Time, which alters everything, effected a remarkable change in this

respect; and, however appalling the guilt of the condemned, it was at

length presumed to be adequately visited by death in the Old Bailey.

When the fiend-like Burkers were brought to justice, they were sent to

their account at the usual place of execution. To mark horror for their

crime, or to arrest its progress in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch, it

was not thought necessary to erect the gallows in Nova Scotia Gardens.

In the course of the rambling thoughts and recollections here brought

together, it has been shown that various alterations have from time to

time been made; and one, not the least remarkable, has recently been

brought under public notice. Formerly it was usual for the recorder

to report the cases of those sentenced at one Old Bailey sessions,

to the king in council after the next ensuing sessions. It however

not unfrequently happened that, through negligence, or perhaps from a

feeling of commiseration for those to whom it must bring death, the

report was postponed, till the cases of several sessions remained in

arrear. In those days loud were the complaints on the subject of the

evil consequences of the delay. The grand argument against it was, that

the long interval which separated punishment from crime caused the

latter to be forgotten by the public, and the violater of the law was

in consequence regarded with sympathy to which he had no just claim:

the wrong, the violence which he had perpetrated, were almost wholly

lost sight of; and thus the lesson, that an ignominious death would

promptly requite a fearful crime, was feebly impressed on the minds of

the pitying spectators. Such was the notion when executions followed at

some considerable distance from conviction, and the superior efficacy

of the course taken with regard to murders was often referred to as

being directly in point. Now, this is changed; death for robbery or

forgery is hardly known, and he who is sentenced to die for hurrying

a fellow-creature out of existence has five or six weeks allowed him

to prepare for eternity. In noticing the change, I do not mean to

censure it. Time will show whether the course now taken is followed

by an increase of homicide: as yet it is too early to pronounce an

opinion; but no suspicion of the sort up to the present moment has been

entertained.

One strange practice was common to all executions at Newgate: a number

of persons were "rubbed for wens," as it was called. Men, women, and

children afflicted with them were introduced within the body of the

vehicle of death, and elevated so as to be seen by the populace, within

a few minutes after the convicts had been turned off. The patients were

then indulged with a choice of the individual culprit, from those who

had suffered, whose touch was to be applied to the part affected. The

hands of the corpse selected were untied by the executioner, and gently

moved backwards and forwards for about two minutes, which was supposed

sufficient to effect a cure. This custom has now ceased; it was

abolished as a piece of contemptible superstition, the continuance of

which it would be disgraceful to permit. The executioner was deprived

of this lucrative part of his business, without receiving for it any

public compensation.

H.T.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 41: This fact is not generally known; but a singular proof

of the correctness of the above statement has recently been furnished.

Within the last three months, the ground having been opened for the

common sewer opposite Meux's brewhouse, by the end of Oxford-street,

eight or ten, or more, skeletons were discovered. They were supposed

to be the remains of suicides, who had been buried there, in the cross

roads, under the old law against _felo de se_. One or two of them had

perhaps committed self-destruction; but so many could hardly have been

collected by the same act in one spot. It is much more probable that

the bones there found were those of malefactors, who after execution

had been interred under the gallows on which they suffered.]

A PETER-PINDARIC TO AND OF THE FOG.

Impartial Fog!

Imperial Smellfungus!

Great Cacafogo! High (and low) Mundungus!

Wherever born,--

Whether in Allan's or in Holland's bog,

Or where the wakeful Morn

Dresses herself by starlight--at the Pole,

Nature's impassable goal;

Or whether born and bred on agueish Essex' shore,

With stagnant waters greenly mantled o'er;--

Thou least-illustrious visitor!

Poking thy foreign way along,

Link-led and stumbling,

Blind-led and fumbling,

And always in the wrong;

Thou great unsung of song!

Inimical to light as an inquisitor,

But not so blood-ferocious,

Dark-hooded, and atrocious;

For, give thee undisturb'd thy gloomy way,--

Uninterrupted, let thee clap

A dark extinguisher on lightsome Day,

On early Morning a night-cap,

And 'tis remarkable how easy,

Though somewhat queasy,

Thou slumberest--how Session-long thy stay!

And very marvellous how

Innocuously quiet!

Passive as Daniel in the lions' den--

The living Daniel--flung to rav'nous men,--

(Delicious picking,

Although no chicken!)

Who lick their longing chaps, and get a precious licking!--

Daniel, who dreads that any row

Should spring up anywhere, and he not breed the riot!

All hail, great Fog! not but a _leetle_ rain--

A small, slight drizzling of natural, moist sorrow--

Would make our dark perplexities more plain,

And give us hopes of seeing a to-morrow!

Dear Fog, abate the vigour

Of your full-volumed breath!

Day was a dingy white

Till you "put out the light,"

Like black Othello

When stifling his dear wife to death;

And, here, you've gone and made the comely fellow

A pretty figure,--

A horrid Nigger!

Hear me, if you're a hearkener!--

An English day at best is but a darkener

At any time o' year;

(It costs housekeepers many

A pretty pound and penny

To see _that_ clear.)

Look through the lustrous city,

And you will think 'tis pity

That Phœbus--

So shrewd a god, good at a rhyme

And rebus--

Should waste his precious time

In trying to look down

Upon this independent town;

And pertinaciously keep poking--

(While all the city wags are joking

At his egregious folly

And failure melancholy)--

Poking his ineffectual beams between the clouds,

Hovering sootily over it in crowds

To intercept his rays,

And turn them other ways.

He ought by this time to have known--

(His chaste, night-wandering sister,

Who does contrive to glister,

She should have told him)--that London, day and night,

Is better lit by gas than by his sultry light.

Come, brighten up, great Fog, and don't look gloomy

While I can see you--for these eyes grow rheumy!

Clear up, for Heaven's and dear London's sakes:

For, while you're groping here, there's sad mistakes

Making in every possible direction,

And some without detection!

There's some one, as I've struggled through the Strand,

Has had his hand

In my coat-pocket more than half a minute,

Though there is nothing but one sonnet in it!

La! bless me! well, how odd! why, I declare

It is my own hand I've detected there!--

I think that wasn't me that trod upon my toes?

There--dear me! why I've hit some other person's nose!

Lord! how the Simpson swears,

And hits about, and tears,

While I keep snug, and leave the angry ass

Just room enough to let his passion pass,

And laugh to hear him give himself such ultra-Donkey airs!

Madam, I really beg a person of your charms

A thousand pardons

For running so unbidden to your arms!

"Och! for five fardens

Your honour's wilcum as the flowers in May

To call agin there any day!

And p'r'aps it's you don't want a basket-woman?"--

Kitty Malone, by all that's Irish-human!--

"Och! long life to your honour! May your eyes

Be iver jist as bright as the Green Island's skies,

And niver foggy!"

I add--"Nor groggy;

Ay, Katty?"

"'Od dra't ye!"

For if to Kate some female errors fall,

Pay her gin-score, and you whitewash them all.

Now, which way should I turn to escape the Strand?

"Fait', then, it's handy--turn to your right hand!"

'Gad! I'm so posed, I know not left from right;

But, here goes--anywhere! Oh, guide me, Sight!

Heaven bless me! what

Is this I've run against, and fix'd it to the spot?

Bless the dear child! you really shouldn't stand

In people's way

In such a day.

Dear me! I've stunn'd her so, she cannot speak,

Not even shriek!

How pale she turns--white as a Greenland ghost!

Oh, horror! what a hue!

What shall I--can I do!

Her face is frozen-cold--her eyes all whites!

Here, help! watch! murder! lights! oh, lights!----

Zounds! what a fool I am! Why, here have I

Been wasting all this morbid sympathy--

This tenderness and pity--on _a post_!

Come, that is strange and laughable enough!

Talk of the drolleries of "Blind-man's buff,"

And "Catch who can,"

This is as laughable,

And chaffable,

To a good-humour'd man!--

(Between parentheses, and just by way

Of taking breath--_sub rosá_, I will say

That I like Blind-man's buff, and I confess it,

Bless it!

For, in that playful sport, if you 're inclined,

And your hand _sees_, though both your eyes are blind,

You may, perhaps, catch the petticoat of Miss

Some one or other,

Or her still-handsome mother,

And snatch a kiss,

Which taken impromptu in that lively way.

In pure Platonic play,

Is pleasant--very!

And makes one merry,

And very easily finds ready pardon.)

Well, by this time, I must be near the Garden?

Yes, there's the smell eternal

Of cabbages infernal,

Those flatulencies vernal!

And there's the Hummums--(which my dear friend Stubbs,

Who speaketh through his nose, calls the _Hubbubs_!)--

Yes, and although the fog's

Perplexing in th' extreme, this must be Mogg's?

And this the Arcade which the dear Cockneys call

"_Pie-hay-sir_,"--sounds not like the sounds at all!

Corruption villanous! I here denounce it,

And pronounce it

"_Pi-atz-za_,"

And rhyme it to "_Buy hat, sir!_"

And there's the Theatre where solemn SIDDONS,

And that great "last of all the Romans," KEMBLE,

Made you for pity weep, or with touch'd passion tremble!

And this is Robins's--Robins, whose Darwin powers

In making his poetic _flowers_

(See his advertisements and auctions) tell--

(While those for sale upon the florists' leads.

Hard by,

"Hide their diminished heads,"

And, envious, die)--

Are known so well!

So far, so good. Hah! here is Gliddon's!

And now I am no longer at a loss

Which way to go;

So, here I'll shoot across

Quick as a fool's bolt from his bow.

'Sblood! what a bump--

Not named in Spurzheim--

This cursed, confounded, and confounding pump,

With its large handle stretch'd out to the nor'ward,

Has suddenly developed on my forehead,

Which nothing hurts _him_!

How I should like to give some one a thumping!

You little scoundrel! night or day,

Whene'er I pass this way,

You d--d young rascal, you are always pumping!

Take that--and that--and that!--

Och, murder! if I haven't kick'd

(For which I shall get lick'd)

A stout, broad-shoulder'd, five-foot-seven Pat,

Just the unlikeliest chap

To take a given rap!

"Fly, Fleance, fly!" Don't stop to "take

Your change," for Heaven's and England's sake!

Well run, for forty-seven!--a tolerable foot-race!

And now I calmly recollect the place,

Its ins and outs,

And roundabouts,

A batter'd nose and broken shin

Are not too much to pay to win.

Pit-pat!

What's that?

Something that moves soft and slow,

Like graceful dancer in a furbelow!--

What are you? Ho!

A walking Vestris, with a leg to show?

So be it!

Come, come, you all-engrossing Fog,

You're "going the whole hog,"

And hoggishly won't let me see it!

Pit-pat again! _encore_ pit-pat!

Oh, disappointment dire! a vagabond tom-cat!

Here, Paddy that I kick'd, if you can see,

Kick this great mousing brute in lieu of me!

Well, if again I go out in a fog,

May I be call'd a blind man's stupid dog,

A bat, a beetle, "_a good-nater'd fellar!_"

Headlong I dive--out of it--into the Cider-cellar!

_November, 1837._ PUNCH.

NIGHTS AT SEA;

_Or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War_.

BY THE OLD SAILOR.

WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

No. VI.

JACK AMONG THE MUMMIES.

"The times have been

That when the brains were out the man would die,

And there an end: but now they rise again

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

To push us from our stools."

SHAKSPEARE.

A strange sail is always a matter of interest in a ship of war; and

no sooner was the canvass set in chase of the brig mentioned in my

last, than the forecastle of the Spankaway received its usual group

of yarn-spinners, anxious to ascertain the character of the stranger,

and what amount of prize-money was likely to be shared in case of her

carrying an enemy's flag. There was our old friend Jack Sheavehole,

together with Joe Nighthead, Bob Martingal, Bill Buntline, and several

others; and occasionally the warrant-officers, and even the mate of

the watch, stopped to chime in with a few words, so as to give life to

their conversation.

