The shopkeeper turned sailor; to which is prefixed, a true story of a good Negro woman.

THE SHOPKEEPER turned SAILOR, OR, THE Folly of going out of our Element.

A TALE I tell whoſe firſt beginning May ſet ſome giddy folks a grinning; But only let it all unfold, A ſadder tale was never told Some people, who for years before, Had ſeldom paſs'd their outer door, For once determin'd to be gay, And have one merry-making day. Agreed, "a ſailing we will go:" Thus all was ſettled at a blow. With hats and bonnets duly ty'd, They buſtle to the water ſide; And as the women ſtem the gale, They ſeem already under ſail: Here, while we find them ſafe and ſound, A ſailing only on dry ground, We'll take occaſion to declare Who all theſe merry people were. Firſt, there was John; a Trader he Clever and ſmart as you ſhall ſee; High on the ſhelf, in nice array, His various wares and Patterns lay; Call when you will the thing's at hand, And John is ever at his ſtand. I grant, indeed, his price was high, But then his ſhew-glaſs caught the eye; Beſides, 'twas known and underſtood, His things were all extremely good. Walk in, and if you talk with John, I warrant he will draw you on: Not that he ventur'd on the ſin, Of taking any ſtrangers in; For John, diſpute it he who can, Was a plain, open, honeſt man; You ſaw it written in his face; And then he ſerv'd you with a grace; With gentle air, and accent ſweet, Powder'd and dreſs'd ſo ſpruce and neat▪ And moſt obliging in his ſpeeches, Unnumber'd ribbons down he reaches; Preſents before the Lady's view, Each flow'ry edge, each beauteous hue, Rolls and unrolls the ſlippery things, And every finger has it wings; Then waits, with rare command of face, While Miſs, in ſad diſtreſsful caſe, Puzzles, and frets, and doubts, between A greeniſh blue, and blueiſh green. At length each anxious mind is eas'd, The bargain's ſtruck, the Lady's pleas'd; John humbly bows, then takes his flight To write his bill as ſwift as light; And ere the ſtranger's march'd away, He next as ſweetly aſks for pay. Yet if there enter'd one he knew, John always gave the credit due; Welcom'd the friend with joyful looks, Yet clapp'd the debt into his books: And tho' he begg'd the bill might wait, 'Twas ſent at Chriſtmas ſure as fate. At Chriſtmas too (I tell his fame, That traders all may do the ſame) John calmly takes his books up ſtairs, And balances his whole affairs; Sees how his total credits ſtand, And values all his ſtock in hand; Then fairly puts on t'other ſide, The debts he owes both far and wide; The diff'rence is the ſum he's worth, 'Tis all he has this year on earth: Compares it with the year before, "'Tis leſs than then"—"O, no; 'tis more—" "'Tis vaſtly more," he ſays with glee, "'Tis right, 'Tis right, my books agree!" But who, except a trader's ſelf, Can paint theſe joys of growing pelf! Or rather, to correct my ſong, Who paint the pleaſures that belong To honeſt induſtry and thrift, While God is thank'd for every gift! Ah! fooliſh John, ſo bleſt at home, What need hadſt thou ſo far to roam? Could thy new-fangled joys out-top The hourly pleaſures of thy ſhop: Or if thy health an airing need, And one grand holiday's decreed, Couldſt thou not go, to change the ſcene, And take a turn upon the green? Ah! fooliſh John, from what ſtrange quarter Could come this fancy for the water! Well haſt thou proſper'd while on ſhore, There lab'ring nobly at the oar; But if the wat'ry flood ſhould ride thee, Methinks ſome evil will betide thee: And ſhouldſt thou dare, when once afloat, Thyſelf to steer, or row the boat, The hour ſhall come—I ſee it nigh, With my prophetic poet's eye, When know, vain man, that thou ſhalt ſmart, And all thy glory ſhall depart. Then hear, ye Britons, while I preach, This is the truth I mean to teach— That he who in his ſhop is bright, And ſkill'd to keep his reck'ning right, Who ſteers in the good middle way, And gets ſome cuſtom, and ſome pay, Marks when ſad Bankrupt times prevail, And carefully draws in his ſail, Keeps watch, has all his lanterns out, And ſees the dangers round about; Puſhes his trade with wind and oar, And ſtill gets forward more and more. This trader, ſkill'd as he may be, On ſhore a man of high degree, May prove a very dunce at ſea. Ah! fooliſh John, no thoughts like theſe Once enter'd to diſturb his eaſe; Onward he goes, and thinks it grand, To quit the plain and ſimple land; Leaves a good houſe of brick and mortar, To try mere wood upon the water.

