Trivia: Or, the Art of Walking
the Streets of London (1716).
Of the walking the Streets by Night.
O TRIVIA, Goddess, leave these low
And traverse oer the wide ethereal Roads,
Celestial Queen, put on thy Robes of Light,
Now Cynthia namd, fair Regent of the Night.
At Sight of thee the Villain sheaths his Sword,
Nor scales the Wall, to steal the wealthy Hoard.
Oh! may thy Silver Lamp from Heavns high Bowr
Direct my Footsteps in the Midnight hour.
When Night first bids the twinkling Stars appear,
Or with her cloudy Vest inwraps the Air,
Then swarms the busie Street; with Caution tread,
Where the Shop-Windows falling threat thy Head;
Now Labrers home return, and join their Strength
To bear the tottring Plank, or Ladders Length;
Still fix thy Eyes intent upon the Throng,
And as the Passes open, wind along.
Where the fair columns of Saint Clement stand,
Whose straitend Bounds encroach upon the Strand;
Where the low Penthouse bows the Walkers Head,
And the rough Pavement wounds the yielding Tread;
Where not a Post protects the narrow Space,
And strung in Twines, Combs dangle in thy Face;
Summon at once thy Courage, rouze thy Care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware.
Forth issuing from steep Lanes, the Colliers Steeds
Drag the black Load; another Cart succeeds,
Team follows Team, Crouds heapd on Crouds appear,
And wait impatient, till the Road grow clear.
Now all the Pavement sounds with trampling Feet,
And the mixt Hurry barricades the Street.
Entangled here, the Waggons lengthend Team
Cracks the tough Harness; Here a pondrous Beam
Lies over-turnd athwart; For Slaughter fed,
Here lowing Bullocks raise their horned Head.
Now Oaths grow loud, with Coaches Coaches jar,
And the smart Blow provokes the sturdy War;
From the high Box they whirl the Thong around,
And with the twining Lash their Shins resound:
Their Rage ferments, more dangrous Wounds they try,
And the Blood gushes down their painful Eye.
And now on Foot the frowning Warriors light,
And with their pondrous Fists renew the Fight;
Blow answers Blow, their Cheeks are smeard with Blood,
Till down they fall, and grappling roll in Mud.
So when two Boars, in wild Ytene bred,
Or on Westphalias fattning Chest-nuts fed,
Gnash their sharp Tusks, and rousd with equal Fire,
Dispute the Reign of some luxurious Mire;
In the black Flood they wallow oer and oer,
Till their armd Jaws distil with Foam and Gore.
Where the Mob gathers, swiftly shoot along,
Nor idly mingle in the noisy Throng.
Lurd by the Silver Hilt, amid the Swarm,
The subtil Artist will thy Side disarm.
Nor is thy Flaxen Wigg with Safety worn;
High on the Shoulder, in a Basket born,
Lurks the sly Boy; whose Hand to Rapine bred,
Plucks off the curling Honours of thy Head.
Here dives the skulking Thief with practisd Slight,
And unfelt Fingers make thy Pocket light.
Wheres now thy Watch, with all its Trinkets, flown?
And thy late Snuff-Box is no more thy own.
But lo! his bolder Theft some Tradesman spies,
Swift from his Prey the scudding Lurcher flies;
Dextrous he scapes the Coach with nimble Bounds,
Whilst evry honest Tongue Stop Thief resounds.
So speeds the wily Fox, alarmd by Fear,
Who lately filchd the Turkeys callow Care;
Hounds following Hounds, grow louder as he flies,
And injurd Tenants joyn the Hunters cries.
Breathless he stumbling falls: Ill-fated Boy!
Why did not honest Work thy Youth employ?
Seizd by rough Hands, hes draggd amid the Rout,
And stretchd beneath the Pumps incessant Spout:
Or plungd in miry Ponds, he gasping lies,
Mud choaks his Mouth, and plaisters oer his Eyes.
Let not the Ballad-Singers shrilling Strain
Amid the Swarm thy listning Ear detain:
Guard well thy Pocket; for these Syrens stand,
To aid the Labours of the diving Hand;
Confedrate in the Cheat, they draw the Throng,
And Cambrick Handkerchiefs reward the Song.
