The following parody, on a stanza of the “Blue Bonnets over the Border,”
is put forth, as an advertisement, by a hatter, at Brighton, named
March.
March! March! has the best hats to sell,
Try him, you’ll find him no wily deceiver;
March!--march! go and he’ll use you well.
His is the warehouse for buying a beaver.
Come then, my masters,
Doff your old castors,
Ragged and torn, or howe’er in disorder:
For a new topper, a
Round hat or opera,
March is the man, so give him an order.
March! March! has the best hats to sell, &c.
Vol. II.--42.
[Illustration: ~The Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, Surrey.~]
A homely picture of a homely place,
Where rustic labour plies its honest toil,
And gains a competence.
*
On a fine summer’s day I alighted, with my friend W----, from the roof
of a stage-coach at Croydon, for a by-way walk, in a part unknown to
both. We struck to the eastward through Addiscombe--it is scarcely a
village, and only remarkable for the East India Company having seated it
with a military establishment; which, as peaceable persons, we had no
desire to see, though we could not help observing some cannon in a
meadow, as smooth-shaven, and with as little of nature-like aspect, as a
drill-sergeant’s face. Further onward we met a well-mounted horseman,
whom some of my old readers may easily imagine I could not fail to
remember--“mine host” of the “Swan” at West Wickham--the recognition
was mutual and being in search of an adventure, I asked him for a
direction to any little public-house within a mile or two, that was
worth looking at on account of its antiquity and rustic appearance. He
despaired of any thing “absolutely” of the kind in the neighbourhood;
but, from his description of what he thought might be “something”
near it, we took a lane to the left, and soon came to the house.
Like too many of our ancient churches it had been “repaired and
beautified”--deprived of every thing venerable--and was as unpicturesque
as the overseers of the reparations could make it. We found better
entertainment within than without--a cheerful invitation to the bar,
where we had a cool glass of good ale with a biscuit, and the sight of a
fine healthy family as they successively entered for something or other
that was wanted. Having refreshed and exchanged “good-morning” with the
good-natured proveditors of “good entertainment for man and horse,” we
turned to the left, and at a stone’s throw crossed into a lane, having a
few labourers’ cottages a little way along on the right, and soon came
to the Broom-maker’s, represented in the engraving.
We had a constant view all the way up the lane, from beyond the man
climbing the ladder, of the flickering linen at the point of the rod
waving on the broom-stack. The flag was erected by the labourers on the
carrying of the last shoulder-load of the rustic pile--an achievement
quite as important to the interests of the Broom-maker, as the carrying
of Seringapatam to the interests of the “Honourable Company.”
Having passed the Broom-maker’s, which stands at the corner of the lane
we had come up, and being then in the road across Shirley Common towards
Addington, we interchanged expressions of regret that we had not fallen
in with any thing worth notice. A look-back induced a halt; we returned
a few steps, and taking seats at the angle on the bank, I thought I
perceived “capabilities,” in the home-view before our eyes, for a _Table
Book_ notice. The loaded man, near the pile of poling, is represented
proceeding towards a spot at some thirty yards distance, where a teamed
waggon-frame was standing. It belonged to the master of the place--a
tall, square-shouldered, middle-aged, active man, who looked as one
having authority-who laboured, and was a master of labourers. He, and
another man, and a lad, were employed, “all without hurry or care,” in
loading the wain with poling. As I stood observing their progress he
gave me a frank “Good-day, sir!” and I obtained some information from
him respecting his business. His name is on his carts “John Bennett,
Shirley Common.” He calls himself a “Broom-maker and Wood-dealer,” and
he has more the character of a Wood-cutter than the figure of the
Wood-man in the popular print. He and his men cut the materials for
broom-making chiefly from the neighbouring common, and the wood he deals
in from adjacent woods and copses. He sells the greater part of his
brooms to shopkeepers and other consumers in Streatham and Camberwell.
Much of his poling is sent farther off. A good deal, he told me, had
gone to the duke of Devonshire for fencing; the load then preparing was
for like use on a farm at Streatham, belonging to Mr. Hoare, of the
Golden Cross, Charing Cross. He eyed W---- seated on the bank, sketching
the spot, and said, that as soon as he had finished loading the wain, he
would show us what was “going on in-doors.” Accordingly when he had
concluded he walked with me to W----, who, by that time, had nearly
finished. Seeing what had been effected in that way, he had “a sort of
notion that the gentleman might like, perhaps, to _take off_ an old
broom-maker, then at work, inside--as _curious_ an old chap as a man
might walk a summer’s day without seeing--one that nobody could make
either head or tail of--what you call an _original_.”