PART II. 'TWAS told you in a former lay, How on a luckleſs evil day, The trader John, a landſman brave, Leſt the dry ground to try the wave. But here the Poet muſt rehearſe, In ſoft, and ſweet, and tender verſe, How gentle Johnny had a wife, The joy and ſolace of his life, The ſharer of his griefs and cares, Privy to all his great affairs; One who when ty'd in wedlock's nooſe Had prov'd a helpmate fit for uſe; One whom he married—not for whim— But who could keep his houſe in trim; No high-flown Miſs, or belle, or beauty, A ſimple girl that knew her duty; Had well obey'd her father, mother, And counſell'd well her younger brother; Healthy when young, and rather ſtout; Moral?—nay, more, ſhe was devout; And now a Chriſtian quite at heart, She carefully fulfills her part, Well ſkill'd alike her houſe to guide, And ſerve the ſhop at Johnny's ſide. See now ſhe works to help the trade, And now inſtructs her under maid. But 'tis her chief and ſpecial care, Her huſband's daily toil to ſpare, When ſick, or weary and oppreſt, To eaſe the troubles of his breaſt, To ſooth his ſorrows, calm his fears, And help him thro' this vale of tears; Remind him where his treaſure lies, And point to realms above the ſkies. Where, when this ſhifting ſcene is o'er; The faithful meet to part no more. Now twenty ſummers, or above, Have glided by and prov'd her love; And tho' they may have marr'd her face, Have ripen'd many a Chriſtian grace: Hence it may now be fairly gueſs'd, Her lateſt days ſhall be her beſt. John knows her worth, and now-a-days, He grows quite eager in her praiſe; For ev'ry calling friend is told, "My wife is worth her weight in gold." To this bleſt couple there was born, One daughter cheerful as the morn; A maiden ſhe of ſpotleſs ſame, E'en in her mirth quite clear from blame. Train'd in Religion's "narrow way," Her mind untainted by a play, She hates your giddy glitt'ring ſcenes, Tho' long ſince enter'd on her teens; Sees all things in a proper light, And vice quite puts her in a fright; Prompt and obedient from a child, Obliging, humble, meek, and mild; Still, before ſtrangers, as a mouſe; Yet vaſtly uſeful in the houſe: Toils for the ſhop, tho' ſeldom ſeen; —Ah!—there ſhe ſits behind the ſcreen; There, like ſome flower both ſweet and gay, She ſhuns as yet the blaze of day; (Well does her praiſe adorn my tale) A new-blown lily of the vale. Now ſhould perchance ſome fool draw near, And get to whiſper in her ear, Of plays, and balls, and fairs, and races, Fine midnight routs, and public places, And wonder how ſhe can endure, A life ſo uſeful, and ſo pure— Extol her form, her piercing eyes, And tell a hundred flatt'ring lies; —While the ſweet praiſe he thinks ſhe ſips, The tortur'd maiden bites her lips; Thinks his fine flatt'ry mere pretence, And longs to tell him to talk ſenſe; Yet dreads to take the dunce in hand, Leſt he ſhould ſtill not underſtand. But ſhould he let his vice peep out, The meek-ey'd girl can then turn ſtout; For •• ce ('tis ſaid) in terms direct. A ſpruce and ſaucy ſpark