AN ODE TO THE NAIADS OF FLEET-DITCH.
By ARTHUR MURPHY,
Esq
Out with it, Dunciad, let the Secret pass,
That Secret to each Fool that he's an Ass.
POPE.
Aspice num magè sit nostrum penetrabile telum.
VIRG.
LONDON: Printed for M. COOPER, in Pater-noster Row. MDCCLXI.
ADVERTISEMENT.
IT is a just image given us by Mr.
Congreve
of the situation of an author, where he mentions a POET ambitious of praise, and a CRITIC picking his pocket. It is, indeed, almost impossible for any man to distinguish himself in the literary world, without having a gang of these people swarming about him; though he has at the same time this consolation, that all such
petty larceny
attempts are a mark of his fame; and the unprovoked abuse of ill-designing persons is, in its own nature, involuntary praise.
The author of the following trifle has had his share of this kind of trouble ever since his name has been heard of: he has boasted, upon a former occasion, of the honour a certain reverend writer did him by his calumny; but, as if that was not sufficient, his name is now adorned with a PARSON CHURCHILL. This last person's hand he has felt in his pocket twice in a very short time: in the
Rosciad
it was but a dip, and away; but as if this astonishing genius, who has lately amazed mankind, had improved in his trade, in his
Apology
he has attempted to make an intire rummage. Whether he has taken any thing out of the present writer's pocket, is a point not very certain; so that the loss, however, cannot be very great.
But it may be asked, Can the Reverend Mr.
Churchill,
Curate of
St. John's, Westminster,
be considered as Mr.
Murphy
's literary pickpocket, when he boldly owns his name, and shews himself to the public?—In answer to this, it should be considered, that these people have various ways of doing their business. Some of them sneak in alleys, and little lurking holes, and, as a gentleman passes by, they make a snatch at his pocket; and should they prove so unfortunate as to give an alarm, and meet with a short turn, "
Pray remember the poor—for the love of
—" Others of them go more daringly to work—
Bob,
do you see that gentleman yonder?—shall I
DO
him?
—
Ay! ay!
cries Bob,
do him by all means.
—
So I will—Link your honour—light your honour across the street—my name is
CHARLEY DUNGHILL—
I ply here every night, your honour
—
Then on he runs, twirling his link almost in your face;—gives you an unlucky splash, and, in your sudden confusion, makes a snap at your handkerchief: his friends admire his dexterity; he is proclaimed abroad for a notable clever fellow; you are told he is a bruiser into the bargain, and handles an OAK-STICK wonderfully! This will be acknowledged to be the case among the pilferers in our common streets; and among their brethren of the quill the conduct is so similar, that the writer of the subsequent Ode cannot consider the REVEREND CHARLES CHURCHILL in any other light than that of a CRITIC PICKING HIS POCKET; and as he is well informed that Mr.
John Fielding
has attained many points, highly serviceable to society, by
quick notice and sudden pursuit
among the nimble-fingered race, who infest this metropolis, he is in hopes that the same means will operate equally in the literary world. For this purpose, he now thinks proper to celebrate the egregious endowments of this New Adventurer; desiring it may be remembered, that this is the first notice he has given of him: for, notwithstanding the insinuations of Mr.
Churchill
and his friends, be it hereby known, that Mr.
Murphy
never wrote, or caused to be written, directly or indirectly, a single line in the
Critical Review.
In justice, however, to the public, and himself, he thinks it now incumbent on him to give the best description he can of the man who has, at two different times, made an attempt upon him. Should this furious
Drawcansir,
after this, think proper to proceed in his design, Mr.
Murphy,
in consideration of his being
unbeneficed,
and reflecting how hard the present dearness of provisions, and the
late Tax
upon PORTER, must bear upon the Reverend Bard, most heartily gives his consent to be abused by him
"Body, Soul, and Muse,"
as often as thirst or hunger shall prompt his genius: and should he be told hereafter, that the author of unpoetic libels is not hurt in his preferment, but that "to one bishop,
Churchill
seems a wit," he promises him to repine less at his success, though provoked, than Mr.
Churchill
and his little faction seem, unprovoked, to have done at Mr.
Murphy
's.
Lincoln's-Inn,
11
th June,
1761
.
P. S.
To some particular ideas and modes of expression, which will be found in the following lines, the author persuades himself, that they who are acquainted with the stile and colouring of Mr.
Dryden
in the
Mac Flecknoe,
and Mr.
Pope
in the
Dunciad,
will take no exception, unless they should chuse to criticise the too manifest inferiority of his genius.
ODE TO THE NAIADS OF FLEET-DITCH.
I.
