University of Virginia Library

Men like not prosy tales: we'll try
How doggrel rhyme fits history.

Time was when every man was free
To manage his own cookery:
Whether he got it in the chase,
Or grew and eat it in same place.
This was old time, long ere the days
When “merrie England” bask'd in the blaze—

Now, blessings on her wrizled face!—
Of royal Betty's summer glory:
Those were the days to come before ye.
And here, though it delay our story,
We must indulge our loyal pen
With a laudatory paren-
Thesis, to tell of Betty's goodness,
Trusting to be excused our rudeness.

Bet's sire (well, Liza's, at your pleasure)
Was one who knew no law but the measure
Of's will—a most elastic tether:
He had (and some make question whether
'Twas done of grace or despotism)
Taken advantage of a schism
Among the shepherds who care for souls,
To spoil some of their fishes and rolls.
That is to say, he turn'd adrift
Sundry friars, out of whose thrift—
Rogues as they might be, ne'ertheless—
The poor had succour in distress.
Beggars and monks were told to shift.
Woe to the poor! till glorious Bess
(Who wink'd not, save at manliness)
Swore by 'od's teeth, her father's oath,
(A practice to which she was not loath)
That every man had a right to live,
Even though his labour might not thrive.

Who bars the claim of one past labour
To share the abundance of his neighbour,
Denies the right of Pity, sent
By Heaven to be the muniment
Of Justice, else most justly shent.
This was the law by Nature given,
When man, unbreech'd, unshod, was driven
From the untailor'd paradise—
That garden of content which lies,
According to our clearest notion,
Some leagues beyond the extremest ocean;
Or, in more measured words express'd,
Just fifteen paces to the west
Of the angel with the flaming sword:
But, quitting this, which (take our word!)
Is an insolvent speculation,
To jog along with our narration;
Let us endeavour to unravel
The tortuous track of human travel,
Out of the naked innocence,
Through the rude windings of offence,
To that sophisticated morn
Which witness'd our tale's hero born.

Well, as we said, in the olden days,
When ladies never miss'd their stays
(Because, in truth, they'd not been granted:
A cherub might as well have panted
For a dandy pair of pantaloons,
Or whale have sigh'd for table-spoons:)
Days more than “golden,” double-worth'd,
When horrible gold was all unearth'd—
The days of Natural Equal-
Ity and property for all;
There were no Poor-laws, for this good
Reason, that no man wanted food;
And none on's neighbour any ravages
Committed; till at length some savages,
A lordly, idle set of stoats,
Seized peaceful husbandman by th' throats,
And over Nature's gentlest code,
On roaring Rapine rough-shod rode.
Here is the origin of what
Is call'd the law of scot and lot.
After a time, a cunning rascal,
Almost as 'cute a chap as Pascal
Was in geometry, to invent
A plan by which to circumvent
The aristocratic testament,
Set wits to work, and money made,
Merely to accommodate his trade,—
A sort of circulating medium
By which men might redeem the tedium
Of the antique clumsy bartering,—
How to swop all and every thing.
Then ships were built, and cities stood
On site of many a noble wood;
And, 'stead of breaking lances featly,
Men learnt to bleed a pocket neatly,
Till war, defrauded of his “sinews,”
Lay a bound Triton 'mong the minnows—
Like Gulliver at Lilliput,
Or knight head-stuck in muddy rut.
So stepp'd our world from times as Goth wild,
To the very presence of a Rothschild;
Till even “this corner of the west”
Got shares in civilization's best.
Now, to apply the application
To the back of our own happy nation:—
We've had our scions of misrule,
Of the illegitimate Norman school,
Who've laid our husbandmen in bond—
Like eels pent up in shallow pond—
Curfewing us, and then with “charters”
Just lighting some to adore their garters;
All this we've borne, and worse behind,
The money-men who “sow the wind,”
And “bills of rights” by taxes paid—
Like child by its mother overlaid—
Till, what with thief's and murderer's ration,
We've cross'd to a tarnation station—
At least a break-leg elevation.
We've told how royal Betsy swore,
That rights of right belong'd to the poor:
Of late the Solons of the nation
Out of their bag of legislation
(The bag o' the spider, not o' the bee)
Have spun a web, a twist of three,
Of such a monstrous complication—
Good meanings it is said pave hell:
There's not a doubt but they meant well—
It threats the poor with worse starvation
Than when bluff Harry kick'd the monks out:
Our tale will show you what 'tis about.
“Your introduction tires the reader:
Directly with your tale proceed!” Y'ur
Honour's will shall be obey'd.

