Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, No. 359, September 1845

The Author might almost seem intended for a sequel to MacFlecnoe and the Dunciad. Not that it assumes, like them, a fanciful vehicle for the satire, but it undertakes the lashing of peccant authors, and recognises Dulness as an enthroned power to whose empire the writer is hostile; and where he adverts to his own early life, and clerical destination, he mentions her as the patroness upon whom his friends had relied for his future church preferment.

"But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne,When lordly vassals her wide empire own;When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside,And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride, &c.* * * *Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed,Ere it was known that I should learn to read;Though that was nothing for my friends, who knewWhat mighty Dulness of itself could do,Never design'd me for a working priest,But hoped I should have been a dean at least," &c.

The writers more formally and regularly attacked, are Smollett, Murphy, Shebbeare, Guthrie, and one Kidgell, who contrived to earn shame, in exposing to shame the printed but unpublished obscenity and blasphemy of Wilkes. Johnson gets a good word as a state-pensioner, Francis, the translator of Horace, for dulness apparently, and Mason, and even Gray, are signalized, en passant, as artificial rhymesters! The general tenor of the poem complains that in these days true learning, genius, and the honesty of authorship are of no account; whilst the political profligacy of the pen ensures favour and pay. The first hundred lines forcibly express the inspiring indignation proper to the subject, and some of them are still occasionally quoted; but how inferior all to corresponding strains in Dryden and Pope! They were poets indeed – he was not a poet. He has not fancy or imagination – they had both – they were consummate masters in their art: he was but a bold bungler after all. In proof, take the best passage in The Author.

"Is this – O death to think! – is this the landWhere merit and reward went hand in hand?Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd,By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd?Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays,And by their patrons sanctified their praise?Is this the land where, on our Spenser's tongue,Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung?Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled,While Reason through her critic fences smiled?Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd,And wonder'd at the work herself had made?Is this the land where, mindful of her charge,And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large?Where, finding in our laws a sure defence,She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense?Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side,She spreads her sacred empire far and wide;Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile,And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile —Bade those who dare obey the generous callEnjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?Is this the land where, in some tyrant's reign,When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'dTheir country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'dThose wretches, who ordain'd in Freedom's cause,Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws;When Power was taught by Meanness where to go,Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe;When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul headTo the foul heart her sores Corruption spread,Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd,And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'dThe scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain?Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,The hardy poet raised his honest rhymesTo dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speakIn guilty blushes on the villain's cheek;Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,And made hem fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?"How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,Whom folly guides, and prejudice controls;Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod,Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,Dote from their birth, and are by system fools;Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth,Lies of the day prefer to Gospel-truth;Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,And lay out all their stock of faith in news;How do I laugh, when creatures form'd like these,Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please,Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime,And hold not truth as truth, if told in rhyme?"

These are commendable verses, but they are not the verses of a true poet. For instance, when he will praise the greatest poets —

"Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue,Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung" —

the intention is good, and there is some love in the singling out of the name; but Description is almost the lowest, not the highest praise of Spenser. The language too is mean and trite, not that of one who is "inflammatus amore" of the sacred poet whom he praises. How differently does Lucretius praise Epicurus! The words blaze as he names him. How differently does Pope or Gray praise Dryden! Even in Churchill's few words there is the awkward and heavy tautology – tongue and voice. It is more like the tribute of duty than sensibility. The well-known distich on Shakspeare is rather good – it utters with a vigorous turn the general sentiment, the nation's wonder of its own idol. But compare Gray, who also brings Nature and Shakspeare together; or see him speaking of Dryden or Milton, and you see how a poet speaks of a poet – thrilled with recollections – reflecting, not merely commemorating, the power. Indeed, we design to have a few (perhaps twenty) articles entitled Poets on Poets – in which we shall collect chronologically the praises of the brotherhood by the brotherhood. In the mean time we do believe that the one main thing which you miss in Churchill is the true poetical touch and temper of the spirit. He is, as far as he succeeds, a sort of inferior Junius in verse – sinewy, keen – with a good, ready use of strong, plain English; but he has no rapture. His fire is volcanic, not solar. Yet no light praise it is, that he rejects frivolous ornament, and trusts to the strength of the thought, and of the good or ill within. But besides the disparity – which is great – of strength, of intellectual rank – this draws an insuperable difference in kind between him and Pope or Dryden, that they are essentially poets. The gift of song is on their lips. If they turn Satirists, they bring the power to another than its wonted and native vocation. But Churchill obtains the power only in satirizing. As Iago says —

"For I am nothing if not critical."

Is this merely a repetition of Juvenal's "facit indignatio versus," rendered in prose, "Indignation makes me a poet," who am not a poet by nature? In the first place, Juvenal prodigiously transcends Churchill in intellectual strength; and in the second, Juvenal has far more of essential poetry, although hidden in just vituperation, and in the imposed worldliness of his matter. But we must pull up.

