Unlike the ribald, whose licentious jest
Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest,
From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,
Thou joy'st to lose the master in the friend.
We round thy board the cheerful menials see, Gay--
with the smile of bland equality;
No social care the gracious lord disdains;
Love prompts to love, and reverence reverence gains.
Translation of LUCAN to Paso,
Prefixed to the Twelfth Paper of “The Rambler.”
Coyly shone down the bashful stars upon our adventurers, as, after a
short nap behind the haystack, they stretched themselves, and looking
at each other, burst into an involuntary and hilarious laugh at the
prosperous termination of their exploit.
Hitherto they had been too occupied, first by their flight, then by
hunger, then by fatigue, for self-gratulation; now they rubbed their
hands, and joked like runaway schoolboys at their escape.
By degrees their thoughts turned from the past to the future; and “Tell
me, my dear fellow,” said Augustus, “what you intend to do. I trust I
have long ago convinced you that it is no sin 'to serve our friends'
and to 'be true to our party;' and therefore, I suppose, you will decide
upon taking to the road.”
“It is very odd,” answered Paul, “that I should have any scruples left
after your lectures on the subject; but I own to you frankly that,
somehow or other, I have doubts whether thieving be really the honestest
profession I could follow.”
“Listen to me, Paul,” answered Augustus; and his reply is not unworthy
of notice. “All crime and all excellence depend upon a good choice of
words. I see you look puzzled; I will explain. If you take money from
the public, and say you have robbed, you have indubitably committed a
great crime; but if you do the same, and say you have been relieving
the necessities of the poor, you have done an excellent action. If, in
afterwards dividing this money with your companions, you say you have
been sharing booty, you have committed an offence against the laws of
your country; but if you observe that you have been sharing with your
friends the gains of your industry, you have been performing one of
the noblest actions of humanity. To knock a man on the head is neither
virtuous nor guilty, but it depends upon the language applied to the
action to make it murder or glory. Why not say, then, that you have
testified the courage of a hero, rather than the atrocity of a ruffian?
This is perfectly clear, is it not?”
[We observe in a paragraph from an American paper, copied without
comment into the “Morning Chronicle,” a singular proof of the truth
of Tomlinson's philosophy! “Mr. Rowland Stephenson,” so runs the
extract, “the celebrated English banker, has just purchased a
considerable tract of land,” etc. Most philosophical of
paragraphists! “Celebrated English banker!”--that sentence is a
better illustration of verbal fallacies than all Ben tham's
treatises put together. “Celebrated!” O Mercury, what a dexterous
epithet!]
“It seems so,” answered Paul.
“It is so self-evident that it is the way all governments are carried
on. Wherefore, my good Paul, we only do what all other legislators do.
We are never rogues so long as we call ourselves honest fellows, and we
never commit a crime so long as we can term it a virtue. What say you
now?”
Paul smiled, and was silent a few moments before he replied: “There is
very little doubt but that you are wrong; yet if you are, so are all
the rest of the world. It is of no use to be the only white sheep of the
flock. Wherefore, my dear Tomlinson, I will in future be an excellent
citizen, relieve the necessities of the poor, and share the gains of my
industry with my friends.”
“Bravo!” cried Tomlinson. “And now that that is settled, the sooner you
are inaugurated the better. Since the starlight has shone forth, I see
that I am in a place I ought to be very well acquainted with; or, if you
like to be suspicious, you may believe that I have brought you purposely
in this direction. But first let me ask if you feel any great desire to
pass the night by this haystack, or whether you would like a song and
the punchbowl almost as much as the open air, with the chance of being
eaten up in a pinch of hay by some strolling cow.”
“You may conceive my choice,” answered Paul.
“Well, then, there is an excellent fellow near here, who keeps a
public-house, and is a firm ally and generous patron of the lads of the
cross. At certain periods they hold weekly meetings at his house: this
is one of the nights. What say you? Shall I introduce you to the club?”