Bob Thin a weaver was, by trade;
An honest lad and most industrious—
Therefore, we dare to say it, illustrious.
One who would ply his busy loom
From dawn to the very “crack of doom”;
Of kindly nature; one who never
Turn'd back on needy brother weaver.
These were Bob's virtues; place he had, too,
In the 'bus that every man is cad to—
And woman eke, since Eve bit apple—
Sin's 'bus, that thunders thro' Whitechapel,
The regularest 'bus of fifty:
In plain terms, Bob was not owre thrifty;
He had (the truth, Sir, must be told)
A most immoral scorn of gold.
He hadn't learnt it from his vicar;
Nor he from the extra-reverend thicker-
Bodied and crowned bench of pastors,
Who, cheek by jowl with our lay masters,
Make Poor-laws for us working folk;
Playing the parts of nave and spoke
In the common wheel that over-rolls,
Like Juggernaut, the prostrate shoals
Of worshippers, with an oppression
Most damnable; excuse the expression!
To our tale:—One day, in's Sunday coat,
Bob heard out of the parson's throat—
One Dr. M.; not M. who wrote—
God's holy law and warranty
For man to “increase and multiply”;
And found not in the sacred text,
To “pause, lest overseers be vext.”
So, though his household gear was scanty,
And scant the furniture of pantry,
Zealous for virtue, Bob got wed;
Too soon more mouths had to be fed.
Till, what with more of bairns than money,
Bob's hive was stock'd with want of honey.
No matter—trade was brisk; and Bob
'D work till his finger-ends would throb:—
But hold! let us philosophise.
Whoever send us mouths and eyes,
'Tis plain as pikestaff, Providence
(We say it, meaning no offence)
Don't always send a weaver work,
Or even an extra knife and fork,
Because his family increases:
The inference is just what pleases
The reader; we resume our story.
Years roll'd along in honest glory
Bob fed two children—three—and four;
But when a fifth knock'd at the door
(No-Work had just proclaim'd a fast)
It must be own'd Bob look'd aghast.
What's to be done? a host of neighbours
Have had (some whim of Trade) their labours
Suspended; Misery looks garish:
Lean Bob must come upon his parish.
As shipwreck'd seamen come on rocks
To starve, secure from tempest-shocks,
Storm-driven Bob and family
Must quit—few know how ruefully—
The home of their prosperity.
But wherefore this? will none lend aid
Until a kindly turn of Trade
Shall set Bob on his legs again?
Alas! the poor man pleads in vain.
Christian Respectability
Just gives out of its charity
A cold, “Lay by for a rainy day”;
And Poor-law mediciners say,
Out-door relief induces fraud,
Except when granted to a lord,
And spoils the incentive to endeavour
In all but the gentleman-receiver.
Poor reasons why the innocent
From their own hearth-stones should be sent
To a cold workhouse! yet no better
Were given in the Bishop's letter.
In Campden-gardens, Bethnal-green,
Bob's homestead was, not over clean,
Nor in most healthy atmosphere;
Lying unfortunately near
To Lamb's-fields' marsh, a stagnant pool
Of some three hundred square feet, full
Of the spawn of dire contagion, which
Dwelt rankly there and in a ditch
That skirted North-street, neighbourly.
The weltering ditch crawl'd filthily,
Yet with most kind, though lame, endeavour
To drain the place, which landlord never
Attempted: he could let his hovels,
Why pay for sanatory shovels?
No law sets bounds to the landlord's wealth,
Albeit his rent is his tenant's health
Transmuted. This locality
Was a Mr. Christian's property;
He leased it of one General Fever,
Ground landlord of the estate of Weaver.
The fine, an occasional weaver's life
(No matter if 'twere child or wife),
Paid regularly to the thrilling
Of the owner's heart and pocket filling
Alternately: 'twas very strange,
Good tenants were so given to change.
The atmosphere, we said, was sickly,
With wretched dwellings planted thickly,
Weavers' “and else,” all sons of toil,
Born serfs of this most loathly soil,
This drainless swamp, by landlords clogg'd,
Whose lives unholy gain so fogg'd,
No charity might enter in
To cheer the misers' wintering.
Even in this place of misery
Lived Bob in his prosperity;
In a poor-furnish'd, “two-room'd” hole,
Undrain'd, unventilated, foul,
Mean, miserable as the soul
Of landlord Christian: yet Bob spun
From morn till “dewy eve,” was one
Whose labour never was relax'd,