ſhe check'd; (She grew ſo ſolemn in her ſpeeches, The bucks gave out that "Nancy preaches") And once put on the ſweeteſt air, And begg'd a carman not to ſwear. Thus while ſhe ſpends her peaceful days, Her parent's care ſhe well repays; Honours her father, loves her mother, She'll prove, methinks, juſt ſuch another; And tho' ſcarce ſeen, except at church, The men won't leave her in the lurch; Some honeſt Chriſtian man ſhe'll ſtrike, No buck or blood—for like loves like. Next in my ſong, of equal ſame, Comes a good honeſt antient dame; John's mother—with no fault but one— I mean—ſhe doated on her ſon; For when her own dear ſpouſe was gone, Her whole affections fell to John; 'Twas then the widow's age ſo great, Her proſpects ſmall, her income ſtrait, That Johnny weigh'd the matter well, And took her to his home to dwell: No coſt or trouble did he grudge, For John had rightly learn'd to judge, That people, once of little fame, But now of high and mighty name, Oft owe the glory of their ſtation, To the mere help of Education. Quoth he—Were all men good and true, Their wealth, methinks, might half be due, To ſome good dame, who now is found, Quite thruſt upon the mere back ground: Beſides (he added, half in tears) A child is always in arrears, In debt, alas! o'er head and ears. Oh, with what joy, what thanks and praiſe, To the great length'ner of her days; What feelings, not to be outdone, Tow'rds her dear John, her only ſon, Did the good parent take her ſtation, And kindly own the obligation! And now his tenderneſs ſhe pays, By helping in a thouſand ways. Deck'd in her beſt, ſhe comes in view, And ſerves the ſhop from twelve to two; Knows not each price, perhaps, quite pat, Yet keeps the croud in civil chat, Till John himſelf comes up to ſell A yard of luteſtring, or an ell: Next to the cook her aid ſhe brings, And does a hundred little things: Loves her own ſelf to lay the cloth, To dreſs the ſallad, ſkim the broth: At ſhelling peas is quick and nimble, Tho' now grown tardy with her thimble; And always puts you quite at eaſe, Walks out, and leaves you, if you pleaſe: Plain as ſhe ſeems, has much good ſenſe, And hence ſhe never takes offence; And all agree, for all are lenient, The good old Lady's quite convenient. Yet let me add, if things go wrong, Madam ſoon ſhews her fears are ſtrong; And then ſhe gives a certain ſpice Of plain and downright good advice; Talks in a moſt convincing tone, Of what she's ſeen, and what she's known; And in a way that vaſtly wins, Will warn you of her own paſt ſins: Tranquil at eve, in elbow chair, Tells what her former follies were; Recounts her dangers, nice eſcapes, Sad ſufferings once, and aukward ſcrapes; And while ſhe paints her varied life, Adds wiſdom e'en to Johnny's wife: John, warn'd of her, each matter weights, And Nancy trembles and obeys. Thus, ſome old ſeaman, once ſo brave, And buffeted by wind and wave, Of the rude ſeas too long the ſport, Enters at length ſome peaceful port; Rejoices now no more to roam, Yet acts as pilot nearer home.

