The Works of John Hall-Stevenson ... Corrected and Enlarged. With Several Original Poems, Now First Printed, and Explanatory Notes. In Three Volumes |
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| X. |
| XI. | THE APOTHECARY'S TALE.
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 | The Works of John Hall-Stevenson |  |
259
THE APOTHECARY'S TALE.
TALE XI.
Apothecaries are not fit,
None but Apothecary King,
To deal in gallantry or wit—
They may tell tales, or ditties sing.
Always providing and supposing,
They are not of their own composing;
As I am call'd on in succession,
I shall stick close to my profession.
A Quack, in a small country town,
According to report,
Got great renown,
For his great cures of every sort.
He never used to bleed or blister,
Or to give bolus, pill, or potion;
His panacea was a lotion,
Or a detergent, call'd a clyster;
And this was constantly apply'd,
Upon the spot where he resided,
To every backside
That would abide it.
A cobler came from a great distance,
With a full confidence possess'd,
Imploring his assistance,
Taking him for a conjuror profess'd.
For he had heard in various places
Of his success in conjuring cases.
Beside his stall and cobling gift,
He kept a stye,
And therein kept a boar, whereby
He made a tolerable shift.
An ancient pig, of that fair sex,
Came on a visit to the boar;
The boar was gone, which needs must vex,
And make the matron gruntle sore.
The Cobler's trust was in the cunning man,
He search'd woods, valleys, hills and plains,
But all in vain, for all his pains;
So to the conjuror he ran.
“The Ladies ought to know, before
Your Tale goes on,” said the Physician,
“The definition of a boar—
'Tis Mrs. Slip Slop's definition—
An animal with a curl'd tail,
With testibles like melons more than figs,
The most continuaceous male,
Ingeniously contriv'd for making pigs:
Pigs, made between sleeping and waking,
They take so long a time in making.
From whence, by Mrs. Slip Slop's leave,
To make the matter still more plain,
A metaphor is taken,
That from her drawing you'll conceive.
Thus, all the maccaroni corps,
Call a long story, or narration,
Which is a slow dull operation, A boar.
You understand it now, thanks to your vestal;
And, my dear Ladies, I implore you,
Hark to the Knight of the great Pestle,
I promise you, he will not boar you.”
The Cobler squeezing through the crowd,
The Doctor heard him ask his aid,
But could make nought of what he said,
The Doctor's patients talk'd so loud.
“Take him away,” the Doctor cried,
“Convey him quickly to the artist,
Let him immediately be plied
With an injection of the smartest.”
On which they took him as directed,
And all at once; not by degrees,
Crispin was copiously injected,
Then set at large, paying his fees.
As he march'd home, he made a stop,
The remedy began to work;
Which forc'd the Cobler to uncork,
A dunghill drank it every drop:
Like bachelors and black-legg'd gamblers,
Boars run about and are great ramblers.
Our Cobler's boar was lodging there,
And, grunting at the noise, put out his snout,
On which the Cobler turn'd about,
Held up his hands, and utter'd a short pray'r.
“The Lord be prais'd!” said he, “and for the same,
“Laudamus to the Conjuror's name.”
Not only he, his wife, his sister,
The Parish and the Vicar too,
Believe it was the Doctor's clyster,
That found his pig out—“what think you?”
None but Apothecary King,
To deal in gallantry or wit—
They may tell tales, or ditties sing.
Always providing and supposing,
They are not of their own composing;
As I am call'd on in succession,
I shall stick close to my profession.
A Quack, in a small country town,
According to report,
Got great renown,
For his great cures of every sort.
He never used to bleed or blister,
Or to give bolus, pill, or potion;
His panacea was a lotion,
Or a detergent, call'd a clyster;
260
Upon the spot where he resided,
To every backside
That would abide it.
A cobler came from a great distance,
With a full confidence possess'd,
Imploring his assistance,
Taking him for a conjuror profess'd.
For he had heard in various places
Of his success in conjuring cases.
Beside his stall and cobling gift,
He kept a stye,
And therein kept a boar, whereby
He made a tolerable shift.
An ancient pig, of that fair sex,
Came on a visit to the boar;
The boar was gone, which needs must vex,
And make the matron gruntle sore.
The Cobler's trust was in the cunning man,
He search'd woods, valleys, hills and plains,
But all in vain, for all his pains;
So to the conjuror he ran.
261
Your Tale goes on,” said the Physician,
“The definition of a boar—
'Tis Mrs. Slip Slop's definition—
An animal with a curl'd tail,
With testibles like melons more than figs,
The most continuaceous male,
Ingeniously contriv'd for making pigs:
Pigs, made between sleeping and waking,
They take so long a time in making.
From whence, by Mrs. Slip Slop's leave,
To make the matter still more plain,
A metaphor is taken,
That from her drawing you'll conceive.
Thus, all the maccaroni corps,
Call a long story, or narration,
Which is a slow dull operation, A boar.
You understand it now, thanks to your vestal;
And, my dear Ladies, I implore you,
Hark to the Knight of the great Pestle,
I promise you, he will not boar you.”
262
The Doctor heard him ask his aid,
But could make nought of what he said,
The Doctor's patients talk'd so loud.
“Take him away,” the Doctor cried,
“Convey him quickly to the artist,
Let him immediately be plied
With an injection of the smartest.”
On which they took him as directed,
And all at once; not by degrees,
Crispin was copiously injected,
Then set at large, paying his fees.
As he march'd home, he made a stop,
The remedy began to work;
Which forc'd the Cobler to uncork,
A dunghill drank it every drop:
Like bachelors and black-legg'd gamblers,
Boars run about and are great ramblers.
Our Cobler's boar was lodging there,
And, grunting at the noise, put out his snout,
On which the Cobler turn'd about,
Held up his hands, and utter'd a short pray'r.
263
“Laudamus to the Conjuror's name.”
Not only he, his wife, his sister,
The Parish and the Vicar too,
Believe it was the Doctor's clyster,
That found his pig out—“what think you?”
264
MORAL.
In times of troubles and of war,A Conjuror's no bad vocation,
Better by far
Than in a quiet situation.
The country vulgar always run
To the Attorney, Parson, Squire,
Or London Rider, to enquire,
Whether or no they are undone:
And we that think ourselves their betters,
Apply to some great man of letters:
To Doctor Johnson, not the amphibious;
To Dr. Priestley, Franklin's rival;
Or to the reverend and ambiguous
Mr. W---ll;
Who send us to some cunning man,
To Fox or Burke,
Or my Lord Smirk,
The cunningest of all the clan
265
One deals in amulets and charms,
Another sells a famous nostrum,
That animates, corrects, and warms;
The third, a subtile distillation
To numb the sense of amputation.
If any of them should by chance
Guess right, and make a lucky hit,
Mercy upon us! how they prance!
How we sing praises and are bit .
Over the Doctor's door was written, in capitals: REMEDIUM UNIVERSALE; with a motto from Horace:
------Id quodÆque pauperibus prodest Locupletibus æque
Æque neglectum pueris, Senibus que nocebit.
This Tale in part is taken from the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles; it is not every one that can read them; if the Reader can, he is desired to compare with those the Tales that are in some measure borrowed from thence, and which are always mentioned; and he will observe, that the Author is neither a translator, nor an imitator; but has an indisputable right, with Fontaine, to originality. The Lady is too modest to have made the request herself; it is made at the request of the Publisher.
| The Works of John Hall-Stevenson | |