On a grassy bank, beside a meandering stream, sat two gentlemen averaging

forty years of age. The day was sultry, and, weary of casting their

lines without effect, they had stuck their rods in the bank, and sought,

in a well-filled basket of provisions and copious libations of bottled

porter, to dissipate their disappointment.

“Ain't this jolly? and don't you like a day's fishing, Sam?”

“O! werry much, werry much,” emphatically replied his friend, taking his

pipe from his mouth.

“Ah! but some people don't know how to go a-fishinq, Sam; they are such

fools.”

“That's a werry good remark o' your'n,” observed Sam; “I daresay as how

hangling is werry delightful vhen the fishes vill bite; but vhen they

von't, vhy they von't, and vot's the use o' complaining. Hangling is

just like writing: for instance--you begins vith, 'I sends you this 'ere

line hoping,' and they don't nibble; vell! that's just the same as not

hanswering; and, as I takes it, there the correspondence ends!”

“Exactly; I'm quite o' your opinion,” replied his companion, tossing off

a bumper of Barclay's best; “I say, Sammy, we mustn't empty t'other

bottle tho'.”

“Vhy not?”

“Cos, do you see, I'm just thinking ve shall vant a little porter to

carry us home: for, by Jingo! I don't think as how either of us can

toddle--that is respectably!”

“Nonsense! I'd hundertake to walk as straight as a harrow; on'y, I must

confess, I should like to have a snooze a'ter my pipe; I'm used to it,

d'ye see, and look for it as nat'rally as a babby does.”

“Vell, but take t'other glass for a nightcap; for you know, Sammy, if you

sleep vithout, you may catch cold: and, vhatever you do, don't snore, or

you'll frighten the fish.”

“Naughty fish!” replied Sammy, “they know they're naughty too, or else

they voud'nt be so afear'd o' the rod!--here's your health;” and he

tossed off the proffered bumper.

“Excuse me a-rising to return thanks,” replied his friend, grasping

Sammy's hand, and looking at him with that fixed and glassy gaze which

indicates the happy state of inebriety, termed maudlin; “I know you're a

sincere friend, and there ain't nobody as I value more: man and boy have

I knowed you; you're unchanged! you're the same!! there ain't no

difference!!! and I hope you may live many years to go a-fishing, and I

may live to see it, Sammy. Yes, old boy, this here's one of them days

that won't be forgotten: it's engraved on my memory deep as the words on

a tombstone, 'Here he lies! Here he lies!'” he repeated with a hiccup,

and rolled at full length across his dear friend.

Sammy, nearly as much overcome as his friend, lifted up his head, and

sticking his hat upon it, knocked it over his eyes, and left him to

repose; and, placing his own back against an accommodating tree, he

dropped his pipe, and then followed the example of his companion.

After a few hours deep slumber, they awoke. The sun had gone down, and

evening had already drawn her star-bespangled mantle over the scene of

their festive sport.

Arousing themselves, they sought for their rods, and the remnants of

their provisions, but they were all gone.

“My hey! Sammy, if somebody bas'nt taken advantage of us. My watch too

has gone, I declare.”

“And so's mine!” exclaimed Sammy, feeling his empty fob. “Vell, if this

ain't a go, never trust me.”

“I tell you vot it is, Sammy; some clever hartist or another has seen us

sleeping, like the babes in the wood, and has drawn us at full length!”

THE BILL-STICKER.

What a mysterious being is the bill-sticker! How seldom does he make

himself visible to the eyes of the people. Nay, I verily believe there

are thousands in this great metropolis that never saw a specimen. We see

the effect, but think not of the cause.

He must work at his vocation either at night or at early dawn, before the

world is stirring.

That he is an industrious being, and sticks to business, there cannot be

the shadow of a doubt, for every dead-wall is made lively by his

operations, and every hoard a fund of information--in such type, too,

that he who runs may read. What an indefatigable observer he must be;

for there is scarcely a brick or board in city or suburb, however newly

erected, in highway or byeway, but is speedily adorned by his handiwork

--aye, and frequently too in defiance of the threatening--“BILL-STICKERS,

BEWARE!”--staring him in the face. Like nature, he appears to abhor a

vacuum. When we behold the gigantic size of some of the modern arches,

we are almost led to suppose that the bill-sticker carries about his

placards in a four-wheeled waggon, and that his paste-pot is a huge

cauldron! How he contrives to paste and stick such an enormous sheet so

neatly against the rugged side of a house, is really astonishing. Whether

three or four stories high, the same precision is remarkable. We cannot

but wonder at the dexterity of his practised hand: The union is as

perfect as if Dan Hymen, the saffron-robed Joiner, had personally

superintended the performance.

The wind is perhaps the only real enemy he has to fear. How his heart

and his flimsy paper must flutter in the unruly gusts of a March wind! We

only imagine him pasting up a “Sale of Horses,” in a retired nook, and

seeing his bill carried away on an eddy!

We once had the good fortune to witness a gusty freak of this kind. The

bill-sticker had affixed a bill upon the hooks of his stick, displaying

in prominent large characters--“SALE BY AUCTION--Mr. GEO. ROBINS--Capital

Investment,”--and so forth, when a sudden whirlwind took the bill off the

hooks, before it was stuck, and fairly enveloped the countenance of a

dandy gentleman who happened at the moment to be turning the corner.

Such a “Capital Investment” was certainly ludicrous in the extreme.

The poor bill-sticker was rather alarmed, for he had never stuck a bill

before on any front that was occupied.

He peeled the gentleman as quickly as possible, and stammered out an

apology. The sufferer, however, swore he would prefer a bill against him

at the ensuing sessions. Whether his threat was carried into execution,

or he was satisfied with the damages already received, we know not.

OLD FOOZLE.

There is a certain period of life beyond which the plastic mind of man

becomes incapable of acquiring any new impressions. He merely elaborates

and displays the stores he has garnered up in his youth. There are

indeed some rare exceptions to the rule; but few, very few, can learn a

language after the age of forty. 'Tis true that Cowper did not commence

the composition of his delightful poems till he had attained that age;

but then it must be remembered that he had previously passed a life of

study and preparation, and that he merely gave the honey to the world

which he had hived in his youth, bringing to the task a mind polished and

matured by judgment and experience. But, generally speaking, we rather

expect reason than rhyme from an elderly gentleman; and when the reverse

is the case, the pursuit fits them as ridiculously as would a humming-top

or a hoop. Yet there are many who, having passed a life in the sole

occupation of making money--the most unpoetical of all avocations--that

in their retirement entertain themselves with such fantastic pranks and

antics, as only serve to amuse the lookers-on. A retired tradesman, it

is true, may chase ennui and the 'taedium vitae,' by digging and planting

in his kitchen-garden, or try his hand at rearing tulips and hyacinths;

but if he vainly attempt any other art, or dabble in light literature or

heavy philosophy, he is lost. Old Foozle was one of those who, having

accumulated wealth, retire with their housekeepers to spend the remnant

of their days in some suburban retreat, the monotony of whose life is

varied by monthly trips to town to bring tea and grocery, or purchase

some infallible remedy for their own gout, or their housekeeper's

rheumatism. Unfortunately for his peace, Old Foozle accidentally dipped

into a tattered tome of “Walton's Complete Angler;” and the vivid

description of piscatorial pleasures therein set forth so won upon his

mind, that he forthwith resolved to taste them. In vain were the

remonstrances of his nurse, friend, and factotum. The experiment must be

tried. Having more money than wit to spare, he presently supplied

himself with reels and rods and tackle, landing-nets and gentle-boxes,

and all the other necessary paraphernalia of the art.

Donning his best wig and spectacles, he sallied forth, defended from the

weather by a short Spencer buttoned round his loins, and a pair of

double-soled shoes and short gaiters. So eager was he to commence, that

he no sooner espied a piece of water, than, with trembling hands, he put

his rod together, and displayed his nets, laying his basket, gaping for

the finny prey, on the margin of the placid waters. With eager gaze he

watched his newly-varnished and many-coloured float, expecting

every-moment to behold it sink, the inviting bait being prepared

'secundum artem.' He had certainly time for reflection, for his float

had been cast at least an hour, and still remained stationary; from which

he wisely augured that he was most certainly neither fishing in a running

stream nor in troubled waters.

Presently a ragged urchin came sauntering along, and very leisurely

seated himself upon a bank near the devoted angler. Curiosity is natural

to youth, thought Foozle--how I shall make the lad wonder when I pull out

a wriggling fish!

But still another weary hour passed, and the old gentleman's arms and

loins began to ache from the novel and constrained posture in which he

stood. He grew nervous and uneasy at the want of sport; and thinking

that perhaps the little fellow was acquainted with the locality, he

turned towards him, saying, in the blandest but still most indifferent

tone he could assume, lest he should compromise his dignity by exposing

his ignorance--

“I say, Jack, are there any fish in this pond?”

“There may be, sir,” replied the boy, pulling his ragged forelock most

deferentially, for Old Foozle had an awful churchwarden-like appearance;

“there may be, but I should think they were weary small, 'cause there vos

no vater in this here pond afore that there rain yesterday.”

The sallow cheeks of the old angler were tinged with a ruddy glow, called

up by the consciousness of his ridiculous position. Taking a penny from

his pocket, he bade the boy go buy some cakes: and no sooner had he

gallopped off, than the disappointed Waltonian hastily packed up his

tackle, and turned his steps homeward; and this was the first and last

essay of Old Foozle.

THE “CRACK-SHOTS.” No. I.

A club, under the imposing style of the “Crack-Shots,” met every

Wednesday evening, during the season, at a house of public entertainment

in the salubrious suburbs of London, known by the classical sign of the

“Magpye and Stump.” Besides a trim garden and a small close-shaven

grass-plat in the rear (where elderly gentlemen found a cure for 'taedium

vitae' and the rheumatism in a social game of bowls), there was a meadow

of about five or six acres, wherein a target was erected for the especial

benefit of the members of this celebrated club; we say celebrated,

because, of all clubs that ever made a noise in the world, this bore away

the palm-according to the reports in the neighbourhood. Emulation

naturally caused excitement, and the extraordinary deeds they performed

under its influence we should never have credited, had we not received

the veracious testimony of--the members themselves.

