two apprentices have been so diligently punctual in executing country
orders with despatch and fidelity, as laudable ambition desires, but
have gone about fishing and shooting--and William has suffered a loss
of three fingers, by his unvarying system of high charges. He and
Richard are likewise both threatened with prosecution for trespassing
on the Hares in the adjoining landed interest, and Nick is obliged to
decline any active share, by dislocating his shoulder in climbing a
tall tree for a tom-tit. As for George, tho’ for the first time beyond
the circumscribed limits of town custom, he indulges vanity in such
unqualified pretensions to superiority of knowledge in farming, on the
strength of his grandfather having belonged to the agricultural line
of trade, as renders a wholesale stock of patience barely adequate
to meet its demands. Thus stimulated to injudicious performance he
is as injurious to the best interests of the country, as blight and
mildew, and smut and rot, and glanders, and pip, all combined in one
texture. Between ourselves, the objects of unceasing endeavours,
united with uncompromising integrity, have been assailed with so much
deterioration, as makes me humbly desirous of abridging sufferings,
by resuming business as a Shoe Marter at the old established House.
If Clack & Son, therefore, have not already taken possession and
respectfully informed the vicinity, will thankfully pay reasonable
compensation for loss of time and expense incurred by the bargain
being off. In case parties agree, I beg you will authorise Mr. Robins
to have the honour to dispose of the whole Lincolnshire concern, tho’
the knocking down of Middlefen Hall will be a severe blow on Mrs. P.
and Family. Deprecating the deceitful stimulus of advertising arts,
interest commands to mention,--desirable freehold estate and eligible
investment--and sole reason for disposal, the proprietor going to
the continent. Example suggests likewise, a good country for hunting
for fox-hounds--and a prospect too extensive to put in a newspaper.
Circumstances being rendered awkward by the untoward event of the
running away of the cattle, &c., it will be best to say--“The Stock
to be taken as it stands;”--and an additional favour will be politely
conferred, and the same thankfully acknowledged, if the auctioneer will
be so kind as bring the next market town ten miles nearer and carry the
coach and the waggon once a day past the door. Earnestly requesting
early attention to the above, and with sentiments of, &c.
R. PUGSLEY, Sen.
P.S. Richard is just come to hand dripping and half dead out of the
Nene, and the two apprentices all but drowned each other in saving him.
Hence occurs to add, fishing opportunities among the desirable items.
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT:--MADAME PASTY.]
AN ANCIENT CONCERT.
BY A VENERABLE DIRECTOR
“Give me _old_ music--let me hear
The songs of _days_ gone by!”--H. F. CHORLEY.
Oh! come, all ye who love to hear
An ancient song in ancient taste,
To whom all by-gone Music’s dear
As verdant spots in Memory’s waste!
Its name “The Ancient Concert” wrongs,
And has not hit the proper clef,
To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs,
To Old Subscribers rather deaf.
Away, then, Hawes! with all your band;
Ye beardless boys, this room desert!
One youthful voice, or youthful hand,
Our concert-pitch would disconcert!
No Bird must join our “vocal throng,”
The present age beheld at font:
Away, then, all ye “Sons of Song,”
Your Fathers are the men we want!
Away, Miss Birch, you’re in your prime!
Miss Romer, seek some other door!
Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time,
You count you’re nearly fifty-four!
Go, Miss Novello, sadly young!
Go, thou composing Chevalier,
And roam the county towns among,
No Newcome will be welcome here!
Our Concert aims to give at _night_
The music that has had its _day_!
So, Rooke, for us you cannot write
Till time has made you Raven gray.
Your score may charm a modern ear,
Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old,
But in this Ancient atmosphere,
Fresh airs like yours would give us cold!
Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go!
Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls;
And Master Coward ought to know
This is no place for boys and girls!
No Massons here we wish to see;
Nor is it Mrs. Seguin’s sphere,
And Mrs. B----! Oh! Mrs. B----,
Such Bishops are not reverend here!
What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus!
To sing the songs gone gray with age!
No, Grisi, no,--but come to us
And welcome, when you leave the stage!
Off, Ivanhoff!--till weak and harsh!--
Rubini, hence! with all the clan!
But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache,
A little shrivell’d thin old man.
Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please!
Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch;
You’d run us out of breath with Glees,
And Catches that we could not catch.
Away, ye Leaders all, who lead
With violins, quite modern things;
To guide our Ancient band we need
Old fiddles out of leading strings!
But come, ye Songsters, over-ripe,
That into “childish trebles break!”
And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe
That cannot sing without a shake!
Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin
A slender thread of ancient voice,
Old notes that almost seem call’d in;
At such as you we _shall_ rejoice!
No thund’ring Thalbergs here shall balk,
Or ride your pet _D-cadence_ o’er,
But fingers with a little chalk
Shall, moderato, keep the score!
No Broadwoods here, so full of tone,
But Harpsichords assist the strain:
No Lincoln’s pipes, we have our own
Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain.
And welcome! St. Cecilians, now
Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows,
Who will strike up, no matter how,
With organs that survive their bellows!
And bring, oh bring, your ancient styles
In which our elders lov’d to roam,
Those flourishes that strayed for miles,
Till some good fiddle led them home!
Oh come, ye ancient London Cries,
When Christmas Carols erst were sung!
Come, Nurse, who dron’d the lullabies,
“When Music, heavenly Maid, was young!”
No matter how the critics treat,
What modern sins and faults detect
The Copy-Book shall still repeat,
These Concerts must “Command respect!”
[Illustration: A RACE TO BE FIRST FIDDLE.]
A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT.
_Squampash Flatts, 9th November, 1827._
DEAR BROTHER,
Here we are, thank Providence, safe and well, and in the finest country
you ever saw. At this moment I have before me the sublime expanse of
Squampash Flatts--the majestic Mudiboo winding through the midst--with
the magnificent range of the Squab mountains in the distance. But the
prospect is impossible to describe in a letter! I might as well attempt
a Panorama in a pill-box!
We have fixed our Settlement on the left bank of the river. In
crossing the rapids we lost most of our heavy baggage and all our
iron work, but by great good fortune we saved Mrs. Paisley’s grand
piano and the children’s toys. Our infant city consists of three log
huts and one of clay, which, however, on the second day, fell in to
the ground landlords. We have now built it up again;--and, all things
considered, are as comfortable as we could expect--and have christened
our settlement New London, in compliment to the Old Metropolis. We
have one of the log houses to ourselves--or at least shall have when
we have built a new hog-sty. We burnt down the first one in making a
bonfire to keep off the wild beasts, and for the present the pigs are
in the parlour. As yet our rooms are rather usefully than elegantly
furnished. We have gutted the Grand Upright, and it makes a convenient
cupboard,--the chairs were obliged to blaze at our bivouacs, but thank
Heaven we have never leisure to sit down, and so do not miss them.
My boys are contented, and will be well when they have got over some
awkward accidents in lopping and felling. Mrs. P. grumbles a little,
but it is her custom to lament most when she is in the midst of
comforts. She complains of solitude, and says she could enjoy the very
stiffest of stiff visits.
[Illustration: A STIFF VISIT.]
The first time we lighted a fire in our new abode, a large serpent came
down the chimney, which I looked upon as a good omen. However, as Mrs.
P. is not partial to snakes, and the heat is supposed to attract those
reptiles, we have dispensed with fires ever since. As for wild beasts,
we hear them howling and roaring round the fence every night from dusk
till daylight, but we have only been inconvenienced by one Lion. The
first time he came, in order to get rid of the brute peaceably, we
turned out an old ewe, with which he was well satisfied;--but ever
since he comes to us as regular as clock-work for his mutton; and if
we do not soon contrive to cut his acquaintance, we shall hardly have
a sheep in the flock. It would have been easy to shoot him, being well
provided with muskets, but Barnaby mistook our remnant of gunpowder
for onion seed, and sowed it all in the kitchen garden. We did try to
trap him into a pitfall; but after twice catching Mrs. P., and every
one of the children in turn, it was given up. They are now, however,
perfectly at ease about the animal, for they never stir out of doors
at all, and to make them quite comfortable, I have blocked up all the
windows and barricaded the door.