Y E nut-brown Naiads of that sable flood,
To which auxiliar sewers their homage pay,
And little rills, meand'ring o'er the mud,
Wind from a thousand urinals their way,
To swell his course, what time the king of dykes
Into the silver
Thames
impetuous strikes;
Each weed,
that on the margin grows,
Drinks
life and stench
as on he flows:
Now the rich stream of Nusance, foul and strong,
With kennel-drains confederated, pours along;
O'er filth, and
Cloacina
's yellow reign;
Now, swelling o'er his banks amain,
See him devolve, in sullen pride,
Dead cats and dogs, and drunken bards, down headlong with the tide.
II.
Yes, nymphs, ye black-ey'd daughters of
Fleet-ditch,
When Midnight in her mantle, black as pitch,
Led forth her shadowy train,
On
Parnassus'
high domain,
The Muse hath heard your piteous cry,
Hath heard ye pierce the vaulted sky,
And, like ten thousand grinding scizzars shrill,
Your screams her ears with discord harsh did fill;
While you perform'd, thro' all the mire,
The orgies of your sooty quire;
Then sitting on the swampy bank,
With sable ooze your tresses dank,
Dirt still inspiring all your throng,
From ev'ry breast burst forth the miserable song.
III.
"Perdition, quick perdition, seize
"The caitiff, the pernicious man
"Who first the citizens to please
"Of a new bridge devis'd the plan!
"No longer our much-lov'd domain
"In dear stagnation shall remain;
"No more the mud-nymphs here shall keep
"Their lazy courts; no more shall sleep
"In puddle here; but o'er the bed
"Where gentle SMEDLEY plunged his head;
"Where fam'd OLDMIXON, awful sire!
"Souc'd in, and wallow'd in the mire;
"Where all our fav'rites lov'd to sink
"Inhaling vigour from the stink;
"This bed, the scene of all our joys
"In evil hour you bridge destroys!
"May quick perdition seize the man
"Who big with ruin form'd the plan!
IV.
These were the notes that reach'd the Muse's ears;
The Muses mark'd your unmelodious
"Without the meed of some melodious tear."
MILTON.
tears.
Then saw ye headlong down the steep
Explore the bottom of the deep,
Plung'd into endless night;
Ev'n now in ev'ry cell beneath
Where toads obscene and adders breathe,
Conceal'd from human sight!
The virgins of poetic eye
Can your disastrous state descry;
Can see from your dripping hair
The faded honours rend away,
Each feature fell with dire dismay,
And all your slattern bosoms bare.
V.
Your screams too pierc'd the watchman's soul,
Soho! he cried, and couch'd his quiv'ring pole!
Ah! Naiads, cureless is your woe,
Then let your sorrows flow;
Yes rant, and rave, and yell, and hiss,
The more you cry, the less you'll—:
Yes, o'er your heads a street shall rise
Through which fair
Albion,
with surprize,
Shall see rough Industry with eye intent,
Adown his cheek, while wholesome dew-drops roll,
Urge eager on, on schemes of riches bent,
And lay his burden at the wish'd-for goal.
Thither
Pomona
her first fruits shall send,
The gifts of
Golden
CERES that way bend;
Well-loaded Commerce o'er your heads shall bound,
And with the gilded carr th' ecchoing pavement shall resound.
VI.
Ah! deem not, burghers of the dyke!
That to insult ye all forlorn
My willing hand the lyre doth strike;
Alas! you have full cause to mourn!
To you no more shall much-lov'd SHIRLEY come,
No more reveal the honours of his bum:
No more you'll see him drunk with gin,
No more admire his ghastly grin;
With him no longer now you'll flirt,
And fling the mud, and fling the dirt:
No more, alas! you'll bruise the toad,
For him its venom to unload,
And fill him with rank poison to the brim;
But now he'll look both impotent and grim;
His eyes sunk hollow in their pit,
And nothing from his mouth to spit.
VII.
Where shall your CHURCHILL, in that dismal hour,
When stopt are all your sewers, and all your pow'r,
Where shall he wander? Not thy warbling fount
Aonian Aganippe;
not thy shades
Laurell'd
Parnassus;
nor thy sacred mount
Thrice-honour'd
Pindus;
not the tuneful maids
That with sweet airs bid
Isis
banks resound,
Or, knit in dance, where
Camus
winds along,
With the young Graces, o'er th' enamell'd ground,
Move to some measure of immortal song;
Not these could ever charm, not these detain
His steps unhallow'd from your drear domain;
Your dripping arches, where the lazy flood
Just oozes thro', and stagnates into mud,
He still preferr'd;
There oft was heard
To your delighted ears to read his page,
His modern
Atalantis
of the Stage;
How wanton LUCY spreads her charms,
And clasps her fav'rite in her arms;
He told of wounds obscene, and am'rous scars,
In the soft conflict gain'd of
Venus'
wars;
Of the sweet thefts, and kind deceits,
The falshoods, perjuries, and cheats,
Of ev'ry actress and her crony
Through the whole DRAMATIS PERSONAE;
Through your vast courts, while all your strumpet brood
Heard the lewd loves with wanton glee,
And testify'd their joy in frantic mood,
From ha! ha! ha!—to he! he! he!
