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Transcriber’s Notes
This e-text is based on ‘The Works of Thomas Hood, Vol. I,’
published in 1882. Inconsistent and uncommon spelling and
hyphenation have been retained; punctuation and typographical
errors have been corrected. Footnotes have been moved to the end
of the sections in which their respective footnote anchors are
situated.
Small caps have been changed to uppercase letters.
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THE WORKS
OF
THOMAS HOOD.
COMIC AND SERIOUS, IN PROSE AND VERSE, WITH ALL
THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS.
EDITED, WITH NOTES,
BY HIS SON AND DAUGHTER.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK, & CO., WARWICK HOUSE,
SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK: 10 BOND STREET.
PREFACE.
It is now many years ago, nay, more than half a century, since Thomas
Hood first began to wield the pen which was to do such good service
to literature. The first scrap of his boyish versifying that can now
be traced, consists of a sort of rhyming description of Dundee, after
the manner of Anstey’s Bath Guide, and this is dated 1815.[1] That he
was prematurely cut off by disease, accelerated by overwork while in
the very prime of his mental powers, is now well known. The Works he
left behind have gradually but steadily risen in popular esteem and
circulation ever since his death,--in other countries besides his own,
and on both sides of the Atlantic,--so that there are now few writers
of this century better appreciated and becoming more widely known than
Thomas Hood.
I believe that one part at least of the secret of this great and
increasing value for his writings, lies in the fact, that like our
great Shakespeare, and even another deep writer and thinker of our own
time,--Thackeray,--he wrote such pure, vigorous, intelligible English.
He speaks in his works to the great mass of the people in a tongue they
can understand and thoroughly feel. However far his abundant fancy and
versatile humour may lead him from the track, there is no obscurity
to puzzle as well as dazzle. And this almost severe plainness of
expression serves him well in such poems, for instance, as the “Song
of the Shirt,” where the repetition of the homeliest phrases make the
intensity of the suffering stand out in a more appalling reality.
It is with a view to meeting the wants of all classes of readers and
spreading the knowledge of Thomas Hood’s Works still farther, that the
present edition has been planned, in a cheap form that will place it
within everybody’s reach. The publishers have already issued editions
of all the Works, either complete, or in separate volumes, to suit
every taste.
The present edition embraces the complete Works with the original
illustrations, and also includes some hitherto unpublished dramatic
fragments. It will be issued in a convenient periodical form, to be
obtained at the option of the purchaser either in Monthly Parts, or
Quarterly Volumes. The last generation will no doubt welcome in the old
familiar form the Author’s quaint wood-cut illustrations, as well as
the humorous illustrations of George Cruickshank to the “Epping Hunt,”
with those by Harvey to “Eugene Aram;” and the present generation are
still too recently mourning the loss of John Leech’s graceful pencil,
to pass carelessly by his admirable drawings in the “Whimsicalities.”
The completeness and low price of this edition will, it is hoped, place
it in the hands of most readers.
FRANCES FREELING BRODERIP.
[1] See “Memorials of Thomas Hood,” 2nd Edition.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
The present arrangement of my Father’s works for a complete and uniform
edition has not been determined on without due deliberation. It
appeared to me that for the requirements of those--who do not care to
trace his career as a writer from his first connection with Literature,
and to note the gradual development of a genius which, at the time of
his death, had not arrived at its fulness--enough is to be found in
the edition of the “Serious Poems;” of those of “Wit and Humour;” of
the “Whims and Oddities;” and of two volumes of “Hood’s Own,” already
published by Messrs. Moxon.
I have therefore considered it best, when called upon to prepare a
complete and uniform series of his writings, to throw the materials
collected into a form which shall be of interest to more than the
general reader. By republishing his works in the order in which they
were written, as far as my most diligent search and most earnest
endeavours can establish it, I believe I shall meet the wishes of
many of my Father’s admirers and readers, who have contracted, from
the perusal of his works, an almost friendlike interest, that will be
gratified by tracing step by step the bent of his mind, the progress of
his intellect, and the maturing of his powers.
It may be urged that I have reprinted fugitive articles that might well
have been omitted without detriment to the Series. To this I might
answer by pleading that it is only natural that I should place greater
store by what my Father has written, than one not so nearly related to
him would do.
But believing, as I do, that the less laboured writings of an author
are among the surest indices of his thought and the best tests of his
genius, I have omitted nothing that I thought would assist the real
student of Literature, and its ministers--literary men--to a true
estimate of my Father--whether as an author or a man; holding always
in recollection that quaint wise saying of Selden’s, anent similar
trifles--“Take a straw, and throw it up into the air, you may see by
that which way the wind is; which you shall not do by casting up a
stone.”
Wherever I have been able to find anything of interest bearing upon the
works, I have added it as briefly as possible in my notes--giving any
alterations of the text, any fragments connected with or relating to
portions of it and such explanations of allusions contained in it, as
seemed advisable.
As far as lies in my power, I have left out nothing that may interest
the thoughtful and studious, while I have endeavoured not to weary the
cursory reader with long annotations.
I have no wish, and indeed no need to deprecate criticism--for whenever
it has been my task to prepare anything connected with my Father for
publication, I have always met with a reception that proved to me
how fully my critics have understood the difficulties which I have
encountered. The kindly spirit in which the “Memorials” of my Father
were received, encourages me to hope that my sincere desire to perform
what I really feel as a sacred duty and responsibility, will be looked
on with the same indulgence; for it should be remembered that many, nay
most of those contemporaries of my Father, who could have pointed out
where his scattered writings were to be found, are dead.