The so-called "Epistle to Hogarth" is, after the wont of Churchill, a shapeless, undigested performance. It is nothing in the likeness of an epistle; but for three hundred lines a wandering, lumbering rhapsody, addressed to nobody, which, after abusing right and left, suddenly turns to Hogarth, whom it introduces by summoning him to stand forth at the bar in the Court of Conscience, an exemplar of iniquities worse than could have been believed of humanity, were he not there to sustain the character, and authenticate the rightful delineation. Thenceforwards obstreperously railing on, overwhelming the great painter with exaggerated reproaches for envy that persecuted all worth, for untired self-laudation, for painting his unfortunate Sigismunda; and oh! shame of song! for the advancing infirmities of old age. The merits of Hogarth, as master of comic painting, are acknowledged in lines that have been often quoted, and are of very moderate merit – not worth a rush. "The description of his age and infirmities," as Garrick said at the time, "is too shocking and barbarous." It nauseates the soul; and unmasks in the Satirist the rancorous and malignant hostility which assumes the disguise of a righteous indignation.

"Hogarth! stand forth. – Nay, hang not thus aloof —Now, Candor! now thou shalt receive such proof,Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fearTo tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear —Hogarth! stand forth – I dare thee to be try'dIn that great court where Conscience must preside;At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;Think before whom, on what account, you stand —Speak, but consider well – from first to lastReview thy life, weigh ev'ry action past —Nay, you shall have no reason to complain —Take longer time, and view them o'er again —Canst thou remember from thy earliest youth,And, as thy God must judge thee, speak the truth;A single instance where, self laid aside,And justice taking place of fear and pride,Thou with an equal eye did'st genius view,And give to merit what was merit's due?Genius and merit are a sure offence,And thy soul sickens at the name of sense.Is any one so foolish to succeed?On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed;Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,The place of executioner supplies:See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feast,And proves himself by cruelty a priest."Whilst the weak artist, to thy whims a slave,Would bury all those pow'rs which Nature gave;Would suffer black concealment to obscureThose rays thy jealousy could not endure;To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,And to secure thy credit blast his own,In Hogarth he was sure to find a friendHe could not fear, and therefore might commend:But when his Spirit, rous'd by honest shame,Shook off that lethargy, and soar'd to fame;When, with the pride of man, resolv'd and strong,He scorn'd those fears which did his honour wrong,And, on himself determin'd to rely,Brought forth his labours to the public eye,No friend in thee could such a rebel know;He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe."Souls of a tim'rous cast, of petty nameIn Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel,And suffer honour to abate their zeal;But the man truly and completely greatAllows no rule of action but his hate;Thro' ev'ry bar he bravely breaks his way,Passion his principle, and parts his prey.Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mindWithin the pale of temperance confin'd;The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes,And, good or bad, is always in extremes."Man's practice duly weigh'd, thro' ev'ry ageOn the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage,'Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made,In way of science and in way of trade:Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite,First works, then views their ruin with delight.Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines,And nobly on the gen'ral plan refines:He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found;Should painters only his vast wrath suffice?Genius in ev'ry walk is lawful prize:'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state;His love to merit is to feel his hate."When Wilkes, our countryman, our common friend,Arose, his king, his country, to defend;When tools of pow'r he bar'd to public view,And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;When Rancour found it far beyond her reachTo soil his honour and his truth impeach;What could induce thee, at a time and placeWhere manly foes had blush'd to show their face,To make that effort which must damn thy name,And sink thee deep, deep, in thy grave with shame?Did virtue move thee? No; 'twas pride, rank pride,And if thou had'st not done it thou had'st dy'd.Malice, (who, disappointed of her end,Whether to work the bane of foe or friend,Preys on herself, and driven to the stake,Gives virtue that revenge she scorns to take,)Had kill'd thee, tott'ring on life's utmost verge,Had Wilkes and Liberty escap'd thy scourge."When that Great Charter, which our fathers brought;With their best blood, was into question bought,When, big with ruin, o'er each English headVile slav'ry hung suspended by a thread;When Liberty, all trembling and aghast,Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past;When ev'ry breast was chill'd with deep despair,Till reason pointed out that Pratt was there;Lurking most ruffian-like behind a screen,So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,The murd'rous pencil in his palsied hand.What was the cause of Liberty to him,Or what was Honour? let them sink or swim,So he may gratify without controlThe mean resentment of his selfish soul;Let freedom perish, if, to freedom true,In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too."With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,With age and sickness pinch'd and worn away,Pale qiuv'ring lips, lank cheeks, and falt'ring tongue,The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,The body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes sunkWithin their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk,The body's weight unable to sustain,The stream of life scarce trembling, thro' the vein,More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fellThro' thy own fault from men who wish'd thee well,Canst thou, ev'n thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,And, dead to all things else, to malice live?Hence, Dotard! to thy closet; shut thee in;By deep repentance wash away thy sin;From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,And, on the verge of death, learn how to die."

