Chapter IX (10)

"Ould fellow," said the fiend, clutching my hand in a monstrous horny fist, "by my sowl, I'm grately plazed to meet ye in these parts: when did ye come to Doncaster? and where do ye hang out? and how long do ye stop?" "Came by the Edinburgh mail yesterday morning; at my old lodgings at the saddler's, nearly opposite the Rooms: leave for town to-morrow," said I. "That's a nate way of doing business, sure enough," was the commentary; "ounly I can't larn the sinse of going to a private lodging, where, if you ordher a kidney for breakfast, you're expected to fork out to the butcher. See how _I_ carry on the war, and never hard the ghost of an inquiry about coin sense I sot fut in the house. A hotel's the place for me! I've thried 'em all, from the Club-house at Kilkinny to the Clarendon, and, by the holy poker, never wish mysilf worse luck than such cantonments! Arrah! what more does a man require than a place where, if he wants a bottle of claret, all he has to do is to ring the bell for it? Dine with me to-night," continued the social economist; "they put you to trough very respectably in this same shop: ask, and have, that's the ticket." I declined, with thanks; urging a previous engagement, and made a demonstration of leave-taking.—"Fill a bumper of sparkling burgundy before you go, any how," said my hospitable host; "you'll find it a gentlemanly morning tipple! if this be war, may we never have pace; here's to our next merry meeting, and may we never know the want of oceans of wine, plantations of tobacco, cart-loads of pipes, lots of purty girls, and a large room to swear in.—Farewell."

About a fortnight after the date to which the foregoing refers, chance placed me in Dublin, and the coffee-room of Morisson's hotel, towards eight, P.M., with the remnant of a bottle of Sneyd and Barton's "twenty-two" before me. With his back to one of the fires stood what had all the outward appearance of a scare-crow—a figure made up of a coat that no respectable old clothesman would degrade his bag withal, and a superlatively "shocking bad hat." The waiters were eyeing it in a most suspicious manner, and I was wondering why they didn't kick it into the street, when, to my utter amazement, the "horrible illusion" stalked towards the place where I sat, and, in accents familiar to my ear, wheezed out, "Ould fellow, by my sowl I'm grately plazed to meet ye in these parts!" There could be no mistake about it—Tom, it was—"sed quanto mutatus ab illo _diabolo_." "A chair," said I, to a waiter who was now staring at us both, like the Trojan who drew Priam's curtain—"bring a chair and another wine-glass;" and pouring a bumper, I pushed it towards my _vis-à-vis_. "Drink, Tom," I continued; "whatever maybe your object in this masquerading, a drain of Bordeaux will never hurt you: drink, and then, unless it's treason, leave off your damnable faces and begin." "Masquerading!" exclaimed the scurvy libel upon the Doncaster Sardanapalus, with a smile as much out of character on such a face as a rose in an undertaker's button-hole; "by the piper of Blessingtown, it's rale arnest! Unless the smell of mate be disagreeable to you after dinner, for the honour of dacency tell them to get me a few steakes without delay: I'm as full of wind as a blown blather: like my ould coat, I'm dying of the stitches." Several handsome sections of a sirloin having been disposed of, without the ceremony of oyster sauce, and a wish for materials for punch (expressed with a look of intense yearning), duly administered to, "the Devil" thus detailed his progress since our parting:—

"It's mighty nice for philosophers, on three courses and a dessert, to talk about the uses of adversity being sweet; but if they'll thry a genuine sample of it, say a can of poorhouse soup (biling dish-wather, flavoured with a farthing rushlight to the gallon), perhaps they would alther their opinions a _leetle_. However, there's no need for these reflections now. How did the Leger serve you?—I lost (that was of very little consequence)—but I didn't win, and that _was_, as I was entirely without funds just thin. Well, I wint to ould——'s, at night (having transmogrified what odd togs I could muster into cash, by the assistance of _my father's brother_), and if it had been '_vingt un_,' or '_loo_,' we were playing, my fortune would have been made, for I got aces by the baker's dozen. But at hazard they're not the thing: so I was turned inside out as clane as a pudden-bag—indeed rather claner, as they got out of me about four times as much as ever I contained. Whin I rose to lave the house (who was to stay there with such a run against him?), the blaggards objected to my taking my Macintosh and hat with me, bad luck to them! and so I had to return home as classically undressed as William the Third in College Green. A man without hat or coat, however, isn't so well thought of now-a-days as among the ancient Romans; and, as misfortunes never come alone, without half a score to keep them company, I found my credit at the hotel had gone to look after that which I left at ould——'s hazard-table. No gentleman should ever demane himself by running the risk of a notice to quit; so, instead of stopping at the race-ground next morning, I walked quietly on to Newark. It's raly a purty walk from Doncaster to Liverpool—that is to say, for those who are fond of pedesthrian exercise—_I_ like riding better; and so I wasn't sorry whin I seen the Mersey rowling away on my right. Having left my body-coat in pledge for the last night's lodging, I had to borry one that was hanging on a stick in a pay-field, and as my shoes had given in at Norman Cross, I was not just the cut for a fashionable hotel. A bit of an ague I was lucky enough to pick up at Grantham, however, qualified me for a berth in the hospital, where I remained till I was convalescent—which manes on the brink of the grave; so I left, to save them the trouble of burying me. There's no stepping from the pier-head at Liverpool to the North Wall here, so that there was nothing left for it but an application, in form of a distriss'd Irish agriculturist, to the export committee, and they furnished me with a pass for the hould of a steamer, and a fourpenny loaf for sea-store. If our passage hadn't been a bad one, I should have done well enough; but my provision was out before we reached the Orme's Head, and I was ready to ate my brogues whin I caught sight of you. Never mind! worse luck now—better another time; as Shakspeare says—'Life's a stage, and every man plays many parts.' Anthony to-day, Scrub to-morrow."

