"I, think there must be something wrong about your rowing,"
"My rowing!" cried I; "nonsense!--it's because you don't steer right."
"I remember, when I was a young man, I once took a fancy to rowing," said
Mr. Crobble one day to me. "I wasn't then quite so round as I am at
present. Cousin Tom and I hired a wherry, but somehow we found we didn't
make much way. Tom was steering, and I took the sculls, sitting my back
to him like a gaby!"
"I, think there must be something wrong about your rowing," said Tom.
"My rowing!" cried I; "nonsense!--it's because you don't steer right.
Well, at last a waterman came alongside, and grinning (the fellow
couldn't help it) good-naturedly, pointed out the cause of our dilemma;
at which we both laughed heartily. Ever since that time I've been of
opinion, that unless people, 'who row in the same boat,' understand each
other, they'll never get along--"
I smiled at this lengthy prologue, not conceiving to what it could
possibly lead.
"Now, Mr. Andrew," resumed he, "I mean to be very industrious, and devote
a whole day to giving you an insight into the business; after which I
expect you'll pull away, while I only steer, which will suit me to a T--,
you understand."
"Exactly, sir," I replied; and, in consequence, he really set about the
task; and I soon acquired sufficient knowledge in the business, as not
only to row in the same boat with him, but, what was still more agreeable
to my patron's indolence, to manage the "craft" without his assistance.
Six months after the departure of Monsieur Dubois, he sent a remittance,
with interest on the amount, advanced by Mr. Crobble, with a long epistle
to me, stating, that he had entered into partnership with his elder
brother, and commenced the business of a banker, under the firm of
"Dubois Freres," at the same time informing me that they were already
doing a large stroke of business, and wanted an agent in London,
requesting me to inform him if it would be agreeable to Mr. Crobble for
them to draw upon his respectable house.
I saw at once the advantages of this correspondence, and so warmly
solicited Mr. Crobble to accede, that he at last consented, provided I
undertook the whole management of the affair.
The English were now daily flocking to Paris, and the money required for
their lavish expenditure in the gay capital of France compelled their
application to the bankers.
Messrs. Dubois Freres had their share of this lucrative business, and, as
their agents in London, we necessarily became participators in their
large transactions.
In three months these operations had increased so enormously, and the
profits were so considerable, that Mr. Crobble not only advanced my
salary, but consented to engage the assistance of two junior clerks. I
was now a man of some consideration. I was the senior clerk of the
establishment, although the youngest of the three.
In two years I found myself at the head of six clerks, and had as much
business as I could possibly manage.
My star was in the ascendant. I had not only more money than I required
for my expenses, but was enabled to maintain my poor old father, who
daily became more and more infirm.
I rented a small cottage at the rural village of Hackney, but my labour
occupied me early and late, and it was only on a Sunday I could really
enjoy my home.
Three years after quitting the office of Mr. Timmis, I had the
inexpressible pleasure of employing him to purchase stock for his errand
boy! I was proud as a king.
"I said that boy would turn out well," said the good-natured Mr. Wallis;
"he always had a good principle."
"And now bids fair," said Mr. Timmis, "to have both principal and
interest."
Mr. Crobble having lately had a large property left him in Hertfordshire,
rarely came to the office above once a-quarter, to settle accounts.
"A good dividend--a very good dividend!" said he, upon receipt of the
last quarter's profits. "But, Mr. Mullins, I cannot forget that this
business is your child."
"And I'm happy to say a thriving one," I replied.
"Are you satisfied--perfectly satisfied?" demanded he.
"Beyond my wishes, sir."
"I am not," said he shortly.
"No, sir?" exclaimed I, with surprise.
"No, Sir!" repeated he. "Those who sow should reap. I've no
children--I'm an idle fellow-a drone, sir--and won't consent to consume
all the honey. Don't speak, sir--read that!" and he pulled a parchment
from his pocket.
It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge,
Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler's son,
ANDREW MULLINS.
A RIGMAROLE.--PART I.
"De omnibus rebus."
The evening is calm--the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house,
which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the
anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public--all nature,
etc.--the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned
lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree--the sweet-voiced
pot-boy has commenced his rounds with "early beer," and with leathern
lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act
--greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood--"Baked sheeps'
heads, hot!"--O! savoury morsel!--May no legislative measure ever silence
this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling--may the
tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep's head!
"I never sees a sheep's head, but I thinks on you," said Mrs. Spriggins,
whose physiognomy was as yellow and as wrinkled as a duck's foot.
Spriggins whipped his horse, for they were driving in a one-horse chaise,
with two boys, and an infant in arms--Spriggins whipped his horse
spitefully, for Mrs. S.'s sarcasm inspired him with a splenetic feeling;
and as he durst not chastise her, the animal received the benefit of her
impetus. Spriggins was a fool by nature, and selfish by disposition.
