staring wild!
Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying
lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to run, if I only knew
which way--
A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials,
is a needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you
little Kitty M’Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty
deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed
Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little
dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the
other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten
by way of toys.
When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever
the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and
the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don’t be
making a mob in the street;
Oh Serjeant M’Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy,
have you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me like a parcel of
stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled away up a court for
the sake of his clothes by the prigs;
He’d a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a
shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trousers considering not very much patch’d, and red plush,
they was once his Father’s best pair.
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub, or that might
have gone with the rest;
But he’d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn
on the breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew’d in, and not quite
so much jagg’d at the brim.
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and
you’ll know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d my mind would misgive, some old beggar
woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with, but I’d rather see him
laid out in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I’ll break every
bone of ’em I come near,
Go home--you’re spilling the porter--go home Tommy Jones, go along
home with your beer.
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was
Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of
following a Monkey and an Organ.
Oh my Billy--my head will turn right round--if he’s got kiddynapp’d
with them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the
outlandish tatterdemalions.
Billy--where are you, Billy?--I’m as hoarse as a crow, with
screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And sha’n’t have half a voice, no more I sha’n’t, for crying fresh
herrings to-morrow.
Oh Billy, you’re bursting my heart in two, and my life won’t be of
no more vally,
If I’m to see other folks’ darlins, and none of mine, playing like
angels in our alley.
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old
three-legged chair
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a’n’t no Billy
there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know’d
where to run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through
stealing a penny bun,--
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me
raily,
To find my Bill holdin’ up his little innocent hand at the Old
Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say, you may search for
miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from
one end to t’other of St. Giles’s.
And if I called him a beauty, it’s no lie, but only as a Mother
ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn’t been
washed for a week;
As for hair, tho’ its red, its the most nicest hair when I’ve time
to just show it the comb;
I’ll owe ’em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring
him safe and sound home.
He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint, though a little cast
he’s certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge is broke, by his
falling on a pewter pint pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large
teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to play Cupid on the
Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways--but oh I never never
shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nursing him back from
death’s door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang ’em, was at twenty
a penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was spent in plums, and
sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash’d us all and, drat him, made
a seize of our hog.
It’s no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he’s such a
blunderin’ drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling
with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother
and Father about Town.
Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your
best of Mothers!
I’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they’d run
over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he’s stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast
in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has
ketch’d, and the chimbly’s red hot.
Oh I’d give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my
two longin’ eyes on his face.
For he’s my darlin of darlins, and if he don’t soon come back,
you’ll see me drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I’d got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and
wouldn’t I hug him and kiss him!
Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was--but a child don’t not
feel like a child till you miss him.
Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it’s that
Billy as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I’m blest
if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!”
[Illustration: POTTED SHRIMPS.]
SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.
THE OBSERVER.
“It’s very strange,” said the coachman,--looking at me over his left
shoulder--“I never see it afore--but I’ve made three observations
through life.”
Bat--so called for shortness, though in feet and inches he was rather
an Upper Benjamin--was anything but what Othello denominates “a puny
whipster.” He had brandished the whip for full thirty years, at an
average of as many miles a day; the product of which, calculated
according to Cocker, appears in a respectable sum total of six figures
deep.
Now an experience picked up in a progress of some three hundred
thousand miles is not to be slighted; so I leaned with my best ear over
the coachman’s shoulder, in order to catch every syllable.
“I have set on the box, man and boy,” said Bat, looking straight ahead
between his leaders, “a matter of full thirty year, and what’s more,
never missing a day--barring the Friday I was married; and one of my
remarks is--I never see a sailor in top-boots.”
“Now I think of it, Bat,” said I, a little disconcerted at my windfall
from the tree of knowledge, “I have had some experience in travelling
myself, and certainly do not recollect such a phenomenon.”
“I’ll take my oath you haven’t,” said Bat, giving the near leader a
little switch of self-satisfaction. “I once driv the Phenomenon myself.
