Chapter VI (3)

The whim next seized the Extraordinary, and he danced like a dancing Fakir. He jumped, and thumped, and twirled, and whirled, and so did the rest, till the great drops rolled down their foreheads, for it was in the very middle of the dog-days, and verily if Sirius did not become a dancing dog it was not for want of masters. The clock struck nine, and still they were at it, cross hands, down the middle, and back again--’twas a mercy the bolt held. Chassez-croisez, dos-a-dos!--it was getting on for ten, and yet they never called a fresh set! high time, my masters, for authority to interfere; but the Head of the Corporation had no sooner set the foot of the corporation on the scaffold, than the whole of the corporation gave way to the whim, and was carried off with a swagger into the medley, as if it had been the great ball at Easter. There, I say, was the Mayor of London, scarlet cloak, and fur, and gold chain and all, capering like a climbing boy, on the first of May. If you had seen that morris danced, ’tis long odds, Londoners, you would not have known your own May’r from a Hobbyhorse.

The Sheriffs came next, and they gave in to the same whim and danced, and so did three Phrenologists who were in waiting to take a cast of the skull, and another old woman who had got upon the scaffold to be stroked on the neck for a wen. Though her dancing day was over, she hobbled her best, and so did a Jew who came up to haggle for the criminal’s clothes, and likewise an amateur in hangings, who meant to bid high for a piece of the rope. These all danced, and God knows how many more might have joined the corps de ballet, but for a certain leap that was leaped by the Lord Mayor, and which knocked the whim on the head. Now the Lord Mayor’s weight in the City, in mere flesh, was a matter of sixteen stone (on the 10th of November a little more) and his gold chain was seventy-five pounds, as good Troy weight as if Priam had weighed it himself. He had besides in his pocket, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in gold, ninety-five thousand pounds in silver, and five thousand seven hundred pounds in copper; moreover in his fob was an old family watch, formerly the clock of St. Dunstan, equal to ninety-five pounds and a half. Lastly, he carried on his person a huge bunch of keys, house keys, warehouse keys, shop keys, cellar keys, and particularly wine cellar keys, cupboard keys, and especially pantry keys, and above all the Master Key of the City, which at any old iron shop, would have been reckoned at a hundred pounds. Only think, my masters, when such a corporate body jumped, only think, I say, with what a confounding, astounding, crashing, smashing, flattening, pancake-making sole of a foot it would come down on any reptile short of a crocodile. No wonder, then, that Tony’s whim was completely atomised, obliterated, and annihilated, which it was so utterly, that if you were to search on the gallows to-morrow, with a solar microscope to help you, I don’t believe, on my soul, that you would find the least article or particle of the cuticle of

SONNET TO VAUXHALL.

“The English Garden.”--MASON.

The cold transparent ham is on my fork--
It hardly rains--and hark the bell!--ding-dingle--
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,
Mocking a Vauxhall shower!--Married and Single
Crush--rush;--Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,
Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
To study the Sublime, &c.--(vide Burke)
All Noses are upturned!--Whish--ish!--On high
The rocket rushes--trails--just steals in sight--
Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light--
And Darkness reigns--Then balls flare up and die--
Wheels whiz--smack crackers--serpents twist--and then
Back to the cold transparent ham again!

ODE TO MR. MALTHUS.

My dear, do pull the bell,
And pull it well,
And send those noisy children all up stairs,
Now playing here like bears--
You George, and William, go into the grounds,
Charles, James, and Bob are there,--and take your string,
Drive horses, or fly kites, or anything,
You’re quite enough to play at hare and hounds,--
You little May, and Caroline, and Poll,
Take each your doll,
And go, my dears, into the two-back pair,
Your sister Margaret’s there--
Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school,
At far off Ponty Pool--
I want to read, but really can’t get on--
Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke and John,
Go--to their nursery--go--I never can
Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan!

Oh Mr. Malthus, I agree
In everything I read with thee!
The world’s too full, there is no doubt,
And want’s a deal of thinning out,--
It’s plain--as plain as Harrow’s Steeple--
And I agree with some thus far,
Who say the Queen’s too popular,
That is,--she has too many people.

There are too many of all trades,
Too many bakers,
Too many every-thing-makers,
But not too many undertakers,--
Too many boys,--
Too many hobby-de-hoys,--
Too many girls, men, widows, wives and maids,--
There is a dreadful surplus to demolish,
And yet some Wrongheads,
With thick not long heads,
Poor Metaphysicians!
Sign petitions
Capital punishment to abolish;
And in the face of censuses such vast ones
New hospitals contrive,
For keeping life alive,
Laying first stones, the dolts! instead of last ones!--
Others, again, in the same contrariety,
Deem that of all Humane Society
They really deserve thanks,
Because the two banks of the Serpentine,
By their design,
Are Saving Banks.
Oh! were it given but to me to weed
The human breed,
And root out here and there some cumbering elf.
I think I could go through it,
And really do it
With profit to the world and to myself,--
For instance, the unkind among the Editors,
My debtors, those I mean to say
Who cannot or who will not pay,
And all my creditors.

