by John Gay
And all the streets with passing cries resound.
What trades prejudical to walkers. If cloath’d in black, you tread the busy Town,
Or if distinguish’d by the rev’rend gown,
Three trades avoid; oft’ in the mingling press,
The barber’s apron soils the sable dress;
Shun the perfumer’s touch with cautious eye,
Nor let the baker’s step advance too nigh:
Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear,
Three sullying trades avoid with equal care;
The little chimney-sweeper skulks along,
And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng;
When small-coal murmurs in the hoarser throat,
From smutty dangers guard thy threaten’d coat:
The dust-man’s cart offends thy cloaths and eyes,
When through a street a cloud of ashes flies;
But whether black, or lighter dyes are worn,
The chandler’s basket, on his shoulder born,
With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way,
To shun the surly butcher’s greasy tray,
Butchers, whose hands are dy’d with blood’s foul stain,
And always foremost in the hangman’s train.
To whom to give the wall. Let due civilities be strictly paid.
The wall surrender to the hooded maid;
Nor let thy sturdy elbow’s hasty rage
Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age:
And when the porter bends beneath his load,
And pants for breath; clear thou the crouded road.
But above all, the groping blind direct,
And from the pressing throng the lame protect.
You’ll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread,
Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head,
At ev’ry step he dreads the wall to lose,
And risques, to save a coach, his red-heel’d shoes;
Him, like the miller, pass with caution by,
Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly.
To whom to refuse the wall. But when the bully, with assuming pace,
Cocks his broad hat, edg’d round with tarnish’d lace,
Yield not the way; defie his strutting pride,
And thrust him to the muddy kennel’s side;
He never turns again, nor dares oppose,
But mutters coward curses as he goes.
Of whom to enquire the way. If drawn by bus’ness to a street unknown,
Let the sworn porter point thee through the Town;
Be sure observe the signs, for signs remain,
Like faithful land-marks to the walking train.
Seek not from prentices to learn the way,
Those fabling boys will turn thy steps astray;
Ask the grave tradesman to direct thee right,
He ne’er deceives, but when he profits by’t.
Where fam’d St. Giles’s ancient limits spread,
An inrail’d column rears its lofty head,
Here to sev’n streets, sev’n dials count the day,
And from each other count the circling ray.
Here oft the peasant, with enquiring face,
Bewilder’d, trudges on from place to place;
He dwells on ev’ry sign, with stupid gaze,
Enters the narrow alley’s doubtful maze,
Tries ev’ry winding court and street in vain,
And doubles o’er his weary steps again.
Thus hardy Theseus, with intrepid feet,
Travers’d the dang’rous labyrinth of Crete;
But still the wandring passes forc’d his stay,
Till Ariadne’s clue unwinds the way.
But do not thou, like that bold chief, confide
Thy ventrous footsteps to a female guide;
She’ll lead thee, with delusive smiles along,
Dive in thy fob, and drop thee in the throng.
Useful precepts. When waggish boys the stunted besom ply,
To rid the slabby pavement; pass not by
E’er thou hast held their hands; some heedless flirt
Will over-spread thy calves with spatt’ring dirt.
Where porters hogsheads roll from carts aslope,
Or brewers down steep cellars stretch the rope,
Where counted billets are by carmen tost;
Stay thy rash steps, and walk without the post.
What though the gath’ring mire thy feet besmear,
The voice of industry is always near.
Hark! the boy calls thee to his destin’d stand,
And the shoe shines beneath his oily hand.
Here let the Muse, fatigu’d amid the throng,
Adorn her precepts with digressive song;
Of shirtless youths the secret rise to trace,
And show the parent of the sable race.
Like mortal man, great Jove (grown fond of change)
Of old was wont this nether world to range
To seek amours; the vice the monarch lov’d
Soon through the wise etherial court improv’d,
And ev’n the proudest goddess now and then
Would lodge a night among the sons of men;
To vulgar deities descends the fashion,
Each, like her betters, had her earthly passion.
Then Cloacina* (goddess of the tide
Whose sable streams beneath the City glide)
Indulg’d the modish flame; the Town she rov’d,
A mortal scavenger she saw, she lov’d;
The muddy spots that dry’d upon his face,
Like female patches, heighten’d ev’ry grace:
She gaz’d; she sigh’d. For love can beauties spy
In what seems faults to ev’ry common eye.
Now had the watchman walk’d his second round;
When Cloacina hears the rumbling sound
Of her brown lover’s cart, for well she knows
That pleasing thunder: swift the goddess rose,
And through the streets pursu’d the distant noise,
Her bosom panting with expected joys.
With the night-wandring harlot’s airs she past,
Brush’d near his side, and wanton glances cast;
In the black form of cinder-wench she came,
When love, the hour, the place had banish’d shame;
To the dark alley, arm in arm they move:
O may no link-boy interrupt their love!