To those intimate acquaintances of his who survive, and who have
assisted me most materially in my arduous yet most grateful
undertaking, as well as to numerous friends,--many unknown to me in the
flesh,--who have so readily answered my appeals, through the public
press, for information and assistance, I tender my most heartfelt
thanks,
And am,
Very truly theirs,
THOMAS HOOD.
[Illustration: THE MERRY THOUGHT.]
PREFACE:
BEING AN INAUGURAL DISCOURSE ON A CERTAIN SYSTEM OF PRACTICAL
PHILOSOPHY.
COURTEOUS READER!
Presuming that you have known something of the Comic Annual from its
Child-Hood, when it was first put into half binding and began to run
alone, I make bold to consider you as an old friend of the family, and
shall accordingly treat you with all the freedom and confidence that
pertain to such ripe connexions.
How many years is it, think you, “since we were first acquent?”
“By the deep _nine_!” sings out the old bald _Count Fathom_ with the
lead-line: no great lapse in the world’s chronology, but a space of
infinite importance in individual history. For instance, it has wrought
a serious change on the body, if not on the mind, of your very humble
servant;--it is not, however, to bespeak your sympathy, or to indulge
in what Lord Byron calls “the gloomy vanity of drawing from self,”
that I allude to my personal experience. The Scot and lot character of
the dispensation, forbids me to think that the world in general can
be particularly interested in the state of my Household Sufferage, or
that the public ear will be as open to my Maladies as to my Melodies.
The simple truth is, that, being a wiser but not sadder man, I propose
to admit you to my Private View of a system of Practical Cheerful
Philosophy, thanks to which, perchance, the cranium of your Humorist
is still secure from such a lecture as was delivered over the skull of
Poor Yorick.
In the absence of a certain thin “blue-and-yellow” visage, and
attenuated figure,--whose effigies may one day be affixed to the
present work,--you will not be prepared to learn that some of
the merriest effusions in the forthcoming numbers have been the
relaxations of a gentleman literally enjoying bad health--the carnival,
so to speak, of a personified Jour Maigre. The very fingers so
aristocratically slender, that now hold the pen, hint plainly of the
“_ills_ that _flesh_ is heir to:”--my coats have become great coats, my
pantaloons are turned into trousers, and, by a worse bargain then Peter
Schlemihl’s, I seem to have retained my shadow and sold my substance.
In short, as happens to prematurely old port wine, I am of a bad colour
with very little body. But what then? That emaciated hand still lends
a hand to embody in words and sketches the creations or recreations
of a Merry Fancy: those gaunt sides yet shake heartily as ever at the
Grotesques and Arabesques and droll Picturesques that my Good Genius
(a Pantagruelian Familiar) charitably conjures up to divert me from
more sombre realities. It was the whim of a late pleasant Comedian, to
suppose a set of spiteful imps sitting up aloft, to aggravate all his
petty mundane annoyances; whereas I prefer to believe in the ministry
of kindlier Elves, that “nod to me and do me courtesies.” Instead of
scaring away these motes in the sunbeam, I earnestly invoke them, and
bid them welcome; for the tricksy spirits make friends with the animal
spirits, and do not I, like a father romping with his own urchins,--do
not I forget half my cares whilst partaking in their airy gambols? Such
sports are as wholesome for the mind as the other frolics for the body.
For on our own treatment of that excellent Friend or terrible Enemy the
Imagination, it depends whether we are to be scared and haunted by a
Scratching Fanny, or tended by an affectionate Invisible Girl--like an
unknown love, blessing us with “favours secret, sweet, and precious,”
and fondly stealing us from this worky-day world to a sunny sphere of
her own.
This is a novel version, Reader, of “Paradise and the Pen,” but it is
as true as it is new. How else could I have converted a serious illness
into a comic wellness--by what other agency could I have transported
myself, as a Cockney would say, from _Dull_age to _Grin_age? It was
far from a practical joke to be laid up in ordinary in a foreign land,
under the care of Physicians quite as much abroad as myself with the
case; indeed the shades of the gloaming were stealing over my prospect;
but I resolved, that, like the sun, so long as my day lasted, I
would look on the bright side of everything. The raven croaked, but
I persuaded myself that it was the nightingale: there was the smell
of the mould, but I remembered that it nourished the violets. However
my body might cry craven, my mind luckily had no mind to give in. So,
instead of mounting on the black long-tailed coach horse, she vaulted
on her old Hobby that had capered in the Morris-Dance, and began to
exhort from its back. To be sure, said she, matters look darkly enough;
but the more need for the lights. Allons! Courage! Things may take a
turn, as the pig said on the spit. Never throw down your cards, but
play out the game. The more certain to lose, the wiser to get all the
play you can for your money. Come--give us a song! chirp away like that
best of cricket-players, the cricket himself. Be bowled out or caught
out, but never throw down the bat. As to Health, it’s the weather of
the body--it hails, it rains, it blows, it snows, at present, but it
may clear up by-and-by. You cannot eat, you say, and you must not
drink; but laugh and make believe, like the Barber’s wise brother at
the Barmecide’s feast. Then, as to thinness, not to flatter, you look
like a lath that has had a split with the carpenter and a fall out with
the plaster; but so much the better! remember how the smugglers trim
the sails of the lugger to escape the notice of the cutter. Turn your
edge to the old enemy, and mayhap he won’t see you! Come--be alive! You
have no more right to slight your life than to neglect your wife--they
are the two better halves that make a man of you! Is not life your
means of living? so stick to thy business and thy business will stick
to thee. Of course, continued my mind, I am quite disinterested in this
advice--for I am aware of my own immortality but for that very reason,
take care of the mortal body, poor body, and give it as long a day as
you can!
