As, in this case, 'tis plainly seen;
Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,
Wish'd to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.
Think ye that _he_,--at wishing tho' a dab,--
To wish such harm to any _Knight_ would urge ye?
Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,
And thump'd to death, with it, one of the Clergy.
As he went wishing on,
With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,--
Horror on horror!--he saw John
Where least of all he ever thought to find him:
Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,
Like a stuff'd Kangaroo,--tho' vastly fatter,--
With the full moon upon his chubby face,
Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.
"'Sdeath!" quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,
"Didst thou not tell me _where_ this Friar was left?
Men rise again, _to push us from our stools_!"[14]
To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,--
"Them as took pains to push that Friar from _his_,
At such a time o'night, was cursed fools."
[14] Shakspeare certainly borrow'd this expression from Sir
Thomas.--See _Macbeth_.
"Ah!" sigh'd Sir Thomas, "while I wander here,
By fortune stamp'd a Homicide, alas!"
(And, as he spoke, a penitential tear
Mingled with Heaven's dew-drops, on the grass;)--
"Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?"
"Sir Thomas," said the Duke of Limbs, "I wool."
He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,
But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.
The Lout, at length, having bethought him,
Heave'd up the Friar on his back once more;
And (Castles having armories of yore)
Into the Knight's old Armory he brought him.
Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,
That grace'd the walls, on high, in gallant shew,--
As pewter pots, in houses fame'd for ale,
Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,--
A curious, antique suit was hoarded,
Cover'd with dust;
Which had, for many years, afforded
An iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.
Though this was all too little,--in a minute,
The Duke of Limbs ramm'd the fat Friar in it;
So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,
To make black puddings, and stuffs hog's meat in.
The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,
Inquire'd the meaning; when the Duke did say,--
"I'll tie him on ould Dumpling, that's at grass,
And turn him out, a top of the highway."
This Steed,--who now, it seems, was grazing,--
In the French wars had often borne the Knight;--
His symmetry beyond the power of praising,
And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!
Once, how he paw'd the ground, and snuff'd the gale!
Uncropp'd his ears, undock'd his flowing tail;
No blemish was within him, nor without him;
Perfect he was in every part;--
No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,
Had mutilated the least bit about him.
Of high Arabian pedigree,
Father of many four-foot babes was he;
And sweet hoof'd Beauties still would he be rumpling;
But, counting five and twenty from his birth,
At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,
He had obtain'd, alas! the name of Dumpling.
Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;
Saddle'd, and house'd,--in full caparison!--
Now on his back,--no rider larger,--
Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:
Arm'd cap-a-pie completely, like a knight
Going to fight.
A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:
Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or 'Squire;--
The Duke, with thistles, switch'd old Dumpling's breech;
And off he clatter'd with the martial Friar.
Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,--
Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn't sleep:
Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,
For fat John's soul, he had been seize'd with qualms,
Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;--
And having, prudently, resolve'd on flight,
Knock'd up a neighbouring miller, in the night,
And borrow'd his grey Mare.
Thus, trotting off,--beneath a row of trees
He saw "a sight that made his marrow freeze!"
A furious Warrior follow'd him, in mail,
Upon a Charger, close at his Mare's tail!
He cross'd himself!--and, canting, cried,
Oh, sadly have I sinned!
Then stuck his heels in his Mare's side;
And, then, old Dumpling whinny'd!
Roger whipp'd, and Roger spurr'd,
Distilling drops of fear!
But while he spurr'd, still, still he heard
The wanton Dumpling at his rear.
'Twas dawn!--he look'd behind him, in the chase;
When, lo! the features of fat John,--
His beaver up, and pressing on,--
Glare'd, ghastly, in the wretched Roger's face!
The Miller's Mare, who oft had gone the way,
Scamper'd with Roger into Norwich town;
And, there, to all the market-folks' dismay,
Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.
Brief let me be;--the Story soon took air;--
For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,
When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,
Chase'd by a dead one, arm'd, upon a Horse.
Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,
To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,
And, for his services, in Gallia, past,
His suit did not miscarry:--
For, in those days,--thank Heaven they are mended!--
Kings hang'd poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.
[Illustration]
YE CRITICKS, and ye HYPER-CRITICKS!--who
Have deign'd (in reading this my story thro')
A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,--
If, as I humbly amble, ye complain
I give my Pegasus too loose a rein,
'Tis time to call _my Betters_ to defend me.
Come, SWIFT! who made so merry with the Nine;
With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!
When she is style'd a slattern, and a trollop;--
Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;
Point to thy Caelia, and thy Dressing-Room,
Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame'd Maw-Wallop!