THE DUST ABOUT THE GOLD DUST.

A _lac_ of lost rupees might make
The loser cry, "_alack!_"
But think upon their grief who're robb'd
Of gold, and by the sack!
And what a dust they did kick up
To get their _gold dust_ back!

To rob two British merchants thus
Did wicked Jews combine;
They knew that gold dust had arriv'd,
And what house did consign:
Said each, "Since from the _mine_ it comes,
I'll make some of it _mine_!"

With firm right-hand a bad Clerk forg'd
The write-hand of the Firm:
The Customs gave the box (where was
Reflection, then, O _Sturm_!)
And all the bags of gold, inside,
Were bagg'd, like briefs in Term.

They cabb'd the booty all away,
That boots might leave no tracks;
Then lugg'd the sacks out, one by one,
And laid them on their backs:
And marshall'd them all in a row,
Like troops of Marshal Saxe!

They hid them in the pot-house low
Of Moses—"fence," and "do;"
For wealth amass'd, 'tis doubtful how,
Call'd "_Money_ Moses," too;
The world gave him that _Christian_ name,
Because he was a _Jew_!

Now _Moses_ had a daughter, dark,
A damsel all discreet,
He gave the gold into her _hands_,
And she perform'd the _feat_
Of selling it to a goldsmith Jew,
Another wicked cheat!

Into the goldsmith's crucible
The bag of ore she thrust;
Then, as the dust dissolv'd, she cried,
"Come, down, now, with _your_ dust!"
And he, all in the _melting_ mood,
Said, "I suppose I must."

At once some _pounds_ for every _ounce_
He paid upon the spot;
A shining ingot soon was turn'd
Out of the melting-pot.
A precious scrape the Jew _got in_,
All through that same _ingot_.

For 'mong the thieves divisions rose,
Like vinegar with oil,
They disagreed—for one would still
The other rob and foil:
And all their deep-laid schemes were _spoil'd_
In sharing out the _spoil_.

At last, of their dissentient rows,
A '_peach_ became the _fruit_,
One Jew, in jew-rious, blabb'd about
The dust and the dispute:
The gang were taken, and the law
Fell _cute_ to prosecute.

Then Moses, goldsmith, damsel, clerk,
Into their pickle fell;
They found they were no sooner _sold_
Than clapp'd into a _cell_:
From which not one of them could _bolt_,
While bolted in so well!

At last the trial did come on,
The Court was in a throng,
The _Evidence_ against them all
Was _heavy, dense_, and strong;
Guilty the _Ju_-ry found the _Jews_,
And so might end my song:—

But no; the lawyers found a flaw,
To keep the law at bay—
Not Bot'ny-bay—the way by which
They should be sent away—
So one or two, _by getting off_,
May still in London _stay_.

Now all the Culprits' fates depend
On what the Judges choose;
To sin-a-gain, not Synagogue,
Their liberty they'd use:
So England hopes her Judges wont
Emancipate the Jews!

MARCH. [1840.

MARCH DUST.—THE BELL SAVAGE.

[Sidenote: SEASON'S SIGNS.
———————
♈ ♂ ♒
'Tis hard for
dust
they may not
ring;
♀ ♐ ♄ ⊕
because,
in March, 'twill
buy
a King.

]

That dustman's bell—that dustman's bell—
What horrid tales its tongue did tell!
He surely served his country well
Who freed us from the dustman's bell.

When basking in the morning beams,
I revell'd in Elysian dreams,
'Mong flowers, by Helicon's sweet bubble,
Inventing rhymes with little trouble;
What did so soon the charm dispel,
As that detested dustman's bell!

Or, thinking all the night away,
On debts ungather'd, bills to pay;
And pondering how it might be known
Whether 'twas best to hang or drown,
I've dropped into a wearied snooze,
And quickly tied the fatal nooze,
Then, starting at my funeral knell,
Found 'twas the dustman's passing bell.

When dining with a chosen few,
"The jolly cocks," a noble crew,
I've wander'd home supremely glorious,
And even dared to be uproarious,
The champagne mounting in my head,
Not knowing how I got to bed;
And, waking with the dawn, I've found
The room and bed-post turning round;
What time, in accents loud and clear,
My loving, lawful, lady dear,
With curtain'd privilege elate,
And heedless of my fallen state,
The round of all my faults doth tell;
Spite of my headache and my woes,
Exhausted, I begin to doze,
And dream I hear the dustman's bell,

That dustman's bell—that dustman's bell, &c.

15. Animal Magnetism Exhibitions stopped at the North London Hospital.

The cunning patient, we are told,
Would only move when touch'd by gold.
That would not suit the learned elves;
The Doctors wanted it themselves.

25. Gold-dust robbery. New version of "The Golden Fleece."

MARCH.—A day with the Surrey Hounds
]

MARCH.—A DAY WITH THE SURREY HOUNDS.

Our ball had failed so completely, that Jemmy, who was bent still upon fashion, caught eagerly at Tagrag's suggestion, and went down to Tuggeridgeville. If we had a difficulty to find friends in town, here there was none; for the whole county came about us, ate our dinners and suppers, danced at our balls—ay, and spoke to us too. We were great people, in fact; I a regular country gentleman; and, as such, Jemmy insisted that I should be a sportsman, and join the county hunt. "But," says I, "my love, I can't ride." "Pooh! Mr. C.," she said, "you're always making difficulties; you thought you couldn't dance a quadrille; you thought you couldn't dine at seven o'clock; you thought you couldn't lie in bed after six; and haven't you done every one of these things? You must and you shall ride!" And when my Jemmy said "must and shall," I knew very well there was nothing for it: so I sent down fifty guineas to the hunt, and, out of compliment to me, the very next week I received notice that the meet of the hounds would take place at Squashtail Common, just outside of my lodge-gates.

