Society of Arts to hear a lecture on astronomy."
"Then, Willy, go and endeavour to harness the horses yourself," said
the duke to his son, who instantly obeyed.
"You had better mind about those horses, sir," said Dowbiggin, still
watching the progress of his tree; "the two German philosophers and
Father O'Flynn have been with them to-day, and there appears little
doubt that the great system will spread, and that even these animals
which we have been taught to despise, will express their sentiments
before long."
"The sentiments of a coach-horse!" sighed the duchess.
"Thanks, Lady Maria," said Dowbiggin; "now I'll go to work merrily;
and, duke, whenever you can fudge up an answer to my question about
the Altaic chain, send one of the girls, and I'll take away the
things."
Dowbiggin disappeared, and the duke, who was anxious to get
the parlour cleared (for the house, except two rooms, was all
appropriated to the assistants), resolved to inquire of his priest,
when he was out, what the proper answer would be to Dowbiggin's
question, which he had tried to evade by the offensive quibble, when
Lord William Cobbett Russell re-appeared, as white as a sheet.
"My dear father," cried his lordship, "it's all over now. The
philosophers have carried the thing too far; the chestnut mare swears
she'll be d--d if she goes out to-day."
"What," said the duke, "has their liberality gone to this--do horses
talk? My dear William, you and I know that asses have written before
this; but for horses to speak!"
"Perhaps, Willy," said the duchess, "it is merely yea and nay, or
probably only the female horses who talk at all."
"Yes, mother, yes," said her son, "both of them spoke; and not only
that, but Nap, the dog you were once so fond of, called after me to
say, that we had no right to keep him tied up in that dismal yard,
and that he would appeal to Parliament if we did not let him out.
"My dear duchess," said the duke, who was even more alarmed at the
spread of intelligence than her grace, "there is but one thing
for us to do--let us pack up all we can, and if we can get a few
well-disposed post-horses, before they get too much enlightened, to
take us towards the coast, let us be off."
What happened further, this historical fragment does not explain;
but it is believed that the family escaped with their clothes and
a few valuables, leaving their property in the possession of their
assistants, who, by extending, with a liberal anxiety (natural in men
who have become learned and great by similar means themselves), the
benefits of enlightenment, in turn gave way to the superior claims
of inferior animals, and were themselves compelled eventually to
relinquish happiness, power, and tranquillity in favour of monkeys,
horses, jackasses, dogs, and all manner of beasts.
SUNDAY BILLS.
We regret to see that a well-meaning gentleman of the name of Peter,
is trying to get up a second edition of the exploded Agnew absurdity.
Whatever the object of these efforts may be, it is clear that nothing
can more effectually tend to array the country in two classes against
each other,--the one of Atheists and Liberals, and the other of
Puritans and Fanatics.
How can a gentleman of honour, like Sir Andrew Agnew, prevail upon
himself--we are quite sure he is too independent to permit any other
person to prevail upon him--to declare in the House of Commons that
all classes of operatives are anxious for the closest restrictions
on the Sabbath which the House can enforce? It is not the case.
As far as working goes, the operatives are at this moment entirely
protected; no master can compel his journeymen to work on Sunday; and
as for menial servants, they are excepted out of the bill.
[Illustration: MULREADY ENVELOPE.
[_See Hook's travestie on another page._]]
Does Sir Andrew Agnew believe, or wish anybody else to believe, that
the operatives want to be "cribbed, cabined, and confined" on a
Sunday, debarred from their excursions to tea-gardens, their little
voyages upon the river, their social pipes and ale, or to have their
wives and sweethearts mulcted of their cakes and tea upon the only
day in the week in which they can enjoy them? Does he really mean
seriously to say that hard-working people, who for six consecutive
days have been shut up to labour and toil, in heated rooms, in
factories, or in gas-lit workshops, desire that they may be hindered
from breathing the pure air on the seventh?
And what to the poor--or, indeed, to the rich--is an excursion
without refreshment--without the enjoyment of the Sunday's dinner,
the weekly festival at which his family enjoy his society, and in
his society the treat of something "good to eat?" Why may not these
relations, if they prefer good air to bad, go to those "Ordinaries
on Sundays at two o'clock," which may be seen announced on every
sign-board round London? or why, if they prefer it, may they not
travel thither in chaises or other carriages, if they can afford it?
