Showing posts with label Scribleran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scribleran. Show all posts

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

Review: The Dunciad Variorum by Alexander Pope

Strap yourselves in dear reader - this one’s a beast.

Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown’d,
Shall take thro’ Grubstreet her triumphant round,
And Her Parnassus glancing o’er at once,
Behold a hundred sons, and each one a Dunce.

Me included, I suppose.

It could be said that The Dunciad is the third in the Scriblerus Trilogy; which also include the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus and Peri Bathous - but then, a lot could be said about The Dunciad.

For a start, how do you know when you’ve read it? There’s the original anonymous Dunciad, the Dunciad Variorum and the later four volume Dunciad in which the King of the Dunces is no longer Tibbald but Colley Cibber. I expect the confusion is part of the point. Pope was very calculating in what he released to the public and how. In this case, he released the first Dunciad so he could gather attacks and responses in which to include in the Dunciad Variorum. 

It was that version I decided to read, and was instantly presented with a problem. Notes. Chuck Zerby in The Devil’s Details: A History of the Footnote (which I really need to review on here at some point) estimated that the 358 lines of poetry is swallowed by roughly 7,000 lines of notes. It is near impossible to sit and read the poem, as it's so swamped in various other kinds of textual analysis. Which again, is probably the point.

Many of the notes are included by the fictional Martinus Scriblerus, meaning that this is another satire on bad learning. In this case, it’s particularly the fledgling art of textual analysis that is under fire - and more particular of all, a certain Lewis Theobald. Called Tibbald in the poem, he had tried his hand at most forms of writing with moderate success until he tried his hand at Shakespeare scholarship. This book was Shakespeare Restored, in which he highlighted, commented and fixed the many problems with Pope’s own (rather slapdash) edition of the national playwright. So Scriblerus’ swamping the poem with petty and pedantic notes are Pope’s comment on the petty and pedantic nature of Theobald (and scholars like him).

Pope also uses the chance to kick the people he doesn’t like - and to just keep sticking that boot in. It’s vicious.

Beginning with an advertisement and a letter to the publisher, the kicks start quickly. 
   ‘The first objection I have heard made to the Poem is, that the persons are too obscure for Satyre.’ That’s nasty, and it’s a theme developed throughout this letter. Pope claims that he is doing the Dunces a service in attacking them, ‘it is only in this monument that they must expect to survive’ - a prediction mostly proved correct by time. He says another objection may be that it is unsporting that he, as a rich man, attacks ones who are poor. His response is that these writers might not be so poor had they written better. Finally, he says that he is not being cruel because of their obscurity or poverty, but for their Folly and Dulness. Besides, Pope says, they were mean to him first.

  The next part are a collection of testimonials. At first these are from established and well regarded people who praise both Pope and his works. Then they are from the Dunces praising Pope in other works, and then quote the Dunces condemning Pope for the same things they formerly praised him for (such as his smooth lines). It would take a more careful read and (heaven forfend) more notes to properly get the ins and outs - but the gist is that the Dunces don’t really know what constitutes as good or not.

Then finally, after some Homeric ‘arguments’, we get to the poem. It’s easy to forget there’s a poem in this poem.



And this is where I got stuck for two days.

It’s... a poem. 

Written in Pope’s favoured heroic couplets, the first part describes the Goddess Dulness, whose great champion Elkanah Settle had died.(This fantastically named not-Dickens character was a playwright and Dunstable native who nearly had a Wetherspoons named after him until they remembered Gary Cooper went to school there and named it after him instead.) Dulness has to emerge from her cave of poverty and poetry and descend on “th’ imperial seat of fools”(London) to find a new king. She settles on Tibbald because of his “motley Images” and “Mob of Metaphors”.

To be fair to the poem, it does sound grand and elevated. Were you not to listen to the words, it would seem a mighty deity and her champion were being described but on closer inspection it is pure piss-take. Pope varies his rhythms with some lovely alliteration such as the Dulness being “Laborious, heavy, busy, bold and blind’. 