Who had been duly christen'd, tax'd,
And rated; and thus lived in the lees
Of a fat-bishop'd diocese.
But Bob's was no uncommon case:
He fared like others of his race,
Of the working Pariah caste, who meet ye
In the heart of London's wealthiest city—
London for “charities” renown'd;
Despite the daily traces found
Of hoary Squalor's crippled feet
'Twixt Lambeth and Threadneedle-street.
Squalor resides in Bethnal-green!
And there, oftimes, our gracious Queen
Cheereth not with her lustrous face
The common dimness of the place;
Though she delighted, it is said,
To see Van Amburgh's lions fed;
God bless her Majesty's sweet features!
Lions are interesting creatures.
Yet, Lady! would it not be grander
To feed the hungry poor who wander,
Through all weather, early and late,
To and fro—for they dare not wait—
Before your guarded palace-gate:
With whom even Pimlico abounds,
Worse cared for than your Grace's hounds?
The very dogs lick'd Lazarus' wounds.
Good God! The court-fool stops us short:—
What! Famine introduced at Court?
Peace, grumbler! it has been determined,
At the suggestion of an ermined
Prime Minister, whom we would rather
Not mention, that the reverend father
In God, his grace the Metropoli-
Tan, so eminently quali-
Fied for any liberal act
Tow'rd Christian poor—we give no fact,
But state it on authority—
That he and her dear Majesty
On voyage of discovery
Will start, early some sunny morn,
To visit Christianly the lorn
Abodes of labour to be seen
In the province of far Bethnal-green.
We've paced the distance, and have found,
To cross the intervening ground,
From Buckingham Palace to Bob Thin's door,
Would take the Royal Coach just one hour.
Then there's the guards' and horses' trappings,
Not to be donn'd like beggars' wrappings
(So that, indeed, 'twould be a feat
Worthy the poet-laureate,
Bob's namesake): and his holiness,
In imitative humbleness,
Might walk as far 'twixt lunch and dinner,
Bussing it back, and be no thinner.
If it be only food, indeed,
The wretched Bethnal-greeners need,
He will prescribe, with looks right rueful,
Just eight or ten new churches, pew-full.
If these suffice not, we believe
Our generous Queen is sure to give,
Her famish'd subjects to relieve,
Ungrudgingly, suppose we say,
Out of her thousand pounds a day,
One hundred; and the holy bishop
A tithe out of the profits of his shop,
Split into shillings, and so given,
At the labourer's weekly rate of seven,
'Twould clear some thousand homes of sorrow.
But Queen nor Father 'll go to-morrow.
What odds? the Poor-law fills their places
With its vice-royal, saintly graces.
Back to our tale. Bob's family
Quit, as we said, most ruefully,
The home of their prosperity.
Who loves not home, however poor?
Yourself the master of the door;
There, though sore hunted, to be free:—
What wretch would choose captivity?
Bob had no choice; relief forbidden
To all but those in a workhouse hidden,
Under the “regulations.” He
Might choose to starve at liberty,
Alone, but, for his family's sake,
Must bow his honest pride to take
The felon chain and prison rations
Of the “amendment” regulations.
Alas! he may not claim a bone
Even in the workhouse:—be it known,
Though Bethnal-green might own his sire,
That Bob was born in Monmouthshire:
And, therefore, 'twas most fit and proper
He should be deemed an interloper
In Bethnal Union, where abound
Such men as the Samaritan found,
But few Samaritans—no libel;
They're Christians, and believe the Bible.
Nor may their justice tolerate
Any addition to the rate,
To burden men of wealth, whose profit
Bob spun, though he might share none of it.
“But had he no right to relief?”
None. “Why?” We'll answer you in brief:
What claim has the beggar on his thief?
The “Guardians” smiled their sage approval,
And duly order'd the removal
Of the strange paupers: so they sent
The wretches to their “settlement”—
Let no man call it punishment.
'Twas for his own convenience' sake:
When the now-slumbering trade should wake,
He'd be so handy to resume
His place at the accustom'd loom:—
So care they for the poor man's doom.
Now, as the cart of charity glode
With easy carriage on the road,
Bob thought he might as well beguile
With converse close his travel-while.
Question and answer came as follows:—
Quoth Question, out of Bob's cheek-hollows,