"It bothers my univarsal knowledge," said old Savage, the boatswain,

"to make out what lay the skipper's on; and as for the chase, mayhap

she mayn't turn out to be moonshine arter all."

"How moonshine?" returned Mr. Bracebit, the carpenter; "she's plain

enough to be seen, and they've made her out to be a brig: there can be

no moonshine in that, anyhow."

"But I tell you there is moonshine in it," persevered the boatswain, "a

complete bag o' moonshine, unless you can diskiver the right bearings

and distance o' the thing. I tell you what it is, Mr. Bracebit, I arn't

been these many years man and boy in the sarvice----"

"You should say boy and man, old Pipes," exclaimed the mate of the

watch as he stopped short in his walk by the veteran's side.

"And why should I say boy and man, instead of man and boy, Mr.

Winterbottom?" demanded old Savage in anger.

"Because, according to your own maxim, everything should be done

ship-shape," replied the other; "and you was a boy before you was a

man."

"He has him there," whispered Jack Sheavehole to his messmate Bob. "I'm

bless'd if that arn't plain-sailing, anyhow!"

"Ship-shape do you call it?" answered the boatswain wrathfully.

"Ay, ay, Muster Winterbottom, mayhap it may be according to your

calculations of the jometry of the thing. It's nothing new now-a-days

to see the boy put forud afore the man;" and he laid strong emphasis on

the latter words.

"There he hit him again, Jack," observed Bob Martingal in a whisper;

"and I'm blowed if there arn't Gospel truth in that, anyhow!"

[Illustration: Joe Nighthead and the Mummies]

"Well, well, don't be angry, old friend," said Mr. Winterbottom,

himself somewhat offended; "there's no occasion for being hot upon it;

but, if you are, you may go to ---- and cool yourself!"

"And a precious queer place that 'ud be for a cold-bath," said the

carpenter: "but let's have no contentions, gentlemen. What do you take

the brig to be, Mr. Winterbottom?"

"A ship with her mizen-mast out, bound to Bombay, with a cargo of

warming-pans," replied the young officer.

"That arn't being over civil, anyhow," whispered Bob to his messmate;

"though mayhap they may want warming-pans in Bumbay as much as they do

in the West Ingees. To my thinking, she's a treasure-craft laden with

mummies."

"Did you ever fall athwart any o' them there hanimals, Bob?" inquired

Joe Nighthead.

"What hanimals do you mean, Joe?" returned Martingal. "For my part,

I've seen a little somut of everything."

"I means the mummies," replied Joe, as he squatted down in amidships

just before the foremast, in preparation for a yarn, and was soon

surrounded by the rest;--"I means the mummies, my boyo."

"No; can't say as I have," answered Bob; "though I've heard somut about

'em, too:--what rig are they?"

"Why, for the matter o' that," said Joe, laughing, "they're

broomstick-rig as soon as they makes a brush of it; but I'm blow'd if

I hadn't onest as pretty a spree with a whole fleet of mummies as ever

any man could fall aboard of in this world, or t'other either."

"What was it, Joe?" asked the boatswain's mate eagerly. "Pay it

out handsomely, messmate; but don't pitch us any of Bob's devil's

consarns;--let's have it all truth and honesty."

"I'd scorn to deceive _you_, Jack, or anybody else o' my shipmates

wot's seamen," responded Joe reproachfully. "It's all as true as the

skipper's a lord, and looks, alongside o' Johnny Cropoh there, like a

man alongside of a--But, there,--it arn't honourable to make delusions;

and so, shipmates, here goes for a yarn. I was coxswain in the pinnace

of the ould Ajax, the Honourable Captain Cochrane, at that 'ere time

when Sir Richard Bickerton took command of the fleet, and a flotilla

was employed in co-operating with the troops again' Alexandria. Well,

shipmates, I was always fond of a bit of gab; and so, the night we lay

at a grapplin', waiting for daylight to begin the attack, my officer

gets to talking about the place, and what a grand consarn it was in

former days for gould and jewels, and sich like; and thinks I to

myself, mayhap the Lords of the Admirality will take all that 'ere into

account in regard o' the prize-money: and then he overhauls a good deal

about the hobbylisks and Clipsypaddyree's Needle, and what not, that

I'm blow'd if it didn't quite bamfoozle my larning. Well, we'd four or

five days' hard work in the fighting way, and then there was a truce,

and my officer run the pinnace aboard of a French prize laden with wine

and brandy; so we starts the water out of one of the breakers and fills

it with the real stuff, and I man-handled a pair of sodgers' canteens

chock-full; and the prize-master, Muster Handsail, an old shipmate of

mine, gives me a two-gallon keg to my own cheek, and I stows 'em all

snug and safe abaft in the box, and kivers 'em up with my jacket to

keep 'em warm. Well, it was just getting dusk in the evening when the

skipper claps us alongside, and orders the leftenant to land me well up

the lake, so as I might carry a letter from him across to a shore party

as manned one of the heavy batteries away inland, at the back of the

town.

"Now, in course, shipmates, I warn't by no manner o' means piping

my eye to get a cruise on _terror firmer_, seeing as mayhap I might

chance to pick up some 'o' the wee things aboot the decks' as likely

wud get me a bottle o' rum in England,--for, my thoughts kept running

on the gould and jewels the leftenant spun the yarn about, and I'd

taken a pretty good whack of brandy aboard the prize, though I warn't

not in the least tosticated, but ounly a little helevated, just

enough to make me walk steady and comfortable. So we run the boat's

nose on to the beach, and I catches up my jacket and my canteens,

leaving the keg to the marcy of Providence, and strongly dubersome in

my mind that I had bid it an etarnal farewell. Howsomever, I shins

away with my two canteens filled chock ablock; and 'Bear a hand,

Joel' says the leftenant, 'though I'm blessed if I know what course

you're to take, seeing as it's getting as dark as a black fellow's

phisog.'--'Never fear, yer honour,' says I; 'ounly let me catch sight

o' Clipsypaddyree's Needle for a landmark, and I'm darned if I won't

find myself somewhere, anyhow;' and away I starts, shipmates, hand over

hand, happy go lucky--all's one to Joe! But it got darker and darker,

and the wind came down in sudden gusts, like a marmaid a-sighing; so,

to clear my eyes, and keep all square, I was in course compelled to

take a nip every now and then out of the canteen, till at last it got

so dark, and the breeze freshened into a stiff gale, that the more I

took to lighten my way and enable me to steer a straight course, I'm

blessed, shipmates, if I didn't grow more dizzy; and as for my headway,

why, I believes I headed to every point in the compass:--it was the

dark night and the cowld breeze as did it, messmates."

"No doubt in the world on it, Joe," assented Jack Sheavehole; "for if

anything could have kept you in good sailing trim, it was the brandy,

and the more especially in token o' your drinking it neat;--them dark

nights do play the very devil with a fellow's reckoning ashore, in

regard of the course and distance, and makes him as apt to steer wild,

like a hog in a squall."

"You're right, Jack," continued Nighthead; "and anybody as hears

you, may know you speaks from experience o' the thing. Howsomever,

there I was,--not a sparkler abroad in the heavens, not a beacon to

log my bearings by; and, as I said afore, there I was in a sort of

no-man's-land, backing and filling to drop clear of shoals, sometimes

just at touch-and-go, and then brought-up all standing, like a haystack

a-privateering. At last the weather got into a downright passion, with

thunder, lightning, and hail; and 'I'm blessed, Joe,' says I to myself,

'if snug moorings under some kiver or other, if it's ounly a strip o'

buntin', wouldn't be wastly superior to this here!' But there was no

roadstead nor place of shelter, and the way got more rougherer and

rougherer, in regard o' the wrecks of ould walls and ould buildings,

till I'm blessed if I didn't think I was getting into the latitude and

longitude of the dominions of the 'long-shore Davy Jones."

"My eyes, Joe!" exclaimed Martingal, replenishing his quid from an

ample "'bacca" box, "but you was hard up, my boy!"

"Indeed and I was, Bob," responded the other; "and I'm blowed if every

thing as I seed about me didn't begin to dance jigs and hornpipes to

the whistling of the wind, that I thought all manner of bedevilment had

come over me, and so I tries to dance too, to keep 'em company. But it

wouldn't do, shipmates, and I capsizes in a sudden squall, and down I

went, headforemost."

"It's precious bad work that, Joe," said the old boatswain's mate,

shaking his head. "A fellow in an open sea may do somut to claw to

wind'ard; but when you're dead upon a lee-shore, it's time to look for

your bag. But what did you do, Joe?"

"Why, what could I do, shipmate, but to take another nip at the

canteen," responded Joe; "it was all I had in life to hould on by,

with a heavy gale strong enough to blow the devil's horns off, and

the breakers all round me: my eyes! but it was a reg'lar sneezer.

'Howsomever,' thinks I, 'it won't do, Joe, to be hove down here for a

full due--you must at it again, ould chap;' and so I tries to make sail

again, and heaves ahead a few fathoms, when down I comes again into

a deep hole, and, before you could say Jack Robison, I'm blow'd if I

warn't right slap in the middle of a large underground wault, where

there was a company o' genelmen stuck up in niches, and peeping over

mummy-cases, with great candles in their hands; and in other respects

looking for all the world like the forty thieves as I once seed at the

play, peeping out of their oil-jars; and there was a scuffling and

scrimmaging at t'other eend o' the wault: and, 'Yo hoy!' says I, 'what

cheer--what cheer, my hearties!' but not nobody never spoke, and the

genelmen in the niches seemed to my thinking to be all groggy, and I'm

blessed if ever I seed sich a set o' baboon-visaged fellows in all

my days. 'Better luck to us, genelmen,' says I, filling my tot and

taking a dram; but not a man on 'em answered. 'Pretty grave messmates

I've got,' says I; 'but mayhap you don't hail as messmates, seeing as

you arn't yet had a taste o' the stuff. Come, my hearties, I'll pipe

to grog, and then I'll sarve it out all ship-shape to any on you as

likes.' So I gives a chirp, and 'Grog ahoy!' sings I. Well, shipmates,

I'm blessed if one on 'em didn't come down from the far eend o' the

wault, and claps me alongside as I was sitting on the ground, and he

takes hould o' the tot, knocks his head at me, as much as to say,

'All in good fellowship,' and down went the stuff through a pair o'

leather lips in the twinkling of a hand-spik. 'All right, my hearty,'

says I, filling the tot again: 'is there any more on you to chime

in?'--'Sailor,' says he, in a voice that seemed to come from a fathom

and a half down underneath him, for I'm blowed, messmates, if his lips

ever moved;--'sailor, you must get out o' this,' says he.--'Lord love

your heart,' says I, 'the thing's onpossible; you wouldn't have the

conscience to make an honest tar cut and run in sich a rough night

as this here.'--'We arn't never got no consciences,' says he; 'we're

all dead.'--'Dead!' says I laughing, though, messmates, I own I was a

bit flusticated; 'dead!' says I; 'that's gammon you're pitching, and

I thinks it's hardly civil on you to try and bamboxter me arter that

fashion. Why, didn't I see you myself just now when you spliced the

main brace?--dead men don't drink brandy.'--'We're privileged,' sings

out a little cock-eyed fellow up in one o' the niches; 'we're the ould

ancient kings of Egypt, and I'm Fairer.'--'If there warn't many more

fairer nor you,' says I, 'you'd be a cursed ugly set, saving your

majesty's presence,' for I thought it best to be civil, Jack, seeing

as I had got jammed in with such outlandish company, and not knowing

what other privileges they might have had sarved out to 'em besides

swallowing brandy. 'Will your majesty like just to take a lime-burner's

twist, by way of warming your stumack a bit, and fumigating your

hould?' says I, as I poured out the stuff.--'Give it to King Herod, as

is moored alongside of you,' says he, 'and keep your thumb out of the

measure;' for, shipmates, I'd shoved in my thumb pretty deep, by way

of lengthening out the grog, and getting a better allowance of plush.