But soon as Coach or Cart drives rattling on,
The Rabble part, in Shoals they backward run.
So Joves loud Bolts the mingled War divide,
And Greece and Troy retreat on either Side.
If the rude Throng pour on with furious Pace,
And hap to break thee from a Friends embrace,
Stop short; nor struggle through the Croud in vain,
But watch with careful Eye the passing Train.
Yet I (perhaps too fond) if chance the Tide
Tumultuous, bear my Partner from my Side,
Impatient venture back; despising Harm,
I force my Passage where the thickest swarm.
Thus his lost Bride the Trojan sought in vain
Through Night, and Arms, and Flames, and Hills of Slain.
Thus Nisus wanderd oer the pathless Grove,
To find the brave Companion of his Love,
The pathless Grove in vain he wanders oer:
Euryalus, alas! is now no more.
That Walker, who regardless of his Pace,
Turns oft to pore upon the Damsels Face,
From Side to Side by thrusting Elbows tost,
Shall strike his aking Breast against the Post;
Or Water, dashd from fishy Stalls, shall stain
His hapless Coat with Spirts of scaly Rain.
But if unwarily he chance to stray,
Where twirling Turnstiles intercept the Way,
The thwarting Passenger shall force them round,
And beat the Wretch half breathless to the Ground.
Let constant Vigilance thy Footsteps guide,
And wary Circumspection guard thy Side;
Then shalt thou walk unharmd the dangrous Night,
Nor need th officious Link-Boys smoaky Light.
Thou never wilt attempt to cross the Road,
Where Alehouse Benches rest the Porters Load,
Grievous to heedless Shins; No Barrows Wheel,
That bruises oft the Truant School-Boys Heel,
Behind thee rolling, with insidious Pace,
Shall mark thy Stocking with a miry Trace.
Let not thy ventrous Steps approach too nigh,
Where gaping wide, low steepy Cellars lie;
Should thy Shoe wrench aside, down, down you fall,
And overturn the scolding Hucksters Stall,
The scolding Huckster shall not oer thee moan,
But Pence exact for Nuts and Pears oerthrown.
Though you through cleanlier Allies wind by Day,
To shun the Hurries of the publick Way,
Yet neer to those dark Paths by Night retire;
Mind only Safety, and contemn the Mire.
Then no impervious Courts thy Haste detain,
Nor sneering Ale-Wives bid thee turn again.
Where Lincolns-Inn, wide Space, is raild around,
Cross not with ventrous Step; there oft is found
The lurking Thief, who while the Day-light shone,
Made the Walls eccho with his begging Tone:
That Crutch which lateC compassion movd, shall wound
Thy bleeding Head, and fell thee to the Ground.
Though thou art tempted by the Link-Mans Call,
Yet trust him not along the lonely Wall;
In the Mid-way hell quench the flaming Brand,
And share the Booty with the pilfring Band.
Still keep the publick Streets, where oily Rays
Shot from the Crystal Lamp, oerspread the Ways.
Happy Augusta! Law-defended Town!
Here no dark Lanthorns shade the Villains Frown;
No Spanish Jealousies thy Lanes infest,
Nor Roman Vengeance stabs th unwary Breast;
Here Tyranny neer lifts her purple Hand,
But Liberty and Justice guard the Land;
No Bravos here profess the bloody Trade,
Nor is the Church the Murdrers Refuge made.
Let not the Chairman, with assuming Stride,
Press near the Wall, and rudely thrust thy Side:
The Laws have set him Bounds; his servile Feet
Should neer encroach where Posts defend the Street.
Yet who the Footmans Arrogance can quell,
Whose Flambeau gilds the Sashes of Pell-mell,
When in long Rank a Train of Torches flame,
To light the Midnight Visits of the Dame?
Others, perhaps, by happier Guidance led,
May where the Chairman rests, with Safety tread;
Wheneer I pass, their Poles unseen below,
Make my Knee tremble with the jarring Blow.
