Broad Grins Part 7

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 ent.i.tle'd Mr. Isaac Shove.

An Orphan he;--yet rich in expectations, (Which n.o.body 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 a.s.sistance, 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 gla.s.s 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, b.u.mpers 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 p.r.o.ng, A Fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's bra.s.s 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.