account for the conduct of the tradesman in the Strand, by proving,
that instead of being treated as one of the family, in a limited sense,
the Negro is hardly looked upon as a member of that great domestic
circle which has a circumference of 360 degrees. It appears from the
facts, that an apprenticeship in Jamaica or Barbadoes has little or
nothing in common except the name, with an apprenticeship on our own
side of the Atlantic;--that under the same title there exists two
diametrically opposite systems, literally as different as light and
dark; and of course, as the hand said of the pair of gloves, “They
cannot _both_ be right.” As the collective wisdom of the country has
decided that the Black style of _binding_ is the correct pattern,
and that the Negroes are properly “done up,” it necessarily follows,
that our home-made articles are very loosely stitched, and without
a due provision for rough usage and durability. Assuming the sable
race to be subject to only a wholesome severity, it results that our
London Prentices and their kind, are held by indentures shamefully
lax in their conditions, and are allowed a most culpable latitude
and indulgence. To place this gross partiality in the strongest light
and shade, let the servitude of the born Blacks be compared with that
of those “Africans of our own growth,” as Elia calls them, who derive
their nigritude not from nature but from soot. Simply because they
have once been whites, and are still white, or nearly white, once a
year, like the hawthorns in May, they are protected and even pampered
by laws, the framers of which have assuredly considered their own
crows as the fairest. Let any one turn to the Statute Anno Quarto et
Quinto Gulielmi IV. Regis, cap. 35, intituled “An Act for the Better
Regulation of Chimney Sweepers and their Apprentices,” and he will find
that the Climbing Boy, compared with the African, is almost a spoiled
child. Instead of allowing him to be nabbed or grabbed, anyhow and
willynilly, like our friend Sambo, the statute insists, by article 9,
that the binding shall not take place without the concurrence of “a
parish officer, or the parent, or next friend.” Article 10 provides,
that instead of rope-yarn, as in the case of Sambo aforesaid, the
binding shall only be effected with “paper or parchment,” and even
before enduring such very mild ligatures, article 13 declares, that
the boy is to be regularly “asked out,” before two Justices of the
Peace, and in case such boy shall be unwilling to be bound with “paper
and parchment,” “such Justices shall, and they are hereby required to
refuse, to sanction or approve of such binding.” The 12th clause allows
the practice of “liking,” or what, in electioneering cases, would be
called “treating;” and before any boy shall be bound as an apprentice,
“it shall be lawful for the intended master of such boy to have, and
receive such boy in such master’s house, on trial--or ‘liking’--for
any time not exceeding two calendar months.” In plain English, it
shall be lawful for the said master elect to tempt and bribe the said
apprentice, like Richard Ruggles, during eight weeks, by dinners
of “delicate cow-heel, with the sauce His Grace is so fond of,” and
suppers of hot sausages. And that the cow-heel and sausages may not be
too minutely subdivided, clause 14 enacts, that Mr. or Mrs. Chimney
Sweeper shall not have more than two apprentices on trial or “liking”
at the same time. The same considerate clause forbids Mr. or Mrs. C.
S. to have more than four apprentices at once, so that nothing like
the close packing, which so often incommodes the race of Africa in a
ship’s hold, may inconvenience the favoured sooterkins in the cellar. A
taste for music is not specially mentioned or protected: but as clause
17 empowers any two or more magistrates to hear “all complaints” of
hard or ill usage, the breaking of a fife or his pan’s pipes, over the
head of an apprentice, would be certain to be listened to, and in all
probability entail on the master a forfeit, fixed, by clause 16, at
“not exceeding 10_l._ nor less than 40_s._” The 18th clause enjoins,
on all builders and bricklayers, under extremely heavy penalties, to
construct safe and comfortable chimneys that shall not be “hard to
climb;” and finally, as if a sweeper on such very eligible terms could
have anything to weep for, article 15 forbids, somewhat superfluously,
his crying about the streets!!! The incredulous reader who may wish
to verify this statement by reference to the Act itself, will find it
at full length, and shown “all up” in a well-conceived little volume,
called “The Mechanics of Law Making,” by a Member of Symond’s Inn.