What was Hogarth's unpardonable sin? Nature had lodged the unlovely soul of Jack Wilkes in an unlovely and ludicrous person, which the wicked and inimitable pencil of Hogarth had made a little unlovelier perhaps, and a little more ludicrous. Horace Walpole spoke in his usual clear-cutting style of Mr Charles Pylades and Mr John Orestes. They liked one another, and ran the scent, strong as a trail of rancid fish-guts, of the same pleasures – but let not such hunting in couples profane the name of friendship.

"For me, who warm and zealous for my friend,In spite of railing thousands, will commend,And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,Spite of commending thousands, will oppose —I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage;But with an eye of pity view thy age —Thy feeble age! in which, as in a glass,We see how men to dissolution pass.Thou wretched being! whom, on reason's plan,So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a man —What could persuade thee at this time of life,To launch afresh into the sea of strife!Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,Almost as much a child as at thy birth;To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of death.Why would thy gray, gray hairs resentment brave,Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?Now, by my soul! it makes me blush to knowMy spirit could descend to such a foe:Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke;It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke."Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates imposeTo mortify man's arrogance, that thoseWho're fashion'd of some better sort of clayMuch sooner than the common herd decay.What bitter pangs must humble Genius feelIn their last hours, to view a Swift and Steele!How must ill-boding horrors fill her breast,When she beholds men mark'd above the restFor qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night!Are men, indeed, such things? and are the bestMore subject to this evil than the rest;To drivel out whole years of idiot breath,And sit the monuments of living Death!O! galling circumstance to human pride!Abasing thought! but not to be deny'd.With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.Constant attention wears the active mind,Blots out her pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind,But let not youth, to insolence ally'd,In heat of blood, in full career of pride,Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rageMock the infirmities of rev'rend age:The greatest genius to this fate may bow;Reynolds in time may be like Hogarth now."

One makes allowance, in reading, for the inflamed temper of the times, for a judgment disturbed with personal anger, and for the self-consciousness which, hardly separable from talent, stirs and sustains its energies. But – Churchill demolishing Hogarth! It is startling – rather melancholy – and very amusing. One compares fame with fame – the transitory and the imperishable. The wave, lashed into fury, that comes on, mountain-swollen, all rage, and froth, and thunder, to dash itself into spray against some Atlas of the Deep – some huge brother of Time, whose cheeks the wings of the centuries caress, and of whose hand storms that distract heaven and earth are but toys.

Of the "Prophecy of Famine," Wilkes, before its publication, said he "was sure it would take, as it was at once personal, poetical, and political." And take it did – going off in thousands, and tens of thousands. The Whig coteries, of course, cried it up to the skies; and the established authorities declared that Pope must now hide his diminished head. Such nonsense Churchill swallowed; for he had tried to take it into his head that Pope was a fool to him, and in his cups was wont to vent a wish that little Alec were alive, that he might break his heart. That was the delusion of delirium. Inflated with vanity as he was, he must, when sober, have known well he could not with his cudgel, readily though he flourished it, have lived for five minutes before that Master of the rapier.

Scotsmen as we are to the spine, it is possible that we may be incapacitated by the strength of our backbone for perceiving the mighty merit of this astonishing satire. Steeped to the lips in national prejudices in favour of Scotland, (not against England – heaven forbid!) imbibed with the first gulp of Glenlivet that more than three quarters of a century ago went gurgling down our filial throats – inured to hunger from our tenderest years – "in life's morning march when our spirits were young," ignorant of shoes, though haply not inexpert of sulphur – to us, thus born and thus bred, it may not be given to behold with our outward eyes, and feel with our inward hearts, the full glory of "The Prophecy of Famine." Boswell, with an uneasy smirk, rather than a ghastly grin, said, "It is indeed falsely applied to Scotland, but may on that account be allowed a greater share of invention." Johnson in his heart loved Scotland, as all his jeers show; and perhaps on that account was, like ourselves, no fair judge of Churchill's genius. "I called the fellow a blockhead at first – and I call him a blockhead still," comprehended all his performances in one general contempt. In later times, Jeffrey has dismissed him with little ceremony to find his place at the Third Table. Campbell, who, though a Whig, cared nothing about Churchill, acknowledges having been amused by the laughable extravagance of the "Prophecy." And Lord Mahon says, "that it may yet be read with all the admiration which the most vigorous powers of verse and the most lively touches of wit can earn in the cause of slander and falsehood."

