Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there;
Then wrote and flounder'd on in mere despair."
All his books, amounting to only four, was, I suppose, the artist's reason for erasing the lines.
A reduced copy, with some variations, is placed as the headpiece of an Epistle to Alexander Pope, Esq., by Mr. Banckes. One of the variations is, a cobweb over the grate. If this good gentleman had consulted his own headpiece, he would have recollected that, as even a poet must sometimes eat, and the poor bard had no other room, or grate, it was natural to think he must sometimes have a fire to dress his scanty meal. In almost every other respect he is indeed a much more unaccommodated man than was Stephen Duck when he was a thresher. Duck, having made some rhymes, which for a thresher were deemed extraordinary, was taken out of his barn, furnished with a stock in trade, and set up as a poet. After that time he never wrote a stanza; his Muse forsook him; he was haunted by the foul fiend, and hanged or drowned himself, because Queen Caroline, who had made him a parson, could not make him a bishop.
In one of the journals of the day, dated June 30, 1736, I find written as follows:—"A handsome entertainment was this day given at Charlton, in Wiltshire, to the threshers of that village, by the Lord Viscount Palmerston, who has given money to purchase a piece of land, the produce of which is to be laid out in an annual entertainment, on the 30th of June, for ever, in commemoration of Stephen Duck, who was a thresher at that place." Happy man! patronized by the Queen's Majesty, and
"So lov'd, so honour'd, in the House of Lords!"
[129] This unfortunate creature, in the memory of many persons now living, used to parade the streets of the metropolis with a hautboy, which afforded him a precarious subsistence.
[130] He was brother to Festin who led the band at Ranelagh, and has been dead about thirty years.
[131] "What signifies," says some one to Dr. Johnson, "giving half-pence to common beggars? they only lay them out in gin or tobacco." "And why," replied the Doctor, "should they be denied such sweeteners of their existence? It is surely very savage to shut out from them every possible avenue to those pleasures reckoned too coarse for our own acceptance. Life is a pill which none of us can swallow without gilding; yet for the poor we delight in stripping it still more bare, and are not ashamed to show even visible marks of displeasure, if ever the bitter taste is taken from their mouths."
[132] This is said to be a striking resemblance of that very great man. For many years he attended Covent Garden market every morning.