If Wheels bar up the Road, where Streets are crost,
With gentle Words the Coachmans Ear accost:
He neer the Threat, or harsh Command obeys,
But with Contempt the spatterd Shoe surveys.
Now man with utmost Fortitude thy Soul,
To cross the Way where Carts and Coaches roll;
Yet do not in thy hardy Skill confide,
Nor rashly risque the Kennels spacious Stride;
Stay till afar the distant Wheel you hear,
Like dying Thunder in the breaking Air;
Thy Foot will slide upon the miry Stone,
And passing Coaches crush thy torturd Bone,
Or Wheels enclose the Road; on either Hand
Pent round with Perils, in the midst you stand,
And call for Aid in vain; the Coachman swears,
And Carmen drive, unmindful of thy Prayers.
Where wilt thou turn? ah! whither wilt thou fly?
On evry side the pressing Spokes are nigh.
So Sailors, while Carybdis Gulph they shun,
Amazd, on Scyllas craggy Dangers run.
Be sure observe where brown Ostrea stands,
Who boasts her shelly Ware from Wallfleet Sands;
There mayst thou pass, with safe unmiry Feet,
Where the raisd Pavement leads athwart the Street.
If where Fleet-Ditch with muddy Current flows,
You chance to roam; where Oyster-Tubs in Rows
Are rangd beside the Posts; there stay thy Haste,
And with the savry Fish indulge thy Taste:
The Damsels Knife the gaping Shell commands,
While the salt Liquor streams between her Hands.
The Man had sure a Palate coverd oer
With Brass or Steel, that on the rocky Shore
First broke the oozy Oysters pearly Coat,
And risqud the living Morsel down his Throat.
What will not Luxry taste? Earth, Sea, and Air
Are daily ransackd for the Bill of Fare.
Blood stuffd in Skins is British Christians Food,
And France robs Marshes of the croaking Brood;
Spongy Morells in strong Ragousts are found,
And in the Soupe the slimy Snail is drownd.
When from high Spouts the dashing Torrents fall,
Ever be watchful to maintain the Wall;
For shouldst thou quit thy Ground, the rushing Throng
Will with impetuous Fury drive along;
All press to gain those Honours thou hast lost,
And rudely shove thee far without the Post.
Then to retrieve the Shed you strive in vain,
Draggled all oer, and soakd in Floods of Rain.
Yet rather bear the Showr, and Toils of Mud,
Than in the doubtful Quarrel risque thy Blood.
O think on dipus detested State,
And by his Woes be warnd to shun thy Fate.
Where three Roads joind, he met his Sire unknown;
(Unhappy Sire, but more unhappy Son!)
Each claimd the Way, their Swords the Strife decide,
The hoary Monarch fell, he groand and dyd!
Hence sprung the fatal Plague that thind thy Reign,
Thy cursed Incest! and thy Children slain!
Hence wert thou doomd in endless Night to stray
Through Theban Streets, and cheerless groap thy Way.
Contemplate, Mortal, on thy fleeting Years;
See, with black Train the Funeral Pomp appears!
Whether some Heir attends in sable State,
And mourns with outward Grief a Parents Fate;
Or the fair Virgin, nipt in Beautys Bloom,
A Croud of Lovers follow to her Tomb.
Why is the Herse with Scutcheons blazond round,
And with the nodding Plume of Ostrich crownd?
No: The Dead know it not, nor Profit gain;
It only serves to prove the Living vain.
How short is Life! how frail is human Trust!
Is all this Pomp for laying Dust to Dust?
Where the naild Hoop defends the painted Stall,
Brush not thy sweeping Skirt too near the Wall;
Thy heedless Sleeve will drink the colourd Oil,
And Spot indelible thy Pocket soil.
Has not wise Nature strung the Legs and Feet
With firmest Nerves, designd to walk the Street?
Has she not given us Hands, to groap aright,
Amidst the frequent Dangers of the Night?
And thinkst thou not the double Nostril meant,
To warn from oily Woes by previous Scent?
Who can the various City Frauds recite,
With all the petty Rapines of the Night?
Who now the Guinea-Droppers Bait regards,
Trickd by the Sharpers Dice, or Jugglers Cards?