PART III. LONG has the Muſe her tale delay'd Has ſtopp'd to talk of Johnny's trade; Wife daughter, mother too, of John, And quite forgot to travel on. Long has the Muſe with trembling fear▪ View'd the ſad ſcene that now is near; Hung back, indeed▪ from very fright, And ſhrunk and ſtarted at the ſight. As the tall ſteed, if he ſhould ſpy Some unknown form of danger nigh, Starts from his path, his eye-balls glare His feet fly prancing in the air, Round on the ſpot, and round he wheels Upright upon his mere hind heels; So have we ſtarted at the view Of what our John is now to do, Have gaily friſk'd it round and round, Nor gain'd as yet an inch of ground. Come, gentle Muſe, the tale declare, Sing how this bold advent'rous pair, With mother brave, and willing daughter, March'd to the borders of the water. Sing how they trod the beach ſo ſteep, Gaz'd at the wonders of the deep, And ſtopt to view, as in a trance, The awful ocean's vaſt expanſe; Then gaz'd at ev'ry paſſing boat, Till they quite long'd to get on float. The boatmen, as they croſs the Strand, Spring from an alehouſe juſt at hand; All on the party down they burſt, And each is ſure that he was firſt. Oh! how they preſs and fill the ground, And puſh and elbow all around! Each to a Lady makes his ſuit, Till Nancy ſtarts, as at a brute: While prudent Johnny, marching down, Hires a ſnug boat for half a crown, Of ſmaller ſize, but ſtiff and tight, And having ſeen that all is right, Rallies his daughter, claims his wife, Burſt through the croud and ends the ſtrife. And now with ſelf complacent grin, The favour'd boatmen hands them in; But firſt he plants, as is his rule, On the wave's edge his little ſtool, And while he begs them to take care, Preſents his elbow high in air. All in they ſtept, all down they ſat; All ſafe, all even, and all flat: The boatmen puſhes off the boat; Was e'er ſuch treaſure all afloat! And now amid the ſun's bright gleam, See how they cut the ſilver ſtream! See how the breeze begins to play! See how it wafts them far away! Scarce had the party leſt the ſhore, When Ruffman longs to ſpare his oar, Points to the bench where lies a ſail, And begs to profit by the gale. At firſt the boatman's words appal, And all the female faces fall; And madam bets ten thouſand pound, This inſtant we ſhall all be drown'd. Mean time old Ruffman, with a ſneer, Forbids each vain and ſilly fear; Talks of the ſeas that he hath croſs'd, Beaten, and blown, and tempeſt toſs'd; Tells of his dangers now no more, While a green youth in days of yore, Of feats perform'd by way of fun, And boaſts of matches he has won: Then drops his tone, and quite allays All the new fears he ſeem'd to raiſe; Pleads his great care, aſſerts his ſkill, Begs each dear Lady'll dread no ill; For if he keeps the rope in hand, The water's juſt as ſafe as land. Thus all objections down he beat, And now the awful ſail is ſet; Ah how! how they plough the whit'ning ſeas, So fine, ſo glorious is the breeze; How freſh and cooling too the air, While the ſail ſhades them from the glare; The boatmen, who a while before Sat coatleſs, heated at the oar, Now lolls his eaſe, obſerves the wind, Steers with one careful hand behind; While his right fiſt holds hard the ſail, Reſiſts or humours well the gale; Then half-appearing to turn back, At once he ſtops and makes a tak; Points at the diſtant land once more, And ſeems to run you right aſhore; But ere he lets you quite touch ground Again he ſpins his veſſel round, And ſhifts acroſs, with ſkill ſo nice, The flutt'ring canvas in a trice; Scuds o'er the ſpacious ſeas again; Again he plows the mighty main; Again the leſs'ning ſhore retires, Woods, hills depart, and diſtant ſpires While the bright ſun, yon clouds between Shines forth and gilds the glorious ſcene. The party, eas'd of all their fright, Gaze round and round with ſweet delight▪ Praiſe with one voice both land and ſeas, And now they languiſh for a breeze; Dread leſt the ſlack'ning wind ſhould fail, And welcome every growing gale: Swift o'er the ſwelling waves they fly, And pleaſure beams in every eye. But, ah! how oft with genial ſun, While the gay courſe of life we run, And fancy as we taſte the treat, Our human bliſs is now complete: How oft in that ſame favour'd hour, Does the whole ſky begin to lour! The cheering ſun-ſhine's paſs'd away, There comes a dreary doleful day: Afflictions gather like a cloud; The ſwelling tempeſt roars aloud; While from yon threat'ning heav'ns ſo dark, It thunders round our little bark: Unſkill'd to ſtruggle thro' the breeze, We toſs in new and troubl'd ſeas, And life's gay morning all ſo bright, Ends in ſome woeful tale at night.

