punster. When he giveth his word it signifieth little, howbeit it
standeth for two significations. He putteth his promises like his
colts in a break. Over his mouth, Truth, like the turnpike man, writeth
up No Trust. Whenever he speaketh, his spoke hath more turns than the
fore-wheel. He telleth lies, not white only, or black, but likewise
gray, bay, chestnut-brown, cream, and roan--piebald and skewbald. He
sweareth as many oaths out of court as any man, and more in; for he
will swear two ways about a horse’s dam. If, by God’s grace, he be
something honest, it is only a dapple, for he can be fair and unfair
at once. He hath much imagination, for he selleth a complete set of
capital harness, of which there be no traces. He advertiseth a coach,
warranted on its first wheels, and truly the hind pair are wanting to
the bargain. A carriage that hath travelled twenty summers and winters,
he describeth well-seasoned. He knocketh down machine horses that
have been knocked up on the road, but is so tender of heart to his
animals that he parteth with none for a fault; “for,” as he sayeth,
“blindness or lameness be misfortunes.” A nag, proper only for dog’s
meat, he writeth down, but crieth up, “fit to go to any hounds;” or,
as may be, “would suit a timid gentleman.” String-halt he calleth
“grand action,” and kicking, “lifting the feet well up.” If a mare
have the farcical disease, he nameth her “out of Comedy,” and selleth
Blackbird for a racer because he hath a running thrush. Horses that
drink only water, he justly warranteth to be “temperate,” and if dead
lame, declareth them “good in all their paces,” seeing that they can
go but one. Roaring he calleth “sound,” and a steed that high bloweth
in running, he compareth to Eclipse, for he oustrippeth the wind.
Another might be entered at a steeplechase, for why--he is as fast as
a church. Thoroughpin with him is synonymous with “perfect leg.” If a
nag cougheth, ’tis “a clever hack.” If his knees be fractured, he is
“well broke for gig or saddle.” If he reareth, he is “above sixteen
hands high.” If he hath drawn a tierce in a cart he is a good fencer.
If he biteth, he shows good courage; and he is playful merely, though
he should play the devil. If he runneth away, he calleth him “off the
Gretna Road, and has been used to carry a lady.” If a cob stumbleth, he
considereth him a true goer, and addeth “The proprietor parteth from
him to go abroad.” Thus, without much profession of religion, yet is
he truly Christian-like in practice, for he dealeth not in detraction,
and would not disparage the character even of a brute. Like unto Love,
he is blind unto all blemishes, and seeth only a virtue, meanwhile he
gazeth at a vice. He taketh the kick of a nag’s hoof like a love token,
saying only, before standers-by, “Poor fellow,--he knoweth me!”--and
is content rather to pass as a bad rider, than that the horse should
he held restive or over-mettlesome which discharges him from its back.
If it hath bitten him beside, and moreover bruised his limb against a
coach-wheel, then, constantly returning good for evil, he giveth it but
the better character, and recommendeth it before all the studs in his
stable. In short, the worse a horse may be, the more he chanteth his
praise, like a crow that croweth over Old Ball, whose lot it is on a
common to meet with the Common Lot.
[Illustration: REAR ADMIRAL.]
[Illustration: THE FALL OF ST. LAWRENCE.]
THE FALL.
“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”
COUNT FATHOM.
Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope
And, upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope;
While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss;
One--only one--hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!
Oh, Heaven! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!
In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current’s might:
On--on--still on--direct for doom, the river rushed in force,
And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course.
My eyes I closed--I dared not look the way towards the goal;
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore,
And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore;
Plainly,--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound,
The torrent’s voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering
round.
Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet:
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy
edge,
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to
ledge,
From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep;
I did not die,--but anguish stunned my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o’er my mind;
And through my brain there thrilled a cry,--a cry as shrill as
birds’
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:--
“It’s Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares!
He’s been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs!”
[Illustration: A CATARACT.]
THE ILLUMINATI.
“Light, I say, light.”--OTHELLO.