These, for my own sake, I’d destroy;
But for the world’s, and every one’s,
I’d hoe up Mrs. G--’s two sons,
And Mrs. B--’s big little boy,
Call’d only by herself an “only joy.”
As Mr. Irving’s chapel’s not too full,
Himself alone I’d pull--
But for the peace of years that have to run,
I’d make the Lord Mayor’s a perpetual station,
And put a period to rotation,
By rooting up all Aldermen but one,--
These are but hints what good might thus be done!
But ah! I fear the public good
Is little by the public understood,--
For instance--if with flint, and steel, and tinder,
Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man
Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan,
No doubt some busy fool would hinder
His burning all the Foundling to a cinder.

Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday,
That wine and bun-day,
Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats
Before they died by bit or sup,
Some meddling Marplot would blow up,
Just at the moment critical,
The economy political
Of Saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats.
Equally ’twould be undone,
Suppose the Bishop of London,
On that great day
In June or May,
When all the large small family of charity,
Brown, black, or carroty,
Walk in their dusty parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
To sing together till they scare the walls
Of old St. Paul’s,
Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white,
Some say a gratifying sight,
Tho’ I think sad--but that’s a schism--
To witness so much pauperism--

Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make
In this poor overcrowded world more room,
Proposed to shake
Down that immense extinguisher, the dome--
Some humane Martin in the charity _Gal_-way
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer,
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
Islington--Wapping--or Pall Mall way!

Thus people hatch’d from goose’s egg,
Foolishly think a pest a plague,
And in its face their doors all shut,
On hinges oil’d with cajeput--
Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven,
And turning pale as linen rags
At hoisting up of yellow flags,
While you and I are crying “Orange Boven!”
Why should we let precautions so absorb us,
Or trouble shipping with a quarantine--
When if I understand the thing you mean,
We ought to _import_ the Cholera Morbus!

A GOOD DIRECTION.

A certain gentleman, whose yellow cheek
Proclaimed he had not been in living quite
An Anchorite--
Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day;
At last, by friends’ advice, was led to seek
A surgeon of great note--named Aberfeldie.
A very famous Author upon Diet,
Who, better starr’d than Alchemists of old,
By dint of turning mercury to gold,
Had settled at his country house in quiet.

Our Patient, after some impatient rambles
Thro’ Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles,
At last, to make enquiry had the _nous_,--
“Here, my good man,
Just tell me if you can,
Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie’s house?”
The man thus stopp’d--perusing for a while
The yellow visage of the man of bile,
At last made answer, with a broadish grin:
“Why, turn to right--and left--and right agin,
The road’s direct--you cannot fail to go it.”

“But stop! my worthy fellow!--one word more--
From other houses how am I to know it?”

“How!--why you’ll see _blue pillars_ at the door!”

THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING.

The consulter of Johnson’s Dictionary under the term of Sport, or Sporting, would be led into a great mistake by the Doctor’s definition. The word, with the great Lexicographer, signifies nothing but Diversion, Amusement, Play:--but I shall submit to the reader, with a few facts, whether it has not a more serious connexion, or to speak technically, whether it should be Play or Pay.

When I was a young man, having a good deal of ready money, and little wit,--I went upon the Turf. I began cautiously, and as I thought, knowingly. I studied the studbook, and learnt the pedigree of every new colt--yet somehow, between sire and dam, continually losing “the pony.” My first experiment was at Newmarket. By way of securing a leading article, I backed the Duke of _Leeds_, but the race came off, and the Duke was not placed. I asked eagerly who was _first_, and was told _Fourth_. The winner was a slow but strong horse, and I was informed had got in front by being a _laster_. This was a _puzzle_, but I paid for my Riddlesworth, and prepared for the Derby. By good luck I selected an excellent colt to stand upon--he had been tried--it was a booked thing--but the day before the Derby there was a family wash, and the Laundress hung her wet linen on his _lines_. I paid again. I took advice about the Oaks, and instead of backing a single horse, made my stand, like Ducrow, upon four at once. No luck. Terror did not start--Fury came roaring to the post--Belle was told out, and Comet was tail’d off. I paid again--and began dabbling in the Sweepstakes, and burning my fingers with the Matches. Amongst others, a bet offered that I conceived was peculiarly tempting, 20,000 to 20 against Post Obit--a bad horse indeed, yet such odds seemed unjustifiable, even against “an outsider.” But I soon found my mistake. The outsider was in reality an insider,--filling the stomachs of somebody’s hounds.--Pay again! I resolved however to retaliate, and the opportunity presented itself. I had been confidently informed that Centipede had not a leg to stand on, and accordingly laid against him as thick as it would stick. The following was the report of the race: “Centipede jumped off at a tremendous pace,--had it all his own way--and justified his name by coming in a hundred feet in front.”--Pay again! These “hollow” matters however fretted me little, save in pocket. They were won easy, and lost to match--but the “near things” were unbearable. To lose only by half a head,--a few inches of horse-flesh! I remember two occasions when Giraffe won by “a neck,” and Elephant by “a nose.” I was almost tempted to blow out my brains by the nose, and to hang myself by the neck!

On one of those doubtful occasions, when it is difficult to name the winner, I thought I could determine the point, from some peculiar advantage of situation, and offered to back my opinion. I laid that Cobbler had won, and it was taken; but a signal from a friend decided me that I was wrong, and by way of hedge, I offered to lay that Tinker was the first horse. This was taken like the other, and the Judges declared a dead rob--I mean to say a dead heat.--Pay again!

