Part 31

"Willy," said the duke to his son, "when you have put away your small-clothes, go and ask Mr. Martingale if he will be kind enough to let the horses be put to our carriage, since the duchess and I wish to go to mass."

"You need not send to Martingale," said Dowbiggin; "he is gone to the Society of Arts to hear a lecture on astronomy."

"Then, Willy, go and endeavour to harness the horses yourself," said the duke to his son, who instantly obeyed.

"You had better mind about those horses, sir," said Dowbiggin, still watching the progress of his tree; "the two German philosophers and Father O'Flynn have been with them to-day, and there appears little doubt that the great system will spread, and that even these animals which we have been taught to despise, will express their sentiments before long."

"The sentiments of a coach-horse!" sighed the duchess.

"Thanks, Lady Maria," said Dowbiggin; "now I'll go to work merrily; and, duke, whenever you can fudge up an answer to my question about the Altaic chain, send one of the girls, and I'll take away the things."

Dowbiggin disappeared, and the duke, who was anxious to get the parlour cleared (for the house, except two rooms, was all appropriated to the assistants), resolved to inquire of his priest, when he was out, what the proper answer would be to Dowbiggin's question, which he had tried to evade by the offensive quibble, when Lord William Cobbett Russell re-appeared, as white as a sheet.

"My dear father," cried his lordship, "it's all over now. The philosophers have carried the thing too far; the chestnut mare swears she'll be d--d if she goes out to-day."

"What," said the duke, "has their liberality gone to this--do horses talk? My dear William, you and I know that asses have written before this; but for horses to speak!"

"Perhaps, Willy," said the duchess, "it is merely yea and nay, or probably only the female horses who talk at all."

"Yes, mother, yes," said her son, "both of them spoke; and not only that, but Nap, the dog you were once so fond of, called after me to say, that we had no right to keep him tied up in that dismal yard, and that he would appeal to Parliament if we did not let him out.

"My dear duchess," said the duke, who was even more alarmed at the spread of intelligence than her grace, "there is but one thing for us to do--let us pack up all we can, and if we can get a few well-disposed post-horses, before they get too much enlightened, to take us towards the coast, let us be off."

What happened further, this historical fragment does not explain; but it is believed that the family escaped with their clothes and a few valuables, leaving their property in the possession of their assistants, who, by extending, with a liberal anxiety (natural in men who have become learned and great by similar means themselves), the benefits of enlightenment, in turn gave way to the superior claims of inferior animals, and were themselves compelled eventually to relinquish happiness, power, and tranquillity in favour of monkeys, horses, jackasses, dogs, and all manner of beasts.

SUNDAY BILLS.

We regret to see that a well-meaning gentleman of the name of Peter, is trying to get up a second edition of the exploded Agnew absurdity. Whatever the object of these efforts may be, it is clear that nothing can more effectually tend to array the country in two classes against each other,--the one of Atheists and Liberals, and the other of Puritans and Fanatics.

How can a gentleman of honour, like Sir Andrew Agnew, prevail upon himself--we are quite sure he is too independent to permit any other person to prevail upon him--to declare in the House of Commons that all classes of operatives are anxious for the closest restrictions on the Sabbath which the House can enforce? It is not the case. As far as working goes, the operatives are at this moment entirely protected; no master can compel his journeymen to work on Sunday; and as for menial servants, they are excepted out of the bill.

Does Sir Andrew Agnew believe, or wish anybody else to believe, that the operatives want to be "cribbed, cabined, and confined" on a Sunday, debarred from their excursions to tea-gardens, their little voyages upon the river, their social pipes and ale, or to have their wives and sweethearts mulcted of their cakes and tea upon the only day in the week in which they can enjoy them? Does he really mean seriously to say that hard-working people, who for six consecutive days have been shut up to labour and toil, in heated rooms, in factories, or in gas-lit workshops, desire that they may be hindered from breathing the pure air on the seventh?

And what to the poor--or, indeed, to the rich--is an excursion without refreshment--without the enjoyment of the Sunday's dinner, the weekly festival at which his family enjoy his society, and in his society the treat of something "good to eat?" Why may not these relations, if they prefer good air to bad, go to those "Ordinaries on Sundays at two o'clock," which may be seen announced on every sign-board round London? or why, if they prefer it, may they not travel thither in chaises or other carriages, if they can afford it? Whether this is sinful or not, Messrs. Agnew and Peter may perhaps decide; but of this we are sure, that the operatives, except the already benighted Puritan Radicals, must be, and are opposed, heart and soul, to the monstrous restrictions which a couple of very small men are endeavouring to bring them under, because they think it right, and good, and wise.