Whether this is sinful or not, Messrs. Agnew and Peter may perhaps
decide; but of this we are sure, that the operatives, except the
already benighted Puritan Radicals, must be, and are opposed, heart
and soul, to the monstrous restrictions which a couple of very small
men are endeavouring to bring them under, because they think it
right, and good, and wise.
The beneficial effects of the measure upon society may be guessed
from the following dialogue between Snip, a tailor, and Snob, a
shoemaker, living in the same house, each having a wife--one having a
child.--(_Time, Sunday morning._)
_Snip._ Vell, Snob, arn't you shaved? Vy, the bells is a-going for
Church--ye von't be ready in time.
_Snob._ Church--bless your heart, I can't go to church to-day--the
bill's come into play.
_Snip._ Ah! I know that to my cost.
_Snob._ How can I go to church? Ve used to send our bit of wittels
to the bakus, and then I and Sal used to go to church, and so give
Jenny Walker sixpence to mind the babby till we come back; then arter
dinner Sal and I and the babby used to go to Chalk Farm, as reglar
as clockwork, every blessed Sunday. She had a cup of the best bohea,
with milk hot from the cow--I smoked my pipe and had a pint of ale.
Little Jenny used to go to church in the arternoon, and come and jine
us, and so help bring babby back. Now we marn't get the things baked
at the bakus, and Jenny marn't come and earn sixpence by looking
arter the babby--so Sal has to cook the wittels, and I have to mind
the child--so there's no church for us.
_Snip._ My missus says she won't do no work Sundays, cause she's
afeard of her life of Bill Byers--so we avn't got a morsel of grub
for dinner, and neither of us knows where to get none--I won't go to
church with this here beard on, six days long; and Jim, him as is
the barber over the way, won't shave me for fear of the five pound
penalty, so I shall stop where I is.
_Snob._ Come along into our place--my Sal isn't so partic'lar--she's
read the hact itself, and swears she's a hexception--we got a line of
mutton, vith the kidney in it, and a peck of tatys--come along wi'
your old woman, and let's be jolly.
_Snip._ Jolly! Hark, Mr. S----, there's one on 'em over the
way--don't ye know 'em?--that's one o' Byers's boys--if he hears you
laugh to-day, two-pun-ten for you.
_Snob._ Peter's pence--eh?--well, if we maint speak of a Sunday in
the street, let's come in--ours, you know, is a back room, up two
pair--they can't hear us there--come along--I say, what shall we have
to drink?
_Snip._ There's nothing but vater for us as can't afford
vine--public-houses is shut--no sarving Sabbath-day.
_Snob._ Vell, never mind--ve'll try and cheat the old un. There are
cunninger dogs than the law-makers, and them is the law-breakers. Go
and ask missus to come and join us.
_Snip._ Oh, she'll come, and jump too; and I tells ye what--as we
know'd we could not have no heavy wet to-day, she got a couple of
bottles of Jacky, as will nourish us through the arternoon.
_Snob._ So it will, Bill; and we won't stir out at all. If we can't
have a drop o' short, or a swig o' heavy among the rurals in the
harbours--what's the country to us, we can't live upon hair?
_Snip._ No, not by no means. If I could but get my chin scraped, I'd
try and make myself comfortable.
_Snob._ Is barber Jem at home?
_Snip._ Yes, shut up in his back parlour a-making wigs, where nobody
can see him.
_Snob._ I tell ye vot, let's ax him to eat a bit of our mutton. He
han't got nobody to cook for him, poor buffer, so we'll ax him over;
and then if he brings his soap and a kipple of razors in his vestcoat
pockets, he can shave us two, just by way of amusement, while Sal's
getting the line ready.
_Snip._ Amusement!--that's quite gone out,--there's my poor missus,
who used to get from eighteen to four-and-twenty shillings a-week
a-manty making in Crambo Alley, can't get a stitch o' work to
do--nobody wears nothing now--they used only to put on their bits
of things onest a-week, to show 'em like, and now they marnt go out
a-pleasuring o' Sundays, they buys nothing.
_Snob._ Vell, come along up stairs, we'll have a day on it. please
the pigs; your two bottles of Jacky will last us till bed-time, and
I'll toss you up who pays for both--I'm not going to swelter out in
the sun to walk.
