Part 3
YOU'VE more importance than the Housemaid, As living where there's greater fuss made,-- A vastly more important clatter Than where they only keep the latter. You've nought to do but "up stairs clamber, Down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;" Take vails of all the visitors, And chat with all inquisitors; And whilst a secret's left remaining, You're always vastly entertaining. The Coachman is your usual lover, Till you can coax the Footman over; Who sometimes helps you in fatigue, But always in a nice intrigue. The worst mishap that comes to pass Is when you break a looking-glass; For could invention stretch like leather, You ne'er can 'jine the bits together.' But still excuses may be had,-- I'll tell you one that 'shan't be bad;' The girl, you'll say, deserved a pension, Although it failed, for the invention. The glass she smashes all to shivers, And frets and fumes, and quakes and quivers To think--whichever way to view it-- How in the world should she 'git through it.' Th' emergency was sudden, dreadful, And needed brains more than a headfull: 'Howsever,' calling up her wits, (Instead of falling into fits,) She lock'd the door; then fetch'd up straight A stone of half-a-hundred weight, Quick as if followed by Old Scratch, And breaks a pane of glass 'to match.' The stone laid down beneath the shelf, (More softly than if down itself,) She goes, with just her general airs, About her _general_ affairs. It takes--precisely as she wish'd; And yet at last the poor girl's dish'd. When all seemed well,--at least quite fairish, In pops the Parson of the parish,-- Talks of the height, the situation, The weight, the laws of gravitation; Prates law like any Romilly, And ends with a fine homily; Until, at last, I grieve to say, He gets the poor girl turn'd away. Still 'tis not oft that female tactics Are set aside by mathematics; Nor left to busy-bodies whether A story fails or hangs together. So then, as Kitchener would say, "To devil it a diff'rent way," Swear that, amidst a strange perfume, (Like brimstone, filling all the room,) You felt a flash of lightning burn you, And then, before you'd time to turn you, Or wake at all from the surprise, You'd lost the use of both your eyes! And in that state, midst horrid clatters, Saw the glass lying all in shatters. 'Another way:'--it wanted dusting, And you to set it right were bursting; When lo! the moisture of the 'hair' Had left the plate completely bare, So that it parted from the wall Without the 'leastest' touch at all. And that's--though they may think it lame-- The best excuse that you can frame. I can't invent but one more bolsterer,-- To cut the cord, and curse th' upholsterer: But for a thumping taradiddle, To no one e'er play second fiddle. Now, as for little trifling matters, As breaking 'chayney' cups and platters, Or letting a large punch-bowl fall,-- Why never vex yourself at all. "You're not surpris'd, since it appears As it's been crack'd for years and years; And as you took it off the shelf, It came in 'three halves' quite itself: It's no use going into fits, To prove the fact--you've saved the bits!" Lying is, doubtless, half the trade Of ev'ry clever Chambermaid; Though yet it seems the chiefest sleight To lie, and yet appear upright. But one thing more, and then you've sped,-- Get your name _up_, then lie in bed!
THE PORTER.
IF a great Minister of State Your master be, then guard the gate From all but such as teem with news To suit his honour's _party_ views: You judging kindly and genteelly, Those mostly such who 'tip' most freely.
THE HOUSEMAID.
FROM all the rest your office varies, Is so exempt from pert vagaries, I cease to write, as cease to think,-- You cost me scarce one dip of ink. At least, thanks to the 'march of Mind,' (In which so few now lag behind,) My author's words, if e'er so true, Are really much too coarse for _you_. Fain would I yield all his jocoseness, And all his wit without his grossness. Thus, where our Dean seems most in rapture, I leave out nearly half a chapter; Checking, in short, his worst inventions, To 'carry out' his best intentions. In lieu of lying, graces, airs, Leave mops and pails upon the stairs; And if some slave break both his shins, What then care you?--why, just two pins!
THE STEWARD.
THERE is no servant like the Steward, For letting lordships go to leeward; And I ne'er knew of one so thorough, As he who 'served' Lord Peterborough; And so, for ever, made that station A perfect personification Of every virtue upon earth, That can befriend a man of birth. He pulled his Lordship's mansion down,-- One of the handsomest in town; He sold the bricks, the floors and stairs, And charged my Lord for the repairs: Then, to surpass the sweets of honey, He lent his Lordship his own money! I spare you more advice, the rather, Thinking you cannot well go farther Than keep, in every thing you do, Your Master's 'interest' still in view.