We have lost only one of our number since we came; namely, Diggory, the
market gardener, from Glasgow, who went out one morning to botanise,
and never came back. I am much surprised at his absconding, as he
had nothing but a spade to go off with. Chippendale, the carpenter,
was sent after him, but did not return; and Gregory, the smith, has
been out after them these two days. I have just despatched Mudge,
the Herdsman, to look for all three, and hope he will soon give a
good account of them, as they are the most useful men in the whole
settlement, and, in fact, indispensable to its existence.
[Illustration: EMIGRATION--MEETING A SETTLER.]
The river Mudiboo is deep, and rapid, and said to swarm with
alligators, though I have heard but of three being seen at one
time, and none of those above eighteen feet long; this however, is
immaterial, as we do not use the river fluid, which is thick and dirty,
but draw all our water from natural wells and tanks. Poisonous springs
are rather common, but are easily distinguished by containing no fish
or living animal. Those, however, which swarm with frogs, toads, newts,
efts, &c., are harmless, and may be safely used for culinary purposes.
In short, I know of no drawback but one, which, I am sanguine, may be
got over hereafter, and do earnestly hope and advise, if things are
no better in England than when I left, you, and as many as you can
persuade, will sell off all, and come over to this African Paradise.
The drawback I speak of is this: although I have never seen any one of
the creatures, it is too certain that the mountains are inhabited by a
race of Monkeys, whose cunning and mischievous talents exceed even the
most incredible stories of their tribe. No human art or vigilance seems
of avail; we have planned ambuscades, and watched night after night,
but no attempt has been made; yet the moment the guard was relaxed, we
were stripped without mercy. I am convinced they must have had spies
night and day on our motions, yet so secretly and cautiously, that no
glimpse of one has yet been seen by any of our people. Our last crop
was cut and carried off, with the precision of an English Harvesting.
Our spirit stores--(you will be amazed to hear that these creatures
pick locks with the dexterity of London burglars)--have been broken
open and ransacked, though half the establishment were on the watch;
and the brutes have been off to their mountains, five miles distant,
without even the dogs giving an alarm. I could almost persuade myself
at times, such are their supernatural knowledge, swiftness, and
invisibility, that we have to contend with evil spirits. I long for
your advice, to refer to on this subject, and am,
Dear Philip, Your loving brother,
AMBROSE MAWE.
P.S. Since writing the above, you will be concerned to hear the body
of poor Diggory has been found, horribly mangled by wild beasts. The
fate of Chippendale, Gregory, and Mudge, is no longer doubtful. The old
Lion has brought the Lioness, and the sheep being all gone, they have
made a joint attack upon the Bullock-house. The Mudiboo has overflowed,
and Squampash Flatts are a swamp. I have just discovered that the
Monkeys are my own rascals, that I brought out from England. We are
coming back as fast as we can.
SONNET ON STEAM.
BY AN UNDER-OSTLER.
I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv
When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!
[Illustration: SOAP-ORIFICS AND SUB-ORIFICS.]
A REPORT FROM BELOW!
“Blow high, blow low.”--SEA SONG.
As Mister B. and Mistress B.
One night were sitting down to tea,
With toast and muffins hot--
They heard a loud and sudden bounce,
That made the very china flounce,
They could not for a time pronounce
If they were safe or shot--
For Memory brought a deed to match,
At Deptford done by night--
Before one eye appeared a Patch,
In t’other eye a Blight!
To be belabour’d out of life,
Without some small attempt at strife,
Our nature will not grovel;
One impulse mov’d both man and dame,
He seized the tongs--she did the same,
Leaving the ruffian, if he came,
The poker and the shovel.
Suppose the couple standing so,
When rushing footsteps from below
Made pulses fast and fervent;
And first burst in the frantic cat,
All steaming like a brewer’s vat,
And then--as white as my cravat--
Poor Mary May, the servant!
Lord, how the couple’s teeth did chatter!
Master and Mistress both flew at her,
“Speak! Fire? or Murder? What’s the matter?”
Till Mary, getting breath,
Upon her tale began to touch
With rapid tongue, full trotting, such
As if she thought she had too much
To tell before her death:--
“We was both, Ma’am, in the wash-house, Ma’am, a-standing at our
tubs,
And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs;
‘Mary,’ says she to me, ‘I say’--and there she stops for coughin’,
‘That dratted copper flue has took to smokin’ very often,
But please the pigs,’--for that’s her way of swearing in a passion,
‘I’ll blow it up, and not be set a coughin’ in this fashion!’
