“I am a stranger in this country,” said the Frenchman.
“You must pay the money,” said the coachman.
“And here it is, you brute,” said Mrs. Plummer, who had made a trip to
the house in the meantime; but whether she had coined it, or raised it
by a subscription among the pupils, I know no more than
[Illustration: THE MAN IN THE MOON.]
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT:--M. BRUNEL.]
ODE TO M. BRUNEL.
“Well said, old Mole! canst work i’ the dark so fast? a worthy
pioneer!”--HAMLET.
Well!----Monsieur Brunel,
How prospers now thy mighty undertaking,
To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends
Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping,--
Never be stopping,
But poking, groping, in the dark deep making
An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons,
For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons,
To cross the water in inverse proportion,
Walk under steam-boats under the keel’s ridge,
To keep down all extortion,
And without sculls to diddle London Bridge!
In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry,
Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow,
Hopeful at last, from Middlesex to Surrey,
To give us the “View hollow.”
In short it was thy aim, right north and south,
To put a pipe into old Thames’s mouth;
Alas! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when
Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof,
Came, like “a tide in the affairs of men;”
And with a mighty stormy kind of roar,
Reproachful of thy wrong,
Burst out in that old song
Of Incledon’s, beginning “Cease, rude Bore”--
Sad is it, worthy of one’s tears,
Just when one seems the most successful,
To find one’s self o’er head and ears
In difficulties most distressful!
Other great speculations have been nursed,
Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf;
But thy concern was at the worst,
When it began to liquidate itself!
But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden,
And languishes Thy Tunnel,--so to paint,
Under a slow incurable complaint,
Bed-ridden!
Why, when thus Thames--bed-bother’d--why repine!
Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine!
Yet let none think thee daz’d, or craz’d, or stupid;
And sunk beneath thy own and Thames’s craft;
Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid
Pining and pouting o’er a broken shaft!
I’ll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do;
Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two,
The wine does better than such water trades;
Stick up a sign--the sign of the Bore’s Head;
I’ve drawn it ready for thee in black lead,
And make thy cellar subterrane,--Thy Shades!
[Illustration: THE BROKEN SHAFT.]
THE DEATH OF THE DOMINIE.
“Take him up, says the master.”--OLD SPELLING BOOK.
My old Schoolmaster is dead. He “died of a stroke;” and I wonder
none of his pupils have ever done the same. I have been flogged by
many masters, but his rod, like Aaron’s, swallowed up all the rest.
We have often wished that he whipped on the principle of Italian
penmanship,--up strokes heavy and down strokes light; but he did it in
English round hand, and we used to think with a very hard pen. Such was
his love of flogging, that for some failure in English composition,
after having been well corrected I have been ordered to be revised.
I have heard of a road to learning, and he did justice to it; we
certainly never went a stage in education without being well horsed.
The mantle of Dr. Busby descended on his shoulders, and on ours. There
was but one tree in the play-ground--a birch, but it never had a twig
or leaf upon it. Spring or summer it always looked as bare as if the
weather had been cutting at the latter end of the year. Pictures they
say are incentives to learning, and certainly we never got through a
page without cuts; for instance, I do not recollect a Latin article
without a tail-piece. All the Latin at that school might be comprised
in one line--
“Arma virumque cano.”
An arm, a man, and a cane. It was Englished to me one day in school
hours, when I was studying Robinson Crusoe instead of Virgil, by a
storm of bamboo that really carried on the illusion, and made me think
for the time that I was assaulted by a set of savages. He seemed to
consider a boy as a bear’s cub, and set himself literally to lick him
into shape. He was so particularly fond of striking us with a leather
strap on the flats of our hands that he never allowed them a day’s
rest. There was no such thing as a Palm Sunday in our calendar. In one
word, he was disinterestedly cruel, and used as industriously to strike
for nothing as other workmen strike for wages. Some of the elder boys,
who had read Smollett, christened him Roderick, from his often hitting
like Random, and being so partial to Strap.
His death was characteristic. After making his will he sent for Mr.