“I shall be very glad if they will admit me,” returned Paul, whom many
and conflicting thoughts rendered laconic.
“Oh! no fear of that, under my auspices. To tell you the truth, though
we are a tolerant set, we welcome every new proselyte with enthusiasm.
But are you tired?”
“A little; the house is not far, you say?”
“About a mile off,” answered Tomlinson. “Lean on me.”
Our wanderers now, leaving the haystack, struck across part of Finchley
Common; for the abode of the worthy publican was felicitously situated,
and the scene in which his guests celebrated their festivities was close
by that on which they often performed their exploits.
As they proceeded, Paul questioned his friend touching the name and
character of “mine host;” and the all-knowing Augustus Tomlinson
answered him, Quaker-like, by a question,--
“Have you never heard of Gentleman George?”
“What! the noted head of a flash public-house in the country? To be
sure I have, often; my poor nurse, Dame Lobkins, used to say he was the
best-spoken man in the trade!”
“Ay, so he is still. In his youth, George was a very handsome fellow,
but a little too fond of his lass and his bottle to please his
father,--a very staid old gentleman, who walked about on Sundays in
a bob-wig and a gold-headed cane, and was a much better farmer on
week-days than he was head of a public-house. George used to be a
remarkably smart-dressed fellow, and so he is to this day. He has a
great deal of wit, is a very good whist-player, has a capital cellar,
and is so fond of seeing his friends drunk, that he bought some time ago
a large pewter measure in which six men can stand upright. The girls, or
rather the old women, to which last he used to be much more civil of the
two, always liked him; they say nothing is so fine as his fine speeches,
and they give him the title of 'Gentleman George.' He is a nice,
kind-hearted man in many things. Pray Heaven we shall have no cause to
miss him when he departs! But, to tell you the truth, he takes more than
his share of our common purse.”
“What! is he avaricious?”
“Quite the reverse; but he's so cursedly fond of building, he invests
all his money (and wants us to invest all ours) in houses; and there's
one confounded dog of a bricklayer who runs him up terrible bills,--a
fellow called 'Cunning Nat,' who is equally adroit in spoiling ground
and improving ground rent.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah! thereby hangs a tale. But we are near the place now; you will see a
curious set.”
As Tomlinson said this, the pair approached a house standing alone, and
seemingly without any other abode in the vicinity. It was of curious
and grotesque shape, painted white, with a Gothic chimney, a Chinese
sign-post (on which was depicted a gentleman fishing, with the words
“The Jolly Angler” written beneath), and a porch that would have been
Grecian if it had not been Dutch. It stood in a little field, with a
hedge behind it, and the common in front. Augustus stopped at the door;
and while he paused, bursts of laughter rang cheerily within.
“Ah, the merry boys!” he muttered; “I long to be with them;” and then
with his clenched fist he knocked four times on the door. There was a
sudden silence which lasted about a minute, and was broken by a voice
within, asking who was there. Tomlinson answered by some cabalistic
word; the door was opened, and a little boy presented himself.
“Well, my lad,” said Augustus, “and how is your master? Stout and
hearty, if I may judge by his voice.”
“Ay, Master Tommy, ay, he's boosing away at a fine rate, in the
back-parlour, with Mr. Pepper and Fighting Attie, and half-a-score more
of them. He'll be woundy glad to see you, I'll be bound.”
“Show this gentleman into the bar,” rejoined Augustus, “while I go and
pay my respects to honest Geordie.”
The boy made a sort of a bow, and leading our hero into the bar,
consigned him to the care of Sal, a buxom barmaid, who reflected
credit on the taste of the landlord, and who received Paul with marked
distinction and a gill of brandy.
Paul had not long to play the amiable, before Tomlinson rejoined him
with the information that Gentleman George would be most happy to see
him in the back-parlour, and that he would there find an old friend in
the person of Mr. Pepper.