Well, down she takes my master’s horn--I mean his horn for loading,
And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding.
Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper.
I’m sartin sure it can’t not take a pound to sky a copper;
You’ll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff,
But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.
Well, when the pinch is over--‘Teach your grandmother to suck
A powder horn,’ says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck.
Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips,
‘Come,’ says she, quite in a huff, ‘come, keep your tongue inside
your lips;
Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these;
I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.’
So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle,
I thought we both were cannonised, like Sogers in a battle!
Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs,
And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks.
Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter,
But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water.
I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance,
As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence;
All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap
Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap.
Well, I crooks her little fingers, and cramps them well up together,
As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather;
But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality,
She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality.
Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed
mother.
Well, she’ll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in
t’other.
So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,
Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it’s well my master wasn’t in it;
Oh! I never, never, never, never, never see a sight so shockin’;
Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking--
Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,
And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with
dirt;
But as nobody was in ’em--none but--nobody was hurt!
Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump,
When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.
And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,
A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:
Then she beckons with her finger, and so down to her I reaches,
And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,
For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew;
Well, Ma’am, you won’t believe it, but it’s Gospel fact and true,
But these words is all she whispered--‘Why, where _is_ the powder
blew?’”
[Illustration: “SKYING A COPPER.”]
[Illustration: “IF THE COACH GOES AT SIX PRAY WHAT TIME GOES THE
BASKET?”]
THE LAST SHILLING.
He was evidently a foreigner, and poor. As I sat at the opposite corner
of the Southgate stage, I took a mental inventory of his wardrobe.
A military cloak much the worse for wear,--a blue coat, the worse
for tear,--a napless hat--a shirt neither white nor brown--a pair of
mud-colour gloves, open at each thumb--gray trousers too short for his
legs--and brown boots too long for his feet.
From some words he dropt, I found that he had come direct from Paris,
to undertake the duties of French teacher, at an English academy; and
his companion, the English classical usher, had been sent to London, to
meet and conduct him to his suburban destination.
Poor devil, thought I, thou art going into a bitter bad line
of business; and the hundredth share which I had taken in the
boyish persecutions of my own French master--an emigré of the old
noblesse--smote violently on my conscience. At Edmonton the coach
stopped. The coachman alighted, pulled the bell of a mansion inscribed
in large letters, Vespasian House; and deposited the foreigner’s trunks
and boxes on the footpath. The English classical usher stepped briskly
out, and deposited a shilling in the coachman’s anticipatory hand.
Monsieur followed the example, and with some precipitation prepared to
enter the gate of the fore-garden, but the driver stood in the way.
“I want another shilling,” said the coachman.
“You agreed to take a shilling a-head,” said the English master.
“You said you would take one shilling for my head,” said the French
master.
“It’s for the luggage,” said the coachman.
The Frenchman seemed thunderstruck; but there was no help for
it. He pulled out a small weasel-bellied, brown silk purse, but
there was nothing in it save a medal of Napoleon. Then he felt his
breast-pockets, then his side-pockets, and then his waistcoat-pockets;
but they were all empty, excepting a metal snuff-box, and that was
empty too. Lastly he felt the pockets in the flaps of his coat, taking
out a meagre would-be white handkerchief, and shaking it; but not a
dump. I rather suspect he anticipated the result--but he went thro’ the
operations _seriatim_, with the true French gravity. At last he turned
to his companion, with a “Mistare Barbiere, be as good to lend me one
shilling.”
Mr. Barber, thus appealed to, went through something of the same
ceremony. Like a blue-bottle cleaning itself, he passed his hands over
his breast--round his hips, and down the outside of his thighs,--but
the sense of feeling could detect nothing like a coin.
“You agreed for a shilling, and you shall have no more,” said the man
with empty pockets.
“No--no--no--you shall have no more,” said the moneyless Frenchman.
By this time the housemaid of Vespasian House, tired of standing with
the door in her hand, had come down to the garden-gate, and, willing to
make herself generally useful, laid her hand on one of the Foreigner’s
trunks.
“It shan’t go till I’m paid my shilling,” said the coachman, taking
hold of the handle at the other end.