W---- and I were as desirous of something new as were the ancient
inhabitants of Athens; and in search of it we entered the
broom-manufactory--a small, warm, comfortable barn, with a grateful
odour in it from the heath and birch-wood. Four or five persons were
busy at work. Foremost within the door was the unmistakeable old
“original.” Like his fellow-workmen he wore a leathern apron, and a
heavy leathern sleeve on the left arm; and with that hand and arm he
firmly held and compressed the heath into round bundles, of proper
consistency and size, and strongly bound them with the other. He was
apparently between sixty and seventy years of age, and his labour, which
to a young man seemed light, was to him heavy, for it required muscular
strength. There was some difficulty in getting him to converse. He was
evidently suspicious; and, as he worked, his apprehensions quickened him
to restlessness and over-exertion. To “take him off” while thus excited,
and almost constantly in a bending posture, was out of the question. I
therefore handed him a jug of his master’s home-brewed, and told him our
wish. His countenance lighted up, and I begged him to converse with me
for a few minutes, and to look me full in the face; I also assured him
of the “wherewithal” for a jug of ale at night. He willingly entered
into the compact, but the inquietude natural to his features was
baffling to the hand that held the pencil. By this time the rumour that
“Old Davy” was having his head “taken off” brought his master’s wife,
and her daughters and sons, from the cottage, and several workmen from
another outhouse, to witness the execution, Opposite to him was W----
with his sketch-book; his desire for a “three-quarter” view of the
“original” occasioned me to seat myself on a heap of birch sideways,
that the old man’s face might be directed to me in the required
position. The group around us was numerous and differently interested:
some kept their eyes upon “Old Davy;” others upon me, while I talked to
him; as many as could command a view of the sketch-book were intent upon
the progress of the portrait; and a few, who were excluded, endeavoured
on tiptoe, and with outstretched necks, to obtain peeps at what was
going on. W. steadily employed on the likeness--the old man “sitting,”
cunningly smiling, looking unutterably wise at me, while W---- was
steadily endeavouring for the likeness--the surrounding spectators, and
the varied expressions of their various faces--the gleams of broken
light from the only opening that admitted it, the door-way--the broad
masses of shadow, and the rich browns of the shining birch and spreading
heath, rudely and unequally piled, formed a picture which I regretted
that W---- was a prominent figure in, because, engaged as he was, he
could neither see nor sketch it.
This old labourer’s eccentricity was exceedingly amusing. He said his
name was David Boxall; he knew not, or would not know, either where he
was born, or where he had worked, or any thing more of himself, than
that there he was; “and now,” said he, “make of me what you can.” “Ah!”
said his master, in a whisper, “if you can make anything of him, sir,
it’s more than we have been able to do.” The old fellow had a dissenting
“humph” for every thing advanced towards him--except the ale-jug. The
burthen of his talk was--he thought about nothing, cared about
nothing--not he--why should he? Yet he was a perpetual inquirer.
Craftily leering his quick-glancing eye while he asked a question, he
waited, with a sarcastic smile, for an answer; and when given, out came
his usual gruff “humph,” and “how do you _know_?” He affected to listen
to explanations, while he assumed a knowing grin, to persuade his
hearers that _he_ knew better. His knowledge, however, was
incommunicable, and past all finding out. He continually indulged in
“hum!” and “ha!” and a sly look; and these, to his rustic auditors, were
signs of wisdom. He was what they called a “knowing old chap.” He had
been the best broom-maker in the manufactory, and had earned excellent
wages. When I saw him he was infirm, and did not get more than fourteen
or sixteen shillings a week. Mr. Bennett’s men are paid piece-work, and
can easily earn a guinea week. After the sketching was over, and his
people had retired to their labour, we walked with him through his
little garden of fruit-trees and vegetables to another shed, where they
fashioned broom-handles, and some common husbandry implements of wood.
On recrossing the garden he gathered us cherries from the trees, and
discoursed on his hives of bees by the hedge-side. Having given
something to his men to spend in drink, and to “Old Davy” something
especially, we brought off his head, which would cost more to exhibit
than a better subject, and therefore it has since rested without
disturbance.
From the Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, we had a pleasant walk into
Addington, where there is a modern-built palace of the archbishop of
Canterbury, with extensive old gardens and large hot-houses, and several
good houses. We had passed Mr. Maberly’s seat and grounds on our way. A
turn in the road gave us a view of Addington church in a retired spot,
beyond a row of town-built dwellings, with little gardens in front, and
a shop or two. The parish clerk lives in one of them. Upon request he
accompanied us, with the keys, to the church, of ancient structure,
lately trimmed up, and enclosed by a high wall and gates. There was
nothing within worth seeing, except a tomb with disfigured effigies, and
a mutilated ill-kept register-book, which, as it belonged to the
immediate parish of the archbishop, seemed very discreditable. The
“Cricketers,” nearly opposite to the church, accommodated us with as
good refreshment as the village afforded, in a capacious parlour. The
house is old, with a thatched roof. We found it an excellent
resting-place; every way better, as an inn, than we could have expected
in a spot so secluded. We had rambled and loitered towards it, and felt
ourselves more wearied when about to depart than we wished; and, as a
farmer’s family cart stood at the door, with the farmer himself in it, I
proposed to W. to attempt gaining a lift. The farmer’s son, who drove
it, said, that it was going our way, and that a ride was at our service.
The driver got up in front, W. followed, and when I had achieved the
climbing, I found him in conflict with a young calf, which persisted in
licking his clothes. He was soon relieved from the inconvenience, by its
attentions, in like manner, being shifted to me. The old farmer was a
little more than “fresh,” and his son a little less. We had a laughable
jolt upstanding, along a little frequented road; and during our progress
I managed to bind the calf to good behaviour. Leaving West Wickham on
our left, and its pleasant church and manor-house on the right, we
ascended Keston Common, and passed over it, as we had nearly all the
way, in merry conversation with the old farmer, who dwelt with great
glee on his youthful fame, as one of the best cricket-players in Kent.
We alighted before we came to the “Fox” public-house, where our
companions accepted of a magnum of stiff grog in recompense for their
civility. From thence we skirted Holwood, till we arrived at my old
“head-quarters,” the “Cross” at Keston; and there we were welcomed by
“mine host,” Mr. Young, and took tea. A walk to Bromley, and a stage
from thence, brought us to “the Elephant”--and so home.
*
* * * * *