PART IV. COME, mournful Muſe, and now relate The awful change in Johnny's fate, And while the doleful ſong is ſung, Tell from what cauſe the ruin ſprung. Cool'd by the breeze, and half undreſt, The rough gale bluſt'ring round his breaſt, Robb'd of the ſun's bright noon-tide ray, And oft beſprinkled by the ſpray, Forth from you bottom of the boat Old Ruffman lugs his ſailor's coat, And while he caſts the jacket on, Leaves rope and rudder all to John. Ah! now begins the tragic tale, For now the landſmen holds the ſail! He ſees around the watery realm, Yet goes and ſeizes on the helm; And ſeated juſt in Ruffman's place, Shews his cock'd hat and tradeſman's face: And now, without one ſailing art, E'en ſimple Nancy bears a part; Sits playful by her father's ſide, And light and gay, and merry-ey'd, Holds with that hand that held a fan, Rude ropes, as if ſhe were a man, While idle Ruffman, freed from care, Half ſleeping earns his eaſy fare. —But hark! from yonder diſtant ſhore, Did you not hear the thunder roar? See! See! the vivid light'nings play, And the dark cloud deforms the day: Now too there comes the whiſtling breeze, And ſweeps the rudely ſwelling ſeas; Fill's with one blaſt the ſail ſo full, Wife, mother, daughter, help to pull. Now ſailors, if it ſeems to blow, For ſafety let the canvas go; But women, not like paſſive men, In vengeance always pull again. Beſides, as each her ſtrength apply'd, Each crouded on the leeward ſide; And though a lady's like a feather, E'en feathers weigh when heap'd together. Fierce blows the whirlwind, and o • courſe The lad ••• double all their force; Each pulls and ſtrains, and tugs and ſtrives, Like people pulling for their lives; John, honeſt landſmen! ſimply lets them; Fear lends them ſtrength, and overſets them. Fain would I urge the frighted Muſe To paint the ſcene which next enſues— To tell how Ruffman, rous'd from ſleep, Fell headlong down amid the deep; Then mounting, ey'd the diſtant ſhore, How Nancy ſunk to riſe no more— But ah! we'll leave it quite alone, 'Twould break methinks a heart of ſtone. —Plung'd in the deep, half loſt in death, Struggling and panting hard for breath; John thought to ſtruggle now no more, When his hand lights upon an oar; His chin uplifted o'er the wave, He thus eſcapes a watery grave; Saves, hardly ſaves his wretched life— Bereft of mother, daughter, wife! Thus dearly for his fault he pays; Henceforth a mourner all his days. Here ends the tale—My friends ariſe And wipe, I pray, your weeping eyes: My fable—did you think it true? Was fram'd in fact to picture you; So next I'll preach to all the nation; And firſt, ye ſons of Innovation! When Britons, wearied with their lot, Grow wild to get they know not what, And quit, through love of revolution, Our good old Engliſh Conſtitution; When Frenchmen lead the mazy dance And Britons ape fantaſtic France; Methinks, like Johnny once ſo brave, They're leaving land to try the wave; They're quitting ancient houſe and home, Mid the wild winds and ſeas to roam. When coblers meet in grand debate, And little folks feel vaſtly great; When each forſooth would quit his ſtation, And Jack and Will would rule the nation, Methinks we're then in evil caſe— Here's Johnny perch'd in Ruffman's place. When women too make free to mix, Send try their hand in politics, Set England right while drinking tea, And ſhew how all things ought to be; Reprove, paſs ſentence, or acquit, And talk as grand as Fox or Pitt; Such ladies never mend my hopes— Here Nancy's handling all the ropes. When Parker rules as grand dictator, And each Jack Tar's a legiſlator; When ſeamen ſit like kings in ſtate, While Lords come down and captains wait: Again, I ſay, tis juſt the caſe Of Johnny perch'd in Ruffman's place. H •• p! Britons, help! we