Chapter IX: Part IV (3)

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat. And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat. The little garcons too strove to express Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress" With a great deal of juvenile French politesse; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff" Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!" And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,
That says,
"Good Eatynge
Deserveth good Drynkynge."

You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!" Pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!" He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin." So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!" Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way Allow me to say, Kind Reader--you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears! And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:-- Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded, How fast they succeeded. Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink! At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply" Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;" For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup, At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 't were rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:" So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!" And "marshal'd" him so "The way he should go," Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair. Or a movable there, Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!" Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white. Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post. Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in," And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on HIS friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!" And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'T was Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!

It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet! Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest But, it was not so here; For although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;" And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!" So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt'-- 'T was "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder,-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street; --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and "bruises," I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twist the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact. As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the gargcos, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off; Next making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

It's a great many years ago--mine then were few-- Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux; I think that they say She had been, in her day A First-rate,--but was then what they term a Rasee,-- And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play,--That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"-- That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed-- I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-- In such a position, that, on his unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.

The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day. Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!--

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!-- And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!-- Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, I never once thought to inquire what became of him; If YOU want to know, Reader, the way. I opine, To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,-- Is,--(a penny will do't)--by addressing a line To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

DAME FREDEGONDE.
WILLIAM AYTOUS.

When folks with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavor to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice. Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Frankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well, What do you think?" When thus he met her "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" "But help I must have, there's the curse. I may go further and fare worse." "Why, take him then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good,-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rung out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, And thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek. She lost her beauties plump and sleek, For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd, And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words, That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss, If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought, Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough the chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about!" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The noble king of Brentford
Was old and very sick;
He summoned his physicians
To wait upon him quick;
They stepped into their coaches,
And brought their best physic.

They crammed their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drenched him and they bled him;
They could not cure his ill.
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer;
I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, "your majesty
Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabored me
With potion and with pill;
My hours of life are counted
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford
I'm lord and eke of Kew:
I've three per cents and five per cents;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober prince is he;
And from the day we breeched him,
Till now he's twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogged him;
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little go and great go
He creditably passed,
And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,
Went never drunk to bed,
He has not two ideas
Within his honest head;
In all respects he differs
From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income
Laid by at the year's end,
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver
That rightly he may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse;
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a DULLARD,
And Ned a GENIUS?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
Exclaimed the man of wits:
"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
"Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said,
"On your commands I wait."
"Be silent, sir," says Brentford,
"A plague upon your prate!
Come, take your pen and paper,
And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it,
Was writ, and signed, and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turned him round, and dozed;
And next week in the church-yard
The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed his grief;
Tom hid his fat, white countenance
In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
He faltered in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onward he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford--
That gentle king and just--
With bell, and book, and candle,
Were duly laid in dust,
"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,
"Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him,
(I mean to tax your bill;)
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready
To seek my last long home,
Some cares I had for Neddy,
But none for thee, my Tom:
Sobriety and order
You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius,
And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
On him with doubt and pain."
("You see, good Ned," says Thomas
"What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance,
You saved a little store;
And those who save a little
Shall get a plenty more."
As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
Set out, at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning,
This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing
Steps gayly o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,
He clears it with a bound;
But dullness has stout legs, Tom,
And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other,
But onward go your beat,
While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet.

"And ever, as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
Your flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited
To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are weakest,
The witty are not wise;
O, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!
"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold--
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold;

"Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cool to yield to passion,
Or silly tenderness.
March on--your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust."
("I' faith," says Ned, "our father
Is less polite than just.")
"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I can not trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,
My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas--"
("What, all?" poor Edward said;
"Well, well, I should have spent them,
And Tom's a prudent head.")
"I leave to you, my Thomas,--
To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation
What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage
Came o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake,"
Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
"'Tis even as I said;
'T was thus his gracious majesty
Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed,
And here's his autograph."
"In truth, our father's writing,"
Said Edward, with a laugh;
"But thou shalt not be loser, Tom,
We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing can not be;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a half-penny.

"'He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property
He knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest laborer
Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds a year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament;
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,
To say his young son Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured,
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do,
'T was commonly reported that the steward
Was very much the richer of the two.

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since
From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,
I thought myself as rich a prince
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means--
In troth, I was a happy chiel!
I passed the gate of Valenciennes.
I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds
Some rascal knave would dare to steal;
I gayly passed the Belgic bounds
At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post,
And as I took my evening meal
I felt my pouch,--my purse was lost,
O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen,
To grandmamma I made appeal;
Meanwhile a load of guineas ten
I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma
(Her gentle heart my woes could feel),
But where I went, and what I saw,
What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no cash, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come,
To pawn my watch I'm too genteel,
Besides, I left my watch at home;
How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say,
I turn as white as cold boiled veal:
I turn and look another way,
_I_ dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say,
"Good sir, I can not pay your bill:"
He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel,
And so he serves me every day
The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face
I blush as red as cochincal;
And think did he but know my case,
How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone.
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
I perspirate from head to heel;
I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise;
How can I, without cash, at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot
By cafes where in beer they deal;
I think how pleasant were a pot,
A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick,
All girt around with guard and grille?
O, gracious gods, it makes me sick,
It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred,
It does my very blood congeal!
I tremble as I pass the guard,
And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays,
I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,
And at a Popish altar kneel?
O do not leave me in the lurch,--
I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops
The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe
A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real)
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!--
It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'T was five o'clock, and I could eat,
Although I could not pay, my meal;
I hasten back into the street
Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,--
A letter with a well-known seal?
'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,--
"To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat,
I pant and stagger, faint and reel!
It is--it is--a ten pound note,
And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS
Lantern

DEEP! I own I start at shadows,
Listen, I will tell you why;
(Life itself is but a taper,
Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence,
I a radiant girl adored:
When she came, she saw, she conquered,
And by Cupid I was floored.