I didn't know what a meet was; and me and Mrs. C. agreed that it was most probable the dogs were to be fed there: however, Tagrag explained this matter to us, and very kindly promised to sell me a horse, a delightful animal of his own; which, being desperately pressed for money, he would let me have for a hundred guineas, he himself having given a hundred and fifty for it.

Well, the Thursday came; the hounds met on Squashtail Common; Mrs. C. turned out in her barouche to see us throw off; and being helped up on my chestnut horse, Trumpeter, by Tagrag and my head groom, I came presently round to join them.

Tag mounted his own horse; and as we walked down the avenue, "I thought," he said, "you told me you knew how to ride; and that you had ridden once fifty miles on a stretch!"

"And so I did," says I: "to Cambridge, and on the box too."

"_On the box?_" says he; "but did you ever mount a horse before?"

"Never," says I, "but I find it mighty easy."

"Well," says he, "you're mighty bold for a barber; and I like you, Coxe, for your spirit;" and so we came out of the gate.

As for describing the hunt, I own, fairly, I can't. I've been at a hunt, but what a hunt is—why the horses _will_ go among the dogs and ride them down—why the men cry out "yooooic"—why the dogs go snuffling about in threes and fours, and the huntsman says, "Good Towler—good Betsy;" and we all of us after him, say, "Good Towler—good Betsy" in course: then, after hearing a yelp here, and a howl there, tow, row, yow, yow, yow! bursts out, all of a sudden, from three or four of them, and the chap in the velvet cap screeches out (with a number of oaths I shan't repeat here), "Hark, to Ringwood!" and then, "There he goes!" says some one; and all of a sudden, helter skelter, skurry hurry, slap bang, hooping, screeching, and hurraing, blue coats and red coats, bays and greys, horses, dogs, donkeys, butchers, baronets, dustmen, and blackguard boys, go tearing, all together, over the common after two or three of the pack that yowl the loudest. Why all this is, I can't say, but it all took place the second Thursday of last March, in my presence.

Up to this I'd kept my seat as well as the best, for we'd only been trotting gently about the field until the dogs found: and I managed to stick on very well; but directly the tow-rowing began, off went Trumpeter like a thunderbolt, and I found myself playing among the dogs like the donkey among the chickens. "Back, Mr. Coxe," holloas the huntsman; and so I pulled very hard, and cried out, Wo! but he wouldn't; and on I went galloping for the dear life. How I kept on is a wonder; but I squeezed my knees in very tight, and shoved my feet very hard into the stirrups, and kept stiff hold of the scruff of Trumpeter's neck, and looked betwixt his ears as well as ever I could, and trusted to luck, for I was in a mortal fright, sure enough, as many a better man would be in such a case, let alone a poor hairdresser.

As for the hounds, after my first riding in among them, I tell you, honestly, I never saw so much as the tip of one of their tails; nothing in this world did I see except Trumpeter's dun-coloured mane, and that I gripped firm: riding, by the blessing of luck, safe through the walking, the trotting, the galloping, and never so much as getting a tumble.

There was a chap at Croydon, very well known as the "Spicy Dustman," who, when he could get no horse to ride to the hounds, turned regularly out on his donkey; and on this occasion made one of us. He generally managed to keep up with the dogs, by trotting quietly through the cross roads, and knowing the country well. Well, having a good guess where the hounds would find, and the line that sly Reynolds (as they call the fox) would take, the Spicy Dustman turned his animal down the lane, from Squashtail to Cutshins Common, across which, sure enough, came the whole hunt. There's a small hedge and a remarkably fine ditch here; some of the leading chaps took both, in gallant style; others went round by a gate, and so would I, only I couldn't; for Trumpeter would have the hedge, and be-hanged to him, and went right for it.

Hoop! if ever you _did_ try a leap! Out go your legs, out fling your arms, off goes your hat; and the next thing you feel, that is, _I_ did, is a most tremendous thwack across the chest, and my feet jerked out of the stirrups; me left in the branches of a tree; Trumpeter gone clean from under me, and walloping and floundering in the ditch underneath. One of the stirrup-leathers had caught in a stake, and the horse couldn't get away; and neither of us, I thought, ever _would_ have got away; but, all of sudden, who should come up the lane but the Spicy Dustman!

"Holloa!" says I, "you gent, just let us down from this here tree!"

"Lor!" says he, "I'm blest if I didn't take you for a robin."

"Let's down," says I; but he was all this time employed in disengaging Trumpeter, whom he got out of the ditch, trembling and as quiet as possible. "Let's down," says I. "Presently," says he; and taking off his coat, he begins whistling and swishing down Trumpeter's sides and saddle; and, when he had finished, what do you think the rascal did?—he just quietly mounted on Trumpeter's back, and shouts out, "Git down yourself, old Bears-grease; you've only to drop! _I'll_ give your oss a hairing arter them 'ounds; and you, vy you may ride back my pony to Tuggeridgeweal!" And with this, I'm blest if he didn't ride away, leaving me holding, as for the dear life, and expecting every minute the branch would break.

It _did_ break too, and down I came into the slush; and when I got out of it, I can tell you I didn't look much like the Venuses or the Apollor Belvidearis what I used to dress and titivate up for my shop-window, when I was in the hairdressing line, or smell quite so elegant as our rose-oil. Faugh! what a figure I was!