Now, my mind seeming to treat the matter very pleasantly as well as
profitably, I followed her counsel, and instead of calling out for
relief according to the fable, I kept along on my journey, with my
bundle of sticks,--_i.e._ my arms and legs. Between ourselves, it would
have been “extremely inconvenient,” as I once heard the opium-eater
declare, to pay the debt of nature at that particular juncture; nor
do I quite know, to be candid, when it would altogether suit me to
settle it, so, like other parties in narrow circumstances, I laughed,
and gossiped, and played the agreeable with all my might; and as
such pleasant behaviour sometimes obtains a respite from a human
creditor, who knows but that it may prove successful with the Universal
Mortgagee? At all events, here I am, humming “Jack’s Alive!” and my
own dear skilful native physician gives me hopes of a longer lease
than appeared from the foreign reading of the covenants. He declares
indeed, that, anatomically, my heart is lower hung than usual--but what
of that? _The more need to keep it up!_ So huzza! my boys! Comas and
Momus for ever! No Heraclitus! Nine times nine for Democritus! And here
goes my last bottle of Elixir at the heads of the Blue Devils--be they
Prussian blue or indigo, powder-blue or ultramarine!
Gentle reader, how do you like this Laughing Philosophy? The joyous
cheers you have just heard, come from a crazy vessel that has clawed,
by miracle, off a lee-shore, and I, the skipper, am sitting down to
my grog, and recounting to you the tale of the past danger, with the
manœuvres that were used to escape the perilous Point. Or rather,
consider me as the Director of a Life Assurance, pointing out to you a
most beneficial policy, whereby you may eke out your natural term. And,
firstly, take precious care of your precious health,--but how, as the
housewives say, to make it keep? Why, then, don’t care and smoke-dry
it--or pickle it in everlasting acids--like the Germans. Don’t bury it
in a potato-pit, like the Irish. Don’t preserve it in spirits, like
the Barbadians. Don’t salt it down, like the Newfoundlanders. Don’t
pack it in ice, like Captain Back. Don’t parboil it in Hot Baths.
Don’t bottle it, like gooseberries. Don’t pot it--and don’t hang it. A
rope is a bad Cordon Sanitaire. Above all, don’t despond about it. Let
not anxiety “have thee on the hyp.” Consider your health as your best
friend, and think as well of it, in spite of all its foibles, as you
can. For instance, never dream, though you may have a “clever hack,” of
galloping consumption, or indulge in the Meltonian belief, that you are
going the pace. Never fancy every time you cough, that you are going
to coughy-pot. Hold up, as the shooter says, over the heaviest ground.
Despondency in a nice case is the over-weight that may make you kick
the beam and the bucket both at once. In short, as with other cases,
never meet trouble half-way, but let him have the whole walk for his
pains; though it should be a Scotch mile and a bittock. I have even
known him to give up his visit in sight of the house. Besides, the best
fence against care is a ha! ha!--wherefore take care to have one all
round you wherever you can. Let your “lungs crow like Chanticleer,”
and as like a GAME cock as possible. It expands the chest, enlarges the
heart, quickens the circulation, and “like a trumpet makes the spirit
dance.”
A fico then for the Chesterfieldian canon, that laughter is an
ungenteel emotion. Smiles are tolerated by the very pinks of
politeness; and a laugh is but the full-blown flower of which a smile
is the bud. It is a sort of vocal music--a glee in which everybody can
take a part:--and “he who bath not laughter in his soul, let no such
man be trusted.” Indeed, there are two classes of Querists particularly
to be shunned; thus when you hear a Cui Bono? be sure to leave the
room; but if it be Quid Rides? make a point to quit the house, and
forget to take its number. None but your dull dogs would give tongue in
such a style,--for, as Nimrod says in his “Hunt after Happiness,” “A
single _burst_ with Mirth is worth a whole season of _full cries_ with
Melancholy.”
Such, dear reader, is the cheerful Philosophy which I practise as well
as preach. It teaches to “make a sunshine in a shady place,” to render
the mind independent of external foul weather, by compelling it, as
old Absolute says, to get a sun and moon of its own. As the system has
worked so well in my own case, it is a duty to recommend it to others;
and like certain practitioners, who not only prescribe but dispense
their own medicines, I have prepared a regular course of light reading,
whereof I now present the first packet, in the humble hope that your
dull hours may be amused, and your cares diverted, by the laughing
lucubrations which have enlivened Hood’s Own.
