and before he pronounced the last word she was in his lap, with an
assurance that she would sit as lightsome as she could. Both parties
seemed very well pleased with the arrangement; but to judge according
to the rules of Lavater, the rest of the company were but ill at ease.
For my own part, I candidly confess I was equally out of humour with
myself and the person who had set me such an example of gallantry. I,
who had read the lays of the Troubadours--the awards of the old “Courts
of Love,”--the lives of the “preux Chevaliers”--the history of Sir
Charles Grandison--to be outdone in courtesy to the sex by a married
stockbroker! How I grudged him the honour she conferred upon him--how I
envied his feelings!
I did not stand alone, I suspect, in this unjustifiable jealousy.
Messrs. Jones, Hindmarsh, Tidwell, and Parsons, seemed equally
disinclined to forgive the chivalrous act which had, as true knights,
lowered all our crests and blotted our scutcheons, and cut off our
spurs. Many an unfair gibe was launched at the champion of the fair,
and when he attempted to enter into conversation with the lady, he
was interrupted by incessant questions of “What is stirring in the
Alley?”--“What is doing in Dutch?”--“How are the Rentes?”
To all these questions Mr. Dornton incontinently returned business-like
answers, according to the last Stock Exchange quotations; and he was in
the middle of an elaborate enumeration, that so and so was very firm,
and so and so very low, and this rather brisk, and that getting up,
and operations, and fluctuations, and so forth, when somebody enquired
about Spanish Bonds.
“They are looking up, _my dear_,” answered Mr. Dornton, somewhat
abstractedly; and before the other stockbrokers had done tittering the
stage stopped. A bell was rung, and whilst Mat stood beside the open
coach-door, a staid female in a calash and clogs, with a lantern in her
hand, came clattering pompously down a front garden.
“Is Susan Pegge come?” enquired a shrill voice.
“Yes, I be,” replied the lady who had been dry nursed from town;--“are
you, Ma’am, number ten, Grove Place?”
“This is Mr. Dornton’s,” said the dignified woman in the hood advancing
her lantern,--“and--mercy on us! you’re in master’s lap!”
A shout of laughter from five of the inside passengers corroborated the
assertion, and like a literal cat out of the bag, the ci-devant lady,
forgetting her umbrella and her pattens, bolted out of the coach, and
with feline celerity rushed up the garden, and down the area, of number
ten.
“Renounce the woman!” said Dr. Dornton, as he scuttled out of the
stage--“Why the devil didn’t she tell me she was the new cook?”
[Illustration: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.]
[Illustration: A DAY’S SPORT ON THE MOORS.]
LITTLE O’P.--AN AFRICAN FACT.
It was July the First, and the great hill of Howth
Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south,
And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork,
Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork.
Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name,
And little O’Patrick was mate of the same;
For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope,
They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope.
Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast,
Only little O’P. made a swim to the coast;
And when he revived from a sort of a trance,
He saw a big Black with a very long lance.
Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue,
“Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung!”
Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf,
And down came a hundred as black as himself.
They brought with them _guattul_, and pieces of _klam_,
The first was like beef, and the second like lamb;
“Don’t I know,” said O’P., “what the wretches are at?
They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!”
In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,
His rations of _jarbul_ he suffer’d to rot;
He would not touch _purry_ or _doolberry-lik_,
But kept himself _growing_ as thin as a stick.
Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,
He would not let _chobbery_ enter his mouth,
But kicked down the _krug_ shell, tho’ sweetened with _natt_,--
“I an’t to be pisoned the likes of a rat!”
At last the great _Joddry_ got quite in a rage,
And cried, “O mi pitticum dambally nage!
The _chobbery_ take, and put back on the shelf,
Or give me the _krug_ shell, I’ll drink it myself!
The _doolberry-lik_ is the best to be had,
And the _purry_ (I chew’d it myself) is not bad;
The _jarbul_ is fresh, for I saw it cut out,
And the _Bok_ that it came from is grazing about.
My _jumbo_! but run off to Billery Nang,
And tell her to put on her _jigger_ and _tang_,
And go with the _Bloss_ to the man of the sea,
And say that she comes as his _Wulwul_ from me.”
Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep,
With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep,
And the moment he spied her, said little O’P.,
“Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow’s at me!”