How the ould chap came to obsarve it, I don't know, unless it was

another of their privileges to be up to everything. 'Keep your thumb

out!' says he.--'All right, your honour,' says I, handing the little

ould fellow the tot; and he nipped it up, and knocked off the stuff

in a moment. And 'Pray,' says I, 'may I make bould to ax your honour

how long you've been dead?'--'About two thousand years,' says he: and,

'My eyes!' thinks I, 'but you're d--d small for your age.'--'But,

sailor,' says he, 'what brought you here?'--'My legs, your honour,'

says I, 'brought me as far as the hatchway; but I'm blowed if I didn't

come down by the run into this here consarn.'--'You mustn't stop here,

sailor,' says he,--'that's King Herod,--you can have no business with

us, seeing as we're all mummies.'--'All what?' says I, 'all dummies?'

for I didn't catch very clearly what he said; 'all dummies?' says

I. 'Well, I'm bless'd if I didn't think so!'--'No, no! mummies,'

says he again, rather cantankerously; 'not dummies, for we can all

talk.'--'Mayhap so, your majesty,' says I, arter taking another bite

of the cherry, and handing him a third full tot, taking precious good

care to keep my thumb out this time: 'but what am I to rouse out for?

It ud take more tackles than one to stir Joe Nighthead from this. I'm

in the ground-tier,' says I, 'and amongst all your privileges, though

you clap luff upon luff, one live British tar, at a purchase, is worth

a thousand dead kings, any day.'--'Haugh!' says he, as he smacked his

leather lips, and the noise was just like a breeze making a short board

through a hole in a pair of bellows; 'Haugh!' says he, as soon as he'd

bolted the licker, 'it doesn't rest with us, my man: as mummies, we're

privileged against all kinds of spirits.'--'Except brandy,' says I.--'I

means evil spirits,' says he: 'but if the devil should come his rounds,

and find you here upon his own cruising-ground, he'd pick you up and

make a prize of you to a sartinty.'--'D--the devil!' says I, as bould

as a lion, for I warn't a-going to let the ould fellow think I was

afeard of Davy Jones, though I was hard and fast ashore; and 'D--the

devil,' says I, 'axing your majesty's pardon; the wagabone has got no

call to me, seeing as I'm an honest man, and an honest man's son as

defies him.' Well, shipmates, I had my head turned round a little,

and something fetches me a crack in the ear, that made all sneer

again, and 'Yo hoy! your majesty,' says I; 'just keep your fingers

to yourself, if you pleases.'--'I never touched you,' says he; 'but

there's one close to you as I can see, though you can't.'--'Gammon!'

says I; 'as if your dead-eyes were better than my top-lights.'--But,

shipmates, at that moment somut whispers to me,--for may I be rammed

and jammed into a penny cannon if I seed anything; but somut whispers

to me, Joe Nighthead, I'm here over your shoulder.'--'That's my name

all reg'lar enough, whatever ship's books you got it from,' says I:

'But who the blazes are you that's not nothing more than a woice and

no-body?'--'You knows well enough who I am,' says the whisper again;

'and I tell you what it is, Joe, I've got a job for you to do.'--'Show

me your phisog first,' says I, 'or I'm blow'd if I've anything

whatsomever to say to you. If you are the underground Davy Jones, it's

all according to natur, mayhap; but I never signs articles unless I

knows the owners.'--'But you _do_ know _me_, Joe,' says the woice,

that warn't more nor half a woice neither, in regard of its being more

like the sigh of a periwinkle, or the groan of an oyster.--'Not a bit

of it,' says I; for though I suckspected, shipmates, who the beggar

was, yet I warn't going to let him log it down again me without having

hoclar proof, so 'Not a bit of it,' says I; 'but if you wants me to do

anything in all honour and wartue,'--you see, Jack, I didn't forget

wartue, well knowing that when the devil baits his hook he claps a

'skylark' on to the eend of it; so, 'all in honour and wartue,' says

I, 'and Joe's your man.'--'Do you know who's alongside of you?' says

the woice.--'Why, not disactly,' says I: 'he calls himself King Herod;

but it's as likely he may be Billy Pitt, for anything I knows to the

contrary.'--'It _is_ King Herod,' says the whisper again; 'the fellow

who killed all the Innocents,'--'What innocents?' axes I, seeing as I

didn't foregather upon his meaning.--'The innocent babbies,' says the

woice; 'he killed them all, and now he's got a cruising commission to

keep me out o' my just rights, and I daren't attack him down below

here.'--'The ould cannibal!' says I: 'what! murder babbies?--then I'm

blowed if he gets a drop more out of my canteen.'--'Who's that you're

meaning on?' says King Herod; 'who isn't to get another taste?'--'Not

nobody as consarns you, your honour,' answers I, for I didn't like to

open my broadside upon him, in regard of not knowing but he might have

a privilege to man-handle me again.--'I think you meant me,' says he;

'but if you didn't, prove the truth on it by handing me over a full

gill.' Well, shipmates, that was bringing the thing to the pint, and it

put me into a sort of quandary; but 'All in course, your honour,' says

I; 'but I'm saying, your majesty, you arn't never got sich a thing as

a bite o' pigtail about you--have you? seeing as I lost my chaw and my

'bacca-box in the gale--hove overboard to lighten ship.'--'Yes, I can,

my man--some real Wirginny,' says the king."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sergeant of marines; "go it, Joe;--you'll

rival Tom Pepper presently. Why, Virginia is only a late discovery;

such a place wasn't known in the days of Herod, nor tobacco either."

"To my thinking it's wery hodd, Muster Jolly, that you should shove

your oar in where it arn't wanted," muttered Joe. "Why?--couldn't

they have a Wirginny in Egypt? and as for the 'bacca, I'm blowed if I

don't wouch for the truth on it, for out his majesty lugs a box as big

round in dameter as the top of a scuttle-butt, and, knocking off the

lid, 'There's some of the best as ever was many-facter'd,' says he.

'I loves a chaw myself, and there's nothing whatsomever as 'ull beat

the best pound pig-tail.'--'Sartinly not, in course, your honour,'

says I; 'but I'm blessed if it doesn't double upon my calculations o'

things to think how your majesty, who ought to be in _quod_ in t'other

world, should take your _quid_ in this.'--'We're privileged, my man,'

says he; 'we're privileged and allowed to take anything, in reason,'

and he fixed his glazed eyes with a 'ticing look at the canteen. 'You

know,' says he, 'that it's an ould saying aboard, "the purser makes

dead men chaw tobacco."' Well, shipmates, that was a clencher in the

way of hargyfication that brought me up all standing; so I hands King

Herod the tot again, and I rouses out a long scope of pig-tail out o'

the box, and takes another nip at the brandy.--'You won't do it, then,

Joe,' says the whisper t'other side of me.--'What is it?' axes I.--'The

best pound pigtail,' says King Herod, as if he thought I was speaking

to him.--'It's ounly to borrow one of these here mummies for me for

about half an hour,' says the woice.--'Which on 'em?' says I.--'This

here in the box,' says King Herod. 'Why, I'm thinking your brains are

getting all becalmed.' And so they was, shipmates; for, what with the

woice at one ear that I couldn't see, and his majesty at the other,

who often doubled himself into two or three, I'm blowed if I warn't

reg'larly bamboozled in my upper works."

"You was drunk, Joe," said the sergeant of marines; "it's very evident

you was _non compos mentis_."

"And, what if I hadn't a nun compass to steer by?" replied Joe angrily,

"is that any reason I should be tosticated? I tell you I warn't drunk,

in regard o' the full allowance o' brandy I stowed in my hould to keep

me steady and sober. Ax Jack there if it's any way likely I should be

drunk."

"It stands to reason, not," argued Jack Sheavehole, "or, what's the

use of a fellow having the stuff sarved out at all? Short allowance

only brings a mist afore the eyes and circumpollygates the head till

everything looms, like Beachy in a fog. But when you've your full

whack, it clears the daylights, cherishes the cockles o' your heart,

and makes you more handy, 'cause you often sees two first leftenants

where there's ounly one."

"Dat berry true, massa Jack," said Mungo Pearl; "me al'ays sweep de

deck more clean when me tink me hab two broom in me hand."

"In course," continued Joe, more soothed; "none but a Jolly would go

to say anything again it, or doubt the woracity o' the thing. Well,

shipmates, to heave ahead, I'm saying I was reg'larly bamblustercated

when one of the genelmen up in the niches squeaks out, 'King Herod,

I'll just thank you for a thimble-full of the stuff.'"

"Did he say 'a thimble-full?'" inquired Sam Slick, the tailor. "It

couldn't be a professional thimble, then, for they never has no tops

to 'em. It shows, however, the antickity of thimbles; though I thought

they never had any use for them in those days."

"And why not, you lubber?" asked Bob Martingale.

"Simply because their garments were not sewed together as they are in

the present day," answered the tailor.

"Tell that to the marines, Sam," said the boatswain's mate; "why what

was Clipsypaddyree's needle for, eh? But, get on, Joe; there's no

conwincing such ignoramasses."

"Ay, ay, messmate!" uttered Joe. "'Well,' says the genelman in the

niche, 'I'll thank you for a thimbleful of that 'ere stuff.'--'With all

the pleasure in life, your honour,' says I as I filled up the tot, and

was going to carry it to him, but----'Give it to me, I'll take it,'

says King Herod;' and up he gets,--my eyes! I never seed such a queer

little ould chap in all my life!--and off he bolts to t'other mummy,

steering precious wild, by the way; and he tips him the _likser witey_,

and then back again he comes, and brings up in his ould anchorage.

'May I make bould to ax your majesty,' says I, 'what the name o' that

genelman is as you've just sarved out the stuff to?'--'He's not a

genelman, not by no manner o' means,' says he, 'in regard of his being

a king.'--'And King who?' axes I.--'You're werry quizative, Muster

Sailor,' says he; 'but it's in the natur o' things to want to know

your company. That's King Hangabull.'--'And a devilish queer name,

too,' says I, 'for a fellow to turn into his hammock with. Is he of

Irish distraction?'--'His mother was an Irishman,' says the king, 'and

his father came out of a Cartridge.'--'And a pretty breed they'd make

of it,' says I, 'somut atwixt a salt cod and a marmaid.'--'Will you

steal me a mummy?' comes the whisper again; 'you'd better, Joe.'--'No

threats, if you please,' says I.--'I never threatened you,' says the

king, who thought I was directing my discourse to him; 'but, sailor, I

must call over all their names now to see there's none absent without

leave,'--and I'm blow'd if he didn't begin with King Fairer; but

there was a whole fleet of King Fairers and King Rabshakers, and King

Dollyme, and ever so many more, every one answering muster, as if it

had been a rope-yarn Sunday for a clean shirt and a shave, till at last

I got fairly foozlified, and hove down on my beam-ends as fast asleep

as a parish-clerk in sarmon time."

"A pretty yarn you 're spinning there, Mister Joe," said old Savage,

who it was evident had been listening,--as he had often done both

before and since he mounted his uniform coat:--"A pretty yarn you're

spinning. I wonder you arn't afeard to pay out the slack o' your lies

in that fashion."