“What! is he here?” cried Paul. “The sorry knave, to let me be caged in
his stead!”
“Gently, gently; no misapplication of terms!” said Augustus. “That was
not knavery; that was prudence, the greatest of all virtues, and the
rarest. But come along, and Pepper shall explain to-morrow.”
Threading a gallery or passage, Augustus preceded our hero, opened a
door, and introduced him into a long low apartment, where sat, round a
table spread with pipes and liquor, some ten or a dozen men, while at
the top of the table, in an armchair, presided Gentleman George. That
dignitary was a portly and comely gentleman, with a knowing look, and a
Welsh wig, worn, as the “Morning Chronicle” says of his Majesty's hat,
“in a degage manner, on one side.” Being afflicted with the gout, his
left foot reclined on a stool; and the attitude developed, despite of a
lamb's-wool stocking, the remains of an exceedingly good leg.
As Gentleman George was a person of majestic dignity among the Knights
of the Cross, we trust we shall not be thought irreverent in applying a
few of the words by which the aforesaid “Morning Chronicle” depicted his
Majesty on the day he laid the first stone of his father's monument to
the description of Gentleman George.
“He had on a handsome blue coat and a white waistcoat;” moreover, “he
laughed most good-humouredly,” as, turning to Augustus Tomlinson, he
saluted him with,--
“So this is the youngster you present to us? Welcome to the Jolly
Angler! Give us thy hand, young sir; I shall be happy to blow a cloud
with thee.”
“With all due submission,” said Mr. Tomlinson, “I think it may first be
as well to introduce my pupil and friend to his future companions.”
“You speak like a leary cove,” cried Gentleman George, still squeezing
our hero's hand; and turning round in his elbow-chair, he pointed to
each member, as he severally introduced his guests to Paul.
“Here,” said he,--“here's a fine chap at my right hand” (the person thus
designated was a thin military-looking figure, in a shabby riding-frock,
and with a commanding, bold, aquiline countenance, a little the worse
for wear),--“here's a fine chap for you! Fighting Attie we calls him;
he's a devil on the road. 'Halt,--deliver,--must and shall,--can't and
sha' n't,--do as I bid you, or go to the devil!' That's all Fighting
Attie's palaver; and, 'Sdeath, it has a wonderful way of coming to the
point! A famous cull is my friend Attie,--an old soldier,--has seen the
world, and knows what is what; has lots of gumption, and devil a bit of
blarney. Howsomever, the highflyers does n't like him; and when he takes
people's money, he need not be quite so cross about it. Attie, let me
introduce a new pal to you.” Paul made his bow.
“Stand at ease, man!” quoth the veteran, without taking the pipe from
his mouth.
Gentleman George then continued; and after pointing out four or five of
the company (among whom our hero discovered, to his surprise, his old
friends Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert and Mr. William Howard Russell), came,
at length, to one with a very red face and a lusty frame of body. “That
gentleman,” said he, “is Scarlet Jem; a dangerous fellow for a press,
though he says he likes robbing alone now, for a general press is not
half such a good thing as it used to be formerly. You have no idea what
a hand at disguising himself Scarlet Jem is. He has an old wig which he
generally does business in; and you would not go for to know him again
when he conceals himself under the wig. Oh, he's a precious rogue, is
Scarlet Jem! As for the cove on t' other side,” continued the host of
the Jolly Angler, pointing to Long Ned, “all I can say of him, good,
bad, or indifferent, is that he has an unkimmon fine head of hair; and
now, youngster, as you knows him, s'pose you goes and sits by him, and
he'll introduce you to the rest; for, split my wig!” (Gentleman George
was a bit of a swearer) “if I be n't tired; and so here's to your
health; and if so be as your name's Paul, may you always rob Peter [a
portmanteau] in order to pay Paul!”
