Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind, Struck all at once deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind, Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse, Then coming to his mind, Was shocked to find, Only a pair of shafts without a horse. Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy’s! From Prospect House, for urchins small and big, Hearing the awful noise, Out rushed a flood of boys, Floating a man in black, without a wig;-- Some carried out one treasure, some another,-- Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry, Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley Murray, But little Tiddy carried his big brother! Sick of such terrors, The Tunbridge folks resolv’d that truth should dwell No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well, But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors; Accordingly to bring the point to pass, They call’d a meeting of the broken glass, The shatter’d chimney pots, and scatter’d tiles, The damage of each part, And packed it in a cart, Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles; While Doctor Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector, And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex, And some few more, whose names would only vex, Went as a deputation to the Ex- Powder-proprietor and Mill-director. Now Mr. Baker’s dwelling-house had pleased Along with mill-materials to roam, And for a time the deputies were teased, To find the noisy gentleman at home; At last they found him with undamaged skin, Safe at the Tunbridge Arms--not out--but Inn. The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal, Soon put his spoke in for the common weal-- A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban,-- The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded, And then unfolded, By way of climax, Mrs. Davy’s turban; He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding Knock’d down a lot without a bidding,-- How Mr. Miles, in fright, had giv’n his mare The whip she wouldn’t bear,-- At Prospect House, how Doctor Oates, not Titus, Danc’d like Saint Vitus,-- And Mr. Beak, thro’ Powder’s misbehaving, Cut off his nose whilst shaving;-- When suddenly, with words that seem’d like swearing, Beyond a Licenser’s belief or bearing-- Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage-- “Who is to pay us, Sir,”--he argued thus, “For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-- Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-damage? Now many a person had been fairly puzzled By such assailants, and completely muzzled; Baker, however, was not dash’d with ease-- But proved he practised after their own system, And with small ceremony soon dismiss’d ’em, Putting these words into their ears like fleas; “If I do have a blow, well, where’s the oddity? I merely do as other tradesmen do, You, Sir,--and you--and you! I’m only puffing off my own commodity!” THE SCHOOLMASTER’S MOTTO.