The good-natured housemaid instantly let go of the trunk, and seemed
suddenly to be bent double by a violent cramp, or stitch, in her right
side,--while her hand groped busily under her gown. But it was in vain.
There was nothing in that pocket but some curl-papers, and a brass
thimble.
The stitch or cramp then seemed to attack her other side; again she
stooped and fumbled, while Hope and Doubt struggled together on her
rosy face. At last Hope triumphed,--from the extremest corner of
the huge dimity pouch she fished up a solitary coin, and thrust it
exultingly into the obdurate palm.
“It won’t do,” said the coachman, casting a wary eye on the metal, and
holding out for the inspection of the trio a silver-washed coronation
medal, which had been purchased of a Jew for twopence the year before.
The poor girl quietly set down the trunk which she had again taken up,
and restored the deceitful medal to her pocket. In the meantime the
arithmetical usher had arrived at the gate in his way out, but was
stopped by the embargo on the luggage. “What’s the matter now?” asked
the man of figures.
“If you please, Sir,” said the housemaid, dropping a low courtesy,
“it’s this impudent fellow of a coachman will stand here for his
rights.”
“He wants a shilling more than his fare,” said Mr. Barber.
“He does want more than his fare shilling,” reiterated the Frenchman.
“Coachman! what the devil are we waiting here for?” shouted a
stentorian voice from the rear of the stage.
“Bless me, John, are we to stay here all day?” cried a shrill voice
from the stage’s interior.
“If you don’t get up shortly I shall get down,” bellowed a voice from
the box.
At this crisis the English usher drew his fellow-tutor aside, and
whispered something in his ear that made him go through the old manual
exercise. He slapped his pantaloons--flapped his coat tails--and felt
about his bosom--“I haven’t got one,” said he, and with a shake of the
head and a hurried bow, he set off at the pace of a twopenny postman.
“I a’n’t going to stand here all day,” said the coachman, getting out
of all reasonable patience.
“You’re an infernal scoundrelly villain,” said Mr. Barber, getting out
of all classical English.
“You are a--what Mr. Barber says,” said the Foreigner.
“Thank God and his goodness,” ejaculated the housemaid, “here comes the
Doctor;” and the portly figure of the pedagogue himself came striding
pompously down the gravel-walk. He had two thick lips and a double
chin, which all began wagging together.
“Well, well; what’s all this argumentative elocution? I command
taciturnity!”
“I’m a shilling short,” said the coachman.
“He says he has got one short shilling,” said the Foreigner.
“Poo--poo--poo,” said the thick-lips and double-chin. “Pay the fellow
his superfluous claim, and appeal to magisterial authority.”
“It’s what we mean to do, Sir,” said the English usher, “but”--and he
laid his lips mysteriously to the Doctor’s ear.
“A pecuniary bagatelle,” said the Doctor. “It’s palpable
extortion,--but I’ll disburse it,--and you have a legislatorial
remedy for his avaricious demands.” As the man of pomp said this,
he thrust his fore finger into an empty waistcoat-pocket--then into
its fellow--and then into every pocket he had--but without any other
product than a bunch of keys, two ginger lozenges, and the French mark.
“It’s very peculiar,” said the Doctor. “I had a prepossession of having
currency to that amount. The coachman must call to-morrow for it at
Vespasian House--or stay--I perceive my housekeeper. Mrs. Plummer! pray
just step hither and liquidate this little commercial obligation.”
Now, whether Mrs. Plummer had or had not a shilling, Mrs. Plummer only
knows; for she did not condescend to make any search for it,--and if
she had none, she was right not to take the trouble. However, she
attempted to carry the point by a _coup de main_. Snatching up one of
the boxes, she motioned the housemaid to do the like, exclaiming in
a shrill treble key,--“Here’s a pretty work indeed, about a paltry
shilling! If it’s worth having, it’s worth calling again for,--and I
suppose Vespasian House is not going to run away!”
“But may be I am,” said the inflexible coachman, seizing a trunk with
each hand.
“John, I insist on being let out,” screamed the lady in the coach. “I
shall be too late for dinner,” roared the Thunderer in the dickey. As
for the passenger on the box, he had made off during the latter part of
the altercation.
“What shall we do?” said the English Classical Usher.