He will there find too truly that, compared with the genuine black,
the sweeper is treated by law with as much tenderness as if each
climbing-boy were, like the stolen Montague, a well-born white young
gentleman in disguise. The tendency of such over-indulgent enactments
to spoil the youth of this country is evidenced in the fact, that
whilst the planter will give a considerable sum for a black assistant,
a white articled pupil is hardly acceptable as a present, and in most
cases, like Richard Ruggles, must have a handsome premium given
along with him to purchase him a master. As a mere matter of economy,
therefore, the matter is worth the consideration of parents and
guardians, and parish officers; whilst the advocates of equal justice
to all will imperatively insist that if the blacks cannot be treated
like whites, the whites ought to be treated as blacks. For my own part,
as a simple admirer of consistency, I cannot help thinking that the
whole system of apprenticeship, as regards its home practice, requires
to undergo a rigorous revision, and above all, that the act Anno Quarto
et Quinto Gulielmi IV. Regis, cap. 35, with all its sweeping clauses,
ought to be immediately repealed.
[Illustration: SNIFFING A BIRTHDAY.]
STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE.
“Twiddle’em, Twaddle’em, Twenty-one.”
_Nurse._ O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day! most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day
Never was seen so black a day as this!
O woeful day! O woeful day!
* * * * *
_Musician._ Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.
_Nurse._ Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up!
For well you know this is a pitiful case.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
To-day it is my natal day,
Three ’prenticeships have past away,
A part in work, a part in play,
Since I was bound to life!
This first of May I come of age,
A man, I enter on the stage
Where human passions fret and rage,
To mingle in the strife.
It ought to be a happy date,
My friends, they all congratulate
That I am come to “Man’s Estate,”
To some, a grand event;
But ah! to me descent allots
No acres, no paternal spots
In Beds, Bucks, Herts, Wilts, Essex, Notts,
Hants, Oxon, Berks, or Kent.
From John o’Groat’s to Land’s End search,
I have not one rod, pole, or perch,
To pay my rent, or tithe to church,
That I can call my own.
Not common-right for goose or ass;
Then what is Man’s Estate? Alas!
Six feet by two of mould and grass
When I am dust and bone.
Reserve the feast! The board forsake!
Ne’er tap the wine--don’t cut the cake,
No toasts or foolish speeches make,
At which my reason spurns.
Before this happy term you praise,
And prate about returns and days,
Just o’er my vacant rent-roll gaze,
And sum up my returns.
I know where great estates descend
That here is Boyhood’s legal end,
And easily can comprehend
How “Manors make the Man,”
But as for me, I was not born
To quit-rent of a peppercorn,
And gain no ground this blessed morn
From Beersheba to Dan.
No barrels broach--no bonfires make!
To roast a bullock for my sake,
Who in the country have no stake,
Would be too like a quiz;
No banners hoist--let off no gun--
Pitch no marquee--devise no fun--
But think when man is Twenty-One
What new delights are his!
What is the moral legal fact--
Of age to-day, I’m free to act
For self--free, namely, to contract
Engagements, bonds, and debts:
I’m free to give my I O U,
Sign, draw, accept, as majors do;
And free to lose my freedom too
For want of due assets.
I am of age, to ask Miss Ball,
Or that great heiress, Miss Duval,
To go to church, hump, squint, and all,
And be my own for life.
But put such reasons on their shelves,
To tell the truth between ourselves,
I’m one of those contented elves
Who do not want a wife.
What else belongs to Manhood still?
I’m old enough to make my will
With valid clause and codicil
Before in turf I lie.
But I have nothing to bequeath
In earth, or waters underneath,
And in all candour let me breathe,
I do not want to die.
Away! if this be Manhood’s forte,
Put by the sherry and the port--
No ring of bells--no rustic sport--
No dance--no merry pipes!
No flowery garlands--no bouquet--
No Birthday Ode to sing or say--
To me it seems this is a day
For bread and cheese and swipes.
To justify the festive cup
What horrors here are conjured up!
What things of bitter bite and sup,
Poor wretched Twenty-One’s!
No landed lumps, but frumps and humps,
(Discretion’s Days are far from trumps)
Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps,
Death, dockets, debts, and duns!