The second section, which is the best, is the Olympic style competitions and parades to celebrate the new coronation. There’s a race in which two booksellers Curll (who we’ve dealt with here before) and Lintot chase a poet to catch his works, which are literally shitting out of him. Although Lintot ignores ‘the brown dishonours of his face’, it is Curll who catches him. 

Curll then engages in a literal pissing contest with another bookseller, Chetham. The latter bookseller's stream “flies in his own face” whereas Curll’s arcs in a great ‘smoaking’ ‘burning’ arc - a lovely venereal disease reference there. Then there’s the tickling race, where the authors tickle and flatter potential investors. Then there’s a game for the critics where they have to prove the loudness of their asinine braying over good works - Richard Blackmore wins that.

Next comes the most famous bit, the part where gazette (read newspaper) writers dive into the Fleet ditch, London’s most notorious open sewer that “rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames”. (The Dr Johnson Reading Circle habitually eat pizza in a place built over the still flowing, though less repulsive, Fleet). John Dennis in ‘naked Majesty’ dives in but goes missing. Smedly dives in and also disappears. Welsted dives in, arms a-flailing and seems to win until with a thunder-crack Smedly reappears ‘in majesty of mud’ with a story of how he swam down to Hell itself. He wins the prize of being Dulness’s priest.

Finally, Richard Blackmore and Orator Henley have a bore-off, and everyone falls asleep.

The third section is probably the densest. Tibbald, in his boredom inspired sleep, drifts to the underworld where he is chosen as the Messiah of Dulness by previous incumbent, Elkanah Settle. Here he sees visions of how Dulness has increased in the world. He is shown the burning of Alexandra’s Library, the invasions of Goths and Vandals and the Mongols over the Great Wall of China. 

Then he is shown visions of the future, where the new Mount Parnassus will be established in Grub Street. He is shown future Dunces like Theo Cibber before looking at the present. In this time, scholars are creating useless books ‘never to be read’ and tubthumping preachers like Henley preach nonsense. He views current theatre owners like Colley Cibber (King in a future version) and Jonathan Rich, who create nonsense where ‘whales sport in woods and dolphins in the skies’ and the human race hatch from one egg.

Finally, he is shown the future apocalypse of Dulness where ‘universal darkness covers all’. From which Tibbald wakes with joy and the poem is over.

But the Dunciad isn’t.

There are still the Errata, where Pope corrects his mistakes in petty ways. For example, in the poem he derides Ned Ward for owning a pub in the City but corrects his error - the pub is actually just outside the City. 

Then he includes an earlier introduction, just as belittling as the first.

Then he includes an indexed list of all the publications that have attacked Pope - a collection Pope owned and read, so he could get his revenge on such people.

Then a version of Caxton’s introduction to Virgil (why?), then some stuff in Latin I can’t read, then a nearly twenty year old article where the author complains that Pope’s pastorals aren’t rustic or dumb enough.

Next come comparisons between insults made of (recognised great poet) Dryden and the same insults made of Pope - so that Pope looks like the next Dryden. 

And finally comes an official list of Pope’s works and a signed affidavit that Pope wrote the Dunciad.

And I haven’t even gone into the footnotes yet.

The notes are a joke in themselves, but also frequently explain the jokes in the poem itself. They also contain their own put downs and jokes. For example, Dennis is described as having public schemes that have been ‘kept private’ - AKA, not good enough to use. Tibbald is described as being the author of many works, and even more letters praising those works. Even poor Eusden, the poet Laureate, is described as having works that rarely offend “but by their length and multitude.”

If anyone took a jackhammer to crack a nut, it was Alexander Pope.

Of course, Norman Inkpen in his Shit Jokes - A Study of Scatological Humour’ has a lot to say about this poem. Pope revels in the bodily fluids, he also seems to revel in the people he hates. From his folder of targets, to the sheer weight of insult and cruelty he throws at his Dunces, he is clearly inspired by them. 

The Dunciad is obviously unfair to its targets. Included for ridicule are people like Daniel Defoe and Eliza Haywood who developed the novel, people like Ned Ward who captured the voice of the age, even critics like Dennis and poor Tibbald (or Lewis Theobald to give him his real name) , who pioneered modern techniques of criticism and close reading. In many ways, Pope is on the wrong side of history. What he calls Dulness, we call modernity and what he calls Chaos, we call relativism, and a more nuanced way of analysing. Despite this, Pope manages to argue from that wrong side with more savage brio and panache than many have ever been able to on the right side. What would he say of today?..

