_For the Table Book._
Lie heavy on him, _earth_! for he
Laid many a _heavy load_ on thee.
_Epig._ 23, CHRISTMAS _Treat_.
The drayman is a being distinct from other men, as the brewer’s horse is
distinct from other horses--each seems adapted to the other’s use: the
one eats abundantly of grains, and prospers in its traces--the other
drinks porter by the canful, and is hardly able to button his jerkin.
Much of a drayman’s life is spent with his master’s team and barrels.
Early rising is his indispensable duty; and, long ere the
window-shutters of London shopkeepers are taken down, he, with his
fellow stavesmen, are seen half way through the streets to the vender of
what is vulgarly called “heavy wet.” Woe to the patience of a crowd,
waiting to cross the roadway, when the long line, in clattering gear,
are passing review, like a troop of unyielding soldiers. The driver,
with his whip, looks as important as a sergeant-major; equipped in his
coat of mail, the very pavement trembles with his gigantic tread.[91]
Sometimes his comrades ride on the shaft and sleep, to the imminent risk
of their lives. Arrived at their destination, they move a slow and sure
pace, which indicates that “all things should be taken easy,” for “the
world was not made in a day.”
The cellar being the centre of gravity, the empty vessels are drawn out,
and the full ones drawn in; but with as much science as would require
Hercules himself to exercise, and Bacchus to improve. After these
operations are performed, what a sight it is to behold the drayman at
work over his breakfast, in the taproom if the weather is cold, or on a
bench in view of a prospect, if the sunshine appears: the hunch of bread
and meat, or a piece of cheese deposited in the hollow of his hand,
which he divides into no small portions, are enough to pall the
appetite. The manner in which he clenches the frothy pot, and conducts
it to his mouth, and the long draft he takes, in gurgles down his
unshorn, summer-like throat, almost warrant apprehensions of supply not
being equal to demand, and consequent advance of price. He is an entire
proof of the lusty quality of his master’s porter, for he is the largest
opium-pill in the brewhouse dispensary. While feeding on the fat of the
publican’s larder, his horses are shaking up the corn, so unfeelingly
crammed in hair-bags, to their reeking nostrils. The drayman is a sort
of rough give and take fellow; he uses the whip in a brangle, and his
sayings are sometimes, like himself, rather dry. When he returns to the
brewhouse, he is to be found in the stable, at the vat, and in the lower
apartments. To guard against cold, he prefers a red nightcap to a Welsh
wig, and takes great care of the grains, without making scruples. He is
a good preparer, well versed in the art of refinement--knows when his
articles work well, and is an excellent judge of brown stout. At
evening, as his turn relieves him, he takes his next day’s orders at the
counting-house, and with clean apron and face, goes to his club; and
sometimes even ventures to make a benefit speech in behalf of the sick
members, or a disconsolate widow. Now and then, in his best white “foul
weather,” he treats his wife and nieces to “the Wells,” or “the
Royalty,” taking something better than beer in his pocket, made to hold
his “bunch of fives,” or any other esteemed commodity. At a “free and
easy,” he sometimes “rubs up,” and enjoys a “bit of ’bacco” out of the
tin box, wherein he drops his halfpenny before he fills; and then, like
a true Spectator, smokes the company in a genteel way. If called upon
for a song, he either complains of hoarseness, or of a bad memory; but
should he indulge the call of his Vice on his right hand, he may be
heard fifty yards in the wind, after which he is “knocked down” with
thund’rous applause. He shakes his collops at a good joke about the
“tap,” and agrees with Joe Miller, that
“Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt,
But every grin of laughter draws one out.”
An old dog’s-eared song-book is the companion to a bung-plug, a slate
memoranda, and sundry utensils, which are his pocket residents. He is
proud to wear a pair of fancy garters below knee, and on Mondays his
neckcloth and stockings show that he was “clean as a new pin
_yesterday_.” Like an undertaker, he smells of the beer to which he is
attached, and rarely loses sight of “Dodd’s Sermon on Malt.” He ventures
to play sly tricks with his favourite horse, and will give kick for kick
when irritated. His language to his team is pure low Dutch,
untranslatable, but perfectly understood when illustrated by a cut. It
may be said that he moves in his own sphere; for, though he drives
through the porter world, he spends much of his time _out of_ the
public-house, and is rarely _te-ipse_. What nature denies to others,
custom sanctions in him, for “he eats, drinks, and is _merry_.” If a
_rough_ specimen of an unsophisticated John Bull were required, I would
present the drayman.