I had nothing for it but to mount the dustman's donkey (which was very quietly cropping grass in the hedge), and to make my way home; and after a weary, weary journey, I arrived at my own gate.

A whole party was assembled there. Tagrag, who had come back; their Excellencies Mace and Punter, who were on a visit; and a number of horses walking up and down before the whole of the gentlemen of the hunt, who had come in after losing their fox! "Here's Squire Coxe!" shouted the grooms. Out rushed the servants, out poured the gents of the hunt, and on trotted poor me, digging into the donkey, and everybody dying with laughter at me.

Just as I got up to the door, a horse came galloping up, and passed me; a man jumped down, and taking off a fantail-hat, came up, very gravely, to help me down.

"Squire," says he, "how came you by that there hanimal? Jist git down, will you, and give it to its howner."

"Rascal!" says I, "didn't you ride off on my horse?"

"Was there ever sich ingratitude?" says the Spicy. "I found this year oss in a pond, I saves him from drowning, I brings him back to his master, and he calls me a rascal!"

The grooms, the gents, the ladies in the balcony, my own servants, all set up a roar at this; and so would I, only I was so deucedly ashamed as not to be able to laugh just then.

And so my first day's hunting ended. Tagrag and the rest declared I showed great pluck, and want me to try again; but "no," says I, "I _have_ been."

APRIL.—The finishing touch
]

1840.] APRIL.

CAUGHT AT CATCHING.

[Sidenote: WEATHER.
The
Weather-Prophet,
foiled,
doth loudly
vow,

though
wrong before,
I'm sure I've
hit it now;]

To angle o' April! Shame and wicked deed,
Debarr'd, like March, from Anglo-Saxon lad;
Nor May _net_ profit must the fisher heed,
For bad it is, and so it is for-bad!

In these—the _fence_ months—'tis of_fence_: for men
To fish among the spawn were cruel sign:
_John Bull_ should leave his _Hook_, and fishers then
Should be employed in quite another _line_.

'Twere graceless sure to fright the little _fry_
From family peace:—the Mayor, their quiet heeding
The _die_ has cast that _then_ they should not _die_,
Besides 'twould plainly be against _good breeding_!

The Thames is the _Mayor's nest_—a bitter dish
His Lordship gives its spoilers—name of fear;
Why 'tis admitted, even by the fish,
_Diet of Worms_ was never more severe!

He _tackles_ all the fishers: rightly deems
The sink of nets a sink of sin!—for boat,
To ply the angler, _wherry_ wicked seems;
He will not have a single float afloat!

In _March_, upon the Thames, _march_ no man must;
_April_ must heed his _reign_—Invade the spot,
And out of water he'll kick up a dust;
The year says _May_,—but he says you _may not_.

Woe to the mortal who shall _founder_ there!
Let man shun Mansion House, and Lord Mayor's search;
He, like an eagle, sits, with savage stare,
Defying all the world to touch—his _perch_!

MORAL.

Fishers! forego your line for three months' length,
And _fence_, don't fish, in _fence_ months now; for mind,
Tho' every _week_ the Mayor put out his _strength_,
If there you are not _found_ you are not _fined_!

Taking to their Eels. "The Bailiffs are coming, Oh dear! oh dear!"
]

APRIL.—THE FINISHING TOUCH.

I was always fond of billiards: and in former days, at Grogram's, in Greek Street, where a few jolly lads of my acquaintance used to meet twice a week for a game, and a snug pipe and beer, I was generally voted the first man of the club; and could take five from John the marker himself. I had a genius, in fact, for the game; and now that I was placed in that station of life where I could cultivate my talents, I gave them full play, and improved amazingly. I do say that I think myself as good a hand as any chap in England.

The Count, and his Excellency Baron von Punter, were, I can tell you, astonished by the smartness of my play; the first two or three rubbers Punter beat me, but when I came to know his game, I used to knock him all to sticks; or, at least, win six games to his four: and such was the betting upon me: his Excellency losing large sums to the Count, who knew what play was, and used to back me. I did not play except for shillings, so my skill was of no great service to me.

One day I entered the billiard-room when these three gentlemen were high in words. "The thing shall not be done," I heard Captain Tagrag say. "I won't stand it."

"Vat, begause you would have de bird all to yourzelf, hey?" said the Baron.

"You sall not have a single fezare of him, begar," said the Count. "Ve vill blow you, M. de Taguerague; parole d'honneur, ve vill."

"What's all this, gents," says I, stepping in, "about birds and feathers?"

"Oh," says Tagrag, "we were talking about—about—pigeon-shooting. The Count, here, says he will blow a bird all to pieces at twenty yards, and I said I wouldn't stand it, because it was regular murder."

"Oh, yase, it was bidgeon-shooting," cries the Baron: "and I know no better sport. Have you been bidgeon-shooting, my dear Squire? De fon is gabidal." "No doubt," says I, "for the shooters, but mighty bad sport for the _pigeon_;" and this joke set them all a laughing ready to die. I didn't know then what a good joke it _was_, neither; but I gave Master Baron that day a precious good beating, and walked off with no less than fifteen shillings of his money.

As a sporting man, and a man of fashion, I need not say that I took in the "Flare-up," regularly; ay, and wrote one or two trifles in that celebrated publication (one of my papers, which Tagrag subscribed for me, Philo-pestitiæamicus, on the proper sauce for teal and widgeon; and the other, signed Scru-tatos, on the best means of cultivating the kidney species of that vegetable, made no small noise at the time, and got me in the paper a compliment from the editor). I was a constant reader of the Notices to Correspondents, and my early education having been rayther neglected (for I was taken from my studies and set, as is the custom in our trade, to practise on a sheep's-head at the tender age of nine years, before I was allowed to venture on the human countenance), I say, being thus curtailed and cut off in my classical learning, I must confess I managed to pick up a pretty smattering of genteel information from that treasury of all sorts of knowledge, at least sufficient to make me a match in learning for all the noblemen and gentlemen who came to our house. Well, on looking over the "Flare-up" notices to correspondents, I read, one day last April, among the notices, as follows:—

"'Automodon.' We do not know the precise age of Mr. Baker, of Covent Garden Theatre; nor are we aware if that celebrated son of Thespis is a married man.