See Dan Brown hide clues that shine bright as day
 And EL James dissolve in Shades of Grey
Spawn of dark world where vampires glitter
Celebrity bards dive in the shitter.

If anyone wants to read more about the Dunciad, there’s a brilliant, insightful and far shorter article by John Mullen where he describes the poem as ‘a bestiary for Pope’s enemies’.







Saturday, 11 April 2015

Top Ten Eighteenth Century Works (Part Two)

And here it is, after the clamouring, shouting and pleading; the second part of the Top Ten Eighteenth Century Works.





Number 5

Jubilate Agno by Christopher Smart.

The only person to have two entries on the list but I don’t think it’s cheating, the Christopher Smart who wrote Jubilate Agno is not the same as the one who wrote The Midwife.

Midwife era Smart is playful and silly, not seemingly serious about anything. Jubilate Agno era Smart is still playful, still sometimes silly but this time there is something he takes extraordinarily seriously, his faith. This is a rich, constantly perplexing work. I think someone on a dessert island with nothing but Jubilate Agno and a Bible would ever get to the very bottom of it.

There are occasions when this can be baffling, there are even stretches of boring but there are enough highlights of absolutely stunning originality and moments of clear thinking mixed up with all the Biblical names and battiness.

I would recommend that anybody try this book out.




Number 4

The Citizen of the World by Oliver Goldsmith.

The original audience read these letters as part of a serial magazine but I, like all the readers since 1762, read it in one go and have read it several times since.

My favourite element of the book are the characters. Lien Chi Altangi is a bit of a hypocrite but ultimately loveable, Beau Tibbs is also a flawed but interesting character and The Man in Black is one the best characters in all of eighteenth century writing.

I’ve written a whole review of this before but if you can find a copy, read it.



Number 3

Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne.

I’ve not read many other books like this. It is such a frustrating thing. It’s the most annoyingly digressive, objectively pointless and nail gnawingly ridiculous bit of work. But, my goodness, it is something wonderful.

The key to it are the characters. Tristram is very little himself but his father Walter and his Uncle Toby are beautifully realised people. Everyone in the world of Shandy Hall has a hobbyhorse, one key obsession that drives their lives. But from this one hobbyhorse, whole characters evolve. Uncle Toby is obsessed with wars and fortifications, he lives and breathes battles and sieges but is himself the most peaceful of people. If trapped in a room with an irritating fly, he will remove the fly rather than kill it. It’s details such as this that make you want to follow him and those around through their labyrinthine journeys.

That and the book is staggeringly original. If the reader learns to relax and enjoy the ride, then they will be treated to constant surprises and always shifting floors but the reader must give into it.



Number 2

Tom Jones by Henry Fielding.

This just edged Tristram Shandy because although it didn’t have the loopy originality of that book, it is a much more satisfying read.

I liked Tom, I liked Sofia, I loved Squire Western, Partridge, Thwackum and Square. The characters in this book are wonderful and lively. Henry Fielding knows exactly how to set up and present a set piece better than almost all the other eighteenth-century writer. The chapters at the Inn in Upton are some of the busiest, liveliest and most sparkling I’ve ever read.

Also, Fielding has the most wonderful voice. He is constantly ironic and uses the tools of hyperbole and understatement with the fine hand of a master craftsmen. Almost the whole of the first book of Tom Jones is written with almost total irony. It’s a breathtakingly impressive bit of work.




...and of course.

Number 1

The Rambler by Samuel Johnson.

I’ve had a shit day; the children in the school have driven me crazy, the staff have driven me crazier, the bank crazier still and my house seems dingy and sad. It is one of those days when the sky is so heavy and nothing goes right and I am irritable with everything and everyone.

Then I make a cup of tea and read a few Ramblers.