[Illustration: DOCTORS’ COMMONS.]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Preface iii
The Pugsley Papers 1
An Ancient Concert; by a Venerable Director 19
A Letter from an Emigrant 23
Sonnet on Steam; by an Under-Ostler 27
A Report from Below 28
The Last Shilling 32
Ode to M. Brunel 38
The Death of the Dominie 41
Over the Way 44
A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme, in a Letter to
the Editor 48
A Letter from a Market Gardener to the Secretary of the
Horticultural Society 52
Domestic Asides; or Truth in Parenthesis 55
Black, White, and Brown 57
Epigrams--
Composed on Reading a Diary lately published 64
The Last Wish 65
The Devil’s Album 65
The Schoolmaster Abroad 66
The Lost Heir 74
Sketches on the Road--
The Observer 81
The Contrast 82
John Day; a pathetic ballad 85
The Parish Revolution 89
The Furlough; an Irish anecdote 101
Number One; versified from the prose of a Young Lady 104
The Drowning Ducks 107
An Assent to the Summut of Mount Blank 111
Sally Simpkin’s Lament; or John Jones’s Kit-Cat-Astrophe 115
A Horse-Dealer 117
The Fall 120
The Illuminati 122
Sonnet 130
The Steam Service 131
A Lay of Real Life 136
A Valentine. The Weather--To P. Murphy, Esq., M.N.S. 137
The Elland Meeting 139
Poem,--from the Polish 150
A Step-father 154
Conveyancing 157
A Letter from a Settler for Life in Van Diemen’s Land 160
Sonnet 164
A Serio-Comic Reminiscence 165
Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist 169
Saint Mark’s Eve--A tale of the olden time 172
I’m not a Single Man 180
A Greenwich Pensioner 184
The Burning of the Love Letter 186
Sketches on the Road 187
The Apparition 191
The Discovery 193
Little O’P.--An African Fact 197
The Debutante 199
The Angler’s Farewell 206
Popping the Question 208
Sea Song 214
The Black and White Question 216
Stanzas on Coming of Age 229
The Pillory 235
A singular Exhibition at Somerset House 239
The Yeomanry 243
An Unfavourable Review 247
I’m going to Bombay 256
Look before you Leap 260
Ode--To the Advocates Removal of Smithfield
Market 264
Drawn for a Soldier 269
Ode for St. Cecilia’s Eve 272
Reflections on Water 279
A Blow-up 284
The Wooden Leg 290
The Ghost--A very Serious Ballad 295
A Tale of the Great Plague 298
Ode to Madame Hengler, Firework-maker to Vauxhall 304
Rhyme and Reason 308
The Double Knock 310
A Foxhunter 311
Bailey Ballads 314
Lines to Mary--No. I 317
No. II. 319
No. III. 320
Letter--from a Parish Clerk in Barbadoes to one in
Hampshire, with an Enclosure 321
French and English 326
Our Village 329
The Scrape Book 335
A True Story 339
The Sorrows of an Undertaker 343
The Carelesse Nurse Mayd 347
To Fanny 349
The Fancy Fair 352
Poems, by a Poor Gentleman 357
Stanzas--written under the Fear of Bailiffs 360
Sonnet--written in a Workhouse 360
Sonnet--A Somnambulist 361
Fugitive Lines on Pawning my Watch 361
The Life of Zimmerman (by Himself) 364
The Portrait; being an apology for not making an
Attempt on my own Life 369
The Compass, with Variations 375
Summer--A Winter Eclogue 382
Pair’d _not_ match’d 390
The Duel--A Serious Ballad 394
The Rope Dancer--An Extravaganza, after Rabelais 397
Sonnet to Vauxhall 410
Ode to Mr. Malthus 411
A Good Direction 416
The Pleasures of Sporting 418
There’s no Romance in that 424
The Abstraction 429
A Waterloo Ballad 435
Miller Redivivus 440
A Zoological Report 444
Literary Reminiscences 448
Shooting Pains 458
The Schoolmaster’s Motto 462
HOOD’S OWN:
OR, LAUGHTER FROM YEAR TO YEAR.
[Illustration: A PASTORALE IN A FLAT.]
THE PUGSLEY PAPERS.
How the following correspondence came into my hands must remain
a Waverley mystery. The Pugsley Papers were neither rescued from
a garret, like the Evelyn,--collected from cartridges, like the
Culloden,--nor saved, like the Garrick, from being shredded into a
snow storm at a Winter Theatre. They were not snatched from a tailor’s
shears, like the original parchment of Magna Charta. They were neither
the Legacy of a Dominie, nor the communications of My Landlord,--a
consignment, like the Clinker Letters, from some Rev. Jonathan
Dustwich,--nor the waifs and strays of a Twopenny Post Bag. They were
not unrolled from ancient papyri. They were none of those that “line
trunks, clothe spices,” or paper the walls of old attics. They were
neither given to me nor sold to me,--nor stolen,--nor borrowed and
surreptitiously copied,--nor left in a hackney coach, like Sheridan’s
play,--nor misdelivered by a carrier pigeon,--nor dreamt of, like
Coleridge’s Kubla Khan,--nor turned up in the Tower, like Milton’s
Foundling MS.,--nor dug up,--nor trumped up, like the eastern tales of
Horam harum Horam, the son of Asmar,--nor, brought over by Rammohun
Roy,--nor translated by Doctor Bowring from the Scandinavian, Batavian,
Pomeranian, Spanish, or Danish, or Russian, or Prussian, or any other
language dead or living. They were not picked from the Dead Letter
Office, nor purloined from the British Museum. In short, I cannot, dare
not, will not, hint even at the mode of their acquisition: the reader
must be content to know, that, in point of authenticity, the Pugsley
Papers are the extreme reverse of Lady L.’s celebrated Autographs,
which were all written by the proprietor.
No. I.--_From Master_ RICHARD PUGSLEY, _to Master_ ROBERT
ROGERS, _at Number 132, Barbican_.