After the trials of skill, they generally spent the evenings together.

Jack Saggers was the hero of the party; or perhaps he might be more

appropriately termed the “great gun,” and was invariably voted to the

chair. He made speeches, which went off admirably; and he perpetrated

puns which, like his Joe Manton, never missed fire, being unanimously

voted admirable hits by the joyous assembly.

Their pleasures and their conversation might truly be said to be of a

piece.

“Gentlemen”--said Jack, one evening rising upon his legs--“Do me the

favour to charge. Are you all primed and loaded? I am about to propose

the health of a gentleman, who is not only an honour to society at large,

but to the 'Crack-Shots' in particular. Gentlemen, the mere mention of

the name of Brother Sniggs--(hear! hear!)--I know will call forth a

volley!--(Hear! hear!) Gentlemen, I give you the health of Brother

Sniggs! make ready, present and fire!”

Up went the glasses, and down went the liquor in a trice, followed by

three times three, Jack Saggers giving the time, and acting as

“fugle-man.”

Sniggs, nervously fingering his tumbler of “half and half,” as if he

wanted the spirit to begin, hemmed audibly, and

“Having three times shook his head

To stir his wit, thus he said,”

“Gentlemen, I don't know how it is, but somehows the more a man has to

say, the more he can't! I feel, for all the world, like a gun rammed

tight and loaded to the muzzle, but without flint or priming----”

“Prime!” exclaimed Jack Saggers; and there was a general titter, and then

he continued; “as we cannot let you off Sniggs, you most go on, you

know.”

“Gentlemen,” resumed Sniggs, “I feel indeed so overloaded by the honors

you have conferred on me, that I cannot find words to express my

gratitude. I can only thank you, and express my sincere wish that your

shots may always tell.”

And he sat down amidst unbounded applause. “By no means a-miss!” cried

Jack Saggers.

“A joke of mine, when I knocked down a bird the other morning,” said

Sniggs: “you must know I was out early, and had just brought down my

bird, when leaping into the adjoining field to pick it up, a

bird-catcher, who had spread his nets on the dewy grass, walked right up

to me.”

“I've a visper for you, Sir,” says he, as cool as a cucumber; “I don't

vish to be imperlite, but next time you shoots a bird vot I've brought to

my call, I'll shoot you into a clay-pit, that's all!”

“And pray what did you say, Sniggs?” asked Jack Saggers. “Say?--nothing!

but I looked unutterable things, and--shouldering my piece--walked off!”

THE “CRACK-SHOTS.” No. II.

“Sniggs's rencontre with the bird-catcher reminds me of Tom Swivel's

meeting with the Doctor,” observed Smart.

“Make a report,” cried Jack Saggers.

“Well, you must know, that I had lent him my piece for a day's shooting;

and just as he was sauntering along by a dead wall near Hampstead,

looking both ways at once for a quarry (for he has a particular squint),

a stout gentleman in respectable black, and topped by a shovel-hat,

happened to be coming in the opposite direction. With an expression of

terror, the old gentleman drew himself up against the unyielding bricks,

and authoritatively extending his walking-stick, addressed our sportsman

in an angry tone, saying: 'How dare you carry a loaded gun pointed at

people's viscera, you booby?' Now Tom is a booby, and no mistake, and so

dropping his under jaw and staring at the reverend, he answered: 'I don't

know vot you mean by a wiserar. I never shot a wiserar!'”

“Devilish good!” exclaimed Saggers; and, as a matter of course, everybody

laughed.

Passing about the bottle, the club now became hilarious and noisy; when

the hammer of the president rapped them to order, and knocked down Sniggs

for a song, who, after humming over the tune to himself, struck up the

following:

CHAUNT

When the snow's on the ground and the trees are all bare,

And rivers and gutters are turned into ice,

The sportsman goes forth to shoot rabbit or hare,

And gives them a taste of his skill in a trice.

Bang! bang! goes his Joe,

And the bird's fall like snow,

And he bags all he kills in a trice.

CHORUS.

Bang! bang! goes his Joe,

And the bird's fall like snow,

And he bags all he kills in a trice.

II.

If he puts up a partridge or pheasant or duck,

He marks him, and wings him, and brings him to earth;

He let's nothing fly--but his piece--and good luck

His bag fills with game and his bosom with mirth.

Bang! bang! goes his Joe,

And the bird's fall like snow,

And good sport fills his bosom with mirth.

CHORUS.

Bang! bang! et. etc.

III.

When at night he unbends and encounters his pals,

How delighted he boasts of the sport he has had;

While a kind of round game's on the board, and gals

Are toasted in bumpers by every lad.

And Jack, Jim, and Joe

Give the maid chaste as snow

That is true as a shot to her lad!

CHORUS.

And Jack, Jim and Joe

Give the maid chaste as snow

That is true as a shot to her lad!

The customary applause having followed this vocal attempt of Sniggs, he

was asked for a toast or a sentiment.

“Here's--'May the charitable man never know the want of--'shot.'” said

Sniggs.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Saggers, approvingly; “By Jupiter Tonans, Sniggs,

you're a true son of--a gun!”

THE “CRACK-SHOTS.”--No. III.

“Sich a lark!” said Bill Sorrel, breaking abruptly in upon the noisy

chorus, miscalled a general conversation; “sich a lark!”

“Where?” demanded Saggers.

“You've jist hit it,” replied Sorrel, “for it vere worry near 'Vare vhere

it happened. I'd gone hout hearly, you know, and had jist cotched sight

of a bird a-vistling on a twig, and puttered the vords, 'I'll spile your

singin', my tight 'un,' and levelled of my gun, ven a helderly gentleman,

on t'other side of the bank vich vos atween me and the bird, pops up his

powdered noddle in a jiffy, and goggling at me vith all his eyes, bawls

pout in a tantivy of a fright, 'You need'nt be afear'd, sir,' says I, 'I

aint a-haiming at you,' and vith that I pulls my trigger-bang! Vell, I

lost my dicky! and ven I looks for the old 'un, by Jingo! I'd lost him

too. So I mounts the bank vere he sot, but he vas'nt there; so I looks

about, and hobserves a dry ditch at the foot, and cocking my eye along

it, vhy, I'm blessed, if I did'nt see the old fellow a-scampering along

as fast as his legs could carry him. Did'nt I laugh, ready to

split--that's all!”

“I tell you what, Sorrel,” said the president, with mock gravity, “I

consider the whole affair, however ridiculous, most immoral and

reprehensible. What, shall a crack-shot make a target of an elder?

Never! Let us seek more appropriate butts for our barrels! You may

perhaps look upon the whole as a piece of pleasantry but let me tell you

that you ran a narrow chance of being indicted for a breach of the peace!

And remember, that even shooting a deer may not prove so dear a shot as

bringing down an old buck!”

This humorous reproof was applauded by a “bravo!” from the whole club.

Sorrel sang--small, and Sniggs sang another sporting ditty.

“Our next meeting,” resumed Saggers, “is on Thursday next when the

pigeon-match takes place for a silver-cup--the 'Crack Shots' against the

'Oriental Club.' I think we shall give them I taste of our quality,'

although we do not intend that they shall lick us. The silver-cup is

their own proposal. The contest being a pigeon-match, I humbly proposed,

as an amendment, that the prize should be a tumbler--which I lost by a

minority of three. In returning thanks, I took occasion to allude to

their rejection of my proposition, and ironically thanked them for having

cut my tumbler.”

“Werry good!” shouted Sorrel.

“Admirable!” exclaimed Sniggs; and, rising with due solemnity, he

proposed the health of the “worthy president,” prefacing his speech with

the modest avowal of his inability to do what he still persisted in doing

and did.

“Brother Shots!” said Saggers, after the usual honours had been duly

performed, “I am so unaccustomed to speaking (a laugh), that I rise with

a feeling of timidity to thank you for the distinguished honour you have

conferred on me. Praise, like wine, elevates a man, but it likewise

thickens and obstructs his speech; therefore, without attempting any

rhetorical flourish, I will simply say, I sincerely thank you all for the

very handsome manner in which you have responded to the friendly wishes

of Brother Sniggs; and, now as the hour of midnight is at hand, I bid you

farewell. It is indeed difficult to part from such good company; but,

although it is morally impossible there ever can be a division among such

cordial friends, both drunk and sober may at least separate--in spirits,

--and I trust we shall all meet again in health--Farewell!”

DOCTOR SPRAGGS.

Old Doctor Spraggs! famed Doctor Spraggs!

Was both well fee'd and fed,

And, tho' no soldier, Doctor Spraggs

Had for his country-bled.

His patients living far and wide

He was compell'd to buy

A horse; and found no trouble, for

He'd got one in his eye!

He was a tall and bony steed

And warranted to trot,

And so he bought the trotter, and

Of course four trotters got.

Quoth he: “In sunshine quick he bounds

“Across the verdant plain,

“And, e'en when showers fall, he proves

“He--doesn't mind the rain!”

But, oh! one morn, when Doctor Spraggs

Was trotting on his way,

A field of sportsmen came in view,

And made his courser neigh.

“Nay! you may neigh,” quoth Doctor Spraggs,

“But run not, I declare

“I did not come to chase the fox,

“I came to take the--air!”

But all in vain he tugg'd the rein,

The steed would not be stay'd;

The “Doctor's stuff” was shaken, and

A tune the vials play'd.

For in his pockets he had stow'd

Some physic for the sick;

Anon, “crack” went the bottles all,

And forma a “mixture” quick.

His hat and wig flew off, but still

The reins he hugg'd and haul'd;

And, tho' no cry the huntsmen heard,

They saw the Doctor--bald!