But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms,
She came to accept him for life in her arms,
And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love,
A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove,
With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss,
Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss;
At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack,
And _Joddry_ began to look blacker than black;
“By Mumbo! by Jumbo!--why here is a man
That won’t be made happy, do all that I can;
He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed,
Let the _Rham_ take his _shangwang_ and chop off his head!”
THE DEBUTANTE.
“Inside or out, Ma’am?” asked the coachman, as he stood civilly with
the door in his hand.
“If you please, I’ll try _in_ first,” answered the woman, poking in
an umbrella before her, and then a pair of pattens--“I’m not used to
coaching, and don’t think I could keep myself on the top.”
In she came, and after some floundering, having first tried two
gentlemen’s laps, she found herself in the centre of the front seat,
where she composed herself, with something of the air of a Catherine
Hayes, getting into a sledge for a trip to Tyburn. Except for her
fear, which literally made a fright of her, I should have called her
a pretty-looking woman,--but the faces she pulled were horrible. As
the cad enclosed her luggage in the hind-boot with a smart slam,
her features underwent an actual spasm; and I heard her whisper to
herself, “somethink broke.” As she spoke thus, she started on her feet,
and the horses doing the same thing at the same moment, the timid
female found herself suddenly hugging the strange gentleman opposite,
for which she excused herself by saying, “she wasn’t accustomed to be
so carried away.”
Down she plumped again in her old place, but her physiognomy didn’t
improve. She seemed in torture, as if broken, not upon one wheel, but
upon four. Her eyes rolled, her eyebrows worked up and down, as if
trying to pump out tears that wouldn’t come,--her lips kept going like
a rabbit’s, though she had nothing to eat, and I fancied I could hear
her grinding her teeth. Her hands, meanwhile, convulsively grasped
a bundle on her lap, till something like orange-juice squeezed out
between her fingers. When the coach went on one side, she clutched
the arm of whichever of her neighbours sat highest, and at a _pinch_
she laid hold of both. At last she suddenly turned pale, and somewhat
hastily I suggested that she perhaps did not prefer to ride backwards.
“If it’s all the same to _you_, Sir, I should really be glad to change
seats.”
The removal was effected, not without some difficulty, for she
contrived to tread on all our feet, and hang on all our necks, before
she could subside. It was managed, however, and there we sat again,
vis-a-vis, if such a phrase may be used where one visage was opposed to
visages innumerable; for if her face was her fortune, she screwed as
much out of it as she could. She hardly needed to speak, but she did so
after a short interval.
“I hope you’ll excuse, but I can’t ride forrards neither.”
“The air’s what you wan’t Ma’am,” said a stout gentleman in the corner.
“Yes, I think that _would_ revive me,” said the female, with what the
musicians call a veiled voice, through her handkerchief.
“Let the lady out!” squealed a little man, who sat on her left,
whilst a stout gentleman on her right, after looking in vain for a
check-string, gave a pull at the corner of the skirt of a great-coat
that hung over the window, almost pulling the owner off the roof. The
Chronometer stopped.
“It’s the lady,” said the little man to the coachman, as the latter
appeared at the door; “she wants to be inside out.”
“It’s as the gentleman says,” added the female; “I an’t quite myself,
but I don’t want to affect the fare. You shan’t be any loser, for I’ll
discharge in full.”
“There’s the whole dicky to yourself, Ma’am,” said the coachman, with
something like a wink, and after some scuffling and scrambling, we felt
her seating herself on the “backgammon board” as if she never meant to
be taken up.
“It seems ungallant,” said the little man, as we got into motion again;
“but I think women oughtn’t to travel, particularly in what are called
short stages, for they’re certain to make them long ones. First of all,
they have been told to make sure of the right coach, and they spell it
all over, from ‘Horne and Co.’ and ‘licensed to carry,’ to No. nine
thousand, fourteen hundred and nine. Then they never believe the cads.
If one cries ‘Hackney,’ they say ‘that means Camberwell, and I’ve had
enough of getting into wrong stages.’ Then they have to ascertain it’s
the first coach, and when it will start exactly, and when they’re
sure of both points, they’re to be hunted for in a pastry-cook’s
shop, and out of that into a fruiterer’s. At last you think you have
’em--but no such thing. All the luggage is to be put in under their
own eyes--there’s a wrangle, of course, about that,--and when they’re
all ready, with one foot on the step, they’ve been told to make their
bargain with the coachman before they get in.”
