THE CHURCHWARDEN,
OR THE FEAST ON A CHILD.
A TALE.
[_]
The following Story, founded on a fact that happened
some Years since at the Swan at Knights-bridge,
is introduced to illustrate the Meaning
of eating a Child, mentioned in the first Ode.
At Knightsbridge, at a tavern called the Swan,
Churchwardens, overseers, a jolly clan,
Order'd a dinner, for themselves and friends—
A very handsome dinner of the best:
Lo! to a turn, the diff'rent joints were drest—
Their lips, wild licking, ev'ry man commends.
Loud was the clang of plates, and knives, and forks;
Delightful was the sound of claret corks,
That stopp'd so close and lovingly the bottle:
Thou Savoir-vivre club, and jen' sais quoi,
Full well the voice of honest corks ye know,
Deep and deep-blushing from the gen'rous pottle.
All ear, all eye to listen and to see,
The landlord was as busy as a bee—
Yes, Larder skipp'd like harlequin so light;
In bread, beer, wine, removal swift of dishes,
Nimbly anticipating all their wishes—
Now this, to man voracious as a kite,
Is pleasant—as the trencher-heroes hate
All obstacles that keep them from the plate,
As much as jockeys on a running horse
Curse cows or jack-asses that cross the course.
Nay, here's a solid reason too; for mind,
Bawling for things, demandeth mouth and wind:
Whatever therefore weak'neth wind and jaws,
Is hostile to the gormandizing cause.
Having well cramm'd, and swill'd, and laugh'd, and sung,
And toasted girls, and clapp'd, and roar'd, and rung,
And broken bones of tables, chairs, and glasses,
Like happy bears, in honour of their lasses,
Not wives! not one was toasted all the time—
Thus were they decent—it had been a crime,
As wives are delicate and sacred names,
Not to be mix'd indeed with wh---s and flames:
I say, when all were cramm'd unto the chin,
And ev'ry one with wine had fill'd his skin,
In came the landlord with a cherub smile:
Around to ev'ry one he lowly bow'd,
Was vastly happy—honour'd—vastly proud—
And then he bow'd again in such a style!
‘Hop'd gemmen lik'd the dinner and the wine:’
To whom the gemmen answer'd, ‘very fine!
‘A glorious dinner, Larder, to be sure.’—
To which the landlord, laden deep with bliss,
Did with his bows so humble almost kiss
The floor.
Now in an alter'd tone—a tone of gravity,
Unto the landlord full of smiles and suavity,
Did Mister Guttle the church warden call—
‘Come hither, Larder,’ said soft Mister Guttle,
With solemn voice and fox-like face, so subtle—
‘Larder, a little word or two, that's all.’
Forth ran th' obedient landlord with good will,
Thinking most nat'rally upon the bill.
‘Landlord,’ (quoth Guttle, in a soft sly sound,
Not to be heard by any in the room,
Yet which, like claps of thunder, did confound)
‘Do you know any thing of Betty Broom?’
‘Sir?’ answer'd Larder, stamm'ring—‘Sir! what, sir?
Yes, sir, yes—yes—she liv'd with Mistress Larder;
But may I never move, nor never stir,
If but for impudence we did discard her:
No, Mister Guttle—Betty was too brassy—
We never keep a sarvant that is saucy.’
‘But, landlord—Betty says she is with child.’—
‘What's that to me?’ quoth Larder, looking wild—
‘I never kiss'd the hussey in my life,
Nor hugg'd her round the waist, nor pinch'd her cheek;
Never once put my hand upon her neck—
Lord, sir, you know that I have got a wife.
‘Lord! nothing comely to the girl belongs—
I would not touch her with a pair of tongs:
A little puling chit, as white as paste;
I'm sure that never suited with my taste.
‘But then, suppose—I only say, suppose
I had been wicked with the girl—alack,
My wife hath got the cursed'st keenest nose,
Why, zounds, she would have catch'd me in a crack;
‘Then quickly in the fire had been the fat—
Curse her! she always watch'd me like a cat.
‘Then, as I say, Bet did not hit my taste,
It was impossible to be unchaste:—
Therefore it never can be true, you see—
And Mistress Larder's full enough for me.’
‘Well,’ answer'd Guttle, ‘Man, I'll tell ye what—
Your wind and eloquence you now are wasting:
Whether Miss Betty hit your taste or not,
There's good round proof enough that you've been tasting.
‘And, Larder, you've a wife, 'tis very true,
Perhaps a little somewhat of a shrew;
But Betty was not a bad piece of stuff.’—
‘Well, Mister Guttle, may I drop down dead,
If ever once I crept to Betty's bed!
And that, I'm sure, is swearing strong enough.’
‘But, Larder, all your swearing will not do,
If Betty swears that she's with child by you.
Now Betty came and said she'd swear at once—
But you know best—yet mind, if Betty'll swear,
And then again! should Mistress Larder hear,
The Lord have mercy, Larder, on thy sconce
‘Why, man, were this affair of Betty told her,
Not all the dev'ls in hell would hold her.
‘Then there's your modest stiff-rump'd neighbours all;
There'd be a pretty kick-up—what a squall!
You could not put your nose into a shop—
There's lofty Mistress Wick, the chandler's wife,
And Mistress Bull, the butcher's imp of strife,
With Mistress Bobbin, Salmon, Muff, and Slop,
With fifty others of such old compeers—
Zounds, what a hornet's nest about thy ears!’
From cheerful smiles, and looks, like Sol so bright,
Poor Larder fell to looks as black as night;
And now his head he scratch'd, importing guilt—
For people who are innocent indeed,
Never look down, so black, and scratch the head;
But, tipp'd with confidence, their noses tilt,
Replying with an unembarrass'd front:
Bold to the charge, and fix'd to stand the brunt.—
Truth is a tow'ring dame—divine her air;
In native bloom she walks the world with state:
But Falsehood is a meretricious fair,
Painted and mean, and shuffling in her gait;
Dares not look up with Resolution's mien,
But sneaking hides, and hopes not to be seen;
For ever haunted by a doubt
That all the world will find her out.
Again—there's honesty in eyes,
That shrinking show when tongues tell lies—
With Larder this was verily the case;
Informers were the eyes of Larder's face.
‘Well, sir,’ said Larder, whisp'ring, hemming, haing,
Each word so heavy, like a cart-horse drawing—
‘This is a d*mn'd affair, I can't but say—
Sir, please to accept a note of twenty pound;
Contrive another farher may be found;
And, sir, here's not a halfpenny to pay.’
Thus ended the affair, by prudent treaty;
For who, alas! would wish to make a pother?
Guttle next morning went and talk'd to Betty,
When Betty swore the bantling to another.
