Chapter VIII (6)

This is to acknowledge the favour of your family letter with enclosures, which came to hand as pleasant and welcome as a 4-inch shell, that is no great treat of itself, and discharges a worse lot of botheration from its inside. Between both I got as Port Royal a headache as a man need desire from a bottle of new rum, for which, as it’s not unbrotherly to swear at a nevy, “dear Bob” and his school be d--d. As to my not answering letters, I _always_ do, provided they are either saucy or challenging; in which case, like answering a broadside, it’s a point of duty and honour to return as good as you get;--but for swopping sweet civil lollipop letters, lick for lick, it’s more than I would do with any female alive, let alone a man. And when yours are not lollipopping, they’re snivelling, or else both together, as the case is now. However blood’s blood: and so for once I will commit what you want, rather than accept your invite, and go up to help you and that old dry red cow, Mother Rumsey, to chew the cud of the matter all over again by word of mouth. As for harrowing up my feelings, or ploughing them up either, thank my stars it’s a stiffer soil than that comes to. Why, my feelings are as tough--and not without need--as a bull-beef steak fresh killed, and take quite as much pitching into before they’re as tender as you suppose. Likely it is, that a man who has rammed his head, as I have in Africa, into a stuck camel for a secondhand swig at his cistern, would come within sixty degrees of the notion of pitying a lubberly school-boy for having as much as ever he could swill of sour swipes! Then for bad food, the stinkingest beef I ever met with was none to be had, good or bad, except the smell of the empty barrel. That’s something like what you call being pincht in my fud; and so it was I reckon when I gave my watch, and a good seven shilling piece besides, for about a pound of pork cartridges. So I’m not going to pipe my eye at dear Bob’s short commons neither. It’s all very well for pap-boating mothers to admire fat babbies while they’re on the lap; but the whole human breed would be spoiled, if Mother Nature did not unspoil it again by sending us now and then to the School of Adversity, without a knife and fork and a spoon. I came in for a quarter’s learning there myself, in the Desart as aforesaid, and one of the lessons I learnt was from the ostriches; namely, when you can’t get a regular cargo of food, you must go in ballast with old shoes, leather caps, or any other odd matters you can pick up. There’s nothing in life like bringing chaps up hardy, if they’re to stand the hammering we’re all born to, provided we are born alive. I once heard a clever Yankee arguing to the same point. “Rear up your lads,” says he, “like nails; and then they’ll not only go through the world, but you may clench ’em on t’other side.” And for my part, if I was a father, which thank God I am not, to my knowledge, I would mark down a week of Banyan days to every month in the Almanack, just to accustom the youngsters to take in and let out their bread bags, till it came natural; like the Laps and Esquimaux, who spend their lives in a feast and a fast, turn and turn about, whereby their insides get as elastic as India rubber, and accommodate themselves to their loading, chock full or clean, as falls out. I’ve known the time I would have given all my prize-money for a set of linings of the same conveniency, as when it was coming to the toss-up of a cowry whether I was to eat Tom Pike, or Tom Pike was to eat me. Just read the North Pole Voyages, and you will see that pampering bellies is not the exact course to make Captain Backs. So for all that’s been made on that tack, hitherto, you owe nothing but a higher rating to Doctor Darby, provided there’s any step above Doctor in his service; I’ll even go so far as stand my share towards a bit of plate to him, for not making my nevy a loblolly milk-sop. That’s my notion about hard fare. To be sure there was Mother Brownrigg was hung for going a little too near the wind in her ‘prentices’ insides; but if the balance was squared, a few of the other old women would be run up to the yard-arm, for slow poisoning the rising generation with sugar-plum cakes and kickshaw tarts. And that your dear Bob has got a rare sweet tooth of his own is as plain as the Pike of Teneriffe, for it sticks out like a Barbary wild boar’s tusks all through his precious complaints. Whereby you had better clap a stopper on in time, unless mayhap you want him to grow up in the fashion, which seems now-a-days for our young men to know, and think, and talk, aye and write too, about kitchen craft,--with their _pully olays_ and _volley vongs_--as if they was so many cook’s mates at a French hotel. There’s no disputing likings, but rather than be such a macaroni dishclout dandy, as delicate as a lap-dog, I’d be a turnspit’s whelp at once, and sit up on my hind legs a-begging for the sop in the pan. Now if you’re for his being one of those unabled-bodied objects of creation, I’ve no more to say; for you have got the right bearings, and have only to stand on till you bring dear Bob and Molly Coddle into one. But if so be on the contrary you have gumption enough to want to claw off that point, then down helm at once, and cut Mother Rumsey adrift, plum cakes and all. I’ve long had on my mind to drop you a word of advice against that old catamaran, who knows fast enough that two bears’ heads are never so likely to rub together as when they’re a-licking the same cub. By the cub I mean my nevy, and the two old ones are you and Mother R. Besides it’s been my observation through life. Many’s the young man and woman will live for years together in the same house, or make the India voyage together in the same ship, without hooking on, or even coming in sight of such a notion; but neither I, nor anybody else, ever saw two old ones, he and she, in the like case, without their coming at long and at last to a splice in church. So it is with an old cat and dog, that while they had a tooth in their heads could hardly abide in the same parish, whereas when they get on the superannuated list, you will see them as thick as thieves, and messing together in the same dish. The philosophy of it is more than I pretend to know, unless it be they’re past fighting, and fit for no active sort of work;--but so it is, as sure as the sea is salt. You had best then part company at once, if you don’t want to see dear Bob mast-headed up to the back garret, or cooped down in the coal-cellar, on monkey’s allowance; such being the first steps a stepmother always takes in any story-book I ever read. I’m for my nevy having fair-play after all. So as I’ve subscribed to the bit of plate to Dr. Darby for case-hardening the fellow’s carcass, you may set me down towards the spitefullest boatswain’s cat that ever was handled, in case it turns out he has neglected the boy’s mind. I’ve seen a man seized up for a much smaller offence than crimping and inveigling a long hundred of lads at a time to a Sham Abram school, and swindling them out of the best part of the property about them, namely their juvenile time. It is only a streak above kidnapping, seeing that for any profit in learning the youngsters might as well spend their best years in the Plantations. Not but that Parents deserve a cobbing themselves for putting a boy under a master without asking to look at his certificates. As for the Latin and Greek, mayhap they’re no loss to take on about. The dead and gone tongues for a tradesman’s son, that’s going behind a counter, is much of a muchness with fitting up a Newcastle collier’s cabin after the pattern of a Leith smack’s; only that the gilding and polishing may be grimed and grubbed off again in the course of trade. Still, considering they were paid for as work done, in common honesty my nevy ought to have had them put in his head; or at least something in lieu, such as Navigation or the like. His own mother tongue is quite a different matter; and thereupon I’ll give you my mind, upright and downright, of the two School-letters. To be sure the Doctor likes weight of metal, and fires away with the high-soundingest words he can get, whereby his meaning is apt to loom bigger than it is, like a fishing-boat in a fog; and where there’s such a ground swell of language, a seaman is apt to think there’s no great depth of ideas; but bating that, there’s nothing to shake a rope’s end at, but quite the reverse, especially as to teaching the youngsters to give three cheers for their king and country. Now, Dear Bob’s letter-work on the other hand, with its complaints of hard fare, is only fit to be sung by a snivelling Swiss beggar boy to his hurdy gurdy; besides many a chafe in the grammar and orthography, and being writ in such a scrambling up and down fist as a drunken purser might scrawl in a gale of wind. Now it’s my opinion a landsman that hasn’t his hands made as hard as horn with hauling home sheets nor his fingers as stiff and sticky as pitch can make ’em, has it in his power to write as fine penmanship as copperplate except for the want of good will. So that the fault may be set down to my nevy’s own account, and mayhap many of the rest, for no doubt there are skulkers at school as well as on board ship. My advice then is this, namely, just throw a shot across Dr. Darby’s forefoot, to let him know you mean to overhaul him, and demand a sight of the school log, and so forth; by which you will have satisfaction one way or another; and putting the case he has gone to leeward of his duty, why, then come hammer and tongs, and blaze away at him to your heart’s content. The next step in course will be to take my nevy from under his orders, and find him a berth in a well officered ship; and I am ready so far to do an uncle’s part by the lad, as help to look out for a proper well-appointed craft. That’s my advice whether you steer by it or not--and so no more at present, and not sorry to belay--from