When the pale moon had nine times fill’d her space,
The pregnant goddess (cautious of disgrace)
Descends to earth; but sought no midwife’s aid,
Nor midst her anguish to Lucina pray’d;
No cheerful gossip wish’d the mother joy,
Alone, beneath a bulk, she dropt the boy.
The child through various risques in years improv’d,
At first a beggar’s brat, compassion mov’d;
His infant tongue soon learnt the canting art,
Knew all the pray’rs and whines to touch the heart.
O happy unown’d youths, your limbs can bear
The scorching dog-star, and the winter’s air,
While the rich infant, nurs’d with care and pain,
Thirsts with each heat, and coughs with ev’ry rain!
The goddess long had mark’d the child’s distress,
And long had sought his suff’rings to redress;
She prays the gods to take the fondling’s part,
To teach his hands some beneficial art
Practis’d in streets; the gods her suit allow’d,
And made him useful to the walking croud,
To cleanse the miry feet, and o’er the shoe
With nimble skill the glossy black renew.
Each power contributes to relieve the poor:
With the strong bristles of the mighty boar
Diana forms his brush; the god of day
A tripod give
s, amid the crouded way
To raise the dirty foot, and ease his toil;
Kind Neptune fills his vase with fetid oil
Prest from th’ enormous whale; the god of fire,
From whose dominion smoaky clouds aspire,
Among these gen’rous presents joins his part,
And aids with soot the new japanning art:
Pleas’d she receives the gifts; she downward glides,
Lights in Fleet-ditch, and shoots beneath the tides.
Now dawns the morn, the sturdy lad awakes,
Leaps from his stall, his tangled hair he shakes,
Then leaning o’er the rails, he musing stood,
And view’d below the black canal of mud,
Where common sewers a lulling murmur keep,
Whose torrents rush from Holborn’s fatal steep:
Pensive through idleness, tears flow’d apace,
Which eas’d his loaded heart, and wash’d his face;
At length he sighing cry’d, ‘That boy was blest,
Whose infant lips have drain’d a mother’s breast;
But happier far are those, (if such be known)
Whom both a father and a mother own:
But I, alas! hard Fortune’s utmost scorn,
Who ne’er knew parent, was an orphan born!
Some boys are rich by birth beyond all wants,
Belov’d by uncles, and kind good old aunts;
When time comes round, a Christmas-box they bear,
And one day makes them rich for all the year.
Had I the precepts of a father learn’d,
Perhaps I then the coachman’s fare had earn’d,
For lesser boys can drive; I thirsty stand
And see the double flaggon charge their hand,
See them puff off the froth, and gulp amain,
While with dry tongue I lick my lips in vain.’
While thus he fervent prays, the heaving tide
In widen’d circles beats on either side;
The goddess rose amid the inmost round,
With wither’d turnip tops her temples crown’d;
Low reach’d her dripping tresses, lank, and black
As the smooth jet, or glossy raven’s back;
Around her waste a circling eel was twin’d,
Which bound her robe that hung in rags behind.
Now beck’ning to the boy; she thus begun,
‘Thy prayers are granted; weep no more, my son:
Go thrive. At some frequented corner stand,
This brush I give thee, grasp it in thy hand,
Temper the soot within this vase of oil,
And let the little tripod aid thy toil;
On this methinks I see the walking crew
At thy request support the miry shoe,
The foot grows black that was with dirt imbrown’d,
And in thy pocket jingling halfpence sound.’
The goddess plunges swift beneath the flood,
And dashes all around her show’rs of mud:
The youth strait chose his post; the labour ply’d
Where branching streets from Charing-cross divide;
His treble voice resounds along the Mews,
And White-hall echoes—‘Clean your honour’s shoes.’
Like the sweet ballad, this amusing lay
Too long detains the Walker on his way;
While he attends, new dangers round him throng;
The busy City asks instructive song.
Where elevated o’er the gaping croud,
Clasp’d in the board the perjur’d head is bow’d,
Betimes retreat; here, thick as hailstones pour,
Turnips, and half-hatch’d eggs, (a mingled show’r)
Among the rabble rain: some random throw
May with the trickling yolk thy cheek o’erflow.
Of narrow streets. Though expedition bids, yet never stray Where no rang’d posts defend the rugged way.
Here laden carts with thundering waggons meet,
Wheels clash with wheels, and bar the narrow street;
The lashing whip resounds, the horses strain,
And blood in anguish bursts the swelling vein.
O barb’rous men, your cruel breasts assuage,
Why vent ye on the gen’rous steed your rage?
Does not his service earn your daily bread?
Your wives, your children, by his labours fed!
If, as the Samian taught, the soul revives,
And shifting seats, in other bodies lives;
Severe shall be the brutal coachman’s change,
Doom’d, in a Hackney horse, the Town to range:
Carmen, transform’d the groaning load shall draw,
Whom other tyrants, with the lash, shall awe.
