Are these Things So? :: :: University of Virginia Library

Are these Things So?

The Previous Question, from an Englishman in his Grotto, to a Great Man at Court. The Second Edition corrected: With the Addition of Twenty Lines omitted in the former Impressions

Miller, James (1706-1744)

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Are these Things So? THE Previous QUESTION, FROM AN Englishman in his GROTTO, TO A Great Man at COURT.

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Are these Things So? THE Previous QUESTION, FROM AN Englishman in his GROTTO, TO A Great Man at COURT.

Lusisti Satis, edisti Satis, atque bibisti,
Tempus abire Tibi ------
Horat.

Dead to the World's each Scene of Pomp or Care,
Wrapp'd up in Apathy to all that's there;
My sole Ambition o'er myself to reign,
My Avarice to make each Hour a Gain;
My Scorn—the Threats or Favours of a Crown,
A Prince's Whisper, or a Tyrant's Frown;
My Pride—forgetting and to be forgot;
My Lux'ry—lolling in my peaceful Grot.

All Rancour, Party, Pique, expung'd my Mind,
Free or to laugh at, or lament Mankind;
Here my calm Hours I with the Wise employ,
And the great Greek, or Roman Sage enjoy;
Or, gayly bent, the Mirth-fraught Page peruse,
Or, pensive, keep a Fast-Day with the Muse.
Close shut my Cottage-Gate, where none pretends
To lift the Latch, but Virtue and her Friends;
Tho' pardon me—a Word, Sir, in your Ear,
Once, long ago, I think I saw You here.

Yet to the World, all Hermit as I live,
From all its vain Regards a Fugitive;
Still in my Breast my Country claims a Part,
And Love of Britain clings about my Heart:
Then tell me, Sir, for You, 'tis said, best know,
Is She, as Fame reports her, fall'n so low?
Is She, who for so many Ages rode
Unquestion'd Monarch of the Water-Flood;
Whose freighted Barks were hail'd in ev'ry Zone,
And made each India's envy'd Wealth her own;

Protected still by such a Guardian Force,
That were they e'er molested in their Course,
Sure Vengeance on th' Aggressor straight was pour'd,
Unless Seven-fold was for the Wrong restor'd?
Is She now sunk to such a low Degree,
That Gaul or Spain must limit out her Sea?
That She must ask what Winds her Sails shall fill,
And steer by Bounty who once steer'd at Will?
Whilst the vast Navies rais'd for her Support,
Nod on the Main, or rot before the Port;
With Hands ty'd up vain Menaces retail,
Or try by meek Perswasion to prevail?

And is there—What!—So many Millions gone,
So many,—Heavens! yet nothing, nothing done?
Do then her Pow'rs this drowsy Sabbath keep?
Is there no Trump will rouse 'em from their Sleep?
Are they, quite lost to Empire and Renown,
Bemus'd at Home, or sunk in foreign Down?
Or, is it true, what Fame pretends to say,
That You, Sir, are the Author of To-day?

That You're the fatal Cause of Britain's Shame,
The Spend-thrift of her Freedom and her Fame?
That Albion's Sons are, by your Arts, become
The Dupes of Foreigners, and Slaves of Home;
That her fam'd S---te, on whose sage Debate,
And free Resolves, depended Europe's Fate,
Now meanly on your Nod dependent sit,
And Yea or No but just as you think fit;
Nay, that the Chiefs of even Levi's Tribe,
Bow down to you, the Converts of a Bribe?
Whilst our trim Warriors, deaf to Honour's Call,
Now wage no War but in the Senate-Hall;
There wait your Generalissimo Command,
To fight your Battles 'gainst the Patriot Band?

And that should One more noble than the rest,
Disdain to truckle to your high Behest,
Speak what he thinks, and freely plead the Cause
Of Britain's Commerce, Liberty, and Laws;
Exert his Pow'r to check Corruption's Swing,
And serve, at once, his Country and his King,

His dang'rous Virtues are discarded straight,
As sure as they are Vertues of your Hate;
Stripp'd of all Honour, Dignity, and Rule,
To cloath some Kindred Oaf, or Titled Tool:

Or should a brave and honest Adm'ral dare
To make one Conquest tho' in Time of War,
Without your Leave to risk a vig'rous Blow,
And shew what Britons, if they might, could do,
Whilst ev'ry raptur'd Voice resounds his Praise,
And grateful Hands triumphal Columns raise,
Your venal Scribes are order'd all they can
To lessen and prophane the godlike Man.