Dear John, Your loving Brother,
BEN CARNABY.

No. III.--_To Mr._ BENJAMIN CARNABY, _Brigantine Row, Deptford, London._

DEER BRUTHER,

This is to acnolidge the faver of your verry hash letter as I am complld to call it, both as regard deer Bob and that verry wurthy sole, pore Mrs. Rumsey. I am sory to find you can bare a grug so long, for I am shure she is too obleeging and civil spokin to hav disagred to your smokin in the parler if so be she had none you maid it sich a int. As for her inwigglin me into becummin a step farther to my one child watever old brut bares and cats and dogs may do, I hop my Virtu will purtect me from infiddlety to a former ti. As for pore Bob, he hav no more sweat toth then all boys is born with, and if he do rite with a bad hand, i nevver cud rite any grate shacks myself on an emti stummach. But that’s what you can’t or won’t inter into, no more than I can inter into cammil’s insids or hostridges eating their old shues and lether caps. In regard to yure advis thanking you all the sam, but meen to foller my hone, not but wat it ware nateral for you to recumend acording to yure one line of lif, to wom fiting and dueling is sekonand nater. As such hammer and tonges and blazin away pistles wood be quit in yure spear, but as for my wantin satisfaxion of Doctor Darby, and shuting his fore feet, or his hind feet ether, or inded any wares els, is moor than I coud promis tho no dout ment kindly, but I am nun of yure wingin amers. Besids being agin the Bibil and Gospil and only fit for gentilmen born. Still I tak as frendly ment, as well as yure offir to git yure nevy a siteation on bord ship witch wood be a shure way to hurry my dissent to the Tom. The see always was a haw to my mind, and if it litind or a grate hevvy gal came, I shod transpire with frite; or be thinkin on fogie nites of the ship lossing her way and gittin out of her depth. Howsumever I feal grateful for the horible idear, tho I cant xcept, and in meen time have rit to Dr. D. to remonsterit and ask him to say candiddle wether he hav starvd deer Bob and ruind his mind or no. I faver with a coppy of mine and will foreward hisn wen it cum, and as my gowt is mendin, mayhap I may go down to rumfud sum of thes days, and luck into every think with my one ize.

I am Deer Benjamin
Yure luving Bruther
JOHN CARNABY.

(Copy.)

_To Dr._ DARBY _Socratis Hous School Establismint, Rumfud Essex._

DOCTER DARBY SUR.