“My own mother to a T,” exclaimed the fat man; “she agreed with a
fly-man, at Brighton, to convey her to the Devil’s Dyke for twelve
shillings; but when it came to setting off, she couldn’t resist the
spirit of haggling. Says she, ‘What’ll you take me to the Devil for,
without the Dyke?’”
A loud scream interrupted any further illustration of female
travelling, and again the Chronometer stopped, losing at the rate of
ten miles in the hour. We all had a shrewd guess at the cause, but
the little man nevertheless thought proper to pop his little head out
of the window, and enquire with a big voice “What the plague we were
stopping for?”
“It’s the _lady_ agin, Sir,” said the coachman, in a dissatisfied tone.
“She says the dicky shakes so, she’s sure it will come off: but it’s
all right now--I’ve got her in front.”
“It’s very well,” said the little man, “but if I travel with a woman
again in a stage----”
“Poo! poo!--consider your own wife,” said the stout man; “women can’t
be stuck in garden-pots and tied to sticks; they must come up to London
now and then. She’ll be very comfortable in front.”
“I wish she may,” said the little man, rather tartly, “but it’s hard to
suit the sex;”--and, as if to confirm the sentence, the coach, after
proceeding about a mile, came again to a full stop.
“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” said the coachman, with a touch of his
hat, as be looked in at the window, “but she won’t do in front!”
“Just like ’em!” muttered the little man, “the devil himself can’t
please a woman.”
“I should think,” suggested the stout man, “if you were to give her the
box seat, with your arm well round her waist.”
“No, I’ve tried that,” said the coachman, shaking his head; “it did
pretty well over the level, but we’re coming on a hill, and she can’t
face it.”
“Set her down at once, bag and baggage,” said the little man; “I’ve an
appointment at one.”
“And for my part,” said a gentleman in black, “if there’s any delay, I
give you legal notice I shall hire a chaise at the expense of the coach
proprietors.”
“That’s just it, curse her,” said the perplexed coachman, deliberately
taking off his hat, that he might have a scratch at his head; “she’s
had her pick, outside and in, back and front, and it’s no use of course
to propose to her to sit astride on the pole.”
“Oh Eve! Eve! Eve!” exclaimed the little man, who seemed to owe the sex
some peculiar grudge.
The man in black looked at his watch.
The coachman pulled out a handful of silver, and began to count out a
portion, preparatory to offering to return the woman her fare if she
would get down--when a cheering voice hailed him from above.
“It’s all right, Tom--jump up--the lady’s creeping into the boot.”
“She won’t like that, I guess,” muttered Tom to himself, but in a
second the money jingled back into his pocket, and he was on his box
in the twinkling of an eye. Away went the coach over the brow of the
hill, and began to spin down the descent with an impetus increasing at
every yard. The wheels rattled--the chains jingled--the horse-shoes
clattered--and the maid in the boot shrieked like a maid in Bedlam.
“Poor thing!” ejaculated the stout gentleman.
The little man grinned--villanously like an ape.
The man in black pretended to be asleep.
Meanwhile her screams increased in volume, and ascended in
pitch--interrupted only by an occasional “oh Lord!” and equivalent
ejaculations. It was piteous to hear her; but there was no help for it.
To stop the coach was impossible; it had pressed upon the horses till,
in spite of all the coachman’s exertions, they broke into a gallop, and
it required his utmost efforts to keep them together. An attempt to
pull up would have upset us, as sure as fate; luckily for us all Tom
did not make the experiment, and the Chronometer, after running down
one hill and half way up another, was stopped without accident.
“How’s the lady?” asked the stout man, anxiously thrusting his head and
shoulders out at one window, whilst I acted the same part at the other;
and, as the sufferer got down on my side of the coach, my curiosity was
first gratified. Never was figure more forlorn: her face was as pale as
ashes, and her hair hung about it in all directions through heat and
fright--her eyes as crazy as her hair, and her mouth wide open.
“How’s the lady?” repeated the stout gentleman.
As for her straw bonnet, it was like Milton’s Death, of no particular
shape at all, flat where it should have been full, square where it
ought to have been round, turned up instead of down, and down instead
of up--it had as many corners and nubbles about it as a crusty loaf.