VIII.
Not ev'n the solemn bell that tolls,
The signal of departed souls,
And bodies waiting fun'ral rite,
With-held him from his dear delight,
Tho' the pale corse, from ev'ry sable shroud,
Call'd for the last sad obsequies aloud!
"Inter us, Doctor, by the Pow'rs above,
"Nor grudge malignant to our clay-cold limbs,
"One particle of earth;—so lightly fall
"Whate'er the
Critical Review
indites;
"Whate'er the MIMIC, in his pleasant vein,
"Conceives of clumsy Curates;—so may
Flexney,
"For each dull work, afford thee half a crown;
"And in
St. Giles
's none be happier thought
"Than thy unclassic Muse:—though now in haste,
"Yet tarry, Doctor, in mere pity, tarry;
"The dust thrice thrown, you then may wing your flight."
He wings his flight, all-heedless of their prayer;
No dirge he mutters o'er the tomb;
But wages war with ev'ry nameless play'r,
Irrev'rend war!—but now his doom
With yours impends;—what shall he do?
With tears, and sighs, and groans he'll rue
Your empire's fall—no more he'll sit
In foremost row before the astonish'd pit,
In brawn OLDMIXON'S rival as in wit;
And grin dislike,
And kiss the spike;
And twist his mouth, and wreath his head awry,
The arch absurd quick glancing from his eye,
And giggle,
And wriggle,
And fiddle,
And piddle,
And piddle-paddle,
And fiddle-faddle,
And shew with pious leer, and double chin,
That arrogance and gospel dwell within,
IX.
Ah!
Parodissa! Ironissa
too!
Soft
Simperilla!
mild, but never true,
Envyna
pale!
Waggilla
once a maid,
But now call'd in to each lewd scribbler's aid,
Oh! all, ye mud-nymphs! Ah! the hours are fled
When at his well-known voice your ev'ry head
Above the filth you rais'd, and at the sight
Of the dear Bard with frantic cries
Of hideous joy the realms of light
You pierc'd, then headlong from the skies
(As
Arethusa
her son sprung from Gods)
You led him flound'ring to your drear abodes.
From hollow cells he heard the adders hiss,
As first he enter'd on this world of p—.
No water there from limpid sources springs,
To chafe his head no nymph the towel brings.
Far other rites your sisterhood employ,
Far other orgies of obscener joy.
With ordure fresh his body one anoints,
And wakes new vigour in his languid joints;
Another stradling o'er his head, with grace
Lets fly the briny torrent in his face;
The briny torrent down his temples ran;
He breath'd
Fleet-ditch,
and stunk above a man.
Then rowl'd his eyes, and star'd tremendous wit;
Though to mere mortals but a priest b—.
Then bow'd his uncouth form and smil'd,
And with soft prate the hours beguil'd;
With wonder ey'd the secret store
Of Inf'rence sly, and quaint conceit
Like embryos on the swampy floor
Waiting from him their birth to meet.
He saw where essays against each good play,
And much of libel upon merit lay;
'Gainst
Gray
and
Mason
much pert flimsy ode,
Of yellow-tinctur'd ROSCIAD many a load;
Much
Gazetteer,
much
Craftsman
struck his view,
Much of himself, and much of
Shirley
too!
He saw where scandal's streams arise,
And wind their urinary course along
From Grubstreet bards; the fount of lies!
Scanty at first, but swelling strong
From tributary urns;
Joy o'er his visage burns,
As a view around he takes
Of
Criticism
's dull stagnate lakes;
As
Defamation
pours and stinks along,
As
Inuendo
's rills creep softly by,
As
Irony
its bottom to the eye
Betrays all foul! and
Malice,
deep and strong,
Now flows amain with tide profound,
Now shallow grown just murmurs o'er the ground.
X.
Joy fills his soul; joy sheds a mellower grace
O'er the brown horrors of his walnut face;
Of ev'ry stream he quaffs deep drafts immense,
And drinks oblivion of all truth and sense;
Intoxicates his brains, until in fuming rills
At
Flexney
's door he all again distils.
But ah! ye Naiads, now your reign is o'er,
And now your
Unborn Bard
no more
To your beloved haunts shall go,
And woo his loves impure in grots of mud below;
No more seek inspiration at your shrine,
But all alone, unheard, unknown he'll pine!
Mirth shall no more revisit those dim eyes,
Unless he hear when patient Merit sighs;
But Merit still shall hold her steady flight,
Though Malice all her deadliest shafts should aim;
Though clouds oft interpose shall rise to light,
And soar on wings, which her own hands have form'd, to Fame.
FINIS.