DEAR BOB,
Huzza!--Here I am in Lincolnshire! It’s good-bye to Wellingtons and
Cossacks, Ladies’ double channels, Gentlemen’s stout calf, and ditto
ditto. They’ve all been sold off under prime cost, and the old Shoe
Mart is disposed of, goodwill and fixtures for ever and ever. Father
has been made a rich Squire of by will, and we’ve got a house and
fields, and trees of our own. Such a garden, Bob!--It beats White
Conduit.
Now, Bob, I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to come down here for
the holidays. Don’t be afraid. Ask your Sister to ask your Mother to
ask your Father to let you come. It’s only ninety mile. If you’re out
of pocket money, you can walk, and beg a lift now and then, or swing
by the dickies. Put on cordroys, and don’t care for cut behind. The
two prentices, George and Will, are here to be made farmers of, and
brother Nick is took home from school to help in agriculture. We like
farming very much, it’s capital fun. Us four have got a gun, and go
out shooting: it’s a famous good un, and sure to go off if you don’t
full cock it. Tiger is to be our shooting dog, as soon as he has left
off killing the sheep. He’s a real savage, and worries cats beautiful.
Before Father comes down, we mean to bait our bull with him.
There’s plenty of New Rivers about, and we’re going a fishing as soon
as we have mended our top joint. We’ve killed one of our sheep on the
sly to get gentles. We’ve a pony, too, to ride upon when we can catch
him, but he’s loose in the paddock, and has neither mane nor tail to
signify to lay hold of. Isn’t it prime, Bob? You must come. If your
Mother won’t give your Father leave to allow you,--run away. Remember,
you turn up Goswell Street to go to Lincolnshire, and ask for Middlefen
Hall. There’s a pond full of frogs, but we won’t pelt them till you
come, but let it be before Sunday, as there’s our own orchard to rob,
and the fruit’s to be gathered on Monday.
If you like sucking raw eggs, we know where the hens lay, and mother
don’t; and I’m bound there’s lots of birds’ nests. Do come, Bob,
and I’ll show you the wasps’ nest, and everything that can make you
comfortable. I dare say you could borrow your father’s volunteer
musket of him without his knowing of it; but be sure anyhow to bring
the ramrod, as we have mislaid ours by firing it off. Don’t forget
some bird-lime, Bob--and some fish-hooks--and some different sorts
of shot--and some gut and some gunpowder and a gentle box, and some
flints,--some May flies, and a powder horn,--and a landing net and
a dog-whistle--and some porcupine quills, and a bullet mould--and a
trolling-winch, and a shot-belt and a tin can. You pay for ’em, Bob,
and I’ll owe it you.
Your old friend and schoolfellow,
RICHARD PUGSLEY.
No. II.--_From the Same to the Same._
DEAR BOB,
When you come, bring us a ’bacco-pipe to load the gun with. If you
don’t come, it can come by the waggon. Our Public House is three mile
off, and when you’ve walked there it’s out of everything. Yours, &c.,
RICH. PUGSLEY.
No. III.--_From Miss_ ANASTASIA PUGSLEY, _to Miss_ JEMIMA MOGGRIDGE,
_at Gregory House Establishment for Young Ladies, Mile End_.
MY DEAR JEMIMA,
Deeply solicitous to gratify sensibility, by sympathising with our
fortuitous elevation, I seize the epistolary implements to inform
you, that, by the testamentary disposition of a remote branch of
consanguinity, our tutelary residence is removed from the metropolitan
horizon to a pastoral district and its congenial pursuits. In futurity
I shall be more pertinaciously superstitious in the astrological
revelations of human destiny. You remember the mysterious gipsy at
Hornsey Wood?--Well, the eventful fortune she obscurely intimated,
though couched in vague terms, has come to pass in minutest
particulars; for I perceive perspicuously, that it predicted that
papa should sell off his boot and shoe business at 133, Barbican, to
Clack and Son, of 144, Hatton Garden, and that we should retire, in a
station of affluence, to Middlefen Hall, in Lincolnshire, by bequest of
our great-great maternal uncle, Pollexfen Goldsworthy Wrigglesworth,
Esq., who deceased suddenly of apoplexy at Wisbeach Market, in the
ninety-third year of his venerable and lamented age.
At the risk of tedium, I will attempt a cursory delineation of our
rural paradise, altho’ I feel it would be morally arduous, to give any
idea of the romantic scenery of the Lincolnshire Fens. Conceive, as far
as the visual organ expands, an immense sequestered level, abundantly
irrigated with minute rivulets, and studded with tufted oaks, whilst
more than a hundred windmills diversify the prospect and give a
revolving animation to the scene. As for our own gardens and grounds,
they are a perfect Vauxhall--excepting, of course, the rotunda, the
orchestra, the company, the variegated lamps, the fire-works, and those
very lofty trees. But I trust my dear Jemima will supersede topography
by ocular inspection; and in the interim I send for acceptance a
graphical view of the locality, shaded in Indian ink, which will
suffice to convey an idea of the terrestrial verdure and celestial
azure we enjoy, in lieu of the sable exhalations and architectural
nigritude of the metropolis.
[Illustration: CINDERELLA.]
You who know my pastoral aspirings, and have been the indulgent
confidant of my votive tributes to the Muses, will conceive the refined
nature of my enjoyment when I mention the intellectual repast of this
morning. I never could enjoy Bloomfield in Barbican,--but to-day he
read beautifully under our pear-tree. I look forward to the felicity of
reading Thomson’s Summer with you on the green seat, and if engagements
at Christmas permit your participation in the bard, there is a bower of
evergreens that will be delightful for the perusal of his Winter.