"It's all true as Gospel, Muster Savage," responded Joe: "I seed it,

and suffered it myself, and afore I dropped asleep--'Mayhap,' thinks

I, 'if I could steal a mummy for myself to give to my ould mother, it

'ud be a reg'lar fortin to her,--dead two thousand years, and yet drink

brandy and chaw tobacco!' So I sleeps pretty sound, though for how many

bells I'm blessed if I can tell; but I was waked up by a raking fire

abaft, that warmed my starn, and I sits upright to clear my eyes of

the spray, and there laid King Herod alongside of me, with one of the

canteens as a pillow, and all the ould chaps had come down out o' their

niches, and formed a complete circle round us, that made me fancy all

sorts of conjuration and bedevilment; so I jumps up on to my feet, and

lets fly my broadsides to starboard and port, now and then throwing

out a long shot a-head, and occasionally discharging my starn chasers

abaft till I'd floored all the mummies, and the whole place wrung with

shouts of laughter, though not a living soul could I see, nor dead uns

either,--seeing as they'd nothing but bodies. Well, shipmates, if the

thought didn't come over me again about bolting with one on 'em, and

so I catches up King Herod, and away I starts up some steps,--for the

moon had got the watch on deck by that time, and showed her commodore's

light to make every thing plain:--Away I starts with King Herod, who

began to hollow out like fun, 'Stop--stop, sailor! stop!--where are

you going to take me? I'm Corporal Stunt.'--'Corporal H--!' says I,

'you arn't going to do me in that way,--you said yourself you was King

Herod.'--'It was all a trick,' says he, again, kicking and sputtering

like blazes; 'I'm not King Herod, I'm ounly Corporal Stunt,' says

he.--'That be d--;' says I, 'you're conwicted by your own mouth. And

didn't the woice tell me you was the barbarous blaggard as murdered

the babbies?'--'Yes,--yes; but I did it myself,' says he.--'I know

you did,' says I, fetching him a poke in the ribs,--for, shipmates,

I made sure he warn't privileged above ground,--'I know you did,'

says I, 'and I'm blessed if the first leftenant shan't bring you to

the gangway for it!' And then he shouts out, and I hears the sound of

feet astarn coming up in chase, and I carries on a taut press, till I

catches sight of Clipsypaddyree's needle, that sarved me for a beacon,

and I hears the whole fleet of mummies come 'pad-pad' in my wake, and

hailing from their leather-lungs, 'Stop, sailor--stop!' but I know'd a

trick worth two of that, shipmates; so I made more sail, and the little

ould chap tries to shift ballast so as to bring me down by the head;

but it wouldn't do, and he kept crying out, 'Let me down! pray let me

go, I'm ounly Corporal Stunt!'--'Corporal Stunt or Corporal Devil,'

says I, giving him another punch to keep him quiet; 'I knows who are

you, and I'm blessed if the ould woman shan't have you packed up in a

glass cage for a show! you shall have plenty o' pigtail and brandy:'

and on I carries, every stitch set, and rattling along at a ten-knot

pace, afeard o' nothing but their sending a handful o' monyments arter

me from their bow-chasers, that might damage some of my spars. At

last I makes out the battery, and bore up for the entrance, when one

of the sodgers, as was sentry, hails, 'Who goes there?'--'No--no!'

says I, seeing as I warn't even a petty officer.--'That won't do,'

says the sodger; 'you must give the countersign.'--'What the blazes

should I know about them there things?' axes I, 'you may see I'm

a blue-jacket.'--'You can't pass without the countersign,' says

he.--'That be d--d!' says I, 'arn't I got King Herod here? and arn't

there King Fairer, and King Dollyme, and King Hangabull, and a whole

fleet more on 'em in chase!' says I.--'Oh, Tom Morris, is that you?'

says King Herod.--'Yes,' says the sentry; 'why, I say, sailor, you've

got hould o' the corporal!'--'Tell that to the marines,' says I, 'for

I knows well enough who he is, and so shall my ould mother when I gets

him home! But, I'm blessed, but here they come!' and, shipmates, I

heard 'em quite plain close aboard o' me, so that it was all my eye

to be backing and filling palavering there afore the sentry, and get

captured, and with that I knocks him down with King Herod, and in I

bolts with my prize right into the officer's quarters. 'Halloo! who the

devil have we got here?' shouts the leftenant, starting up from his

cot.--'It's not the devil, your honour,' says I, 'not by no manner o'

means; it's Joe Nighthead, and King Herod,' and I pitches the wagabone

upright on to his lower stancheons afore the officer.--'There, your

majesty,' says I, 'now speak for yourself.'--'Majesty!' says the

leftenant, onshipping the ould fellow's turban and overhauling his

face,--'majesty! why, it's the corporal--Corporal Stunt; and pray,

Muster Corporal, what cruise have you been on to-night?'--and then

there was the clattering of feet in the battery, and, 'Here they all

are, your honour!' says I, 'all the ould ancient kings of Egypt as

are rigged out for mummies. My eyes, take care o' the grog bottles,

for them fellows are the very devil's own at a dram! Stand by, your

honour! there's King Dollyme and all on 'em close aboard of us! but,

I'm blowed if I don't floor some on 'em again as I did in the wault!'

Well, messmates, in they came; but, instead of mummies in their oil

jars, I'm bless'd if they warn't rigged out like sodger officers, and

they stood laughing at me ready to split their sides when they saw me

squaring away my yards all clear for action."

"But, what was they, Joe?" inquired the boatswain's mate, "they must

have shifted their rigging pretty quick."

"I think I can explain it all," said the sergeant, laughing heartily,

"for I happened to be there at the time, though I had no idea that our

friend Joe here was the man we played the trick on."

"Just mind how you shapes your course, Muster Sergeant!" exclaimed

Joe, angrily. "I'd ounly give you one piece of good adwice,--don't be

falling athwart my hawse, or mayhap you may wish yourself out o' this."

"Don't be testy, Joe," said the sergeant, "on my honour I'll tell

you the truth. Shipmates, the facts are these:--I belonged to the

party in the battery, and went with some of the officers to explore

a burial-ground, not without hopes of picking up a prize or two, as

the report was that the mummies had plates of gold on their breasts.

Corporal Stunt went with us; and, when we got to the place we lighted

torches and commenced examination, but, if they ever had any gold about

them the French had been there before us, for we found none. Whilst we

were exploring, a storm came on, and not being able to leave the vault

the officers dressed Stunt up in some of the cerements that had been

unrolled from the mummies by way of amusement, little expecting the fun

that it was afterward to produce. When Joe came in as he has described,

we all hid ourselves, and, if truth must be spoken, he was more than

half sprung." Joe grumbled out an expletive. "Stunt went to him, and we

had as fine a piece of pantomime----"

"Panter what?" uttered Joe, with vehemence, "there's no such rope in

the top, you lubber! and arter all you can say I werily believes it wur

King Herod; but, you see, messmates, what with running so hard, and

what with losing my canteens, I got dumbfoundered all at once, and then

they claps me in limbo for knocking down the sentry."

"And the officers begged you off," said the sergeant, "on account of

the fun they'd enjoyed, and you was sent away on board, to keep you out

of further mischief, Joe, and to prevent your going a mummy-hunting

again. As for Corporal Stunt----"

"Corporal D--n!" exclaimed Joe in a rage, "it's all gammon about your

Corporal Stunt; and in regard o' the matter o' that, what have you

got to say in displanation o' the woice? There I has you snug enough

anyhow; there was no mistake about the woice," and Joe chuckled with

pleasure at what he deemed unanswerable evidence in his favour.

"It may be accounted for in the most sensible way imaginable," said the

sergeant; "Corporal Stunt was what they call a ventriloquist."

"More gammon!" says Joe; "and, what's a wentillerquis, I should like

to know; and how came the mummies to muster out of their niches when I

woke?"

"We placed them there whilst you were asleep," replied the sergeant,

"and, as for Stunt, he was as drunk and drowsy as yourself."

"Ay,--ay, sergeant!" said Joe, affecting to laugh, "it's all wery well

what you're overhauling upon, but I'm blessed if you'll ever make me

log that ere down about Corporal Stunt and the wentiller consarn. I

ounly wish I had the canteens now."

"Get a musket ready there for'ard!" shouted his lordship from the

gangway, "fire athwart the brig's bows."

"They seem to be all asleep aboard, my lord!" said Mr. Nugent. "At all

events they don't seem to care much about us."

"You're mistaken, Mr. Nugent," replied his lordship, as he directed

his night-glass steadily at the stranger, "she's full of men, and if I

am correct in my conjectures, there are many, very many eyes anxiously

watching our motions."

The musket was fired, and the brig came to the wind with her

maintopsail to the mast. The frigate ranged up to windward of her, and

the sonorous voice of Lord Eustace was heard,

"Brig a-hoy! What brig's that?"

"L'Hirondelle de Toulon," responded the commander of the vessel hailing

through his speaking-trumpet. "Vat sal your ship be?"

"His Britannic Majesty's frigate, the Spankaway," answered Lord

Eustace: "lower away the cutter, Mr. Nugent, and board her."

The two craft had neared each other so closely, and the moon shone with

such clearness and splendour, that every thing was perfectly visible

from each other on the decks of both. The brig was full of men, and

when Lord Eustace had announced the name of his ship, the sounds had

not yet died away upon the waters when out burst a spontaneous cheer

from the smaller vessel such as only English throats could give,--it

was a truly heart-stirring British demonstration, and there was no

mistaking it. The effect was perfectly electric on the man-of-war's

men,--the lee gangway was instantly crowded as well as the lee ports,

and, as if by a sudden communion of spirit that was irrepressible, the

cheer was returned.

There is amongst thorough tars a sort of freemasonry in these things

that no language can describe,--it is the secret sign, the mystery that

binds the brotherhood together,--felt, but not understood,--expressed,

yet undefined.

"Where are you from?" shouted his lordship as soon as the cheering had

subsided.

"From Genoa, bound to Malta, your honour," answered a voice in clear

English: "we're a Cartel."

"Fortune favours us, Monsieur Capitaine," said his lordship to Citizen

Begaud; "the exchange of prisoners can be effected where we are, and

I will take it on my own responsibility to dismiss you on the usual

terms, if you wish to return to France."

"A thousand thanks, my lord," returned Begaud, with evident

satisfaction. "Yet all places are alike to me now. You have heard my

narrative, and I hope, if we part, you will not hold me altogether in

contempt and abhorrence. My spirits are depressed--my star is dim and

descending--my destiny will soon be accomplished."

"You fought your ship bravely, Monsieur," said Lord Eustace, "and I

trust your future career will redeem the past. You have suffered much,

and experience is a wise teacher to the human mind. But there is one

thing I am desirous of having explained. You say that Robespierre

detained you for some time before he gave you a pardon for the

Countess--do you think he was aware of her approaching execution?"

"Aware of it, my lord?" exclaimed the French Captain, in a tone

approaching to a shriek: "Danton, whom you well remember I said I

met quitting the bureau, had the death-warrant, with the wretch's

signature, in his hand--'twas solely for the purpose of destruction

that he detained me--he knew the villain would be speedy--they had

planned it between them."

"All ready with the cutter, my lord," exclaimed Mr. Sinnitt, coming up

to the gangway, and saluting his noble captain.

"Board the brig, Mr. Nugent, and bring the master and his papers to the

frigate," directed Lord Eustace. "Call the gunner--a rocket and a blue

light."