Her shawl or scarf had twisted round and round her like a snake, and
her pelisse showed as ruffled and rumpled and all awry as if she had
just rolled down Greenwich Hill.
“How’s the lady? I say,” bellowed the big man.
One of her shoes had preferred to remain with the boot, and as the road
was muddy, she stood like a Numidian crane, posturing and balancing on
one leg; whilst Tom, hunting after the missing article, which declined
to turn up till everything else had been taken out of “the leathern
conveniency,” and as it was one of the old-fashioned boots it held
plenty of luggage.
“How is the lady?” was shouted again with no better success.
It was evident she had not escaped with the fright merely; her hands
wandered from her ribs to the small of her back, and then she rubbed
each knee. It was some time before she could fetch her breath freely,
but at last she mustered enough for a short exclamation.
“Oh them trunks!”
“How’s the lady?” shouted the fat man for the last time; for finding
that it obtained no answer, he opened the door and bolted out, just
in time to have the gratification of putting on the woman’s one shoe,
whilst she clung with both her arms round his short neck.
“There, my dear,” he said with a finishing slap on the sole. “Bless my
heart, though, it’s a distressing situation! Coachman, how far is she
from London?”
“A good nine mile,” answered Tom.
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the stout man. “She can’t _do_ it!”
“It’s only nine mile,” said the woman, with a sort of hysterical
giggle;--“and I’m fond of walking.”
“Give her her luggage, then, at once,” cried the little man from the
coach. The dark man held out his watch. A passenger on the top swore
horribly, and threatened to get down, and Tom himself, as well as his
horses, were on the fret.
“There is no remedy,” sighed the fat man, as he resumed his old seat in
the corner of the coach. The whip smacked--I leaned out for a parting
look.
There she stood nursing three bundles, each as big as a baby, and as we
rolled off I heard her last words in this soliloquy:
“How _ham_ I to _hever_ to get to York by the mail?”
[Illustration: THE “SHORT STAGE,” A MILE END OMNIBUS.]
[Illustration: GENTLE AND SIMPLE.]
THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL.
“Resign’d, I kissed the rod.”
Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!
I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish,
To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!
Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the _Chub_, tho’ it’s chubby, be _thinnish_!
Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With _attention_ I look,
I can ne’er see my hook with _a Tench on_!
At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice
Of the “_Council of Nice_,”
And rejected their “_Diet of Worms_,” now?
In vain my live minnow I spin,
Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;
For the gut I have brought,
I had better have bought
A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!
Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,
It is vain in this river to search then;
I may wait till it’s night,
Without any bite,
And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!
No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,
And I fear it is not
“Carpe diem,” a day for the Carp now!
Oh! there is not a one pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water lottery!
What then can I deem
Of so fishless a stream
But that ’tis--like St. Mary’s--_Ottery_!
For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton’s own showing,--
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels,
In a path that’s devoted to towing!
I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I’m weary of dipping and casting;
And hungry and faint,--
Let the Fancy just paint
What it is _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!
And the rain drizzles down very fast,
While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell,--
So, wet to the skin,
I’ll e’en back to my Inn,
Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!
POPPING THE QUESTION.
My friend Walker is a great story-teller. He reminds me of the
professional tale-bearers in the East, who, without being particularly
requested by the company, begin reciting the adventures of Sinbad, or
the life, death, and resurrection of Little Hunchback. No sooner does
conversation flag for a few minutes, than W. strikes up, with some such
prelude as, “I told you about the Flying Fish affair before,--but as
you wish me to refresh your memory, you shall have it again.” He then
deliberately fills his glass, and furnishes himself with a cork, a bit
of orange-peel, or an apple-paring, to be shredded and sub-shredded
during the course of narration. Many Scotchmen, by-the-way, and most
Canadians, are given to the same manual propensity. A lady located
towards the Back Settlements informed me, that at a party she gave, the
mantelshelf, chairs, tables, and every wooden article of furniture, was
nicked and notched by the knives of her guests, like the tallies of
our Exchequer. It is most probably an Indian peculiarity, and derived
by intercourse or intermixture with the Chipaways--but to return to W.
The other day, after dinner, with a select few of my friends, there
occurred one of those sudden silences, those verbal armistices, or
suspensions of words, which frequently provoke at irresistible allusion
to a Quaker’s meeting. Of this pause W. of course availed himself.