I enclose, by request, an epistolary effusion from sister Dorothy,
which I know will provoke your risible powers, by the domesticity of
its details. You know she was always in the homely characteristics a
perfect Cinderella, though I doubt whether even supernatural agency
could adapt her foot to a diminutive vitrified slipper, or her hand
for a prince of regal primogeniture. But I am summoned to receive,
with family members, the felicitations of Lincolnshire aristocracy;
though whatever necessary distinctions may prospectively occur between
respective grades in life, they will only superficially affect the
sentiments of eternal friendship between my dear Jemima and her
affectionate friend,
ANASTASIA PUGSLEY.
No. IV.--_From Miss_ DOROTHY PUGSLEY _to the Same_.
MY DEAR MISS JEMIMA,
Providence having been pleased to remove my domestic duties from
Barbican to Lincolnshire, I trust I shall have strength of constitution
to fulfil them as becomes my new allotted line of life. As we are
not sent into this world to be idle, and Anastasia has declined
housewifery, I have undertaken the Dairy, and the Brewery, and the
Baking, and the Poultry, the Pigs and the Pastry,--and though I feel
fatigued at first, use reconciles to labours and trials, more severe
than I at present enjoy. Altho’ things may not turn out to wish at
present, yet all well-directed efforts are sure to meet reward in the
end, and altho’ I have chumped and churned two days running, and it’s
nothing yet but curds and whey, I should be wrong to despair of eating
butter of my own making before I die. Considering the adulteration
committed by every article in London, I was never happier in any
prospect, than of drinking my own milk, fattening my own calves, and
laying my own eggs. We cackle so much I am sure we new-lay somewhere,
tho’ I cannot find out our nests; and I am looking every day to have
chickens, as one pepper-and-salt-coloured hen has been setting these
two months. When a poor ignorant bird sets me such an example of
patience, how can I repine at the hardest domestic drudgery! Mother
and I have worked like horses to be sure, ever since we came to the
estate; but if we die in it, we know it’s for the good of the family,
and to agreeably surprise my Father, who is still in town winding
up his books. For my own part, if it was right to look at things so
selfishly, I should say I never was so happy in my life; though I own I
have cried more since coming here than I ever remember before. You will
confess my crosses and losses have been unusual trials, when I tell
you, out of all my makings, and bakings, and brewings, and preservings,
there has been nothing either eatable or drinkable; and what is more
painful to an affectionate mind,--have half poisoned the whole family
with home-made ketchup of toadstools, by mistake for mushrooms. When I
reflect that they are preserved, I ought not to grieve about my damsons
and bullaces, done by Mrs. Maria Dover’s receipt.
Among other things, we came into a beautiful closet of old china,
which, I am shocked to say, is all destroyed by my preserving. The
bullaces and damsons fermented, and blew up a great jar with a violent
shock that smashed all the tea and coffee cups, and left nothing but
the handles hanging in rows on the tenter-hooks. But to a resigned
spirit there’s always some comfort in calamities, and if the preserves
work and ferment so, there’s some hope that my beer will, as it has
been a month next Monday in the mash tub. As for the loss of the
elder wine, candour compels me to say it was my own fault for letting
the poor blind little animals crawl into the copper; but experience
dictates next year not to boil the berries and kittens at the same time.
I mean to attempt cream cheese as soon as we can get cream,--but as yet
we can’t drive the Cows home to be milked for the Bull--he has twice
hunted Grace and me into fits, and kept my poor Mother a whole morning
in the pigsty. As I know you like country delicacies, you will receive
a pound of my fresh butter when it comes, and I mean to add a cheese as
soon as I can get one to stick together. I shall send also some family
pork for Governess, of our own killing, as we wring a pig’s neck on
Saturday. I did hope to give you the unexpected treat of a home-made
loaf, but it was forgot in the oven from ten till six, and so too black
to offer. However, I hope to surprise you with one by Monday’s carrier.
Anastasia bids me add she will send a nosegay for respected Mrs.
Tombleson, if the plants don’t die off before, which I am sorry to say
is not improbable.
[Illustration: VERY FOND OF GARDENING.]
It’s really shocking to see the failure of her cultivated taste, and
one in particular, that must be owned a very pretty idea. When we
came, there was a vast number of flower roots, but jumbled without any
regular order, till Anastasia trowelled them all up, and set them in
again, in the quadrille figures. It must have looked sweetly elegant,
if it had agreed with them, but they have all dwindled and drooped like
deep declines and consumptions. Her dahlias and tulips too have turned
out nothing but onions and kidney potatoes, and her ten week stocks
have not come up in twenty. But as Shakspeare says, Adversity is a
precious toad--that teaches us Patience is a jewel.
Considering the unsettled state of coming in, I must conclude, but
could not resist giving your friendliness a short account of the happy
change that has occurred, and our increase of comforts. I would write
more, but I know you will excuse my listening to the calls of dumb
animals. It’s the time I always scald the little pigs’ bread and milk,
and put saucers of clean water for the ducks and geese. There are the
fowls’ beds to make with fresh straw, and a hundred similar things that
country people are obliged to think of.
The children, I am happy to say, are all well, only baby is a little
fractious, we think from Grace setting him down in the nettles, and
he was short-coated last week. Grace is poorly with a cold, and
Anastasia has got a sore throat, from sitting up fruitlessly in the
orchard to hear the nightingale; perhaps there may not be any in the
Fens. I seem to have a trifling ague and rheumatism myself, but it
may be only a stiffness from so much churning, and the great family
wash-up of everything we had directly we came down, for the sake of
grass-bleaching on the lawn. With these exceptions, we are all in
perfect health and happiness, and unite in love, with
Dear Miss Jemima’s affectionate friend,
DOROTHY PUGSLEY.