A likelier chance next offered. There was a difference of opinion, whether Bohea would start for the Cup, and his noble owner had privately and positively assured me that he would. I therefore betted freely that he would _run_ for the Plate, and he _walked_ over!--Pay again! N.B. I found, when it was too late, that I should not have paid in this case, but I did.

The Great St. Leger was still in reserve. Somewhat desperate, I betted round, in sums of the same shape, and my best winner became first favourite at the start. Never shall I forget the sight! I saw him come in ten lengths a-head of everything--hollow! hollow! I had no voice to shout with, and it was fortunate. Man and horse went, as usual, after the race, to be weighed, and were put into the scale. They rose a little in our eyes, and sunk proportionably in our estimation. Roguery was sniffed--the Jockey Club was appealed to, and it gave the stakes to the second horse. All bets went with the stakes, and so--Pay again!

It was time to cut the turf--and I was in a mood for burning it too. I was done by Heath, but the impression on my fortune was not in the finished style. I now turned my attention to aquatics, and having been unfortunate at the One Tun, tried my luck in a vessel of twenty. I became a member of a Yacht Club, made matches which I lost--and sailed for a Cup at the Cowes’ Regatta, but carried away nothing but my own bowsprit. Other boats showed more speed, but mine most bottom; for after the match it upset, and I was picked up by a party of fishermen, who spared my life and took all I had, by way of teaching me, that a preserving is not a saving.--Pay again!

It was time to dispose of The Lucky Lass. I left her to the mate, with peremptory orders to make a sale of her;--an instruction he fulfilled by making all the sail on her he could, and disposing of her--by contract--to a rock, while he was threading the Needles. In the meantime I betook myself to the chase. Sir W. W. had just cut his pack, and I undertook to deal with the dogs:--but I found dog’s meat a dear item, though my friends killed my hunters for me, and I boil’d my own horses. The subscribers, moreover, were not punctual, and whatever differences fell out, I was obliged to make them up.--Pay again! At last I happened to have a dispute with a brother Nimrod as to the capability of his Brown and mine, and we agreed to decide their respective rates, as church rates, by a Steeple Chase. The wager was heavy. I rode for the wrong steeple--leapt a dozen gates--and succeeded in clearing my own pocket.--Pay again!

It was now necessary to retrench. I gave up hunting the county, lest the county should repay it in kind, for I was now getting into its debt. I laid down my horses and took up a gun, leased a shooting-box, and rented a manor, somewhat too far north for me, for after a few moves, I ascertained that the game had been drawn before I took to it. It was useless therefore to try to beat--the dogs, for want of birds, began to point at butterflies. My friends, however, looked for grouse, so I bought them and paid the carriage.--Pay again!

Other experiments I must abridge. I found Pugilistic Sporting, as usual--good with both hands at receiving:--at Cocking the “in-goes” were far exceeded by the “out-goes:”--and at the gaming table, that it was very difficult to pay my way--particularly in coming back. In short I learned pages of meanings at school without trouble, but the signification of that one word Sporting, in manhood has been a long, and an uncomfortable lesson, and I have still an unconquerable relish of its bitterness, in spite of the considerate attentions of my Friends----

“From Sport to Sport they hurry me
To banish my regret,
And when they win a smile from me
They think that I forget.”

THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT!

“So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and
flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold,
my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt’s consent and
approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir,--here is
the picture!”--LYDIA LANGUISH.

O days of old, O days of Knights,
Of tourneys and of tilts,
When love was balk’d and valour stalk’d
On high heroic stilts--
Where are ye gone?--adventures cease,
The world gets tame and flat,--
We’ve nothing now but New Police--
There’s no Romance in that!

I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read,
Or Radcliffe how to write;
That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,
And Lewis cloister’d quite!
Would I had never drunk so deep
Of dear Miss Porter’s vat;
I only turn to life, and weep--
There’s no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk--no turban’d Turk
To Tunis bears me off--
I hear no noises in the night
Except my mother’s cough,--
No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house
No shape,--but owl or bat,
Come flitting after moth or mouse,--
There’s no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess,
My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman’s press;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I’m growing red and fat,
As if I lived on beef and ale--
There’s no Romance in that!

It’s very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That’s worth a pen’s report:
It really made my temper chafe,
Each coast that I was at,
I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,--
There’s no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance
At Brighton one fine day,
My chestnut mare began to prance,
Took fright, and ran away;
Alas! no Captain of the Tenth
To stop my steed came pat;
A Butcher caught the rein at length,--
There’s no Romance in that!

Love--even love--goes smoothly on
A railway sort of track--
No flinty sire, no jealous Don!
No hearts upon the rack;
No Polydore, no Theodore--
His ugly name is Mat,
Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more--
There’s no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall,--
His forehead’s rather low,
He is not pensive--not at all,
But smiles his teeth to show;
He comes from Wales and yet in size
Is really but a sprat;
With sandy hair and grayish eyes--
There’s no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks
Or long sword hanging down;
He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,
Lord Byron-like--he’s not a Bard--
There’s no Romance in that!

He’s rather bald, his sight is weak,
He’s deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then--he’s worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per cents.
By way of private chat,
Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rentes,--
There’s no Romance in that!

I sing--no matter what I sing,
Di Tanti--or Crudel,
Tom Bowling, or God save the King
Di piacer--All’s well;
He knows no more about a voice
For singing than a gnat--
And as to Music “has no choice,”--
There’s no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,
He never serenades;
He writes, and sends it by the post,
He doesn’t bribe the maids:
No stealth, no hempen ladder--no!
He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford Row--
There’s no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee--just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.
John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat;
My lover bows, and says good-night--
There’s no Romance in that!