"'Ducks and Green-peas' is informed, that when A plays his rook to B's second Knight's square, and B, moving two squares with his Queen's pawn, gives check to his adversary's Queen, there is no reason why B's Queen should not take A's pawn, if B be so inclined.

"'F. L. S.' We have repeatedly answered the question about Madame Vestris: her maiden name was Bartolozzi, and she married the son of Charles Mathews, the celebrated comedian.

"'Fair Play.' The best amateur billiard and écarté player in England, is Coxe Tuggeridge Coxe, Esq., of Portland Place, and Tuggeridgeville: Jonathan, who knows his play, can only give him two in a game of a hundred: and at the cards, _no_ man is his superior. Verbum sap.

"'Scipio Americanus' is a blockhead."

I read this out to the Count and Tagrag, and both of them wondered how the Editor of that tremendous Flare-up should get such information; and both agreed that the Baron, who still piqued himself absurdly on his play, would be vastly annoyed by seeing me preferred thus to himself. We read him the paragraph, and preciously angry he was. "Id is," he cried, "the tables (or 'de _dabels_,' as he called them), de horrid dabels; gom viz me to London, and dry a slate-table, and I vill beat you." We all roared at this; and the end of the dispute was, that, just to satisfy the fellow, I agreed to play his Excellency at slate-tables, or any tables he chose.

"Gut," says he, "gut; I lif, you know, at Abednego's, in de Quadrant; his dabels is goot; ve vill blay dere, if you vill;" and I said, I would: and it was agreed that, one Saturday night, when Jemmy was at the Opera, we should go to the Baron's rooms, and give him a chance.

We went, and the little Baron had as fine a supper as ever I saw; lots of champagne (and I didn't mind drinking it), and plenty of laughing and fun. Afterwards, down we went to billiards. "Is dish Mishter Coxsh, de shelebrated player?" says Mr. Abednego, who was in the room, with one or two gentlemen of his own persuasion, and several foreign noblemen, dirty, snuffy, and hairy, as them foreigners are. "Is dish Mishter Coxsh? blesh ma hart, it is a honer to see you, I have heard so much of your play."

"Come, come," says I, "sir;" for I'm pretty wide awake; "none of your gammon; you're not going to hook _me_."

"No, begar, dis fish you not catch," says Count Mace.

"Dat is gut! haw! haw!" snorted the Baron: "hook him! lieber himmel, you might dry and hook me as well. Haw! haw!"

Well, we went to play. "Fife to four on Coxe," screams out the Count.— "Done and done," says another nobleman. "Ponays," says the Count.— "Done," says the nobleman. "I vill take your six crowns to four," says the Baron.—"Done," says I; and, in the twinkling of an eye, I beat him;— once making thirteen off the balls without stopping.

We had some more wine after this; and if you could have seen the long faces of the other noblemen, as they pulled out their pencils and wrote I O U's for the Count. "Va toujours, mon cher," says he to me, "you have von for me tree hundred pounds."

"I'll blay you guineas dis time," says the Baron. "Zeven to four you must give me, though;" and so I did: and in ten minutes _that_ game was won, and the Baron handed over his pounds. "Two hundred and sixty more, my dear, dear Coxe," says the Count; "you are mon ange gardien!" "Wot a flat Mishter Coxsh ish, not to back his luck," I heard Abednego whisper to one of the foreign noblemen.

"I'll take your seven to four, in tens," said I to the Baron. "Give me three," says he, "and done." I gave him three, and lost the game by one. "Dobbel, or quits," says he. "Go it," says I, up to my mettle; "Sam Coxe never says no;"—and to it we went. I went in, and scored eighteen to his five. "Holy Moshesh!" says Abednego, "dat little Coxsh is a vonder! who'll take odds?"

"I'll give twenty to one," says I, "in guineas."

"Ponays, yase, done," screams out the Count.

"_Bonies_, done," roars out the Baron: and before I could speak, went in, and, would you believe it?—in two minutes he somehow made the game!

* * * * *

Oh, what a figure I cut when my dear Jemmy heard of this afterwards!—In vain I swore it was guineas: the Count and the Baron swore to ponies; and when I refused, they both said their honour was concerned, and they must have my life, or their money. So when the Count showed me actually that, in spite of this bet (which had been too good to resist) won from me, he had been a very heavy loser by the night; and brought me the word of honour of Abednego, his Jewish friend, and the foreign noblemen, that ponies had been betted;—why, I paid one thousand pounds sterling of good and lawful money;—but I've not played for money since: no, no; catch me at _that_ again, if you can.

MAY. [1840.

MEMBERS OF THE LONDON PRESS.

[Sidenote: WEATHER.
while forced
his dwindling
victims
to confess,

"small by
degrees, and
beautifully
less."]