Both orders were obeyed; the signal was readily comprehended by

Mr. Seymour, who hove-to in the prize, and in a few minutes Nugent

returned from his embassy with the master of the cartel and the

officer authorized to effect an exchange. The papers were rigidly

examined--there were no less than one hundred and six Englishmen on

board the brig, the principal portion of whom had been either wrecked

or captured in merchant-men, and were now on their way to Malta for an

equal number of French prisoners in return; the commander-in-chief at

Genoa, rightly judging that British humanity would gladly accede to

the proposition. There were no officers, but Lord Eustace undertook to

liberate Citizen Captain Begaud--the preliminaries were arranged--the

Frenchmen, man for man, were transferred to the brig (his lordship

throwing in a few hands who earnestly implored his consideration)--the

Englishmen were received on board the frigate--necessary documents were

signed, and they parted company--the brig making sail for Toulon--the

Spankaway rejoining her prize.

"We've made a luckly windfall, Seymour," hailed his lordship when the

frigates had closed; "I've a hundred prime hands for you. Out boats,

Mr. Sinnitt, and send the new men away directly--but first of all, let

every soul of them come aft." A very few minutes sufficed to execute

the command. "My lads," said his lordship, addressing them, "are you

willing to serve your country?--speak the word. I've an object in view

that will produce a fair share of prize-money--enter for his majesty's

service, and you shall have an equal distribution with the rest.

Yonder's your ship, a few hours will probably bring us into action, and

I know every man will do his duty."

With but few exceptions, the seamen promptly entered, and were sent

away to the Hippolito, where Mr. Seymour was instructed to station them

at the guns with all possible despatch.

"Well, here we goes again," said old Savage, as the order was given to

bear up and make sail, "it's infarnally provoking not to be able to

discover what the skipper's arter. There's the Pollytoe running away

ahead, and Muster Seymour's just fancying himself first Lord o' the

Admirality."

"Beat to quarters, Mr. Sinnitt," exclaimed his lordship, "and cast

loose the guns."

"Well, I'm ---- if I can make anything on it, Jack," grumbled the

boatswain; "what are we going to engage now--the Flying Dutchman, or

Davy Jones?"

"Mayhap a whole shole of Joe's mummies, sir," said Jack Sheavehole,

with a respectful demeanour, as he cast loose his gun upon the

forecastle, and threw his eye along the sight. Suddenly his gaze was

fixed, he then raised his head for a moment, looked eagerly in the same

direction, and once more glanced along the gun. "Well, I'm blessed

if there aint," says he,--his voice echoed among the canvass as he

shouted--"two sail on the starboard bow."

"Who's that hailing?" said the captain, as he walked forward to the

bows, with his glass under his arm.

"It's Jack Sheavehole, your honour, my lord," replied the boatswain's

mate, his eye still steadily fixed upon the objects.

"If they're what I expect, it will be a hundred guineas for you, my

man, and, perhaps something better," said his lordship. "Where are

they?"

"Just over the muzzle of the gun, my lord," answered Jack, as a

fervent wish escaped him, that his lordship's expectations might be

realized; for the hundred guineas, and something better, brought to his

remembrance Suke and the youngsters.

Lord Eustace took a steady persevering sight through his night glass,

as the men went to their quarters, and the ship was made clear for

action; his lordship then ascertained the correct distance of the

Hippolito ahead to be about two miles. "Get top-ropes rove, Mr.

Savage," said he; "heave taut upon 'em, and see all clear for knocking

the fids out of the topmasts."

"Ay ay, my lord," responded the boatswain, as he prepared for immediate

obedience, but mumbling to himself, "What the ---- will he be at next;

rigging the jib-boom out o' the cabin windows, and onshipping the

rudder, I suppose. Well, I'm ----, if the sarvice arn't going to the

devil hand-over-hand; I shouldn't be surprised if we have to take a

reef in the mainmast next."

"Mr. Sinnitt," said his lordship, "let them pass a hawser into the

cutter,"--the boat had not been hoisted up again,--"take the plug out,

and drop her astern."

"D'ye hear that, Joe?" growled the boatswain; "there'll be more stores

expended if she breaks adrift, and I'm ---- if I can make it out; first

of all, we goes in chase o' nothing--now here's a couple o' craft in

sight, that mayhap may be enemies' frigates,--he's sinking the cutter

to stop our way. Well, we shall all be wiser in time."

The strangers were made out to be two ships, standing in for the

land, and whilst they were clearly visible to the Spankaway and the

Hippolito, the position the moon was in prevented the strangers from

seeing the two frigates. At length, however, they did obtain sight of

them, and they immediately hauled to the wind, with their heads off

shore.

"There's a gun from the prize, sir," shouted one of the men forward, as

the booming report of a heavy piece of ordnance came over the waters.

"Run out the two bow-guns through the foremost ports, and fire blank

cartridge," said his lordship. "Where's the gunner?"--Mr. Blueblazes

responded, "Ay ay, my lord."--"Draw all the shot on the larboard

side," continued Lord Eustace, to the great astonishment of the man of

powder, and still greater surprise of the old boatswain.

"Mr. Seymour is making signals, my lord," said the third lieutenant;

"and he's altered his course towards the strangers."

"Very good, Mr. Nugent," said his lordship; "let them blaze away with

the bow-guns, but be careful not to shot them."

The Hippolito kept discharging her stern chasers as she stood towards

the strangers, who made all possible sail away, and the Spankaway fired

her bow-guns without intermission, as she pursued her prize.

"What an onmarciful waste of powder," said the boatswain to his mate;

"I say, Jack, just shove in a shot to take off the scandal o' the

thing."

Whether Jack complied or not, is unknown. The boat astern was cut away,

the Spankaway felt relieved, and drew up with the prize; the strangers

retained their position, about three or four miles distant, and thus

the chase continued till daylight, no one being able to make out what

it all meant.

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.

FROM UHLAND.

And didst thou see that castle,

That castle by the sea?

The rosy-tinctured cloudlets

Float o'er it bright and free.

'Twould be bending down its shadows

Into the crystal deep,--

In the sunset's rays all glowing

'Twould tower with haughty sweep.

"Ay, wot ye well, I saw it--

That castle by the sea,

And the pale moon standing o'er it,

And mists hung on its lee."

The wind and ocean's rolling,

Was their voice fresh and strong?

Came from its halls the echoes

Of lute and festal song?

"The winds, the waves around it

In sullen stillness slept,

Forth came a song of wailing,--

I heard it, and I wept."

The king and his proud ladye,

Were they pacing that high hall,

With crowns of gold, and girded

In purple and in pall?

And led they not exulting

A maid of rarest mould,

Bright as the sun, and beaming

In tresses all of gold?

"I saw that king and ladye--

The crown gemmed not their hair,

Dark mourning weeds were on them--

The maid I saw not there."

E.N.

LEGISLATIVE NOMENCLATURE.

AMONGST THE MOTLEY CHARACTERS AND COMBINATIONS IN THE NEW HOUSE OF

COMMONS MAY BE FOUND

A _Duke_, an _Erle_, a _Bannerman_,

A _Barron_, and a _Knight_;

A _Northland_ Lord, a _Denison_,

With _Manners_ most polite.

A _Kirk_ and _Chaplin_ still remain,

Tho' the House has lost its _Clerk_;

But a _Parrott_'s there to say amen,

And a _Fox_ and _Woulfe_ to bark!

Saint _Andrew_, holy man, is gone,

Who _Knightley_, _Neeld_, and _Praed_,[42]

A _Haytor_[43] of the poor man's joy,

And Sunday _Baker_ trade.

A _Leader_, and a _Crewe_ with _Spiers_,

Conspire against _A'Court_;

But _Dick_ declares, and _Darby_ swears,

_No-el_ is meant nor _Hurt_.

They've hunted _Roebuck_ from his hold,

And _Buck_-ingham and _Bruen_;

But a _Sheppard_ stays to guard the fold,

And save the flock from ruin!

There's _Cow_-per, _Bull_-ers, and Knatch-_bull_,

With _Lamb_-ton, _Hinde_, and _Hogg_;

A brace of _Martins_, _Finch_, and _Hawkes_,

And _Pusey_ in a _Bagge_!

There's _Moles_-worth, _Duck_-worth, _Cod_-rington,

Three _Roches_ and a _Seale_;

A _Rose_, a _Plumptre_, and a _Reid_,

With _Hawes_ and _Lemon Peel_.

A _Bold_-ero, with _Muskett_ armed,

Goes thro' the _Woods_ to _Chute_;[44]

He fires some _Rounds_, and then brings down

A _Heron_ and _Wilde Coote_!

_Great Dan_, with his smooth _Winning-ton_,

Contrives his _Poyntz_ to _Wynn_;

For his supple _tail_ has stronger grown,

Tho', alas! he's lost his _Finn_!

Two _Baillies_ and an Irish _Maher_,[45]

And _Burroughes_, _Power_, a _Bewes_;[46]

Two Tory _Woods_, a _Forester_,

With _Hastie_, _Vigor_, _Hughes_![47]

A _Cave_, a _Loch_, a _Hill_, a _Fort_,

A _Divett_, and a _Trench_;

A _Fleming_ and a _Bruges_, _Guest_,

With _Holland_, _Folkes_ and _Ffrench_.

A _Hob-house_, _Wode-house_, _Powers-court_,

Two _Est-courts_ and a _Hall_;

The _Hutt_, alas! they've undermined,

And left a _Black-stone_, _Wall_!

A _Marshall-Law_, with _Power_, _C. Vere_,[48]

And _Foley_ and _Strange-ways_;

Three _Palmers_ on a pilgrimage,

A _Gally_ in a _Hayes_![49]

Tho' _North_ and _West_ are both displaced,

An _East-hope_ has been gained;

While _East-nor_, _East_ and _West_-enra,

Their stations have maintain'd!

_Camp-bells_ we have, and Durham _Bowes_,[50]

With one Northumbrian _Bell_;

From _Stirlingshire_ they've sent _For-bes_,[51]

To _Lisburn_ for _Mey-nell_![52]

Tho' _Beau-clerk_ and _Beau-mont_ are gone,

We've _Fellowes_, _Hale_ and _Young_,

In _Style_ to carry on the _Ball_,

And dash and _Strutt_ a _Long_.

A _Horsman_ with _Fre-mantle_ trots

Two _Miles_ to _Wynn_ a _Pryse_;

Two _Walkers_, _Pryme_, the distance run,

More confident than _Wyse_.

A _Chapman_ with his _Packe_ and _Price_,

A _Potter_ with his _Clay_;

A _Fresh-field_, _Baring_, _Pease_, and _Rice_,

A thriving _Field-en Hay_.

A _Carter_, _Coopers_, _Turners_, _Smiths_,

A _Collier_ with his _Coles_;

A _Master-Cartwright_ with his _Maule_,

A _Bolling-Green_ and _Bowles_.

A _Black_-burn, _Blew_-itt, and _Brown_-rigge,

And _Black_-ett, _White_, and _Grey_;

With double _Scarlett_, _Orange-Peel_,

And _Brown_ and _Green_-away.

There's _Crawford_, _Wood_, and _Pattison_,

And _Barings_ passing _Rich_;

With _Money-penny_ and a _Grote_,

And _Grimston_ and _Grimsditch_.

There's _Rum-bold_, _Tancred_, and _Phill-potts_,

A _Butler_ from Kilkenny;

A _Heath-coat_, _Thorn-hill_, and _Broad-wood_,

With _Mild-may_ and _Ma-hony_.

A _Bodkin_, _Sharpe_, Kent _Hodges_, _Blunt_,

A _Miller_ and a _Baker_;

With sinners, saints, and Methodists,

Socinians, and a _Quaker_!

Staunch Papists, Presbyterians,

And Churchmen great and small;

With _Mathew_, _Mark_, and _Luke_, and _John_,

Old _Adam_ and _St. Paul_!