I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent,
My aunt she quite approves,
My Brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves;
On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place--
There’s no Romance in that.

THE ABSTRACTION.

---- “draws honey forth that drives men mad.”--LALLA ROOKH.

The speakers were close under the bow-window of the inn, and as the sash was open, Curiosity herself could not help overhearing their conversation. So I laid down Mrs. Opie’s “Illustrations of Lying,”--which I had found lying in the inn window--and took a glance at the partners in the dialogue.

One of them was much older than the other, and much taller; he seemed to have grown like quick-set. The other was thick-set.

“I tell you, Thomas,” said Quickset, “you are a flat. Before you’ve been a day in London, they’ll have the teeth out of your very head. As for me, I’ve been there twice, and know what’s what. Take my advice: never tell the truth on no account. Questions is only asked by way of pumping; and you ought always to put ’em on a wrong scent.”

“But aunt is to send her man to meet me at the Old Bailey,” said Thickset, “and to show me to her house. Now if a strange man says to me, ‘young man, are you Jacob Giles,’--an’t I to tell him?”

“By no manner of means,” answered Quickset; “say you are quite another man. No one but a flat would tell his name to a stranger about London. You see how I answered them last night about what was in the waggon. Brooms, says I, nothing else. A flat would have told them there was the honey-pots underneath; but I’ve been to London before, and know a thing or two.”

“London must be a desperate place,” said Thickset.

“Mortal!” said Quickset, “fobs and pockets are nothing! Your watch is hardly safe if you carried it in your inside, and as for money----”

“I’m almost sorry I left Berkshire,” said Thickset.

“Poo--poo,” said Quickset, “don’t be afeard. I’ll look after ye; cheat me, and they’ve only one more to cheat. Only mind my advice. Don’t say anything of your own head, and don’t object to anything _I_ say. If I say black’s white, don’t contradict. Mark that. Say everything as I say.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Thickset; and with this lesson in his shock head, he began to busy himself about the waggon, while his comrade went to the stable for the horses. At last Old Ball emerged from the stable-door with the head of Old Dumpling resting on his crupper; when a yell rose from the rear of the waggon, that startled even Number 55, at the Bush Inn, at Staines, and brought the company running from the remotest box in its retired tea-garden.

“In the name of everything,” said the landlord, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s gone--all gone, by goles!” cried Thickset, with a bewildered look at Quickset, as if doubtful whether he ought not to have said it was _not_ gone.

“You don’t mean to say the honey-pots!” said Quickset, with some alarm, and letting go the bridle of Old Ball, who very quietly led old Dumpling back again into the stable; “you don’t mean to say the honey-pots?”

“I _don’t_ mean to say the honey-pots,” said Thickset, literally following the instructions he had received.

“What made you screech out then?” said Quickset, appealing to Thickset.

“What made me screech out, then?” said Thickset, appealing to Quickset, and determined to say as he said.

“The fellow’s drunk,” said the landlord; “the ale’s got into his head.”

“Ale,--what ale has he had?” enquired Quickset rather anxiously.

“Ale,--what ale have I had?” echoed Thickset, looking sober with all his might.

“He’s not drunk,” shouted Quickset; “there’s something the matter.”

“I’m not drunk; there _is_ something the matter,” bellowed Thickset, and with his fore-finger he pointed to the waggon.

“You don’t mean to say the honey,” said Quickset, his voice falling.

“I _don’t_ mean to say the honey,” said Thickset, his caution rising.

The gesture of Thickset, however, had conveyed some vague notion of danger to his companion. With the agility of a cat he climbed on the waggon, and with the superhuman activity of a demon, soon pitched down every bundle of besoms. There is a proverb that new brooms sweep clean, and they certainly seemed to have swept every particle of honey clean out of the waggon.

Quickset was thunderstruck; he stood gazing at the empty vehicle in silence; while his hands wandered wildly through his hair, as if in search of the absent combs.

When he found words at last, they were no part of the Litany. Words, however, did not suffice to vent his passion; and he began to stamp and dance about, till the mud of the stable-yard flew round like anything you like.

“A plague take him and his honey-pots, too,” said the chambermaid, as she looked at a new pattern on her best gingham.

“It’s no matter,” said Quickset. “I won’t lose it. The house must stand the damage. Mr. Bush, I shall look to you for the money.”

“He shall look to you for the money,” da-capo’d Thickset.

“You may look till doomsday,” said the landlord. “It’s all your own fault; I thought nobody would steal brooms. If you had told me there was honey, I would have put the waggon under lock and key.”

“Why, there _was_ honey,” said Quickset and Thickset.

“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Bush, “you said last night in the kitchen there was nothing but brooms.”

“I heard him,” said John Ostler; “I’ll take my oath to his very words!”

“And so will I,” roar’d the chambermaid, glancing at her damaged gown.

“What of that?” said Quickset, “I know I said there was nothing but brooms.”

“I know,” said Thickset, “I’m positive, he said there was nothing but brooms.”

“He confesses it himself,” said the landlady.

“And his own man speaks agin him,” said the chambermaid.

“I saw the waggon come in, and it didn’t seem to have any honey in it,” said the head waiter.