I have a theory that the length and flow of a Johnsonian sentence has a calming property; on one hand is his ability to summarise a complex point in few words and on the other is his ability to contrast that with an equally complex and well summarised point that defies the first. He is even able to get the synthesis in the same sentence. This ebb requires concentration to follow but Johnson never waffles, he always hits at least one, usually a few more, points a sentence. It’s like the mental equivalent of breathing in and breathing out, it’s impossible not to relax.

And the content, it is pure Johnson. He said his other works were watered down but the Ramblers were his ‘pure wine’. It’s Johnson in his utmost Johnson-ness; warm and wise and often very funny.

It’s like medicine, a bit miffed to long dark night of the soul,  a few Rambler essays will ease the pain. As Johnson said (in a review and not a Rambler unfortunately) “The only end of writing is to enable readers better to enjoy life, or endure it.” Samuel succeeds marvellously here.


All yours



Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Top Ten Eighteenth Century Works (Part One)



In January I made a list of my top fifteen favourite books of the previous year. I had wondered why the list had been fifteen and not the usual ten, then I tried it. It was hard. 

Well today, I am going to try something even more difficult; I am going to try an make a list of my top ten favourite eighteenth-century bits of writing. I have decided to include everything from periodical essays to plays. If it fits the time period and I have read it, it counts.

I’ve decided to split this up, 5 today and five tomorrow.

So with no more ado…





Number 10

Pompey the Little by Francis Coventry.

The books that didn’t made this list; Evelina, Captain Jack, Joseph Adams, Rape of the Lock, John Ball… And I have put Pompey the Little above them. Why?

It’s fun. The narrative voice is similar to Henry Fielding but is younger and more optimistic about life and the people that weave through it. Although he doesn’t have Fielding’s mastery of the ironic tone, his youthful pleasure makes up for it.

The novel doesn’t get boring. Pompey moves from owner to owner with such rapidity that no one owner drags for too long. The people who take him in are also different enough in station and personality to keep the journey varied and interesting. What’s more, Coventry is so good at his brief pen-portraits that the characters Pompey meets are full of life for the brief moment he knows them.

Besides, anyone who can write a moment of such beauty and clarity as the following extract, deserves to be on the list.

“‘Mr Rhymer was walking home in a pensive solitary mood, wrapped up in contemplation on the stars of heaven, and perhaps forgetting for a few moments that he had three-pence half-penny in his pocket.”



Number 9

Vathek by William Beckford.

This is a strange book.

We are introduced to Vathek, with his eyes that could kill and his unimaginable wealth and we are already unsettled. This is a man who is hungry for knowledge and flesh and will do anything to pursue them. The prophecies of a mysterious merchant send him on an insane quest for the ultimate in power and knowledge but lead ultimately to Hell.

This is the book I was hoping ‘Castle of Otranto’ would be. It is is deranged and obsessed and builds up a remarkably strong sense of inexorable doom for its short length. The reader comes out the other side feeling sullied by it, borne on its constant push towards the mouth of Hell at the end.

These strong, emotional, almost abstract effects, distinguish it from all the other books on this list and set it apart.


Number 8

The Midwife by Christopher Smart.

Here we get Christopher Smart before his incarceration and he is silly and funny. 

The Midwife is a magazine written in the character of Mary Midnight, an old spinster who is the secret fount of wit and wisdom in Europe, or so she would believe.

More rambunctious then the Spectator, slyer then the Grub Street Journal and sillier than The Rambler, this set of magazines remind me a lot of Spike Milligan’s Q Series of TV programmes. There are mills to grind people young, learned discourses about fossilised turds, romantic advice to ancient widows and all other manner of parody and all out silliness.

I would deny the notion that there was biting satire secreted in the pages that got Smart unjustly locked away for being mad, and say that the politics in this are like those of the Goon Show; anarchic, anti-establishment and for the ordinary person. And I’d recommend the reader to dig some out.



Number 7

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift.

Although Vathek is the book on this list that operates most on an emotional level, Gulliver’s Travels is the one that lingered longest.

It’s such a bitter book when viewed as a whole. Gulliver is inflated, deflated, tossed around the unknowable sea of learning and then anchored with the rational Houyhnhnm before being wrenched from them and landed back on our shore.