The most inconvenient streets to walkers. Who would of Watling-street the dangers share,
When the broad pavement of Cheapside is near?
Or who that rugged street* would traverse o’er,
That stretches, O Fleet-ditch, from thy black shore
To the Tow’r’s moated walls? Here steams ascend
That, in mix’d fumes, the wrinkled nose offend.
Where chandlers cauldrons boil, where fishy prey
Hide the wet stall, long absent from the sea;
And where the cleaver chops the heifer’s spoil,
And where huge hogsheads sweat with trainy oil,
Thy breathing nostril hold; but how shall I
Pass, where in piles Cornavian† cheeses lye;
Cheese, that the table’s closing rites denies,
And bids me with th’unwilling chaplain rise.
The Pall-mall celebrated. O bear me to the paths of fair Pall-mall,
Safe are thy pavements, grateful is thy smell!
At distance, rolls along the gilded coach,
Nor sturdy carmen on thy walks encroach;
No lets would bar thy ways, were chairs deny’d,
The soft supports of laziness and pride;
Shops breathe perfume, thro’ sashes ribbons glow,
The mutual arms of ladies, and the beau.
Yet still ev’n here, when rains the passage hide,
Oft the loose stone spirts up a muddy tide
Benath thy careless foot; and from on high,
Where masons mount the ladder, fragments fly;
Mortar, and crumbled lime in show’rs descend,
And o’er thy head destructive tiles impend.
The pleasure of walking through an alley But sometimes let me leave the noisie roads,
And silent wander in the close abodes
Where wheels ne’er shake the ground; there pensive stray,
In studious thought, the long uncrouded way.
Here I remark each walker’s diff’rent face,
And in their look their various bus’ness trace.
The broker here his spacious beaver wears,
Upon his brow sit jealousies and cares;
Bent on some mortgage, to avoid reproach,
He seeks bye streets, and saves th’ expensive coach.
Soft, at low doors, old letchers tap their cane,
For fair recluse, that travels Drury-lane.
Here roams uncomb’d, the lavish rake, to shun
His Fleet-street draper’s everlasting dun.
Inconveniences that attend those who are unacquainted with the Town. Careful observers, studious of the Town,
Shun the misfortunes that disgrace the clown.
Untempted, they contemn the juggler’s feats,
Pass’d by the Mews, nor try the thimble’s cheats.*
When drays bound high, they never cross behind,
Where bubbling yest is blown by gusts of wind:
And when up Ludgate-hill huge carts move slow,
Far from the straining steeds, securely go,
Whose dashing hoofs, behind them, fling the mire,
And mark, with muddy blots, the gazing ’squire.
The Parthian thus his jav’lin backward throws,
And as he flies, infests pursuing foes.
The thoughtless wits shall frequent forfeits pay,
Who ’gainst the centry’s box discharge their tea.
Do thou some court, or secret corner seek,
Nor flush with shame the passing virgin’s cheek.
Precepts vulgarly known. Yet let me not descend to trivial song,
Nor vulgar circumstance my verse prolong;
Why should I teach the maid when torrents pour,
Her head to shelter from the sudden show’r?
Nature will best her ready hand inform,
With her spread petticoat to fence the storm.
Does not each walker know the warning sign,
When wisps of straw depend upon the twine
Cross the close street: that then the paver’s art
Renews the ways, deny’d to coach and cart?
Who knows not, that the coachman lashing by,
Oft, with his flourish, cuts the heedless eye;
And when he takes his stand, to wait a fare,
His horses foreheads shun the winter’s air?
Nor will I roam, when summer’s sultry rays
Parch the dry ground, and spread with dust the ways;
With whirling gusts, the rapid atoms rise,
Smoak o’er the pavement, and involve the skies.
Frosty weather. Winter my theme confines; whose nitry wind
Shall crust the slabby mire, and kennels bind;
She bids the snow descend in slaky sheets,
And in her hoary mantle cloath the streets.
Let not the virgin tread these slipp’ry roads,
The gath’ring fleece the hollow patten loads;
But if thy footsteps slide with clotted frost,
Strike off the breaking balls agains the post.
On silent wheel the passing coaches roll;
Oft’ look behind and ward the threatening pole.
In harden’d orbs the school-boy moulds the snow,
To mark the coachman with a dextrous throw.
Why do ye, boys, the kennel’s surface spread,
To tempt with faithless pass the matron’s tread?
How can ye laugh, to see the damsel spurn,
Sink in your frauds and her green stocking mourn?
At White’s, the harness’d chairman idly stands,
And swings, around his waste, his tingling hands:
The sempstress speeds to ’change with red-tipt nose;
The Belgian stove beneath her footstool glows,
In half-whipt muslin needles useless lye,
And shuttle-cocks across the counter fly.
These sports warm harmless; why then will you prove,
Deluded maids, the dang’rous flame of love?
The dangers of foot-ball. Where Covent-garden’s famous temple stands,