Those who have peeped into the portfolios of Mr. Geoffrey Crayon,
will easily remember his graphic sketches of a locality called Little
Britain--and his amusing portraits of its two leading families,
the Lambs and the Trotters. I imagine the deserved popularity of
the draughtsman made him much in request at routs, soirées, and
conversazioni, or so acute an observer would not have failed to notice
a nocturnal characteristic of the same neighbourhood,--I mean the
frequent and alarming glares of light that illuminate its firmament;
but in spite of which, no parish engine rumbles down the steps of
St. Botolph, the fire-ladders hang undisturbed in their chains, and
the turn-cock smokes placidly in the tap-room of the Rose-and-Crown.
For this remarkable apathy, my own more domestic habits enable me to
account.
It is the fortune, or misfortune, of the house where I lodge to
confront that of Mr. Wix, “Wax and Tallow Chandler to his Majesty;” and
certainly no individual ever burned so much to evince his loyalty. He
and his windows are always framing an excuse for an illumination.
The kindling aptitude ascribed to Eupyrions, and Lucifers, and Chlorate
Matches, is nothing to his. Contrary to Hoyle’s rules for loo,--a
single court card is sufficient with him for “a blaze.” He knows and
keeps the birthdays of all royal personages, and shows by tallow
in tins how they wax in years. As sure as the Park guns go off in
the morning, he fires his six-pounders in the evening; as sure as a
newsman’s horn is sounded in the street, it blows the same spark into
a flame.--In some cases his inflammability was such, he has been known
to ignite, and exhibit fire, where he should have shed water. He was
once--it is still a local joke--within an ace of rejoicing at Marr’s
Murder.
During the long War he was really a nuisance, and what is worse, not
indictable. For one not unused to the melting mood, he was strangely
given to rejoicing. Other people were content to light up for the great
victories, but he commemorated the slightest skirmishes. In civil
events the same, whether favourable to Whig or Tory. Like the lover
of Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray, he divided his flame between them.--He
lighted when the administration of the Duke of Wellington came in, and
he lighted when it went out,--in short, it seemed, as with the Roman
Catholics, that candle-burning was a part of his religion, and that he
had got his religion itself from an illuminated missal.
To aggravate this propensity, Mr. Sperm, the great oil merchant, lives
nearly opposite to Mr. Wix, and his principle and his interest coincide
exactly with those of his neighbour. Mr. Sperm possesses a very large
star,--and, like certain managers, he brings it forward as often as he
can. He is quite as lax in his political creed as the chandler, and
will light up on the lightest occasions,--for instance, let there be
but a peal of bells, and the Genius of the Ring directly invokes the
Genius of the Lamp. In short, Mr. Wix and Mr. Sperm both resemble the
same thing--a merchant-man getting rid of goods by means of lighters.
As the other inhabitants do not always choose to follow the example of
these two--I have known our illuminations to be very select--the great
oil and tallow establishments blazing all alone in their glory. On
other occasions--for instance, the rejoicings for that bill which Lord
L. calls a Bill of Panes and Penalties--I have seen our street assume
the motley appearance of a chessboard, alternately dark and bright--to
say nothing of Mrs. Frampton’s lodging-house, where every tenant was
of a different sentiment,--and the several floors afforded a striking
example of the Clare Obscure.
Among general illuminations, I remember none more so than the one on
the accession of his late Majesty--but what so universally brightened
the Great Britain might be expected to light the Little one. It was in
reality an unrivalled exhibition of its kind, and I propose therefore
to give some account of it, the situation of my apartment having
afforded unusual opportunities--for it is at the angle of a corner
house and thus while its easterly windows stare into those of the
Rumbold family, its northern ones squint aside into the sashes of that
elderly spinster Miss Winter.
It must have been an extreme fit of loyalty that put such a thought
into the penurious mind of Miss W., but she resolved for once in her
life to illuminate. I could see her at a large dining-table--so called
by courtesy, for it never dined--reviewing a regiment of glass custard
cups, so called also by courtesy, for they never held custard--and
another division of tall jelly glasses, equally unknown to jellies.
