Christopher Smart (ed): The Midwife: or, The Old Woman's Magazine. 3 Vols. 1751(?)-1753.

London, printed for T. Carnan &c.
(Vol. I is undated. Vol.s II & III are dated 1751 and 1753
Vol I. "Printed for Mary Midnight. Mrs. Mary Midnight [pseud. of C. Smart] editor.
Vols. I & II consist of 6 Nos. each, vol III of 4 Nos.

British Library CS-1722-1771. Shelfmark 13. 461/2/3
(Bookplate of Rt. Hon. Thomas Grenville)

Vol. II,

p.234       Memoirs of a Pamphlet reflecting on the Miss G. . . .gs.
              Written somewhat in the Manner of Dean Swift.
              ---- Multum ille & terris jactatus & alto.

              In sweet Vaux-Hall I love to stray;
              But wish it were completely gay:
p. 229      In splendid Scenes we drink and eat;
              In sordid Huts—evacuate:
              Ah! Why, ye Gods! More Care about
              What we put in, than we put out?
              Yet I've no Reason to complain;
              Fair Cloacina nods her Head,
              While Fumes of Incense round her spread.
                            Besides, it lately was my Lot
              To meet Adventures in her Grot:
              Scarce had I oped and shut the Door;
              And veil'd, in Form, the Common Shore;
              When, lo! I spy'd a Wretch forlorn,
              In hapless Plight, all rent and torn;
              Vile as the batter'd, dying Whore,
              Lie half expiring on the Floor.
              This Being once a Pamphlet show'd;
              An Hundred Leaves together sow'd:
              Now only two from Fate could save;
              And one of them was in the Grave.
                           "I've been (it cry'd) in bloody Wars;
              As you shall hear: pray, mind my Scars.
              I know my Doom - to kiss your Br—
              My Hour is come —I'll make my Speech.
              Fortune nor Periwig, nor Goosequill
              (Compared to me) did ever use Ill.
              I've been a Vagabond from first,
              A luckless Fox, though ever curst.
                          In Youth a Stationer, for Pay,
              Poor me to Printer pack'd away.
p. 230     My spotless Innocence was stain'd'
              The worst of Characters I gain'd.
              But, like the Mistress of a K—,
              Obtain'd a Title by my Sin.
                           At †**'s next my Tent was pitcht, [† a Publisher]
              Where I was folded, press'd and stitcht.
              As Cinder-girls, embracing Shoe-men,
              No more are Girls, but Cinder-women;
              Or Eggs, well batter'd, turn an Amlet;
              Thus I, when stitcht, commenc'd a Pamphlet.
              Whence all my Miseries I date;
              Whence Gods and Men conspire my Fate.
                           A new-born Libel flies about,
              Quicker than Felon just broke out:
              Thus I, full soon for Six-pence bought,
              To G—e's Coffee-house was brought.
              But know, the Messenger in sport,
              Thrice dropt me shiv'ring in the Dirt;
              And thrice he cry'd, why d—n your Blood,
              You've strange Propensity to Mud.
                           Yet all the Criticks I could see,
              Were more intemperate than he.
              They d—n'd me as they read me o'er;
              They never read such Stuff before.
              These twist me when they light their Pipes;
              Those foul me, tortur'd with the Gripes.
              One swell'd as big as any Porpus,
              And spill'd his Chocolate on Purpose.
              Another slop'd his Bohea Tea,
              And two whole Leaves dissolv'd away.
p. 231      Coffee (the Politicians vext)
              Depriv'd me of my Title next.
              An honest Scotsman in a Huff,
              Begrimed me with half-snotty Snuff.
              Hear me, ye Manuscripts of C—!
              I interposed, or he'd bes—t ye.
              A—d! where's now your candid Strain?
              Good —very good—and good again ?
                                          * * * * * *
                           A Beau, who would not for the World,
              A Lock of his should go uncurl'd;
              Before the Glass, in raging Vein,
              Tore out a Leaf to ease his Pain:
              Besides (my Muse the Truth relates)
              All Folly, but his own, he hates;
              So next Day, at his Breakfast stuffing,
              Greased me all over with his Muffin.
              To-night he brought me to this Garden;
              Forgetting I belong to Hardin: [He keeps G—e's Coffee-house]
              But rose too soon, for ever fickle,
              And waddled off in dainty Pickle.
                           Thus I obtain'd a short Reprieve;
              But shall, alas! no longer live:
              My Course of Wickedness I've run;
              Besides, I see you've almost done:
              And you will not, right well I ween,
              Take your Departure till you're clean.
                           For ev'ry Ill my Sire I blame;
              My Sire, who often bore the same:
p. 232      Must I too suffer, and attone
              For Crimes, that he commits alone ?
              Could he his Nastiness contain,
              Nor void the Ordure of his Brain;
              I might have pass'd like other Folks,
              And unpolluted crack'd my Jokes:
              But Excrement long having born,
              I must to Excrement return.
              Brought forth in Folly ! born in Sin !
              Happy had Dunces never been;
              Or Scandal were confin'd to Tea;
              No Vengeance then had fall'n on me,
                           But from its Rise my Fate I'll trace:
              The Author of each dire Disgrace,
              Would ev'n the Queen of Beauty brave,
              Bright Venus rising from the Wave.
              Vile as the foul-mouth'd, foul-tail'd Trull;
              Or Heart—and Body— rotten Cull !
              For know, the Caitiff, fraught with Spight,
              With Pen envenom'd prone to write,
              Chose for his Strumpet—Muse a Theme,
              The heav'nly G—nn—gs to blaspheme.
              And I was doom'd to bear about,
              The blackest Rancour he could spout.
              Hence all the Evils I have bore;
              My present Doom to Common Shore;
              And yet less wretched ! since my End
              In Time of Need can you befriend.
                           I've made my Story very ample;
              Take Warning by my sad Example:
p. 233     I die in Charity with Men,
              Who for the G—nn—gs draw the Pen."
                           It ceas'd. I snatch'd the trembling Victim,
              Had I the Author I'd have kick'd him.
              Whom not the Love-creating Smile
              Of either G—nn—gs could beguile;
              Not all their Paradise of Charms,
              The Rancour of his Soul disarms.
              But I could bear no more delay;
              No other Paper in the Way:
              Had Painter's Works, like Painter, stood,
              To suffer for another's Good;
              Oh! were there left one Birth-Day Ode,
              To grace the lower fam'd Abode;
              No! I in vain search'd all around,
              For not a Scribble could be found.
                           'Twas then the flutt'ring Leaf I spread;
              The Sisters bid me cut the Thread:
              I gave it first the Honours due;
              The Goddess' Robe of Saffron Hue:
              The Winds a mistic Murmer bear;
              "Where more is meant than meets the Ear:"
              At length, my Finger stretching wide,
              It flounders in the sable Tide.
                           So Square or Thwackum, one or t'other,
              When Tom at Molly's made a pother,
              While the Nail holds, in high tied Rug,
              Certes, a yellow one, lies snug;
              But when that fails, the Pedant-Sot
              Falls Headlong in the Chamber-P—.
p.234       But now fair Cloacina's Rites
              Perform'd, the Grove once more invites:
              And see the G-nn-gs spread their Charms:
              Oh! could I clasp them to my Arms!
              But, while each Nymph my Soul bewitches,
              Ye Muses, close your Poet's **

              The gentle Reader may, if he please, add the Word Speeches.










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