The Pathetick History of Sir Wilful Wildrake

by Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Dedicated to the Rt. Hon. Rheinhart Kleiner, Gent.

In Elder Days, when ruttish Rips

Were always pardon'd for their Slips;

When CHARLES (as if to set the Pace)

With Doxies swell'd our British Race,

There liv'd a Rake of ancient Name

Whose Sires had known a martial Fame;

But who, indiff'rent to the Sword,

Fought softer Fights, and gayly whor'd.

This Brat, of rampant Squire begot,

Was sure to design for Lecher's Lot:

At Birth he had a roving Eye

That winkt at Wenches passing by,

And ere he could in Speech converse

He got a Bastard on his Nurse.

When ten the Boy was known with Pride

Each Trollop of the Countryside,

And pass'd, so ably did he whore 'em,

The old Jus Trium Librorum !

His Father, liking not to see

So swift a Growth of Peasantry

(Or yet a Rival quite so bold as he),

Ere long the little Satyr sent

To travel on the Continent;

But many a Tale his Tutor told

That prov'd the Stripling still more bold.

He charm'd the easie Gallick Jades,

And Bitches of Italia’s Shades—

God help us all if Years ahead

Our Sons must fight the Troops he bred!

(Myself, I think it downright Treason

To wench abroad in any Season.)

But in due Time young WILDRAKE came

Back to our Isle to vaunt his Fame,

And gain the Prize for our King design

For Merit of a Gallant Kind.

Behold him now at ev'ry Ball

That frets the Peace of Windsor Hall;

A Maccaronie of Renown

With ev'ry Baggage of the Town;

Bold with the Trulls, and quick to boast

Of Vict'ries o'er each reigning Toast,

Nor slow to hint they hath been rash

With Lady Blank , or Countess Dash!

One idle Day a Nymph he knew

Prov'd pleasing to the Royal View,

Whereat our crafty riggish Imp

To serve his Fortune turn'd a Pimp:

The Fray was won — the Maiden blighted—

And WILL, to pay his Virtue, knighted.

(I need but add, the Drab was made

A Duchess, grand in red Brocade.)

Whene'er some pious Fool wou'd snivel

That such damn'd Raking pleas'd the Devil,

Our love-lockt Goat wou'd wink in Scorn

And vow that he for this was born;

For sure, the only Joy he knew

Was of the Cyprian and the Stew,

Whilst he wou'd rather far be dead

Than out of some loose Mopsy's Bed.

Of Husbands WILL Was Much In Awe,

And smil'd the more, the less he saw;

But Cupid oft will craft provide,

So WILDRAKE early learn'd to hide.

Now all went well, till one sad Day

WILL'S Nose beam'd out with redder Ray,

And powder'd Leeches cry'd that sure

He must depart to take the Cure.

Not once but often did they force

The rake-hell Blade to change his Course,

Yet spyte of all the poor Wretch grows

Pain'd, pox'd, and putrid with his Woes.

The years as well their Tribute claim,

They seam his Face and bend his Frame,

Till ere his Mind his State can see,

He finds no Joy in Venerie.

The Ladies flee as he draws near,

And ev'ry Strumpet costs him dear.

And what is worse, each bawdy Fling

No Spark of Pleasure can now bring.

Bred up to live on Lust alone,

A Courtier by Priapus' Throne,

He sees ahead a weary Waste

Whose Bliss he never learn'd to taste.

"Alas!" he whines, “had I but thought

Of what vast Ills by Love are wrought!

Had I but train'd my mind to glimpse

Some Goal above my Whores and Pimps!

Fifty and feeble, I must crave

And ogle vainly to my Grave,

Whilst even then (if Crones err not)

My itching Ghost will haunt the Spot! ”

But one last Joy our WILDRAKE learns,

The while in pox'd old Age he burns;

For tho 'the Flame of Love be low,

In Godliness new Beauties grow.

The Rake, his genial Ardor spent,

Turns pious, proud, and penitent;

Dons sober gray; three Church each Week

To dose, or hear the Parson speak;

Too old to whore, the Rip grows chaste,

And damns the Bliss he once embrac'd.

Resolv'd to wed, he seeks a Maid

Of Age and Chancres unafraid;

An ugly Chit, tho 'young and sound,

And bred on her ancestral Ground;

Nor (save for Errours with a Groom)

Devoid of Dian's virgin Bloom.

With this sweet Nymph the Rake essays

In rustick Peace to end his Days;

Trades Bawdry for a Patriot's Fire,

And turns a stolid country Squire.

Three infant Forms the Household bless,

Entrancing in their Loveliness;

An idiot Girl, a weakling Boy,

And one small Saint, the Mother's Joy,

Whose Groom-like Looks his lover's Sire annoy.