THE GROOM.
EACH pot of ale (who'd ever think it, Except yourself the while you drink it? And thinking so, drink all the faster) Tells for the credit of your Master. I'm speaking now, as on a journey You act by way of his attorney; Through whom smith, saddler,--half the county Participate his worship's bounty. You are the herald of his worth, His vast estates, 'amazing birth!' You've but one way to show your sense, While unrestricted for expense, So ev'ry art and method try To make his honour's money fly. Your duty 'tis, beyond a doubt, To turn the inn quite inside out; Give cooks and ostlers full commission, Put each man Jack in requisition,
Although you hav'n't time to deal With aught that can be call'd a meal. Be sure, at every town you stop at, To choose those inns to take a drop at, Where you're respected all the more From having made a splash before; Where all your pranks they understand, And pay their homage cap in hand; Furnish your wines from the best bins, And outdo all the other inns. So cleverly to think you've got 'em, Your Master's purse can have no bottom! If, when applying for a place, Your Master asks you, to your face, If you be sober, and the rest, Or somewhat giv'n to Hodges' best? Confess you're fond of drinking courses, But "nothing bangs your love of horses." Thus he'll admire your candid way, And trust to all you do and say. Not that you'll do the like by him, Because you chance to suit his whim: The only plan to bring you pelf, Is buying hay and oats yourself; Because you know a way so handy, To turn them into ale and brandy. Further I'll not attempt to mix Myself at all with jockeys' tricks; Or run a race with such as you, Who'll take my hints, and beat me too! For once, then, I'll hold in the reins, Not to be jostled for my pains: The 'burning turf' but brings remorse, And fairly warns me off the course. So rest, and finger still the 'cole,' Groom of the crib!--groom of the stole!
THE COACHMAN.
YOU'RE bound to nothing, strictly speaking, But just to keep the wheels from creaking; And then to drive just slower, faster, To please yourself more than your Master. But teach your horses, when you're toping, The art to stand stock-still and moping. Tell Master that they're getting old, And "one on 'em has got a cold," When at the alehouse you've a call, And not inclined to drive at all. If Master takes a short excursion, Get drunk, and play up 'Mag's diversion;' Pass some deep pit close to the brink, To show you're none the worse for drink; And swear you can't decline 'October,' Or drive quite well if you're quite sober!
THE NURSERY MAID.
LET children always, when they're ill, Both eat and drink whate'er they will; Although 'forbid' by Doctor Diet, 'Twill do 'em good, and keep 'em quiet. They'll love you--all, and take it kind too, To throw their physic out of window: Remember, though, 'tis quite as well To bid the poor things "not to _tell_." Do for your Mistress just the same, If laid up either sick or lame; And if she 'longs,'--whate'er the food, Engage that it will do her good. But if she goes to whip a child, Declare you're 'druv' distracted, wild; And swear to leave _her_ place you'd 'ruther,' Than live with such a _cruel_ mother!
But don't go far enough to fret her; She'll scold, but love you all the better For taking the 'dear children's part,'-- You've "railly such a tender heart!" Yet when you're flirting in the park, Make 'em stop out till quite pitch dark; And 'if so be as how' they cry, "They'll go to Bogey certain-ly!"
THE DAIRY-MAID.
BE ever putting forth a splutter Of the fatigue of making butter: Even in summer you must learn Always to have a scalding churn. Cream a week old at least desire, And churn close to the kitchen fire. But of your business, still the great art Is,--saving cream for your own sweetheart!
THE WET NURSE.
PERCHANCE, should you the child 'let fall,' Confessing it 'won't do at all;' None can the secret e'er discover, And if it _dies_, the danger's over. To your own breast confine the bilk, And save--your 'breasteziz' of milk. Wean 'such as live' as soon as may be, Out o' the way of the next baby.
THE LAUNDRESS.
WHEN such a 'fantigue' you have been in, You've with the iron singed the linen; Rub it with whiting, chalk, or flour, For just the space of half an hour: Then washing,--by repeated fags Twill be all _right_, or--_all in rags_.
THE GOVERNESS.
MY task is now just nearly ended, And you may justly feel offended, To be so low upon the wall, Or placed upon the list at all. No one suspects that _you're_ a glutton, And so you're served with cold boiled mutton; Nor grudged, to aid your mental work, That _luxury_--a silver fork! Of course, you'll show no sort of blindness To such extraordinary kindness. A vulgar person, 'take your davy,' Would have steel prongs, hot chops, and gravy; I'd e'en be charged with platitude, But what I'd show my gratitude! Say that "Miss Laura's too precocious; Jane so inert, Ruth so ferocious, Rose quite an invalid; Miss Liddy So most abominably giddy,-- You can make nothing--maugre raillery, Of any of 'em but--the salary!"