“May be the flies have eaten it,” said the postillion.

“I’ve seen two chaps the very moral of them two at the bar of the Old Bailey,” said Boots.

“It’s a swindle, it is,” said the landlady, “and Mr. Bush shan’t pay a farthing.”

“They deserve tossing in a blanket,” said the chambermaid.

“Duck ’em in the horsepond,” shouted John Ostler.

“I think,” whispered Thickset, “they are making themselves up for mischief!”

There was no time to be lost. Quickset again lugged Old Ball and Old Dumpling from the stable, while his companion tossed the brooms into the waggon. As soon as possible they drove out of the unlucky yard, and as they passed under the arch, I heard for the last time the voice of Thickset:

“You’ve been to London before, and to be sure know best; but somehow, to my mind, the telling the untruth don’t seem to answer.”

The only reply was a thwack, like the report of a pistol, on the crupper of each of the horses. The poor animals broke directly into something like a canter: and as the waggon turned a corner of the street, I shut down the sash, and resumed my “Illustrations of Lying.”

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I’m come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

“Into our town a serjeant came
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap--alas!
His bow enlisted mine!

“They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

“A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep’,--
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.”

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabouts he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes.”

Her sorrow on the sentinel
Appear’d to deeply strike:--
“Walk in,” he said, “among the dead,
And pick out which you like.”

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,
Half turned into a corse;
A cannon was his bolster, and
His mattress was a horse.

“O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,
Lord, here has been a skrimmage;
What have they done to your poor breast
That used to hold my image?”

“O Patty Head, O Patty Head,
You’re come to my last kissing;
Before I’m set in the Gazette
As wounded, dead, and missing!”

“Alas! a splinter of a shell
Right in my stomach sticks;
French mortars don’t agree so well
With stomachs as French bricks.

“This very night a merry dance
At Brussels was to be;--
Instead of opening a ball,
A ball has open’d me.

“Its billet every bullet has,
And well it does fulfil it;--
I wish mine hadn’t come so straight,
But been a ‘crooked billet.’

“And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest;--
He had no pity in his heart,
For he had _steel’d his breast_.

“Next thing a lancer, with his lance,
Began to thrust away;
I call’d for quarter, but, alas!
It was not Quarter-day.

“He ran his spear right through my arm,
Just here above the joint:--
O Patty dear, it was no joke,
Although it had a point.

“With loss of blood I fainted off,
As dead as women do--
But soon by charging over me,
The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

“With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,
I throb and ache all over;
I’m quite convinc’d the field of Mars
Is not a field of clover!

“O why did I a soldier turn
For any royal Guelph?
I might have been a butcher, and
In business for myself!

“O why did I the bounty take
(And here he gasp’d for breath).
My shillingsworth of ’list is nail’d
Upon the door of death!

“Without a coffin I shall lie
And sleep my sleep eternal:
Not e’en a _shell_--my only chance
Of being made a _Kernel_!

“O Patty dear, our wedding bells
Will never ring at Chester!
Here I must lie in Honour’s bed,
That isn’t worth a _tester_!

“Farewell, my regimental mates,
With whom I used to dress!
My corps is changed, and I am now
In quite another mess.

“Farewell, my Patty dear, I have
No dying consolations,
Except when I am dead, you’ll go
And see th’ illuminations.”

MILLER REDIVIVUS.

“He is become already a very promising miller.”--_Bell’s Life in London._

I was walking very leisurely one evening down Cripplegate, when I overtook--who could help overtaking him?--a lame elderly gentleman, who, by the nature of his gait, appeared to represent the Ward. Like certain lots at auctions, he seemed always going, but never gone: it was that kind of march that, from its slowness, is emphatically called halting. Gout, in fact, had got him into a sad hobble, and, like terror, made his flesh creep.

There was, notwithstanding, a lurking humorousness in his face, in spite of pace, that reminded you of Quick or Liston in _Old Rapid_. You saw that he was not slow, at least, at a quirk or quip,--not backward at repartee,--not behind-hand with his jest, in short, that he was a great wit though he could not jump.

There was something, besides, in his physiognomy, as well as his dress and figure, that strongly indicated his locality. He was palpably a dweller, if not a native, of that clime distinguished equally by “the rage of the vulture and the love of the turtle,”--the good old City of London. But an accident soon confirmed my surmises.

In plucking out his handkerchief from one of his capacious coat pockets, the Bandana tumbled out with it a large roll of manuscript; and as he proceeded a good hundred yards before he discovered the loss, I had ample time before he struggled back, in his Crawly Common pace, to the spot, to give the paper a hasty perusal, and even to make a few random extracts. The MS. purported to be a Collection of Civic Facetiæ, from the Mayoralty of Alderman * * * * up to the present time: and, from certain hints scattered up and down, the Recorder evidently considered himself to have been, for wise saws or witty, the Top Sawyer. Not to forestal the pleasure of self-publication, I shall avoid all that are, or may be, his own sayings, and give only such _jeux de mots_ as have a distinct parentage.

EXTRACTS FROM THE MS.

“Alderman F. was very hard of hearing, and Alderman B. was very hard on his infirmity. One day, a dumb man was brought to the Justice-room charged with passing bad notes. B. declined to enter upon the case. ‘Go to Alderman F.,’ he said: ‘when a dumb man _utters_, a deaf one ought to hear it.’”

