Chapter V

Tom Gad, for a lark, attempts Hyde Park,
All for to ride on a horse;
Which meets his spur with some demur,
And kicks without remorse.
Tom Gad, about Achilles' statue,
How all the people are staring at you!

* * * * *

Bless me! there's a Flea.
]

12. Mr. Muntz complains of the ventilation of "the House," and
advocates "more _hair_."

29. Restoration day. Hearts of oak cut their sticks.

"To witch the world with noble horsemanship."

While all the rest are riding at their will,
The poor hack-author wags his weary quill;
Save through his garret-roof he knows no _rein_;
No _stir-up_, but when publishers complain;
No shay drawn up for him; pegg'd to the shop, he
Must hear no cry of hounds—but "copy, copy!"
He knows no hunter but the printer's devil,
Comes to no _checks_ but those when critics cavil,
Or such as touch his raw, if he's a feeler,
When driven to drive a bargain with a dealer.

Draft Horse.
]

Hunter and Hack.
]

Seller and Buyer.
]

THE SHOP AND THE SHAY.

"Our life is twofold," Byron says; and it's very certain that we pass an equal part before and behind the curtain;—from the chandler, whose trade's his prop, and contrives, all the week, to stop behind the counter of his _shop_, in the midst of red-herrings and split peas, French eggs, Prussian blue, Irish butter, and Dutch cheese, with many other articles similar to these—but Sunday he gives up to ease; and, "cutting the cheese" for the day, with his _shay_, makes a little display, and off for a trip drives away, with his wife in a toilet most gay, to 'bide by his side, with the pride of a bride, for a ride where their own wishes guide.

Then there's the gentleman some folks call a fop, who lodges very near the house-top, and dines off a solitary chop, in a coat too worn even to pop, and which no old clothesman would swop—_that's the shop!_—Then he turns out a dandy complete, to swell up and down Regent Street, with neat polished boots on his feet, not in dread of the friends he may meet, nor anxious to shuffle away—_that's the shay!_

And next, Mrs. Brown, in a fright, that her seventeen daughters, in spite of their figures so slight, and eyes bright, do not marry as fast as they might, determines her friends to unite, and sends out to each an invite; and all the day's in a sad plight, herself putting up each wax light, in order that all may go right, as she trusts the _blanc mange_ will be white, and not spoilt by her own oversight; and, by evening, is ready to drop—_that's the shop!_—And when night comes, rewarding their pains, her daughters, in _mousselain-de-laines_, with flushed cheeks and quick-throbbing veins, to the cornet-à-piston's shrill strains, are flying about with their swains, whom they hope to entrap in their chains, as fast as a set of mail trains; and all is as gay as a bright summer day—_that's the shay!_

And the young opera _danseuse_, who goes to learn how to walk on her toes, or study each elegant _pose_, to an audience of empty pit rows, in her toilet of everyday clothes, with her cheeks pale as death, and her nose, from the cold, almost _couleur de rose_, the which she incessantly blows, as she goes through each posture and hop—_that's the shop!_—And, at night, from her place at the wing, she comes on the stage with a spring, and plaudits throughout the house ring, at the sight of so sylph-like a thing, and her lover's the son of a king, round whose neck her white arms fondly cling, until pulled aloft by a string, she floats on a bright canvas sunbeam away—_that's the shay!_

And the poor scribbling author, whose will is a few brilliant thoughts to distil, that may flow with his ink from his quill: who grinds his brains just like a mill, in his garret deserted and chill, and thinks till he makes himself ill, in the hopes that his pockets may fill, when the publisher praises his skill, and who trusts, from his efforts, to reap a good crop—_that's the shop!_—And when his said work proves a hit, and the sharpest reviewers admit, that it shows many traces of wit, and he's thought for their _coteries_ fit, and soon of his debts can get quit, no longer obscurely to flit, but soar in the day—_that's the shay!_

The Shop and the Shay.
]

MISERIES ENOUGH FOR THE YEAR.

To find it a rapid thaw when you have purchased a new pair of skates, and have invited a party of ladies to see your performance.

Getting soaked through, on your way to the Epping Hunt, and being told that you have only taken your share of the Easter-_dews_.

Driving your feet hastily into a pair of new Wellingtons, in order not to miss the train (time and boots a tight fit), and finding, by the feel, that the straps are at their bottoms;—boot-jack not to be found.

Being asked to dine, on a New-year's day, with a family, in which the children always expect presents.

Taking a box at a theatre for the express purpose of hearing the wonderful new vocalist, and finding, when you get there, only "indisposition" and a stale comedy.

Being "not at home" to an old friend, and coming downstairs, in a forgetful fit, before he has had time to leave the house.

Bowing, in your usual bland and affable manner, to a gentleman in the street, whom you recollect, as soon as he has passed, that you ought to have kicked.

"Popping the question" in a pair of tight boots; the lady seeming in no hurry, and to enjoy your agony.

Going out to be godfather, and remembering, at the proper crisis for presentation, that you must have left "the" silver cup in some omnibus.

To be interrupted while writing a Bill-et-doux, by the recollection of a bill over due.

Being asked to carve, if you are a musician or literary man.

Being compelled, in a party, to sit down to whist; and hearing your favourite part in an Italian quartet, which you had studied for a week before, sung by a murderous wretch whom you long to strangle.

Writing an _appointment_ to a lady, and a _disappointment_ to a tailor, and cross-directing them.

Paying your rent punctually, on quarter-day, to _your_ landlord, and being distrained on the next day by _his_ landlord.

Having ascertained, by a peep down your friend's area, that there is a turkey on the spit, and calling, accidentally, of course, about dinner-time, you feel rather sheepish when the cold mutton is brought up, and learn, in the course of the evening, that the kitchen fire had been lent for the dinner party of the next-door neighbour.

Abusing a person whom you have never seen, to a respectable-looking stranger, who, after apparently nodding assent, with the patience of a martyr, quietly observes that _he is the man_. The unpleasant anticipation of loose teeth, as you see him making up his _bunch of fives_.

Floored by the Leger.
]