Why should I warn thee neer to join the Fray,
Where the Sham-Quarrel interrupts the Way?
Lives there in these our Days so soft a Clown,
Bravd by the Bullys Oaths, or threatning Frown?
I need not strict enjoyn the Pockets Care,
When from the crouded Play thou leadst the Fair;
Who has not here, or Watch, or Snuff-Box lost,
Or Handkerchiefs that Indias Shuttle boast?
O! may thy Virtue guard thee through the Roads
Of Drurys mazy Courts, and dark Abodes,
The Harlots guileful Paths, who nightly stand,
Where Katherine-street descends into the Strand.
Say, vagrant Muse, their Wiles and subtil Arts,
To lure the Strangers unsuspecting Hearts;
So shall our Youth on healthful Sinews tread,
And City Cheeks grow warm with rural Red.
Tis She who nightly strowls with sauntring Pace,
No stubborn Stays her yielding Shape embrace;
Beneath the Lamp her tawdry Ribbons glare,
The new-scowerd Manteau, and the slattern Air;
High-draggled Petticoats her Travels show,
And hollow Cheeks with artful Blushes glow;
With flattring Sounds she sooths the credlous Ear,
My noble Captain! Charmer! Love! my Dear!
In Riding-hood near Tavern-Doors she plies,
Or muffled Pinners hide her livid Eyes.
With empty Bandbox she delights to range,
And feigns a distant Errand from the Change;
Nay, she will oft the Quakers Hood prophane,
And trudge demure the Rounds of Drury-Lane.
She darts from Sarsnet Ambush wily Leers,
Twitches thy Sleeve, or with familiar Airs
Her Fan will pat thy Cheek; these Snares disdain,
Nor gaze behind thee, when she turns again.
I knew a Yeoman, who for thirst of Gain,
To the great City drove from Devons Plain
His numrous lowing Herd; his Herds he sold,
And his deep leathern Pocket baggd with Gold;
Drawn by a fraudful Nymph, he gazd, he sighd;
Unmindful of his Home, and distant Bride,
She leads the willing Victim to his Doom,
Through winding Alleys to her Cobweb Room.
Thence thro the Street he reels, from Post to Post,
Valiant with Wine, nor knows his Treasure lost.
The vagrant Wretch th assembled Watchmen spies,
He waves his Hanger, and their Poles defies;
Deep in the Round-House pent, all Night he snores,
And the next Morn in vain his Fate deplores.
Ah hapless Swain, unusd to Pains and Ills!
Canst thou forego Roast-Beef for nauseous Pills?
How wilt thou lift to Heavn thy Eyes and Hands,
When the long Scroll the Surgeons Fees demands!
Or else (ye Gods avert that worst Disgrace)
Thy ruind Nose falls level with thy Face,
Then shall thy Wife thy loathsome Kiss disdain,
And wholesome Neighbours from thy Mug refrain.
Yet there are Watchmen, who with friendly Light
Will teach thy reeling Steps to tread aright;
For Sixpence will support thy helpless Arm,
And Home conduct thee, safe from nightly Harm;
But if they shake their Lanthorns, from afar,
To call their Brethren to confedrate War
When Rakes resist their Powr; if hapless you
Should chance to wander with the scowring Crew;
Though Fortune yield thee Captive, neer despair,
But seek the Constables considrate Ear;
He will reverse the Watchmans harsh Decree,
Moved by the rhetrick of a Silver Fee.
Thus would you gain some favrite Courtiers Word;
Fee not the petty Clarks, but bribe my Lord.
Now is the Time that Rakes their Revells keep;
Kindlers of Riot, enemies of Sleep.
His scatterd Pence the flying Nicker flings,
And with the Copper Showr the Casement rings.
Who has not heard the Scowrers Midnight Fame?
Who has not trembled at the Mohocks Name?
Was there a Watchman took his hourly Rounds,
Safe from their Blows, or new-invented Wounds?
I pass their desprate Deeds, and Mischiefs done
Where from Snow-hill black steepy Torrents run;
How Matrons, hoopd within the Hogheads Womb,
Were tumbled furious thence, the rolling Tomb
Oer the Stones thunders, bounds from Side to Side.