If you must drink, oh drink “the King,”
Reform--the Church--the Press--the Ring,
Drink Aldgate Pump--or anything,
Before a toast like this!
Nay, tell me, coming thus of age,
And turning o’er this sorry page,
Was young Nineteen so far from sage?
Or young Eighteen from bliss?
Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn--
No sign of May about the thorn,--
Were Love and Bacchus both unborn?
Had Beauty not a shape?
Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty!
Make answer, lads of Trinity!
Who sipp’d with me Divinity,
And guaff’d the ruby grape!
No flummery then from flowery lips,
No three times three and hip-hip-hips,
Because I’m ripe and full of pips--
I like a little green.
To put me on my solemn oath,
If sweep-like I could stop my growth
I would remain, and nothing loth,
A boy--about nineteen.
My friends, excuse me these rebukes!
Were I a monarch’s son, or duke’s,
Go to the Vatican of Meux
And broach his biggest barrels--
Impale whole elephants on spits--
Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits,
And dance into St. Vitus’ fits,
And break your winds with carols!
But ah! too well you know my lot,
Ancestral acres greet me not,
My freehold’s in a garden-pot,
And barely worth a pin.
Away then with all festive stuff!
Let Robins advertise and puff
My “Man’s Estate,” I’m sure enough
I shall not buy it in.
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT, “MR. ROBINS.”]
THE PILLORY.
“Thro’ the wood, laddie.”--SCOTTISH SONG.
I never was in the pillory but once, which I must ever consider a
misfortune. For looking at all things, as I do, with a philosophical
and enquiring eye, and courting experience for the sake of my
fellow-creatures, I cannot but lament the short and imperfect
opportunity I enjoyed of filling that elevated situation, which so few
men are destined to occupy. It is a sort of Egg-Premiership; a place
above your fellows, but a place in which your hands are tied. You are
not without the established political vice, for you are not absolved
from turning.
Let me give a brief description of the short irregular glimpse I had of
men and things, while I was in Pillory Power. I was raised to it, as
many men are to high stations, by my errors. I merely made a mistake
of some sort or other in an answer in Chancery, not injurious to my
interests, and lo! the Recorder of London, with a suavity of manner
peculiar to himself, announced to me my intended promotion, and in due
time I was installed into office!
It was a fine day for the pillory; that is to say, it rained in
torrents. Those only who have had boarding and lodging like mine, can
estimate the comfort of having washing into the bargain.
It was about noon, when I was placed, like a statue, upon my wooden
pedestal; an hour probably chosen out of consideration to the innocent
little urchins then let out of school, for they are a race notoriously
fond of shying, pitching, jerking, pelting, flinging, slinging--in
short, professors of throwing in all its branches. The public officer
presented me first with a north front, and there I was--“God save
the mark!”--like a cock at Shrovetide, or a lay-figure in a Shooting
Gallery!
The storm commenced. Stones began to spit--mud to
mizzle--cabbage-stalks thickened into a shower. Now and then came a
dead kitten--sometimes a living cur: anon an egg would hit me on the
eye, an offence I was obliged to wink at. There is a strange appetite
in human kind for pelting a fellow-creature. A travelling China-man
actually threw away twopence to have a pitch at me with a pipkin; a
Billinsgate huckster treated me with a few herrings, not by any means
too stale to be purchased in St. Giles’s; while the weekly halfpence
of the schoolboys went towards the support of a Costermonger and his
Donkey, who supplied them with eggs fit for throwing, and for nothing
else. I confess this last description of missiles, if missiles they
might be called that never miss’d, annoyed me more than all the rest;
however, there was no remedy. There I was forced to stand, taking up
my livery, and a vile livery it was; or, as a wag expressed it, “being
made free of the Peltmongers.”
[Illustration: WHAT MUST BE--MUST.]