If so be a farther and a Parrint may tak so grate a libberty, its my wish to rite about my Sun. Not bein a skollard, oing to neglected genus in yuth, I am uncompitent to be a Gudge and war indust to sho the skull letter to my Bruther Benjamin, of the late Rial Navy who had moor buck larning for his Sheers, besids seein forren parts and he do say wot give grate concern to All as is concarned, namely my Suns edication is fur from a thurro nollige of evvery thing, and partickly his hostifografy or summat to that effect. As such is hily blammabil to yureself or tooters whos provins war to propergit wot they had in their hone heds into them under them, insted of witch his unkel say he hav bin teecht moor ignorans then anny think else. Witch is verry ard considring mints of munny lad out, and hevin nose I have not bin sparring with him, but pade away at a grate rat, ever sins he war britchd. Hunderds cant kiver him from fust to last And nothin but blited hops arter all. Cirkimstancis purvented my having moor nor one acomplishment and that war my farthers bisness, but tho brort up hill miself I no the Valley of edicashun. Warefor if it be no offens I wish to no candiddle from your hone Mouth wether you hav so unedicatted him as his Unkil suspex. At sam tim will esteam a faver to no if he continny in gud helth witch ware always a littel dellicat and pecking, but I trust as how Rumfud hare and gud beaf and muttin and holesum wit bred and milk hav made him quit fat. His pore late muther lickwise made a pint of gud unturnd tabel bear, as all assiduities is injurus to yuth. As she used to say, pore sole, fud and flanning saves fisick. Allso I hop and trust you disalow the boys of advanst years tirenizing over the weekly wons, or savedge tooters as is apt to sho lickings and dislickings. The tooters morrils in course is a car not overluckd, but sweetharting demand constant vigilings to gard agin its cumming in clandestiny where it ort not. Mrs. Rumsey also begs to apollogiz for naming damp beds, but in coarse Misses Doctor Darby have a muther’s feelings about damp lining for boys boddis. All witch will give grate sattisfaxun to here, as in case of the revers parrintel duty will feal hobbligated to remov afore the mischief go to fur. I shall luck eggerly for your anser and trust you will embrace all the queerys. I ashore it will giv grate pleshure not to hav to remove my custom, with witch and respective compliments,

I remane Dr. Darby Sur
Your verry humbel Servant
JOHN CARNABY.

No. IV.--_To Mister_ BENJAMIN CARNABY, _Brigantine Row, Deptford._

DEER BENJAMIN,

Inclosd is Dr. Darby’s explainative Not, witch for anny thing I no to the contrairy is evvery thing as we cud luck for, without going into the retales. He apear to hav no douts of a misscomprehenshun on our parts, witch prove us to be boath in the rong as will be a grate comfit to you and deer Benjamin.

Yure luving Bruther
JOHN CARNABY.

(THE ENCLOSURE.)--_To_ JOHN CARNABY, _Esquire._

DEAR SIR,

In ancient Greece and Rome, so celebrated for their classical Attainments, it would have been considered derogatory to the Academical Dignity, for Scholastic Discipline to be subject to Animadversion from a Civic Character, professedly unconversant with Polite Literature in all its Branches. As the Principal of a Pedagogical Establishment, I might, therefore, objurgate with Propriety any irrelevant Discussion to be deprecated from such a superfluous source. Conscious, however, of standing on the Basis of an undeniable Prospectus, which professes to embrace Universal Knowledge, throughout the Circle of the Arts and Sciences, I am prepared to assert that a more Comprehensive System of Education could not be devised than that which is ascribed to the Establishment of Socrates House. If further Testimonials were necessary, I might triumphantly appeal to the Mental Cultivation of flourishing Members of Society, evinced in the successful Pursuit of Affluence, in the Eastern and Western Hemispheres, so advantageous to the Commerce, Wealth, and Power, of the United Kingdom. Such Testimonies, it is presumed, are sufficiently obvious to the most Unprejudiced Mind, to demand those unerring Principles of fostering Talent, inviting Emulation, and stimulating Enquiry, combined with Moral, Intellectual, and Dietetical qualities, such as to command the unreserved Approbation and Confidence of all parties engaged in the important Task of Juvenile Tuition. Trusting that the Prolixity of this explanatory Statement will propitiate the most Paternal Solicitude, with sentiments in accordance with the rapid Progress of Human Civilization, permit me to subscribe myself, with every feeling of respect,

Dear Sir,
Your most obedient, faithful, humble servant,
SIMON DARBY, LL.D.

No. V.--_To Mr._ JOHN CARNABY, _49, Polyanthus Place, Mile End Road, London._

DEAR BROTHER,

If I was to write what comes uppermost, I should stand a chance of a place I won’t name. But you always was a you-know-what, and as the proverb says, there’s never a one like you now you are old. As for the school, it’s the nest of a land pirate; and for any good to his mind, dear Bob might as well be in the Hulks. However it won’t do to let you go and make a so-and-so of yourself all over the country--whereby, luckily for you, there’s an old shipmate of mine laid up at Rumford, and so I can kill him and my Nevy with the same stone. So let Mister Doctor Darby look out for squalls, and that’s all from

Your loving Brother,
BEN CARNABY.

“YES--I WAS PLUCKED AT COLLEGE.”]

No. VI.--(_From the Same to the Same._)

DEAR BROTHER,

This is to say I made this place, namely Rumford, yesterday morning about 10 A.M., and immediately bore away to Socrates House, and asked for my nevy,--but you shall have it logged down all fair and square.

