both of friends, fortune, and all the
advantages of a liberal education; but I will seek
no other excuse for what follows, than the
candour and good nature of my readers will
I hope, supply, when they recollect that the
author lies under all the disadvantages of an
uncultivated mind; his natural genius
suppressed by the sense of his low condition—a
condition from which he never hopes to rise
but by the goodness of Providence influencing
some generous mind to support an honest
and a grateful heart."

This honest and grateful heart was
native of Mansfield, in Nottinghamshire, and
a footman in the service of Lady Lowther,
aunt to that rich Lord Lonsdale who died in
eighteen hundred and two, with a small portion
of his property—fifty thousand pounds—
in gold, in his house. His name was Robert
Dodsley; and the noble nature that assisted
him to rise, and made him what he afterwards
became one of the most eminent publishers
of his time—was no less a person than
the poet Pope. When Dodsley doffed his
livery, and sought to establish himself as a
bookseller, Pope lent him one hundred
pounds, to open a shop, and, better still, made
him his own publisher.

But I am forestalling events; for I have
not yet done with the little volume of verse,
A Muse in Livery. The most characteristic,
if not the best poem in his Footman's
Miscellany, is, The Footman: an Epistle to his
friend, Mr. Wright, in which he describes,
with graphic power, and great ease of
versification, his daily life during a London
season.

            Dear Friend,—Since I am now at leisure,
        And in the country taking pleasure,
        If it be worth your while to hear
        A silly Footman's business there,
        I'll try to tell in easy rhyme
        How I in London spend my time.
           And first.
        As soon as laziness will let me,
        I rise from bed and down I sit me,
        To cleaning glasses, knives, and plate,
        And such like dirty work as that
        Which, by-the-bye, is what I hate.
        This clone, with expeditious care,
        To dress myself I straight prepare.
        I clean my buckles, black my shoes,
        Powder my wig and brush my clothes—
        Take off my beard and wash my face,
        And then I'm ready for the chase.
           Down comes my lady's woman strait:
        Where's Robin? Here! Pray take your Hat,
        And go—and go—and go—and go—;
        Amd this—and that desire to know.
        The charge received, away run I,
        And here, and there, and yonder fly,
        With Services, and How-d'ye-does;
        Then home return full fraught with news.
           Here some short time does interpose,
        'Till varm effluvias greet my nose,
        Which from the spits and kettles fly,
        Declaring dinner time is nigh.
        To lay the cloth I now prepare,
        With uniformity and care;
        In order knives and forks are laid,
        With folded napkins, salt, and bread:
        The sideboards glittering, too, appear,
        With plate, and glass, and china-ware.
        Then ale, and beer, and wine decanted,
        And all things ready which are wanted,
        The smoking dishes enter in,
        To stomachs sharp a grateful scene;
        Which on the table being placed,
        And some few ceremonies past,
        They all sit down, and fall to eating,
        Whilst I behind stand silent waiting.
           This is the only pleasant hour
        Which I have in the twenty-four;
        For whilst I unregarded stand,
        With ready salver in my hand,
        And seem to understand no more
        Than just what's called for, out to pour;
        I hear, and mark the courtly phrases,
        And all the elegance that passes;
        Disputes maintained without digression,
        With ready wit, and fine expression;
        The laws of true politeness stated,
        And what good-breeding is, debated;
        Where all unanimously exclude
        The vain coquet, the formal prude,
        The ceremonious, and the rude.
        The flattering, fawning, praising train;
        The fluttering, empty, noisy, vain;
        Detraction, smut, and what's profane.
           This happy hour elaps'd and gone,
        The time of drinking tea comes on.
        The kettle fill'd, the water boil'd,
        The cream provided, biscuits pil'd,
        And lamp prepar'd; I strait engage
        The Lilliputian equipage
        Of dishes, saucers, spoons, and tongs,
        And all th' etcetera which thereto belongs.
        Which rang'd in order and decorum,
        I carry in, and set before 'em;
        Then pour or Green, or Bohea out,
        And, as commanded, hand about.
           This business over, presently
        The hour of visiting draws nigh;
        The chairmen strait prepare the chair,
        A lighted flambeau I prepare;
        And orders given where to go,
        We march along, and bustle thro'
        The parting crouds, who all stand off
        To give us room. how you'd laugh!
        To see me strut before a chair,
        And with a sturdy voice and air
        Crying, By your leave, sir! have a care!
        From place to place with speed we fly,
        And rat-tatat the knockers cry:
        Pray, is your lady, sir, within?
        If no, go on; if yes, we enter in.
           Then to the Hall I guide my steps
        Amongst a croud of brother skips,
        Drinking small beer, and talking smut,
        And this fool's nonsense putting that fool's out;
        Whilst oaths and peals of laughter meet,
        And he who's loudest is the greatest wit.
        But here amongst us the chief trade is
        To rail against our lords and ladies;
        To aggravate their smallest failings,
        T' expose their faults with saucy railings.
        For my part, as I hate the practice,
        And see in them how base and black 'tis,
        To some bye place I therefore creep,
        And sit me down, and feign to sleep;
        And could I with old Morpheus bargain