Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

John Skippangoe was footman to a squire,
Willing and prompt as master could desire,
And oftentimes his faithful service got
Such recompense as all good service ought—
The kindly word, the patronising joke,
Which condescension in its turn awoke
Familiar reverence in the breast of John.
Full many gifts he gave him and anon
A ticket for the lottery, sure to gain—
The lottery of Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
But honest John, though prodigal of thanks,
Knew well his master's luck was all for blanks:
In truth, both John and squire knew well enough
The ticket was not worth a pinch of snuff.
But, one day, when the squire was snugly set
Over his breakfast, reading the Gazette,
His eyes fell carelessly upon the list
Of Frankfort prizes. Suddenly his fist
Came down upon the table with a thump
That made his egg out off the egg-cup jump:—
“Can I believe my eyes? No, no,—yet zounds!
It is John's ticket! eighty thousand pounds!
For years and years have I this lottery tried,

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And still my luck was on the losing side;
The most unlucky dog may have his day,
But I, poor whelp, have given my turn away.
Had it but been a hundred pounds or so,
I could have bid my disappointment go;
I would have e'en congratulated John,
And sworn how glad I was that he had won.
But eighty thousand pounds all in a crack!
'Twere well I think to get my ticket back.—
No, no, not even a mint of money can
Outweigh the honour of a gentleman,
Whereas this breach of honour would distrain
The very worth of its unworthy gain.
John shall enjoy it; I will realise
More interest from his joy than from his prize.
And John's no common footman; I have seen
A dash of higher breeding in his mien—
A sort of gentleman in short; and Fate,
Having seen the same, bequeaths him an estate.”
Thus mused and mused the squire, till in the end
Poor John seem'd not his footman but his friend.
Such sudden wealth he thought as suddenly gave
The attributes a gentleman should have;
And, acting in the same becoming way,
Invited John to dine with him that day.
John marvell'd greatly how he could deserve
This honour, he whose business was to serve,
But stopp'd no fine-spun theory to draw,
For well he knew his master's word was law;

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And whether said in earnest or in play,
John's only argument was to obey.
He knew their modes and manners just as well
As any of the quality could tell;
He knew the cut of collar, coat or vest,
And came to dinner in the very best;
So that, to judge of them by their attire,
You could not tell the footman from the squire.
It matters little how the squire had plann'd
To let his wife and daughter understand
John's new position; but their looks confess'd
He was no more their servant, but their guest.
The lady, ripen'd by long years and grief,
Was falling fast into the yellow leaf:
The daughter, though unwater'd by a tear,
Was falling just as fast into the sere,
And so, if all the truth must needs be told,
Was shelv'd as something that could not be sold.
Who knows but that the squire began to dream
Already of some matrimonial scheme?
A daughter ancient—and a footman rich—
Might well suggest the hymeneal hitch.
Nor does it matter how the dinner sped,
How John was drunk to, patronized and fed.
The viands and the wines went round galore,
His health was drunk a score of times and more,
As he some proper gentleman had been,
And much he wonder'd what it all could mean.

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At length the ladies curtsey and retire,
And John is left hobnobbing with the squire.
“Fill up your glass John; try those sugar'd plums;
Or there's some nuts to exercise your gums.
And, hearken John—believe me if you can—
You are in truth a perfect gentleman.”

“True, sir, I've often heard your honour say
An honest man, a man that paid his way,
That stood his bets and never sold his vote,
Although reduced to one last threadbare coat,
Was still a gentleman.”

“Yes, yes, true, true;
But that's not what I mean; I say that you,
John Skippangoe, plain John, may now aspire
To dub yourself John Skippangoe, Esquire.”

“I've done my duty, sir, that's all I know;
And if it be your will that I must go,
I cannot help it; but, at least, you'll give
Me back my character—a man must live.”

“Your character! pooh, pooh—who spoke of going?
But certainly your character's worth knowing:
A man of most uncommon common sense,
Preserving honour without wasting pence;
An instinct that requires no settled plan,
But does the stroke that makes the prosperous man,
And takes the world for what it really is;
As fit to be my master as I his.”

“Yes, yes, your honour, I can take a jest;
But, since you've made me in some sort your guest,
I'd be so bold as ask you how it comes
That you and I should meet like equal chums?”

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“Because we are equal, both in means and mind;
Your wisdom have I proved, and now I find
That you are even wealthier than wise;
For, hark ye John, your ticket's won a prize
Of eighty thousand pounds!”

“Alas, alas,”
Cried John, “that such a thing should come to pass!”
Then fumbled in his pockets, pulled his hair,
And on his master fixed a stupid stare.

“Why, what's the matter? Do you not rejoice?
Your ticket—is it lost? or but your voice?
Confound you, what's the matter? speak, man speak!”

John scratch'd his head and said, “One night last week,
While waiting for you at the Opera door,
I dropt into the Bull with two-three more—
All servants, sir—and having no money handy,
I swapt my ticket for a glass of brandy.”

“O fool! O stupid and enormous ass!
Your ticket—eighty thousand—for a glass!
You blockhead, simpleton, you worse than knave—
Fate made you master, Folly keeps you slave:
Go from my presence!”—and, to seal his doom,
His furious master kick'd him from the room.