It was time to appeal to my resources. I had read somewhere of an
Italian, who, by dint of mental abstraction, had rendered himself
unconscious of the rack, and while the executioners were tugging,
wrenching, twisting, dislocating, and breaking joints, sinews, and
bones, was perchance in fancy only performing his diurnal Gymnastics,
or undergoing an amicable Shampooing. The pillory was a milder
instrument than the rack, and I had naturally a lively imagination; it
seemed plausible, therefore, that I might make shift to be pelted in my
absence. To attain a scene as remote as possible from pain, I selected
one of absolute pleasure for the experiment; no other, in truth, than
that Persian Paradise, the Garden of Gul, at the Feast of Roses.
Flapping the wings of Fancy with all my might, I was speedily in those
Bowers of Bliss, and at high romps with Houri and Peri,--
“Flinging roses at each other.”
But, alas, for mental abstraction! The very first bud hit me with
stone-like vehemence; my next rose, of the cabbage kind, breathed only
a rank cabbage fragrance; and in another moment the claws of a flying
cat scratched me back into myself; and there I was again, in full pelt
in the pillory!
My first fifteen minutes, the only quarter I met with, had now elapsed,
and my face was turned towards the East. The first object my one eye
fell upon was a heap of Macadamisation, and I confess I never thought
of calculating the number of stones in such a hillock, till I saw the
mob preparing to cast them up!
I expected to be lithographed on the spot! Instinct suggested to me
that the only way to save my life was by dying; so dropping my head and
hands, and closing my last eye with a terrific groan, I expired for
the present. The _ruse_ took effect. Supposing me to be defunct, the
mob refused to kill me. Shouts of “Murder! Shame! Shame! No Pillory!”
burst from all quarters. The Pipkin-monger abused the Fishwoman, who
rated the Schoolboys; they in turn fell foul of the Costermonger,
who was hissing and groaning at the whole assembly; and, finally,
a philanthropic Constable took the whole group into custody. In the
mean time I was taken down, laid with a sack over me in a cart, and
driven off to a Hospital, my body seeming a very proper present to
St. Bartholomew’s or St. Thomas’s, but my clothes fit for nothing but
_Guy’s_.
[Illustration: A “CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY.”]
[Illustration: MOVING IN THE FIRST CIRCLES.]
A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.
“Our Crummie is a dainty cow.”--SCOTCH SONG.
On that first Saturday in May,
When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R. A.
Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what’s called the private view,
Amongst the guests--the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row--
There came a large and vulgar dame
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to “scour the Paint.”
From wall to wall she forc’d her way,
Elbow’d Lord Durham--pok’d Lord Grey--
Stamp’d Stafford’s toes to make him move,
And Devonshire’s Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honour, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park the Judge.
As for the ladies, in this stir,
The highest rank gave way to her.
From number one and number two,
She search’d the pictures through and through.
On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,
And squatted down to scan the shy ones.
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became,
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
“Really an ardent love of art!”
Alas, amidst her inquisition,
Fate brought her to a sad condition;
She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil,
But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,
She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.
The Keeper mute, with staring eyes,
Like a lay-figure for surprise,
At last thus stammer’d out, “How now?
Woman--where, woman, is your ticket,
That ought to let you through our wicket?”
Says woman, “Where is David’s Cow?”
Said Mr. H----, with expedition,
“There’s no Cow in the Exhibition.”
“No Cow!”--but here her tongue in verity,
Set off with steam and rail celerity--
“No Cow! there an’t no Cow, then the more’s the shame and pity.
Hang you and the R. A.’s, and all the Hanging Committee!
No Cow--but hold your tongue, for you needn’t talk to me--
You can’t talk up the Cow, you can’t, to where it ought to be--
I haven’t seen a picture high or low, or any how,
Or in any of the rooms to be compared with David’s Cow!
You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and your Wards,
Why hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!
They’re only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street doors,
David will paint ’em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,--
Why Morland was a fool to him, at a little pig or sow--
It’s really hard it an’t hung up--I could cry about the Cow!
But I know well what it is, and why--they’re jealous of David’s
fame,
But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame.
Do you think it might hang by-and-by, if you cannot hang it now?
David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow.
If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners,
Why can’t it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner’s?
Or do you think from Mr. Etty, you need apprehend a row,
If now and then you cut him down to hang up David’s Cow?