They loudly laugh'd and cheer'd him on,

While Spraggs, quite out of breath,

Still gallopp'd on against his will,

And came in at the death.

To see the Doctor riding thus

To sportsmen was a treat,

And loudly they applauded him--

(Tho' mounted) on his feat!

MORAL.

Ye Doctors bold, of this proud land

Of liberty and--fogs,

No hunters ride, or you will go

Like poor Spraggs--to the dogs!

SCENE IX. (b)

“Well, Bill, d'ye get any bites over there?” “No, but I'm afeard I shall,

soon have one.”

Two youths, by favour of their sponsors, bearing the aristocratic names

of William and Joseph, started early one morning duly equipped, on

piscatorial sport intent. They trudged gaily forward towards a

neighbouring river, looking right and left, and around them, as sharp as

two crows that have scented afar off the carcase of a defunct nag.

At length they arrived at a lofty wall, on the wrong side of which,

musically meandered the stream they sought. After a deliberate

consultation, the valiant William resolved to scale the impediment, and

cast the line. Joseph prudently remained on the other side ready to

catch the fish--his companion should throw to him! Presently an

exclamation of “Oh! my!” attracted his attention.

“Have you got a bite?” eagerly demanded Joe.

“No! by gosh! but I think I shall soon!” cried Bill. Hereupon the

expectant Joseph mounted, and seating himself upon the wall, beheld to

his horror, Master Bill keeping a fierce bull-dog at bay with the butt

end of his fishing-rod.

“Go it, Bill!” exclaimed Joe, “pitch into him and scramble up.”

The dog ran at him.--Joe in his agitation fell from his position, while

Bill threw his rod at the beast, made a desperate leap, and clutched the

top of the wall with his hands.

“Egad! I've lost my seat,” cried Joe, rolling upon the grass.

“And so have I!” roared Bill, scrambling in affright over the wall.

And true it was, that he who had not got a bite before, had got a

bite--behind!

Bill anathematised the dog, but the ludicrous bereavement he had

sustained made him laugh, in spite of his teeth!

Joe joined in his merriment.

“What a burning shame it is?” said he; “truly there ought to be breaches

ready made in these walls, Bill, that one might escape, if not repair

these damages.”

“No matter,” replied Bill, shaking his head, “I know the owner--he's a

Member of Parliament. Stop till the next election, that's all.”

“Why, what has that to do with it?” demanded Joe.

“Do with it,” said Bill emphatically, “why, I'll canvass for the opposite

party, to be sure.”

“And what then?”

“Then I shall have the pleasure of serving him as his dog has served me.

Yes! Joe, the M. P. will lose his seat to a dead certainty!”

THE POUTER AND THE DRAGON.

“Another pigeon! egad, I'm in luck's way this morning.”

Round and red, through the morning fog

The sun's bright face

Shone, like some jolly toping dog

Of Bacchus' race.

When Jenkins, with his gun and cur

On sport intent,

Through fields, and meadows, many fur--

--longs gaily went.

He popp'd at birds both great and small,

But nothing hit;

Or if he hit, they wouldn't fall--

No, not a bit!

“It's wery strange, I do declare;

I never see!

I go at sky-larks in the hair

Or on a tree.”

“It's all the same, they fly away

Has I let fly--

The birds is frightened, I dare say,

And vill not die.”

“Vhy, here's a go! I hav'nt ramm'd

In any shot;

The birds must think I only shamm'd,

And none have got.”

“I'll undeceive 'em quickly now,

I bet a crown;

And whether fieldfare, tit, or crow,

Vill bring 'em down.”

And as he spake a pigeon flew

Across his way--

Bang went his piece--and Jenkins slew

The flutt'ring prey.

He bagg'd his game, and onward went,

When to his view

Another rose, by fortune sent

To make up two.

He fired, and beheld it fall

With inward glee,

And for a minute 'neath a wall

Stood gazing he.

When from behind, fierce, heavy blows

Fell on his hat,

And knock'd his beaver o'er his nose,

And laid him flat.

“What for,” cried Jenkins, “am I mill'd,

Sir, like this ere?”

“You villain, you, why you have kill'd

My pouter rare.”

The sturdy knave who struck him down

With frown replied:--

“For which I'll make you pay a crown

Nor be denied.”

Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain

To bandy words;

So paid the cash and vow'd, again

He'd not shoot birds--

At least of that same feather, lest

For Pouter shot

Some Dragon fierce should him molest--

And fled the spot.

THE PIC-NIC. No. I.

A merry holiday party, forming a tolerable boat-load, and well provided

with baskets of provisions, were rowing along the beautiful and

picturesque banks that fringe the river's side near Twickenham, eagerly

looking out for a spot where they might enjoy their “pic-nic” to

perfection.

“O! uncle, there's a romantic glade;--do let us land there!” exclaimed a

beautiful girl of eighteen summers, to a respectable old gentleman in a

broad brimmed beaver and spectacles.

“Just the thing, I declare,” replied he--“the very spot--pull away, my

lads--but dear me” continued he, as they neared the intended

landing-place, “What have we here? What says the board?”

“PARTIES ARE NOT, ALLOWED TO

LAND AND DINE HERE”

Oh! oh! very well; then we'll only land here, and dine a little further

on.”

“What a repulsive board”--cried the young lady--“I declare now I'm quite

vex'd”--

“Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board”--said the jocose old

gentleman.

“I'm sure, uncle”--said one of the youths--“we don't require any board,

for we provide ourselves.”

“You're quite right, Master Dickey,” said his uncle; “for we only came

out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf

for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land.”

“Oh! but suppose,” said the timid Julia, “the surly owner should pounce

upon us, just as we are taking our wine?”

“Why then, my love,” replied he, “we have only to abandon our wine, and,

like sober members of the Temperance Society--take water.”

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it

carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

“How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here,” said the romantic

Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; “Does

not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?”

said Emma: “I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?”

“Certainly not,” replied Master Dickey, winking at his uncle; “for the

blades of the Turf he describes, are neither so fresh nor so green as

these; and the 'stakes' he mentions are rather different from those

contained in our pigeon-pie.”

“But I doubt, Dickey,” said his uncle, “if his pen ever described a

better race than the present company. The Jenkins's, let me tell you,

come of a good stock, and sport some of the best blood in the country.”

“Beautiful branches of a noble tree,” exclaimed Master Dicky, “but,

uncle, a hard row has made me rather peckish; let us spread the

provender. I think there's an honest hand of pork yonder that is right

worthy of a friendly grasp;--only see if, by a single touch of that

magical hand, I'm not speedily transformed into a boat.”

“What sort of a boat?” cried Julia. “A cutter, to be sure,” replied

Master Dicky, and laughing he ran off with his male companions to bring

the provisions ashore.

Meanwhile the uncle and his niece selected a level spot beneath the

umbrageous trees, and prepared for the unpacking of the edibles.

THE PIC-NIC. No. II

Notwithstanding the proverbial variety of the climate, there is no nation

under the sun so fond of Pic-Nic parties as the English; and yet how

seldom are their pleasant dreams of rural repasts in the open air fated

to be realized!

However snugly they may pack the materials for the feast, the pack

generally gets shuffled in the carriage, and consequently their promised

pleasure proves anything but “without mixture without measure.”

The jam-tarts are brought to light, and are found to have got a little

jam too much. The bottles are cracked before their time, and the liberal

supplies of pale sherry and old port are turned into a--little current.

They turn out their jar of ghirkins, and find them mixed, and all their

store in a sad pickle.

The leg of mutton is the only thing that has stood in the general melee.

The plates are all dished, and the dishes only fit for a lunatic asylum,

being all literally cracked.

Even the knives and forks are found to ride rusty on the occasion. The

bread is become sop; and they have not even the satisfaction of getting

salt to their porridge, for that is dissolved into briny tears.

Like the provisions, they find themselves uncomfortably hamper'd; for

they generally chuse such a very retired spot, that there is nothing to

be had for love or money in the neighbourhood, for all the shops are as

distant as--ninety-ninth cousins!

However delightful the scenery may be, it is counterbalanced by the

prospect of starvation.

Although on the borders of a stream abounding in fish, they have neither

hook nor line; and even the young gentlemen who sing fail in a catch for

want of the necessary bait. Their spirits are naturally damped by their

disappointment, and their holiday garments by a summer shower; and though

the ducks of the gentlemen take the water as favourably as possible,

every white muslin presently assumes the appearance of a drab, and,

becoming a little limp and dirty, looks as miserable as a lame beggar!

In fine, it is only a donkey or a goose that can reasonably expect to

obtain a comfortable feed in a field. It may be very poetical to talk of

“Nature's table-cloth of emerald verdure;” but depend on it, a damask

one, spread over that full-grown vegetable--a mahogany table--is far

preferable.

THE BUMPKIN.

Giles was the eldest son and heir of Jeremiah Styles--a cultivator of the

soil--who, losing his first wife, took unto himself, at the mature age of

fifty, a second, called by the neighbours, by reason of the narrowness of

her economy, and the slenderness of her body, Jeremiah's Spare-rib.

Giles was a “'cute” lad, and his appetite soon became, under his

step-mother's management, as sharp as his wit; and although he

continually complained of getting nothing but fat, when pork chanced to

form a portion of her dietary, it was evident to all his acquaintance

that he really got lean! His legs, indeed, became so slight, that many

of his jocose companions amused themselves with striking at them with

straws as he passed through the farmyard of a morning.

“Whoy, Giles!” remarked one of them, “thee calves ha' gone to grass,

lad.”

“Thee may say that, Jeames,” replied Giles; “or d'ye see they did'nt

find I green enough.”

“I do think now, Giles,” said James, “that Mother Styles do feed thee on

nothing, and keeps her cat on the leavings.”

“Noa, she don't,” said Giles, “for we boath do get what we can catch, and

nothing more. Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if

the old 'ooman did'nt sarve me out a dish o' biled horse-beans--”

“Horse-beans?” cried James; “lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?”