Come, STERNE!--whose prose, with all a Poet's art,
Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!--
Since at apologies I ne'er was handy,--
Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,
And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,
Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!
_Ye Two, alone!_--tho' I could bring a score
Of brilliant names, and high examples, more--
Plead for me, when 'tis said I misbehave me!
And, ye, _sour Censors_! in your crabbed fits,
Who will not let them rescue me as _Wits_,
Prithee, as _Parsons_, suffer 'em to save me!
[Illustration]
THE ELDER BROTHER.
CENTRICK, in London noise, and London follies,
Proud Covent Garden blooms, in smoky glory;
For chairmen, coffee-rooms, piazzas, dollies,
Cabbages, and comedians, fame'd in story!
On this gay spot, (upon a sober plan,)
Dwelt a right regular, and staid, young man;--
Much did he early hours and quiet love;
And was entitle'd Mr. Isaac Shove.
An Orphan he;--yet rich in expectations,
(Which nobody seem'd likely to supplant,)
From, that prodigious _bore_ of all relations,
A fusty, canting, stiff-rump'd Maiden Aunt:
The wealthy Miss Lucretia Cloghorty,--
Who had brought Isaac up, and _own'd_ to forty.
Shove on this maiden's Will relied securely;
Who vow'd she ne'er would wed, to mar his riches;
Full often would she say of men demurely,--
"I can't abide the filthy things in breeches!"
He had Apartments up two pair of stairs;
On the first floor lodge'd Doctor Crow;--
The Landlord was a torturer of hairs,
And made a grand display of wigs, below;
From the beau's Brutus, to the parson's grizzle:--
Over the door-way was his name;--'twas Twizzle.
Now, you must know,
This Doctor Crow
Was not of Law, nor Music, nor Divinity;--
He was _obstetrick_;--but, the fact is,
He didn't in Lucina's _turnpike_ practise;
He took _bye-roads_,--reducing Ladies' shapes,
Who had secure'd themselves from leading apes,
But kept the reputation of virginity.
Crow had a roomy tenement of brick,
Enclose'd with walls, one mile from Hyde Park corner;
Fir trees, and yews, were planted round it, thick;--
No situation was _forlorner_![15]
Yet, notwithstanding folks might scout it,
It suited qualmish Spinsters, who fell sick,
And didn't wish the world to know about it.
[15] This seems to be a _new comparative_; for which the Author
takes to himself due credit;--Novelty being scarce in poetical
compositions.
Here many a single gentlewoman came,
_Pro tempore_,--full tender of her fame!
Who, for a while, took leave of friends in town;--
"Business, forsooth! to Yorkshire call'd her down,
Too weighty to be settle'd by Attorney!"--
And, in a month's, or six weeks' time, came back!
When every body cried, "Good lack!
How monstrous _thin_ you've grown, upon your journey!"
The Doctor, knowing that a puff of Scandal
Would blow his private trade to tatters,
Dreaded to give the smallest handle
To those who dabble in their neighbours' matters;
Therefore, he wisely held it good
To hide his practice from the neighbourhood,
And not appear, there, as a resident;
But merely one who, casually, went
To see the lodgers in the large brick house;--
To lounge, and chat, not minding time a souse;--
Like one to whom all business was quite foreign;--
And, thus, he visited his female sick;
Who lay as thick,
Within his tenement of brick,
As rabbits in a warren.
He lodge'd in Covent Garden all the while,
And, if they sent, in haste, for his assistance,
He soon was with 'em;--'twas no mighty distance;--
From the town's end it was but a bare mile.
Now Isaac Shove
Living above
This Doctor Crow,
And knowing Barber Twizzle live'd below,
Thought it might be as well,
Hearing so many knocks, single and double,
To buy, at his own cost, a street-door bell,
And save confusion, in the house, and trouble;
Whereby his (Isaac's) visitors might know,
Without long waiting in the dirt, and drizzle,
To ring for him at once;--and not to knock for Crow,--
Nor Twizzle.
Besides he now began to feel
The want of it was rather _ungenteel_;
For he had, often, thought it a disgrace
To hear, while sitting in his room, above,
Twizzle's shrill maid, on the first landing-place,
Screaming, "a man below vants Mister Shove!"
The bell was bought; the wire was made to steal
Round the dark stair-case, like a tortur'd eel,--
Twisting, and twining;
The jemmy handle Twizzle's door-post grace'd,
And, just beneath, a brazen plate was place'd,
Lacquer'd and shining;--
Graven whereon, in characters full clear,
And legible, did "Mr. Shove" appear;
And, furthermore, which you might read right well,
Was--"Please to ring the bell."