A FEW RULES,
WHICH CONCERN ALL SERVANTS IN GENERAL.
WHO comes when called for, all agree, Is 'servant' good as good can be; Therefore, to save a deal of bother, Speak for yourself, and for no other. To put your Masters off their mettle, And all disputes the sooner settle, The only way is not to 'bend,' But 'give as good as they can send.' Never tell tales of one another, Except of some too favoured brother; But there it seems a rule confest To heap the faults of all the rest: I quite agree with Mister Gray, To get all favourites 'turn'd away.' Bribe little masters and young misses With sugar-plums and slobb'ring kisses. Thus they will say, "How good you are!" And tell no tales to Pa or Mar. Let every servant feel as great, As if his Master's whole estate Were meant to furnish prog and pelf But for his individual self. The Cook, for instance, thinks it queer If twenty thousand pounds a-year Won't make the household richly dine,-- And so the Butler thinks of wine. Groom, Coachman, all the rest 'run on,' Till sometimes all the money's gone. "Fortune's a jilt," and "plague upon her!" You did it all for "Master's honour!" And though yourselves alone have brought it, You're first to cry out "Who'd ha' thought it?" Yet this may caution some on entry, Not to set up too soon for gentry. When upon errands you are sent, (On something else, of course, intent) And absent more than half the day, Come back 'not knowing what to say;' Then is the time you'll see the uses Of a whole set of 'good excuses:' "A near relation came a distance, And really needing your assistance,-- An uncle whom you'd never seen From 'such times' you were seventeen, And all that you could raise (alack!) Was scarce enough to take him back."-- "Some one, to whom you'd money lent, Was making for the Continent."-- Make out a story,--cram it full: The _cock_ won't fight?--then try the _bull_. "A 'peeler' had the nation gnous To clap you in the station-house, Where you were 'kep' the morning 'through,' Quite ignorant of what to do, Although you'd rather lie in jail, Than ask his honour to stand bail; And all because (though past belief) You bore some likeness to a thief! A fifth, 'more betterer' than all, Was shipping off 'towards Bengal.' "You went to try to use your tongue, To save a friend from being hung; You wrench'd your foot 'aginst a stone,' And 'laid' your ancle to the bone; Which gave you such a horrid 'feel,' The Doctor thinks 'twill never heal. But still you must submit to fate, And hope you're not a _deal_--too late." Yet if, not mending much the case, You swear till near 'black in the face;' If each fresh story they despise, Though doing all that in you lies; Confess, and say from earliest youth You've thought it "best to tell the truth." Amongst the rest of my advices, Defend all tradesmen 'as to prices:' The very thought of an abatement Was for the _little_, not the great meant. And who'd oppose a little tricking, Which brings yourself a deal of picking? And where,--to use an honest course, The saddle's put on the right horse? Keep, then, those shopkeepers in view, Who'll more than wink at all you do;-- In short, trust no one (to save trouble), That won't make out a bill for double. Mind nothing but your own affairs, And let the rest attend to theirs. Thus if, for instance, you are told To shut the stable-door: make bold To say (for that your only course is), You "warn't brought up at all to horses." The Footman's ask'd to drive a nail, And must adopt a sim'lar tale; He "can't in such a bus'ness stir, But Tom can fetch th' upholsterer!" To put out candles there are ways Demanding more than common praise. Some of you make no 'bones' at all Of dabbing it against the wall; Some twirl it round, and round, and round; Some tread it out upon the ground: Others will give the spark release, By drowning it in its own grease! But being mostly done in haste, Much must depend on your own taste; Only remember, aught prefer To a downright extinguisher! But candles, still, I've not quite done with, They're things to make such store of fun with. 