before me. The hole Parrish is throne into a pannikin! The Revelations
has reeched Stock Poggis--and the people is riz agin the King’s Rain,
and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and
Me as bean siting abscondingly at the tiptop of the Hows crying for
lowness. We have lockd our too selves in the back Attical Rome, and
nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like the Frentch
Plot--sum say sum thing moor arter the Dutch Patten is on the car-pit,
and if so we shall Be flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them
Brown holland brum gals!
Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mister
Higgins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus!--All riotism and
hubbub.--There is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the Hows.
The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long winders.
Poor man!--for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in his shews!
I hobserve Mr. Tuder’s bauld Hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, and so
is Mister Waggstaff the Constable, considdering his rhummatiz has only
left one Harm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He and his men
air staving the mobb’s heds to make them Suppurate. They are trying to
Custardise the Ringleders. But as yet hav Captivated Noboddy. There
is no end to accidence. Three insensible boddis are Carrion over the
way on Three Cheers, but weather Naybers or Gyes is dubbious. Master
Gollop, too, is jest gone By on one of his Ant’s Shuters, with a Bunch
of exploded Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. and Me
tremble like Axle trees, for our Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open
Winder they sliped out. With sich Broils in the Street who nose what
Scraps they may git into.
Mister J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate agin the mobb; and
I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. Mrs. Griggs is
in the Sam state of Singularity as meself. Onely think, Mrs. H., of
two Loan Wimin looken Down on such a Heifervescence, and as Hignorant
as the unbiggotted Babe of the state of our Husbandry! to had to our
Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean. No moor as the Backer, and We
shold here Nothing if Mister Higgins handn’t hollowed up Fore Storys.
What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as reffused to Reed the Riot
Ax, and the Town Clark is no Schollard! Isn’t that a bad Herring!
[Illustration: BREAKING THE NEWS.]
O Mrs. Humphris! It is umpossible to throe one’s hies from one End
of Stock Poggis to the other, without grate Pane. Nothing is seed
but Wivs asking for Huzbinds--nothing is heard but childerin looking
for Farthers. Mr. Hatband the Undertacker as jist bean squibed and
obligated for safeness to inter his own Hows. Mr. Higgins blames the
unflexable Stubbleness of the Mare and says a littel timely Concussion
wood have been of Preventive Servis. Haven nose! For my Part I don’t
believe all the Concussion on Hearth wood hav prevented. the Regolater
bein scarified by a Squib and runnin agin the Rockit--or that it could
unshatter Pore Master Gollop, or Squentch Wider Welsh’s rix of Haze
witch is now Flamming and smocking in two volumes. The ingins as been,
but could not Play for want of Pips witch is too often the Case with
Parrish inginuity. Wile affares are in this friteful Posture, thank
Haven I have one grate comfit. Mr. J. is cum back on his legs from
Twelve to won tired in the extreams with being a Standing Army, and his
Uniformity spatterdashed all over. He says his hone saving was onely
thro leaving His retrenchments.
[Illustration: THE EAGLE ASSURANCE.]
Pore Mr. Griggs has cum In atter his Wif in a state of grate
exaggeration. He says the Boys hav maid a Bone Fire of his garden fence
and Pales upon Pales can’t put it out. Severil Shells of a bomastic
nater as been picked up in his Back Yard and the old Cro’s nest as bean
Perpetrated rite thro by a Rockit. We hay sent out the def Shopmun to
here wait he can and he says their is so Manny Crackers going he dont
no witch report to Belive, but the Fishmongerers has Cotchd and with
all his Stock compleatly Guttid. The Brazers next Dore is lickwise
in Hashes,--but it is hopped he as assurance enuf to cover him All
over.--They say nothing can save the Dwellins adjourning. O Mrs. H.
how greatful ought J and I to bee that our hone Premiss and propperty
is next to nothing! The effex of the lit on Bildings is marvulous. The
Turrit of St. Magnum Bonum is quit clear and you can tell wat Time it
is by the Clock verry planely only it stands!
The noise is enuf to Drive won deleterious! Too Specious Conestabbles
is persewing littel Tidmash down the Hi Street, and sho grate
fermness, but I trembel for the Pelisse. Peple drops in with New News
every Momentum. Sum say All is Lost--and the Town Criar is missin.
Mrs. Griggs is quite retched at herein five littel Boys is throwd
off a spirituous Cob among the Catherend Weals. But I hope it wants
cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed has had his hies Blasted by sum
blowd Gun Powder. You Mrs. H. are Patrimonial, and may supose how these
flying rummers Upsetts a Mothers Speerits.