This witticism of mine host's being exceedingly well received, Paul
went, amidst the general laughter, to take possession of the vacant
seat beside Long Ned. That tall gentleman, who had hitherto been
cloud-compelling (as Homer calls Jupiter) in profound silence, now
turned to Paul with the warmest cordiality, declared himself overjoyed
to meet his old friend once more, and congratulated him alike on his
escape from Bridewell and his admission to the councils of Gentleman
George. But Paul, mindful of that exertion of “prudence” on the part
of Mr. Pepper by which he had been left to his fate and the mercy of
Justice Burnflat, received his advances very sullenly. This coolness so
incensed Ned, who was naturally choleric, that he turned his back on
our hero, and being of an aristocratic spirit, muttered something about
“upstart, and vulgar clyfakers being admitted to the company of swell
tobymen.” This murmur called all Paul's blood into his cheek; for though
he had been punished as a clyfaker (or pickpocket), nobody knew better
than Long Ned whether or not he was innocent; and a reproach from him
came therefore with double injustice and severity. In his wrath he
seized Mr. Pepper by the ear, and telling him he was a shabby scoundrel,
challenged him to fight.
So pleasing an invitation not being announced sotto voce, but in a tone
suited to the importance of the proposition, every one around heard it;
and before Long Ned could answer, the full voice of Gentleman George
thundered forth,--
“Keep the peace there, you youngster! What! are you just admitted into
our merry-makings, and must you be wrangling already? Harkye, gemmen,
I have been plagued enough with your quarrels before now; and the first
cove as breaks the present quiet of the Jolly Angler shall be turned out
neck and crop,--sha' n't he, Attie?”
“Right about, march!” said the hero.
“Ay, that's the word, Attie,” said Gentleman George. “And now, Mr.
Pepper, if there be any ill blood 'twixt you and the lad there, wash it
away in a bumper of bingo, and let's hear no more whatsomever about it.”
“I'm willing,” cried Long Ned, with the deferential air of a courtier,
and holding out his hand to Paul. Our hero, being somewhat abashed
by the novelty of his situation and the rebuke of Gentleman George,
accepted, though with some reluctance, the proffered courtesy.
Order being thus restored, the conversation of the convivialists began
to assume a most fascinating bias. They talked with infinite gout of
the sums they had levied on the public, and the peculations they had
committed for what one called the good of the community, and another,
the established order,--meaning themselves. It was easy to see in what
school the discerning Augustus Tomlinson had learned the value of words.
There was something edifying in hearing the rascals! So nice was their
language, and so honest their enthusiasm for their own interests, you
might have imagined you were listening to a coterie of cabinet ministers
conferring on taxes or debating on perquisites.
“Long may the Commons flourish!” cried punning Georgie, filling
his glass; “it is by the commons we're fed, and may they never know
cultivation!”
“Three times three!” shouted Long Ned; and the toast was drunk as Mr.
Pepper proposed.
“A little moderate cultivation of the commons, to speak frankly,” said
Augustus Tomlinson, modestly, “might not be amiss; for it would decoy
people into the belief that they might travel safely; and, after all,
a hedge or a barley-field is as good for us as a barren heath, where we
have no shelter if once pursued!”
“You talks nonsense, you spooney!” cried a robber of note, called
Bagshot; who, being aged and having been a lawyer's footboy, was
sometimes denominated “Old Bags.” “You talks nonsense; these innowating
ploughs are the ruin of us. Every blade of corn in a common is an
encroachment on the constitution and rights of the gemmen highwaymen.
I'm old, and may n't live to see these things; but, mark my words, a
time will come when a man may go from Lunnun to Johnny Groat's without
losing a penny by one of us; when Hounslow will be safe, and Finchley
secure. My eyes, what a sad thing for us that'll be!”
The venerable old man became suddenly silent, and the tears started
to his eyes. Gentleman George had a great horror of blue devils, and
particularly disliked all disagreeable subjects.