While Answer sate with arms a-kimbo,—
Pray tell me why I'm set in limbo?—
Answer—Because the Well-to-do
Can find no better use for you.—
What right have they to order me?—
Answer—The right of property.—
Question again—But how invented?
It can't be shown that I consented:
And every compact doth demand
Two parties.—You will understand,
Replies the other, your assent
Was duly given by Parliament,
Your representatives, and—Stay!
Will you be good enough to say,
How these same representers got
At the will of one who had no vote?—
Answer—My friend! you are not able
To comprehend this veritable
Fair feature of our Constitution,
Which—Favour me with a solution
Of that fine-sounding word! What is't?—
Hereupon Answer clench'd his fist,
Eloquently.—Will tell me where
It may be found?—Reply, a stare,
And sort of clutching at the air,
After a phantom; then a frown,
Which fairly knock'd the Question down:
At last came words:—It is not fit
That poor men should in judgment sit
On this most reverend mystery.
If you examine history,
The courtly Hume's, where he relates
Of 1688's
Most Dutch and glorious “Revolution,”
King William and his Constitution,
And the “Convention,” you will see
How Parliament right loyally
Confirm'd the Hollander's accession,
For having ratified their session.
It follows, as a thing of course,
As good things ever must grow worse
By alteration, that the code,
Even the horse King William rode,
Which our wise ancestors approved
Should by their sons be ne'er improved
Throughout all time.—Bob heard no more
Until the party reach'd the door
Of Godstone Union poorhouse, where,
After the usual courtesies,
And introduction of the keys,
They were admitted to the care
Of the poorhouse king, a sort of human
Xyster—May the Lord keep you, man,
And all who read this true relation,
Out of his sphere of operation!
Here man and wife were torn asunder:
God-join'd, but to be parted under
The “regulations”: each one buried
From the other's wretchedness; both hurried
Into their lonely graves. For the rest,
Their treatment was not of the best.
One item may suffice to show
How careful of each other's woe
Are human things, albeit extremely
Zealous to wear a visage seemly
As fairest-whiten'd sepulchre:—
Look at that tomb of the labourer,
Yon profit-plaster'd villain; Sir!
Though his hoarded wealth is the charnel-dew,
Though he stole the byeword of the Jew,
Verily he will prate to you
Of the great Improvidence; nor tinge
His corpse-face, though a man should twinge
His “soul” with the workhouse “dietary”—
Food being ruled a necessary.
Pray you to note how the profit-monger
Caters for those who can work no longer!
For breakfast—bread, not without stint:
The men have seven ounces, and a pint
And half of skilly—a thin kind
Of “gruel,” such as you can find
Nowhere except on the hard tables
Of “regulation” human stables.
For dinner—meat, five ounces twice
Each week; “potato-hash”; soup; rice,
Nearly a pound; coarse bread, and cheese,
Two ounces of the latter: these
Are their alternate luxuries.
When millionaires can wring no more
Out of the earnings of the poor,
Thus does their charity atone
For their cupidity. 'Tis done
(At least, so poor-law doctors say)
For the labourers' benefit, that they
May hang upon their own resources;
Meanwhile in his plethoric courses
The master wallows. Who shall wrest
The portion of the poor opprest?
Bob, from his wife and children parted,
Droops in his prison, broken-hearted.
He dreameth not of better days,
His sorrow-glazed and stolid gaze
Shutter'd with hopelessness; and curst,
As of all criminals the worst,
He buries in his “infamy”
The care of life, and fain would die.
His very life is lifeless torpor:
Bob Thin is changed into the Pauper.
So crept long years upon the dark
Sands of his life; nor left a mark.
Even as a mouldering desert-stone,
Was he in the human world—alone.
At length the dropping of despair
Outwore his patience, even there,
In the poorhouse; so the pauper fled
Into the air. Long wandered
The unpursued, unknowing aim,
A rugged way, until night came;
Then, on the road-side's dreariness,
O'erladen with his weariness,
He sank exhausted; there, around
His shatter'd form kind Slumber wound
Her arms:—Let no rude stir unbind 'em!
Would you know more of him, you'll find him,
In the next part, beneath an oak.