Well, after a haul at the bell, and so forth, I was piloted into a room, on the ground tier, by the footman, and a pastryfaced son of a land cook he looked sure enough. Where, as soon as may be, Mrs. Doctor Darby joins company, a tight little body enough, all bobbing up and down with courtesys like the buoy at the Nore, and as oily tongued as any rat in the Greenland Docks. By her own account, she rated a step above Mother to six score of boys, big and little, and every man jack of them more made of, and set store by, than if they had been parts of her own live stock. All which flummery would go down with you, and the marines, mayhap, but not with old sailors like me. As for dear Bob, she buttered him of both sides, thick and threefold, as the best, sweetest, darlingest, and what not young gentleman of the whole kit, besides finding out a family likeness between him and his uncle, which if it’s any feature at all, is all my eye. Next she enquired after you, the worthiest parent she ever knew, not excepting her own father, whereby I blest my stars you were not within hail; or you would have been flabbergasted in no time, with your eyes running like scuppers, and your common senses on their beam ends. At long and last in comes my Nevy himself, as smooth and shining as a new copper; whereby says she, “I hope you will excuse untidiness, and so forth, because of sending for him just as he stood.” That’s how he came no doubt in his Sunday’s breeches; besides twigging the wet soap-suds in his ears. “Here my sweet love,” she sings out, “here’s your dear kind uncle so good as to come to enquire after your welfare.” So dear Bob, heaves ahead, and gets a kiss, not from me tho, and a liquorish lozenge for what she called his nasty hack. Nothing however but a colic with parched peas, as he owned to afterwards. “Now, then, Nevy,” says I, “what cheer--how do you like your berth?” when up jumps Madam like a scalded cat; and no or yes, I must drink the favour of a glass of Sherry Rank Cape, John, as ever was shipped. Then Master Robert, bless him, must have a leetle glass too, but provided I approve, and a ration of sweet cake. Whereby says she, “Now I will leave you to your mutual confidences”--as looked all fair and above board enough, if I had not made out a foot near the door. And in the twinkling of a handspike in sails Dr. Darby himself, with as many scrapes to me as if I was Port Admiral; and as anxious about my old gout,--for I’ve got an easy shoe for a bunion--as if he’d been intimate with it in my great-grandfather’s time. Well, we palavered a bit about the French news, and the weather, and the crops, whatever you like, let alone book learning; but that was not my course, and impatient to see Tom Pike, besides, so I ran slap aboard him at once with an ask to see the school. As I looked for, he was took all aback; however Madam wasn’t thrown so dead in the wind, but jumped up to the bell tackle, and after a bit of a whisper with the servant, we got under way for the school; but contrived to land somehow in the kitchen, with a long row of quartern loaves drawn up on a dresser to receive us, like a file of marines. Then Madam begins to spin a long yarn about plain food, but plenty of it, for growing youths--dear Bob’s very lathy, John, for all that--and then comes the Doctor’s turn to open with a preachment on animal foods, and what will digest, and what won’t; tho’ for my own part, I never met with any meat but would do it in time, more or less. So by way of clapping a stopper I made bold to remind that time is short tho’ life is long, and thereby luffing slap up to my Nevy, “Bob,” says I, “what’s the variation of the compass?” So Master Bob turns it about a bit, and then says he, “Why, it’s one leg shorter than t’other.” Which is about as nigh it, Brother, as you are to Table Bay! And how it gave the Doctor a bad fit of coughing, which his wife caught of him as natural as if it had been the hooping sort--at last says she, “Maybe Master Robert has not progressed yet into navigation.” “Maybe not, Ma’am,” says I, “and so we’ll try on another tack--Nevy, what’s metaphysics?” “Brimstone and Treacle,” says Bob, as ready as gunpowder, and the lady looked as satisfied as Bob did--but the Doctor had another bad fit, and good reason why, for there’s no more physic in metaphysics than a baby might take in its pap. By this time we were going up stairs, but lay-to awhile alongside a garden pump on the landing, to have a yarn about dowsing glims, and fire guards, and going the rounds at night; and as dear Bob hung astarn, I yawed, and let fly at him again with “What’s religion?” “The colic on Sundays,” says he, as smart as you like; tho’ what he meant by colic the Old Gentleman knows. However both the Doctor and Madam pulled a pleasant face at him, and looked as pleased as if he had found out the longitude; but that was too fine weather to last, for thinks I, in course he can carry on a little further on that board, so says I, “What’s the main-top-gallant rule of Christianity?” “Six weeks at Christmas,” says he, as bold as brass from getting encouraged before. So you see, John, he don’t know his own persuasion. In course we were all at wry faces again; but the Doctor had the gumption to shove his out of a window, and sing out an order to nobody in the back yard. As for Madam, she shot ahead into the sleeping rooms, where I saw half a hundred of white dimity cots, two warming-pans, and nine clothes baskets--Master Robert’s berth among the rest. Next we bore away by a long passage to the kitchen again, where two rounds of boiled beef had been put to officer the quartern loaves, and so through the washery and pot-and-pannery into the garden ground, where I came in for as long a yarn about the wholesomeness of fresh vegetables and salads, as if the whole crew of youngsters had been on the books with the scurvy. From the cabbages we got to the flowerbeds; and says the Doctor, “I don’t circumscribe, or circumvent, one or t’other; I don’t circumvent my pupils to scholastical works, but encourage perusing the book of Nature.”