A BENEFIT.
"_Sich a Gettin up Stairs._"

Sweet Gallery squeeze, you will possess
The utmost freedom of the press;
Crowds, looking up, still pushing go,
With _stares_ above, and _stairs_ below;
The soldier first, a foremost man,
Like Bow-street culprits—_keeps the van_,
Charges the door, whose keepers stern
A "bob" will charge _him_ in return;
He's _got his step_, so with light mind
Bears all the pressure from behind;
Feels from the rear-mob, all alive,
A drive, though not a _carriage drive_:
And, lo! among them, soot-grimed deep,
A sweep, though not a _carriage sweep_.
Baker and butcher, lass and lover;
With one fat Falstaff falling over,
Sure—though he _like it_ not—to go
And _lump it_ when he gets below;
A prize John Bull, who, bulky dunce,
Takes both alternatives at once,
And quickly reaches _his first floor_,
_Dismounted_ at the Gallery Door!

4. Exhibition of the Royal Academy opens, at the National Gallery.

408. Portrait of the President. ☞

R.A.'s are _raised_ to power: and, presto, bang!
"On _inner_ walls the cry is still 'they _hang_;'"
While many a heavy sigh the artists fetch,
"To have them _hang_ our pictures is no _ketch_."
For half their sins did justice prompt the elves,
Half the R.A. array would hang themselves!

409. Red Deer, after LANDSEER.

MAY—A new drop scene at the Opera.
]

MAY.—A NEW DROP SCENE AT THE OPERA.

No lady is a lady without having a box at the Opera: so my Jemmy, who knew as much about music,—bless her!—as I do about sanscrit, algebra, or any other foreign language, took a prime box on the second tier. It was what they called a double box; it really _could_ hold two, that is, very comfortably; and we got it a great bargain—for five hundred a year! Here, Tuesdays and Saturdays we used regularly to take our places, Jemmy and Jemimarann sitting in front; me, behind: but as my dear wife used to wear a large fantail gauze hat, with ostrich feathers, birds of paradise, artificial flowers, and tags of muslin or satin, scattered all over it, I'm blest if she didn't fill the whole of the front of the box; and it was only by jumping and dodging, three or four times in the course of the night, that I could manage to get a sight of the actors. By kneeling down, and looking steady under my darling Jemmy's sleeve, I _did_ contrive, every now and then, to have a peep of Senior Lablash's boots, in the Puritanny, and once saw Madame Greasi's crown and head-dress in Annybalony.

What a place that Opera is, to be sure! and what enjoyments us aristocracy used to have! Just as you have swallowed down your three courses (three curses I used to call them; for so, indeed, they are, causing a deal of heartburns, headaches, doctor's bills, pills, want of sleep, and such like)—just, I say, as you get down your three courses, which I defy any man to enjoy properly, unless he has two hours of drink and quiet afterwards, up comes the carriage, in bursts my Jemmy, as fine as a duchess, and scented like our shop. "Come, my dear," says she, "it's Normy to-night (or Annybalony, or the Nosey di Figaro, or the Gazzylarder, as the case may be); Mr. Coster strikes off punctually at eight, and you know it's the fashion to be always present at the very first bar of the aperture;" and so off we budge, to be miserable for five hours, and to have a headache for the next twelve, and all because it's the fashion!

After the aperture, as they call it, comes the opera, which, as I am given to understand, is the Italian for singing. Why they should sing in Italian, I can't conceive; or why they should do nothing _but_ sing: bless us, how I used to long for the wooden magpie in the Gazzylarder, to fly up to the top of the church-steeple, and see the chaps with the pitchforks to come in and carry off that wicked Don June. Not that I don't admire Lablash, and Rubini, and his brother, Tomrubini, him who has that fine bass voice, I mean, and acts the Corporal in the first piece, and Don June in the second; but three hours is a _little_ too much, for you can't sleep on those little rickety seats in the boxes.

The opera is bad enough; but what is that to the bally? You _should_ have seen my Jemmy the first night when she stopped to see it; and when Madamsalls Fanny and Theresa Hustler came forward, along with a gentleman, to dance, you should have seen how Jemmy stared, and our girl blushed, when Madamsall Fanny, coming forward, stood on the tips of only five of her toes, and raising up the other five, and the foot belonging to them, almost to her shoulder, twirled round, and round, and round, like a teetotum, for a couple of minutes or more; and as she settled down, at last, on both feet, in a natural decent posture, you should have heard how the house roared with applause, the boxes clapping with all their might, and waving their handkerchiefs; the pit shouting, "Bravo!" Some people, who, I suppose, were rather angry at such an exhibition, threw bunches of flowers at her; and what do you think she did? why, hang me, if she did not come forward, as though nothing had happened, gather up the things they had thrown at her, smile, press them to her heart, and began whirling round again, faster than ever!—Talk about coolness, _I_ never saw such in all _my_ born days.

"Nasty thing!" says Jemmy, starting up in a fury; "if women _will_ act so, it serves them right to be treated so."

"O, yes! she acts beautifully," says our friend, his Excellency, who, along with Baron von Punter, and Tagrag, used very seldom to miss coming to our box.

"She may act very beautifully, Munseer, but she don't dress so; and I am very glad they threw that orange-peel and all those things at her, and that the people waved to her to get off."

Here his Excellency, and the Baron, and Tag, set up a roar of laughter. "My dear Mrs. Coxe," says Tag, "those are the most famous dancers in the world; and we throw myrtle, geraniums, and lilies, and roses, at them, in token of our immense admiration!"

"Well, I never!" said my wife; and poor Jemimarann slunk behind the curtain, and looked as red as it almost. After the one had done, the next begun; but when, all of a sudden, a somebody came skipping and bounding in, like an Indian-rubber ball, flinging itself up at least six feet from the stage, and there shaking about its legs like mad, we were more astonished than ever!

"That's Anatole," says one of the gentlemen.

"Anna who?" says my wife, and she might well be mistaken; for this person had a hat and feathers, a bare neck and arms, great black ringlets, and a little calico frock, which came down to the knees.