_Snip._ Nor I--I'll be with you in a twinkling, and when we have
got my missus and barber Jem, we'll just lock the door, and drink
confusion to the reformers.
For the sequel we have not room in detail. Snip, Snob, and
barber Jem, ensconced in their fast-hold, pass the Sabbath with
the females, in hidden intoxication and carefully-concealed
profligacy--drunkenness progresses. Barber Jem contributes from his
store over the way to the replenishment of the gin-bottle. Jealousy
grows out of familiarity: the women tear each other's caps, and
scratch each other's faces. Snob knocks Snip over the balusters, and
barber Jem is taken to the station-house dead-drunk.
In better society things will grow even worse. The mind restricted
to drudgery through the week must have relaxation at the end of it;
and the tradesmen and clerks, and their ladies, sweethearts, and
wives, have a right, in this Christian and civilized country, to
share the innocent pleasures of the male part of the creation on the
only day upon which they can properly enjoy them. What can be more
innocent than going to Richmond, walking upon the hill, or paddling
about by the water? What more agreeable or healthy than steaming to
Gravesend (where the animosity of the people towards the aristocracy
has recently been evinced by their conduct towards the Pier)? What
more natural than to eat and drink when arrived there?--No; that is
contrary to the law. What! of nature or nations!--No; of Agnew and
of Peter. Surely if young ladies are satisfied with soles and eels,
and ducks and peas, and sage and onions, and port wine and punch,
and such things as these, all eaten fairly and above-board at open
windows or in the open air, such persons as Peter and Agnew should
rejoice thereat. Confine them in London, deny them harmless gaiety,
pen them up with their lovers and friends, tell them they must not
stir out, and, like the Snips and Snobs of inferior life, they
will turn their thoughts into other channels, and soles and eels,
and ducks and peas, will shortly sink in their estimation, only,
however, to give place to a catalogue of other things too numerous
to mention in the short space of an advertisement.
Oh, if these Agnews and Peters would but be content to take man as
God has been pleased to make him, and allow him the free agency with
which the Divinity has invested him, how much more wisely would they
act! If they themselves believe that piety consists in eating cold
meat on Sundays, in avoiding carriages, in eschewing all sorts of
social conversation; if they see perdition in a plum-bun, and utter
destruction in a glass of mild ale, let them henceforth live on
frigid sheep, moan, mump, and be miserable, and fast, and grieve,
in direct opposition to the spirit and character of Christians,
observing the Protestant Sunday; but do not let them meddle with
matters which cannot concern them, and by their success in which they
would infallibly corrupt the body of the people, and endanger the
safety of the commonwealth.
THE SPINSTER'S PROGRESS.
At 15.--Dimpled cheeks, sparkling eyes, coral lips, and ivory
teeth--a sylph in figure. All anxiety for coming out--looks about her
with an arch yet timid expression, and blushes amazingly upon the
slightest provocation.
16.--Bolder and plumper--draws, sings, plays the harp, dines at table
when there are small parties--gets fond of plays, to which she goes
in a private box--dreams of a hero--hates her governess--is devoted
to poetry.
17.--Having no mother who values herself on her youth, is
presented by an aunt--first terrified, then charmed. Comes
out--Almack's--Opera--begins to flirt--selects the most agreeable
but most objectionable man in the room as the object of her
affections--he, eminently pleasant, but dreadfully poor--talks of
love in a cottage, and a casement window all over woodbine.
18.--Discards the sighing swain, and fancies herself desperately
devoted to a Lancer, who has amused himself by praising her
perfections. Delights in _fêtes_ and _déjeuners_--dances herself into
half a consumption. Becomes an intimate friend of Henry's sister.
19.--Votes Henry stupid--too fond of himself to care for her--talks
a little louder than the year before--takes care to show that she
understands the best-concealed _bon-mots_ of the French plays--shows
off her bright eyes, and becomes the centre of four satellites who
flicker round her.
20.--Begins to wonder why none of the sighers propose--gets a little
peevish--becomes a politician--rallies the Whigs--avows Toryism--all
women are Tories, except two or three who may be anything--gets
praised beyond measure by her party--discards Italian music, and
sings party songs--called charming, delightful, and "so natural."