--“That’s very correct, then, Doctor,” said I, “and my own sentiment exactly. Nevy, what’s Natural Philosophy?”--“Keeping rabbits,” says Bob; which sounds likely enough, but it’s not the thing by sixty degrees. I can’t say but I felt the cats’-paws coming over my temper; but I kept it under till we fetched the paddock, to look at the cows; and that brought up another yarn about milk-dieting; and says Madam, “when summer comes, our Doctor is so good as to permit the young gentlemen to make his hay.”--“No doubt alive, Ma’am,” says I; “saves hands, and good fun too, eh, nevy?--What’s Agriculture?” However this time dear Bob chose to play sulky, and wouldn’t answer good or bad; whereby the Doctor crowds up, with a fresh question. “Now then, Master Robert,” says he pretty sharp, “I will ask you something you _do_ know. What is Algebra,--Al--gebra?”--“Please Sir,” says Bob, “it’s a wild donkey all over stripes.”--“There’s a dear boy!” cries Madam, the more fool she; but old Darby looked as black as thunder at midnight. “I’m afraid,” says he, letting go the toplifts, as one may say, of his eyebrows; “I’m afraid there has been a little slackness here with the cat; but, by your leave, Sir, and so forth, I will investigate a little into it myself. Now Master Robert, take a pull at your mental tackle, for I’m going to overhaul your Mathematics:--How do you describe a triangle?”--“Please Sir,” says Bob, “it’s the thing that tingle-tangles to the big drum.” Well, there was the devil to pay again, and no pitch hot! Old Darby looked as if he meant either to drop down dead on the spot of apoplexy, or to murder dear Bob; he swelled and reddened up so about the wattles without hoisting out a word. For my own part, nevy as he was, I couldn’t help serving him out a back-handed slap of the head, and then I turned-to at the schoolmaster. “So, Mister Doctor,” says I, “this is what you call a liberal education in your manifest?”--“Sir,” says he, looking as stiff as a corporal just made, “whatever your, some cursed long hard word may be, I cannot consider myself liable for the lagging astern of, I must say, the dullest sailor in my whole convoy.”--“Why, blood and thunder!” said I, for old Nick could not have helped it--“you told me that Bob, my nevy there, was the handiest and smartest of the whole kit!”--“That was _me_, Sir,” says the lady hauling in between us--“and then I only spoke as to temper, as Greek and Latin are beyond a female’s provinces”--which was true enough; so I felt bound to beg her pardon, which was granted: and we had smooth water again till we neared the school-room. Now then, thought I, look out for squalls, for my mind was made up to stand no nonsense from the petty officers, that is to say, gentlemen ushers. So I ranged up alongside the most mathematical looking one I could pick out, by way of having a bout with him at trigonometry; but he chose to be as shy, and deaf and dumb, as a Gibraltar monkey just grabbed. “With submission, my good Sir,” says the Doctor, putting in his oar, “Mr. Huckin may consider it a work of supereror-something, and a going beyond ourselves, to re-examine him after the very satisfactory certificates that satisfied _me_ myself.”--“That’s to say,” says I, “in plain English, that I’m to get nothing but what I can screw out of my nevy?”--“My dear Sir,” says the Doctor, “you misconstruct me entirely--the whole of the juvenile pupils are open to candid scrutiny. Suppose we begin with the classics. Master Bush, Sir, you will English me _hic_, _hac_, _hoc_.”--“This, that, and t’other,” says Master Bush; no great shakes of an answer, I guess, but it seemed to serve for a come-off. Then came my turn, so I asked who was the discoverer of America? and may I never break biscuit again, if he didn’t say “Yankee Doodle!” Well, to cut off the end of a long yarn, this was as good as there was to be got out of the best of them. One told me that Guy Fox found out gunpowder; and another that a solar eclipse was along of the sun’s standing in its own light. What else I might have learned, that I never knew before, must be left over for a guess; for in the middle of the next ask, it was all hats aloft! and three cheers for a half holiday; but if I had any hand in begging it, may I die ashore in a dry ditch! However that was too much of a dog’s trick to be took quietly, so I prepared a broadside, with a volley of oaths to it, by way of small arms; but before I could well bring it to bear, the Doctor hauls out his watch, and says he, “It’s extremely bad luck, but there’s a voting this morning for a parish beadle, and I make a point not to let my private duties get to windward of my public ones.” So saying, with a half-and-half sort of a bow, to me, he cut and run; Madam getting athwart hawse so as to cover his getting off. In course it was no use to waste speech upon her; but I made bold to d--n the whole covey of undermasters, in the lump, as a set of the sharkingest, loggerheaded, flute-playing, skulking, lubberly sons of grinning weavers and tailors that ever broke bread. So the finish over all is, that I took my nevy away, traps and all; and not an hour too soon; and with Bob in tow I made Tom Pike’s, who was as glad to see his old messmate as I was to see him; and what’s more, when he heard the bit of a brush I had enjoyed, he informed me that Doctor Darby, LL.D., and what not, was all one and the same with Darby the shipchandler, that went to pieces down at Wapping. You see then, as the chaplain says, that all’s for the best either here or hereafter; and so no more, till Monday, when I shall bring my nevy Bob to you, to make what you will of him, which I hope will be as like a man as possible. If otherwise, I won’t promise not to change my name by act of parliament, and so be no relation to dear Bob, nor to you neither; and that’s the real mind of