“Whoy, just what a horse would ha' done, to be sure--”

“Eat 'em?”

“Noa--I kicked, and said 'Nay,' and so the old 'ooman put herself into a

woundy passion wi' I. 'Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty

dog,' says she; 'I wish you may never have a worse.'--'Noa, mother,' says

I, 'I hope I never shall.' And she did put herself into such a tantrum,

to be sure--so I bolted; whereby, d'ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old

'ooman her beans. But it won't do. Jeames, I've a notion I shall go a

recruit, and them I'm thinking I shall get into a reg'lar mess, and get

shut of a reg'lar row.”

“Dang it, it's too bad!” said the sympathising James; “and when do thee

go?”

“Next March, to be sure,” replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural

to him--indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his

lips.

“But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles,” said James; “thee are thin as a

weasel.”

“My drumsticks,” answered he, smiling, “may recommend me to the

band--mayhap--for I do think they'll beat anything.”

“I don't like sogering neither,” said James, thoughtfully. “Suppose the

French make a hole in thee with a bagnet--”

“Whoy, then, I shall be 'sewed up,' thee know.”

“That's mighty foine,” replied James, shaking his head; “but I'd rather

not, thank'ye.”

“Oh! Jeames, a mother-in-law's a greater bore than a bagnet, depend on't;

and it's my mind, it's better to die in a trench than afore an empty

trencher--I'll list.”

And with this unalterable determination, the half-starved, though still

merry Giles, quitted his companion; and the following month, in pursuance

of the resolve he had made, he enlisted in his Majesty's service.

Fortunately for the youth, he received more billets than bullets, and

consequently grew out of knowledge, although he obtained a world of

information in his travels; and, at the expiration of the war, returned

to his native village covered with laurels, and in the Joyment of the

half-pay of a corporal, to which rank he had been promoted in consequence

of his meritorious conduct in the Peninsula. His father was still

living, but his step-nother was lying quietly in the church-yard.

“I hope, father,” said the affectionate Giles, “that thee saw her buried

in a deep grave, and laid a stone a-top of her?”

“I did, my son.”

“Then I am happy,” replied Giles.

[WATTY WILLIAMS AND BULL]

“He sat, like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.”

Watty Williams was a studious youth, with a long nose and a short pair of

trowsers; his delight was in the green fields, for he was one of those

philosophers who can find sermons in stones, and good in everything. One

day, while wandering in a meadow, lost in the perusal of Zimmerman on

Solitude, he was suddenly aroused from his reverie by a loud “Moo!” and,

turning about, he descried, to his dismay, a curly-fronted bull making

towards him.

Now, Watt., was so good-humoured a fellow, that he could laugh at an

Irish bull, and withal, so staunch a Protestant, that a papal bull only

excited a feeling of pity and contempt; but a bull of the breed which was

careering towards him in such lively bounds, alarmed him beyond all

bounds; and he forthwith scampered over the meadow from the pugnaceous

animal with the most agile precipitation imaginable; for he was not one

of those stout-hearted heroes who could take the bull by the

horns--especially as the animal appeared inclined to contest the meadow

with him; and though so fond of beef (as he naturally was), he declined a

round upon the present occasion.

Seeing no prospect of escape by leaping stile or hedge, he hopped the

green turf like an encaged lark, and happily reached a pollard in the

midst of the meadow.

Climbing up with the agility of a squirrel, he seated himself on the

knobby summit of the stunted willow.

Still retaining his Zimmerman and his senses, he looked down and beheld

the corniferous quadruped gamboling playfully round his singular asylum.

“Very pleasant!” exclaimed he; “I suppose, old fellow you want to have a

game at toss!--if so, try it on with your equals, for you must see, if

you have any gumption, that Watty Williams is above you. Aye, you may

roar!--but if I sit here till Aurora appears in the east, you won't catch

me winking. What a pity it is you cannot reflect as well as ruminate;

you would spare yourself a great deal of trouble, and me a little fright

and inconvenience.”

The animal disdainfully tossed his head, and ran at the tree--and

“Away flew the light bark!”

in splinters, but the trunk remained unmoved.

“Shoo! shoo!” cried Watty, contemptuously; but he found that shoo'ing

horns was useless; the beast still butted furiously against the harmless

pollard.

“Hallo!” cried he to a dirty boy peeping at a distance--“Hallo!” but the

lad only looked round, and vanished in an instant.

“The little fool's alarmed, I do believe!” said he; “He's only a cow-boy,

I dare say!” And with this sapient, but unsatisfactory conclusion, he

opened his book, and read aloud, to keep up his courage.

The bull hearing his voice, looked up with a most melancholy leer, the

corners of his mouth drawn down with an expression of pathetic gravity.

Luckily for Watty, the little boy had given information of his dilemma,

and the farmer to whom the bull belonged came with some of his men, and

rescued him from his perilous situation.

“The gentleman will stand something to drink, I hope?” said one of the

men.

“Certainly” said Watty.

“That's no more than right,” said the farmer, “for, according to the New

Police Act, we could fine you.”

“What for?”

“Why, we could all swear that when we found you, you were so elevated you

could not walk!”

Hereupon his deliverers set up a hearty laugh.

Watty gave them half-a-crown; saying, with mock gravity--

“I was on a tree, and you took me off--that was kind! I was in a fright,

and you laughed at me; that was uncharitable. Farewell!”

DELICACY!

Lounging in Hyde Park with the facetious B____, all on a summer's day,

just at that period when it was the fashion to rail against the beautiful

statue, erected by the ladies of England, in honour of the Great

Captain--

“The hero of a hundred fights,”--

“How proudly must he look from the windows of Apsley House,” said I,

“upon this tribute to his military achievements.”

“No doubt,” replied B____; and with all that enthusiasm with which one

man of mettle ever regards another! At the same time, how lightly must

he hold the estimation of the gallant sons of Britain, when he reflects

that he has been compelled to guard his laurelled brow from the random

bullets of a democratic mob, by shot-proof blinds to his noble mansion:

this was:

'The unkindest cut of all,'

after all his hair-breadth 'scapes, by flood and field, in the service.

of his country, to be compelled to fortify his castle against domestic

foes.”

“A mere passing cloud, that can leave no lasting impression on his great

mind,” said I; “while this statue will for ever remain, a memorial of his

great deeds; and yet the complaint is general that the statue is

indelicate--as if, forsooth, this was the first statue exhibited in

'puris naturalibus' in England. I really regard it as the senseless

cavilling of envious minds.”

“True,” said B____, laughing; “there is a great deal of railing about the

figure, but we can all see through it!” at the same time thrusting his

walking-stick through the iron-fence that surrounds the pedestal. As for

delicacy, it is a word that is used so indiscriminately, and has so many

significations, according to the mode, that few people rightly understand

its true meaning. We say, for instance, a delicate child; and

pork-butchers recommend a delicate pig! Delicacy and indelicacy depend

on the mind of the recipient, and is not so much in the object as the

observer, rely on't. Some men have a natural aptitude in discovering the

indelicate, both in words and figures they appear, in a manner, to seek

for it. I assure you that. I (you may laugh if you will) have often

been put to the blush by the repetition of some harmless phrase, dropped

innocently from my lips, and warped by one of these 'delicate' gentlemen

to a meaning the very reverse of what I intended to convey. Like men

with green spectacles, they look upon every object through an artificial

medium, and give it a colour that has no existence in itself!

It was only last week, I was loitering about this very spot, when I

observed, among the crowd of gazers, a dustman dressed in his best, and

his plump doxy, extravagantly bedizened in her holiday clothes, hanging

on his arm.

As they turned away, the lady elevated the hem of her rather short

garments a shade too high (as the delicate dustman imagined) above her

ancle. He turned towards her, and, in an audible whisper, said,

'Delicacy, my love--'delicacy!'--'Lawks, Fred!' replied the damsel, with

a loud guffaw,'--'it's not fashionable!--besides, vot's the good o'

having a fine leg, if one must'nt show it?'

So much for opinions on delicacy!

“NOW JEM--”

“Now, Jem, let's shew these gals how we can row.”

The tide is agin us, I know,

But pull away, Jem, like a trump;

Vot's that? O! my vig, it's a barge--

Oh! criky! but that vos a bump!

How lucky 'twas full o' round coals,

Or ve might ha' capsized her--perhaps!

See, the bargemen are grinning, by goles!

I never seed sich wulgar chaps.

Come, pull away, Jem, like a man,

A vherry's a coming along

Vith a couple o' gals all agog--

So let us be first in the throng.

Now put your scull rig'ler in,

Don't go for to make any crabs;

But feather your oar, like a nob,

And show 'em ve're nothink but dabs!

The vaterman's leering at us,

And the gals is a giggling so--

They take us for green'uns, but ve

Vill soon show 'em how ve can row.

Alas! for poor Bobby's “show off”--

He slipp'd in a trice from his seat--

While his beaver fell into the stream,

And the gals laugh'd aloud at his feat.

For his boots were alone to be seen,

As he sprawled like a crab on its back;

While the waterman cried--“Ho! my lads!

I think you'd best try t'other tack!”

Says Bobby--“You fool, it's your fault;

Look--my best Sunday castor is vet:

Pull ashore, then, as fast as you can.

I can't row no more--I'm upset.

“I think that my napper is broke,

Abumpin' agin this wile boat;

You may laugh--but I think it's no joke:

And I shan't soon agin be afloat.

“I'll never take you out agin--

I've had quite enough in this bout!”

Cried Jem--“Don't be angry vith me;

Sit still, and I'll soon--PUT YOU OUT!”

STEAMING IT TO MARGATE.

“Steward, bring me a glass of brandy as quick as you can.”