I might have thought that she meant for once to give a very light
supper, had I not seen her fill them all with oil from a little tin
can, and afterwards she furnished them with a floating wick. They were
then ranged on the window-frame, alternately tall and short; and after
this costly preparation, which, by the heaving of her neckerchief, she
visibly sighed over, she folded her arms demurely before her, and, by
the light of her solitary rush taper, sat down to await the extravagant
call of “Light-up!”
The elder Miss Rumbold--the parents were out of town--was not idle
in the mean time. She packed all the little R.’s off to bed--(I did
not see them have any supper)--and then, having got rid of the family
branches, began on the tin ones. She had fixed her head quarters in
the drawing-room, from whence I saw Caroline and Henry detached, with
separate parcels of tins and candles, to do the same office for the
floors above and below. But no such luck! After a while, the street
door gently opened, and forth sneaked the two deserters, of course to
see better illuminations than their own. At the slam of the door behind
them Miss Rumbold comprehended the full calamity: first, she threw up
her arms, then her eyes, then clenched her teeth and then her hands;
going through all the pantomime for distress of mind--but she had no
time for grieving, and indeed but little for rejoicing. Mr. Wix’s was
beginning to glitter. Tearing up and down stairs like a lamplighter on
his ladder, she furnished all the blank windows, and then returned to
the drawing-room; and what was evidently her favourite fancy, she had
completed and hung up two festoons of artificial flowers; but alas!
her stock on hand fell short a whole foot of the third window--I am
afraid for want of the very bouquet in Caroline’s bonnet. Removing the
unfortunate garlands, she rushed out full speed, and the next moment I
saw her in the story above, rapidly unpapering her curls, and making
herself as fit as time allowed, to sit in state in the drawing-room, by
the light of twenty-seven long sixes.
[Illustration: ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS.]
A violent uproar now recalled my attention to Number 29, where the mob
had begun to call out to Miss Winter for her Northern Lights. Miss W.
was at her post, and rushed with her rush to comply with the demand;
but a sudden twitter of nervousness aggravating her old palsy, she
could not persuade her wavering taper to alight on any one of the
cottons. There was a deal of coquetting indeed between wick and wick,
but nothing like a mutual flame. In vain the thin lover-like candle
kept hovering over its intended, and shedding tears of grease at every
repulse; not a glimmer replied to its glance, till at last, weary of
love and light, it fairly leaped out of its tin socket, and drowned its
own twinkle in a tall jelly-glass. The patience of the mob, already
of a thin texture, was torn to rags by this conclusion; they saw that
if she would, Miss Winter never _could_ illuminate: but as this was
an unwelcome truth, they broke it to her with a volley of stones that
destroyed her little Vauxhall in a moment, and in a twinkle left her
nothing to twinkle with!
Shocked at this catastrophe, I turned with some anxiety to Miss
Rumbold’s, but with admirable presence of mind she had lighted
every alternate candle in her windows, and was thus able to present
a respectable front at a short notice. The mob, however, made as
much uproar as at Miss Winter’s, though the noise was different in
character, and more resembled the boisterous merriment which attends
upon Punch. In fact Miss Rumbold had a Fantoccini over head she little
dreamt of. Awakened by the unusual light, the younger Rumbolds had
rushed from bed to the window, where, exhilarated by childish spirits
and the appearance of a gala, they had got up an extempore Juvenile
Ball, and were dancing with all their might in their little nightcaps
and nightgowns. In vain the unconscious Matilda pointed to her candles,
and added her own private pair from the table to the centre window; in
vain she wrung her hands, or squeezed them on her bosom: the more she
protested in dumb show, the more the mob shouted; and the more the mob
shouted, the wilder the imps jigged about. At last Matilda seemed to
take some hint; she vanished from the drawing-room like a Ghost, and
reappeared like a Fury in the nursery--a pair of large hands vigorously
flourished and flogged--the heels of the Corps de Ballet flew up higher
than their heads--the mob shouted louder than ever--and exeunt omnes.