Your loving Brother,
BEN CARNABY.

A RISE AT THE FATHER OF ANGLING.

THE memory of Izaak Walton has hitherto floated down the stream of time without even a nibble at it; but, alas! where is the long line so pure and even that does not come sooner or later to have a weak length detected in it? The severest critic of Molière was an old woman; and now a censor of the same sex takes upon herself to tax the immortal work of our Piscator with holding out an evil temptation to the rising generation Instead of concurring in the general admiration of his fascinating pictures of fishing, she boldly asserts that the rod has been the spoiling of her child, and insists that in calling the Angler gentle and inoffensive, the Author was altogether wrong in his _dubbing_. To render her strictures more attractive she has thrown them into a poetical form; having probably learned by experience that a rhyme at the end of a line is a very taking bait to the generality of readers. Hark! how she rates the meek Palmer whom Winifred Jenkins would have called “an angle upon earth!”

_To Mr._ IZAAK WALTON, _at Mr._ MAJOR’S _the Bookseller’s in Fleet Street._

Mr. Walton, it’s harsh to say it, but as a Parent I can’t help
wishing
You’d been hung before you publish’d your book, to set all the
young people a fishing!
There’s my Robert, the trouble I’ve had with him it surpasses a
mortal’s bearing,
And all thro’ those devilish angling works--the Lord forgive me for
swearing!
I thought he were took with the Morbus one day, I did with his nasty
angle!
For “oh dear,” says he, and burst out in a cry, “oh my gut is all
got of a tangle!”
It’s a shame to teach a young boy such words--whose blood wouldn’t
chill in their veins
To hear him, as I overheard him one day, a-talking of blowing out
brains?[16]
And didn’t I quarrel with Sally the cook, and a precious scolding I
give her,
“How dare you,” says I, “for to stench the whole house by keeping
that stinking liver?”
’Twas enough to breed a fever, it was! they smelt it next door at
the Bagots’,--
But it wasn’t breeding no fever--not it! ’twas my son a-breeding of
maggots!
I declare that I couldn’t touch meat for a week, for it all seemed
tainting and going,
And after turning my stomach so, they turned to blueflies, all
buzzing and blowing;
Boys are nasty enough, goodness knows, of themselves, without
putting live things in their craniums;
Well, what next? but he pots a whole cargo of worms along with my
choice geraniums.

And another fine trick, tho’ it wasn’t found out, till the housemaid
had given us warning,
He fished at the golden fish in the bowl, before we were up and down
in the morning.
I’m sure it was lucky for Ellen, poor thing, that she’d got so
attentive a lover.
As bring her fresh fish when the others deceas’d, which they did a
dozen times over!
Then a whole new loaf was short! for I know, of course, when our
bread goes faster,--
And I made a stir with the bill in my hand, and the man was sent off
by his master;
But, oh dear, I thought I should sink thro’ the earth, with the
weight of my own reproaches,
For my own pretty son had made away with the loaf, to make pastry to
feed the roaches!
I vow I’ve suffered a martyrdom--with all sorts of frights and
terrors surrounded!
For I never saw him go out of the doors but I thought he’d come home
to me drownded.
And, sure enough, I set out one fine Monday to visit my married
daughter,
And there he was standing at Sadler’s Wells, a-performing with real
water.
It’s well he was off on the further side, for I’d have brain’d him
else with my patten,
For I thought he was safe at school, the young wretch! a studying
Greek and Latin,
And my ridicule basket he had got on his back, to carry his fishes
and gentles;
With a belt I knew he’d made from the belt of his father’s
regimentals--
Well, I poked his rods and lines in the fire, and his father gave
him a birching,
But he’d gone too far to be easy cured of his love for chubbing and
perching.
One night he never came home to tea, and altho’ it was dark and
dripping,
His father set off to Wapping, poor man! for the boy had a turn for
shipping;
As for me I set up, and I sobbed and I cried for all the world like
a babby,
Till at twelve o’clock he rewards my fears with two gudging from
Waltham Abbey!
And a pretty sore throat and fever he caught, that brought me a
fortnight’s hard nussing,
Till I thought I should go to my grey-hair’d grave, worn out with
the fretting and fussing;
But at last he was cur’d, and we did have hopes that the fishing was
cured as well,
But no such luck! not a week went by before we’d have another such
spell.
Tho’ he never had got a penny to spend, for such was our strict
intentions,
Yet he was soon set up in tackle agin, for all boys have such quick
inventions:
And I lost my Lady’s Own Pocket Book, in spite of all my hunting and
poking,
Till I found it chuck full of tackles and hooks, and besides it had
had a good soaking.
Then one Friday morning, I gets a summoning note from a sort of a
law attorney,
For the boy had been trespassing people’s grounds while his father
was gone a journey,
And I had to go and hush it all up by myself, in an office at Hatton
Garden;
And to pay for the damage he’d done, to boot, and to beg some
strange gentleman’s pardon.
And wasn’t he once fished out himself, and a man had to dive to find
him,
And I saw him brought home with my motherly eyes and a mob of people
behind him?
Yes, it took a full hour to rub him to life--whilst I was
a-screaming and raving,
And a couple of guineas it cost us besides, to reward the humane man
for his saving,
And didn’t Miss Crump leave us out of her will, all along of her
taking dudgeon
At her favourite cat being chok’d, poor Puss, with a hook sow’d up
in a gudgeon?
And old Brown complain’d that he pluck’d his live fowls, and not
without show of reason,
For the cocks looked naked about necks and tails, and it wasn’t
their moulting season;
And sure and surely, when we came to enquire, there was cause for
their screeching and cackles,
For the mischief confess’d he had picked them a bit, for I think he
called them the hackles.
A pretty tussle we had about that! but as if it warn’t picking
enough,
When the winter comes on, to the muff-box I goes, just to shake out
my sable muff--
“O mercy!” thinks I, “there’s the moth in the house!” for the fur
was all gone in patches;
And then at Ellen’s chinchilly I look, and its state of destruction
just matches--
But it wasn’t no moth, Mr. Walton, but flies--sham flies to go
trolling and trouting,
For his father’s great coat was all safe and sound, and that first
set me a-doubting.
A plague, say I, on all rods and lines, and on young or old watery
danglers!
And after all that you’ll talk of such stuff as no harm in the world
about anglers!
And when all is done, all our worry and fuss, why, we’ve never had
nothing worth dishing;
So you see, Mister Walton, no good comes at last of your famous book
about fishing.
As for Robert’s, I burnt it a twelvemonth ago; but it turned up too
late to be lucky,
For he’d got it by heart, as I found to the cost of