Since the invention of steam, thousands have been tempted to inhale the

saline salubrity of the sea, that would never have been induced to try,

and be tried, by the experiment of a trip. Like hams for the market,

every body is now regularly salted and smoked. The process, too, is so

cheap! The accommodations are so elegant, and the sailors so smart! None

of the rolling roughness of quid-chewing Jack-tars. Jack-tars! pshaw!

they are regular smoke jacks on board a steamer! The Steward (“waiter”

by half the cockneys called) is so ready and obliging; and then the

provisions is excellent. Who would not take a trip to Margate? There's

only one thing that rather adulterates the felicity--a drop of gall in

the cup of mead!--and that is the horrid sea-sickness! learnedly called

nostalgia; but call it by any name you please, like a stray dog, it is

pretty sure to come.

The cold perspiration--the internal commotion--the brain's giddiness--the

utter prostration of strength--the Oh! I never shall forget the

death-like feel!--Fat men rolling on the deck, like fresh caught

porpoises; little children floundering about; and white muslins and

parasols vanishing below! The smoking-hot dinner sends up its fumes, and

makes the sick more sick. Soda-water corks are popping and flying about

in every direction, like a miniature battery pointed against the assaults

of the horrid enemy!

“Steward!” faintly cries a fat bilious man, “bring me a glass of brandy

as quick as you can.”

But alas! he who can thus readily summon spirits from the vasty deep, has

no power over the rolling sea, or its reaches!

“O! my poor pa!” exclaims the interesting Wilhelmina; and is so overcome,

that she, sweet sympathizer! is soon below pa in the ladies' cabin. In

fact, the greater part of the pleasure-seekers are taken--at full length.

Even young ladies from boarding-school, who are thinking of husbands,

declare loudly against maritime delight! while all the single young men

appear double.

The pier at last appears--and the cargo of drooping souls hail it with

delight, and with as grateful a reverence as if they were received by the

greatest peer of the realm!

They hurry from the boat as if 'twere Charon's, and they were about

stepping into the fields of Elysium!

A change comes o'er the spirit of their dream--their nerves are braced;

and so soon are mortal troubles obliterated from the mind, that in a few

days they are ready again to tempt the terrors of sea-sickness in a

voyage homewards--notwithstanding many of them, in their extremity, had

vowed that they never would return by water, if they outlived the present

infliction; considering, naturally enough, that it was “all up” with

them!

PETER SIMPLE'S FOREIGN ADVENTURE.

“Loud roared the dreadful thunder.”--Bay of Biscay.

The good ship Firefly tossed and tumbled on the mountainous waves of the

stormy sea, like a cork in a gutter; and when she could not stem the

waves, politically tried a little tergiversation, and went stern

foremost! The boatswain piped all hands, and poor Peter Simple piped his

eye; for the cry of the whole crew was, that they were all going to Davy

Jones's locker. The waves struck her so repeatedly, that at last she

appeared as ungovernable as a scold in a rage; and as she found she could

not, by any means, strike the storm in the wind, and so silence it, she

gave vent to her fury by striking upon a rock!

It was a hard alternative truly; but what could she do? The long boat

was soon alongside, and was not long before it was filled with tars and

salt-water. Alas! she was speedily swamped, and the crew were compelled

to swim for their lives. Peter, however, could not swim, but the sea

gave him a lift in his dilemma, and washed him clean ashore, where he lay

for some time like a veritable lump of salt-Peter! When the storm had

abated he came to himself, and of course found himself in no agreeable

company!

Sticking his cocked-hat on his head, and grasping his dirk in his hand,

he tottered to a rock, when, seating himself, he philosophically rocked

to and fro. “Oh! vy vos I a midshipman,” cried he, “to be wrecked on

this desolate island? I vish I vos at home at Bloomsbury! Oh! that I

had but to turn and embrace my kind, good, benevolent, and much respected

grandmother.” As he uttered this pathetic plaint, he heard a chatter--of

which, at first considering that it proceeded from his own teeth, he took

no notice--but the sounds being repeated, he turned his head, and beheld

a huge baboon with a dog-face and flowing hair, grinning with admiration

at his cocked hat.

One look was sufficient! he leaped from his seat, and rushed wildly

forward, threading a wood in his way, and turning in and out--in and out

--with the sharpness and facility of a needle in the heel of a worsted

stocking--he never stayed his flight, 'till he fell plump into the centre

of a group of Indians, who received him with a yell!--loud enough to

split the drums of a whole drawing-room full of ears polite.

He would have fallen headlong with fear and exhaustion upon the turf, had

not a gentle female caught the slender youth in her arms, and embraced

him with all the energetic affection of a boa-constrictor.

Peter trembled like a little inoffensive mouse in the claws of a tabby!

At the same time one of the Indians stepped forward, brandishing his

scalping knife.

He was the very prototype of an animated bronze Hercules; and, seizing

the poor middy's lank locks, with a peculiar twist, in his iron

grasp--Peter fainted!

PETER SIMPLE'S FOREIGN ADVENTURE. No. II.

“O! what a lost mutton am I!”--Inkle and Yarico.

Most luckily for poor Peter was it, that he fell into the hands, or

rather the arms, of the Indian maid; for she not only preserved his crop,

but his life. When he recovered from his swoon, he found himself seated

beside his preserver, who, with one arm round his waist, was holding a

cocoa-nut, filled with a refreshing beverage, to his parched and pallid

lips. A large fire blazed in the middle of the wide space occupied by

the Indians, and he beheld the well-known coats and jackets of the brave

crew of the Firefly scattered on the greensward.

His heart palpitated-he thought at first that the villainous Indians had

stripped them, and left them to wander in a state of nature through the

tangled and briery woods. He was, however, soon--too soon--convinced

that the savages had dressed them! Yes, that merry crew--who had so

often roasted him--had been roasted by the Indians!

From this awful fate the lovely Ootanga had preserved him. She had

suddenly conceived a violent affection for the young white-face; and,

after a long harangue to the chief, her father, his consent was obtained,

and the nuptials were celebrated.

“I smell a rat,” said Peter--“I'm booked; but better booked than cooked,

at any rate;” and forthwith returned thanks to the company for the honour

they had conferred upon him, in the fashion of an after-dinner speech,

accompanied with as much pantomime as he could manage.

A dance and a feast followed, of which Peter partook; but whether rabbit,

squirrel, or monkey, formed the basis of his wedding-supper, he was not

naturalist enough to determine.

Ootanga's affection, however, was sufficient to make amends for anything;

she was, in truth, a most killing beauty, for she brought him tigers

slain by her own hands, and made a couch for him of the skins.

She caught rattlesnakes for him, and spitch-cooked them for his

breakfast. In fact, there was nothing she left undone to convince him of

her unbounded love.

Peter's heart, however, was untouched by all this show of tenderness; for

the fact is, he had already given his heart to a white-face in his own

country.

The only consolation he had in his forlorn situation was to talk of her

continually; and, as Ootanga understood not a syllable of what he

uttered, she naturally applied all his tender effusions to herself, and

laughed and grinned, and showed her white teeth, as if she would devour

her little husband.

Seated on a tiger skin, with his lawful spouse beside him, arrayed in

shells, bows, feathers, and all the adornments of a savage bride, he

still sighed for home, and plaintively exclaimed:--

“Here I am, married to the only daughter of the great chief, who would

have roasted me with the rest of our crew, had I not given a joyful

consent. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall get home, and be married to Miss

Wiggins!!!”

The lovely wide-mouthed Ootanga patted him fondly on the chin, and

dreamed in her ignorance that he was paying her a compliment in his

native language.

DOBBS'S “DUCK.”

A LEGEND OF HORSELYDOWN.

It may be accepted as an indubitable truth, that when the tenderest

epithets are bandied between a married couple, that the domestic affairs

do not go particularly straight.

Dobbs and his rib were perhaps the most divided pair that ever were yoked

by Hymen. D. was a good-humored fellow, a jovial blade, full of high

spirits--while his wife was one of the most cross-grained and

cantankerous bodies that ever man was blessed with--and yet, to hear the

sweet diminutives which they both employed in their dialogues, the world

would have concluded that they were upon the best terms conceivable.

“My love,” quoth Mrs. D., “I really now should like to take a boat and

row down the river as far as Battersea; the weather is so very fine, and

you know, my dear love, how fond I am of the water.”

D. could have added (and indeed it was upon the very tip of his

tongue)--“mixed with spirits”--but he wisely restrained the impertinent

allusion.

“Well, my duck,” said he, “you have only to name the day, you know, I am

always ready to please,”--and then, as was his habit, concluded his

gracious speech by singing--

“'Tis woman vot seduces all mankind--

Their mother's teach them the wheedling art.”

“Hold your nonsense, do,” replied Mrs. D____, scarcely able to restrain

her snappish humour, but, fearful of losing the jaunt, politically added,

“Suppose, love, we go to-day--no time like the present, dear.”

“Thine am I--thine am I,” sang the indulgent husband.

And Mrs. D____ hereupon ordered the boy to carry down to the stairs a

cargo of brandy, porter, and sandwiches, for the intended voyage, and

taking her dear love in the humour, presently appeared duly decked out

for the trip.

Two watermen and a wherry were soon obtained, and Dobbs, lighting his

cigar, alternately smoked and sang, while his duck employed herself most

agreeably upon the sandwiches.

The day was bright and sunny, and exceedingly hot; and they had scarcely

rowed as far as the Red-House, when Mrs. D____became rather misty, from

the imbibation of the copious draughts she had swallowed to quench her

thirst.

A lighter being a-head, the boatmen turned round, while Dobbs, casting up

his eyes to the blue heavens, was singing, in the hilarity of his heart,

“Hearts as warm as those above, lie under the waters cold,” when the boat

heeled, and his duck, who unfortunately could not swim, slipped gently

over the gunwhale, and, unnoticed, sank to rise no more.

“Ah!” said Dobbs, when, some months afterwards, he was speaking of the

sad bereavement, “She was a wife! I shall never get such another, and,

what's more, I would not if I could.”

STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM.