Gulliver is a changed man by the end of the book and I think the reader is in a small way. It’s an elegant book, it’s a funny one but it is rooted deep in the ‘savage indignation’ declared in Swift’s epitaph.

I recommend it as so much more than a fun adventure but warn the reader they may want something jollier to cheer them up afterwards.



Number 6

The Beggar’s Opera by John Gay.

I think I know the words to most of the songs. This is the first bit of eighteenth-century writing I came into contact with and the love has remained. 

Like a lot of my favourite stuff, the characters are clear and relatable without being fully types. I root for Macheath even though he is a scoundrel, I love the argument song between Polly and Lucy, I enjoy the scheming of Peachum and Lockitt. Even the naff happy ending makes me smile.

In some ways the view of life is as pessimistic as in Gulliver but the characters themselves never realise it. They carry on scheming, loving, drinking and singing because it’s all they can do.

‘Think of this maxim and put off your sorrow, the wretch of today can be happy tomorrow.’


So, what will the top five be? I think it’ll be pretty obvious but I’ll pretend there’s a mystery.


All yours


Thursday, 26 September 2013

Talk on Friendship at Samuel Johnson's House


Today I took myself off to a lecture at Dr Johnson's House to listen to Emrys Jones talk about conceptions of friendship in the early eighteenth century. Oddly enough Dr Jones didn't have a welsh accent. Before we listened to him, we were given the chance to look around the house. There have been a few changes recently under the new curator and deputy, including a very fetching adult sized eighteenth century coat which I defintely likes the look of - it was warm, looked good and had pockets large enough to carry a small library.

Dr Jones started his talk with Johnson's Ode on Friendship, so I will do the same


Friendship; An Ode by Samuel Johnson

Friendship! peculiar boon of Heaven,
The noble mind’s delight and pride,
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.
While love, unknown among the bless’d,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
The savage and the human breast
Torments alike with raging fires.
With bright, but oft destructive gleam,
Alike o’er all his lightnings fly,
Thy lambent glories only beam
Around the favourites of the sky.
Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys
On fools and villains ne’er descend;
In vain for thee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend.
Directness of the brave and just,
Oh guide us through life’s darksome way!
And let the tortures of mistrust
On selfish bosoms only prey.
Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow,
When souls to peaceful climes remove.
What raised our virtue here below
Shall aid our happiness above.




He pulled out the points that an idea friendship is an elevated thing, beyond beast and hypocrite where a perfect disinterested friendship can be had by two moral people and their friendship elevates them further. He quoted other writers on the subject, including (I was surprised to note) Adam Smith from his Theory of Moral Sentiments. (I was tempted to read more of Smith, he being the only famous eighteenth century Adam I can think of).

There were then four key dilemas put in front of this ideal form of friendship.

1) Difference of Opinion - Can friends disagree on important points? As usual, I am rather inclined to agree with Goldsmith, who felt very deep disagreements would impede a proper friendship. I don't think I could be friends with someone who thinks greater freedom of firearms is good for the safety of the populace for example. Johnson retorted that maybe Goldsmith couldn't be friends with someone he disagreed with but he could, this is backed up with the large number of Whiggish friends but maybe discounted by 'I am prepared to love anyone but an American'. 

2) Competition - This is where Dr Jones went into an earlier period of the eighteenth century. He talked about Addison and Steele and the competition between them, especially given that Addison was regarded far more highly than Steele, though later Johnson marker Steele higher. (I actually prefer Addison, I find him more smiling.) He also talked about the Scriblerans treatment of Gay as more playfellow then serious literary partner. (Though I remember reading something about Pope being the butt of the jokes). There was discussion about whether a friendship actually needs competition and how a part of the moral elevation of friendship may be the competition to be better friends.

3)Whether a friendship is a true friendship or just patronage - This part mainly involved quotes about Pope and Bolinbroke and about the weirdness of false friends. This linked very well with the line about hugging flatterers in the Johnson ode.