Your servant,
JANE ELIZABETH STUCKEY.

[16] Chewing and spitting out bullock’s brains into the water for
ground-bait is called _blowing of brains_. Salter’s Angler’s
Guide.

RIGHT AND WRONG.

A SKETCH AT SEA.

THE Rights of Man,--whether abstract or real, divine or vulgar, vested or contested, civil or uncivil, common or uncommon--have been so fully and so frequently discussed, that one would suppose there was nothing new to be felt or expressed on the subject. I was agreeably surprised, therefore, during a late passage from Ireland, to hear the rights of an individual asserted in so very novel a manner as to seem worthy of record. The injured party was an involuntary fellow-passenger; and the first glance at him as he leisurely ascended the cabin stairs, bespoke him an original. His face, figure, dress, gait, ad gestures, were all more or less eccentric; yet, without any apparent affectation of singularity. His manner was perfectly earnest and business-like, though quaint. On reaching the deck, his first movement was towards the gangway, but a moment sufficed to acquaint him with the state of the case. The letter-bags having been detained an hour beyond the usual time of departure, the steam had been put on at a gallop, and Her Majesty’s mail packet the Guebre had already accomplished some hundred fathoms of her course. This untoward event, however, seemed rather to surprise than annoy our Original, who quietly stepped up to the Captain, with the air of demanding what was merely a matter of course:

“Hollo, Skipper! Off she goes, eh? But you must turn about, my boy, and let me get out.”

“Let you get out!” echoed the Skipper, and again repeating it, with what the musicians call a staccato--“Let--you--get--out!”

“Exactly so. I’m going ashore.”

“I’m rather afraid you are _not_, Sir,” said the Skipper, looking decidedly serious, “unless you allude to the other side!”

“The other side!” exclaimed the Oddity, involuntarily turning towards England. “Poo! poo! nonsense, man,--I only came to look at your accommodations. I’m not going across with you--I’m not, upon my word!”

“I must beg your pardon, Sir;” said the Captain, quite solemnly. “But it is my firm opinion that you _are_ ‘going across.’”

“Poo, poo! all gammon.--I till you I am going back to Dublin.”

“Upon my soul, then,” said the Skipper, rather briskly, “you must swim back like a grampus, or borrow a pair of wings from the gulls.”

The man at the helm grinned his broadest at what he thought a good joke of his officer’s--while the Original turned sharply round, parodied a hyena’s laugh at the fellow, and then returned to the charge.

“Come, come, Skipper--it’s quite as far out as I care for--if you want to treat me to a sail!”

“Treat you to a sail!” roared the indignant officer. “Zounds! Sir, I’m in earnest--as much in earnest as ever I was in my life.”

“So much the better,” answered the Original. “_I’m_ not joking myself, and I have no right to be joked upon.”

“Joke or no joke,” said the Captain--“all I know is this. The mail bags are on board--and it’s more than my post is worth to put back.”

“Eh? What? How?” exclaimed the Oddity, with a sort of nervous dance. “You astonish me! Do--you--really--mean to say--I’m obligated to go--whether I’ve a right or not?”

“I do indeed, Sir--I’m sorry for it, but it can’t be helped. My orders are positive. The moment the mail is on board I must cast off.”

“Indeed!--well--but you know--why, that’s _your_ duty, not _mine_. _I_ have no right to be cast off! I’ve no right to be here at all. I’ve no right to be anywhere--except in Merrion Square!”

The Captain was bothered. He shrugged up his shoulders, then gave a low whistle, then plunged his hands in his pockets--then gave a loud order to somebody, to do something, somewhere or other; and then began to walk short turns on the deck. His Captive, in the meantime, made hasty strides towards the stern, as if intending to leap overboard; but he suddenly stopped short, and took bewildered look at the receding coast. The original wrong was visibly increasing in length, breadth, and depth, every minute; and he again confronted the Captain.

“Well, Skipper--you’ve thought better of it--I’ve no right in the world, have I?--You will turn her round?”

“Totally impossible, Sir--quite out of my power.”

“Very well, very well, very well indeed!” the Original’s temper was getting up as well as the sea. “But mind, Sir--I protest. I protest against _you_, Sir--and against the ship--and the ocean, Sir--and everything! I’m getting further and further out--but, remember, I’ve no _right_! You will take the consequences. I have no right to be kidnapped--ask the Crown lawyers, if you think fit!”