Suppose, rough-and-ready Readers, that you judge for yourselves. You have not a copy of Churchill – so passing over the first part of the poem – about three hundred lines – as dull as ditchwater in the season of powheads – let us give you the cream, or marrow, or pith of the famous "Prophecy of Famine," before which Scotia, "our auld respectit mither," bowed down and fell, and was thought by some to have given up the ghost, or at least "tined her dam."

"Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springsFrom great and glorious tho' forgotten kings,Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bredOn the same bleak and barren mountain's head;By niggard Nature doom'd on the same rocksTo spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;Fresh as the morning which, enrob'd in mist,The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd,Jockey and Sawney, to their labours rose;Soon clad I ween where Nature needs no clothes,Where, from their youth inur'd to winter-skies,Dress and her vain refinements they despise."Jockey, whose manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown,With freckles spotted flam'd the golden down,With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,Ev'n from the rising to the setting day:Sawney as long without remorse could bawlHome's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal:Oft at his strains, all natural tho' rude,The Highland lass forgot her want of food;And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,Sunk pleas'd, tho' hungry, on her Sawney's breast."Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen,Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:The plague of locusts they secure defy,For in three hours a grasshopper must die:No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,But the chameleon, who can feast on air.No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:Rebellion's spring, which thro' the country ran,Furnish'd with bitter draughts the steady clan:No flow'rs embalm'd the air but one White Rose,Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows,By instinct blows at morn, and when the shadesOf drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades."One, and but one, poor solitary cave,Too sparing of her favours, Nature gave;That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)Shelter at once for man and beast supply'd.Their snares without entangling briers spread,And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head,Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose,Thistles! now held more precious than the Rose.All creatures which, on Nature's earliest plan,Were form'd to loathe and to be loath'd by man,Which ow'd their birth to nastiness and spite,Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight;Creatures, which, when admitted in the ark,Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,Found place within. Marking her noisome roadWith poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;There webs were spread of more than common size,And half-starv'd spiders prey'd on half-starv'd flies;In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall:The cave around with hissing serpents rung;On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;And Famine, by her children always known,As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne."Here, for the sullen sky as overcast,And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast,A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,The boys for shelter made: behind the sheep,Of which those shepherds ev'ry day take keep,Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude,On Nature seem'd to call and bleat for food."Jockey. Sith to this cave by tempest we're confin'd,And within ken our flocks, under the wind,Safe from the pelting of this per'lous storm,Are laid among yon' thistles, dry and warm,What, Sawney! if by shepherds' art we tryTo mock the rigour of this cruel sky?What if we tune some merry roundelay?Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play."Sawney. Ah Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis,To think of songs at such a time as this;Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,And we forget to live from hand to mouth,Than Sawney, out of season, shall impartTho songs of gladness with an aching heart."Jockey. Still have I known thee for a silly swain;Of things past help what boots it to complain?Nothing but mirth can conquer Fortune's spite;No sky is heavy if the heart be light:Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cur'd,So Donald right areeds, must be endur'd."Sawney. Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now;How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? how,When with a foreign loon she stole away,Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay?Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when IApply'd those proverbs which you now apply?"Jockey. O she was bonny! all the Highlands roundWas there a rival to my Maggy found?More precious (tho' that precious is to all)Than the rare med'cine which we Brimstone call,Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose,Which in I-know-not-what-far country grows,Was Maggy unto me: dear do I rueA lass so fair should ever prove untrue."Sawney. Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear,Thro' all the land did Jamie find a peer?Curs'd be that year by ev'ry honest Scot,And in the shepherds' kalendar forgot,That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain!In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain:Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled,Was seiz'd, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead."Jockey. Full sorely may we all lament that day,For all were losers in the deadly fray;Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains,Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains;Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride,Two in the field, and three on gibbets dy'd:Ah! silly swains! to follow war's alarms;Ah! what hath shepherd's life to do with arms?"Sawney. Mention it not – There saw I strangers cladIn all the honours of our ravish'd Plaid;Saw the Ferrara, too, our nation's pride,Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.There fell our choicest youth, and from that dayMote never Sawney tune the merry lay;Bless'd those which fell! curs'd those which still survive!To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five."

As our memory of our personal experiences about the period in Scottish history at which the above scene is laid is extremely obscure, we cannot take upon ourselves to speak authoritatively of the fidelity of the picture. But Churchill, we grieve to say it, was a regular – a thorough Cockney. The instant a Cockney opens his mouth, or puts pen to paper about Scotland, he stands confessed. Here Charles's attempt at the Scottish dialect betrays the taint. Not a single one of the words he chucklingly puts into the lips of Jockey and Sawney as characteristically Scoto-Arcadian, was ever heard or seen by the breechless swains of that pastoral realm. Never does an alien look so silly to the natives, be they who they may, as when instructing them in their own language, or mimicking the niceties and delicacies of its dialects. They pardonably think him little better than a fool; nor does he mend the matter much by telling them that he is satirical and a wit.