I can’t think where their tastes have been, to not have such a
creature,
Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature;
It must be hung--and shall be hung, for Mr. H----, I vow,
I daren’t take home the catalogue, unless it’s got the Cow!
As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,
If it was only round the stone man’s neck, a-coming up the stair,
Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand,
Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand--
Or may be Bailey’s Charity the favour would allow,
It would really be a charity to hang up David’s cow.
We haven’t no where else to go if you don’t hang it here,
The Water-Colour place allows no oilman to appear--
And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerrard Douw,
And the Suffolk Gallery will not do--it’s not a Suffolk Cow:
I wish you’d seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals
Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels;
His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,
He hardly whipp’d the boys at all, or help’d to nurse the babby.
And when he had her all complete and painted over red,
He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.
Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just bang it any how,
Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow.--
And if it’s unconvenient and drawn too big by half--
David shan’t send next year except a very little calf.”
[Illustration: BEEF A-LA-DAUBE.]
[Illustration: A FIELD OFFICER.]
THE YEOMANRY.
Amongst the agitations of the day, there is none more unaccountable
to a peaceable man in a time of peace, than the resistance to the
disbanding of the Yeomanry. It is of course impossible for anyone so
unconnected with party as myself, to divine the ministerial motives for
the measure; but judging from my own experience, I should have expected
that every private at least, would have mounted his best hunter to make
a jump at the offer. It appears, however, that a part of the military
body in question betrays a strong disinclination to dismiss; and
certain troops have even offered their services gratuitously, and been
accepted, although it is evident that such a troop, to be consistent,
ought to refuse, when called upon to act, to make any charge whatever.
[Illustration: “I VISH VE COULD BE DISBANDY’D.”]
Amongst my Scottish reminiscences, I have a vivid recollection of once
encountering, on the road from Dundee to Perth, a party of soldiers,
having in their custody a poor fellow in the garb of a peasant, and
secured by handcuffs. He looked somewhat melancholy, as he well might,
under the uncertainty whether he was to be flogged within an inch
of his life, or shot to death, for such were the punishments of his
offence, which I understood to be desertion, or disbanding himself
without leave. It was natural to conclude, that no ordinary disgust
at a military life would induce a man to incur such heavy penalties.
With what gratitude would _he_ have accepted his discharge! He would
surely have embraced the offer of being let off with the alacrity of
gunpowder! And yet he was a regular, in the receipt of pay, and with
the prospect and opportunity, so rare to our yeomanry, of winning
laurels, and covering himself with glory!
It has been argued, on high authority, as a reason for retaining the
troops in question, that they are the most _constitutional_ force that
could be selected; and truly of their general robustness there can be
but one opinion. However, if a domestic force of the kind ought to be
kept up, would it not be advisable, and humane, and fair, to give the
manufacturing body a turn, and form troops of the sedentary weavers and
other artisans, who stand so much more in need of out-of-door exercise?
The farmer, from the nature of his business, has _Field_ Days enough,
to say nothing of the charges and throwings off he enjoys in hunting
and coursing, besides riding periodically to and from market, or the
neighbouring fairs. Indeed, the true English yeoman is generally,
thanks to these sports and employments, so constantly in the saddle,
that instead of volunteering into any cavalry, it might be supposed he
would be glad to feel his own legs a little, and enjoy the household
comforts of the chimney-corner and the elbow-chair. As regards their
effectiveness, I have had the pleasure of seeing a troop fire at a
target for a subscription silver cup; and it convinced me, that if I
had felt inclined to _roast_ them, their own _fire_ was the very best
one for my purpose. On another occasion I had the gratification of
beholding a charge, and as they succeeded in dispersing themselves, it
may be inferred that they might possibly do as much by a mob. Still
there seemed hardly excitement enough or amusement enough, except
to the spectators, in such playing at soldiers, to induce honest,
hearty, fox-hunting farmers, to wish to become veterans. To tell the
truth, I have heard before now, repentant grumblings from practical
agriculturists, who had too rashly adopted the uniform, and have seen
even their horses betray an inclination to back out of the line. The
more therefore is my surprise, on all accounts, to hear that the
Yeomanry are so unwilling to be dispensed with, and relieved from
inactive service; for though the song tells us of a “Soldier tir’d of
war’s alarms,” there is no doubt that to a soldier of spirit, the most
tiresome thing in the world is to have no alarms at all.