“Thunder and oons, Old Bags!” quoth mine host of the Jolly Angler, “this
will never do; we're all met here to be merry, and not to listen to your
mullancolly taratarantarums. I says, Ned Pepper, s'pose you tips us a
song, and I'll beat time with my knuckles.”
Long Ned, taking the pipe from his mouth, attempted, like Walter
Scott's Lady Heron, one or two pretty excuses; these being drowned by a
universal shout, the handsome purloiner gave the following song, to the
tune of “Time has not thinned my flowing hair.”
LONG NED'S SONG.
Oh, if my hands adhere to cash,
My gloves at least are clean,
And rarely have the gentry flash
In sprucer clothes been seen.
Sweet Public, since your coffers must
Afford our wants relief,
Oh! soothes it not to yield the dust
To such a charming thief?
“'And John may laugh at mine,'--excellent!” cried Gentleman George,
lighting his pipe, and winking at Attie; “I hears as how you be a famous
fellow with the lasses.”
Ned smiled and answered, “No man should boast; but--” Pepper paused
significantly, and then glancing at Attie, said, “Talking of lasses,
it is my turn to knock down a gentleman for a song, and I knock down
Fighting Attie.”
“I never sing,” said the warrior.
“Treason, treason!” cried Pepper. “It is the law, and you must obey the
law; so begin.”
“It is true, Attie,” said Gentleman George.
There was no appeal from the honest publican's fiat; so, in a quick and
laconic manner, it being Attie's favourite dogma that the least said is
the soonest mended, the warrior sung as follows:--
FIGHTING ATTIE'S SONG.
Air: “He was famed for deeds of arms.”
I never robbed a single coach
But with a lover's air;
And though you might my course reproach,
You never could my hair.
Rise at six, dine at two,
Rob your man without ado,
Such my maxims; if you doubt
Their wisdom, to the right-about!
( Signing to a sallow gentleman on the same side of the table to send up
the brandy bowl.)
Pass round the bingo,--of a gun,
You musty, dusky, husky son!
John Bull, who loves a harmless joke,
Is apt at me to grin;
But why be cross with laughing folk,
Unless they laugh and win?
John Bull has money in his box;
And though his wit's divine,
Yet let me laugh at Johnny's locks,
And John may laugh at mine
[Much of whatever amusement might be occasioned by the not (we
trust) ill-natured travesties of certain eminent characters in this
part of our work when first published, like all political allusions,
loses point and becomes obscure as the applications cease to be
familiar. It is already necessary, perhaps, to say that Fighting
Attie herein typifies or illustrates the Duke of Wellington's abrupt
dismissal of Mr. Huskisson.]
THE SALLOW GENTLEMAN (in a hoarse voice).
Attie, the bingo's now with me;
I can't resign it yet, d' ye see!
ATTIE (seizing the bowl).
Resign, resign it,--cease your dust!
(Wresting it away and fiercely regarding the sallow gentleman.)
You have resigned it, and you must.
CHORUS.
You have resigned it, and you must.
While the chorus, laughing at the discomfited tippler, yelled forth the
emphatic words of the heroic Attie, that personage emptied the brandy at
a draught, resumed his pipe, and in as few words as possible called on
Bagshot for a song. The excellent old highwayman, with great diffidence,
obeyed the request, cleared his throat, and struck off with a ditty
somewhat to the tune of “The Old Woman.”
OLD BAGS'S SONG.
Are the days then gone, when on Hounslow Heath
We flashed our nags,
When the stoutest bosoms quailed beneath
The voice of Bags?
Ne'er was my work half undone, lest I should be nabbed
Slow was old Bags, but he never ceased
Till the whole was grabbed.
CHORUS. Till the whole was grabbed.
When the slow coach paused, and the gemmen stormed,
I bore the brunt;
And the only sound which my grave lips formed
Was “blunt,”--still “blunt”!
Oh, those jovial days are ne'er forgot!
But the tape lags--
When I be's dead, you'll drink one pot
To poor old Bags!