G.W.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: Prayed.]

[Footnote 43: Hater.]

[Footnote 44: Shoot.]

[Footnote 45: Mayor.]

[Footnote 46: Abuse.]

[Footnote 47: Hews.]

[Footnote 48: Severe.]

[Footnote 49: Haze.]

[Footnote 50: Beaux.]

[Footnote 51: For Bess.]

[Footnote 52: My Nell.]

NOBILITY IN DISGUISE.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

"They name ye before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me.----"

BYRON.

One of the evils of an increasing population is the difficulty of

finding names for all the new-comers. As long as the census remained

proportionate to the superficies of the country, and every man could

entrench himself within the walls of his own domicile, or isolate

himself between his own hedges, the principle of individuality

continued unassailed; but when, from a thousand causes, the population

became doubled, almost within our recollection, and men were forced to

herd together, gregarious by compulsion, we felt that a blow had been

struck at personal identity which it would require the utmost ingenuity

to parry.

Amongst the many responsibilities entailed upon parents, not the

least, in these prolific times, is that of providing their offspring

with names which shall carry them safely through the wear and tear

of after-life without encroaching upon the privileges, or sharing in

the disgraces, of others. The man, for instance, who _happens_ to

bear the _not-impossible_ name of Smith, and who chooses to christen

his son by the not-uncommon one of John, commits an error as fatal as

can well be imagined. At school that son is buffeted by mistake, and

birched by accident, for the broken windows and invaded orchards: the

acts of another John Smith. As he advances towards man's estate, his

good reputation is stolen, and a bad one substituted, by the graceless

conduct of a namesake. He is dunned for debts he never contracted,

rendered liable for hearts he never broke, and imprisoned for assaults

he never committed. He is superseded in the affections of his mistress

by another John Smith, disinherited on his account, and when he

dies--for even Smiths must die--no tear is shed to his memory, no

record commemorates his decease; like the pebble which is cast into the

ocean, a little circle just marks the spot for a moment, and the waves

of oblivion roll over it for ever!

The same melancholy fate haply attends the possessors of the names of

Green, Brown, Jones, Robinson, Thompson, and others no less familiar.

The destiny of one becomes involved in the general lot of all; the

multitude can no more distinguish between them than they can separate

one sheep from a flock, or one bee from a swarm. The hand of fate

is on the unhappy crowd,--"they are the victims of its iron rule;"

and victimised to a certainty they would have remained, had not a

boldly-conceiving individual invented a mode of particularising that

which was general, severing the with which bound them in one universal

faggot. It was effected in this wise. He considered the name he

bore--one of those already alluded to--as being only the type of _man_;

and, spurning at the imbecility or indifference of a godfather, who

had thus neutralised his existence at the very outset, he resolved to

intercalate certain high-sounding appellations, which of themselves

would attract sufficient attention, but, when combined with his own

futile denomination, would be sure to strike, from the absurdity of

the contrast, or singularity of the juxta-position. Thomas Brown was

a name as insignificant as parents or sponsors could make it; but

when, in the course of time, it swelled itself into Thomas Claudius

Fitzwilliam Carnaby Browne, it was impossible to pass it unregarded.

The feat once accomplished, like the broken egg of Columbus, it became

of easy performance; and few were the Thompsons, few the Simpsons, and

fewer still the Johnsons, who did not claim "the benefit of the act."

A prospective advantage was included also in their calculations. As

time wore away, the obnoxious Thomas or John was silently dropped;

and then, by a daring _coup-de-maître_, the plebeian sur-name, which

had been gradually contracting its powers, was altogether sunk, and

the grub became a butterfly of most aristocratic pretensions. This is

no vain theory founded on chance occurrences, but a truth which every

one will recognise who runs over the list of his acquaintance, or

examines the visiting-cards on his mantel-piece. It is as impossible

now-a-days to meet with a man content to bear the opprobrium of a

single monosyllabic name, as to raise money without security, or induce

any one to avoid politics in conversation. The ancient prejudice

against the "homo trium literarum" is now wholly removed; and we verily

believe that Cavendish Mortimer Pierrepoint, an acknowledged scion of

the swell-mob, would find more favour in the eyes of society than plain

Benjamin Bunks, a well-known respectable hosier or linendraper, if a

question of right were at issue between them.

There are two classes of persons who build up to themselves an altar

of vain-glory founded on names of self-assumption. The first are those

who, being cast originally in the basest metal, add the pinchbeck of

quality to enhance the value of the original plebeian pewter; the

second, of "dull and meagre lead," who thereunto conjoin the glare

of brass or gloom of iron by the adoption of double names of equal

dissonance. Examples are rife everywhere. Mr. and Mrs. Vokins, while

their fortune was yet to make, were happy and content "as such;" but,

the carriage once set up, the arms _found_, and the visiting-cards

printed, her friends are awake to the pleasing consciousness that "Mrs.

Ferdinand Vokins" is "at home" every alternate Wednesday during the

season.

Mr. Mudge was a plain, simple Glo'stershire squire, shooting partridges

on the paternal acres, and called "Young Mr. Mudge," as manhood and

whiskers expanded on his native soil. He comes to town, sees the

world, and discovers, for the first time, despite the importance

which inflates him, that he is nameless. He accordingly borrows from

the French, and is straightway transformed into "the interesting Mr.

Montmorency Mudge, who plays so divinely on the flute," though his very

existence had been a question but a few brief hours before.

The Badgers, though proud of course of their name _as a family name_,

have daughters to marry, and sons to provide for: it is of no use to

be good unless one appears so; and therefore Mrs. _Howard_ Badger's

suppers are the best in town, while Mr. Howard Badger is received with

smiles at the Treasury.

Plain Boss would have succeeded nowhere, except, perhaps, on a

street-door; but Felix Orlando Boss may enter the gayest drawing-room

in Christendom, announced by files of intonating footmen.

We are invited to dine, and seek to ascertain the profit and loss of

the invitation by inquiries of a fellow _convive_ as to the guests

who will be there: he is _l'ami de la maison_, and, to give due

emphasis to the description, and honour to the Amphitryon, he thus

enumerates them. "Oh, you'll have the Mortimer Bullwinkles, Mr. and

Mrs. Frederick Cutbush, the Stafford Priddys, Sir Montague Stumps, Mr.

Temple Sniggers, the Beauchamp Horrockses, and Mrs. Courtenay Cocking;

nobody else, that I remember." "Won't the Wartons be there?" "I don't

know,--who are they?--I never heard of them:--what's their _other_

name?"

And so it is: this "other name,"--this _alter ego_--becomes the grand

desideratum in description,--the passport to fashion and celebrity.

The anonymous in authorship is no longer regarded, save in the instance

of those veterans in literature whose silence is more significant than

the loud-tongued voices of a million aspirants. We need no sign-post

to show us the way to London, neither do we seek a name to anticipate

their page. But the new candidates for fame are of a different order.

The title-page of a work is in their estimation a maiden shield whereon

it is their privilege to quarter the names of all their lineage,

concentrated in themselves, or pompously appealed to in the names

of others. Hence we have, "Rambles in Russia, by Charles Valentine

Mowbray Muggins;" "Thoughts on the Poor-Laws, by Pygmalion Gammage;"

"The Exile; a poem, by Brownlow Busfield, of the Middle Temple,

Barrister-at-Law;" "Desperation; a novel, by Grenville Grindle, Esq.;"

"The Veil Withdrawn, or, A Peep behind the Curtain, by the Nieces of

the Hon. and Rev. Fitzherbert Fineclark;" and "Domestic Tyranny, or,

The Stony-hearted Step-father, by Lavinia Cecilia Bottomley, only child

of the late Captain Roderick Bottomley, of the Bombay Cavalry."

It is no longer our cue to be rendered "illustrious by courtesy;" we

compel the admiration which the niggard world so carefully withholds,

and extort the approbation it would smother. It matters little how raw,

how shapeless, how crude, how undigested be the mass when drawn from

the quarry of its creation; its uncouth aspect and angular deformity

offer no impediment to the lapidary's skill, but rather enhance its

value; and the more barbarous the name which ignorant parents have

transmitted, the wider is the scope afforded to their descendants for

rendering the adjunct more brilliant by the contrast.

He who is born Buggins, and changeth not, perisheth unregarded; his

name appears in the Newgate Calendar, and whatever his fate, it

is deemed a just one. But he who (though equally degraded in the

annals of nomenclature by the repulsive or sneaking appellations of

Jaggers, Blatcher, Gullock, or Lumkin,) adds to his patronymic the

soft seduction or romantic interest of Albert, Eustace, Stanley, or

Fitzmaurice, may appeal to the lord in waiting, or a patroness at

Almack's, and kiss the hand of royalty, or bow at the shrine of beauty.

The motto is old and true, which many "gentlemen of coat-armour" do

bear, that "Fortune favours the bold;" the daring speculators in the

names of others are eminently successful in their adventure after

greatness. To this category belong the sheriffs and aldermen, the

bearers of addresses, and the deputed of corporations; these are they

who may literally be said to have greatness "thrust upon them."

The Mayor of Norwich, hight Timothy Gamblebuck, urged by the ambitious

spiritings of Mrs. G., kneels at his sovereign's feet, and, rewarded

by an accolade, returns, in the triumph of knighthood and plenitude

of loyalty, "Sir Timotheus Guelph Gamblebuck" by _more_ than royal

permission.

Mr. Sheriff Hole, presented by a peer, and similarly honoured by the

king, marks his sense of his patron's kindness by the insertion of his

title before the cavernous epithet, and figures at urban festivals

as Sir John Cornwallis Hole, the most aristocratic on the shrieval

archives.

Sir Marmaduke Fuggles, Sir Cholmondeley Bilke, Sir Constantine

Peregrine Rumball, Sir Temple Gostick, and Sir Peter Sackville Biles,

are amongst the many whom female instigation or personal desire have

led to illustrate the glory of ancient houses. It is somewhere said

in "Pelham" that one's unknown neighbour, or opposite at dinner, must

necessarily be a baronet and Sir John; it is no less true that at the

corner of every street, in the avenues of every ballroom, a newly

created knight lies in waiting to devour one. A man with a bright blue

coat, and, if possible, brighter buttons, with black satin waistcoat

and _very_ gold chain, with large hands and a face of red portent,

cuts in with us at whist; his antagonists are perpetually appealing

to him by his brilliant title. "It is your deal, Sir Vavasour,"--"My

ace, Sir Vavasour,"--"Sir Vavasour, two doubles and the rub;"--till,

bewildered by the glories of our feudal partner, we lose the game, and

stealthily inquire of some one near, "Who _is_ the gentleman opposite?"

"Sir Vavasour Clapshaw" is the whispered reply, recalling the name of

one much respected in our youthful days,--a celebrated artist in the

cricket-bat line, who has now pitched his wicket within the precincts

of aristocracy, and bowls down society with the grandeur of his

_préfixe_.

A lady in crimson velvet, with a bird of paradise in her blue and

silver "turband," and a marabout boa wreathed round her neck, with long

white gloves tightened unto bursting, and serpentine chains clinging

unto suffocation, is seated in lofty pride at the _upper_ end of the

_principal_ saloon, and overwhelms by the dignity of her demeanour all

who come within the vortex of her "full-blown suffisance."

"Lady--what did you say? Harcourt, or Harewood,--which?--I didn't

distinctly hear." "Yes, Lady Harcourt." "Why, I thought she was dead."

"Oh, yes, the _Countess_ is dead; but this is Lady Harcourt Bumsted:

that's her husband, Sir Julius,--he was knighted last Wednesday."

