Read Ebook: The True-Born Englishman: A Satire by Defoe Daniel

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England, unknown, as yet unpeopled lay,-- Happy, had she remain'd so to this day, And still to ev'ry nation been a prey. Her open harbours, and her fertile plains, The merchant's glory these, and those the swain's, To ev'ry barbarous nation have betray'd her; Who conquer her as oft as they invade her, So beauty, guarded out by Innocence, That ruins her which should be her defence.

Ingratitude, a devil of black renown, Possess'd her very early for his own: An ugly, surly, sullen, selfish spirit, Who Satan's worst perfections does inherit; Second to him in malice and in force, All devil without, and all within him worse.

The Romans first with Julius Caesar came, Including all the nations of that name, Gauls, Greek, and Lombards; and, by computation, Auxiliaries or slaves of ev'ry nation. With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sweno came, In search of plunder, not in search of fame. Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore; And conq'ring William brought the Normans o'er.

All these their barb'rous offspring left behind, The dregs of armies, they of all mankind; Blended with Britons, who before were here, Of whom the Welch ha' blest the character.

The great invading Norman let us know What conquerors in after-times might do. To every musqueteer he brought to town, He gave the lands which never were his own; When first the English crown he did obtain, He did not send his Dutchmen home again. No re-assumptions in his reign were known, Davenant might there ha' let his book alone. No parliament his army could disband; He raised no money, for he paid in land. He gave his legions their eternal station, And made them all freeholders of the nation. He canton'd out the country to his men, And every soldier was a denizen. The rascals thus enrich'd, he called them lords, To please their upstart pride with new-made words, And doomsday book his tyranny records.

And here begins the ancient pedigree That so exalts our poor nobility. 'Tis that from some French trooper they derive, Who with the Norman bastard did arrive: The trophies of the families appear; Some show the sword, the bow, and some the spear, Which their great ancestor, forsooth, did wear. These in the herald's register remain, Their noble mean extraction to explain, Yet who the hero was no man can tell, Whether a drummer or a colonel: The silent record blushes to reveal Their undescended dark original.

But grant the best. How came the change to pass; A true-born Englishman of Norman race? A Turkish horse can show more history, To prove his well-descended family. Conquest, as by the moderns 'tis express'd, May give a title to the lands possess'd; But that the longest sword should be so civil, To make a Frenchman English, that's the devil.

And lest, by length of time, it be pretended, The climate may this modern breed have mended; Wise Providence, to keep us where we are, Mixes us daily with exceeding care; We have been Europe's sink, the jakes, where she Voids all her offal out-cast progeny; From our fifth Henry's time the strolling bands, Of banish'd fugitives from neighb'ring lands, Have here a certain sanctuary found: The eternal refuge of the vagabond, Where in but half a common age of time, Borrowing new blood and manners from the clime, Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn, And all their race are true-born Englishmen.

Dutch Walloons, Flemmings, Irishmen, and Scots, Vaudois, and Valtolins, and Hugonots, In good Queen Bess's charitable reign, Supplied us with three hundred thousand men: Religion--God, we thank thee!--sent them hither, Priests, Protestants, the devil, and all together; Of all professions, and of ev'ry trade, All that were persecuted or afraid: Whether for debt, or other crimes, they fled, David at Hackelah was still their head.

The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd, Had not their new plantations long enjoy'd, But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes, At foreign shoals of interloping Scots; The royal branch from Pict-land did succeed, With troops of Scots and scabs from north of Tweed; The seven first years of his pacific reign, Made him and half his nation Englishmen. Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay, With packs and plods came whigging all away, Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarm'd, With pride and hungry hopes completely arm'd; With native truth, diseases, and no money, Plunder'd our Canaan of the milk and honey; Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen, And all their race are true-born Englishmen.