Among all the extraordinary and fantastic dishes compounded for the

palate of Heliogabalus, the Prince of Epicures, that delicious admixture

of the animal and the vegetable--Strawberries and Cream--is never

mentioned in the pages of the veracious chronicler of his gastronomic

feats!

Yes! 'tis a lamentable truth, this smooth, oleaginous, and delicately

odorous employment for the silver spoon, was unknown. Should the

knowledge of his loss reach him in the fields of Elysium, will not his

steps be incontinently turned towards the borders of the Styx--his

plaintive voice hail the grim ferryman, while in his most persuasive

tones he cries--

“Row me back--row me back,”

that he may enjoy, for a brief space, this untasted pleasure? Ye gods!

in our mind's eye we behold the heartless and unfeeling Charon refuse his

earnest prayer, and see his languid spirit--diluted by disappointment to

insipidity--wandering over the enamelled meads, as flat and shallow as an

overflow in the dank fens of Lincoln.

His imagination gloats upon the fragrant invention, and he gulps at the

cheating shadow until Elysium becomes a perfect Hades to his tortured

spirit.

Mellow, rich, and toothsome compound! Toothsome did we say? Nay, even

those who have lost their 'molares, incisores,' canine teeth, 'dentes

sapientiae,' and all can masticate and inwardly digest thee!

Racy and recherche relish!

Thou art--

As delicate as first love--

As white and red as a maiden's cheek--

As palateable as well-timed flattery--

As light and filling as the gas of a balloon--

As smooth as a courtier--

As odorous as the flowers of Jasmin---

As soft as flos silk--

As encouraging, without being so illusory, as Hope--

As tempting as green herbage to lean kine--

------------ a Chancery suit to the Bill of a cormorant-lawyer--

------------ a pump to a thirsty paviour--

------------ a sun-flower to a bee--

------------ a ripe melon to a fruit-knife--

------------ a rose to a nightingale--or

------------ a pot of treacle to a blue-bottle--

As beautiful to the eye as a page of virgin-vellum richly illuminated

And

As satisfactory as a fat legacy!

Talk of nectar! if Jupiter should really wish to give a bonne-bouche to

Juno, Leda, or Venus, or any one of his thousand and one flames, let him

skim the milky-way--transform the instrumental part of the music of the

spheres into 'hautboys,' and compound the only dish worth the roseate

lips of the gentle dames 'in nubibus,' and depend on it, the cups of

Ganymede and Hebe will be rejected for a bowl of--Strawberries and Cream.

A DAY'S PLEASURE.--No. I.

THE JOURNEY OUT.

“It's werry hot, but werry pleasant.”

Says Mrs. Sibson to her spouse

“The days is hot and fair;

I think 'twould do the children good

To get a little hair!

“For ve've been moping here at home

And nothin' seen o' life;

Vhile neighbor Jones he takes his jaunts

O' Sundays vith his vife!”

“Vell! vell! my dear,” quoth Mr. S____

“Let's hear vot you purpose;

I'm al'ays ready to comply,

As you, my love, vell knows.

“I'll make no bones about the cost;

You knows I never stick

About a trifle to amuse,

So, dearest Pol, be quick.”

“Vhy, this is it:--I think ve might

To Hornsey have a day;

Maria, Peg, and Sal, and Bet

Ve'd pack into a 'chay.'

“Our Jim and Harry both could valk,

(God bless their little feet!)

The babby in my arms I'd take--

I'm sure 'twould be a treat;”

Quoth he: “I am unanimous!”

And so the day was fix'd;

And forth they started in good trim,

Tho' not with toil umnix'd.

Across his shoulders Sibson bore

A basket with the “grub,”

And to the “chay” perform'd the “horse,”

Lest Mrs. S____ should snub.

Apollo smiled!--that is, the sun

Blazed in a cloudless sky,

And Sibson soon was in a “broil”

By dragging of his “fry.”

Says S____, “My love, I'm dry as dust!”

When she replied, quite gay,

“Then, drink; for see I've bottled up

My spirits for the day.”

And from the basket drew a flask,

And eke a footless glass;

He quaff'd the drink, and cried, “Now, dear,

I'm strong as ____” let that pass!

At last they reach'd the destined spot

And prop and babes unpacked;

They ran about, and stuff'd, and cramm'd,

And really nothing lack'd.

And Sibson, as he “blew a cloud,”

Declared, “It vos a day!”

And vow'd that he would come again--

Then call'd for “Vot's to pay?”

A DAY'S PLEASURE.--No. II.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

“Vot a soaking ve shall get.”

Across the fields they homeward trudged, when, lo! a heavy rain

Came pouring from the sky;

Poor Sibson haul'd, the children squall'd; alas! it was too plain

They would not reach home dry.

With clay-clogg'd wheels, and muddy heels, and Jim upon his back,

He grumbled on his way;

“Vell, blow my vig! this is a rig!” cried Sibson, “Vell! alack!

I shan't forget this day!

“My shoes is sop, my head's a mop; I'm vet as any think;

Oh! shan't ve cotch a cold!”

“Your tongue is glib enough!” his rib exclaim'd, and made him shrink,

--For she was such a scold--

And in her eye he could descry a spark that well he knew

Into a flame would rise;

So he was dumb, silent and glum, as the small “chay” he drew,

And ventured no replies.

Slip, slop, and slush! past hedge and bush, the dripping mortals go

(Tho' 'twas “no go” S____ thought);

“If this 'ere's fun, vy I for vuu,” cried he, with face of woe,

“Von't soon again be caught.

“Vet to the skin, thro' thick and thin, to trapes ain't to my mind;

So the next holiday

I vill not roam, but stick at home, for there at least I'll find

The means to soak my clay.

“Tis quite a fag, this 'chay' to drag--the babbies too is cross,

And Mrs. S____ is riled.

'Tis quite a bore; the task is more--more fitt'rer for an horse;

And vith the heat I'm briled!

“No, jaunts adoo! I'll none o' you!”--and soon they reach'd their home,

Wet through and discontent--

“Sure sich a day, I needs must say,” exclaim'd his loving spouse,

“Afore I never spent!”

HAMMERING

“Beside a meandering stream

There sat an old gentleman fat;

On the top of his head was his wig,

On the top of his wig was his hat.”

I once followed a venerable gentleman along the banks of a mill-stream,

armed at all points with piscatorial paraphernalia, looking out for some

appropriate spot, with all the coolness of a Spanish inquisitor,

displaying his various instruments of refined torture. He at last

perched himself near the troubled waters, close to the huge revolving

wheel, and threw in his float, which danced upon the mimic waves, and

bobbed up and down, as if preparing for a reel. Patiently he sat; as

motionless and unfeeling as a block. I placed myself under cover of an

adjoining hedge, and watched him for the space of half an hour; but he

pulled up nothing but his baited hook;--what his bait was, I know not;

but I suppose, from the vicinity, he was fishing for a “miller's thumb.”

Presently, two mealy-mouthed men, from the mill, made their appearance,

cautiously creeping behind him.

I drew myself up in the shadow of the luxuriant quickset to observe their

notions.

A paling in the rear offered the rogues an effectual concealment in case

the angler should turn.

Close to his seat ran some wood-work, upon which they quietly drew the

broad tails of his coat, and driving in a couple of tenpenny nails, left

the unconscious old gentleman a perfect fixture; to be taken at a

valuation, I suppose, part of his personal property being already

“brought to the hammer!” the clattering clamour of the wheel precluding

him from hearing the careful, but no less effectual taps. I certainly

enjoyed the trick, and longed to see the ridiculous issue; but he was so

intent upon his sport--so fixed that he did not discover the nature of

his real attachment while I remained.

Doubtless if he were of a quick and sudden temperament, a snatch of his

humour rent his broad cloth, and he returned home with a woful tail, and

slept not--for his nap was irreparably destroyed!

I hate all twaddle; but when I see an old fool, with rod and line,

“Sitting like patience on a monument,”

and selling the remnant of his life below cost price in the pursuit of

angling,--that “art of ingeniously tormenting,”--a feeling,

“More in sorrow than in anger,”

is excited at his profitless inhumanity.

Vainly do all the disciples of honest Izaak Walton discourse, in

eulogistic strains, of the pleasure of the sport. I can imagine neither

pleasure nor sport derivable from the infliction of pain upon the meanest

thing endowed with life.

This may be deemed Brahminical, but I doubt that man's humanity who can

indulge in the cruel recreation and murder while he smiles.

“What, heretical sentiments,” exclaims some brother of the angle, (now I

am an angle, but no angler.) “This fellow hath never trudged at early

dawn along the verdant banks of the 'sedgy lea,' and drunk in the dewy

freshness of the morning air. His lines have never fallen in pleasant

places. He has never performed a pilgrimage to Waltham Cross. He is, in

truth, one of those vulgar minds who take more delight in the simple than

the--gentle!--and every line of his deserves a rod!”

PRACTICE.

“Sweet is the breath of morn when she ascends

With charm of earliest birds.”---MILTON.

“Well, this is a morning!” emphatically exclaimed a stripling, with a

mouth and eyes formed by Nature of that peculiar width and power of

distension, so admirably calculated for the expression of stupid wonder

or surprise; while his companion, elevating his nasal organ and

projecting his chin, sniffed the fresh morning breeze, as they trudged

through the dewy meadows, and declared that it was exactly for all the

world similar-like to reading Thomson's Seasons! In which apt and

appropriate simile the other concurred.

“Tom's a good fellow to lend us his gun,” continued he--“I only hope it

ain't given to tricking, that's all. I say, Sugarlips, keep your powder

dry.”

“Leave me alone for that,” replied Sugarlips; “I know a thing or two,

although this is the first time that ever I have been out. What a

scuffling the birds do make”--added he, peeping into the cage which they

had, as a precautionary measure, stocked with sparrows, in order that

they might not be disappointed in their sport--“How they long to be on

the wing!”

“I'll wing 'em, presently!” cried his comrade, with a vaunting air--“and

look if here ain't the very identical spot for a display of my skill.

