Hence many idlers, who consume whole days
In gaping 'twixt their morning's meal and dinner,
Grow economic, when a horse, or chaise,
Or mistress is behindhand. One lean sinner,
Who stood beneath the ladder, divers ways
Venting vexation, and seem'd wearing thinner
With spite, exclaim'd: "A valet ! so deliberate !
Why, damn him, this is more than inconsiderate!"
He said, as, coming at a lame dog's speed,
Appear'd the unconscious theme of observation ;
His best exertion at his utmost need.
Poor wretch deform'd! he knew too well his station,
To keep his betters waiting; and, indeed,
The big round drops that cours'd, without cessation,
Adown his pallid features, show'd him striving
To make up for lost minutes in arriving.
He saw, as he approach'd, the looks unkind,
Which all men, save his master, on him threw,
And thereat losing quite his cooler mind,
With fear of being left so troubled grew,
His feet became unsure, his eyes sandblind;
He stumbled, fell, and in his fall o'erthrew
The man whose brow presag'd such stormy weather,
And both came prostrate on the deck together,
It happen'd that the hunchback in his hand
Held the small cause of this unblest delay,
A book; which left upon his bedroom-stand,
He'd begg'd permission to retrace his way,
(The inn being no great distance from the strand ;)
Nor could the gentle ARTHUR say him nay.
But FELIX found (no very rare vexation)
The minutes far outstrip all calculation.
No common valet, as you soon shall know,
Was FELIX; and his book was worth the minding ;
One of the rarest of that goodly row,
Which have the fish and anchor next the binding ; (1) (See Dibdin, - page three-fifty-two, or so, (2) Who tells you that the tract is hard of finding ;) Seneca Questionum Libri Septem.
He'd bought 'em in Pall Mall, where EVANS (3) kept 'em.
In perfect order, gilt, and bound in calf,
Without a stain, or flaw, within or out it :
(1) The well known mark of ALDUS.
(2) Of the second edition.
(3) An auctioneer, whose catalogues of books often comprise the rarest, as well as the most magnificent works to be found in LONDON.
'T was knock'd down to him at a pound and half;
Nor let the purchasers of Keepsakes (1) flout it;
The proverb says, that he who wins may laugh,
And FELIX thought his whistle cheap, (who 'd doubt it?)
The night our modern Æsop got to DOVER,
He took it to his bed, and ran it over.
To lose this gem it would have broke his heart.
(Your bookworm's grief is as a lover grieves.
In rapture too he plays no sager part.)
He finds his rose, and scarce his eye believes,
Just where he 'd left it in his haste to start;
And lo! his pencil still between the leaves,
To mark his place, the last book of the treatise,
Where LUCIUS tells us something De Cometis.
I said this volume, when the hunchback fell,
Was in his hand. Its palm the leaves held tight.
The pencil, still between them, sad to tell!
Its sharpen'd point drove through one orb of sight,
Of him who gasp'd beneath him. With a yell,
The victim own'd the partial loss of light,
One minute, roll'd in anguish on the deck,
The next, sprang up, and grasp'd the valet's neck.
Where the pictures for the page atone,
And fools are sav'd by merits not their own.
Then, had the struggle been between the foes,
Where nought but HEAVEN could see, or HELL might
Poor FELIX' day had found a sudden close;
But many interfer'd there standing near.
Before the rest did CARRYL interpose,
And with an effort set the hunchback clear,
Then calmly said, to him who 'd lost an eye,
"No man shall touch my servant while I 'm by.
"To say I'm shock'd at what has taken place
Would but insult your grief, nor suit with me ;
But I must tell you plainly, to your face,
You suffer punishment by just decree,
Who chose your birth and breeding to debase,
To gratify a mean malignity.
Had not your malice plac'd you where you stood,
You had not lost an eye, nor sham'd your blood."
Full on his censurer the censur'd cast
The fury of his widow'd eye, which gleam'd
Like to a coal that 's stirr'd by sudden blast,
While from the mangled orb a humor stream'd
Bedropp'd with gore; and women stood aghast
To look on him, and little children scream'd.
Then from his lips these angry accents broke,
So loud, two men shrunk from him as he spoke :
"A second time, sir, you have cross'd my path,
For, by high HEAVEN! which knows my cause of wrath, You'd better be". . . . . and here he darkly swore. No word in any language power hath
To express the smile which CARRYL's features wore,
As quietly he answer'd, "If you care to...
There 's FRANCE, you know . . . . . I mean, sir, If you
dare to."
He that hath touch'd a snail upon the horn,
And seen the creature shrink within its shell,
May image how the pale man's wrath and scorn
Sunk o' the sudden, and his features fell.
He seem'd to be the meekest creature born,
And turn'd with head deject, and mutter'd "Well!"
But none knew why; for ARTHUR, in compassion,
Dropt in his ear the oil that smooth'd his passion.
Then aid was, such as might be, freely given.
Though they that felt the most approach'd him not:
Young ARTHUR and his man. The latter, driven
With fury back, when venturing near the spot,
Affected sullenness; yet even HEAVEN
Saw not his mind more clearly than, I wot,
Did most that mark'd him, troubled and confounded,
Turn stealthily his eyes on whom he 'd wounded,—
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