. His plays kept the stage till the close of the century; since then the taste for murders and public executions has declined. [Young Wilmot, unknown, enters the house of his parents, and, retiring for an hour's rest, delivers them a casket. Act iii. opens on Agnes, the mother, alone, with the casket in her hand.] Agnes. Who should this stranger be? And then this He says it is of value, and yet trusts it, As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. His confidence amazes me. Perhaps It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted To open it and see. No; let it rest. Why should my curiosity excite me To search and pry into the affairs of others, [casket Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre, Base poverty and all its abject train; At our approach, and once more bend before us. [little pains Old Wilmot [entering]. The mind contented, with how The wandering senses yield to soft repose, And die to gain new life! He's fallen asleep Already-happy man! What dost thou think, My Agnes, of our unexpected guest? Dost thou hear me? He seems to me a youth of great humanity : Should this be known, And who shall know it? Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes, May be maintained and cherished to the last. To live without reproach, and without leave To quit the world, shews sovereign contempt And noble scorn of its relentless malice. Agnes. Shews sovereign madness, and a scorn of sense! Pursue no further this detested theme: I will not die. I will not leave the world For all that you can urge, until compelled. Wil. To chase a shadow when the setting sun Is darting his last rays, were just as wise Now the last means for its support are failing: Were famine not as mortal as the sword This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice: Die how you will, you shall not die alone. And desperation drove, have been committed By those who once would start to hear them named. Wil. The inhospitable murder of our guest? Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature, To take another's life than end our own. Wil. It is no matter whether this or that Or none could act amiss. And that all err, Agnes. Then nought remains But the swift execution of a deed We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, Wil. Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare. Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate, To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish Thy thoughts are perishing; thy youthful joys, Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished, Of every joy, and even hope itself, As I have done. Why do I mourn him then? For, by the anguish of my tortured soul, He's to be envied, if compared with me. There is a memoir of Lillo prefixed to an edition of his dramatic works by T. Davies (2nd ed. 1810). John Byrom (1692-1763) was born near Manchester. He took his degree at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1712, and studied medicine at Montpellier in France. On his return he applied himself to teach a system of shorthand which he had invented. Among his pupils were Gibbon and Horace Walpole; Bentley, Hoadly, Bishop Butler, John Wesley, Hartley, and William Law were amongst his friends. The latter part of Byrom's life was spent in easy circumstances; he succeeded by the death of an elder brother to the family property in and about Manchester, and there he lived highly respected. His poetry has the virtue of a genuine simplicity, and is sometimes pointed and rhythmical, rarely melodious; often it is mere doggerel, or measured lengths of rhymed prose. He put everything into rhymetheological and historical arguments, petitions to the king, and even translations from the mystical theology of Ruysbrock, Boehme, and Law (of the Serious Call). He was very much of a mystic himself, regarded Malebranche as the greatest of divines and philosophers, and admired Fénelon and the visionary Madame Bourignon; but he met in a friendly way heretics like Whiston and deists like Collins. Throughout life he was strongly Jacobite, though he avoided compromising himself. Byrom's (not Swift's) was the famous epigram about the dispute between Handel and Buononcini : Some say, compared to Bononcini, That Mynheer Handel's but a ninny; Others aver that he to Handel Is scarcely fit to hold a candle. Strange all this difference should be 'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee! His Latin verse also is pointed rather than poetical. Some of his smartest things are in broad Lancashire dialect, such as the dialogue on the 'Heelanders' in Lancashire in 1745. His Colin and Phebe, contributed to the Spectator in 1714, gave him some standing as a poet. Phebe was said to have been Jug Bentley, the sprightly daughter of the great Master of Trinity. But an early biographer earnestly denied this, and with some reason said the poem was really addressed to his favourite sister, Phebe Byrom. The Journal is a light, gossiping record, which adds little to our knowledge of the public events of the period, but exhibits its author as an opinionative, kindly, cheerful, and happy man. Colin and Phebe-A Pastoral. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went ; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things seemed as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. With such a companion to tend a few sheep, My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart, I am sure, weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear : But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : 'Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.' My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime! But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; 'Be still,' then I cry, for it makes me quite mad To see you so merry while I am so sad.' My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phebe was pleased too, and to my dog said: Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he 's fawning, I with a sour look Cry Sirrah,' and give him a blow with my crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phebe's away? When walking with Phebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! But now she has left me, they all are in tears, Sweet music attended us all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah rivals! I see what it was that you drest And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast: You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps till my Phebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings: it would melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, Ah Colin! old Time is quite full of delay, Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Of the following poem (in some editions described as in imitation of Sir Philip Sidney), Southey strained a good point when he said it was 'so perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had transscribed it from some old author.' Careless Content. I am content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content. With more of thanks and less of thought, Physic and food in sour and sweet : |