There’s no such thing in nature. And I’ll tell you another remarkable
remark I’ve made through life--I never yet see a Jew Pedlar with a
Newfoundland dog.”
“As for that, Bat,” said I, perhaps willing to retort upon him a
little of my own disappointment, “though I cannot call such a sight
to mind--I will not undertake to say I have never met with such an
association.”
“If you have, you’re a lucky man,” said Bat, somewhat sharply, and with
a smart cut on the wheeler; “I belong to an association too, and we’ve
none of us seen it. There’s a hundred members, and I’ve enquired of
every man of ’em, for it’s my remark. But some people see a deal more
than their fellows. Mayhap you’ve seen the other thing I’ve observed
through life, and that’s this--I’ve never observed a black man drive a
long stage.”
“Never, Bat,” said I, desiring to conciliate him, “never in the whole
course of my stage practice; and for many years of my life I was a
daily visitant to Richmond.”
“And no one else has ever seen it,” said Bat. “That’s a correct remark,
anyhow. As for Richmond, he never drove a team in his life, for I asked
him the question myself, just after his fight with Shelton.”
THE CONTRAST.
“I hope the Leviathan is outward-bound,” I ejaculated, half aloud, as
I beheld the Kit-Kat portion of the Man-Mountain occupying the whole
frame of the coach-window. But Hope deceived as usual; and in he came.
I ought rather to have said he essayed to come in,--for it was only
after repeated experiments upon material substances, that he contrived
to enter the vehicle edgeways,--if such blunt bodies may be said to
have an edge at all. As I contemplated his bulk, I could not help
thinking of the mighty Lambert, and was ready to exclaim with Gratiano,
“A Daniel! a second Daniel!”
The Brobdignaggian had barely subsided in his seat, when the opposite
door opened, and in stepped a Liliputian! The conjunction was
whimsical. Yonder, thought I, is the Irish Giant, and the other is the
dwarf, Count Borulawski. This coach is their travelling caravan--and
as for myself, I am no doubt the showman.
I was amusing myself with this and kindred fancies, when a hand
suddenly held up something, at the coach window. “It’s my luggage,”
said the Giant, with a small penny-trumpet of a pipe, and taking
possession of a mere golden pippin of a bundle.
“The three large trunks and the biggest carpet-bag are _my_ property,”
said the Dwarf, with a voice as unexpectedly stentorian.
[Illustration: THE GREAT MAIL CONTRACTOR.]
“Warm day, Sir,” squeaked the Giant, by way of small talk.
“Prodigious preponderance of caloric in the atmosphere,” thundered the
Dwarf, by way of big talk.
“Have you paid your fare, gentlemen?” asked the coachman, looking in at
the door.
“I have paid half of mine,” said the Stupendous, “and it’s booked. My
name is Lightfoot.”
“Mine is Heavyside,” said the Pigmy, “and I have disbursed the sum
total.”
The door slammed--the whip cracked--sixteen horse-shoes made a clatter,
and away bowled the New Safety; but had barely rolled two hundred
yards, when it gave an alarming bound over some loose paving stones,
followed by a very critical swing. The Dwarf, in a tone louder than
ever, gave vent to a prodigious oath; the Giant said, “Dear me!”
There will something come of this, said I to myself; so, feigning
I sleep, I leaned back in a corner, with a wary ear to their
conversation. The Gog had been that morning to the Exhibition of
Fleas, in Regent Street, and thought them “prodigious!” The Runtling
had visited the Great Whale at Charing-Cross, and “thought little of
it.” The Goliath spoke with wonder of the “vast extent of view from
the top of the Monument.” The David was “disappointed by the prospect
from Plinlimmon.” The Hurlothrumbo was “amazed by the grandeur of St.
