Lord Chesterfield And The Tinker Poem by William Hutton

The lowest class of men may be
Rais'd to state of high degree,
Their blackness gone, such brightness shone,
That self by self is scarcely known.

When we are travelling abroad,
We cannot always chuse our road;
But prudent men will pick the best,
And cautiously avoid the rest;
'But, should a dirty slough appear;
What then?' He never plac'd it there.
All that is ever done by man
Is to tread lightly as he can;
Thus Poets, with a just decorum,
Must take the road which lies before 'em.
My road, but take it not amiss,
Is not so clean I could wish
But rough, or smooth, or dark, or clear,
The Muse resolves to send me there;
And no reluctance must be seen,
I've forty years a rebel been.

Which, Reader, will you most decry,
A dirty truth, or polish'd lie?
Leave it to me, and never fear,
I'll not offend the nicest ear.

The same Lord Chesterfield I sing,
Who dealt in butter in the spring.
He rose, he dress'd, went out of door,
The lark, and morning, as before;
The lawns, the hills, the clumps, were dress'd,
And Summer wore a lovely vest;
Nay, turn his eyes which way he will,
He was the only thing dress'd ill.
The park most beautifully shone,
'Twas all delight --'twas all his own.

At no great distance, with his load,
A Tinker mov'd along the road;
He bent his back, he dropt a heap,
Which nature would not let him keep.
My Lord approach'd, in angry mood,
Before the Tinker'd made all good;
Or, rather, seem'd in wrath to run,
That he might introduce some fun.
'What right have you, you dirty hound,
With your vile filth, to daub the ground?
This instant take it in your hand,
And clean convey it off the land.'

Feeling reduc'd by what had pass'd,
The son of Vulcan stood aghast;
He neither seem'd inclin'd to obey,
Nor yet attempted much to say;
For, when surpriz'd in situations,
Rather beneath our usual stations,
The mind feels little, to its cost
Its wonted dignity is lost.
Although his hands no whiteness boasted,
They were not with such stuff accosted;
But, if about that work he set,
They would become more dirty yet.

Much altercation now ensued,
And all that altercation rude.
The Earl grew higher still, and higher,
'Till he blew up the Tinker's fire;
So that, my friend, had you been there,
You would have thought both tinkers were.
The colour of each face,'tis true,
Were equally of swarthy hue;
For Stanhopes do, in ev'ry case,
Hold fairer intellects than face;
And tink'rish, to declare I'm loath,
The polish'd manners were of both.
The language us'd on either side
I think myself oblig'd to hide;
For decency won't let me speak,
Nor faithfulness my promise break.

The Tinker made so bold a stand,
He seem'd to have the upper hand;
With doubled fist began to stammer,
A fist as big as Vulcan's hammer,
And just the colour, seem'd to show
The strongest argument we know,
'That if he did not change his note,
He'd ram the bolus down his throat.'

My Lord now suffer'd a defeat,
Unus'd, at second-hand, to eat;
For having no auxiliary near,
He was not wholly without fear;
So spoke less loud; parley'd a while;
Stood at a distance; forc'd a smile;
And told the man of black, 'that he,
With servants, at the hall, was free;
That if he would attend him there
Was sure to find the best of cheer.'
He took the tinker, without cost,
To eat and drink, full what he'd lost.
What Tinker would not wish to cease
A war, when offer'd such a peace?
He order'd meat, he order'd drink,
And, to the servants, tipp'd the wink,
Who 'tic'd him to a room behind,
'Where he a charming tap should find.'
Yet he no liquor could see there
But what was weaker than small-beer;
For all the vessels he beheld
Was a vast tub, with water fill'd.

The servants told him to untrim
And let them see if he could swim.
The Tinker turn'd a little souer,
But there's no standing against power.
Then, with main strength, they forc'd him in,
Which took him fully to the chin.

He swore, and threaten'd, when he spoke,
But they alone enjoy'd the joke;
To see the Tinker stand in prim,
They all laugh'd heartily, but him.
It seem'd to them a curious matter,
A dark head rising from the water.
He could not bow, I'm pretty clear,
Even had George the Third been there;
Nor bend his back in light or dark,
As he'd just done within the park.

While they enjoy'd the pleasing sight,
Viewing the Tinker bolt upright,
His Lordship enter'd, full of wrath,
And bluster'd like the man of Gath.
With hasty step, with savage eye,
And naked sword, which he rais'd high,
'Where is the wretch, which quarrels foment,
I'll strike his head off in a moment;'
And, while the vengeful spirits flow,
Aim'd a decapitating blow,
Which the poor Tinker, to avoid,
Instantly sunk beneath the tide.

His note was alter'd from before,
For now he rather pray'd than swore.
The Earl he struck, and struck amain,
The Tinker dipt, and dipt again;
Whenever Stanhope aim'd a blow,
The frighten'd Tinker sunk below.
Who would not sink as deep to th' full,
When its to save his only skull?
By rising up, and diving down,
Th' afflicted man began to drown.

My Lord's sham wrath began to cool;
A man too long may play the fool.
He gave his folks another nod,
Which was completely understood;
They drew him forth, without a laugh,
For all agreed he'd div'd enough.
The Tinker too, believ'd the same,
As clear as any one of them.

A sight, now curious to be seen,
They stripp'd the Tinker to the skin,
(But all descriptions I shall wave,
That I my former word may save),
And terminating all dispute,
They cloth'd him well from head to foot;
So gaily he appear'd to view,
That now himself he hardly knew;

When he'd survey'd his dress awhile,
Could not repress the rising smile;
For, should he meet a stranger now,
He almost merited a bow;
Nay, not one thing could cause the lack,
Except the budget on his back.
He'd thump, in this luxurious case,
A kettle, with a double grace;
And, whether finish'd rough or nice,
Would bring him in a better price.
No soul had seen, for this long while,
So fine a Tinker mount a stile.

His belly fill'd, his budget plac'd,
A gift, in cash, his pocket grac'd.
He now prepar'd to march away,
And shine upon a summer's day.

But now reflection call'd to mind
The dang'rous scene he'd left behind.
He rather wish'd a man would dub him
Knight of the hammer than to tub him.
In casks of water there's no beauty;
He lik'd the pay, but not the duty;
And, as on dry land he'd remain,
Was cautious where he bent again.