* * * * *

“B. was equally hard on Alderman V.’s linen-drapery. One day he came late into Court. ‘I have just come,’ said he, ‘from V.’s villa. He had family prayers last night, and began thus--Now let us read the Psalm Nunc _Dimities_.’”

* * * * *

“Old S., the tobacconist of Holborn Hill, wore his own hair tied behind in a queue, and had a favourite seat in the shop, with his back to the window. Alderman B. pointed him out once to me. ‘Look! there he is, as usual, advertising his _pigtail_.’”

* * * * *

“Alderman A. was never very remarkable for his skill in orthography. A note of his writing is still extant, requesting a brother magistrate to preside for him, and giving, _literatim_, the following reason for his own absence:--‘Jackson the painter is to take me off in my Rob of Office, and I am gone to give him a _cit_.’ His pronunciation was equally original. I remember his asking Alderman C., just before the 9th of November, whether he should have any men in armour in his _shew_.”

* * * * *

“Guildhall and its images were always uppermost with Alderman A. It was he who so misquoted Shakspeare--‘A Parish Beadle, when he’s trod upon, feels as much corporal suffering as Gog and Magog.’”

* * * * *

“A well-known editor of a morning paper enquired of Alderman B., one day, what he thought of his journal. ‘I like it all,’ said the Alderman, ‘but its _Broken English_.’ The editor stared and asked for an explanation. ‘Why, the _List of Bankrupts_, to be sure!’”

* * * * *

“When Alderman B. was elected Mayor, to give greater éclat to his banquet, he sent for Dobbs, the most celebrated cook of that time, to take the command of the kitchen. Dobbs was quite an enthusiast in his art, and some culinary deficiencies on the part of the ordinary Mansion-House professors driving him at least to desperation, he leapt upon one of the dressers, and began an oration to them, by this energetic apostrophe,--‘Gentlemen! do you call yourselves cooks!’”

* * * * *

“One of the present Household titles in the Mansion-House establishment was of singular origin. When the celebrated men in armour were first exhibited, Alderman P., who happened to be with his Lordship previous to the procession, was extremely curious in examining the suits of mail, &c., expressing, at the same time, an eager desire to try on one of the helmets. The Mayor, with his usual consideration, insisted on first sending it down to the kitchen to be aired, after which process the ambition of the Alderman met with its gratification. For some little time he did not perceive any inconvenience from his new beaver, but by degrees the enclosure became first uncomfortably, and then intolerably warm; the confined heat being aggravated by his violent but vain struggles to undo the unaccustomed fastenings. An armourer was obliged to be sent for before his face could be let out, red and rampant as a Brentford Lion from its iron cage. It appeared, that in the hurry of the Pageant, the chief Cook had clapped the casque upon the fire, and thus found out a recipe for stewing an Alderman’s head in its own steam, and for which feat he has retained the title of the Head-Cook, ever since!”

* * * * *

“G. the Common-council-man, was a Warden of his own Company, the Merchant Tailors’. At one of their frequent Festivals, he took with him, to the dinner, a relation, an officer of the tenth foot. By some blunder, the soldier was taken for one of the fraternity, but G. hastened to correct the mistake:--‘Gentlemen, this isn’t one of the Ninth parts of a man--he’s one of the Tenth!’”

“One day there was a dispute, as to the difficulty of Catch-Singing, Alderman B. struck in, ‘Go to Cheshire the Hangman--he’ll prove to you there’s a good deal of _Execution_ in a _Catch_.’”

A ZOOLOGICAL REPORT.

_To Harvey Williams, Esq., Regent’s Terrace, Portland Park._

HONNERED SUR,

Being maid a Feller of the Zoological Satiety, and I may say by
your Honner’s meens, threw the carrachter your Humbel was favered
with, and witch provd sattisfacktry to the Burds and Bests,
considring I was well quailifid threw having Bean for so menny
hears Hed Guardner to your Honner, besides lookin arter the Pigs
and Poltry. Begs to axnolige my great fullness for the Sam, and
ham quit cumfittable and happy, sow much sow as wen I ham amung
the Anymills to reckin myself like Addam in Parodies, let alone my
Velvoteens.

Honnerd Sur,--awar of your parshalty for Liv Stox and Kettle
Breading, ham indust to faver with a Statement of wat is dun at the
Farm, havin tacken provintial Noats wile I was at Kings-ton with
a Pekin elefunt for chainges of Hair. As respex a curacy beg to
say, tho the Sectary drawd up his Report from his hone datums and
memmorandusses, and never set his eyes on my M.E.S.S., yet we has
tallys to our tails in the Mane.

Honnerd Sir,--I will sit out with the Qadripids, tho weave add the
wust lux with them. Scarse anny of the Anymills with fore legs
has moor nor one Carf. Has to the Wappity Dears, hits wus then
the Babby afore King Sollyman, but their his for one littel Dear
betwin five femail she hinds. The Sambo Dear as was sent by Mr.
Spring was so unnatral has to heat up her Forn and in consequins
the Sing-Sing is of no use for the lullabis. Has for Corsichan hits
moor Boney nor ever, But the Axis on innqueries as too littel Axes
about a munth hold. The Neil Gow has increst one Carf, but their
his no Foles to the Quaggys. Their his too littel Zebry but one as
not rum to grow; the Report says, “the Mail Owen to the Nessessary
Confinement in regard to Spaice is verry smal.”