That thus the Fountain of Britannia's Health,
Source of her Grandeur, Liberty, and Wealth,
Polluted by your all-corrupting Hand,
With rank Infection deluges the Land;
Parent at once of Want and Luxury,
Of open Rapine and dark Treachery;
The Knaves Elixir, and the Just Man's Bane,
Food to the Locust, Mildew to the Swain;

Pouring on those who once in Goshen dwelt;
More deadly Plagues than Ægypt ever felt,
And worse than Israel's heaviest Task inflicts
Tho' gone our Straw yet claiming double Bricks
Whilst Commerce flies before th' oppressive Weight,
And seeks in Gaul a more indulgent Fate;
Where, Shame to Britain! the fair Stranger Guest
Is hail'd with Raptures, and her Wrongs redress'd.

“What then?” I'm told you say, “we nothing lose,
“If they've our Commerce we've their wooden Shoes;
“And since our Merchants are so saucy grown,
“'Tis Time to pull the sturdy Beggars down;
“They mutiny'd for War, and War they have,
“But such a one that soon a Peace they'll crave;
“Peace shall be Theirs, but such a Peace, that then
“They'll curse their Prayers and wish for War again;
“Thus pois'ning to 'em what they ask as best,
“I'll ruin 'em by granting their Request.

Are these Things so? Or is it Fiction all?
A sland'rous Picture drawn in Soot and Gall?

Offspring of Disappointment or Disgrace,
Of Those who want. or who have lost a Place?
If so, why lives the Scandal? up for Shame,
Confront your Foes, and vindicate your Fame;
For, trust me Sir, to wink at such Offence,
Rather proclaims a Fear than Innocence;
“No one is guilty 'till he's guilty prou'd—
Come then, be this wild Clamour strait remov'd;
In conscious Justice cloath'd assert your Right,
Shake off this Load of Obloquy and Spite,
Like Samuel dauntless cry, Lo here I am!
“Witness against me if I'm ought to blame.
“Before the Lord and his Anointed say
“Whose Rights or Honours have I ta'en away?
“Whom, speak, have I defrauded or oppress'd,
“Or ever pilfer'd Forage from whose Beast?
“Of what vile Contract was I e'er the Scribe,
“Or of whose Hands have I receiv'd a Bribe?
“What Scheme did ever I at Home propose
“But whence some nameless Profit would have rose?

“Or what C*n---n e're devise abroad
“But such as Britain's Se---e did applaud?
“What of my Country's Money e'er bestow'd
“Except in secret Service for her Good?
“Or what Incumbrance on her Commerce laid,
“But for th' Increase of our Revenues made?
“In my dear Country's Service now grown gray
“Spotless I've walk'd before you to this Day
“My Thoughts laid out my precious Time all spent
“In the hard Slavery of Government;
“My Brother too the fruitless Bondage shares,
“And all your Peace is owing to his Cares;
“Girding his Loins he Travels far and near
“And brings home some rare Treaty ev'ry Year:
“You have my Sons too with you who bow down
“Beneath the weighty Service of the Crown;
“My Cousins and their Cousins too—hard Fate!
“Are loaded with the Offices of State;
“And not one Soul of all my Kindred's free
“From sharing in the Public Drudgery:

“Why then these Shafts of Calumny you throw,
“This groundless Odium cast on all I do?
“Speak out with Freedom what you have to say,
“Aside all Influence, Pow'r, and Skreen I lay,
“And put my Conduct on the Proof To-day.
This Sir, if you dare stand the Inquest, do,
And then if you've but Samuel's Answer too,
If all this heavy Charge is void of Ground,
And by the publick Voice you're guiltless found,
Resume your Power, with Terrors arm'd go forth,
And blast the Villains that traduc'd your Worth;
Who basely durst your Righteous Course Arraign,
And Soil the Glory's of great Brunswick's Reign.

