Volume I Part 11 (1/2)
The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, To a less n.o.ble substance chang'd, Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3]
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter: And, high in order plac'd, describe The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4]
A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphos'd into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep By lodging folk disposed to sleep.
The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paused a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style; Then said, ”My house is grown so fine, Methinks, I still would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson if you please.”
He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve; His waistcoat to a ca.s.sock grew, And both a.s.sumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of t.i.thes and dues: Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christ'nings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wish'd women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for ”right divine;”
Found his head fill'd with many a system; But cla.s.sic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced with lace.
”Plain Goody” would no longer down, 'Twas ”Madam,” in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes.
Amaz'd to see her look so prim, And she admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which prov'd their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, [5]To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cry'd out, ”My dear, I see your forehead sprout!”-- ”Sprout;” quoth the man; ”what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous!
But yet, methinks, I feel it true, And really yours is budding too--Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root.”
Description would but tire my Muse, In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the Green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folk to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd How much the other tree was griev'd, Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
[Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in accordance with Addison's suggestions.--_W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orleans. See ”Hudibras,” ”Lady's Answer,” verse 285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular ballad was written. The line in the text is from ”Hudibras,” Part I, c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: ”A bold virago, stout and tall, As Joan of France, or English Mall.”
The ballad is preserved in Percy's ”Reliques of English Poetry,” vol. ii, 239.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.--_Dublin Edition_.]
[Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.--_Dublin Edition_.]
THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE 1708
When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, And call'd to take the cards away, Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, How Miss pick'd every painted card, And, busy both with hand and eye, Soon rear'd a house two stories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture Is hugely turn'd to architecture: He view'd the edifice, and smiled, Vow'd it was pretty for a child: It was so perfect in its kind, He kept the model in his mind.
But, when he found the boys at play And saw them dabbling in their clay, He stood behind a stall to lurk, And mark the progress of their work; With true delight observed them all Raking up mud to build a wall.
The plan he much admired, and took The model in his table-book: Thought himself now exactly skill'd, And so resolved a house to build: A real house, with rooms and stairs, Five times at least as big as theirs; Taller than Miss's by two yards; Not a sham thing of play or cards: And so he did; for, in a while, He built up such a monstrous pile, That no two chairmen could be found Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it stands in view, Just in the place where first it grew; There all the little schoolboys run, Envying to see themselves outdone.
From such deep rudiments as these, Van is become, by due degrees, For building famed, and justly reckon'd, At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3]
No wonder, since wise authors show, That best foundations must be low: And now the duke has wisely ta'en him To be his architect at Blenheim.
But raillery at once apart, If this rule holds in every art; Or if his grace were no more skill'd in The art of battering walls than building, We might expect to see next year A mouse-trap man chief engineer.