Paul’s.” The Tom Thumb spoke slightingly of St. Peter’s at Rome. In
theatricals their taste held the same mathematical proportion. Gog
“must say he liked the Minors best.” The “Wee Thing” declared for the
Majors. The Man-Mountain’s favourite was Miss _Foote_ = twelve inches.
The Manikin preferred Miss _Cubitt_ = eighteen.
The conversation, and the contrast, flourished in full flower through
several stages, till we stopped to dine at the Salisbury Arms, and
then--
The Folio took a chair at the ordinary--
The Duodecimo required “a room to himself.”
The Puppet bespoke a leg of mutton--
The Colossus ordered a mutton-chop.
The Imp rang the bell for “the loaf”--
The Monster called for a roll.
A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum.
A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum.
We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, “The Sea! the Sea! the open
Sea!”
The Mammoth hummed “The Streamlet.”
The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna.
The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva.
A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through the
holes that time has made in her sieve: but I remember distinctly, as we
passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while
The Pigmy bussed the landlady--a buxom widow, fat, fair, and forty--
The Giant kissed her daughter--a child ten years old, and remarkably
small for her age.
[Illustration: THE GREAT DESERT--HALT OF THE CARAVAN.]
JOHN DAY.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“A Day after the Fair.”--OLD PROVERB.
John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman-kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.
The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.
Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can avail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.
The bar-maid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho’ he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.
He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.
One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump--
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.
Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.
But still be stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’
He drove the Dart for years.
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.
At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho’ I have never had a wife,
I’ve lost my better half.
Alas, in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.
Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being’s link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.
Now some will talk in water’s praise
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho’ he drank nothing else--
He drank himself to death.
The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,
For, looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.
Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk--
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.
[Illustration: THE BOX SEAT.]
[Illustration: THE SUBLIME AND THE RIDICULOUS.]
THE PARISH REVOLUTION.
“From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.”
_Alarming news from the country--awful insurrection at Stoke Pogis--The
Military called out--Flight of the Mayor._
We are concerned to state, that accounts were received in town at a
late hour last night, of an alarming state of things at Stoke Pogis.
Nothing private is yet made public; but report speaks of very serious
occurrences. The number of killed is not known, as no despatches have
been received.
_Further Particulars._
Nothing is known yet; papers have been received down to the 4th of
November, but they are not up to anything.
_Further further Particulars_ (_Private Letter_).
It is scarcely possible for you, my dear Charles, to conceive the
difficulties and anarchical manifestations of turbulence, which
threaten and disturb your old birth-place, poor Stoke Pogis. To the
reflecting mind, the circumstances which hourly transpire afford ample
food for speculation and moral reasoning. To see the constituted
authorities of a place, however mistaken or misguided by erring
benevolence, plunging into a fearful struggle with an irritated,
infuriated, and I may say, armed populace, is a sight which opens a
field for terrified conjecture. I look around me with doubt, agitation,
and dismay; because, whilst I venerate those to whom the sway of a
part of a state may be said to be intrusted, I cannot but yield to
the conviction that the abuse of power must be felt to be an overstep
of authority in the best intentioned of the Magistracy. This even you
will allow. Being on the spot, my dear Charles, an eye-witness of
these fearful scenes, I feel how impossible it is for me to give you
any idea of the prospects which surround me. To say that I think all
will end well, is to trespass beyond the confines of hope; but whilst
I admit that there is strong ground for apprehending the worst, I
cannot shut my eyes to the conviction, that if firm measures, tempered
with concession, be resorted to, it is far from being out of the pale
of probability that serenity may be re-established. In hazarding this
conclusion, however, you must not consider me as at all forgetting
the responsibilities which attach to a decidedly formed opinion. Oh,
Charles! you who are in the quiet of London, can little dream of the
conflicting elements which form the storm of this devoted village. I
fear you will be wearied with all these details; but I thought at this
distance, at which you are from me, you would wish me to run the risk
of wearying you rather than omit any of the interesting circumstances.
Let Edward read this; his heart, which I know beats for the Parish,
will bleed for us.
