Again he made a visit to the place,
To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.
He knock'd-but waited longer than before;
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door;
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound.
King with the knocker thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain ;
And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.
At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep:
The wag salutes him with a civil leer :
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise,
While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyes,
'Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here?'
The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright;—
'Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere)-
'No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here--I told you so ;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!'
Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career.
'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh,
And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry,
'Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!'
Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,
And the next night came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster;
Anxious, she strove his errand to inquire,
He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire,
He should not stir till he had seen her master.
The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.
King told her she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,
But first had much of deep concern to say.
Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,
Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes; he rises; and he swears:
But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs,
When King attack'd him in his usual way.
The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain
To his tormentor mildly to complain,
And straight in rage began his crest to rear : 'Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so? Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago,
Got tam-I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!'
True as the night, King went, and heard a strife
Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife,
Which would descend to chase the fiend away.
At length, to join their forces and agree,
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray.
Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,
Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood—
The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly,
With 'Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood.'
In short, our hero, with the same intent,
Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went--
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit:
They threw out water; for the watch they call;
But King expecting, still escapes from all—
Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit.
It happen'd that our wag, about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the eastern clime,
Six ling'ring years were there his tedious lot.
At length, content, amid his rip'ning store,
He treads again on Britain's happy shore,
And his long absence is at once forgot.
To London, with impatient hope, he flies,
And the same night, as former freaks arise,
He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. 'Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth,' he said; 'My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead.
Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place.'
With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar,
And while he eager eyes the opening door,
Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal?
Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say!
He took his old abode that very day—
Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel!
Without one thought of the relentless foe,
Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago,
Just in his former trim he now appears ;
The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same,
With rushlight, as before, he creeping came,
And King's detested voice astonish'd hears.
As if some hideous spectre struck his sight,
His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright,
His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore-
Then starting, he exclaim'd, in rueful strain,
'Begar! here's Monsieur Tonson come again !'
Away he ran—and ne'er was heard of more!
Mrs. Thrale, on her thirty-fifth birthday, remarked to Dr. Johnson, that no one would send her verses now that she had attained that age, upon which the Doctor, without the least hesitation, recited the lines given here. On finishing them, he said, 'And now, you
may see what it is to come for poetry to a dictionary-maker; you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabetical order.' And so they do.
OFT in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O'er the bounds of thirty-five.
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five;
Ladies, stock and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five;
He that ever hopes to thrive,
Must begin by thirty-five;
And all who wisely wish to wife,
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.
A PENSIVE enthusiast sat on a hill,
The air was serene, and the evening was still,
Not a sound was there heard but the clack of a mill,
Near the pensive enthusiast's seat on the hill.
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