O Mrs. Humphris how I envy you that is not tossing on the ragging
bellows of these Flatulent Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic
Govininent in such Sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padington. May
you never go thro such Transubstantiation as I hav bean riting in!
Things that stood for Sentries as bean removed in a Minuet--and the
verry effigis of wat was venerablest is now burning in Bone Fires.
The Worshipfull chaer is emty. The Mare as gon off clandestiny with a
pare of Hossis, and without his diner. They say he complanes that his
Corperation did not stik to him as it shold have dun But went over
to the other Side. Pore Sole--in sich a case I dont wunder he lost
his Stommich. Yisterday he was at the summut of Pour. Them that ours
ago ware enjoying parrish officiousness as been turnd out of there
Dignittis! Mr. Barber says in futer all the Perukial Authoritis will be
Wigs.
Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Ministir think of Stock
Poggis’s constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer Mrs.
Humphris most frendly and trully
BRIDGET JONES.
[Illustration: TUMULTUM IN PARVO.]
THE FURLOUGH.
AN IRISH ANECDOTE.
“Time was called.”--BOXIANA.
In the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister
kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out,
I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the
following incident.
I was standing one morning at the window of “mine Inn,” when my
attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The
Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat
a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of
the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman,
seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or
sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to
descend from his seat on the coach.
“Come down wid ye, Thady,”--the speaker was the old woman--“come down
now to your ould mother. Sure it’s flog ye they will, and strip the
flesh off the bones I give ye. Come down, Thady, darlin!”
“It’s honour, mother,” was the short reply of the soldier; and with
clenched hands and set teeth he took a stiffer posture on the coach.
“Thady, come down--come down, ye fool of the world--come along down wid
ye!” The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory
than the last; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced:
“It’s honour, brother!” and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly
erect than ever on the roof.
“Oh Thady, come down; sure it’s me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye.
Come down, or ye’ll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down
then!” The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast a look
upward, that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier’s
countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the
same resolution as before.
“It’s honour, honour bright, Kathleen!” and as if to defend himself
from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the
renewed entreaties burst from all the three in chorus, with the same
answer.
“Come down, Thady, honey!--Thady, ye fool, come down!--Oh Thady, come
down to me!”
“It’s honour, mother!--It’s honour, brother!--Honour bright, my own
Kathleen!”
Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that
I did not hesitate to go down and enquire into the particulars of the
distress. It appeared that he had been home, on Furlough, to visit his
family,--and having exceeded as he thought the term of his leave, he
was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his
neglect. I asked him when the Furlough expired.
“The First of March, your honour--bad luck to it of all the black days
in the world,--and here it is come sudden on me like a shot!”
“The first of March!--why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare
then,--the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is Leap
Year, and February has twenty-nine days.”
The soldier was thunderstruck.--“Twenty-nine days, is it--You’re sartin
of that same!--Oh, Mother, Mother!--the Divil fly away wid yere ould
Almanack--a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so
long in the family of us!”
His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and
throw up his cap, with a loud Hurrah!--His second was to throw himself
into the arms of his Kathleen, and the third, was to wring my hand off
in acknowledgment.
“It’s a happy man I am, your Honour, for my word’s saved, and all by
your Honour’s manes--Long life to your Honour for the same!--May ye
live a long hundred--and lape-years every one of them!”
[Illustration: SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.]
NUMBER ONE.
VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.
It’s very hard!--and so it is,
To live in such a row,
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau.
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I’m sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One!
I’m sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!
At Number Three, I often see
A Lover at the door:
And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun,--
It’s very hard they come so near
And not to Number One!
Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,
By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,
Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don’t take at Number One!
’Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by,--
There’s nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;
And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,
But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!
There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he’s intent on pelf,
And though he’s pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.
At Number Seven there was a sale--
The goods had quite a run!
And here I’ve got my single lot
On hand at Number One!
My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days.
The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun;
The Sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One!
Once only when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can’t he come again without
The Phœnix and the Sun!
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!
I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait--
I am not crooked, like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I’m sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun--
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!
At Number Six they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun!
But if he had, he’d never deign
To shoot with Number One.
It’s very hard, and so it is
To live in such a row!
And here a ballad singer comes
To aggravate my woe.
Oh take away your foolish song
And tones enough to stun--
There is “Nae luck about the house,”
I know, at Number One!
A DOUBLE KNOCK.
THE DROWNING DUCKS.
Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond
Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than others--
Were little ducklings in the pond,
Swimming about beside their mothers--
Small things like living water lilies,
But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.
“It’s very hard,” she used to moan,
“That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters--mine alone
Have never any pretty chucklings.”