Mrs. S. was a shrivelled shrew, with a "bit o' money;"--that was the bait
at which he, like a hungry gudgeon, had seized, and he was hooked! The
"spousals" had astonished the vulgar--the little nightingale of
Twickenham would have only smiled; for has he not sweetly sung--
"There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late
She finds some honest gander for her mate;"
and her union was a verification of this flowing couplet.
At different times, what different meanings the self-same words obtain.
According to the reading of the new poor-law guardians, "Union," as far
as regards man and wife, is explained "Separation;" or, like a ship when
in distress, the "Union" is reversed! In respect of his union, Spriggins
would have most relished the reading of the former! But there are
paradoxes--a species of verbal puzzle--which, in the course of this ride,
our amiable family of the Spriggins's experienced to their great
discomfort.
Drawing up a turnpike-gate, Mrs. S. handed a ticket to the white-aproned
official of the trust.
"You should have gone home the way you came out--that ticket won't do
here," said the man; "so out with your coppers--three-pence."
"I don't think I've got any half-pence!" said Mr. S., fumbling in his
pennyless pocket.
"Well, then, I must give you change."
"But I'm afraid I hav'nt got any silver," replied Mr. S., with a long
face.--"I say, mister, cou'dn't you trust me?--I'd be wery sure to bring
it to you."
But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his
left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.
"Vell, I'm blessed," exclaimed Mr. S.--and so he was--with a scolding
wife and a squalling infant; "and they calls this here a trust, the
fools! and there ain't no trust at all!"
And the poor animal got another vindictive cut. Oh! Mr. Martin!--thou
friend of quadrupeds!--would that thou had'st been there. "It's all my
eye and Betty Martin!" muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded
beast he drove, and retraced the road.
A RIMAROLE--PART II.
"Acti labores sunt jucundi"
The horse is really a noble animal--I hate all rail-roads, for putting
his nose out of joint--puffing, blowing, smoking, jotting--always going
in a straight line: if this mania should continue, we shall soon have the
whole island ruled over like a copy-book--nothing but straight lines--and
sloping lines through every county in the kingdom!
Give me the green lanes and hills, when I'm inclined to diverge; and the
smooth turnpike roads, when disposed to "go a-head."--"I can't bear a
horse," cries Numps: now this feeling is not at all reciprocal, for every
horse can bear a man. "I'm off to the Isle of Wight," says Numps: "Then
you're going to Ryde at last," quoth I, "notwithstanding your hostility
to horse-flesh." "Wrong!" replies he, "I'm going to Cowes." "Then
you're merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!" The ninny! he does
not know the delight of a canter in the green fields--except, indeed, the
said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher!
My friend Rory's the boy for a horse; he and his bit o' blood are
notorious at all the meetings. In fact I never saw him out of the
saddle: he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur--full of
anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly. I
last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster
--his "bit o' blood" had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making
his way to the appointed spot.
"I was in Buckinghamshire last week," said he; "a fine turn out--such a
field! I got an infernal topper tho'--smashed my best tile; tell you how
it was. There was a high paling--put Spitfire to it, and she took it in
fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree
came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely! Thought I was
brained--but we did it cleverly however--although, if ever I made a leap
in the dark, that was one. I was at fault for a minute--but Spitfire was
all alive, and had it all her own way: with some difficulty I got my nob
out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!"
I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of
sport, we parted.
Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but
he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime--so
true is it--that
"The pleasure we delight in physic's pain;"
his days pass lightly, and all his years are leap years!
He has lately inherited a considerable property, accumulated by a miserly
uncle, and has most appropriately purchased an estate in one of the
Ridings of Yorkshire!
With all his love for field-sports, however, he is no better "the
better," says he, "is often the worse; and I've no notion of losing my
acres in gambling; besides, my chief aim being to be considered a good
horseman, I should be a consummate fool, if, by my own folly, I lost my
seat!"
A RIGMAROLE--PART III.
"Oderunt hilarem tristes."
The sad only hate a joke. Now, my friend Rory is in no sense a sad
fellow, and he loves a joke exceedingly. His anecdotes of the turf
are all racy; nor do those of the field less deserve the meed of praise!
Lord F____ was a dandy sportsman, and the butt of the regulars. He was
described by Rory as a "walkingstick"--slender, but very "knobby"--with a
pair of mustaches and an eye-glass. Having lost the scent, he rode one
day slick into a gardener's ground, when his prad rammed his hind-legs
into a brace of hand-glasses, and his fore-legs into a tulip-bed. The
horticulturist and the haughty aristocrat--how different were their
feelings--the cucumber coolness of the 'nil admirari' of the one was
ludicrously contrasted with the indignation of the astonished cultivator
of the soil. "Have you seen the hounds this way?" demanded Lord F____,
deliberately viewing him through his glass.