21.--Enraptured with her new system--pursues it with redoubled
ardour--takes to riding constantly on horseback--canters every
day half-way to the House of Lords with the dear Earl, through
St. James's Park, by the side of her uncle--makes up parties and
excursions--becomes a comet instead of a star, and changes her
satellites for a Tail, by which she is followed as regularly as the
great Agitator is. Sees her name in the papers as the proposer of
pic-nics, and the patroness of fancy fairs.
22.--Pursues the same course--autumn comes--country-house--large
party of shooting men--juxtaposition--constant
association--sociability in the evening--sportive gambols--snug
suppers--an offer--which, being made by the only dandy she did not
care about in the _mêlée_, she refuses.
23.--Regrets it--tries to get him back--he won't come, but
marries a rich grocer's widow for her money. Takes to flirting
desperately--dresses fantastically--tries a new style of
singing--affects a taste--lives with the Italians, calls them divine
and charming--gets her uncle to give suppers.
24.--Thinks she has been too forward--retires, and becomes
melancholy--affects sentiment, and writes verses in an
Annual--makes acquaintances with the _savans_, and the authors and
authoresses--wonders she is not married.
25.--Goes abroad with her uncle and a delightful family--so kind and
so charming--stays the year there.
26.--Comes home full of new airs and graces--more surprised than ever
that she is still single, and begins to fancy she could live very
comfortably, if not in a cottage, at least upon a very moderate scale.
27.--Thinks the conversation of rational men infinitely preferable to
flirting.
28.--Looks at matrimony as desirable in the way of an establishment,
in case of the death of her uncle--leaves off dancing
generally--talks of getting old.
29.--Same system--still ineffective--still talks of getting
aged--surprised that men do not laugh as they did, when she said so a
year or two before.
30.--Begins to inquire when a spinster becomes an old maid.
31.--Dresses more fantastically than ever--rouges a
little--country-house not so agreeable as it used to be--goes
everywhere in town--becomes good-natured to young girls, and joins in
acting charades and dumb proverbs.
32.--Hates balls, or, if she goes to them, likes to sit still and
talk to clever middle-aged gentlemen.
33.--Wonders why men of sense prefer flirting with girls to the
enjoyment of rational conversation with sensible women.
34.--Uncle dies--break-up of establishment--remains with her
aunt--feels old enough to go about without a chaperon.
35.--Takes to cards, where they are played--gives up harp,
pianoforte, and singing--beaten out of the field by her juniors.
36.--Quarrels with her cousin, who is just married to the prize
Marquess of the season--goes into Wales on a visit to a distant
relation.
37.--Returns to London--tries society--fancies herself neglected, and
"never goes out"--makes up little tea-parties at her aunt's--very
pleasant to everybody else, but never satisfactory to herself.
38.--Feels delight in recounting all the unhappy marriages she can
recollect--takes a boy out of an orphan-school, dresses him up in a
green jacket, with three rows of sugar-loaf buttons, and calls him a
page--patronizes a poet.
39.--Gets fractious--resolves upon making the best of it--turns
gourmand--goes to every dinner to which she either is or is not
invited--relishes port wine; laughs at it as a good joke--stays in
London all the year.
40.--Spasmodic--camphor-julep--a little more rouge--fancies herself
in love with a Captain in the Guards--lets him know it--he not
susceptible--she uncommonly angry--makes up a horrid story about him
and some poor innocent girl of her acquaintance--they are eternally
separated by her means--she happy.
41.--Takes to wearing "a front"--port wine gets more popular--avows
a resolution never to marry--who would sacrifice her liberty?--quite
sure she has seen enough of that sort of thing--Umph!
42.--Turns moralist--is shocked at the vices of the
world--establishes a school out of the produce of a fancy
fair--subscribes--consults with the rector--excellent man--he
endeavours to dissuade her from an extravagant course of proceeding
which she has adopted--her regard turns to hate, and she puts herself
under the spiritual guidance of a Ranter.
43.--Learns the Unknown Tongues, and likes them--sees none of her
old friends--continues during the whole season enveloped in her new
devotions.--Her page, having outgrown his green inexpressibles, is
dismissed at the desire of her new pastor.
