The other held a thing they call'd culotte, Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled, Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?' 'Sir,' replied King, 'I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go (But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear), I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this quarter dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here ?" The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind, Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke : 'No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here.' Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, But King resolved not thus to drop the jest, Again he made a visit to the place, To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knock'd-but waited longer than before; And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright,- Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes, 'Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here !' Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, And the next night came forth a prattling maid, He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire, The damsel then began, in doleful state, But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call, Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay. When King attack'd him in his usual way. The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain And straight in rage began his crest to rear: Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so? Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago, Got tam-I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!' True as the night, King went, and heard a strife Which would descend to chase the fiend away. Our hero, with the firmness of a rock, Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood- With 'Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood.' In short, our hero, with the same intent, Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went--. They threw out water; for the watch they call; It happen'd that our wag, about this time, To London, with impatient hope, he flies, He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. 'Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth,' he said; 'My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place.' With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar, Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal? Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel! Without one thought of the relentless foe, As if some hideous spectre struck his sight, His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore- THIRTY-FIVE. DR. JOHNSON. Mrs. Thrale, on her thirty-fifth birthday, remarked to Dr. Johnson, that no one would send her verses now that she had attained that age, upon which the Doctor, without the least hesitation, recited the lines given here. On finishing them, he said, 'And now, you |