So ends poor WILL, whom Parents praise

For prudish Tongue and virtuous Ways;

First to reprove a lick'rish Air,

And first to stone the erring Fair.

'Tis he that rails with righteous Zest

At Modern Nymphs in Style undress'd

With shrinking Petticoat and naked Breast.

His Merits all the Country fill,

And Heirs adore him for his Will;

No one (aloud) can think with Ease

That Death so good a Man will seize.

Nagg'd, cuckolded by doltish Wife,

The Hypocrite concludes his Life;

Once hot for Cupid’s Pleasures only

He pines — dull, rotten, lewd, and lonely!

Another odd dream

by H P Lovecraft

I have lately had another odd dream--specially singular because in it I possessed another personality−a personality just as definite and vivid as the Lovecraft personality which characterises my waking hours.

My name was Dr. Eben Spencer, and I was dressing before a mirror in my own room, in the house where I was born, in a small village of northern New York state. It was the first time I had donned civilian clothes in three years, for I was an Army surgeon with the rank of 1st Lieutenant.

I seemed to be home on a furlough--slightly wounded. On the wall was a calendar reading Friday, July 8, 1864 I was very glad to be in regular attire again, though my suit was not a new one, but one left over from 1861.

After carefully tying my stock, I donned my coat and hat, took a cane from a rack downstairs and sallied forth upon the village street. Soon a very young man of my acquaintance came up to me with an air of anxiety and began to speak in guarded accents. He wished me to go with him to his brother−my professional colleague Dr Chester−whose actions were greatly alarming him.

I, having been his best friend, might have some influence in getting him to speak freely−for surely he had much to tell. The doctor for the past two years had been conducting secret experiments in a laboratory in the attic of his home, and beyond that locked door he would admit no one but himself. Sickening odours were often detected near the door, and odd sounds were at times not absent.

The doctor was aging rapidly. Lines of care−and of something else−were creeping into his dark, thin face, and his hair was rapidly going grey. He would remain in that locked room for dangerously long intervals without food and seemed uncommonly saturnine. All questions from the younger brother were met with scorn or rage−with perhaps a little uneasiness, so the brother was much worried, and stopped me on the street for advice and aid.

I went with him to the Chester house, a white structure of two stories and attic in a pretty yard with a picket fence. It was in a quiet side street, where peace seemed to abide despite the trying nature of the times. In the darkened parlour, where I waited for some time, was a marble-topped table, much haircloth furniture and several pleasing whatnots covered with pebbles, curios and bric-a-brac. Soon Dr Chester came down−and he had aged. He greeted me with a saturnine smile, and I began to question him, as tactfully as I could, about his strange actions.

At first he was rather defiant and insulting. He said with a sort of leer, ‘Better not ask, Spencer! Better not ask!’

Then when I grew persistent (for by this time I was interested on my own account) he changed abruptly and snapped out, ‘Well, if you must know, come up.’

Up two flights of stairs we plodded, and stood before the locked door. Dr Chester opened it, and there was an odour. I entered after him, young Chester bringing up the rear. The room was low but spacious in area and had been divided into two parts by an oddly incongruous plush red portiere. In the half next to the door there was a dissecting table, many bookcases, and several imposing cabinets of chemical and surgical instruments. Young Chester and I remained here, whilst the doctor went behind the curtain.

Soon he emerged, bearing on a large glass slab what appeared to be a human arm, neatly severed just below the elbow. It was damp, gelatinous and bluish-white, and the fingers were without nails.

‘Well, Spencer,’ said Dr Chester sneeringly, ‘I suppose you’ve had a good deal of amputation practice in the army. What do you think, professionally, of this job?’

I had seen clearly that this was not a human arm, and said sarcastically, ‘You are a better sculptor than doctor, Chester. This is not the arm of any living thing.’

And Chester replied in a tone that made me blood congeal, ‘Not yet, Spencer. Not yet!’

Then he disappeared again behind the portiere and emerged once more, bringing another and slightly larger arm. Both were left arms.

I felt sure that I was on the brink of a great revelation, and awaited with impatience the tantalisingly deliberate motions of my sinister colleague.

‘This is only the beginning, Spencer,’ he said as he went behind the curtain for the third time. ‘Watch the curtain.’

And now ends the fictionally available part of my dream, for the residue is grotesque anti-climax. I have said that I was in civilian clothes for the first time since ‘61−and naturally I was rather self-conscious. As I waited for the final revelation, I caught sight of my reflection in the glass door of an instrument case and discovered that my very-carefully-tied stock was awry. Moving to a long mirror, I sought to adjust it, but the black bow proved hard to fashion artistically. And the whole scene began to fade−and damn the luck! I awaked in the distressful year of 1920, with the personality of H.P. Lovecraft restored. I have never seen Dr Chester, or his young brother, or that village since. I do not know what village it was. I never heard the name of Eben Spencer before or since. Some dream!