Pick out one of the best and biggest, and tie up a-top of yonder stile,

and you shall soon have a specimen of my execution.” Sugarlips quickly

did his bidding.

“Now--come forward and stand back! What do ye think o' that, ey?” said

the sportsman--levelling his gun, throwing back his head, closing his

sinister ocular, and stretching out his legs after the manner of the

Colossus of Rhodes--“Don't you admire my style?”

“Excellent!” said Sugarlips--“But I think I could hit it.”

“What?”

“Why, the stile to be sure.”

“Keep quiet, can't you--Now for it--” and, trembling with eagerness, his

hand pulled the trigger, but no report followed. “The deuce is in the

gun,” cried he, lowering it, and examining the lock; “What can ail it?”

“Why, I'll be shot if that ain't prime,” exclaimed Sugarlips, laughing

outright.

“What do you mean?”

“I've only forgot the priming--that's all.”

“There's a pretty fellow, you are, for a sportsman.”

“Well, it's no matter as it happens; for, though 'Time and tide wait for

no man,' a sparrow tied must, you know. There! that will do.”

“Sure you put the shot in now?”

“If you put the shot into Dicky as surely, he'll never peck groundsel

again, depend on it.”

Again the “murderous tube” was levelled; Sugarlips backed against an

adjoining wall, with a nervous adhesiveness that evidently proved him

less fearful of a little mortar than a great gun!

“That's right; out of the way, Sugarlips; I am sure I shall hit him this

time.” And no sooner had he uttered this self-congratulatory assurance

(alas! not life-assurance!) than a report (most injurious to the innocent

cock-sparrow) was heard in the neighbourhood!

“Murder!--mur-der!” roared a stentorian voice, which made the criniferous

coverings of their craniums stand on end.

“Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”

In an instant the sportsman let fall his gun, and Sugarlips ran

affrighted towards the stile. He found it really “vox et preterea

nihil;” for a few feathers of the bird alone were visible: he had been

blown to nothing; and, peeping cautiously round the angle of the wall, he

beheld a portly gentleman in black running along with the unwieldy gait

of a chased elephant.

“Old Flank'em, of the Finishing Academy, by jingo!” exclaimed Sugarlips.

“It's a mercy we didn't finish him! Why, he must actually have been on

the point of turning the corner. I think we had better be off; for, if

the old dominie catches us, he will certainly liberate our sparrows, and

--put us in the cage!”

But, where's the spoil?”

“Spoil, indeed!” cried Sugarlips; “you've spoiled him nicely. I've an

idea, Tom, you were too near, as the spendthrift nephew said of his

miserly uncle. If you can't get an aim at a greater distance, you'd

never get a name as a long shot--that's my mind.”

PRECEPT.

Uncle Samson was a six-bottle man. His capacity was certainly great,

whatever might be said of his intellect; for I have seen him rise without

the least appearance of elevation, after having swallowed the customary

half dozen. He laughed to scorn all modern potations of wishy-washy

French and Rhine wines--deeming them unfit for the palate of a true-born

Englishman. Port, Sherry, and Madeira were his only tipple--the rest, he

would assert, were only fit for finger-glasses!

--He was of a bulky figure, indeed a perfect Magnum among men, with a

very apoplectic brevity of neck, and a logwood complexion,--and though a

staunch Church-of-England-man, he might have been mistaken, from his

predilection for the Port, to be a true Mussulman. To hear him discourse

upon the age of his wines--the 'pinhole,' the 'crust,' the 'bees'-wing,'

etc., was perfectly edifying--and every man who could not imbibe the

prescribed quantum, became his butt. To temperance and tea-total

societies he attributed the rapid growth of radicalism and dissent.

“Water,” he would say, with a sort of hydrophobic shudder, “is only a fit

beverage for asses!”--“To say a man could drink like a fish, was once the

greatest encomium that a bon-vivant could bestow upon a brother

Bacchanalian--but, alas! in this matter-of-fact and degenerate age, men

do so literally--washing their gills with unadulterated water!--Dropsy

and water on the chest must be the infallible result! If such an order

of things continue, all the puppies in the kingdom, who would perhaps

have become jolly dogs in their time, will be drowned! Yes, they'll

inevitably founder, like a water-logged vessel, in sight of port. These

water-drinkers will not have a long reign. They would feign persuade us

that 'Truth lies at the bottom of a well,'--lies, indeed! I tell you

Horace knew better, and that his assertion of 'There is truth in wine,'

was founded on experience--his draughts had no water-mark in 'em, depend

on it.”

He was a great buyer of choice “Pieces,” and his cellar contained one of

the best stocks in the kingdom, both in the wood and bottle. Poor

Uncle!--he has now been some years “in the wood” himself, and snugly

stowed in the family vault!

Having been attacked with a severe cold, he was compelled to call in the

Doctor, who sent him a sudorific in three Lilliputian bottles; but

although he received the advice of his medical friend, he followed

Shakspeare's,

“Throw physic to the dogs,”

and prescribed for himself a bowl of wine-whey as a febrifuge. His

housekeeper remonstrated, but he would have his 'whey,' and he died!

leaving a handsome fortune, and two good-looking nephews to follow him to

the grave.

Myself and Cousin (the two nephews aforesaid) were vast favourites with

the old gentleman, and strenuously did he endeavour to initiate us in the

art of drinking, recounting the feats of his youth, and his

drinking-bouts with my father, adding, with a smile, “But you'll never be

a par with, your Uncle, Ned, till you can carry the six bottles under

your waistcoat.”

My head was certainly stronger than my Cousin's; he went as far as the

third bottle--the next drop was on the floor! Now I did once manage the

fourth bottle--but then--I must confess I was obliged to give it up!

“Young men,” would my Uncle say, “should practice 'sans intermission,'

until they can drink four bottles without being flustered, then they will

be sober people; for it won't be easy to make them tipsy--a drunken man I

abominate!”

EXAMPLE.

“You see I make no splash!”

There are some individuals so inflated with self-sufficiency, and

entertain such an overweaning opinion of their skill in all matters, that

they must needs have a finger in every pie.

Perhaps a finer specimen than old V____, of this genius of egotistic,

meddling mortals, never existed. He was a man well-to-do in the world,

and possessed not only a large fortune, but a large family.

He had an idea that no man was better qualified to bring up his children

in the way they should go; and eternally plagued the obsequious tutors of

his sons with his novel mode of instilling the rudiments of the Latin

tongue, although he knew not a word of the language; and the obedient

mistresses of his daughters with his short road to attaining a perfection

in playing the piano-forte, without knowing a note of the gamut: but what

could they say; why, nothing more or less than they were 'astonished;'

which was vague enough to be as true as it was flattering.

And then he was so universally clever, that he even interfered in the

culinary department of his household, instructing the red-elbowed,

greasy, grinning Cook, in the sublime art of drawing, stuffing, and

roasting a goose, for which she certainly did not fail to roast the goose

(her master) when she escaped to the regions below.

Even his medical attendant was compelled to acknowledge the efficacy of

his domestic prescriptions of water-gruel and honey in catarrhs, and

roasted onions in ear-aches, and sundry other simple appliances; and, in

fine, found himself, on most occasions, rather a 'consulting surgeon,'

than an apothecary, for he was compelled to yield to the man who had

studied Buchan's and Graham's Domestic Medicine. And the only

consolation he derived from his yielding affability, were the long bills

occasioned by the mistakes of this domestic quack, who was continually

running into errors, which required all his skill to repair. Nay, his

wife's mantua-maker did not escape his tormenting and impertinent advice;

for he pretended to a profound knowledge in all the modes, from the time

of Elizabeth to Victoria, and deemed his judgment in frills, flounces,

and corsages, as undeniable and infallible.

Of course the sempstress flattered his taste; for his wife, poor soul!

she soon had tact enough to discover, had no voice in the business.

His eldest son, George, had a notion that he could angle. Old V____

immediately read himself up in Walton, and soon convinced--himself, that

he was perfect in that line, and quite capable of teaching the whole art

and mystery.

“See, George,” said he, when they had arrived at a convenient spot for

their first attempt, “this is the way to handle your tackle; drop it

gently into the water,--so!” and, twirling the line aloft, he hooked the

branches of an overhanging tree!--sagaciously adding, “You see I make no

splash! and hold your rod in this manner!”

George was too much afraid of his imperious father, to point out his

error, and old V____ consequently stood in the broiling sun for a full

quarter of an hour, before he discovered that he had caught a birch

instead of a perch!

A MUSICAL FESTIVAL.

Matter-of-fact people read the story of Orpheus, and imagine that his

“charming rocks” and “soothing savage beasts,” is a mere fabulous

invention. No such thing: it is undoubtedly founded on fact. Nay, we

could quote a thousand modern instances of the power of music quite as

astonishing.

One most true and extraordinary occurrence will suffice to establish the

truth of our proposition beyond a doubt. Molly Scraggs was a cook in a

first-rate family, in the most aristocratic quarter of the metropolis.

The master and mistress were abroad, and Molly had nothing to do but to

indulge her thoughts; and, buried as she was in the pleasant gloom and

quiet of an underground kitchen, nothing could possibly be more

favourable to their developement. She was moreover exceedingly plump,

tender, and sentimental, and had had a lover, who had proved false to his

vows.

In this eligible situation and temper for receiving soft impressions, she

sat negligently rocking herself in her chair, and polishing the lid of a

copper saucepan! when the sweet, mellifluous strains of an itinerant band

struck gently upon the drum of her ear. “Wapping Old Stairs” was

distinctly recognized, and she mentally repeated the words so applicable

to her bereaved situation.

“Your Molly has never proved false she declares,” 'till the tears

literally gushed from her “blue, blue orbs,” and trickled down her plump

and ruddy cheeks; but scarcely had she plunged into the very depths of

the pathos induced by the moving air, which threatened to throw her into

a gentle swoon, or kicking hysterics, when her spirit was aroused by the

sudden change of the melancholy ditty, to the rampant and lively tune,

with the popular burden of, “Turn about and wheel about, and jump Jim

Crow!”