Taddy, the head usher, and addressed him as follows: “It is all over,
Mr. Taddy--I am sinking fast--I am going from the terrestrial globe--to
the celestial--and have promised Tomkins a flogging--mind he has
it--and don’t let him pick off the buds--I have asked Aristotle”--(here
his head wandered)--“and he says I cannot live an hour--I don’t like
that black horse grinning at me--cane him soundly for not knowing
his verbs--Castigo te, non quod odio habeam--Oh, Mr. Taddy, it’s
breaking up with me--the vacation’s coming--There is that black horse
again--Dulcis moriens reminiscitur--we are short of canes--Mr. Taddy,
don’t let the school get into disorder when I am gone--I’m afraid,
through my illness--the boys have gone back in their flogging--I feel
a strange feeling all over me--Is the new pupil come?--I trust I have
done my duty--and have made my will--and left all”--(here his head
wandered again)--“to Mr. Souter, the school bookseller--Mr. Taddy, I
invite you to my funeral--make the boys walk in good order--and take
care of the crossings.--My sight is getting dim--write to Mrs. B. at
Margate--and inform her--we break up on the 21st.--The school-door
is left open--- I am very cold--where is my ruler gone--I will make
him feel--John, light the school lamps--I cannot see a line--Oh Mr.
Taddy--venit hora--my hour is come--I am dying--thou art dying--he--is
dying.--We--are--dying--you--are--dy”----The voice ceased. He made
a feeble motion with his hands, as if in the act of ruling a
copy-book--“the _ruling_ passion strong in death”--and expired.
An epitaph, composed by himself, was discovered in his desk,--with an
unpublished pamphlet against Tom Paine. The Epitaph was so stuffed
with quotations from Homer and Virgil, and almost every Greek or Latin
author beside, that the mason who was consulted by the Widow declined
to lithograph it under a Hundred Pounds. The Dominie consequently
reposes under no more Latin than HIC JACET;--and without a single
particle of Greek, though he is himself a Long Homer.
[Illustration: IT MAY BE MY OWN CASE TO-MORROW.]
[Illustration: OVER THE WAY.]
OVER THE WAY.
“I sat over against a window where there stood a pot with very
pretty flowers; and I had my eyes fixed on it, when on a sudden
the window opened and a young lady appeared whose beauty struck
me.”--ARABIAN NIGHTS.
Alas! the flames of an unhappy lover
About my heart and on my vitals prey;
I’ve caught a fever that I can’t get over,
Over the way!
Oh! why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian!
I’ve lost my rest by night, my peace by day,
For want of some brown Holland or Venetian
Over the way!
I’ve gazed too often, till my heart’s as lost
As any needle in a stack of hay:
Crosses belong to love, and mine is crossed
Over the way!
I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax--
Of what avail Lord Althorp or Earl Grey?
They cannot ease me of _my_ window-tax
Over the way!
Even on Sunday my devotions vary,
And from St. Bennet Fink they go astray
To dear St. Mary Overy--the Mary
Over the way!
Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy,
With magic wand, how I would beg and pray
That she would change me into that canary
Over the way!
I envy everything that’s near Miss Lindo,
A pug, a poll, a squirrel or a jay--
Blest blue-bottles! that buzz about the window
Over the way!
Even at even, for there be no shutters,
I see her reading on from grave to gay,
Some tale or poem, till the candle gutters
Over the way!
And then--oh! then--while the clear waxen taper
Emits, two stories high, a starlike ray,
I see twelve auburn curls put into paper
Over the way!
But how breathe unto her my deep regards,
Or ask her for a whispered ay or nay,--
Or offer her my hand, some thirty yards
Over the way!
Cold as the pole she is to my adoring;--
Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse’s Bay,
I meet an icy end to my exploring
Over the way!
Each dirty little Savoyard that dances
She looks on--Punch--chimney sweeps in May.
Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances
Over the way?
Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat,
Or yelping cur, run over by a dray;
But I’m in love--she never pities that!
Over the way!