'Put out the light,' and still there's room Its 'former' twinklings to 'relume.' If once they're lighted, that's enough,-- All that is 'left' is kitchen-stuff: But do not (never for your soul) 'Go for to' cut up candles whole! I knew a girl who cut her sticks, Because the chandler smoked the wicks, Convinced there must be something rotten With such a deuced heap of cotton: It didn't ('nor ought it to') succeed, Being a truly wicked deed! Write both your own and sweetheart's names (To show the height of both your flames, Your love and learning both revealing) With candle-smoke upon the ceiling, And never mind whoever laughs,-- They're extra 'curious autographs!' To shut or open doors if loath, (And who'd be bother'd to do both?) To keep from quarrels about either, The shortest way is to do neither. But if the 'shutting' (quite a poser) Brings a _command_, that's quite a closer: Do it, to cause their special wonder, To vie with any clap of thunder! Thus while you prove you know your trade, They'll be convinced that they're obeyed. Indulge yourself in bouncing airs, Go, mutt'ring all the way down stairs,-- "They're people that you will not stop with;" It's "rayther more than you'll put up with." If you find out they _somehow_ like you, One thought will naturally strike you; Give warning--instantly, and say Your work is hard, with slender pay; You really must have some advance, "Service is no inheritance." If they be not awake, the sages Will 'bate your work and raise your wages: But if you're balk'd, and time runs on, Inquiry's made why you're not gone? Your fellow-servants, you explain, Prevail'd on you to 'stop again.' But when you _do_ go (you're the judge Whether it's worth your while to budge), Say "You have left so vile a race, That none will venture on the place." Now take an honest friend's advice,-- Answer, when call'd not less than thrice; "Dogs only come at the first whistle," And then in hopes of bone or gristle. "Who's there?" when some wiseacres call, Who's there? is no one's name at all: Keep quiet; let 'em 'make a page' One of exactly 'their own age,' And when you're found, the helpless elves Have done the mighty job themselves. Whate'er you do, abhor a tell-tale, In all things else you scarce can well fail; But when a servant turns his back, Then all at once be at him smack, And ev'ry fault the rest have done Ascribe to him, when once he's gone. First, then, (though you are no detractor,) "He got in with a false charàcter; He was ungrateful,--oh, most horrid! Deceit itself 'rit in his forrid,' And one 'more wastefuller' of store, 'Never set foot into a door;' 'Twas him that spoilt the street-door lock, 'Twas him that broke the parlour clock, That did whatever he might please, That had a 'perfect set of keys!' That nothing 'went' but he receiv'd it, And 'shipp'd it off' when once he'd thiev'd it." If ask'd (which must be quite a bore), "Pray why not tell all this before?" Say that you thought it most judicious Not to appear "the least malicious:" And when you're tired of blaming flunkey, Comes lap-dog, parrot, cat, and monkey. 'Twill vastly mend your situation, To meet with one false accusation; For ev'ry fault you thence commit, Of course you think it just and fit To make to that some pert allusion, To all the family's confusion: In short, your triumph's now so plain, They never dare find fault again. Well, then: don't go and be so hateful, As to turn round, and prove ungrateful, Drawing fresh pertness from my page, E'en should you reach Methus'lem's age, And whilst I've plann'd my whole endeavour, For you and for your 'AIRS' for ever! Now then for conjuration tricks: Turn bottles into candlesticks, And, unrestrained by vulgar rules, Good four-legg'd chairs to three-legg'd stools. Make dusters out of fancy-works, Chew'd paper into patent corks, With sundry excellent expedients, Form'd from the most grotesque ingredients, Which can't be quite politely spoken, When any thing is lost or broken. The tongs or shovel serves the stoker When once you've broke the kitchen poker, (A hardish job, as some may view it, Yet some of you know how to do it); Or Master's cane may go to wrack, To keep it off the stoker's back! Still 'one more word': I do beseech you, If _disapproving_ aught I teach you,-- (Which I not only won't resent, But deem my _highest compliment_, The _true_ intent 'no how' mistook, With which I really wrote this book,) Simply from EVERY LESSON vary, And 'take and do' the '_clean contráry_!' Your fellow-servants thus alarming, Say that "variety is charming:" Let 'em keep mimicking and watching, And may they find that "mocking's _catching_!" But one more rhyme I now can hitch in, To swell the 'GLORIES OF THE KITCHEN;' Where you may romp and break the chairs, Discuss all family affairs, What to refuse, and what to grant, What you 'shall' do, and what you 'shan't:' Laugh, sing, and squall, vote care a viper, Dancing while Master 'pays the piper,' And boast the jovial, endless cheer, Which makes it 'CHRISTMAS ALL THE YEAR!'
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Transcriber's note: Only most obvious punctuation errors repaired. The opening quotes in the final poem are as printed in the original.
_The Coachman_ is located on page 61 although the table of contents places it at 60. The table of content has been changed to reflect the actual location of the poem.