At half-past ten, precisely to a second,--
Shove, every night, his supper ended;
And sipp'd his glass of negus, till he reckon'd,
By his stop-watch, exactly, one more quarter;
Then, as exactly, he untied one garter;--
A token 'twas that he for bed intended:
Yet having, still, a quarter good before him,
He leisurely undress'd before the fire;
Contriving, as the quarter did expire,
To be as naked as his mother bore him:
Bating his shirt, and night-cap on his head;--
Then, as the watchman bawl'd eleven,
He had one foot in bed,
More certainly than cuckolds go to Heaven.
Alas! what pity 'tis that regularity,
Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity!
But there are swilling Wights, in London town,
Term'd--Jolly dogs,--Choice Spirits,--_alias_, Swine,
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.
These spendthrifts, who Life's pleasures, thus, out-run,
Dozing, with head-aches, till the afternoon,
Lose half men's regular estate of Sun,
By borrowing, too largely, of the Moon.
One of this kidney,--Toby Tosspot hight,--
Was coming from the Bedford, late at night:
And being _Bacchi plenus_,--full of wine,--
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'Twasn't direct,--'twas serpentine,
He work'd, with sinuosities, along,
Like Monsieur Corkscrew worming thro' a Cork;
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,
A Fork.
At length, with near four bottles in his pate,
He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate;
When reading, "Please to ring the bell,"
And being civil, beyond measure,
"Ring it!"--says Toby--"very well;
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerk'd it down.
He waited full two minutes; no one came;
He waited full two minutes more; and then,--
Says Toby, "if he's deaf, I'm not to blame;
I'll pull it for the gentleman again."
But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright,
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's _Antipodes_, in bed,--
Pale as a parsnip,--bolt upright.
At length he, wisely, to himself did say,--
Calming his fears,--
"Tush!--'tis some fool has rung, and run away;"--
When peal the second rattle'd in his ears!
Shove jump'd into the middle of the floor;
And, trembling at each breath of air that stirr'd,
He grope'd down stairs, and open'd the street door,
While Toby was performing peal the third.
Isaac eye'd Toby, fearfully askant,--
And saw he was a strapper,--stout, and tall;
Then, put this question;--"Pray, Sir, what d'ye want?"
Says Toby,--"I want nothing, Sir, at all."
"Want nothing!--Sir, you've pull'd my bell, I vow,
As if you'd jerk it off the wire!"
Quoth Toby,--gravely making him a bow,--
"I pull'd it, Sir, at your desire."
"At mine!"--"Yes, yours--I hope I've done it well;
High time for bed, Sir; I was hast'ning to it;
But if you write up _Please to ring the bell_,
Common politeness makes me stop, and do it."
Isaac, now, waxing wroth apace,
Slamm'd the street door in Toby's face,
With all his might;
And Toby, as he shut it, swore
He was a dirty son of--something more
Than delicacy suffers me to write:
And, lifting up the knocker, gave a knock,
So long, and loud, it might have raise'd the dead;
Twizzle declares his house sustain'd a shock,
Enough to shake his lodgers out of bed.
Toby, his rage thus vented in the rap,
Went serpentining home, to take his nap.
'Tis, now, high time to let you know
That the obstetrick Doctor Crow
Awoke in the beginning of this matter,
By Toby's _tintinnabulary_ clatter:
And, knowing that the bell belong'd to Shove,
He listen'd in his bed, but did not move;
He only did apostrophize;--
Sending to hell
Shove, and his bell,
That wouldn't let him close his eyes.
But when he heard a thundering _knock_,--says he,
"That's, certainly, a messenger for _me_;--
Somebody ill, in the Brick House, no doubt;"--
Then mutter'd, hurrying on his dressing-gown,
"I wish my Ladies, out of town,
Chose more convenient times for crying out!"
Crow, in the dark, now, reached the stair-case head;
Shove, in the dark, was coming up to bed.
A combination of ideas flocking,
Upon the pericranium of Crow,--
Occasion'd by the hasty knocking,
Succeeded by a foot he heard below,--
He did, as many folks are apt to do,
Who argue in the dark, and in confusion;--
That is, from the Hypothesis, he drew
A false conclusion:
Concluding Shove to be the person sent,
With an express, from the brick tenement;
Whom Barber Twizzle, torturer of hairs,
Had, civilly, let in, and sent up stairs.
As Shove came up, tho' he had, long time, kept
His character, for patience, very laudably,
He couldn't help, at every step he stepp'd,
Grunting, and grumbling, in his gizzard, audibly.