"There's honour for you!--grinning honour," as Falstaff has it.

Notabilities like these are nearly as illustrious as the surreptitious

knights and dames who, by dint of surpassing impudence, pass current

for as good as they. Both classes remind us of the gypsy-herald

"_Rouge-Sanglier_," whose colours were as bright, and trappings

as gay, as those of the legitimate "_Toison d'Or_:" they have but

one fault; like him, their blazon is false, their arms are wrongly

"tricked," metal overlays metal, gold covers brass, and native _gules_

gives way to intrusive purple. The glory of our chivalry is often

awkwardly eclipsed when it happens that a Frenchman is called upon to

designate the new-made knight; he treats his Christian name with as

much indifference as he manifests in the spelling of his surname,--a

rule he always applies to those of British growth. We know a clever,

shrewd, little, antiquarian Frenchman, whom no persuasion can induce

to abbreviate a single letter of reference to page, folio, edition, or

date; but who, whenever he has occasion to mention a knight or baronet

of his acquaintance, invariably omits his _nom de baptême?_. How

pleasantly it would sound to hear the announcement of "Sir Biddles,"

"Sir Doody," or "Sir Farwig!" and yet this would be the predicament of

these worthies were they ungraced by noble _prænomina_.

The second class whose merits we propose to discuss are the

illustrators of the "Binomial Theorem,"--the double-named

families,--who, too hideous to walk alone, conjoin ugliness of equal

intensity to scare and appal wherever they make their way. It is not

sufficient for such as they that their name be Groutage or Gramshaw;

they incontinently connect it--if they can--with "a worser," (to use

the showman's phrase,) and "double-up" with Rapkin or Titterton. Thus

we hear, at our morning concert, Mrs. Rapkin Gramshaw's carriage

stopping the way; and a vain and desolate outcry in the Opera colonnade

for the chariot of Mrs. Titterton Groutage. It would matter little if

we were only doomed to _hear_ these names thus generally repeated;

but there is a mode of administering them which makes us _feel_ them,

scorching and searing our inmost heart of hearts! A double name--no

matter how base or dissonant--is held to be the most grateful to ears

polite, as if the natural consequence of the intermarriage of two great

discords must of necessity give birth to harmony.

How often have we writhed under the cruel infliction, when, betrayed

by bad weather during a morning call, we have sat through the tedious

hour of detaining rain, and listened to the forgotten glories of the

races of Slark and Cutbush! It is a rule with _all people_,--no matter

how they may be designated _now_, or how utterly their names defy

the ingenuity of antiquaries to render their etymology,--to derive

their ancestral honours from the time of William the Conqueror! It is

true that the bastard Duke had a general letter of licence for the

enlistment of all the vagabonds that swarmed in Europe at the period

of his expedition; and we know how many ruffians of all classes, from

the predatory baron to the pillaging freebooter, thronged to his

standard,--and so far there may often be some show of reason in the

pretension.

But our claimants for origin among the Conqueror's _noblesse_ are not

to be expected to dwell on this point with historical minuteness; what

they wish to imply when they tell us that "the Smookers and Tites

came over with the Conqueror," is, that they were equal in station to

the De Albinis and De Warennes, who led their forces to the battle of

Hastings, and gave the Conqueror his crown.

"Ours is a very old family indeed," says a thick-headed Devonshire

squire, with scarcely wit enough to spell the name he bears,--"we came

over with William the Conqueror: the Chubbs are a very old family;

the first of the name was William the Conqueror's standard-bearer,

Reginald de Chubb. Here's our coat of arms, we've got it on _all_ our

carriages,--three Chubs proper, in a field vert; the crest a hand and

dagger,--_because_ he saved the king's life!"

We knew this man's grandfather well, "excellent well,--he was a

fishmonger," and sold the chubs he boasts of!

Miss Eleanor Pogson Lillicrap is a very fine young lady indeed; she

discourses much on the gentility of Pa's and Ma's family, but chiefly

of Ma's.

"The Lillicraps are very ancient,--a very old family in

Sussex,--settled there long before Magna Charta; indeed, I believe they

came over with the Conqueror. But the Pogsons--Ma's family--are much

older,--in fact, descended directly from Alfred."

And this is perfectly true;--Alfred Pogson kept a butcher's shop at

Brighton, and was Miss Eleanor's grandfather!

Some persons are not content with one bad name, but write and engrave

it in duplicate. There are the Brown Browns, and the Jackson Jacksons,

the Cooper Coopers, and the Grimes Grimeses. These families consist of

many members, every one of whom is enumerated at the greatest possible

length. We once saw the programme of some private theatricals to be

enacted one Christmas at the Gamsons',--we beg pardon, the Gamson

Gamsons'. It ran as follows,--the play being Romeo and Juliet:

Romeo Mr. Gamson Gamson.

Mercutio Mr. John Gamson Gamson.

Benvolio Mr. Charles Peter Gamson Gamson.

Tybalt Mr. James Timbury Gamson Gamson.

Capulet Mr. Philip de Walker Gamson Gamson.

Friar Lawrence Mr. Wellington Gamson Gamson.

Juliet Miss Gamson Gamson.

Lady Capulet Mrs. Gamson Gamson.

Nurse Miss Horatia Gamson Gamson.

Page Miss Octavia Juliana Gamson Gamson.

And, had there been more characters to fill up, there would still have

been Gamson Gamsons to supply the vacuum.

Double-named people abound in watering-places, and shine in

subscription-lists. The Master of the Ceremonies' book faithfully

announces the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett Hoskins Abrahall, and

Sir Joseph and Lady Moggridge Shankey. We are told in the provincial

records of "fashionable movements" that Mr. Raggs Thimbleby has taken

a house for the season on the New Steine at Brighton; and that Mrs.

Pilcher Frisby intends to pass the winter at Cheltenham. The Poles

are in distress, and require a subscription; who heads the list?--Mr.

Munt Spriggins! There is to be a meeting in favour of the Spitalfields

weavers; who takes the chair?--Sir Runnacles Faddy! But there would

be no end to the list were we to enumerate even a tithe of those who

"rush into our head." The proverb which dooms the dog to destruction

that bears "an ill name" is reversed in the case of man; affix whatever

inharmonious compound you please to the patronymic of a Briton, and

you only add to his celebrity: and we are firmly of opinion that

the time is not far distant, when, the powers of permutation being

exhausted, opprobrious epithets will assume their place in the rank of

names, and figure in the annals of fashion; Sir Ruffian Rascal will

then walk arm-in-arm with Lord Percy Plantagenet, and the "lovely and

accomplished" Miss Mortimer be led to the altar by the wealthy and

fashionable Sir Swindle Bully!

ANOTHER ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."

Our readers will recollect that in our first number the facetious

priest of Water-grass-hill made a notable discovery that the Rev.

Mr. Wolfe's celebrated lyric on the burial of Sir John Moore was not

original, but a translation from a French poem written to commemorate

the loss of a certain Colonel de Beaumanoir, who fell in India while

defending Pondicherry against the forces of Coote. Father Prout, it

is well known, loves a joke, and we must be cautious how we receive

his evidence, more especially as another claim to the original of Mr.

Wolfe's lines has been set up on behalf of a German poet. The following

verses were found, it is said, in the monastery of Oliva, near Danzig,

where it is well known that, during the Swedish war in Germany under

Gustavus Adolph, a Swedish general of the name of Thorstenson fell on

the ramparts of Danzig, and was buried during the night on the spot.

Our readers must determine the question for themselves. Our own mind is

thoroughly made up as to this controversy.

KEIN Grabgesang, keine Trommel erscholl

Als zum Wall' seine Leiche wir huben;

Kein Krieger schoss ihm sein Lebewohl

Wo wir still unsern Helden begruben.

Wir gruben in stummer Nacht ihn ein

Mit Bayonetten in Erd' und in Trümmer,

Bey des trüben Mondlichts schwankendem Schein

Und der matten Lanterne Geflimmer.

Kein unnützer Sarg seine Brust einhegt',

Nicht mit Linnen und Tüchern bedecket;

Er lag, wie ein Krieger sich schlafen legt,

Im Soldatenmantel gestrecket.

Gar lange Gebete hielten wir nicht,

Wir sprachen kein Wort von Sorgen;

Wir schauten nur fest auf das todte Gesicht

Und dachten mit Schmerz an den Morgen.

Wir dachten, als wir gewühlet sein Bett'

Und sein einsames Kissen gezogen,

Wie Fremdling und Feind über's Haupt ihm geht,

Wenn fern wir über den Wogen.

Wenn sie über der kalten Asche sodann

Den entflohenen Geist mögen kränken:

Er achtet es nicht, wenn er ruhen nur kann

In der Gruft wo ihn Schweden versenken.

Unser schweres Geschäft war nur halb gethan,

Als die Glocke zum Rückzug ertönte;

Wir hörten der Feinde Geschosse nahn,

Da die ferne Kanone erdröhnte.

Wir legten ihn langsam und traurig hinein,

Frisch blutend vom Felde der Ehren;

Wir liessen, ohn' Grabmal und Leichenstein,

Ihn nur mit dem Ruhme gewähren.

INDEX

TO

THE SECOND VOLUME.

A.

Ablaincourt, Monsieur d', 360.

Adventures in Paris, the Five Floors, 495. 575.

---- of a Tale, 511.

Africans, superstition of the, 48.

Apportionment of the World, from Schiller, 549.

Astronomical Agitation, reform of the Solar System, 508.

Autobiography of a Good Joke, 354.

B.

Ball, Lady Blue's, 380.

Ballar, legend of, 527.

Bandits, the last of the, 585.

Barbone, Signor, (a bandit,) adventures of, 585.

Bayly, Thomas Haynes, paper by, 124.

Beau Nash, see _Nash_.

"Bee-Hive," The Cannon Family by the author of the, 150. 445.

Begaud, Mons. narrative of his life, 186. 472.

Biddy Tibs, who cared for nobody, story of, 288.

Binks, Tom, story of, 27.

Blake, Marmaduke, 340.

Borowlaski, Count, lines occasioned by the death of, 484.

Botherby, Mrs. story related by, 92.

"Boz," Oliver Twist, &c. by, 2. 110. 215. 397. 430. 534.

Brandy, When and why the Devil invented, 518.

Brinvilliers, Marquis de, 229.

---- Marchioness de, account of her secret poisonings, 230;

of her apprehension, 236;

execution, 237.

Buckthorne, Master Erasmus, 92.

Butterfly Bishop, see _Fictions of the Middle Ages_.

C.

Calonne, M. 473.

Cannon Family, account of the, 150;

particulars of their Journey to Boulogne, 454.

Capital Punishments in London eighty years ago, (Earl Ferrers,) 595.

Carr, Robert, Viscount Rochester and Earl of Somerset, his

influence with King James I. 322;

created Earl of Somerset, 323;

his conduct to Sir Thomas Overbury, 324;

his marriage with Lady Essex, 326;

his trial for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, 332.

Castle by the Sea, lines on the, 623.

Chapter on Laughing, 163;

On Widows, 485.

Church of the Seven, legend of the, 530.

Club-foot, the man with a, 381.

Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman, 445.

Costello, Dudley, "Nobility in Disguise" by, 626.

Courtship, story of a Marine's, 82.

Cross, Mr. Remonstratory Ode to, 413.

D.

Darby Ryan, his account of his journey to Bally----, 69.

Account of a festival given by him, 464.

Darby the Swift; or, the Longest Way round is

the Shortest Way Home, 68. 464.

De Kock, M. Paul, paper by, 360.

Deering, Mr. character of, 31.

---- Julia, story respecting, 31.

Disappointed Man, some passages in the life of a, 270.