4) Public/Private friendship - this was the crux of the talk. He talked about how nowadays we worry about a private friendship causing bad and immoral decisions in public (like Cameron and Coulton) but the worry in the eighteenth century was more how the public display of friendship would rob the notion of its intimacy and truth. Again, Pope was brought up a lot, especially in how he shaped his image as a good friend, a friend of virtue and a friend of virtue's friends. 

This world in which friendship is publically celebrated by poems, by dedications and by biography caused strain on the notion of friendship. Where friendship should have been seen as a profit in itself, the public lionising of friendship makes it a comodity. He concluded by saying that no eighteenth century writer became famous for his friendships without publicising it. An issue that I think is still alive today.

One last thing that interested me was how he linked this shaking in the notion of friendship with the bursting of the South Sea Bubble. I have to admit I didn't follow the reasoning behind this and would like to have bought his book to thrash it out in more detail. Unfortunately, the slim volume was fifty pounds and I don't have any friends who would stump me the cash.

The next lecture I am going to see will be about Grub Street. That's in a month's time or so.

All yours


Monday, 25 March 2013

Pope's 'Gulliver' Poems


Pope read Gulliver's Travels on its publication and was inspired to write a poem for every book. 


I. Ode to Quinbus Flestrin
 
        
The Man Mountain, by Titty Tit, Poet Laureate to His Majesty of Lilliput.
Translated into English
  


  IN amaze
  Lost I gaze!
  Can our eyes
  Reach thy size!
  May my lays        5
  Swell with praise,
  Worthy thee!
  Worthy me!
  Muse, inspire
  All thy fire!        10
  Bards of old
  Of him told,
  When they said
  Atlas’ head
  Propp’d the skies:        15
See! and believe your eyes!
  See him stride
  Valleys wide,
  Over woods,
  Over floods!        20
  When he treads,
  Mountains’ heads
  Groan and shake,
  Armies quake;
  Lest his spurn        25
  Overturn
  Man and steed:
  Troops, take heed!
  Left and right,
  Speed your flight!        30
  Lest an host
Beneath his foot be lost;
  Turn’d aside
  From his hide
  Safe from wound,        35
  Darts rebound.
  From his nose
  Clouds he blows!
  When he speaks,
  Thunder breaks!        40
  When he eats,
  Famine threats!
  When he drinks,
  Neptune shrinks!
  Nigh thy ear        45
  In mid air,
  On thy hand
  Let me stand;
  So shall I,
Lofty poet! touch the sky.        50
 

I like the way the poem is short to reflect the shortness of the people. I also appreciate the way it fleshes out the fears of the Lilliputians.

II. The Lamentation of Glumdalclitch for the Loss of Grildrig

 
A Pastoral

SOON as Glumdalclitch miss’d her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubber’d, and she tore her hair;
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
She furl’d her sampler, and haul’d in her thread,        5
And stuck her needle into Grildrig’s bed;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
She gently whimpers like a lowing cow:        10
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears:
Her locks dishevell’d, and her flood of tears,
Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
  In vain she search’d each cranny of the house,        15
Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse.
‘Was it for this (she cried) with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar,
And fill’d the cruet with the acid tide,
While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied?        20
Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook!
Sure in that lake he dropt; my Grilly’s drown’d!’
She dragg’d the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
  ‘Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast!        25
But little creatures enterprise the most.
Trembling I ’ve seen thee dare the kitten’s paw,
Nay, mix with children, as they play’d at taw,
Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew;
Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you!        30
  ‘Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth?
Who from a page can ever learn the truth?
Versed in court tricks, that money-loving boy
To some lord’s daughter sold the living toy;
Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play,        35
As children tear the wings of flies away.
From place to place o’er Brobdingnag I ’ll roam,
And never will return, or bring thee home.
But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
How then they fairy footsteps can I find?        40
Dost thou bewilder’d wander all alone
In the green thicket of a mossy stone;
Or, tumbled from the toadstool’s slipp’ry round,
Perhaps, all maim’d, lie grovelling on the ground
Dost thou, embosom’d in the lovely rose,        45
Or, sunk within the peach’s down repose?
Within the kingcup if thy limbs are spread,
Or in the golden cowslip’s velvet head,
O show me, Flora, midst those sweets, the flower
Where sleeps my Grildrig in the fragrant bower.        50
  ‘But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves
On little females, and on little loves;
Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms,        55
Equal in size to cells of honeycombs.
Hast thou for these now ventured from the shore,
Thy bark a bean shell, and a straw thy oar?
Or in thy box now bounding on the main,
Shall I ne’er bear thyself and house again?        60
And shall I set thee on my hand no more,
To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o’er
My spacious palm; of stature scarce a span,
Mimic the actions of a real man?
No more behold thee turn my watch’s key,        65
As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh?
How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,
A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head!
How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!’        70
  She spoke; but broken accents stopp’d her voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet’s mellow noise:
She sobb’d a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes,
Which seem’d like two broad suns in misty skies.
O squander not thy grief! those tears command        75
To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland;
The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish,
And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.