For Isaac's mental feelings, you must know,
Not only were considerably hurt,
But his corporeal, also--
Having no other clothing than a shirt;--
A dress, beyond all doubt, most light and airy,
It being, then, a frost in January.
When Shove was deep down stairs, the Doctor heard,
(Being much nearer the stair top,)
Just here and there, a random word,
Of the Soliloquies that Shove let drop;--
But, shortly, by progression, brought
To contact nearer,
The Doctor, consequently, heard him clearer,--
And then the fag-end of this sentence caught:
Which Shove repeated warmly, tho' he shiver'd:--
"Damn Twizzle's house! and damn the Bell!
And damn the fool who rang it!--Well,
From all such plagues I'll quickly be deliver'd."
"What?--quickly be deliver'd!" echoes Crow;--
"Who is it?--Come, be sharp;--reply, reply;
Who wants to be deliver'd? let me know."
Recovering his surprise, Shove answer'd, "I."
"_You_ be _deliver'd!_" says the Doctor,--"'Sblood!"
Hearing a man's gruff voice--"You lout! you lob!
You be deliver'd!--Come, that's very good!"
Says Shove, "I will, so help me Bob!"
"Fellow," cried Crow, "you're drunk with filthy beer!
A drunkard, fellow, is a brute's next neighbour;--
But Miss Cloghorty's time was very near,
And, I suppose, Lucretia's now in labour."
"Zounds!" bellows Shove, with rage and wonder wild,
"Why then, my _maiden_ Aunt is _big with child_!"
Here was, at once, a sad discovery made!
Lucretia's frolick, now, was past a joke;--
Shove tremble'd for his Fortune, Crow, his Trade,
Both, both saw ruin,--by one fatal stroke;
But, with his Aunt, when Isaac did discuss,
She hush'd the matter up, by speaking thus:
"Sweet Isaac!" said Lucretia, "spare my Fame!--
Tho', for my babe, I feel as should a mother,
Your Fortune will continue much the same;
For,--keep the Secret,--you're his _Elder Brother_."
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES
[1] _N.B._ Half our modern Legends are either borrow'd or translated
from the German.
[2] This is the conclusion of all that was originally printed under the
title of "_My Night-gown and Slippers_."
[3] Roses were not emblems of faction, cries the Critick, till the reign
of Henry the Sixth.--Pooh!--This is a figure, not an anachronism.
Suppose, Mr. Critick, you and all your descendants should be hang'd,
although your father died in his bed:--Why then posterity, when
talking of your father, may allude to the _family gallows_, which
his issue shall have render'd notoriously _symbolical of his House_.
[4] --"_Quis talia fando
Temperet a lachrymis?_"
says AEneas, by way of proem; yet, for a Hero, tolerably "use'd to
the melting mood," he talks, on this occasion, much more than he
cries; and, though he begins with a wooden Horse, and gives a
general account of the burning of Troy, still the "_quorum pars
magna fui_" is, evidently, the great inducement to his
chattering:--accordingly, he keeps up Queen Dido to a scandalous
late hour, after supper, for the good folks of Carthage, to tell her
an egotistical story, that occupies two whole books of the
AEneid.--Oh, these Heroes!--I once knew a worthy General--but I wont
tell that story.
[5] Far be it from me to offer a pedantick affront to the Gentlemen who
peruse me, by explaining the word _Incubus_; which Pliny and others,
more learnedly, call _Ephialtes_.--I, modestly, state it to mean the
_Night-Mare_, for the information of the Ladies. The chief symptom
by which this affliction is vulgarly known, is a heavy pressure upon
the stomach, when lying in a supine posture in bed. It would terrify
some of my fair readers, who never experience'd this characteristick
of the _Incubus_, were I to dwell on its effects; and it would
irritate others, who are in the habit of labouring under its
sensations.