Double Barrel, the, song of the month, by Father Prout, 213.

Dream, The, 206.

Duel, The, by Captain Medwin, 76.

E.

Elderly Gentleman, Confessions of an, 445.

Essex, Countess of, divorced from her husband, 323;

her marriage with the Earl of Somerset, 326;

her trial for poisoning Sir Thomas Overbury, 331.

Excellent Offer, an, 340.

F.

Family Stories, the Leech of Folkestone, 91.

Patty Morgan the Milkmaid's Story, 207.

_Fang_, Mr. remarks on his magisterial conduct, 12.

Father's, My, Old Hall, 453.

Ferrers, Earl, account of his execution, 595.

Fictions of the Middle Ages,--the Butterfly Bishop, 17.

Fog, Peter-Pindaric ode to the, 606.

Folkestone, story of the Leech of, 91.

Foster Child, story of the, 37.

Francesca, Serenade to, 239.

G.

Gahagan, Goliah, The Professor by, 277.

Genius; or, the Dog's-meat Dog, a sonnet, 214.

Gentleman Quite, a poem, 36.

Gibson, John Ward, narrative of, 240.

Girl, the lonely, a poem, 548.

Glorvina, the Maid of Meath, by Sheridan Knowles, 304.

Good Humour, Glories of, 591.

Good Joke, autobiography of a, 340.

Granada, the Key of, lines on, 303.

Greek Plays observation on, 551.

Grub Street News, 425.

H.

Hajji Baba, Remains of, his observations on English politics, 52;

on the appearance of England, 167;

his interview with the English Vizier, 173.

Hauteville, Nathalie de, 360.

Henry, Prince, eldest son of James I. of England, character of, 336;

suspicions respecting his death, 338.

Hogarth, George, Poisoners of the Seventeenth Century by, 229. 322.

Holl, H. paper by, 288.

Honan, M. Burke, a Marine's Courtship by, 82.

I.

Ingoldsby, Thomas, Family Stories by, 91. 207.

Inquiries, a few, 470.

J.

Jack among the Mummies, by the Old Sailor, 610.

James I. King of England, his encouragement of favourites, 322;

his partiality for Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, _ib._;

creates him Earl of Somerset, 323;

his conduct upon the inquiry into the death of Sir Thomas

Overbury, 327;

on the death of his son, Prince Henry, 338.

Jocund, Joyce, papers by, 176. 413.

Johns, Richard, paper by, 521.

Joke, autobiography of a good, 354.

K.

Kate Kearney, a New Song to the tune of, 25.

Key of Granada, lines on the, 303.

Knowles, Sheridan, Glorvina by, 304.

L.

La Chaussée, account of his secret poisonings, 232;

his execution, 235.

Ladies, Shakspeare's, criticisms on, 550.

Lady Blue's Ball, 380.

Laughing, chapter on, 163.

Leech of Folkestone, story of the, 91.

Legends--the Legend of Ballar, 527;

of the Church of the Seven, 530;

some account of the legends of the Torry Islanders, 531.

Legislative Nomenclature, 624.

Lines--on Smoke, 268;

on the Key of Granada, 303;

on the death of Count Borowlaski, a Polish dwarf, 484;

on the Castle by the Sea, 623.

London, capital punishments in, eighty years ago, 595.

"Look at the Clock!" a poem, by Thomas Ingoldsby, 207.

Love in the City; or, All's well that ends well, 126;

critical remarks upon, by W.H. Maxwell, 133.

Lyric for Lovers, a poem, 50.

M.

Maginn, Dr. Shakspeare Papers by, 57. 370.

Man with the Club Foot, a tale of St. Luke's, 381.

Marine's Courtship, story of a, 82.

Marsh, Master Thomas, story respecting him, 93.

Martial in Town, 507.

Mascalbruni, Geronymo, adventures of, by Captain Medwin, 254.

Mayhew, E. piece by, 197.

Medwin, Captain, stories and narrations by, 76. 254. 585.

Midnight Mishaps, 197.

Midsummer Night's Dream, criticisms on, 370.

Monk of Ravenne, 81.

Month, songs of the, see _Songs_.

Morier, J. Remains of Hajji Baba by, 51. 166.

Mudfog Association, full report of the first meeting of, for the

advancement of Everything, 397.

Muster Chaunt for the Members of the Temperance Societies, 165.

My Father's Old Hall, 453.

My Uncle, a fragment, 175.

N.

Nash, Richard, (Beau Nash,) memoir of, 414.

Nights at Sea; or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War,

by the Old Sailor;

the French Captain's Story, 183. 471;

Jack among the Mummies, 610.

Nine Muse-ings on his Native County, by Phelim O'Toole, 319.

Nobility in Disguise, 626.

Nomenclature, Legislative, 624.

Norton, Mrs. Erskine, Adventures of a Tale by, 511.

"Not a Drum was heard," another original of, 632.

O.

Ode--to Mr. Cross, 413.

To the Queen, 573.

Old Bell, Song of the, 196.

Oliver Twist; or, the Parish Boy's Progress;

particulars respecting his residence with the Jew, 2. 7;

his adventures with his companions, 8;

his examination by Mr. Fang the magistrate, 12;

taken under the protection of Mr. Brownlow, 16;

his residence with him, 110;

further particulars respecting his stay with Mr. Brownlow, 215;

remarkable prediction respecting him, 221;

reclaimed by the Jew and his companions, 227;

further account of him after his recapture, 430. 437;

how he passed his time in the improving society of his reputable

friends, 534;

a notable plan discussed and determined on, 540.

Overbury, Sir Thomas, secretary to Lord Rochester, 323;

committed to the Tower, 324;

his death, 326;

inquiry into his supposed murder, 327.

P.

Passages in the Life of a Disappointed Man, 270.

Patty Morgan the Milkmaid's Story, 207.

Penautier, M. observations concerning him, 238.

Peter-Pindaric ode to the Fog, 606.

Petrarch in London, 494.

Phelim O'Toole's Nine Muse-ings on his Native County, 319.

Piper's Progress, the, by Father Prout, 67.

Poems, 36. 50. 181. 207.

Poisoners of the Seventeenth Century, 229. 322.

Polish Dwarf, lines on the death of a, 484.

Portrait Gallery, the Cannon Family, 150;

Account of their Adventures in Boulogne, 454.

Professor, the, a tale, 277.

Prout, Father, Poems by, 1. 67. 213.

Punch, poetry by, 533. 606.

Punishments, see _Capital Punishments_.

Q.

Queen, ode to, 568.

R.

Rankin, F. Harrison, Three Notches of the Devil's Tale by, 46.

Rather hard to take, a poem, 181.

Ravenne, Monk of, 81.

Regatta, the, by W.H. Maxwell, 299.

Relics of St. Pius, 463.

Remains of Hajji Baba, by J. Morier, 51. 166.

"Reminiscences of a Monthly Nurse," papers by the author of, 135.

Remonstratory Ode to Mr. Cross, 413.

Report of the First Meeting of the Mudfog Association for the

advancement of Everything, 397.

Rivals of yore, What though we were, 124.

Roches, Peter de, Bishop of Winchester, story respecting him, 17.

Rochester, Viscount, see _Carr, Robert_.

Romeo and Juliet, criticisms on, by Dr. Maginn, 57.

S.

St. Croix, M. particulars respecting him, 229;

account of his secret poisonings, 231;

his death, 233.

St. Paul's, Why the wind blows round, 176.

St. Pius, relics of, 462.

Schiller, poem from, 549.

Secret Poisoners, 229. 230. 232. 323. 332.

Secret, the, from M. Paul de Kock, 360.

Serenade, the, from Uhland, 149.

Serenades, 149. 239.

Sevigné, Madame, her remarks respecting the Marchioness

de Brinvilliers, 237;

respecting M. Penautier, 238.

Shakspeare Papers, Romeo and Juliet, 57.

Midsummer Night's Dream, 370.

Lady Macbeth, 558.

Smoke, lines on, 268.

Solar System, reform of the, 508.

Somerset, Earl of, see _Carr, Robert_.

Song--a new one to the tune of "Kate Kearney," 25;

of the South, 179;

of the Old Bell, 196;

of Modern Time, 594.

Songs of the Month, July, 1;

August, 109;

September, 213;

October, 321;

November, 429;

December, 533.

Sonnet on Genius; or, the Dog's-meat Dog, 213.

Stanzas, Elegiac, 16.

"Stories of Waterloo," Legends, &c. by the author of,

(W.H. Maxwell,) 125. 299.

Suicide, 569.

T.

Tale, adventures of a, 511.

Temperance Societies, Muster Chaunt for the, 165.

Three Notches from the Devil's Tail; or, the Man in the

Spanish Cloak, 135.

Tibs, Biddy, who cared for nobody, story of, 288.

Torry Islanders, some account of the legends of the, by the author

of "Stories of Waterloo," 531.

Translations from Uhland, 149. 206.

Tweazle, Mr. adventures of, 197.

Twist, see _Oliver Twist_.

U.

Uhland, translation from, 149. 206.

Uncle, My, a fragment, 175.

W.

Wade, J.A. Darby the Swift, &c. by, 68. 196. 239. 319. 464.

Wall, Governor, execution of, 602.

Webbe, E. paper by, 214.

"Waterloo," Legends by the author of "Stories of,"

(W.H. Maxwell,) 125. 299. 527.

What though we were rivals of yore, by T. Haynes Bayly, 124.

Whitehead, C. 181. 240.

White Man's Devil House, a fragment, 46.

Widows, chapter on, 485.

Wilson, Mrs. Cornwell Baron, Songs by, 16. 380. 453.

Wit in spite of himself, the, 521.

Wood, Mr. anecdote related by him of Beau Nash, 419.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LONDON: PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY, Dorset-Street, Fleet-Street.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Minor punctuation errors have been corrected where they appeared to be

from the printer.

Spelling and hyphenation show many inconsistencies, but these have been

left as printed, unless obvious slips.

French, Italian and Latin snippets are often poorly or wrongly

accented, but have been left as printed.

p6, 26, 29, 316. "visiter(s)" corrected to "visitor(s)" which is used

throughout the majority of the text.

p29, 32. "Pinks" corrected to "Binks".

p31. "cachmere" left as printed.

p53. Spelling of "Jān Pûl" made consistent throughout the section.

p167. "bazars" left as printed.

p193. "downfal" corrected to "downfall".

p203. "I'm blowed if ve pads" corrected to "I'm blowed if we pads".

p229-234. Both D'Aubray and d'Aubray used, corrected to d'Aubray.

p284. "srimps" corrected to "shrimps".

p299. "taunt spars", left as printed, "taunt" is an old usage for

tallest.

p334. "accessary" corrected to "accessory".

p363. "D'Apremont" corrected to "d'Apremont".

p313. "obstrusive courtesy" corrected to "obtrusive courtesy".

p316. "her ancles" corrected to "her ankles".

p344. "ordidary" corrected to "ordinary"

p373. "port of Pyramus" corrected to "part of Pyramus".

p411. "Qeerspeck" corrected to "Queerspeck".

p422. "He uotes" corrected to "He notes".

p457. "scurrilous article" corrected to "scurrilous articles".

p495. "venders" corrected to "vendors".

p509. "Corruscations" corrected to "Coruscations".

p551. "corse of Hector" corrected to "corpse of Hector".

p553. (Footnote A) This quote appears to be from canto 28., but left

as printed.

p569. "making tho practice" corrected to "making the practice"

p619. "by way amusement" corrected to "by way of amusement"

p634. "ome account" corrected to "some account"

p635. "Prout, Father, Peoms" corrected to "Prout, Father, Poems"

End of Project Gutenberg's Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II, by Various