"Anatole; you would not think he was sixty-three years old, he's as active as a man of twenty."

"_He!_" shrieked out my wife; "what, is that there a man? For shame! Munseer. Jemimarann, dear, get your cloak, and come along; and I'll thank you, my dear, to call our people and let us go home."

You wouldn't think, after this, that my Jemmy, who had shown such a horror at the bally, as they call it, should ever grow accustomed to it; but she liked to hear her name shouted out in the crush-room, and so would stop till the end of everything; and, law bless you! in three weeks from that time she could look at the ballet as she would at a dancing-dog in the streets, and would bring her double-barrelled opera-glass up to her eyes as coolly as if she had been a born duchess. As for me, I did at Rome as Rome does, and precious fun it used to be, sometimes.

My friend the Baron insisted, one night, on my going behind the scenes, where, being a subscriber, he said I had what they call my _ontray_. Behind then I went; and such a place you never saw nor heard of! Fancy lots of young and old gents, of the fashion, crowding round and staring at the actresses practising their steps. Fancy yellow, snuffy foreigners, chattering always, and smelling fearfully of tobacco. Fancy scores of Jews, with hooked noses, and black muzzles, covered with rings, chains, sham diamonds, and gold waistcoats. Fancy old men, dressed in old night-gowns, with knock-knees, and dirty flesh-coloured cotton stockings and dabs of brickdust on their wrinkled old chops, and tow wigs (such wigs!) for the bald ones, and great tin spears in their hands, mayhap, or else shepherd's crooks, and fusty garlands of flowers, made of red and green baize! Fancy troops of girls, giggling, chattering, pushing to and fro, amidst old black canvas, Gothic halls, thrones, pasteboard Cupids, dragons, and such like; such dirt, darkness, crowd, confusion, and gabble of all conceivable languages was never known!

If you _could_ but have seen Munseer Anatole! Instead of looking twenty, he looked a thousand. The old man's wig was off, and a barber was giving it a touch with the tongs; Munseer was taking snuff himself, and a boy was standing by, with a pint of beer from the public-house at the corner of Charles-street.

I met with a little accident, during the three-quarters of an hour which they allow for the entertainment of us men of fashion on the stage, before the curtain draws up for the bally, while the ladies in the boxes are gaping, and the people in the pit are drumming with their feet and canes in the rudest manner possible, as though they couldn't wait.

Just at the moment before the little bell rings, and the curtain flies up, and we scuffle off to the sides (for we always stay till the very last moment), I was in the middle of the stage, making myself very affable to the fair figgerantys which was spinning and twirling about me, and asking them if they wasn't cold, and such like politeness, in the most condescending way possible, when a bolt was suddenly withdrawn, and down I popped, through a trap in the stage, into the place below. Luckily, I was stopped by a piece of machinery, consisting of a heap of green blankets, and a young lady coming up as Venus rising from the sea. If I had not fallen so soft, I don't know what might have been the consequence of the collusion. I never told Mrs. Coxe, for she can't bear to hear of my paying the least attention to the fair sex.

JUNE—Striking a balance.
]

GAME IN SEASON.

2. Epsom Races.—"Surrey for the Field."

Death of Desdemona.

Foul—from the Moor.
]

[Sidenote: How hard
to
bear-o,
♌ ♄ ☿ ♒
Faro
that's
unfair-o.]

High game.
]

ROULETTE AT EPSOM.—TENT SCENE.

I'm very ill; my circulation halts
I' the blood;
Soh! shall I take a dose of Epsom salts,
Or forego Epsom salts for Epsom races?
I chose the trip before the physic-sipping,
And very prettily I paid for tripping!

"Start fair," I cried,—I'd often started fowl
Out of the Moors,—but then I _did_ start fair:
The Course of course I reach'd, and cheek by jowl
Was standing with my _betters_, gazing there
At a horse winning at his jockey's beck,
As felons win the gallows—_by a neck_!

"Tak tent!" the Scotchman says, that's "look about,"
But, "take care _of the tent_," he should have said:
I went within, and wish I'd gone without
A stake, or had a good rump-steak instead;
But I _had_ cash, and having made a set
At them, and they at me, slap at Roulette.

And if 'twas _natural_ to have gone within,
I soon discovered it was very _flat_:
A sovereign good for me it would have been
If I had had no sovereigns,—_verbum sat_!
I lost!—and took no _note_ when all was done,
Except a note of how much they had won!

I cannot say they were a _dirty_ set,
Because they _clean'd me_ so completely out;
A bout like this of Epsom Downs' roulette
Teaches a mortal what he _is_ about.
Cheating _is_ physic.—While the game's alive
It empties pockets if it _doesn't_ thrive!

5. =Boniface=, (first Alderman of Port-soken?)

Cordial reception.
Caught in his own gin.
]

12. Mr. Wakley declared, that Gin was his best friend—it was equal to 1000 inquests a year.

A Palace reared! and lo! _in quest_ of gin,
Thousands, _sans_ scruple, pass for drams within;
Water they'd spurn, e'en from Geneva's lake,
_Gin ever_—not Geneva's—they _will_ take:
_In quest_ of _that_, when they no more can run,
Wakley _his inquest_ holds, and all is done!

JUNE.—STRIKING A BALANCE.

Next door to us, in Portland-place, lived the Right Honourable the Earl of Kilblazes, of Kilmacrasy Castle, county Kildare, and his mother, the Dowager Countess. Lady Kilblazes had a daughter, Lady Juliana Matilda Mac Turk, of the exact age of our dear Jemimarann; and a son, The Honourable Arthur Wellington Anglesea Blucher Bulow Mac Turk, only ten months older than our boy, Tug.