I similarly like how the long lines reflect the largeness of the Brobidingags. I always felt sorry for Glumdalclitch, she was a generally caring and lovely person.



Poems Suggested by Gulliver
III. To Mr. Lemuel Gulliver
 
The Grateful Address of the Unhappy Houyhnhnms Now in Slavery and Bondage in England


TO thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band,
Condemn’d to labour in a barb’rous land,
Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays,
And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy praise.
  O happy Yahoo, purged from human crimes,        5
By thy sweet sojourn in those virtuous climes,
Where reign our sires; there, to thy country’s shame,
Reason, you found, and Virtue were the same.
Their precepts razed the prejudice of youth,
And ev’n a Yahoo learn’d the love of Truth.        10
  Art thou the first who did the coast explore?
Did never Yahoo tread that ground before?
Yes, thousands! But in pity to their kind,
Or sway’d by envy, or thro’ pride of mind,
They hid their knowledge of a nobler race,        15
Which own’d, would all their sires and sons disgrace.
  You, like the Samian, visit lands unknown,
And by their wiser morals mend your own.
Thus Orpheus travell’d to reform his kind,
Came back, and tamed the brutes he left behind.        20
  You went, you saw, you heard: with virtue fought,
Then spread those morals which the Houyhnhnms taught.
Our labours here must touch thy gen’rous heart,
To see us strain before the coach and cart;
Compell’d to run each knavish jockey’s heat!        25
Subservient to Newmarket’s annual cheat!
With what reluctance do we lawyers bear,
To fleece their country clients twice a year!
Or managed in your schools, for fops to ride,
How foam, how fret beneath a load of pride!        30
Yes, we are slaves—but yet, by reason’s force,
Have learn’d to bear misfortune like a horse.
  O would the stars, to ease my bonds ordain
That gentle Gulliver might guide my rein!
Safe would I bear him to his journey’s end,        35
For ’t is a pleasure to support a friend.
But if my life by doom’d to serve the bad,
Oh! mayst thou never want an easy pad!

HOUYHNHNM    


IV. Mary Gulliver to Captain Lemuel Gulliver
 
        
An Epistle

ARGUMENT
  The captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr. Sympson’s in the country, Mrs. Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulatory, soothing, and tenderly complaining epistle.

