[Sidenote: [Illustration]
WEATHER
——
Nipping frosts
and
driving snows,
[Illustration: _Hill_-usage]
thick-soled shoes
and
double-hose.
[Illustration: Counter petition.]]
Well, blow me—here's a pretty go!
They'll only stop at ruination,
And bringing all our trade to woe,
For labouring in our just wocation.
Why this ere act's the cruel'st deed
That ever was devised to floor us;
Such as our ancasters ne'er seed,
Nor yet posterity afore us.
Its clean agen the nat'ral law
O' brute beasts, and of humane kind,
For surely dogs was made to draw,
And trucks was made to go behind.
And we was made to sit a-top,
And cut away in all our glory,
And if the lazy varmint stop,
To tell 'em jist another story.
But, dash my wigs—this pretty set,
With hearts as hard as any stone,
Wont let an honest feller whet
His lawful wengeance on his _own_.
No longer now up Highgate road
O' Sunday arternoons I gallop,
With all the brats, a tidy load,
And perhaps a neighbour's child to fill up.
At Farringdon and Common Garden,
I'm fairly laid upon the shelf;
My only chance to earn a farden,
Is truckling to the truck myself.
But we'll resist this horrid plot,
And for our order boldly strive,
For this I know, that ours are not
The only ill-used dogs alive.
Let's not be down upon our luck,
Nor out of heart at our condition,
And since our dogs can't draw a truck,
At least we'll draw up a petition;
And lay our case before the Commons,
What keeps the money of the nation:
Perchance we'll get, like other rum 'uns,
An equitable compensation.
[Illustration]
ORDERED to be considered _below_.
[Illustration:
JANUARY:—The Announcement
]
BARBER COX, AND THE CUTTING OF HIS COMB.
JANUARY.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT.
On the 1st of January, 1838, I was the master of a lovely shop in the
neighbourhood of Oxford market; of a wife, Mrs. Cox; of a business, both
in the shaving and cutting line, established three-and-thirty years; of
a girl and boy respectively of the ages of eighteen and thirteen; of a
three-windowed front, both to my first and second pair; of a young
foreman, my present partner, Mr. Orlando Crump; and of that celebrated
mixture for the human hair, invented by my late uncle, and called Cox's
Bohemian Balsam of Tokay, sold in pots at two-and-three, and
three-and-nine; the balsam, the lodgings, and the old-established
cutting and shaving business, brought me in a pretty genteel income. I
had had my girl, Jemimarann, at Hackney, to school; my dear boy,
Tuggeridge, plaited hair already beautifully; my wife at the counter
(behind the tray of patent soaps, &c.) cut as handsome a figure as
possible; and it was my hope that Orlando and my girl, who were mighty
soft upon one another, would, one day, be joined together in Hyming:
and, conjointly with my son Tug, carry on the business of hairdressers,
when their father was either dead or a gentleman; for a gentleman me and
Mrs. C. determined I should be.
Jemima was, you see, a lady herself, and of very high connexions: though
her own family had met with crosses, and was rather low. Mr. Tuggeridge,
her father, kept the famous tripe-shop, near the Pigtail and Sparrow, in
the Whitechapel Road, from which place I married her; being myself very
fond of the article, and especially when she served it to me—the dear
thing!
Jemima's father was not successful in business: and I married her, I am
proud to confess it, without a shilling. I had my hands, my house, and
my Bohemian balsam to support her!—and we had hopes from her uncle, a
mighty rich East India merchant, who, having left this country sixty
years ago, had arrived to be the head of a great house in India, and was
worth millions, we were told.
Three years after Jemimarann's birth (and two after the death of my
lamented father-in-law), Tuggeridge (head of the great house of Budgurow
and Co.), retired from the management of it; handed over his shares to
his son, Mr. John Tuggeridge, and came to live in England, at Portland
Place and Tuggeridgeville, Surrey, and enjoy himself. Soon after, my
wife took her daughter in her hand and went, as in duty bound, to visit
her uncle; but whether it was that he was proud and surly, or she
somewhat sharp in her way (the dear girl fears nobody, let me have you
to know), a desperate quarrel took place between them; and from that day
to the day of his death he never set eyes on her. All that he would
condescend to do was to take a few dozen of lavender water from us in
the course of the year, and to send his servants to be cut and shaved by
us. All the neighbours laughed at this poor ending of our expectations,
for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not care, for the
connexion was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet; Mr.
Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly
enough. I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in
my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once; when he said, "O, the barber!"
tossed up his nose, and passed on.
One day—one famous day last January—all our market was thrown into a
high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three
vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and
Orlando, were sitting in the back parlour over our dinner (it being
Christmas time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port,
and was longing that there should be a mistletoe bough; at which
proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):—we had
just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows out,
"Law, pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"
And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough—Mrs. Breadbasket in deep
mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back
shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the
world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was
very kind of her to come. "Law, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd do
anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear
Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone."
"That's what?" cries my wife.
"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls
will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and
ready to cry too.
"Yes, gaw——" Just as she was at this very "gaw," Tug roars out, "Law pa!
here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!"
It was Mr. Bar: when she saw him Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back
into the parlour with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and, as
quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair,
and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather: Mr. Bar made
some resistance. "Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble
yourself, sir;" but I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this
melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your
family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir—I can feel for your
loss."
I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because
Tuggeridge was my uncle—no, as such I disown him.
Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's gaw——
" When at the "gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!—the finest gentleman
I ever saw.
"What, _you_ here, Mr. Bar?" says he.
"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?"
"A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr. Hock, stepping up and making my
bow. "A sad circumstance too, sir—and is it a turn of the tongs that you
want to-day, sir? Ho, there! Mr. Crump!"
"Turn, Mr. Crump, if you please, sir," said Mr. Hock, making a bow; "but
from you, sir, never, no never, split me!—and I wonder how some fellows
can have the _insolence_ to allow their MASTERS to shave them!" With
this Mr. Hock flung himself down to be curled: Mr. Bar suddenly opened
his mouth in order to reply; but, seeing there was a tiff between the
gentlemen, and wanting to prevent a quarrel, I rammed the "Advertiser"
into Mr. Hock's hands, and just popped my shaving brush into Mr. Bar's
mouth—a capital way to stop angry answers.
Mr. Bar had hardly been in the chair a second, when whirr comes a
hackney-coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black
coat with a bag.
"What, you here?" says the gentleman. I could not help smiling, for it
seemed that everybody was to begin by saying, "What, _you_ here?" "Your
name is Cox, sir," says he; smiling, too, as the very pattern of mine.
"My name, sir, is Sharpus—Blunt, Hone, and Sharpus, Middle Temple-lane,—
and I am proud to salute you, sir; happy,—that is to say, sorry to say,
that Mr. Tuggeridge, of Portland Place, is dead, and your lady is
heiress, in consequence, to one of the handsomest properties in the
kingdom."
At this I started, and might have sunk to the ground, but for my hold of
Mr. Bar's nose; Orlando seemed putrified to stone, with his irons fixed
to Mr. Hock's head; our respective patients gave a wince out:—Mrs. C.,
Jemimarann, and Tug, rushed from the back shop, and we formed that
splendid tableau which the great Cruikshank has here depicted!
"And Mr. John Tuggeridge, sir?" says I.
"Why—hee, hee, hee!" says Mr. Sharpus; "surely you know that he was only
the—hee, hee, hee!—the natural son!"
You now can understand why the servants from Portland Place had been so
eager to come to us: one of the housemaids heard Mr. Sharpus say there
was no will, and that my wife was heir to the property, and not Mr. John
Tuggeridge: this she told in the housekeeper's room; and off, as soon as
they heard it, the whole party set, in order to be the first to bear the
news.
We kept them, every one, in their old places; for, though my wife would
have sent them about their business, my dear Jemimarann just hinted,
"Mamma, you know _they_ have been used to great houses, and we have not;
had we not better keep them for a little?"—Keep them then, we did, to
show us how to be gentlefolks.
I handed over the business to Mr. Crump without a single farthing of
premium, though Jemmy would have made me take four hundred pounds for
it; but this I was above: Crump had served me faithfully, and have the
shop he should.
[Illustration:
FEBRUARY.—First Rout
]