This certainly excited her feelings; but, strange to say, it made her

leap from her chair, exasperated, as it were, by the sudden revulsion,

and rush into the area.

“Don't, for goodness sake, play that horrid 'chune,'” said Molly,

emphatically addressing the minstrels.

The 'fiddle' immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching

the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked

the cook to name any other tune she preferred.

“Play us,” said she, “'Oh! no, we never mention her,' or summat o' that

sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally.”

“Yes, marm,” replied the 'fiddle,' obsequiously; and, whispering the

'harp' and 'bass,' they played the air to her heart's content.

In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the

kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a

gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them

to the musicians.

“Thanky'e, marm, I'm sure,” said the 'bass,' sticking his teeth into the

pie-crust.

“The mutton 's rayther fat, but it 's sweet, at any rate--”

“Yes, marm,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's too fat for your stomach, I'm sure,

marm;” and consigned it to his green-baize fiddle-case.

“Now,” said Molly,--“play us, 'Drink to me only,' and I'll draw you a mug

o' table-ale.”

“You're vastly kind,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's a pleasure to play anythink

for you, marm, you've sich taste;” and then turning to his comrades, he

added, with a smile--“By goles! if she ain't the woppingest cretur as

ever I set eyes on--”

The tune required was played, and the promised ale discussed. The

'bass,' with a feeling of gratitude, voted that they should give a

parting air unsolicited.

“Vot shall it be?” demanded the 'harp.'

“Vy, considering of her size,” replied the 'fiddle,' “I thinks as nothink

couldn't be more appropriate than

'Farewell to the mountain!'”

and, striking up, they played the proposed song, marching on well pleased

with the unexpected appreciation of their musical talent by the kind, and

munificent Molly Scraggs!

THE EATING HOUSE.

From twelve o'clock until four, the eating houses of the City are crammed

with hungry clerks.

Bills of fare have not yet been introduced,--the more's the pity; but, in

lieu thereof, you are no sooner seated in one of the snug inviting little

settles, with a table laid for four or six, spread with a snowy cloth,

still bearing the fresh quadrangular marks impressed by the mangle, and

rather damp, than the dapper, ubiquitous waiter, napkin in hand, stands

before you, and rapidly runs over a detailed account of the tempting

viands all smoking hot, and ready to be served up.

“Beef, boiled and roast; veal and ham; line of pork, roast; leg boiled,

with pease pudding; cutlets, chops and steaks, greens, taters, and

pease,” etc. etc.

Some are fastidious, and hesitate; the waiter, whose eyes are 'all about

him,' leaves you to meditate and decide, while he hastens to inform a new

arrival, and mechanically repeats his catalogue of dainties; and, bawling

out at the top of his voice, “One roast beaf and one taters,” you echo

his words, and he straightway reports your wishes in the same voice and

manner to the invisible purveyors below, and ten to one but you get a

piece of boiled fat to eke out your roast meat.

In some houses, new and stale bread, at discretion, are provided; and

many a stripling, lean and hungry as a greyhound, with a large appetite

and a small purse, calls for a small plate, without vegetables, and fills

up the craving crannies with an immoderate proportion of the staff of

life, while the reckoning simply stands, “one small plate 6d., one bread

1d., one waiter 1d.;” and at this economical price satisfies the demands

of his young appetite.

But still, cheap as this appears, he pays it the aggregate, for there are

frequently 500 or 600 diners daily at these Establishments; and the

waiter, who generally purchases his place, and provides glass, cloths,

etc. not only makes a 'good thing of it,' but frequently accumulates

sufficient to set up on his own account, in which case, he is almost sure

of being followed by the regular customers.

For he is universally so obliging, and possesses such a memory, and an

aptness in discovering the various tastes of his visitors, that he seldom

fails in making most of the every-day feeders his fast friends.

“Tom, bring me a small plate of boiled beef and potatoes,” cries one of

his regulars. Placing his hand upon the table-cloth; and knocking off

the crumbs with his napkin, he bends to the gentleman, and in a small.

confidential voice informs him,

“The beef won't do for you, Sir,--it's too low, it's bin in cut a hour.

Fine ribs o' lamb, jist up.”

“That will do, Tom,” says the gratified customer.

“Grass or spinach, Sir? fine 'grass,'--first this season.”

“Bring it, and quick, Tom,” replies the gentleman, pleased with the

assiduous care he takes in not permitting him to have an indifferent cut

of a half cold joint.

The most extraordinary part of the business is, the ready manner in which

he 'casts up' all you have eaten, takes the reckoning, and then is off

again in a twinkling.

A stranger, and one unaccustomed to feed in public, is recognised in a

moment by his uneasy movements. He generally slinks into the nearest

vacant seat, and is evidently taken aback by the apparently abrupt and

rapid annunciation of the voluble and active waiter, and, in the hurry

and confusion, very frequently decides upon the dish least pleasant to

his palate.

A respectable gentleman of the old school, of a mild and reverend

appearance, and a lean and hungry figure, once dropped into a settle

where we were discussing a rump steak and a shallot, tender as an infant,

and fragrant as a flower garden! Tom pounced upon him in a moment, and

uttered the mystic roll. The worthy senior was evidently confused and

startled, but necessity so far overcame his diffidence that he softly

said,

“A small portion of veal and ham, well done.”

Tom, whirled round, continuing the application of his eternal napkin to a

tumbler which he was polishing, bawled out in a stentorian voice,

“Plate o' weal, an' dam well done!”

We shall never sponge from the slate of our memory the utter astonishment

expressed in the bland countenance of the startled old gentleman at this

peculiar echo of his wishes.

SCENE X.(b)

“This is a werry lonely spot, Sir; I wonder you ar'n't afeard of being

robbed.”

Job Timmins was a tailor bold,

And well he knew his trade,

And though he was no fighting man

Had often dress'd a blade!

Quoth he, one day--“I have not had

A holiday for years,

So I'm resolv'd to go and fish,

And cut for once the shears.”

So donning quick his Sunday's suit,

He took both rod and line,

And bait for fish--and prog for one,

And eke a flask of wine.

For he was one who loved to live,

And said--“Where'er I roam

I like to feed--and though abroad,

To make myself at home.”

Beneath a shady grove of trees

He sat him down to fish,

And having got a cover, he

Long'd much to get a dish.

He cast his line, and watch'd his float,

Slow gliding down the tide;

He saw it sink! he drew it up,

And lo! a fish he spied.

He took the struggling gudgeon off,

And cried--“I likes his looks,

I wish he'd live--but fishes die

Soon as they're--off the hooks!”

At last a dozen more he drew--

(Fine-drawing 'twas to him!)

But day past by--and twilight came,

All objects soon grew dim.

“One more!” he cried, “and then I'll pack,

And homeward trot to sup,”--

But as he spoke, he heard a tread,

Which caused him to look up.

Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed

Upon the stranger's face;

For cut purse! robber! all too plain,

His eye could therein trace.

“Them's werry handsome boots o' yourn,”

The ruffian smiling cried,

“Jist draw your trotters out--my pal--

And we'll swop tiles, besides.”

“That coat too, is a pretty fit--

Don't tremble so--for I

Von't rob you of a single fish,

I've other fish to fry.”

Poor Timmins was obliged to yield

Hat, coat, and boots--in short

He was completely stripp'd--and paid

Most dearly for his “sport.”

And as he homeward went, he sigh'd--

“Farewell to stream and brook;

O! yes, they'll catch me there again

A fishing--with a hook!”

GONE!

Along the banks, at early dawn,

Trudged Nobbs and Nobbs's son,

With rod and line, resolved that day

Great fishes should be won.

At last they came unto a bridge,

Cried Nobbs, “Oh! this is fine!”

And feeling sure 'twould answer well,

He dropp'd the stream a line.

“We cannot find a fitter place,

If twenty miles we march;

Its very look has fix'd my choice,

So knowing and--so arch!”

He baited and he cast his line,

When soon, to his delight,

He saw his float bob up and down,

And lo! he had a bite!

“A gudgeon, Tom, I think it is!”

Cried Nobbs, “Here, take the prize;

It weighs a pound--in its own scales,

I'm quite sure by its size.”

He cast again his baited hook,

And drew another up!

And cried, “We are in luck to-day,

How glorious we shall sup!”

All in the basket Tommy stow'd

The piscatory spoil;

Says Nobbs, “We've netted two at least,

Albeit we've no toil.”

Amazed at his own luck, he threw

The tempting bait again,

And presently a nibble had--

A bite! he pull'd amain!

His rod beneath the fish's weight

Now bent just like a bow,

“What's this?” cried Nobbs; his son replied,

“A salmon, 'tis, I know.”

And sure enough a monstrous perch,

Of six or seven pounds,

He from the water drew, whose bulk

Both dad and son confounds.

“O! Gemini!” he said, when he

“O! Pisces!” should have cried;

And tremblingly the wriggling fish

Haul'd to the bridge's side.

When, lo! just as he stretched his hand

To grasp the perch's fin,

The slender line was snapp'd in twain,

The perch went tumbling in!

“Gone! gone! by gosh!” scream'd Nobbs, while Tom

Too eager forward bent,

And, with a kick, their basket quick

Into the river sent.

THE PRACTICAL JOKER.--No. I.

Those wags who are so fond of playing off their jokes upon others,

require great skill and foresight to prevent the laugh being turned

against themselves.

Jim Smith was an inveterate joker, and his jokes were, for the most part,

of the practical kind. He had a valuable tortoiseshell cat, whose beauty

was not only the theme of praise with all the old maids in the

neighbourhood, but her charms attracted the notice of numerous feline

gentlemen dwelling in the vicinity, who were, nocturnally, wont to pay

their devoirs by that species of serenades, known under the cacophonous

name of caterwauling.