[Illustration: FISHING--A RISE.]
“You were going, Sir,” addressing the gentleman opposite, “to ask me
about the Pop business,--but I ought first to tell you how I came to be
carrying ginger-beer in my pocket.”
The gentleman thus appealed to, a straightforward old drysalter, who
had never seen W. in his life before, naturally stared at such a bold
anticipation of his thoughts; but before he could find words to reply,
W. had helped himself to a dozen almonds, which he began mincing, while
he set off at a steady pace in his story.
“The way I came to have ginger-beer in my pocket, was this. I don’t
know whether you are acquainted with Hopkins, Sir, of the Queen’s
Arms in the Poultry,” the drysalter shook his head; “it’s the house
I frequent, and a very civil obliging sort of fellow he is--that is
to say, was, two summers ago. The season was very sultry, and says I,
Hopkins, I wonder you don’t keep ginger pop--it’s a pleasant refreshing
beverage at this season, and particularly wholesome. Well, Hopkins
was very thankful for the hint, for he likes to have everything that
can be called for, and he was for sending off an order at once to the
ginger-beer manufactory, but I persuaded him better. None of their
wholesale trash, said I, but make your own. I’ll give you a recipe for
it--the best ever bottled. But I couldn’t gain my point. Hopkins hum’d
and haw’d, and thought nobody could make it but the makers. There was
no setting him right, so at last I determined to put him to the proof.
I’ll tell you what, Hopkins, said I, you don’t like the trouble, or I’d
soon convince you that a man who isn’t a maker can make it as well as
anyone--perhaps better. You shall have a sample of mine--I’ve got a few
bottles at my counting-house, and it’s only a step. Of course, Hopkins
was very much obliged, and off I went. In confidence between you and
me, Sir,--though I never had the pleasure of seeing you before--I
wanted to introduce ginger-beer at the Queen’s Arms as a public
benefit.”
“I am sure, Sir--I’m very much obliged,” stammered the drysalter, at a
loss what to say. “Ginger-beer, I’ve no doubt, is very efficacious, and
particularly after fruit or lobsters, for I observe you always see them
at the same shops.”
“The best drink in the dog-days all to nothing,” returned W., “but
ought to be amazingly well corked and wired down--and I’ll tell you
why--it will get vapid and maybe worse. Well, I’d got it in my coat
pocket, and was walking back, just by Bow Church, no more thinking of
green silk pelisses than you are, Sir, at this moment--upon my honour
I wasn’t--when something gave a pop and a splash, and I heard a female
scream. I was afraid to look round and when I did, you might have
knocked me down with a straw. You know, Tom (addressing me,) I’m not
made of brass,--for the minute I felt more like melted lead--heavy and
hot. Two full kettles seemed poured over me--one warm within, and the
other cold without. You never saw such an object! There she stood,
winking and gasping, and all over froth and foam, like a lady just
emerged out of the sea only they don’t bathe in green silk pelisses
and satin bonnets. You might have knocked me down with a hair. What I
did or said at first I don’t know; I only remember that I attempted to
wipe her face with my handkerchief, but she preferred her own. To make
things worse, the passengers made a ring round us, as if we had been
going to fight about it, and a good many of ’em set up a laugh. I would
rather have been surrounded by banditti. I don’t tell a lie if I say I
would gladly have been tossed out of the circle by a mad bull. How I
longed to jump like a Harlequin into a twopenny post-box, or to slip
down a plug like an eel!”
“Very distressing, indeed,” said the drysalter.
“I don’t think,” resumed W., “I felt as much when my poor mother
died--I don’t, upon my soul! _She_ was expected for years, but the
lady in green came like a thunderbolt!--When I saw the ginger-beer
weltering down her, I would almost as soon have seen blood. I felt
little short of a murderer. How I got her into Tweedie’s shop, Heaven
knows! I suppose I pulled her in, for I cannot remember one word of
persuasion. However, I got her into Tweedie’s, and had just sense
enough to seat her in a chair, and to beg for a few dry cloths. To do
the dear creature justice, she bore it all angelically,--but every
smile, every syllable making light of her calamity, went to my heart.
You don’t know my original old friend, Charles Mathews, do you, Sir?”
[Illustration: BANDITTI SEIZING BOOTY.]
The drysalter signified dissent.