So Regulus to save his Country dyd.
Where a dim Gleam the paly Lanthorn throws
Oer the mid Pavement, heapy Rubbish grows;
Or arched Vaults their gaping Jaws extend,
Or the dark Caves to common Sewers descend.
Oft by the Winds, extinct the Signal lies,
Or smotherd in the glimmring Socket dies,
Eer Night has half rolld round her Ebon Throne;
In the wide Gulph the shatterd Coach oerthrown
Sinks with the snorting Steeds; the Reins are broke,
And from the crackling Axle flies the Spoke.
So when famd Eddystouns far-shooting Ray,
That led the Sailor through the stormy Way,
Was from its rocky Roots by Billows torn,
And the high Turret in the Whirlewind born,
Fleets bulgd their Sides against the craggy Land,
And pitchy Ruines blackend all the Strand.
Who then through night would hire the harnessd Steed,
And who would chuse the rattling Wheel for speed?
But hark! Distress with screaming Voice draws nighr,
And wakes the slumbring Street with Cries of Fire.
At first a glowing Red enwraps the Skies,
And born by Winds the scattring Sparks arise;
From Beam to Beam, the fierce Contagion spreads;
The spiry Flames now lift aloft their Heads,
Through the burst Sash a blazing Deluge pours,
And splitting Tiles descend in rattling Showrs.
Now with thick Crouds th enlightend Pavement swarms,
The Fire-man sweats beneath his crooked Arms,
A leathern Casque his ventrous Head defends,
Boldly he climbs where thickest Smoak ascends;
Movd by the Mothers streaming Eyes and Prayrs,
The helpless Infant through the Flame he bears,
With no less Virtue, than through hostile Fire,
The Dardan Hero bore his aged Sire.
See forceful Engines spout their levelld Streams,
To quench the Blaze that runs along the Beams;
The grappling Hook plucks Rafters from the Walls,
And Heaps on Heaps the smoaky Ruine falls.
Blown by strong Winds the fiery Tempest roars,
Bears down new Walls, and pours along the Floors:
The Heavns are all a-blaze, the Face of Night
Is coverd with a sanguine dreadful Light:
Twas such a Light involvd thy Towrs, O Rome,
The dire Presage of mighty Cæsars Doom,
When the Sun veild in rust his mourning Head,
And frightful Prodigies the Skies oerspread.
Hark! the Drum thunders! far, ye Crouds, retire:
Behold! the ready Match is tipt with Fire,
The nitrous Store is laid, the smutty Train
With running Blaze awakes the barrelld Grain;
Flames sudden wrap the Walls; with sullen Sound,
The shatterd Pile sinks on the smoaky Ground.
So when the Years shall have revolvd the Date,
Th inevitable hour of Naples Fate,
Her sappd Foundations shall with Thunders shake,
And heave and toss upon the sulphrous Lake;
Earths Womb at once the fiery Flood shall rend,
And in th Abyss her plunging Towrs descend.
Consider, Reader, what Fatigues Ive known,
The Toils, the Perils of the wintry Town;
What Riots seen, what bustling Crouds I bord,
How oft I crossd where Carts and Coaches roard;
Yet shall I bless my Labours, if Mankind
Their future Safety from my Dangers find.
Thus the bold Traveller, (inurd to Toil,
Whose Steps have printed Asias desert Soil,
The barbrous Arabs Haunt; or shivring crost
Dark Greenlands Mountains of eternal Frost;
Whom Providence, in length of Years restores
To the wishd Harbour of his native Shores;)
Sets forth his Journals to the publick View,
To caution, by his Woes, the wandring Crew.
And now compleat my genrous Labours lye,
Finishd, and ripe for Immortality.
Death shall entomb in Dust this mouldring Frame
But never reach th eternal Part, my Fame.
When W* and G**, mighty Names, are dead;
Or but at Chelsea under Custards read;
When Criticks crazy Bandboxes repair,
And Tragedies, turnd Rockets, bounce in Air;
High-raisd on Fleetstreet posts, consignd to
This Work shall shine, and Walkers bless my Name.