In the mean time I have been at some pains to ascertain the sentiments
of the yeowomanry on the subject, and if they all feel in common
with Dame, the disbanding will be a most popular measure amongst the
farmers’ wives. I had no sooner communicated the news, through the
old lady’s trumpet, than she exclaimed, that “it was the best hearing
she had had for many a long day! The Sogering work unsettled both
men and horses--it took her husband’s head off his business, and it
threw herself off the old mare, at the last fair, along of a showman’s
trumpet. Besides, it set all the farm servants a-sogering too, and
when they went to the Wake, only old Roger came back again to say they
had all ’listed. They had more sense, however, than their master, for
they all wanted to be disbanded the next morning. As for the master,
he’d never been the same man since he put on the uniform; but had
got a hectoring swaggering way with him, as if everybody that didn’t
agree in politics, and especially about the Corn Bill, was to be bored
and slashed with sword and pistol. Then there was the constant dread
that in his practising, cut six would either come home to him, or
do a mischief to his neighbours; and after a reviewing there was no
bearing him, it put him so up in his stirrups, and on coming home he’d
think nothing of slivering off all the hollyoaks as he brandished and
flourished up the front garden. Another thing, and that was no trifle,
was the accidents; she couldn’t tell how it was, whether he thought too
much of himself and too little of his horse, but he always got a tumble
with the yeomanry, though he’d fox-hunt by the year together without
a fall. What was worse, a fall always made him crusty, and when he
was crusty, he made a point to get into his cups, which made him more
crusty still. Thank God, as yet he had never been of any use to his
country, and it was her daily prayer that he might never be called
out, as he had so many enemies and old grudges in the neighbourhood,
there would be sure to be murder on one side or the other. For my own
part,” she concluded, “I think the Parliament is quite right in these
hard times to turn the farmers’ swords again into ploughshares, for
they have less to care about the rising of rioters than the falling
of wheat.” The old lady then hunted out what she called a yeomanry
letter from her husband’s brother, and having her permission to make it
public, I have thought proper to christen it.
AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW.
“You remember Philiphaugh, Sir?”
“Umph!” said the Major, “the less we say about that, John, the
better.”
OLD MORTALITY.
_To Mr. Robert Cherry, the Orchard, Kent._
DEAR BOB,--It’s no use your making more stir about the
barley. Business has no business to stand before king and country,
and I couldn’t go to Ashford Market and the Review at the same
time. The Earl called out the Yeomanry for a grand field day at
Bumper Daggle Bottom Common, and to say nothing of its being my
horse duty to attend I wouldn’t have lost my sight for the whole
barley in Kent. Besides the Earl, the great Duke did us the honour
to come and see the troops go through everything, and it rained all
the time. Except for the crops, a more unfavouring day couldn’t
have been picked out for man or beast, and many a nag has got a
consequential cough.
The ground was very good, with only one leap that nobody took, but
the weather was terribly against. It blew equinoxious gales, and
rained like watering pots with the rose off. But as somebody said,
one cannot always have their reviews cut and dry.
[Illustration: “POUR ON, I WILL ENDURE.”]
We set out from Ashford at ten, and was two hours getting to Bumper
Daggle Bottom Common, but it’s full six mile. The Bumper Daggle’s
dress is rather handsome and fighting like--blue, having a turn-up
with white, and we might have been called cap-a-pee, but Mr. P.,
the contractor of our caps, made them all too small for our heads.
Luckily the clothes fit, except Mr. Lambert’s, who couldn’t find
a jacket big enough; but he scorned to shrink, and wore it loose
on his shoulder like a hussar. As for arms, we had all sorts, and
as regards horses, I am sorry to say all sorts of legs--what with
splints, and quitters, and ring-bone, and grease. The Major’s, I
noticed, had a bad spavin, and was no better for being fired with
a ramrod, which old Clinker, the blacksmith, forgot to take out of
his piece.
[Illustration: SEEING A REVIEW.]