After this denouncement, the Speaker began to pace up and down like the Captain, but at the opposite side of the deck. He was on the boil, however, as well as the engine,--and every time that he passed near the man whom he considered as his Sir Hudson Lowe, he gave vent to the inward feeling in a jerk of the head, accompanied by a short pig-like grunt. Now and then it broke out in words, but always the same four monosyllables, “This--is--too--bad”--with a most emphatic fall of the foot to each. At last it occurred to a stout pompous-looking personage to interpose as a mediator. He began by dilating on the immense commercial importance of a punctual delivery of letters--thence he insisted on the heavy responsibility of the Captain; with a promise of an early return packet from Holyhead--and he was entering into a congratulation of the fineness of the weather, when the Original thought it was time to cut him short.

“My good Sir--you’ll excuse me. The case is nobody’s but my own. _You_ are a regular passenger. You have a right to be in this packet--you have a right to go to Holyhead--or to Liverpool--or to Gibraltar,--or to the world’s end--_if--you--like_. But _I_ choose to be in Dublin. What right have I to be here then? Not--one--atom! I’ve no right to be in this vessel--and the Captain there knows it. I’ve no right (stamping) to be on this deck! I have no more right to be tossing at sea (waving his arms up and down) than the Pigeon House!”

“It is a very unpleasant situation, I allow, Sir,” said the Captain to the stout Passenger. “But, as I have told the gentleman, my hands are tied. I can do nothing--though nobody is more sorry for his inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience be hanged!” exclaimed the Oddity, in a passion at last. “It is NO inconvenience, Sir! Not--the--smallest. But that makes no difference as to my being here. It’s that--and that alone,--I dispute all right to!”

“Well, but my dear, good Sir,” expostulated the pompous man; “admitting the justice of your premises, the hardship is confessedly without remedy.”

“To be sure it is,” said the Captain, “every inch of it. All I can say is, that the gentleman’s passage shall be no expense to him!”

“Thankee--of _course_ not,” said the Original with a sneer. “I’ve no right to put my hand in my pocket! Not that I mind expense. But it’s my right I stand up for, and I defy you both to prove that I have any right--or any shadow of a right--to be in your company! I’ll tell you what, Skipper”--but before he could finish the sentence, he turned suddenly pale, made a most grotesque wry face, and rushed forward to the bow of the vessel. The Captain exchanged a significant smile with the stout gentleman; but before they had quite spoken their minds of the absent character, he came scrambling back to the binnacle, upon which he rested with both hands, while he thrust his working visage within a foot of the skipper’s face.

“There, Skipper!--now, Mr. What d’ye call--What do you both say to _that_? What right have I to be sick--as sick as a dog? I’ve no right to be squeamish! I’m not a passenger. I’ve no right to go tumbling over ropes and pails and what not to the ship’s head!”

“But my good Sir,”--began the pompous man.

“Don’t Sir me, Sir! _You_ took your own passage. You have a _right_ to be sick--You’ve a right to go to the side every five minutes--you’ve a right to DIE of it! But it’s the reverse with me--I have no right of the sort!”

“O certainly not, Sir,” said the pomposity, offended in his turn. “You are indubitably the best judge of your own privileges. I only beg to be allowed to remark, that where I felt I had so little right, I should hesitate to intrude myself.” So saying, he bowed very formally, and commenced his retreat to the cabin, while the Skipper pretended to examine the compass very minutely. In fact our Original had met with a chokepear. The fat man’s answer was too much for him, being framed on a principle clean contrary to his own peculiar system of logic. The more he tried to unravel its meaning, the more it got entangled. He didn’t like it, without knowing why; and he quite disagreed with it, though ignorant of its purport. He looked up at the funnel--and at the flag--and at the deck,--and down the companion stairs,--and then he wound up all by a long shake of his head, as mysterious as Lord Burleigh’s, at the astonished man at the wheel. His mind seemed made up. He buttoned his coat up to the very chin, as if to secure himself to himself, and never opened his lips again till the vessel touched the quay at Holyhead. The Captain then attempted a final apology--but it was interrupted in the middle.

“Enough said, Sir--quite enough. If you’ve _only_ done your duty, you’ve no right to beg pardon--and I’ve no right to ask it. All I mean to say is, here am I in Holyhead instead of Dublin. I don’t care what that fat fellow says--who don’t understand his own rights. I stick to all I said before. I have no right to be up in the Moon, have I? Of course not--and I’ve no more right to stand on this present quay, than I have to be up in the Moon!”

PATRONAGE.

THE authenticity of the following letter will, probably, be disputed. The system of patronage to which it refers, is one very likely to shock the prejudices of serious sober-minded persons, who will naturally refuse to credit such practical anachronisms as the superannuation of sucklings. Goldsmith, it is true, has mentioned certain Fortunatuses as being born with silver ladles in their mouths; but it would be easier to suppose a child thus endowed with a whole service of plate than to fancy one invested with a service of years. The most powerful imagination would be puzzled to reconcile an Ex-Speakership with an Infant untaught to lisp; or to recognise a retired Bow-street runner in a nursling unable to walk. The existence of such very advanced posts for the Infantry is, however, affirmed; but with what truth, from my total want of political experience, I am unable to judge. Mr. Wordsworth, indeed, who says that “the child is father of the man,” seems to aim a quiz at the practice; and possibly the nautical phrase of “getting a good _birth_,” may refer to such prosperous nativities. For the rest, grown gentlemen have unquestionably been thrust, sometimes, into public niches to which they were as ill adapted as Mr. D.; the measures taken by Patrons not leading invariably, like Stultz’s, to admirable fits. But the Lady waits to speak her mind.

(COPY).

_To the Right Honourable_ LORD VISCOUNT ****, _&c., &c., &c., Whitehall._

MAY IT PLEASE YOUR LORDSHIP,