I go to the same church--a love-lost labour;
Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play;
She does not seem to know she has a neighbour
Over the way!
At private theatres she never acts;
No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts
Over the way!
To billets-doux by post she shows no favour--
In short, there is no plot that I can lay
To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!
I play the flute--she heeds not my chromatics--
No friend an introduction can purvey;
I wish a fire would break out in the attics
Over the way!
My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;
My baker feels my appetite decay;
And as for butchers’ meat--oh! she’s my butcher
Over the way!
At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!
I’m weary of my life; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette
Over the way!
I’ve fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;
I’ve vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray,
Quite sick of number one--and number four
Over the way!
Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy,
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse--a cow--six fowls--a pig--and Mary
Over the way!
Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!
I’ve coo’d with her in dreams, like any turtle,
I’ve snatch’d her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay;
Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle
Over the way!
Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop,
Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat “poshay,”
And showered crowns to make the horses gallop
Over the way!
And thrice I’ve started up from dreams appalling
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray--
There is a young man very fond of calling
Over the way!
Oh! happy man--above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!
Nabob of Arcot--Despot of Japan--
Sultan of Persia--Emperor of Cathay--
Much rather would I be the happy man
Over the way!
With such a lot my heart would be in clover--
But what--oh horror!--what do I survey!
Postillions and white favours!--all is over
Over the way!
[Illustration: A RUNAWAY MATCH.]
A PLAN FOR
WRITING BLANK VERSE IN RHYME,
IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
RESPECTED SIR,
In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its
reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and
motives--the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the
magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of Moux’s dray
horses,--there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph.
“Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall emaciated being, in a brown coat,
indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the raggedness of
which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligence to his
countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor. It was
evident from his preliminary bow that he had made some discoveries in
the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordship, but the
Lord Mayor perceiving by his accent that he had already submitted his
project to several of the leading Publishers, referred him back to the
same jurisdiction, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses withdrew,
declaring by another bow, that he should offer his plan to the Editor
of the Comic Annual.”
The unfortunate above referred to, Sir, is myself, and with regard to
the Muses, indeed a votary, though not a £10 one, if the qualification
depends on my pocket--but for the idea of addressing myself to the
Editor of the Comic Annual, I am indebted solely to the assumption
of the gentlemen of the Press. That I have made a discovery is true,
in common with Hervey, and Herschell, and Galileo, and Roger Bacon,
or rather, I should say, with Columbus,--my invention concerning a
whole hemisphere, as it were, in the world of poetry--in short, the
whole continent of blank verse. To an immense number of readers this
literary land has been hitherto a complete terra incognita, and from
one sole reason,--the want of that harmony which makes the close
of one line chime with the end of another. They have no relish for
numbers that turn up blank, and wonder accordingly at the epithet of
“Prize,” prefixed to Poems of the kind which emanate in--I was going
to say from--the University of Oxford. Thus many very worthy members
of society are unable to appreciate the Paradise Lost, the Task, the
Chase, or the Seasons,--the Winter especially,--without rhyme. Others,
again, can read the Poems in question, but with a limited enjoyment;
as certain persons can admire the architectural beauties of Salisbury
steeple, but would like it better with a ring of bells. For either
of these tastes my discovery will provide, without affronting the
palate of any other; for although the lover of rhyme will find in it
a prodigality hitherto unknown, the heroic character of blank verse
will not suffer in the least, but each line will “do as it likes with
its own,” and sound as independently of the next as “milkmaid,” and
“water-carrier.” I have the honour to subjoin a specimen--and if,
through your publicity, Mr. Murray should be induced to make me an
offer for an Edition of Paradise Lost on this principle, for the Family
Library, it will be an eternal obligation on,
Respected Sir, your most obliged, and humble servant,
* * * * * * *
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun--one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,--
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,--
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;--
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mal Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash.
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble--“Drat that cat!”
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
[Illustration: A-LAD-IN, OR THE WONDERFUL LAMP.]
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;--
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears--what faith is man’s--Ann’s bans
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!
[Illustration: WHITE FAVOURS.]