Honnerd Sur, the Satiety is verry rich in Assis, boath Commun assis
and uncommon assis, and as the Report recumends will do my Inndever
to git the Maltese Cross for your Honner. The Kangroses as reerd up
a large smal fammily but looks to be ill nust and not well put to
there feat, and at the surjesting of a femail Feller too was put
out to the long harmd Babboon to dry nus, but she was too violent
and dandled the pure things to deth. The infunt Zebew is all so
ded owen to Atemps with a backbord to prevent groing out of the
sholders, boath parrents being defourmd with umphs; but the spin as
is suposed was hert in the exspearment, and it sudenly desist. Mr.
Wallack will be glad to here the Wallachian Sheap has add sicks
lams, but one was pisend by eating the ewes in the garden witch is
fattle to kattle. Has to gots we was going on prospus in the Kiddy
line, but the Billy gots becum so vishus and did so menny butts a
weak we was obleeged to do away with the Entire. As regards Rabits
a contiguous dissorder havin got into the Stox, we got rid of the
Hole let alone one Do and Brewd, witch was all in good Helth up to
Good Fridy wen the Mother brekfisted on her bunnis. The increas in
the Groth of Hairs as bean maid an object, and the advice tacken
of Mr. Prince and Mr. Roland, who recumendid Killin one of the
Bares for the porpus of Greece. We hav a grate number of ginny
pigs--their is moor than twenty of them in one Pound.

About Struthus Burds the Ostreaches is in in perfic helth and full
of Plums. The femail Hen lade too egs wile the Committy was sittin
and we hop they will atch, as we put them under a she Hemew as
was sittin to Mr. Harvy. We propos breading Busturds xept we hav
not got a singel specieman of the specious Galnatious Burds. I am
sory to say The Curryso has not bread. Hits the moor disapinting
as we considder these Birds as our Crax. We sucksided in razing a
grate menny Turkys and some intresting expearimints was maid on
them by the Committy and the Counsel on Crismus day. Lickwise on
Poltry Fouls with regard to there being of Utility for the Tabel
and “under the latter head” the report informs “sum results hav
bean obtained witch air considdered very satisfactry,” but their
will be more degested trials of the subjex as the Report says “the
expeariments must be repetid in order to istablish the accuracy
of the deduckshuns.” Wat is remarkable the hens pressented by Mr.
Crockford hav not provd grate layers tho provided with a Better
Yard and plenty of Turf. We hav indevourd to bread the grate Cok
of the Wud onely we have no Wud for him to be Cok of--and now
for aquotic Warter Burds we hav wite Swons but they hav not any
cygnitures, and the Black is very unrisenable as to expens but Mr.
Hunt has offerd to black one very lo on condishun hits not aloud
to go into the Warter. The Polish swons wod hav bread onely they
did not lay. The Satiety contanes a grate number of Gease and witch
thriv all most as well as they wood on a commun farm and the Sam
with Dux. We wonted to have dukelings from the Mandereen Dux but
they shook there Heds. Too ears a go a qantitty of flownders and
also a quantitty of heals of witch an exact acount is recordid
wear turned into one of the Ponds but there State as not bean
looked into since they wear plaiced their out of unwillingnes to
disturb the Hotter. At pressent their exists in one Pond a stock
of Karps and in too others a number of gould fish of the commun
Sort. The number left as bean correcly tacken and the ammount
checkt by the Pellycanes and Herrins and Spun-bills and guls and
other piskiverous Burds. Looking at the hole of the Farm in one
Pint of Vue we hav ben most suckcesful with Rabits and Poltry and
Piggins and Ginny Pigs but the breading of sich being well none to
Skullboys, I beg as to their methodistical principals to refer your
Honner to Master Gorge wen he cums home for the Holedays. I furgot
to say the Parnassian Sheap was acomidated with a Pen to it self
but produst nothin worth riting. But the attemps we hav maid this
here, will be prosycutid next here with new Vigors.

Honnerd Sur,--their is an aggitating Skeam of witch I humbly aprove
verry hiley. The plan is owen to sum of the Femail Fellers,--and
that is to make the Farm a Farm Ornay. For instances the Buffloo
and Fallo dears and cetra to have their horns Gilded and the
Mufflons and Sheaps is to hav pink ribbings round there nex. The
munkys is to ware fancy dressis and the Ostreaches is to have their
plums stuck in their heds, and the Pecox tales will be always
spred out on fraim wurks like the hispaliers. All the Bares is to
be tort to Dance to Wippert’s Quadrils and the Lions mains is to
be subjective to pappers, and the curling-tongues. The gould and
silver Fesants is to be Pollisht evry day with Plait Powder and the
Cammile and Drumdearis and other defourmd anymills is to be paddid
to hide their Crukidnes. Mr. Howerd is to file down the tusks of
the wild Bores and Peckaris and the Spoons of the Spoonbills is
to be made as like the Kings Patten as posible. The elifunt will
be himbelisht with a Sugger candid Castle maid by Gunter and the
Flaminggoes will be toucht up with Frentch ruge and the Damisels
will hav chaplits of heartifitial Flours. The Sloath is proposd to
hav an ellegunt Stait Bed--and the Bever is to ware one of Perren’s
lite Warter Proof Hats--and the Balld Vulters baldnes will be hided
by a small Whig from Trewfits. The Crains will be put into trousirs
and the Hippotomus tite laced for a waste. Experience will dictait
menny more imbellishing modes, with witch I conclud that I am

Your Honners
Very obleeged and humbel former Servant,
STEPHEN HUMPHREYS.