The civil wars, the common purgative, Which always use to make the nation thrive, Made way for all that strolling congregation, Which throng'd in pious Charles's restoration. The royal refugee our breed restores, With foreign courtiers, and with foreign whores: And carefully re-peopled us again, Throughout his lazy, long, lascivious reign, With such a blest and true-born English fry, As much illustrates our nobility. A gratitude which will so black appear, As future ages must abhor to bear: When they look back on all that crimson flood, Which stream'd in Lindsey's, and Caernarvon's blood; Bold Strafford, Cambridge, Capel, Lucas, Lisle, Who crown'd in death his father's fun'ral pile. The loss of whom, in order to supply With true-born English nobility, Six bastard dukes survive his luscious reign, The labours of Italian Castlemain, French Portsmouth, Tabby Scott, and Cambrian; Besides the num'rous bright and virgin throng, Whose female glories shade them from my song. This offspring if our age they multiply, May half the house with English peers supply: There with true English pride they may contemn Schomberg and Portland, new-made noblemen.

French cooks, Scotch pedlars, and Italian whores, Were all made lords or lords' progenitors. Beggars and bastards by this new creation Much multiplied the peerage of the nation; Who will be all, ere one short age runs o'er, As true-born lords as those we had before.

Then to recruit the commons he prepares, And heal the latent breaches of the wars; The pious purpose better to advance, He invites the banish'd Protestants of France; Hither for God's sake, and their own, they fled Some for religion came, and some for bread: Two hundred thousand pair of wooden shoes, Who, God be thank'd, had nothing left to lose; To heaven's great praise did for religion fly, To make us starve our poor in charity. In ev'ry port they plant their fruitful train, To get a race of true-born Englishmen; Whose children will, when riper years they see, Be as ill-natured, and as proud as we; Call themselves English, foreigners despise, Be surly like us all, and just as wise.

Thus from a mixture of all kinds began, That heterogeneous thing, an Englishman: In eager rapes, and furious lust begot, Betwixt a painted Briton and a Scot: Whose gend'ring offspring quickly learn'd to bow, And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough; From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came, With neither name nor nation, speech or fame, In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran, Infused betwixt a Saxon and a Dane; While their rank daughters, to their parents just, Received all nations with promiscuous lust. This nauseous brood directly did contain The well-extracted blood of Englishmen.

Which medley, canton'd in a heptarchy, A rhapsody of nations to supply, Among themselves maintain'd eternal wars, And still the ladies loved the conquerors.

The Western Angles all the rest subdued, A bloody nation, barbarous and rude; Who by the tenure of the sword possess'd One part of Britain, and subdued the rest: And as great things denominate the small, The conquering part gave title to the whole; The Scot, Pict, Briton, Roman, Dane, submit, And with the English Saxon all unite: And these the mixture have so close pursued, The very name and memory's subdued; No Roman now, no Briton does remain; Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain: The silent nations undistinguish'd fall, And Englishman's the common name for all. Fate jumbled them together, God knows how; Whate'er they were, they're true-born English now.

The wonder which remains is at our pride, To value that which all wise men deride; For Englishmen to boast of generation Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation, A true-born Englishman's a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction: A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules; A metaphor intended to express, A man a-kin to all the universe.

For as the Scots, as learned men have said, Throughout the world their wand'ring seed have spread, So open-handed England, 'tis believed, Has all the gleanings of the world received.

Some think of England, 'twas our Saviour meant, The Gospel should to all the world be sent: Since when the blessed sound did hither reach, They to all nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that virtue gives nobility, Else God knows where had we our gentry, Since scarce one family is left alive, Which does not from some foreigner derive. Of sixty thousand English gentlemen, Whose names and arms in registers remain, We challenge all our heralds to declare Ten families which English Saxons are.

France justly boasts the ancient noble line Of Bourbon, Montmorency, and Lorraine. The Germans too, their house of Austria show, And Holland, their invincible Nassau. Lines which in heraldry were ancient grown, Before the name of Englishman was known. Even Scotland, too, her elder glory shows, Her Gordons, Hamiltons, and her Monro's; Douglas', Mackays, and Grahams, names well known, Long before ancient England knew her own.