This interlude being over, the rabble moved on to Mr. Wix’s, whose
every window, as usual, shone “like nine good deeds in a naughty
world,” and he obtained nine cheers for the display. Poor Mr. Sperm
was not so fortunate. He had been struggling manfully with a sharp
nor-wester to light up his star, but one obstinate limb persisted in
showing which way the wind blew. It was a point not to be gained,
and though far from red hot, it caused a hiss that reached even to
Number 14, and frightened all the Flowerdews. Number 14, as the Clown
expresses it in Twelfth Night, was “as lustrous as ebony.” In vain Mrs.
Flowerdew pleaded from one window, and Mr. Flowerdew harangued from
the other, while Flowerdew junior hammered and tugged at the space
between; the glaziers and their friends unglazed everything; and I hope
the worthy family, the next time they have a Crown and Anchor, will
remember to have them the right side uppermost. Green and yellow lamps
decline to hang upon hooks that are topsy-turvy, and the blue and red
are just as particular.
I forgot to say that during the past proceedings, my eyes had
frequently glanced towards Number 28. Its occupier, Mr. Brookbank, was
in some remote way connected with the royal household, and had openly
expressed his intention of surprising Little Britain. And in truth
Little Britain was surprised enough, when it beheld at Mr. Brookbank’s
nothing but a few sorry flambeaux: he talked to the mob, indeed, of
a transparency of Peace and Plenty, but as they could see no sign of
either, and they had plenty of stones, they again broke the peace. I am
sorry to say that in this instance the mob were wrong, for there _was_
a transparency, but as it was lighted from the outer side, Mr. B.’s
Peace and Plenty smiled on nobody but himself.
There was only one more disorder, and it occurred at the very house
that I help to inhabit. Not that we were dim by any means, for we had
been liberal customers to Mr. Sperm and to Mr. Wix: the tallow of one
flared in all our panes, and the oil of the other fed a brilliant W. P.
Alas! it was these fiery initials, enigmatical as those at Belshazzar’s
banquet, that caused all our troubles. The million could make out the
meaning of the W, but the other letter, divided in conjecture among
them, was literally a split P. Curiosity increased to furiosity, and
what might have happened nobody only knows, if my landlady had not
proclaimed that her W had spent such a double allowance of lamps, that
her R had been obliged to retrench.
[Illustration: IGNIS FATUUS.]
To aid her oratory, the rabble were luckily attracted from our own
display by a splendour greater even than usual at Number 9. The
warehouseman of Mr. Wix--_like Master like Man_--had got up an
illumination of his own, by leaving a firebrand among the tallow, that
soon caused the breaking out of an insurrection in Grease, and where
candles had hitherto been lighted only by Retail, they were now ignited
by Wholesale; or as my landlady said,--“All the fat was in the fire!”
I ventured to ask her when all was over, what she thought of the
lighting-up, and she gave me her opinion in the following sentiment, in
the prayer of which I most heartily concur. “Illuminations,” she said,
“were very pretty things to look at, and no doubt new Kings ought to be
illuminated; but what with the toil, and what with the oil, and what
with the grease, and what with the mob, she hoped it would be long,
very long, before we had a new King again!”
SONNET.
Along the Woodford road there comes a noise
Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding’s neat postchaise
Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays,
With Rev. Mr. Crow and six small Boys;
Who ever and anon declare their joys,
With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas,
At going home to spend their Christmas days,
And changing Learning’s pains for Pleasure’s toys.
Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way,
A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls,
But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray;
The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls,
And little Boys walk in as dull and mum
As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb.
THE STEAM SERVICE.
“Life is but a _kittle_ cast.”--BURNS.
[Illustration: THE JACK OF HEARTS.]
The time is not yet come--but come it will--when the masts of our Royal
Navy shall be unshipped, and huge unsightly chimneys be erected in
their place. The trident will be taken out of the hand of Neptune, and
replaced by the effigy of a red hot poker; the Union Jack will look
like a smoke-jack; and Lambtons, Russels, and Adairs, will be made
Admirals of the Black; the forecastle will be called the Newcastle,
and the cockpit will be termed the coal-pit; a man-of-war’s tender
will be nothing but a Shields’ collier: first lieutenants will have to
attend lectures on the steam-engine, and midshipmen must take lessons
as climbing boys in the art of sweeping flues. In short, the good old
tune of “Rule Britannia,” will give way to “Polly put the Kettle on;”
while the Victory, the Majestic, and the Thunderer of Great Britain
will “paddle in the burn,” like the Harlequin, the Dart, and the Magnet
of Margate.