LITERARY REMINISCENCES.

“Commençons par le commencement.”

The very earliest of one’s literary recollections must be the acquisition of the alphabet; and in the knowledge of the first rudiments I was placed on a par with the Learned Pig, by two maiden ladies that were called Hogsflesh. The circumstance would be scarcely worth mentioning, but that being a day boarder, and taking my dinner with the family, I became aware of a Baconian brother, who was never mentioned except by his Initial, and was probably the prototype of the sensitive “Mr. H.” in Lamb’s unfortunate farce. The school in question was situated in Token-house Yard, a convenient distance for a native of the Poultry, or Birchin-lane, I forget which, and in truth am not particularly anxious to be more certainly acquainted with my parish. It was a metropolitan one, however, which is recorded without the slightest repugnance: firstly, for that, practically, I had no choice in the matter; and secondly, because, theoretically, I would as lief have been a native of London as of Stoke Pogis or little Pedlington. If such local prejudices be of any worth, the balance ought to be in favour of the capital. The Dragon of Bow Church, or Gresham’s Grasshopper, is as good a terrestrial sign to be born under as the dunghill cock on a village steeple. Next to being a citizen of the world, it must be the best thing to be born a citizen of the world’s greatest city. To a lover of his kind, it should be a welcome dispensation that cast his nativity amidst the greatest congregation of the species; but a literary man should exult rather than otherwise that he first saw the light--or perhaps the fog--in the same metropolis as Milton, Gray, De Foe, Pope, Byron, Lamb, and other town-born authors, whose fame has nevertheless triumphed over the Bills of Mortality. In such a goodly company I cheerfully take up my livery; and especially as Cockneyism, properly so called, appears to be confined to no particular locality or station in life. Sir Walter Scott has given a splendid instance of it in an Orcadian, who prayed to the Lord to bless his own tiny ait, “not forgetting the neighbouring island of Great Britain:” and the most recent example of the style I have met with, was in the Memoirs of Sir William Knighton, being an account of sea perils and sufferings during a passage across the Irish Channel by “the First Gentleman in Europe.”

Having alluded to my first steps on the ladder of learning, it may not be amiss in this place to correct an assertion of my biographer in the Book of Gems, who states, that my education was finished at a certain suburban academy. In this ignorant world, where we proverbially live and learn, we may indeed leave off school, but our education only terminates with life itself. But even in a more limited sense, instead of my education being finished, my own impression is, that it never so much as progressed towards so desirable a consummation at any such establishment, although much invaluable time was spent at some of those institutions where young gentlemen are literally boarded, lodged, and _done for_. My very first essay was at one of those places, improperly called _semi_-naries, because they do not half teach anything; the principals being probably aware that the little boys are as often consigned to them to be “out of a mother’s way,” as for anything else. Accordingly, my memory presents but a very dim image of a pedagogical powdered head, amidst a more vivid group of females of a composite charter-part dry-nurse, part housemaid, and part governess,--with a matronly figure in the back ground, very like Mrs. S., allegorically representing, as Milton says, “our universal mother.” But there is no glimpse of Minerva. Of those pleasant associations with early school days, of which so much has been said and sung, there is little amongst my retrospections, excepting, perhaps, some sports which, like charity, might have been enjoyed at home, without the drawback of sundry strokes, neither apoplectic nor paralytic, periodical physic, and other unwelcome extras. I am not sure whether an invincible repugnance to early rising may not be attributable to our precocious wintry summonses, from a warm bed into a dim damp school-room, to play at filling our heads on an empty stomach; and perhaps I owe my decided sedentary habits to the disgust at our monotonous walks, or rather processions, or maybe to the sufferings of those longer excursions of big and little, where a pair of compasses had to pace as far and as fast as a pair of tongs. Nevertheless, I yet recall, with wonder, the occasional visits of grown-up ex-scholars to their old school, all in a flutter of gratitude and sensibility at recognising the spot where they had been caned, and horsed, and flogged, and fagged, and brimstone-and-treacled, and blackdosed and stickjawed, and kibed, and fined,--where they had caught the measles and the mumps, and been overtasked, and undertaught--and then, by way of climax, sentimentally offering a presentation snuff-box to their revered preceptor, with an inscription, ten to one, in dog Latin on the lid!

For my own part, were I to revisit such a haunt of my youth, it would give me the greatest pleasure, out of mere regard to the rising generation, to find Prospect House turned into a Floor Cloth Manufactory, and the playground converted to a bleachfield. The tabatière is out of the question. In the way of learning, I carried off nothing in exchange for my knife and fork, and spoon, but a prize for Latin without knowing the Latin for prize, and a belief which I had afterwards to unbelieve again, that a block of marble could be cut in two with a razor.

To be classical, as Ducrow would say, the Athenians, the day before the Festival of Theseus, their Founder, gratefully sacrificed a ram, in memory of Corridas the schoolmaster, who had been his instructor: but in the present day, were such offerings in fashion, how frequently would the appropriate animal be a donkey, and especially too big a donkey to get over the Pons Asinorum!