CHORUS. To poor old Bags!
“Ay, that we will, my dear Bagshot,” cried Gentleman George,
affectionately; but observing a tear in the fine old fellow's eye, he
added: “Cheer up! What, ho! cheer up! Times will improve, and Providence
may yet send us one good year, when you shall be as well off as ever.
You shakes your poll. Well, don't be humdurgeoned, but knock down a
gemman.”
Dashing away the drop of sensibility, the veteran knocked down Gentleman
George himself.
“Oh, dang it!” said George, with an air of dignity, “I ought to skip,
since I finds the lush; but howsomever here goes.”
GENTLEMAN GEORGE'S SONG.
Air: “Old King Cole.”
I be's the cove, the merry old cove,
Of whose max all the rufflers sing;
And a lushing cove, I thinks, by Jove,
Is as great as a sober king!
CHORUS. Is as great as a sober king!
Whatever the noise as is made by the boys
At the bar as they lush away,
The devil a noise my peace alloys
As long as the rascals pay!
CHORUS. As long as the rascals pay!
What if I sticks my stones and my bricks
With mortar I takes from the snobbish?
All who can feel for the public weal
Likes the public-house to be bobbish.
CHORUS. Likes the public-house to be bobbish.
“There, gemmen!” said the publican, stopping short, “that's the pith of
the matter, and split my wig but I'm short of breath now. So send round
the brandy, Augustus; you sly dog, you keeps it all to yourself.”
By this time the whole conclave were more than half-seas over, or, as
Augustus Tomlinson expressed it, “their more austere qualities were
relaxed by a pleasing and innocent indulgence.” Paul's eyes reeled, and
his tongue ran loose. By degrees the room swam round, the faces of
his comrades altered, the countenance of Old Bags assumed an awful and
menacing air. He thought Long Ned insulted him, and that Old Bags took
the part of the assailant, doubled his fist, and threatened to put the
plaintiff's nob into chancery if he disturbed the peace of the meeting.
Various other imaginary evils beset him. He thought he had robbed a
mail-coach in company with Pepper; that Tomlinson informed against
him, and that Gentleman George ordered him to be hanged; in short, he
laboured under a temporary delirium, occasioned by a sudden reverse of
fortune,--from water to brandy; and the last thing of which he retained
any recollection, before he sank under the table, in company with Long
Ned, Scarlet Jem, and Old Bags, was the bearing his part in the burden
of what appeared to him a chorus of last dying speeches and confessions,
but what in reality was a song made in honour of Gentleman George,
and sung by his grateful guests as a finale of the festivities. It ran
thus:--
THE ROBBER'S GRAND TOAST.
A tumbler of blue ruin, fill, fill for me!
Red tape those as likes it may drain;
But whatever the lush, it a bumper must be,
If we ne'er drinks a bumper again!
Now--now in the crib, where a ruffler may lie,
Without fear that the traps should distress him,
With a drop in the mouth, and a drop in the eye,
Here's to Gentleman George,--God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George,--God bless him!
'Mong the pals of the prince I have heard it's the go,
Before they have tippled enough,
To smarten their punch with the best curagoa,
More conish to render the stuff.
I boast not such lush; but whoever his glass
Does not like, I'll be hanged if I press him!
Upstanding, my kiddies,--round, round let it pass!
Here's to Gentleman George,--God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George,-God bless him!
See, see, the fine fellow grows weak on his stumps;
Assist him, ye rascals, to stand!
Why, ye stir not a peg! Are you all in the dumps?
Fighting Attie, go, lend him a hand!
(The robbers crowd around Gentleman George, each, under pretence of
supporting him, pulling him first one way and then another.)
Come, lean upon me,--at your service I am!
Get away from his elbow, you whelp! him
You'll only upset,--them 'ere fellows but sham!
Here's to Gentleman George,--God help him!
God help him, God help him!
Here's to Gentleman George, God help him!