"Hounds!" bitterly repeated the gardener, clenching his fist. "Dogs, I
mean," continued Lord F____; "you know what a pack of hounds are--don't
you?"
"I know what a puppy is," retorted the man; "and if so be you don't
budge, I'll spile your sport. But, first and foremost, you must lug out
for the damage you have done--you're a trespasser."
"I'm a sportsman, fellow--what d'ye mean?"
"Then sport the blunt," replied the gardener; and, closing his gates,
took Lord F____ prisoner: nor did he set him free till he had reimbursed
him for the mischief he had done.
This was just; and however illegal were the means, I applauded them for
the end.
Our friend B___d, that incorrigible punster, said, "that his horse had
put his foot in--and he had paid his footing,"
B___d, by the bye, is a nonpareil; whether horses, guns, or dogs, he is
always "at home:" and even in yachting, (as he truly boasts) he is never
"at sea." Riding with him one day in an omnibus, I praised the
convenience of the vehicle; "An excellent vehicle," said he, "for
punning;"--which he presently proved, for a dowager having flopped into
one of the seats, declared that she "never rid vithout fear in any of
them omnibus things."
"What is she talking about?" said I.
"De omnibus rebus," replied he,--"truly she talks like the first lady of
the land; but, as far as I can see, she possesses neither the carriage
nor the manners!"
"Can you read the motto on the Conductor's button?" I demanded. "No;" he
replied, "but I think nothing would be more appropriate to his calling
than the monkish phrase--'pro omnibus curo!'"
At this juncture a jolt, followed by a crash, announced that we had lost
a wheel. The Dowager shrieked. "We shall all be killed," cried she;
"On'y to think of meeting vun's death in a common omnibus!"
"Mors communis omnibus!" whispered B___d, and----
I had written thus far, when spit--spit--splutter--plop!--my end of
candle slipped into the blacking bottle in which it was "sustained," and
I was left to admire--the stars of night, and to observe that "Charles's
wain was over the chimney;" so I threw down my pen--and, as the house was
a-bed--and I am naturally of a "retiring" disposition, I sought my
pallet--dreaming of literary fame!--although, in the matter of what might
be in store for me, I was completely in the dark!
AN INTERCEPTED LETTER FROM DICK SLAMMER TO HIS FRIEND SAM FLYKE.
eppin-toosday
my dear sam
i've rote this ere for to let you no i'm in jolly good health and harty
as a brick--and hope my tulip as your as vell----read this to sal who
can't do the same herself seeing as her edication aintt bin in that line
----give her my love and tell her to take care o' the kids.----i've got a
silk vipe for sal, tell her; and suffing for 'em all, for i've made a
xlent spec o' the woy'ge and bagg'd some tin too i can tell you; and vont
ve have a blow out ven i cums amung you----napps----that's the ass----is
particklar vell and as dun his dooty like a riq'lar flint----
i rode too races ar' needn't say as i vun em for napps is a houtanhouter
an no mistake!
lork! didn't i make the natifs stare! and a gintlum as vos by, vanted
to oan 'im an oferd any blunt for im but walker! says i there aint sick
a ass as this 'ere hanimal in the hole country----besides he's like as
vun o' me oan famly, for i've brot im up in a manner from the time he vos
a babby!----he's up to a move or too and knows my voice jist for all the
world like a Chrissen.
Red-nose Bill vot had a nook 'em down here brings this and he'll tell you
all about the noose----i shall foller in about, a veek or so----tell sal
to keep up her sperrits and not to lush vith Bet----i dont like that ere
ooman at all----a idle wagabone as is going to the Union like
vinkin----i'm no temperens cove meself as you nose, sam, but enufs enuf
and as good as a feast.
The gintry as taken hervite a likin to Napps and me----they looks upon im
as hervite a projidy----for he's licked all the donkies as run agin
im----the vimmen too----(you no my insinnivating vay, sam,) and nobody
nose better than me how to git the right sow by the ear----no sooner do i
see 'em a comin vith their kids, than i slips of and doffs my tile, an i
says, says i----do let the yung jentlum have a cast----and then the
little in coorse begins a plegyin the old 'uns, and----so the jobs done!
----vot's to pay, my good man? says she
----oh----nothink, marm, says i, as modest as a turnip new-peeld----napps
is a rig'lar racer----i dont let im hout but i'm so fond o' children!