44.--Renounces the Oly Oly Bom school of piety, and gets a pug and
a poodle--meets the man she refused when she was two-and-twenty--he
grown plump and jolly, driving his wife and two great healthy-looking
boys, nearly men, and two lovely girls, nearly women--recollects
him--he does not remember her--wishes the family at Old Nick--comes
home and pinches her poodle's ears.
45.--Returns to cards at the Dowager's parties, and smells to snuff
if offered her.
46.--Her aunt dies.
47.--Lives upon her relations; but by the end of the season feels
assured that she must do something else next year.
48.--Goes into the country and selects a cousin, plain and
poor--proposes they should live together--scheme succeeds.
49.--Retires to Cheltenham--house in a row near the
promenade--subscribes to everything--takes snuff and carries a
box--all in fun--goes out to tea in a fly--plays whist--loses--comes
back at eleven--camphor julep, and to bed--but not to sleep.
50.--Finds all efforts to be comfortable unavailing--vents all her
spleen upon her unhappy cousin, and lavishes all her affections upon
a tabby cat, a great, fat, useless Tommy, with a blue riband and a
bell round its neck. And there, so far as I have traced it, ends my
Spinster's progress up to fifty.
ERRORS OF THE PRESS.
SIR,--We hear a great deal of the licentiousness of the press, and I
am not disposed to say that there may not be some good grounds for
the complaint; but I beg to assert that, to my own knowledge, much
is charged to the account of the licentiousness which is, in truth,
only attributable to the errors of the press; and I have had the
mortification to see articles of the most innocent information, from
my own pen, conveyed to the public with all the colour of libels, by
the mere mistake of a single letter.
For instance, I had occasion to report that a certain "noble lord was
confined to his house with a violent cold;" next morning, I found
that this innocuous piece of intelligence was metamorphosed into a
direct inroad on the peace of a noble family, by representing his
lordship as being "confined with a violent scold." In the same way,
on the occasion of a recent entertainment given by a noble leader of
fashion, I had said, very truly, "that, amidst the festivities, the
first point of attraction and admiration were her ladyship's looks:"
this deserved compliment was changed by the printer into a satire
on the whole company, as if the chief point of attraction had been
"her ladyship's cooks." In a description of the regatta at Cowes, I
was made to represent a lady of fashion as having formed a hasty and
ill-assorted match "with a boy," when, in fact, I had only said that
the Lady Louisa had, indeed, broken adrift, but had "luckily, before
any mischief was done, been made fast to a buoy."
When I reported that "Lord A. had entertained Colonel B., Major C.,
the Hon. Mr. D., and a few other fashionable friends at dinner," I
little expected to find these gentlemen represented as a company
of "fashionable fiends." At the particular request of an eminent
coachmaker, I mentioned that a noble person, well known for his
good taste in equipages, and who happens to have a large and fine
family, had launched "a new green cab;" but judge of my horror at
seeing it stated, that "his lordship had, this season, brought out
another green cub." And I have lately had the misfortune of being the
involuntary cause of what is called a hoax upon the public: having
announced that Lord K. had made a bet that he would "trot a mile" on
the Harrow Road in three minutes, an immense crowd assembled, and
was ready to proceed to outrage because his lordship did not "trot a
mule," as the printer's error had led them to expect.
Of a more serious kind are the injuries done to private individuals,
which no one deplores more than I--the innocent cause of them. I
was once employed to recommend to public attention the astonishing
talents and performances of that musical wonder "The infant Lyra."
I did my best; but the printer gave the whole a most unhappy and
malicious appearance by making me, by the transposition of a letter,
attribute all these prodigies to "the Infant Lyar." On a late
occasion, one of the papers talked of "the general satisfaction
given by the royal lump." This looked like a brutal allusion to the
temporary illness of an illustrious duke. The truth was, Mr. Editor,
that I myself penned that paragraph for an ingenious artist in Bond
Street, in order to recommend an improved kind of argand, which he
denominated the "Royal Lamp;" and I never can sufficiently regret the
injustice done to the gallant General Saldanha, who, in an account of
his conduct at Oporto, which I drew up under his own eye, was stated
to have "behaved like a hero;" but when it came to be printed, it
unhappily appeared as if the general had "behaved like a hare."