But if you know your Cause is not the best,
Know that you have Defrauded and Oppress'd,
That you have ta'en and giv'n many a Bribe,
And of a wicked Contract been the Scribe.
That you have pilfer'd Forage from the Beast,
And with the Publick Wealth your own encreas'd;

That a dire Scheme you laid t' Excise the Land,
And to a vile C---v---n set your Hand;
That you've Monopoliz'd each Post and Place,
To aggrandize your self and Mushroom Race,
That all your Kindred—Brother, Sons, and Cousins,
Have Titles and Employments by the Dozens;
And for as many Sidesmen as are wanted,
New Places are contriv'd, new Pensions granted.
If you are travell'd in these crooked Ways
With a long Train of black et Cetera's;
Whilst the whole Nation loaths your very Name,
And Babes and Sucklings your Dispraise proclaim;
Turn your Eyes inward, on yourself reflect,
Think what you are, then what you're to expect:
Pass a few Years the Sisters cut your Thread,
And rank you in the Number of the Dead;
But of what Dead? not those whose Memory,
Bloom with sweet Savour through Posterity.
Those deathless Worthies, who, as Good as Great,
Or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking State;

Or in the breach of Desolation stood,
And for their Country's Welfare pledg'd their Blood.
No! with the Curs'd your Tomb shall foremost stand,
The Gaveston's and Wolsey's of the Land.

Your Epitaph—In this foul Grave lies HE,
Who dug the Grave of British Liberty.

Since then your Glass has but few Hours to run,
Quit quit the Reins before we're quite undone.
Why should you torture out your Dregs of Life,
In publick Tumult, Infamy and Strife?
To the last gasp maintain a baneful Power
Only to see your Country die before?
If not for us—for your own Family,
And as you've made 'em Great, pray leave 'em Free.

But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will,
From this perverse Propensity to Ill;
If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent,
By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent.

If, whilst perhaps you may, you won't Retreat,
Resolv'd the Nations Ruin to compleat,
On Britain's Downfall to erect a Name,
And trust to an immortal Guilt for Fame,
May'nt the Just Vengeance of an injur'd Land,
Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious Stand?
Drive not the Brave and Wretched to Despair,
For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare,
The Plunder'd still have Tongues—and they may rear,
Their loud Complaints to reach their Sovereign's Ear,
Lay, with one Voice, their Wrongs before the Throne,
Whilst HE whose Fame to both the Poles is known,
All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme,
Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme;
HE who does still express his Royal Care,
His loving Subjects Injuries to repair;
To their Addresses graciously attends,
And above all their Liberty defends,
Who is as Wise as Pious, Mild as Great,
And whose sole Business is to nurse the State;

May judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command,
The Staff of Power from thy polluted Hand,
And to some abler Head and better Heart,
His long dishonour'd Stewardship impart.

Perhaps to Thee! great Carteret, who can'st boast.
Talents quite equal to the arduous Post;
A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought,
One Nature's Dow'r, one by just Learning taught:
Calm Fortitude, unwarp'd Integrity,
And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free.

Or to thy Conduct, Pultney! whose just Zeal,
Is still exerted for the publick Weal;
Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense,
Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence;
And to the native Treasures of whose Mind,
We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd.

With these the darling Chesterfield may sit
An able Partner—if his rebel Wit
Can to such Pains and Penalties submit.

And that fam'd Caledonian Youth, whose Morn
Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn,
Who rose so early in his Country's Cause,
Shone, though so Young, so bright, that our Applause
Was lock'd in Wonder—gazing Senates hung
On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue;
Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence!
How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense!
Half lost to Britain now, He chides his Fate,
For stealing him, by Titles, from the State;
Whilst we, lov'd Polwarth! wish thy Titles more,
As might such Virtues to the State restore.

Then too the noble Cobham, first of Men!
May leave his Garden for the Camp again;
Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough,
To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.

And Brave Argile, who's form'd alike to wield
The Rhet'rick of the Senate and the Field,

So tun'd whose Eloquence, whose Breast so Mann'd,
None can the Speaker or the Chief withstand.

Yet feign Methink's I'd hope that you were clear
From this high Charge that eccho's in my Ear;
Trust that some Demon envious of my Rest
With visionary Wrongs distracts my Breast,
Or that this Blazon of enormous Crimes
Springs from the wanton Licence of the Times.
Therefore I put this Question to your Heart,—
Speak, Culprit—Are you Guilty? Nay, don't Start,
This is a Question all have right to ask,
To answer it with Honour is your Task;
That, If you dare unbosom, I expect,
Till when, I'm Yours, Sir, with all due Respect.

FINIS

Some great and erudite Criticks, instead of Bibisti, read Bribisti in this Place. Which of the two is the most applicable, our Querist does not pretend to determine.