I am, &c.
H. J. P.
P.S.--Nothing further has yet occurred, but you shall hear from me
again to-morrow.
_Another Account._
Symptoms of disunion have for some time past prevailed between the
authorities of Stoke Pogis, and a part of the inhabitants. The primum
mobile or first mobbing, originated in an order of the Mayor’s, that
all tavern doors should shut at eleven. Many complied, and shut,
but the door of the Rampant Lion openly resisted the order. A more
recent notice has produced a new and more dangerous irritation on our
too combustible population. A proclamation against Guy Fauxes and
Fireworks was understood to be in preparation, by command of the chief
Magistrate. If his Worship had listened to the earnest and prudential
advice of the rest of the bench, the obnoxious placard would not have
been issued till the 6th, but he had it posted up on the 4th, and by
his precipitation has plunged Stoke Pogis into a convulsion, that
nothing but Time’s soothing syrup can alleviate.
_From another quarter._
We are all here in the greatest alarm! a general rising of the
inhabitants took place this morning, and they have continued in a
disturbed state ever since. Everybody is in a bustle and indicating
some popular movement. Seditious cries are heard! the bell-man is going
his rounds, and on repeating “God save the King!” is saluted with
“Hang the crier!” Organised bands of boys are going about collecting
sticks, &c., whether for barricades or bonfires is not known; many of
them singing the famous Gunpowder Hymn, “Pray remember,” &c. These
are features that remind us of the most inflammable times. Several
strangers of suspicious gentility arrived here last night, and
privately engaged a barn; they are now busily distributing hand-bills
amongst the crowd: surely some horrible tragedy is in preparation!
_A later account._
The alarm increases. Several families have taken flight by the waggon,
and the office of Mr. Stewart, the overseer, is besieged by persons
desirous of being passed to their own parish. He seems embarrassed
and irresolute, and returns evasive answers. The worst fears are
entertaining.
_Fresh Intelligence._
The cause of the overseer’s hesitation has transpired. The pass-cart
and horse have been lent to a tradesman, for a day’s pleasure, and
are not returned. Nothing can exceed the indignation of the paupers!
they are all pouring towards the poor-house headed by Timothy Gubbins,
a desperate drunken character, but the idol of the Workhouse. The
constables are retiring before this formidable body. The following
notice is said to be posted up at the Town-hall: “Stick No Bills.”
_Eleven o’clock._
The mob have proceeded to outrage--the poor poor-house has not a
whole pane of glass in its whole frame! The Magistrates, with Mr.
Higginbottom at their head, have agreed to call out the military; and
he has sent word that he will come as soon as he has put on his uniform.
A terrific column of little boys has just run down the High-street,
it is said to see a fight at the Green Dragon. There is an immense
crowd in the Market-Place. Some of the leading shopkeepers have had a
conference with the Mayor, and the people are now being informed by a
placard of the result. Gracious Heaven! how opposite is it to the hopes
of all moderate men--“The Mare is Hobstinate--He is at the Roes and
Crown--But refuses to treat.”
_Twelve o’clock._
The military has arrived, and is placed under his own command. He has
marched himself in a body to the market-place, and is now drawn up one
deep in front of the Pound. The mob are in possession of the walls, and
have chalked upon them the following proclamation; “Stokian Pogians be
firm! stick up for bonfires! stand to your squibs!”
_Quarter past Twelve._
Mr. Wigsby, the Master of the Free School, has declared on the side of
Liberty, and has obtained an audience of the Mayor. He is to return in
fifteen minutes for his Worship’s decision.
_Half past Twelve._
During the interval, the Mayor has sworn in two special constables, and
will concede nothing. When the excitement of the mob was represented to
him by Mr. Wigsby, he pointed to a truncheon on a table and answered,
“They may do their worsest.” The exasperation is awful--the most
frightful cries are uttered, “Huzza for Guys! Gubbins for ever! and
no Higginbottom!” The military has been ordered to clear the streets,
but his lock is not flinty enough, and his gun refuses to fire on the
people.