WELCOME, thrice welcome to thy native place!
What, touch me not? what, shun a wife’s embrace?
Have I for this thy tedious absence borne,
And waked, and wish’d whole nights for thy return?
In five long years I took no second spouse;        5
What Redriff wife so long hath kept her vows?
Your eyes, your nose, inconstancy betray;
Your nose you stop, your eyes you turn away.
’T is said, that thou shouldst ‘cleave unto thy wife;’
Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for life.        10
Hear, and relent! hark how thy children moan!
Be kind at least to these; they are thy own:
Behold, and count them all; secure to find
The honest number that you left behind.
See how they bat thee with their pretty paws:        15
Why start you? are they snakes? or have they claws?
Thy Christian seed, our mutual flesh and bone:
Be kind at least to these; they are thy own.
  Biddel, like thee, might farthest India rove;
He changed his country, but retain’d his love.        20
There ’s Captain Pannel, absent half his life,
Comes back, and is the kinder to his wife;
Yet Pannel’s wife is brown compared to me,
And Mrs. Biddel sure is fifty-three.
  Not touch me! never neighbour call’d me slut!        25
Was Flimnap’s dame more sweet in Lilliput?
I ’ve no red hair to breathe an odious fume;
At least thy Consort’s cleaner than thy Groom.
Why then that dirty stable-boy thy care?
What mean those visits to the Sorrel Mare?        30
Say, by what witchcraft, or what demon led,
Preferr’st thou litter to the marriage-bed?
  Some say the Devil himself is in that mare:
If so, our Dean shall drive him forth by prayer.
Some think you mad, some think you are possess’d,        35
That Bedlam and clean straw will suit you best.
Vain means, alas, this frenzy to appease!
That straw, that straw would heighten the disease.
  My bed (the scene of all our former joys,
Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys)        40
Alone I press: in dreams I call my dear,
I stretch my hand; no Gulliver is there!
I wake, I rise, and shiv’ring with the frost
Search all the house; my Gulliver is lost!
Forth in the street I rush with frantic cries;        45
The windows open, all the neighbours rise:
‘Where sleeps my Gulliver? O tell me where.’
The neighbours answer, ‘With the Sorrel Mare.’
  At early morn I to the market haste
(Studious in every thing to please thy taste);        50
A curious fowl and ’sparagus I chose
(For I remember’d you were fond of those);
Three shillings cost the first, the last seven groats;
Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.
Others bring goods and treasure to their houses,        55
Something to deck their pretty babes and spouses:
My only token was a cup like horn,
That ’s made of nothing but a lady’s corn.
’T is not for that I grieve; O, ’t is to see
The Groom and Sorrel Mare preferr’d to me!        60
  These, for some moments when you deign to quit,
And at due distance sweet discourse admit,
’T is all my pleasure thy past toil to know;
For pleas’d remembrance builds delight on woe.
At ev’ry danger pants thy consort’s breast,        65
And gaping infants squall to hear the rest.
How did I tremble, when by thousands bound,
I saw thee stretch’d on Lilliputian ground!
When scaling armies climb’d up every part,
Each step they trod I felt upon my heart.        70
But when thy torrent quench’d the dreadful blaze,
King, Queen, and Nation staring with amaze,
Full in my view how all my husband came;
And what extinguish’d theirs increas’d my flame.
Those spectacles, ordain’d thine eyes to save,        75
Were once my present; love that armour gave.
How did I mourn at Bolgolam’s decree!
For when he sign’d thy death, he sentenc’d me.
  When folks might see thee all the country round
For sixpence, I ’d have giv’n a thousand pound.        80
Lord! when the giant babe that head of thine
Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!
When in the marrow bone I see thee ramm’d,
Or on the housetop by the monkey cramm’d,
The piteous images renew my pain,        85
And all thy dangers I weep o’er again.
But on the maiden’s nipple when you rid,
Pray Heav’n, ’t was all a wanton maiden did!
Glumdalclitch, too! with thee I mourn her case,
Heaven guard the gentle girl from all disgrace!        90
O may the king that one neglect forgive,
And pardon her the fault by which I live!
Was there no other way to set him free?
My life, alas! I fear prov’d death to thee.
  O teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame;        95
Teach me to woo thee by thy best lov’d name!
Whether the style of Grildrig please thee most,
So call’d on Brobdingnag’s stupendous coast,
When on the monarch’s ample hand you sate,
And halloo’d in his ear intrigues of state;        100
Or Quinbus Flestrin more endearment brings,
When like a mountain you look’d down on kings:
If ducal Nardac, Lilliputian peer,
Or Glumglum’s humbler title soothe thy ear:
Nay, would kind Jove my organs so dispose,        105
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm thro’ the nose,
I ’d call thee Houyhnhnm, that high sounding name
Thy children’s noses all should twang the same;
So might I find my loving spouse of course
Endued with all the virtues of a horse.        110
 
I enjoy these little poems, I love how the Scriblerans engage with each other's work. I also enjoyed how  we get to see parts of the story from outside of Gulliver's perspective. Soon I will be talking about 'Mistress Masham's Repose', which I have been greatly enjoying.