It will be well for our song writers to bear a wary eye to the Fleet,
if they would prosper as Marine Poets. Some sea Gurney may get a seat
at the Admiralty Board, and then farewell, a long farewell, to the old
ocean imagery; marine metaphor will require a new figure-head. Flowing
sheets, snowy wings, and the old comparison of a ship to a bird, will
become obsolete and out of date! Poetical topsails will be taken aback,
and all such things as reefs and double reefs will be shaken out of
song. For my own part, I cannot be sufficiently thankful that I have
not sought a Helicon of salt water; or canvassed the Nine Muses as a
writer for their Marine Library; or made Pegasus a sea-horse, when
sea-horses as well as land-horses are equally likely to be superseded
by steam. After such a consummation, when the sea service, like the
tea service, will depend chiefly on boiling water, it is very doubtful
whether the Fleet will be worthy of anything but plain prose. I have
tried to adapt some of our popular blue ballads to the boiler, and
Dibdin certainly does not steam quite so well as a potato. However, if
his Sea Songs are to be in immortal use, they will have to be revised
and corrected in future editions thus:--
I _steamed_ from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she _smoked_ through the breeze.
She’s a vessel as tight to my fancy
As ever _boil’d_ through the salt seas.
* * * * *
When up the _flue_ the sailor goes
And ventures on the _pot_,
The landsman, he no better knows,
But thinks hard is his lot.
Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Weighs anchor, lights the log;
_Trims up the fire, picks out the slates_,
And drinks his can of grog.
* * * * *
Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
’Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
But a _Boulton and Watt_ and good _Wall’s-end_ give me;
And it an’t to a little I’ll strike.
Though the tempest our _chimney_ smack smooth shall down smite,
And shiver each _bundle_ of wood;
Clear the wreck, _stir the fire_, and stow everything tight,
And _boiling a gallop_ we’ll scud.
I have cooked Stevens’s, or rather Incledon’s Storm in the same way;
but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing.
Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand;
Now it freshens,--blow like blazes;
Now unto the coal-hole go;
Stir, boys, stir, don’t mind black faces,
Up your ashes nimbly throw.
Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,
See the valve is clear of course;
Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,
Oil the engines, see all clear;
Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.
Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes the paddles splash.
One wide water all around us,
All above one smoke-black sky:
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry?
[Illustration: ALL UP.]
The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out,
The engineer’s washed off the deck:
A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung out
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,
Four feet water getting cold.
While o’er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there’s no retreating;
Alas! to them there’s no return.
The fire is out--we’ve burst the bellows,
The tinder-box is swamped below;
Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,
For only that can serve us now!
Devoutly do I hope that the kettle, though a great vocalist, will never
thus appropriate the old Sea Songs of England. In the words of an old
Greenwich pensioner--“Steamin and biling does very well for _Urn_ Bay,
and the likes;” but the craft does not look regular and shipshape to
the eye of a tar who has sailed with Duncan, Howe, and Jarvis--and who
would rather even go without _port_ than have it through a _funnel_.
[Illustration: FOR CORK.]
A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
“Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a
golden ladle.”--GOLDSMITH.
“Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver
ones.”--SILVERSMITH.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
and left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer?
My Father.
Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin?”
My Mother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home--and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And when I played cried “What a noise”--
Girls always hector over boys--
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head, and said “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr’d me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief,
Or shared my joy--my sole relief?
Myself.
A VALENTINE.
THE WEATHER. To P. MURPHY, Esq., M.N.S.
These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric
action.
Dear Murphy, to improve her charms,
Your servant humbly begs;
She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.
Moreover, as you promise folks
On certain days a drizzle;
She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to _mizzle_.
Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot “fork it out,”
She’ll wish to make a _bolt_!
[Illustration: WETHER WISE.]
[Illustration: BID ME DISCOURSE.]
THE ELLAND MEETING.