Round my heart her glossy ringlets
Were mysteriously entwined--
And her soft voluptuous glances
All my inmost thoughts divined.

"Mia cara Mandolina!
Are we not, indeed," I cried,
"All the world to one another?"
Mandolina, smiled and sighed.

Earth was Eden, she an angel,
I a Jupiter enshrined--
Till one night I saw a damning
DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND!

"Fire and fury! double shadows
On their bed-room windows ne'er,
To my knowledge, have been cast by
Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandoned, Mandolina!
Fare thee well, for evermore!
Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!"
And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning;
Mandolina staring sat,
Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled,
Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter,
On its road six weeks delayed--
With a dozen re-directions
From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert!
Base suspicion's doubts resign;
DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS!
Mandolina--ever thine."

"Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered,
"Not before to think of that!"--
And again I rushed excited
To the rail, without a hat.

"Mandolina! Mandolina!"
When her house I reached, I cried:
"Pardon, dearest love!" she answered--
"I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian,
And by Fate, my life was crossed;
Wonder ye I start at shadows?
Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT
GEORGE P. MORRIS

Old Nick, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,
She was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red
And white his face alternate grew!
"Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said
"OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

SATIRICAL

THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS!
SAMUEL BUTLER.

How various and innumerable Are those who live upon the rabble! 'Tis they maintain the Church and State, Employ the priest and magistrate; Bear all the charge of government, And pay the public fines and rent; Defray all taxes and excises, And impositions of all prices; Bear all th' expense of peace and war, And pay the pulpit and the bar; Maintain all churches and religions, And give their pastors exhibitions; And those who have the greatest flocks Are primitive and orthodox; Support all schismatics and sects, And pay them for tormenting texts; Take all their doctrines off their hands, And pay 'em in good rents and lands; Discharge all costly offices, The doctor's and the lawyer's fees, The hangman's wages, and the scores Of caterpillar bawds and whores; Discharge all damages and costs Of Knights and Squires of the Post; All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders, And pay for all their ropes and ladders; All pettifoggers, and all sorts Of markets, churches, and of courts; All sums of money paid or spent, With all the charges incident, Laid out, or thrown away, or given To purchase this world, Hell or Heaven.

THE CHAMELEON.
MATTHEW PRIOR.

As the Chameleon who is known To have no colors of its own: But borrows from his neighbor's hue His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight: As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him, and his heirs male; So the young squire, when first he comes From country school to Will or Tom's: And equally, in truth is fit To be a statesman or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down; Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad; Admits him in among the gang: They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colors which they lend him, Thus merely, as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances. If haply he the sect pursues, That road and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face: He drinks his coffee without lace. This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right, And teaches Marlborough when to fight. Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit He loves cheap port, and double bub; And settles in the hum-drum club: He earns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits, And drinks champagne among the wits! Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; Is in the chair; prescribes the law; And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW.
MATTHEW PRIOR.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor) At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd, To please our masters, and his friends the crowd; A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held: His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd. With a grave look in this odd equipage, The clownish mimic traverses the stage: Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll, To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull: Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain, What does your emblematic worship mean? Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak: Your emble--(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek. To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense: Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense. That busy fool I was, which thou art now; Desirous to correct, not knowing how: With very good design, but little wit, Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit I for this conduct had what I deserv'd; And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd. But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat; Since I have found the secret to be great. O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill.-- Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.-- Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much: think little; and talk less; Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong, But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue. A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks; But when he heard him give this golden rule, Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

JACK AND JOAN.
MATTHEW PRIOR.

Stet quicunque volet potens
Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA.

Interr'd beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run; If human things went ill or well; If changing empires rose or fell; The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple still the same. They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then? Why then they walk'd and eat again: They soundly slept the night away; They just did nothing all the day; And having buried children four, Would not take pains to try for more; Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree: Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespass'd on the other's ground, Nor fame, nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid; So every servant took his course; And bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder filled his table; And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate; And took, but read not the receipt: For which they claim their Sunday's due, Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know; So never made themselves a foe, No man's good deeds did they commend; So never rais'd themselves a friend. Nor cherish'd they relations poor; That might decrease their present store: Nor barn nor house did they repair; That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Each Christmas they accompts did clear, And wound their bottom round the year. Nor tear or smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung, and bonfires made, If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died, or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise: Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were: Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighboring pool: Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES.
DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read,

II.

By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends.

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION.
DEAN SWIFT

When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbor ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd. Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was grieved to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet; He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excite stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('T was Nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect, Not by his frigid constitution; But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow Of Chastity, as monks do now: Which he resolved to keep forever hence, And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess? --Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job. No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.

The cringing Knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case. Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd, because he could not flatter: He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he can not fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meager looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He can not help it, for his heart, Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good, Supports their minds with heavenly food: At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a-day to prayers, He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favorite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practiced to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'T was he defeated the excise. 'T was known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station, To serve the king, and please the nation. Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity; 'Tis true, the people understood. That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out every year; Must at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound, He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations, To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother, And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk,

I own the moral not exact, Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up, From fields Elysian, fabling Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, For libeling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers, While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents every day. The Ass was never known so stupid, To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be stroked, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles. But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES. WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

[Footnote: The following foot-note's, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.]

To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find A simile* for womankind, *[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le. In English, a likeness.] A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em. [Footnote: Not to hurt them.] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud* presented to my view, *[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.] And straight this parallel I drew:

Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim? [Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]