But England, modern to the last degree, Borrows or makes her own nobility, And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree; Repines that foreigners are put upon her, And talks of her antiquity and honour: Her Sackvills, Savils, Cecils, Delamers, Mohuns, Montagues, Duras, and Veeres, Not one have English names, yet all are English peers. Your Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers, Pass now for true-born English knights and squires, And make good senate-members, or lord-mayors. Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes. Antiquity and birth are needless here; 'Tis impudence and money makes a peer.

Innumerable city knights we know, From Blue-coat Hospitals, and Bridewell flow. Draymen and porters fill the city chair, And foot-boys magisterial purple wear. Fate has but very small distinction set Betwixt the counter and the coronet. Tarpaulin lords, pages of high renown, Rise up by poor men's valour, not their own; Great families of yesterday we show, And lords, whose parents were the Lord knows who.

The breed's described: now, Satire, if you can, Their temper show, for manners make the man. Fierce as the Briton, as the Roman brave, And less inclined to conquer than to save; Eager to fight, and lavish of their blood, And equally of fear and forecast void. The Pict has made them sour, the Dane morose, False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse. What honesty they have, the Saxon gave them, And that, now they grow old, begins to leave them. The climate makes them terrible and bold: And English beef their courage does uphold: No danger can their daring spirit dull, Always provided when their belly's full.

The lab'ring poor, in spite of double pay, Are saucy, mutinous, and beggarly; So lavish of their money and their time, That want of forecast is the nation's crime. Good drunken company is their delight; And what they get by day they spend by night. Dull thinking seldom does their heads engage, But drink their youth away, and hurry on old age. Empty of all good husbandry and sense; And void of manners most when void of pence. Their strong aversion to behaviour's such, They always talk too little or too much. So dull, they never take the pains to think; And seldom are good natured but in drink.

In English ale their dear enjoyment lies, For which they starve themselves and families. An Englishman will fairly drink as much, As will maintain two families of Dutch: Subjecting all their labours to the pots; The greatest artists are the greatest sots. The country poor do by example live; The gentry lead them, and the clergy drive; What may we not from such examples hope? The landlord is their god, the priest their pope; A drunken clergy, and a swearing bench, Has given the reformation such a drench, As wise men think, there is some cause to doubt, Will purge good manners and religion out.

Nor do the poor alone their liquor prize, The sages join in this great sacrifice; The learned men who study Aristotle, Correct him with an explanation bottle: Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander, And Aristippus more than Alexander; The doctors too their Galen here resign, And generally prescribe specific wine; The graduate's study's grown an easy task, While for the urinal they toss the flask; The surgeon's art grows plainer every hour, And wine's the balm which into wounds they pour.

Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken, And say the ancient bards were all mistaken. Apollo's lately abdicate and fled, And good king Bacchus reigneth in his stead: He does the chaos of the head refine, And atom thoughts jump into words by wine: The inspiration's of a finer nature, As wine must needs excel Parnassus water.

Statesmen their weighty politics refine, And soldiers raise their courages by wine. Cecilia gives her choristers their choice, And lets them all drink wine to clear the voice.

Some think the clergy first found out the way, And wine's the only spirit by which they pray. But others, less profane than so, agree, It clears the lungs, and helps the memory: And, therefore, all of them divinely think, Instead of study, 'tis as well to drink.

And here I would be very glad to know, Whether our Asgilites may drink or no; The enlightening fumes of wine would certainly Assist them much when they begin to fly; Or if a fiery chariot should appear, Inflamed by wine, they'd have the less to fear.