My darling Jemmy is a woman of spirit, and, as became her station, made every possible attempt to become acquainted with the Dowager Countess of Kilblazes, which her ladyship (because, forsooth, she was the daughter of the Minister, and the Prince of Wales's great friend, the Earl of Portansherry) thought fit to reject. I don't wonder at my Jemmy growing so angry with her, and determining, in every way, to put her ladyship down. The Kilblazes' estate is not so large as the Tuggeridge property, by two thousand a-year, at least; and so my wife, when our neighbours kept only two footmen, was quite authorized in having three; and she made it a point, as soon as ever the Kilblazes' carriage-and-pair came round, to have her own carriage-and-four.

Well, our box was next to theirs at the Opera; only twice as big. Whatever masters went to Lady Juliana, came to my Jemimarann; and what do you think Jemmy did? she got her celebrated governess, Madam de Flicflac, away from the Countess, by offering a double salary. It was quite a treasure, they said, to have Madame Flicflac; she had been (to support her father, the Count, when he emigrated) a _French_ dancer at the _Italian Opera_. French dancing, and Italian, therefore, we had at once, and in the best style: it is astonishing how quick and well she used to speak—the French especially.

Master Arthur Mac Turk was at the famous school of the Reverend Clement Coddler, along with a hundred and ten other young fashionables, from the age of three to fifteen; and to this establishment Jemmy sent our Tug, adding forty guineas to the hundred and twenty paid every year for the boarders. I think I found out the dear soul's reason, for, one day, speaking about the school to a mutual acquaintance of ours and the Kilblazes, she whispered to him, that "she never would have thought of sending her darling boy at the rate which her next-door neighbour paid; _their_ lad, she was sure, must be starved: however, poor people! they did the best they could on their income."

Coddler's, in fact, was the tip-top school near London; he had been tutor to the Duke of Buckminster, who had set him up in the school, and, as I tell you, all the peerage and respectable commoners came to it. You read in the bill (the snopsis, I think Coddler called it), after the account of the charges for board, masters, extras, &c.: "Every young nobleman (or gentleman) is expected to bring a knife and fork, spoon, and goblet, of silver (to prevent breakage), which will not be returned; a dressing-gown and slippers; toilet-box, pomatum, curling-irons, &c. &c. The pupil must, on NO ACCOUNT, be allowed to have more than ten guineas of pocket-money, unless his parents particularly desire it, or he be above fifteen years of age. _Wine_ will be an extra charge; as are warm, vapour, and _douche_ baths; _carriage exercise_ will be provided at the rate of fifteen guineas per quarter. It is _earnestly requested_ that no young nobleman (or gentleman) be allowed to smoke. In a place devoted to _the cultivation of polite literature_, such an ignoble enjoyment were profane

"CLEMENT CODDLER, M.A.,
"Chaplain and late tutor to his Grace the
Duke of Buckminster.

"Mount Parnassus, Richmond, Surrey."

To this establishment our Tug was sent. "Recollect, my dear," said his mamma, "that you are a Tuggeridge by birth, and that I expect you to beat all the boys in the school, especially that Wellington Mac Turk, who though he is a lord's son, is nothing to you, who are the heir of Tuggeridgeville."

Tug was a smart young fellow enough, and could cut and curl as well as any young chap of his age; he was not a bad hand at a wig either, and could shave, too, very prettily; but that was in the old time, when we were not great people: when he came to be a gentleman, he had to learn Latin and Greek, and had a deal of lost time to make up for on going to school.

However we had no fear; for the Reverend Mr. Coddler used to send monthly accounts of his pupils' progress, and if Tug was not a wonder of the world, I don't know who was. It was

General behaviour excellent
English very good
French très bien
Latin optimé.

and so on; he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month for money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he had been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler, one of the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bed-rooms and eating rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them), which were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. "It is a holiday to-day," said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In the dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards ("all tip-top nobility," observed Mr. Coddler);—in the bed-rooms there was only one gent; he was lying on his bed, reading a novel and smoking cigars. "Extraordinary genius!" whispered Coddler; "Honourable Tom Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the _sweetest_ poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know, genius must have its way." "Well, _upon_ my word," says Jemmy, "if that's genus, I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge remained a dull fellow."

"Impossible, my dear madam." said Coddler. "Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe _couldn't_ be stupid if he _tried_."

Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of Allycompane. We were introduced instantly, "Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr. and Mrs. Coxe:" the little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very low, and so did Mr. Coddler, who, as he saw my lord making for the play-ground, begged him to show us the way.—"Come along," says my lord; and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the beautiful holes in his jacket and elsewhere.

About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a pastrycook's shop, at the end of the green. "That's the grub-shop," said my lord, "where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick."

Then he passed a poor red-haired usher, sitting on a bench alone. "That's Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am," says my lord, "we keep him, for he's very useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when there's a fight, or a game at cricket.—Well, Hicks, how's your mother? what's the row now?" "I believe, my lord," said the usher, very meekly, "there is a pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises—the Honourable Mr. Mac——"

"O! _come_ along," said Lord Lollypop, "come along, _this_ way, ma'am! Go it, ye cripples!" and my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the kindest and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily pleased to be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went running across the green. "Who is it, Petitoes?" screams my lord. "Turk and the barber," pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastrycook's like mad. "Turk and the ba—," laughs out my lord, looking at us: "_hurrah! this_ way, ma'am;" and, turning round a corner he opened a door into a court-yard, where a number of boys were collected and a great noise of shrill voices might be heard. "Go it, Turk!" says one "Go it, barber!" says another. "_Punch hith life out_," roars another, whose voice was just cracked, and his clothes half a yard too short for him!