For why!--each little yellow navy
Went down--all downy--to old Davy!
She had a lake--a pond I mean--
Its wave was rather thick than pearly--
She had two ducks, their napes were green--
She had a drake, his tail was curly,--
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!
The birds were both the best of mothers--
The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck--
The infant D.’s came forth like others--
But there, alas! the matter stuck!
They might as well have all died addle,
As die when they began to paddle!
For when, as native instinct taught her,
The mother set her brood afloat,
They sank ere long right under water,
Like any overloaded boat;
They were web-footed too to see,
As ducks and spiders ought to be!
No peccant humour in a gander
Brought havoc on her little folks,--
No poaching cook--a frying pander
To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,--
Beneath her very eyes, Od’ rot ’em!
They went like plummets to the bottom.
The thing was strange--a contradiction
It seemed of nature and her works!
For little ducks, beyond conviction,
Should float without the help of corks:
Great Johnson it bewildered him!
To hear of ducks that could not swim.
Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do
But change the breed--and she tried divers,
Which dived as all seemed born to do;
No little ones were e’er survivors--
Like those that copy gems, I’m thinking,
They all were given to die-sinking!
In vain their downy coats were shorn:
They floundered still,--Batch after batch went!
The little fools seemed only born
And hatched for nothing but a hatchment!
Whene’er they launched--oh sight of wonder!
Like fires the water “got them under!”
No woman ever gave their lucks
A better chance than Mrs. Bond did;
At last quite out of heart and ducks,
She gave her pond up and desponded;
For Death among the water lilies,
Cried “_Duc_ ad me,” to all her dillies.
But though resolved to breed no more,
She brooded often on this riddle--
Alas! twas darker than before!
At last, about the summer’s middle,
What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,
To clear the matter up the sun did!
The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drank
So deep his furious tongue to cool,
The shallow waters sank and sank,
And lo, from out the wasted pool,
Too hot to hold them any longer,
There crawled some eels as big as conger!
I wish all folks would look a bit,
In such a case below the surface;
But when the eels were caught and split
By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face,
In each inside at once to spy
A ducking turned to giblet pie!
The sight at once explained the case.
Making the Dame look rather silly,
The tenants of that _Eely Place_
Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_,
And so by under-water suction,
Had wrought the little ducks’ abduction.
[Illustration: A POACHER.]
[Illustration: TOO COLD TO BEAR.]
AN ASSENT TO THE SUMMUT OF MOUNT BLANK.
It was on the 1st of Augst,--I remember by my wags cumming dew, and
I wanted to be riz,--that Me and master maid our minds up to the
Mounting. I find Master as oppend an acount with the Keep Sack--but as
that is a cut abov, and rit in by only Lords and Laddies, I am reduced
to a Peer in the pagis of the Comick Anual--Mr H giving leaves.
Wile we waited at Sham Money, our minds sevral tims misgiv, but
considdring only twelve Gentelmen and never a footmun had bin up,
we determind to make ourselves particler, and so highered gides to
sho us up. For a long tim the whether was dout full weather--first
it snew--then thew--and then friz--and that was most agreeabil for a
tempting. The first thing I did was to change my blew and wite livry,
as I guest we shood hav enuf of blew and wite on the mounting--but put
on a dred nort for fear of every thing--takin care to hav my pockets
well cramd with sand witches, and, as proved arterwards, they broke
my falls very much when I slipd on my bred and ams. The land Lord was
so kind as lend me His green gaws tap room blind for my eyes, and I
recumend no boddy to go up any Snowhill without green vales--for the
hice dazls like winkin. Sum of the gides wanted me to ware a sort of
crimpt skaits, but thoght my feet would be the stifer for a cramp
on--and declind binding any think xcept my list garters round my Shews.
I did all this by advize of John Maly Cuthay the Chief Gide, who had
bin 8 tims up to every think. Thus a tired we sit out, on our feat,
like Capting Paris, with our Nor poles in our hands,--Master in verry
good sperrits, and has for me I was quit ellivatted to think what a
figger the Summut of Mount Blank wood cut down the airys of Portland
Plaice.
Arter sliping and slidding for ours, we cum to the first principle
Glazier. To give a correct noshun, let any won suppose a man in
fustions with a fraim and glass and puttey and a dimond pensel, and its
quit the revers of that. It’s the sam with the Mare of Glass. If you
dont think of a mare or any think maid of glass you have it xactly. We
was three ours gitting over the Glazier, and then come to the Grand
Mullets, ware oar beds was bespoak--that is, nothing but clean sheats
of sno,--and never a warmin pan. To protect our heds we struck our
poles agin the rock, with a cloath over them, but it looked like a
verry little tent to so much mounting. There we was,--all Sno with us
Sollitory figgers atop. Nothink can give the sublime idear of it but a
twelf Cake.