ſink, we drown! T • ey've turn'd our veſſel upſide down. When ſome raw lad, with jockey face, H • s gain'd five thouſand at a race, And fluſh'd with joy, reſolves to ſtand For ſome vile borough, purſe in hand: Rains ribbons round him, half for fun, At once bids all the barrels run, Drinks his poor dull opponent down, And at one onſet ſtorms the town; Then pays with honour half his debts, And off he flies to mind his bets; Loſes at next Newmarket ſtand, Stocks, money, horſes, houſe and land; With jockey ſpeed runs up to town, Votes ſome great queſtion, and runs down; Grows now a red hot party prater, And call's himſelf a legiſlator. —Why this, I'd tell him to his face, Is Johnny perch'd in Ruffman's place. When College Youths, well vers'd in vice, Turn all ſo reverend in a trice, From deacon duly riſe to prieſt, Then r • n to play, to ball, to feaſt, Give their poor flocks no chriſtian light▪ While Paine muſt ſet our morals right▪ Indeed, indeed, it makes me fret, For then the church is overſet; But ſhould theſe heads ſome pulpit grace▪ Why then 'tis John in Ruffman's place. When hair-brain'd Quacks, without degree, Preſume to take the doctors fee; Cure all diſorders every day, In ſome ſafe, eaſy, ſimple • ay; Colds and catarrhs, all aching pain, Conſumption, fever in the brain; All nervous maladies to • oot, With ſome ſoft ſyrup or new root▪ —Oh! dunces, tell then not your caſe, 'Tis Johnny perch'd in Ruffman's place. When men of rank and talents rare, Make ſome fine ſtud their only care, Though form'd to rule and guide the land, Love better guiding four in hand, • aſs in the ſtable half their lives, •• re more with Will than with their wives; Or when my lady quite deſcends And turns her ſervants into friends, Of all her equals ſeems afraid, And whiſpers ſecrets to her maid: With Betty dwells on this and that, And dearly loves ſome kitchen chat.— —When ſervants too get much too ſmart, And each muſt act the maſter's part; Juſt like their maſter when they dine, Sit long, eat veniſon, and drink wine; When footmen get above their place, And butlers ſhew their lordly face; When Betty too diſdains her pattens, And flaunts about in ſilks and ſattins; Or ſhould ſhe find the faſhion varies, Then follows all the new vagaries, Adopts at once my lady's taſte, And ſcarce can bear an inch of waiſt; Has ear-rings, juſt the ſelf-ſame pair, Binds the ſame turban round her hair; Apes in each part my lady quite, And trips in muſlins juſt as white; When ſuch, alas! is all the caſe, 'Tis Johnny got in Ruffman's place. Again, when wives have got vict • rious, And the poor huſband ſneaks ingloriou • ▪ When John is gentle, Jenny coarſe, And the grey mare's the better horſe▪ Or when you children have your way And ſtrange to tell, papa obeys! When things are manag'd all ſo ill That little Tommy ſays, "I will;" Or laſtly, let me tell you when— When men turn women, women men Men hate of all things to be raſh, And women, meek-eye'd women, daſt Men down their forehead, draw the locks, And women ſhew their colour'd clock Diſcard their ſhame, forget their ſex, And chuſe to open all their necks: When ſuch again is all the caſe, 'Tis Johnny got in Ruffman's place. Oh! would ye ſtop the nation's fall Then every cobler mind your awl: You labouring lads puſh home you ſpade; Ye trading Johnnies mind your trade; Ye ſeamen haul and don't debate; Watch ſtateſmen well the helm of ſtate: Ye clergy mind your awful part, 'Tis your's to turn the nation's heart; Keep parents to the good old way, And make your children all obey; Claim not ye wives the chief command, Keep back ye Nancie • of the land Let women ne'er be over ready, You'll trim the boat by ſitting ſteady: Inſtructed thus by Johnny's caſe, Let ev'ry perſon mind his place.