* * * * *
The constables have just obtained a slight advantage; they made a
charge altogether, and almost upset a Guy. On the left-hand side of the
way they have been less successful; Mr. Huggins, the beadle, attempted
to take possession of an important street post, but was repulsed by a
boy with a cracker. At the same moment Mr. Blogg, the churchwarden, was
defeated in a desperate attempt to force a _passage_ up a _court_.
_One o’clock._
The military always dines at one, and has retreated to the Pig and
Puncheon. There is a report that the head constable is taken with all
his staff.
_Two o’clock._
A flying watchman has just informed us that the police are victorious
on all points, and the same has been confirmed by a retreating
constable. He states that the Pound is full--Gubbins in the stocks, and
Dobbs in the cage. That the whole mob would have been routed, but for a
very corpulent man, who rallied them on running away.
[Illustration: GOOD ENTERTAINMENT FOR MAN AND HORSE.]
_Half-past Three._
The check sustained by the mob proves to have been a reverse, the
constables are the sufferers. The cage is chopped to faggots, we
haven’t a pound, and the stocks are rapidly falling. Mr. Wigsby has
gone again to the Mayor with overtures, the people demand the release
of Dobbs and Gubbins, and the demolition of the stocks, the pound, and
the cage. As these are already destroyed, and Gubbins and Dobbs are at
large, it is confidently hoped by all moderate men, that his Worship
will accede to the terms.
Four o’clock.
The Mayor has rejected the terms. It is confidently affirmed that after
this decision, he secretly ordered a post-chaise, and has set off with
a pair of post horses as fast as they can gallop. A meeting of the
principal tradesmen has taken place, and the butcher, the baker, the
grocer, the cheesemonger, and the publican, have agreed to compose a
Provisional Government. In the mean time the mob are loud in their
joy,--they are letting off squibs and crackers, and rockets, and devils
in all directions, and quiet is completely restored.
We subjoin two documents,--one containing the articles drawn up by the
Provisional Government and Mr. Wigsby; the other, the genuine narrative
of a spectator.
DEAR CHARLES,
The events of the last few hours, since I closed my minute narration,
are pregnant with fate; and no words that I can utter on paper will
give you an idea of their interest. Up to the hour at which I closed
my sheet, anxiety regulated the movement of every watchful bosom; but
since then, the approaches to tranquillity have met with barriers
and interruptions. To the meditative mind, these popular paroxysms
have their desolating deductions. Oh, my Charles, I myself am almost
sunk into an Agitator--so much do we take the colour from the dye in
which our reasoning faculties are steeped. I stop the press--yes,
Charles--I stop the press of circumstances to say, that a dawn of the
Pacific is gleaming over the Atlantic of our disturbances; and I am
enabled, by the kindness of Constable Adams, to send you a Copy of the
Preliminaries, which are pretty well agreed upon, and only wait to be
ratified. I close my letter in haste. That peace may descend on the
Olive Tree of Stoke Pogis, is the earnest prayer of, &c.
H. J. P.
P.S.--Show the articles to Edward. He will, with his benevolence, at
once see that they are indeed precious articles for Stoke Pogis.
CONDITIONS.
1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed their
thirds, and Novembers their fifths.
2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and their
persons respected.
3. That no arson be allowed, but all bonfires shall be burnt by the
common hangman.
4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the place.
5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame Hengler, in a
cartridge box.
6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.
7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorised to stand
no nonsense.
8. That his Majesty’s mail be permitted to pass on the night in
question.
9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish expense.
10. That the ashes of old bonfires be never raked up.
(_Signed_) { WAGSTAFF, High Constable.
{ WIGSBY.
[Illustration: AN ANTI-CLIMAX.]
_Narrowtiv of a High Whitness who seed everything proceed out of a
Back-winder up Fore Pears to Mrs. Humphris._