A LETTER FROM A MARKET GARDENER TO THE SECRETARY OF THE HORTICULTURAL
SOCIETY.
SIR,
The Satiety having Bean pleasd to Complement Me before I beg Leaf to
Lie before Them agin as follow in particullers witch I hop They will
luck upon with a Sowth Aspic.
Sir--last year I paid my Atentions to a Tater, & the Satiety was
pleasd to be gratifid at the Innlargement of my Kidnis. This ear I
have turnd my Eyes to Gozberris.--I am happy to Say I have allmost
sucksidid in Making them too Big for Bottlin. I beg to Present sum of
itch kind--Pleas obsarve a Green Goose is larger in Siz then a Red
Goosebry. Sir as to Cherris my atention has Bean cheafly occupid by
the Black Arts. Sum of them are as big as Crickt Balls as will be seen
I send a Sample tyed on a Wauking-stick. I send lickwise a Potle of
strayberris witch I hop will reach. They air so large as to object to
lay more nor too in a Bed. Also a Potle of Hobbies and one of my new
Pins, of a remarkably sharp flaviour. I hop they will cum to Hand in
Time to be at your Feat. Respective Black red & White Currency I have
growd equely Large, so as one Bunch is not to be Put into a Galley Pot
without jamming. My Pitches has not ben Strong, and their is no Show
on My Walls of the Plumb line. Damsins will Be moor Plentifle & their
is no Want of common Bullies about Lunnon. Please inform if propper to
classify the Slow with the creepers.
Concerning Graps I have bin recommanded by mixing Wines with Warter
Mellons, the later is improved in its juice--but have douts of the
fack. Of the Patgonian Pickleing Coucumber, I hav maid Trial of, and
have hops of Growing one up to Markit by sitting one End agin my front
dore. On account of its Proggressiveness I propos calling it Pickleus
Perriginatus if Approved of.
Sir, about Improving the common Stocks.--Of Haws I have some hops but
am disponding about my Hyps. I have quite faled in cultuvating them
into Cramberris. I have allso atempted to Mull Blackberis, but am
satisfid them & the Mulberris is of diferent Genius. Pleas observe
of Aples I have found a Grafft of the common Crab from its Straglin
sideways of use to Hispalliers. I should lick to be infourmd weather
Scotch Granite is a variety of the Pom Granite & weather as sum say
so pore a frute, and nothing but Stone Sir,--My Engine Corn has been
all eat up by the Burds namely Rocks and Ravines. In like manner I had
a full Shew of Pees but was distroyd by the Sparers. There as bean
grate Mischef dun beside by Entymollogy--in some parts a complet Patch
of Blight. Their has bean a grate Deal too of Robin by boys and men
picking and stealing but their has bean so many axidents by Steel Traps
I don’t like setting on ’em.
[Illustration: “TOE HO!”]
Sir I partickly wish the Satiety to be called to considder the Case
what follows, as I think mite be maid Transaxtionable in the next
Reports:--
[Illustration: “TOM’S A-COLD!”]
My Wif had a Tomb cat that dyd. Being a torture Shell and as Grate
feverit, we had Him berrid in the Guardian, and for the sake of
inrichment of the Mould I had the carks deposeted under the roots of
a Gosberry Bush. The Frute being up till then of the Smooth kind. But
the next Seson’s Frute after the Cat was berrid, the Gozberris was all
hairy,--& moor Remarkable the Catpilers of the same bush, was All of
the same hairy Discription. I am Sir Your humble servant,
THOMAS FROST.
DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES
“I really take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner!
I have not seen you such an age--
(The wretch has come to dinner!)
“Your daughters, too, what loves of girls--
What heads for painters’ easels!
Come here and kiss the infant, dears,--
(And give it p’rhaps the measles!)
“Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russel’s;
’Twas very kind to bring them both,--
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
“What! little Clara left at home?
Well, now, I call that shabby:
I should have loved to kiss her so,--
(A flabby, dabby babby!)