No. V.--_From_ MRS. PUGSLEY _to_ MRS. MUMFORD, _Bucklersbury_.
MY DEAR MARTHA,
In my ultimatum I informed of old Wrigglesworth paying his natural
debts, and of the whole Middlefen estate coming from Lincolnshire to
Barbican. I charged Mr. P. to send bulletings into you with progressive
reports, but between sisters, as I know you are very curious, I am
going to make myself more particular. I take the opportunity of the
family being all restive in bed, and the house all still, to give an
account of our moving. The things all got here safe, with the exception
of the Crockery and Glass, which came down with the dresser, about an
hour after its arrival. Perhaps if we hadn’t overloaded it with the
whole of our breakables, it wouldn’t have given way,--as it is, we
have only one plate left, and that’s chipt, and a mug without a spout
to keep it in countenance. Our furniture, &c., came by the waggon, and
I am sorry to say a poor family at the same time, and the little idle
boys with their knives have carved and scarified my rosewood legs,
and, what is worse, not of the same patterns; but as people say, two
Lincolnshire removes are as bad as a fire of London.
The first thing I did on coming down, was to see to the sweeps going
up,--but I wish I had been less precipitous, for the sooty wretches
stole four good flitches of bacon, as was up the kitchen chimbly,
quite unbeknown to me. We have filled up the vacancy with more, which
smoked us dreadfully, but what is to be cured must be endured. My next
thing was to have all holes and corners cleared out, and washed, and
scrubbed, being left, like bachelor’s places, in a sad state by old
single W.; for a rich man, I never saw one that wanted so much cleaning
out. There were heaps of dung about, as high as haystacks, and it
cost me five shillings a load to have it all carted off the premises;
besides heaps of good-for-nothing littering straw, that I gave to the
boys for bonfires. We are not all to rights yet, but Rome wasn’t built
in St. Thomas’s Day.
It was providential I hampered myself with cold provisions, for except
the bacon there were no eatables in the house. What old W. lived upon
is a mystery, except salads, for we found a whole field of beet-root,
which, all but a few plants for Dorothy to pickle, I had chucked away.
As the ground was then clear for sowing up a crop, I directed George
to plough it up, but he met with agricultural distress. He says as
soon as he whipped his horses, the plough stuck its nose in the earth,
and tumbled over head and heels. It seems very odd when ploughing is
so easy to look at, but I trust he will do better in time. Experience
makes a King Solomon of a Tom Noddy.
I expect we shall have bushels upon bushels of corn, tho’ sadly pecked
by the birds, as I have had all the scarecrows taken down for fear of
the children dreaming of them for Bogies. For the same dear little
sakes I have had the well filled up, and the nasty sharp iron spikes
drawn out of all the rakes and harrows. Nobody shall say to my teeth,
I am not a good Mother. With these precautions I trust the young ones
will enjoy the country when the gipsies have left, but till then, I
confine them to round the house, as it’s no use shutting the stable
door after you’ve had a child stole.
[Illustration: THE RAKE’S PROGRESS.]
We have a good many fine fields of hay, which I mean to have reaped
directly, wet or shine; for delays are as dangerous as pickles in
glazed pans. Perhaps St. Swithin’s is in our favour, for if the
stacks are put up dampish they won’t catch fire so easily, if Swing
should come into these parts. The poor boys have made themselves
very industrious in shooting off the birds, and hunting away all the
vermin, besides cutting down trees. As I knew it was profitable to fell
timber, I directed them to begin with a very ugly straggling hollow
tree next the premises, but it fell the wrong way, and knocked down the
cow-house. Luckily the poor animals were all in the clover-field at
the time. George says it wouldn’t have happened but for a violent sow,
or rather sow-west,--and it’s likely enough, but it’s an ill wind that
blows nothing to nobody.
Having writ last post to Mr P., I have no occasion to make you a
country commissioner. Anastasia, indeed, wants to have books about
everything, but for my part and Dorothy’s we don’t put much faith in
authorised receipts and directions, but trust more to nature and common
sense. For instance, in fatting a goose, reason points to sage and
onions,--why our own don’t thrive on it, is very mysterious. We have a
beautiful poultry yard, only infested with rats,--but I have made up a
poison, that, I know by the poor ducks, will kill them if they eat it.
I expected to send you a quantity of wall-fruit, for preserving, and
am sorry you bought the brandy beforehand, as it has all vanished in
one night by picking and stealing, notwithstanding I had ten dozen
of bottles broke on purpose to stick a-top of the wall. But I rather
think they came over the pales, as George, who is very thoughtless,
had driven in all the new tenter-hooks with the points downwards. Our
apples and pears would have gone too, but luckily we heard a noise in
the dark and threw brickbats out of window, that alarmed the thieves
by smashing the cowcumber frames. However, I mean on Monday to make
sure of the orchard, by gathering the trees,--a pheasant in one’s
hand is worth two cock sparrows in a bush. One comfort is, the house
dog is very vicious, and won’t let any of us stir in or out after
dark--indeed, nothing can be more furious, except the bull, and at me
in particular. You would think he knew my inward thoughts, and that I
intend to have him roasted whole when we give our grand house-warming
regalia. With these particulars, I remain, with love, my dear Dorcas,
your affectionate sister,
BELINDA PUGSLEY.