----this here Yummeree doos the bisnis prime, for the vimmen comes over
the jentlum and a pus is made up for anuther race----and in coorse i
pockits the Bibs----cos vy?----napps is nothink but a good 'un.
'tother day hearin as there vos an hunt in the naborwood:----napps, says
i-a----speakin to my ass----napps ve'll jist go and look at 'em----
----vell ve hadnt got no more nor a mile wen i comes slap alongside of a
starch-up chap upatop of raythur a good lookin' oss.----but my i! vornt
there bellows to mend; and he made no more vay nor a duck in a
gutter.----i says, sir, says i, dye think ve shall be in time for the
hunt? but he never turns is hed but sets bolt uprite as stiff as
pitch----jist for all the world as if his mother had vashed im in starch.
----i twigs his lean in a jiffy----so i says says i "oh-you needn't be so
shy i rides my own hannimal,"----
----vich i takes it vos more nor he co'd say, for his vas nothin more nor
a borrod'un and if i dont mistake he vos a vitechapler----i think ive
seed im a sarvin out svipes and blue ruin at the gin-spinners corner o'
summerset street or petticut lane----dunno witch.
----sam, i hates pride so i cuts his cumpny----i says says i----napps it
dont fit you aint a nunter you're o'ny a racer and that chaps afeard his
prad vill be spiled a keeping conapny with a ass----leastways i'm o' the
same opinyon in that respec consarning meself and----so i shall mizzle.
----a true gintlum as is a gintlum, sam is as difrent to these here
stuck-up fellers az a sovrin is to a coronashun copper vot's on'y gilt.
vell lie turns hof over the left and vips up his animal tryin to get up a
trot----bobbin up and down in his sturrups and bumpin hisself to make a
show----all flummery!----he takes the middel o' the field to hisself, and
i cox my i for a houtlet and spi's a gait----that's the ticket! says i;
so liting the 'bacca and blowin a cloud I trots along, and had jist cum
to the gait ven turnin' round to look for the gin-spinner, blow me! sam,
if i didn't see the cove again heels over head over an edge----like a
tumler at bartlmy fare;----vile his preshus hannimal vas a takin it cooly
in the meddo!
"vat a rum chap"--says i, a larfin reddy to bust----"vat a rum chap to
go over the 'edge that vay! ven here's a riglar gait to ride through!"
----and so, i druv on, but somehow, sam, i coudn't help a thinkin' as
praps the waggerbun lead broke his nek----stif as it vas! and so i said
to napps----"napps,"----says i----"lets go and look arter the warmint
for charity's-sake"
----napps vots as good-natur'd a ass as his master, didn't make no
obstacle and so ve vent---
----my i!----sam, i'd a stood a Kervorten and three outs ad you a bin
there!----there vas my jentlum up to his nek in a duckpond----lookin' as
miserribble as a stray o' mutton in a batter puddin'
"halp! halp!" says he, a spittin' the green veeds out of his
mouth----"halp me, faller, and i'll stand a bob" or summat to that efeck.
----but i couldn't hold out my fin to him for larfin----and napps begun a
brayin at sich a rate----vich struck me as if he vas a larfin too, and
made me larf wusser than ever----
----vell, at last, i contrivis to lug him out, and a preshus figger he
cut to be sure----he had kervite a new sute o' black mud, vich didn't
smell particlar sveet i can tell you.
----"ain't hurt yoursef?" says i, "have you?"
----"no"----says he----"but i'm dem wet and utterably spiled"----or vords
like that for he chewd'em so fine i couldn't rightly hit 'em.
----ater i'd scraped him a little desent, and he'd tip'd a hog----vich
vas rayther hansum----i ax'd him vere he'd left his tile?
"tile?"----says he----a yogglin his i's and openin' his jaws like a dyin'
oyster "yes your castor"----says i, "your beaver your hat."
"Oh!"----says he, p'inting dismal to the pond----"gone to the devil d___
me!"----so vith that he takes out a red and yuller vipe, and ties it about
his hed, lookin' for all the vorld like a apple-ooman.
----as he had come down hansum i in coorse ofer'd to ketch his prad vich
va'n't much difficulty----and up he jumps and lepped with a squosh into
the saddle----and rid of vithout as much as sayin' by your leave good
luck to you or anythink else----
---vell, this here vos the end and upshot o' that day's fun for I vos too
late for the start by ten minnits----i saw 'em goin' it at a distance so
i takes a sight!----but i had too much valley for napes to put im to it
so as to get up vith 'em----or he might a done it praps!---
----i've lived like a fightin cock and am as fatt as butter----but the
race is goin' to begin in a hour and i must go and ketch napps who's a
grazin on the commun and looks oncommun vell----so no more at present
from,
Yours, my prime 'un,
dick stammer.