[6] An old Gentlewoman, a great admirer of the BLACK LETTER, (as many
_old Gentlewomen_ are) presented the Author of these Tales with the
_Original MS._ of this Sonnet; advising the publication of a
_facsimile_ of the Knight's hand-writing. It is painful, after this,
to advance, that the Sonnet, so far from being genuine, is _one_ of
the clumsiest literary forgeries, that the present times have
witnessed. It appears, in this authentick Story, that Sir Thomas
Erpingham was married in the reign of Henry the Fifth; and it is
evidently intended, that _Moderns_ should believe he writ these
love-verses almost immediately after his marriage; not only from the
ardour with which he celebrates the beauty of his wife, but from the
circumstance of a man writing any love-verses upon his wife at
all;--but the style and language of the lines are most glaringly
inconsistent with their pretended date. The fact is, we have here
foisted upon us a close _imitation of_ COWLEY, (_vide the_ MISTRESS)
who was not _born_ till the year 1618,--two centuries after the era
in question. Chaucer died, A. D. 1400; and Henry the Fifth (who was
king only 9 years, 5 months, and 11 days) began his reign scarcely
13 years after the death of that Poet. Sir Thomas, then, must, at
least, have written in the obsolete phraseology of Chaucer,--and,
probably, would have imitated him,--as did Lidgate, Occleve, and
others;--nay, Harding, Skelton, &c. who were fifty or sixty years
subsequent to Chaucer, were not so modern in their language as their
celebrated predecessor. Having, _in few words_, prove'd (it is
presume'd) this Sonnet to be spurious, an apology may be thought
necessary for not saying _a great deal more_;--but this Herculean
task is left, in deference, to the disputants on _Vortigern_; who
will, doubtless, engage in it, as a matter of great importance, and,
once more, lay the world under _very heavy_ obligations, with
various _Pamphlets in folio_, upon the subject:--and, surely, too
many acknowledgments cannot be given to men who are so indefatigably
generous in their researches, that half the result of them, when
publish'd, causes even the sympathetick reader to labour as much as
the Writer!
How ungratefully did Pope say!
"There, dim in clouds, the poring Scholiasts mark,
Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark;
A lumber-house of books in every head;
For ever reading, never to be read!"--_Dunciad_.
[7] If the Knight knew the aptness, in its full extent, of his oath,
upon this occasion, we must give him more credit for his reading
than we are willing to allow to military men of the age in which he
flourish'd;--for, observe: he vows to _cudgel_ a man lurking to
_rob_ his Lady of her virtue, in a _bower_;--how appropriately,
therefore, does he swear by the _God of the Gardens_! who is
represented with a kind of _cudgel_ (_falx lignea_) in his right
hand; and is, moreover, furnished with another weapon of formidable
dimensions, (Horace calls it _Palus_) for the express purpose of
annoying _Robbers_.
"_Fures dextra coercet,
Obscaenoque ruber porrectus ab inguine_ PALUS."
It must be confess'd that the last mention'd attribute of this Deity
was stretch'd forth to promote pleasure in some instances, instead
of fear;--for it was a sportive custom, in the hilarity of recent
marriages, to seat the Bride upon his _Palus_;--but this
circumstance by no means disproves its efficacy as a dread to
Robbers; on the contrary, that implement must have been peculiarly
terrifick, which could sustain the weight of so many Brides, without
detriment to its firmness, or elasticity.
[8] There is a terrible jumble in Somnus's family. He was the son of
Nox, by Erebus;--and Erebus, according to different accounts, was
not only Nox's husband, but her brother,--and even her son, by
Chaos;--and Mors was daughter of Somnus, by that devil of a Goddess
Nox, the mother of his father and himself!--The heathen Deities held
our canonical notions in utter contempt; and must have laugh'd at
the idea (which, surely, nobody does now,) of forbidding a man to
marry his Grandmother.
[9] _Vide_ Lord Chesterfield's Letters.--This noble Author, by the by,
has set his dignified face against risibility. It would be well for
us poor devils, who call ourselves Comic Writers, if our efforts
were always as successful in raising a _Laugh_ as his Lordship's
censure upon it.
[10] I am aware that much has been said, of old, relative to the "_cura
boum_," and the "_optuma torvae forma bovis_;"--but, for a show of
cattle, I would back Smithfield, or most of our English market
Towns, against any _forum boarium_ of the Romans.
[11] _Tarquinius Superbus_, the last King of Rome;--he was a haughty
Monarch, and built the _Cloaca maxima_.
[12] This is a palpable plagiarism. _Rolla_ thus addresses _Pizarro_:
"_Behold me_, at thy feet--_Me_,--_Rolla!_--Me, that never yet have
bent or _bow'd_--in humble _agony_ I _sue_ to you."--The theft is
more glaring, as the Apostrophe, both here, and in the original,
occurs in the midst of a strong incident, and is address'd to an
Enemy by a proud spirit, in very moving circumstances.
[13] _Vide_ Part 1st, page 61, lines 4-7.
[14] Shakspeare certainly borrow'd this expression from Sir Thomas.--See
_Macbeth_.
[15] This seems to be a _new comparative_; for which the Author takes to
himself due credit;--Novelty being scarce in poetical compositions.
G. NORMAN, PRINTER, MAIDEN LANE, COVENT GARDEN.