[Illustration: WALL FRUIT.]
P.S.--I have only one anxiety here, and that is, the likelihood
of being taken violently ill, nine miles off from any physical
powers, with nobody that can ride in the house, and nothing but an
insurmountable hunting horse in the stable. I should like, therefore,
to be well doctor-stuff’d from Apothecaries’ Hall, by the waggon or any
other vehicle. A stitch in the side taken in time saves nine spasms.
Dorothy’s tincture of the rhubarb stalks in the garden, doesn’t answer,
and it’s a pity now they were not saved for pies.
[Illustration: A COOLNESS BETWEEN FRIENDS.]
No. VI.--_From Mrs._ PUGSLEY _to Mrs._ ROGERS.
MADAM,
Although warmth has made a coolness, and our having words has caused
a silence--yet as mere writing is not being on speaking terms, and
disconsolate parents in the case; I waive venting of animosities till
a more agreeable moment. Having perused the afflicted advertisement in
the _Times_ with interesting description of person, and ineffectual
dragging of New River, beg leave to say that Master Robert is safe and
well, having arrived here on Saturday night last, with almost not a
shoe to his foot, and no coat at all, as was supposed to be with the
approbation of parents. It appears that not supposing the distance
between the families extended to him, he walked the whole way down
on the footing of a friend, to visit my son Richard, but hearing the
newspapers read, quitted suddenly, the same day with the gipsies, and
we haven’t an idea what is become of him. Trusting this statement will
relieve of all anxiety, remain, Madam, your humble Servant,
BELINDA PUGSLEY.
No. VII.--_To Mr._ SILAS PUGSLEY, _Parisian Dépôt, Shoreditch_.
DEAR BROTHER,
My favour of the present date, is to advise of my safe arrival
on Wednesday night, per opposition coach, after ninety miles of
discomfort, absolutely unrivalled for cheapness, and a walk of five
miles more, through lanes and roads, that for dirt and sludge may
confidently defy competition,--not to mention turnings and windings,
too numerous to particularise, but morally impossible to pursue on
undeviating principles. The night was of so dark a quality as forbade
finding the gate, but for the house-dog flying upon me by mistake for
the late respectable proprietor, and almost tearing my clothes off my
back by his strenuous exertions to obtain the favour of my patronage.
Conscientiously averse to the fallacious statements so much indulged
in by various competitors, truth urges to acknowledge that on arrival,
I did not find things on such a footing as to ensure universal
satisfaction. Mrs. P., indeed, differs in her statement, but you know
her success always surpassed the most sanguine expectations. Ever
emulous to merit commendation by the strictest regard to principles
of economy, I found her laid up with lumbago, through her studious
efforts to please, and Doctor Clarke of Wisbeach in the house
prescribing for it, but I am sorry to add--no abatement. Dorothy is
also confined to her bed, by her unremitting assiduity and attention
in the housekeeping line, and Anastasia the same, from listening for
nightingales, on a fine July evening, but which is an article not
always to be warranted to keep its virtue in any climate,--the other
children, large and small sizes, ditto, ditto, with Grace too ill to
serve in the nursery,--and the rest of the servants totally unable to
execute such extensive demands. Such an unprecedented depreciation in
health makes me doubt the quality of country air, so much recommended
for family use, and whether constitutions have not more eligibility to
offer that have been regularly town-made.
Our new residence is a large lonely Mansion, with no connexion with any
other House, but standing in the heart of Lincolnshire fens, over which
it looks through an advantageous opening: comprising a great variety of
windmills, and drains, and willow-pollards, and an extensive assortment
of similar articles, that are not much calculated to invite inspection.
In warehouses for corn, &c., it probably presents unusual advantages
to the occupier, but candour compels to state that agriculture in this
part of Lincolnshire is very flat. To supply language on the most
moderate terms, unexampled distress in Spitalfields is nothing to the
distress in ours. The corn has been deluged with rain of remarkable
durability, without being able to wash the smut out of its ears; and
with regard to the expected great rise in hay, our stacks have been
burnt down to the ground, instead of going to the consumer. If the
hounds hadn’t been out, we might have fetch’d the engines, but the
hunter threw George on his head, and he only revived to be sensible
that the entire stock had been disposed of at an immense sacrifice.
The whole amount I fear will be out of book,--as the Norwich Union
refuses to liquidate the hay, on the ground that the policy was voided
by the impolicy of putting it up wet. In other articles I am sorry I
must write no alteration. Our bull, after killing the house-dog, and
tossing William, has gone wild, and had the madness to run away from
his livelihood, and, what is worse, all the cows after him--except
those that had burst themselves in the clover field, and a small
dividend, as I may say, of one in the pound. Another item, the pigs,
to save bread and milk, have been turned into the woods for acorns,
and is an article producing no returns--as not one has yet come back.
Poultry ditto. Sedulously cultivating an enlarged connexion in the
Turkey line, such the antipathy to gipsies, the whole breed, geese
and ducks inclusive, removed themselves from the premises by night,
directly a strolling camp came and set up in the neighbourhood. To
avoid prolixity, when I came to take stock, there was no stock to
take--namely, no eggs, no butter, no cheese, no corn, no hay, no bread,
no beer--no water even--nothing but the mere commodious premises,
and fixtures and goodwill--and candour compels to add, a very small
quantity on hand of the last-named particular.