Christopher Smart (ed): The Midwife: or, The Old Woman's Magazine. 3 Vols. 1751(?)-1753.
London, printed for T.
Carnan &c.
(Vol. I is undated. Vol.s II & III are dated 1751 and 1753
Vol I. "Printed for Mary Midnight. Mrs. Mary Midnight [pseud. of C. Smart]
editor.
Vols. I & II consist of 6 Nos. each, vol III of 4 Nos.
British Library CS-1722-1771.
Shelfmark 13. 461/2/3
(Bookplate of Rt. Hon. Thomas Grenville)
Vol. II,
p.234 Memoirs
of a Pamphlet reflecting on the Miss G. . . .gs.
Written
somewhat in the Manner of Dean Swift.
----
Multum ille & terris jactatus & alto.
In
sweet Vaux-Hall I love to stray;
But
wish it were completely gay:
p. 229 In splendid Scenes
we drink and eat;
In
sordid Huts—evacuate:
Ah!
Why, ye Gods! More Care about
What
we put in, than we put out?
Yet
I've no Reason to complain;
Fair
Cloacina nods her Head,
While
Fumes of Incense round her spread.
Besides,
it lately was my Lot
To
meet Adventures in her Grot:
Scarce
had I oped and shut the Door;
And
veil'd, in Form, the Common Shore;
When,
lo! I spy'd a Wretch forlorn,
In
hapless Plight, all rent and torn;
Vile
as the batter'd, dying Whore,
Lie
half expiring on the Floor.
This
Being once a Pamphlet show'd;
An
Hundred Leaves together sow'd:
Now
only two from Fate could save;
And
one of them was in the Grave.
"I've
been (it cry'd) in bloody Wars;
As
you shall hear: pray, mind my Scars.
I
know my Doom - to kiss your Br—
My
Hour is come —I'll make my Speech.
Fortune
nor Periwig, nor Goosequill
(Compared
to me) did ever use Ill.
I've
been a Vagabond from first,
A
luckless Fox, though ever curst.
In
Youth a Stationer, for Pay,
Poor
me to Printer pack'd away.
p. 230 My spotless Innocence
was stain'd'
The
worst of Characters I gain'd.
But,
like the Mistress of a K—,
Obtain'd
a Title by my Sin.
At
†**'s next my Tent was pitcht, [† a Publisher]
Where
I was folded, press'd and stitcht.
As
Cinder-girls, embracing Shoe-men,
No
more are Girls, but Cinder-women;
Or
Eggs, well batter'd, turn an Amlet;
Thus
I, when stitcht, commenc'd a Pamphlet.
Whence
all my Miseries I date;
Whence
Gods and Men conspire my Fate.
A
new-born Libel flies about,
Quicker
than Felon just broke out:
Thus
I, full soon for Six-pence bought,
To
G—e's Coffee-house was brought.
But
know, the Messenger in sport,
Thrice
dropt me shiv'ring in the Dirt;
And
thrice he cry'd, why d—n your Blood,
You've
strange Propensity to Mud.
Yet
all the Criticks I could see,
Were
more intemperate than he.
They
d—n'd me as they read me o'er;
They
never read such Stuff before.
These
twist me when they light their Pipes;
Those
foul me, tortur'd with the Gripes.
One
swell'd as big as any Porpus,
And
spill'd his Chocolate on Purpose.
Another
slop'd his Bohea Tea,
And
two whole Leaves dissolv'd away.
p. 231 Coffee (the Politicians
vext)
Depriv'd
me of my Title next.
An
honest Scotsman in a Huff,
Begrimed
me with half-snotty Snuff.
Hear
me, ye Manuscripts of C—!
I
interposed, or he'd bes—t ye.
A—d!
where's now your candid Strain?
Good
—very good—and good again ?
*
* * * * *
A
Beau, who would not for the World,
A
Lock of his should go uncurl'd;
Before
the Glass, in raging Vein,
Tore
out a Leaf to ease his Pain:
Besides
(my Muse the Truth relates)
All
Folly, but his own, he hates;
So
next Day, at his Breakfast stuffing,
Greased
me all over with his Muffin.
To-night
he brought me to this Garden;
Forgetting
I belong to Hardin: [He keeps G—e's Coffee-house]
But
rose too soon, for ever fickle,
And
waddled off in dainty Pickle.
Thus
I obtain'd a short Reprieve;
But
shall, alas! no longer live:
My
Course of Wickedness I've run;
Besides,
I see you've almost done:
And
you will not, right well I ween,
Take
your Departure till you're clean.
For
ev'ry Ill my Sire I blame;
My
Sire, who often bore the same:
p. 232 Must I too suffer,
and attone
For
Crimes, that he commits alone ?
Could
he his Nastiness contain,
Nor
void the Ordure of his Brain;
I
might have pass'd like other Folks,
And
unpolluted crack'd my Jokes:
But
Excrement long having born,
I
must to Excrement return.
Brought
forth in Folly ! born in Sin !
Happy
had Dunces never been;
Or
Scandal were confin'd to Tea;
No
Vengeance then had fall'n on me,
But
from its Rise my Fate I'll trace:
The
Author of each dire Disgrace,
Would
ev'n the Queen of Beauty brave,
Bright
Venus rising from the Wave.
Vile
as the foul-mouth'd, foul-tail'd Trull;
Or
Heart—and Body— rotten Cull !
For
know, the Caitiff, fraught with Spight,
With
Pen envenom'd prone to write,
Chose
for his Strumpet—Muse a Theme,
The
heav'nly G—nn—gs to blaspheme.
And
I was doom'd to bear about,
The
blackest Rancour he could spout.
Hence
all the Evils I have bore;
My
present Doom to Common Shore;
And
yet less wretched ! since my End
In
Time of Need can you befriend.
I've
made my Story very ample;
Take
Warning by my sad Example:
p. 233 I die in Charity with
Men,
Who
for the G—nn—gs draw the Pen."
It
ceas'd. I snatch'd the trembling Victim,
Had
I the Author I'd have kick'd him.
Whom
not the Love-creating Smile
Of
either G—nn—gs could beguile;
Not
all their Paradise of Charms,
The
Rancour of his Soul disarms.
But
I could bear no more delay;
No
other Paper in the Way:
Had
Painter's Works, like Painter, stood,
To
suffer for another's Good;
Oh!
were there left one Birth-Day Ode,
To
grace the lower fam'd Abode;
No!
I in vain search'd all around,
For
not a Scribble could be found.
'Twas
then the flutt'ring Leaf I spread;
The
Sisters bid me cut the Thread:
I
gave it first the Honours due;
The
Goddess' Robe of Saffron Hue:
The
Winds a mistic Murmer bear;
"Where
more is meant than meets the Ear:"
At
length, my Finger stretching wide,
It
flounders in the sable Tide.
So
Square or Thwackum, one or t'other,
When
Tom at Molly's made a pother,
While
the Nail holds, in high tied Rug,
Certes,
a yellow one, lies snug;
But
when that fails, the Pedant-Sot
Falls
Headlong in the Chamber-P—.
p.234 But now fair
Cloacina's Rites
Perform'd,
the Grove once more invites:
And
see the G-nn-gs spread their Charms:
Oh!
could I clasp them to my Arms!
But,
while each Nymph my Soul bewitches,
Ye
Muses, close your Poet's **
The gentle Reader may, if he please, add the Word Speeches.
VAUXHALL GARDENS 1661–1859