“And Mr. S., I hope he’s well;
Ah! though he lives so handy,
He never now drops in to sup,--
(The better for our brandy!)
“Come, take a seat--I long to hear
About Matilda’s marriage;
You’re come of course to spend the day!--
(Thank Heav’n I hear the carriage!)
“What, must you go? next time I hope
You’ll give me longer measure;
Nay--I shall see you down the stairs--
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
“Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,
Next time you’ll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind, I’m not at home
In future to the Skinners!”)
[Illustration: A MODERATE INCOME.]
BLACK, WHITE, AND BROWN.
All at once Miss Morbid left off sugar.
She did not resign it as some persons lay down their carriage, the
full-bodied family-coach dwindling into a chariot, next into a fly, and
then into a sedan-chair. She did not shade it off artistically, like
certain household economists, from white to white-brown, brown, dark
brown, and so on, to none at all.--She left it off, as one might leave
off walking on the top of a house, or on a slide, or on a plank with
a further end to it, that is to say, slapdash, all at once, without a
moment’s warning. She gave it up, to speak appropriately, in the lump.
She dropped it--as Corporal Trim let fall his hat,--dab. It vanished,
as the French say, _toot sweet_. From the 30th of November, 1830, not
an ounce of sugar, to use Miss Morbid’s own expression, ever “darkened
her doors.”
The truth was she had been present the day before at an Anti-Slavery
Meeting; and had listened to a lecturing Abolitionist, who had drawn
her sweet tooth, root and branch, out of her head. Thenceforth sugar,
or as she called it “shugger,” was no longer white, or brown, in her
eyes, but red, blood-red--an abomination, to indulge in which would
convert a professing Christian into a practical Cannibal. Accordingly
she made a vow, under the influence of moist eyes and refined feelings,
that the sanguinary article should never more enter her lips or her
house; and this petty parody of the famous Berlin Decree against our
Colonial produce was rigidly enforced. However others might countenance
the practice of the Slave Owners by consuming “shugger,” she was
resolved, for her own part, that “no suffering sable son of Africa
should ever rise up against her out of a cup of Tea!”
In the mean time, the cook and housemaid grumbled in concert at the
prohibition: they naturally thought it very hard to be deprived of a
luxury which they enjoyed at their own proper cost; and at last only
consented to remain in the service, on condition that the privation
should be handsomely considered in their wages.
With a hope of being similarly remembered in her will, the poor
relations of Miss Morbid continued to drink the “warm without,”
which she administered to them every Sunday, under the name of Tea:
and Hogarth would have desired no better subject for a picture than
was presented by their physiognomies. Some pursed up their lips,
as if resolved that the nauseous beverage should never enter them;
others compressed their mouths, as if to prevent it from rushing out
again. One took it mincingly, in sips,--another gulped it down in
desperation,--a third, in a fit of absence, continued to stir very
superfluously with his spoon; and there was one shrewd old gentleman,
who by a little dexterous by-play, used to bestow the favour of his
small souchong on a sick geranium. Now and then an astonished Stranger
would retain a half cupful of the black dose in his mouth, and stare
round at his fellow guests, as if tacitly putting to them the very
question of Mathews’s Yorkshireman in the mail coach--“Coompany!--oop
or doon?”
The greatest sufferers, however, were Miss Morbid’s two nephews, still
in the morning of their youth, and boy-like, far more inclined to
“sip the sweets” than to “hail the dawn.” They had formerly looked on
their Aunt’s house as peculiarly a Dulce Domum. Prior to her sudden
conversion she had been famous for the manufacture of a sort of hard
bake, commonly called Toffy or Taffy,--but now, alas! “Taffy was not
at home,” and there was nothing else to invite a call. Currant tart
is tart indeed without sugar; and as for the green gooseberries,
they always tasted, as the young gentlemen affirmed, “like a quart
of berries sharpened to a pint.” In short it always required six
pennyworth of lollipops and bullseyes, a lick of honey, a dip of
treacle, and a pick at a grocer’s hogshead, to sweeten a visit at Aunt
Morbid’s.