Even the gods themselves, as mortals say, Were they on earth, would be as drunk as they: Nectar would be no more celestial drink, They'd all take wine, to teach them how to think. But English drunkards, gods and men outdo, Drink their estates away, and senses too. Colon's in debt, and if his friend should fail To help him out, must die at last in jail: His wealthy uncle sent a hundred nobles, To pay his trifles off, and rid him of his troubles: But Colon, like a true-born Englishman, Drunk all the money out in bright champaign, And Colon does in custody remain. Drunk'ness has been the darling of the realm, E'er since a drunken pilot had the helm.

In their religion, they're so uneven, That each man goes his own byway to heaven. Tenacious of mistakes to that degree, That ev'ry man pursues it sep'rately, And fancies none can find the way but he: So shy of one another they are grown, As if they strove to get to heaven alone. Rigid and zealous, positive and grave, And ev'ry grace, but charity, they have; This makes them so ill-natured and uncivil, That all men think an Englishman the devil.

Surly to strangers, froward to their friend, Submit to love with a reluctant mind, Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind. If, by necessity, reduced to ask, The giver has the difficultest task: For what's bestow'd they awkwardly receive, And always take less freely than they give; The obligation is their highest grief, They never love where they accept relief; So sullen in their sorrows, that 'tis known They'll rather die than their afflictions own; And if relieved, it is too often true, That they'll abuse their benefactors too; For in distress their haughty stomach's such, They hate to see themselves obliged too much; Seldom contented, often in the wrong, Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.

If your mistakes there ill opinion gain, No merit can their favour re-obtain: And if they're not vindictive in their fury, 'Tis their inconstant temper does secure ye: Their brain's so cool, their passion seldom burns; For all's condensed before the flame returns: The fermentation's of so weak a matter, The humid damps the flame, and runs it all to water; So though the inclination may be strong, They're pleased by fits, and never angry long:

Then, if good-nature show some slender proof, They never think they have reward enough; But, like our modern Quakers of the town, Expect your manners, and return you none.

Friendship, th' abstracted union of the mind, Which all men seek, but very few can find; Of all the nations in the universe, None can talk on't more, or understand it less; For if it does their property annoy, Their property their friendship will destroy. As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell All things in which they think they do excel: No panegyric needs their praise record, An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word. His first discourses gen'rally appear, Prologued with his own wond'rous character: When, to illustrate his own good name, He never fails his neighbour to defame. And yet he really designs no wrong, His malice goes no further than his tongue. But, pleased to tattle, he delights to rail, To satisfy the letch'ry of a tale. His own dear praises close the ample speech, Tells you how wise he is, that is, how rich: For wealth is wisdom; he that's rich is wise; And all men learned poverty despise: His generosity comes next, and then Concludes, that he's a true-born Englishman; And they, 'tis known, are generous and free, Forgetting, and forgiving injury: Which may be true, thus rightly understood, Forgiving ill turns, and forgetting good.

Cheerful in labour when they've undertook it, But out of humour, when they're out of pocket. But if their belly and their pocket's full, They may be phlegmatic, but never dull: And if a bottle does their brains refine, It makes their wit as sparkling as their wine.

As for the general vices which we find, They're guilty of in common with mankind, Satire forbear, and silently endure, We must conceal the crimes we cannot cure; Nor shall my verse the brighter sex defame, For English beauty will preserve her name; Beyond dispute agreeable and fair, And modester than other nations are; For where the vice prevails, the great temptation Is want of money more than inclination; In general this only is allow'd, They're something noisy, and a little proud.

An Englishman is gentlest in command, Obedience is a stranger in the land: Hardly subjected to the magistrate; For Englishmen do all subjection hate. Humblest when rich, but peevish when they're poor, And think whate'er they have, they merit more.

The meanest English plowman studies law, And keeps thereby the magistrates in awe, Will boldly tell them what they ought to do, And sometimes punish their omissions too.

Their liberty and property's so dear, They scorn their laws or governors to fear; So bugbear'd with the name of slavery, They can't submit to their own liberty. Restraint from ill is freedom to the wise! But Englishmen do all restraint despise. Slaves to the liquor, drudges to the pots; The mob are statesmen, and their statesmen sots.