The Gides pinted out from hear the Pick de Middy, but I was too cold to
understand Frentch--and we see a real Shammy leeping, as Master sed,
from scrag to scrag, and from pint to pint, for vittles and drink--but
to me it looked like jumpin a bout to warm him self. His springs in the
middel of Winter I realy beleave as uncredible. Nothink else was muving
xcept Havelaunches, witch is stupendus Sno balls in high situations,
as leaves their plaices without warnin, and makes a deal of mischief in
howses and famlies. We shot of our pistle, but has it maid little or no
noise, didnt ear the remarkbly fine ekko.
We dind at the Grand Mullets on cold foul and a shivver of am, with
a little O de Colon, agen stomical pans. Wat was moor cumfortble we
found haf a bottel of brandey, left behind by sum one before, and by
way of return we left behind a littel crewit of Chilly Viniger for the
next cummer, whoever he mite be or not. Alter this repass’d we went to
our sublime rests, I may say, in the Wurld’s garrits, up 150 pare of
stares. As faling out of Bed was dangerus, we riz a wal of stons on
each side. Knowing how comfortble Master sleeps at Home, I regretted
his unaccommodation, and partickly as he was verry restless, and every
tim he stird kickd me about the Hed. I laid awack a good wile thinking
how littel Farther, down in Summerset Sheer, thoght I was up in Mount
Blank Sheer; but at long and last I went of like a top, and dremt of
Summuts. Won may sleep on wus pillers than Nap Sacks.
Next mornin we riz erly, having still a good deal to git up, and
skrambled on agin, by crivises and crax as maid our flesh crawl on
hands and nees to look at. Master wanted to desend in a crack, but
as he mite not git up in a crack agin, his letting himself down was
unrecomended. Arter menny ours works, we cum to the Grand Plato. Master
called it a vast Amphi-Theater; and so it is, except Du-Crow and the
Horses and evry thing. Hear we brekfisted, but was surprizd at our
stomicks not having moor hedges, Master only eting a Chickin wing,
and me only eting all the rest. We had littel need to not eat,--the
most uneasy part to go was to cum. In about too ours we cum to a Sno
wall, up rite as high as St. Paul’s; that maid us cum to an alt, and
I cood not help saying out, Wat is only too human legs to 200 feet!
Howsumever, after a bottel of Wine we was abel to proceed in a zig zag
direxion,--the Gides axing the way, and cutting steps afore. After a
deal of moor white slavery, we sucsided in gitting up to the Mounting’s
top, and no body can hav a distant idea of it, but them as is there.
Such Sno! And ice enuf to serve all the Fish Mungers, and the grate
Routs till the end of the Wurld!
I regrets my joy at cumming to the top maid me forget all I ment to do
at it; and in partickler to thro a tumble over hed and heals, as was
my mane object in going up. Howsumever, I shall allways be abel to say
Me and Master as bin to the Summut of Mount Blank, and so has a little
butterfly. I ought to mension the curiousness of seeing one there, but
we did not ketch it, as it was too far abov us.
We dissented down in much shorter time, and without anny axident xcept
Masters sliding telliscope, witch roled of the ice. Wen we cum agin to
Sham Money, the Land Lord askd our names to be rit in the book, as was
dun, by Mr. W. in prose, but by me in poetry--
“Mount Blank is very hard to be cum at,
But Me and Master as bin to its Summut.”
“JOHN JONES.”
[Illustration: FIGURING IN THE ALBUM OF MONT BLANC.]
[Illustration: SEA CONSUMPTION--WAISTING AWAY.]
SALLY SIMPKIN’S LAMENT.
OR, JOHN JONES’S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.
“He left his body to the sea,
And made a shark his legatee.”
BRYAN AND PERENNE.
“Oh? what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
“It is not painted to the life,
For where’s the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear!--oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?”
“Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,--
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
“Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I’ve been bit in two.
“You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass--for now to you
I’m neither here nor there.
“Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!
“Don’t fear my ghost will walk o’ nights
To haunt as people say;
My ghost _can’t_ walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
“Lord! think, when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a _half_,
Without ‘a _quarter’s_ notice.’
“One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
“But now, adieu--a long adieu!
I’ve solved death’s awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!”
[Illustration: NO BANKRUPT, THOUGH I BREAKS.]
A HORSE-DEALER