Their governors, they count such dang'rous things, That 'tis their custom to affront their kings: So jealous of the power their kings possess'd, They suffer neither power nor kings to rest. The bad with force they eagerly subdue; The good with constant clamours they pursue, And did King Jesus reign, they'd murmur too. A discontented nation, and by far Harder to rule in times of peace than war: Easily set together by the ears, And full of causeless jealousies and fears: Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel, And never are contented when they're well. No government could ever please them long, Could tie their hands, or rectify their tongue. In this, to ancient Israel well compared, Eternal murmurs are among them heard.

It was but lately, that they were oppress'd, Their rights invaded, and their laws suppress'd: When nicely tender of their liberty, Lord! what a noise they made of slavery. In daily tumults show'd their discontent, Lampoon'd their king, and mock'd his government. And if in arms they did not first appear, 'Twas want of force, and not for want of fear. In humbler tone than English used to do, At foreign hands for foreign aid they sue.

William, the great successor of Nassau, Their prayers heard, and their oppressions saw; He saw and saved them: God and him they praised To this their thanks, to that their trophies raised. But glutted with their own felicities, They soon their new deliverer despise; Say all their prayers back, their joy disown, Unsing their thanks, and pull their trophies down; Their harps of praise are on the willows hung; For Englishmen are ne'er contented long.

The reverend clergy too, and who'd ha' thought That they who had such non-resistance taught, Should e'er to arms against their prince be brought Who up to heav'n did regal power advance; Subjecting English laws to modes of France Twisting religion so with loyalty, As one could never live, and t'other die; And yet no sooner did their prince design Their glebes and perquisites to undermine, But all their passive doctrines laid aside, The clergy their own principles denied; Unpreach'd their non-resisting cant, and pray'd To heav'n for help, and to the Dutch for aid; The church chimed all her doctrines back again, And pulpit-champions did the cause maintain; Flew in the face of all their former zeal, And non-resistance did at once repeal.

The rev'rend fathers then in arms appear, And men of God became the men of war: The nation, fired by them, to arms apply, Assault their antichristian monarchy; To their due channel all our laws restore, And made things what they should have been before. But when they came to fill the vacant throne, And the pale priests look'd back on what they'd done, How England liberty began to thrive, And Church of England loyality outlive; How all their persecuting days were done, And their deliv'rer placed upon the throne: The priests, as priests are wont to do, turn'd tail, They're Englishmen, and nature will prevail; Now they deplore their ruins they have made, And murmur for the master they betray'd; Excuse those crimes they could not make him mend, And suffer for the cause they can't defend; Pretend they'd not have carried things so high, And proto-martyrs make for popery.

Had the prince done as they design'd the thing, High set the clergy up to rule the king: Taken a donative for coming hither, And so have left their king and them together; We had, say they, been now a happy nation; No doubt we had seen a blessed reformation: For wise men say 'tis as dangerous a thing, A ruling priesthood, as a priest-rid king; And of all plagues with which mankind are curst, Ecclesiastic tyranny's the worst.

If all our former grievances were feign'd, King James has been abused, and we trepann'd; Bugbear'd with popery and power despotic, Tyrannic government, and leagues exotic; The revolution's a fanatic plot, William's a tyrant, King James was not; A factious army and a poison'd nation, Unjustly forced King James's abdication.

But if he did the subjects' rights invade, Then he was punish'd only, not betrayed; And punishing of kings is no such crime, But Englishmen have done it many a time.

This doctrine has the sanction of assent From nature's universal Parliament: The voice of nations, and the course of things, Allow that laws superior are to kings; None but delinquents would have justice cease, Knaves rail at laws, as soldiers rail at peace: For justice is the end of government, As reason is the test of argument: No man was ever yet so void of sense, As to debate the right of self-defence; A principle so grafted in the mind, With nature born, and does like nature bind; Twisted with reason, and with nature too, As neither one nor t'other can undo.

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