The beneficial effects of the measure upon society may be guessed from the following dialogue between Snip, a tailor, and Snob, a shoemaker, living in the same house, each having a wife--one having a child.--(_Time, Sunday morning._)

_Snip._ Vell, Snob, arn't you shaved? Vy, the bells is a-going for Church--ye von't be ready in time.

_Snob._ Church--bless your heart, I can't go to church to-day--the bill's come into play.

_Snip._ Ah! I know that to my cost.

_Snob._ How can I go to church? Ve used to send our bit of wittels to the bakus, and then I and Sal used to go to church, and so give Jenny Walker sixpence to mind the babby till we come back; then arter dinner Sal and I and the babby used to go to Chalk Farm, as reglar as clockwork, every blessed Sunday. She had a cup of the best bohea, with milk hot from the cow--I smoked my pipe and had a pint of ale. Little Jenny used to go to church in the arternoon, and come and jine us, and so help bring babby back. Now we marn't get the things baked at the bakus, and Jenny marn't come and earn sixpence by looking arter the babby--so Sal has to cook the wittels, and I have to mind the child--so there's no church for us.

_Snip._ My missus says she won't do no work Sundays, cause she's afeard of her life of Bill Byers--so we avn't got a morsel of grub for dinner, and neither of us knows where to get none--I won't go to church with this here beard on, six days long; and Jim, him as is the barber over the way, won't shave me for fear of the five pound penalty, so I shall stop where I is.

_Snob._ Come along into our place--my Sal isn't so partic'lar--she's read the hact itself, and swears she's a hexception--we got a line of mutton, vith the kidney in it, and a peck of tatys--come along wi' your old woman, and let's be jolly.

_Snip._ Jolly! Hark, Mr. S----, there's one on 'em over the way--don't ye know 'em?--that's one o' Byers's boys--if he hears you laugh to-day, two-pun-ten for you.

_Snob._ Peter's pence--eh?--well, if we maint speak of a Sunday in the street, let's come in--ours, you know, is a back room, up two pair--they can't hear us there--come along--I say, what shall we have to drink?

_Snip._ There's nothing but vater for us as can't afford vine--public-houses is shut--no sarving Sabbath-day.

_Snob._ Vell, never mind--ve'll try and cheat the old un. There are cunninger dogs than the law-makers, and them is the law-breakers. Go and ask missus to come and join us.

_Snip._ Oh, she'll come, and jump too; and I tells ye what--as we know'd we could not have no heavy wet to-day, she got a couple of bottles of Jacky, as will nourish us through the arternoon.

_Snob._ So it will, Bill; and we won't stir out at all. If we can't have a drop o' short, or a swig o' heavy among the rurals in the harbours--what's the country to us, we can't live upon hair?

_Snip._ No, not by no means. If I could but get my chin scraped, I'd try and make myself comfortable.

_Snob._ Is barber Jem at home?

_Snip._ Yes, shut up in his back parlour a-making wigs, where nobody can see him.

_Snob._ I tell ye vot, let's ax him to eat a bit of our mutton. He han't got nobody to cook for him, poor buffer, so we'll ax him over; and then if he brings his soap and a kipple of razors in his vestcoat pockets, he can shave us two, just by way of amusement, while Sal's getting the line ready.

_Snip._ Amusement!--that's quite gone out,--there's my poor missus, who used to get from eighteen to four-and-twenty shillings a-week a-manty making in Crambo Alley, can't get a stitch o' work to do--nobody wears nothing now--they used only to put on their bits of things onest a-week, to show 'em like, and now they marnt go out a-pleasuring o' Sundays, they buys nothing.

_Snob._ Vell, come along up stairs, we'll have a day on it. please the pigs; your two bottles of Jacky will last us till bed-time, and I'll toss you up who pays for both--I'm not going to swelter out in the sun to walk.

_Snip._ Nor I--I'll be with you in a twinkling, and when we have got my missus and barber Jem, we'll just lock the door, and drink confusion to the reformers.

For the sequel we have not room in detail. Snip, Snob, and barber Jem, ensconced in their fast-hold, pass the Sabbath with the females, in hidden intoxication and carefully-concealed profligacy--drunkenness progresses. Barber Jem contributes from his store over the way to the replenishment of the gin-bottle. Jealousy grows out of familiarity: the women tear each other's caps, and scratch each other's faces. Snob knocks Snip over the balusters, and barber Jem is taken to the station-house dead-drunk.

In better society things will grow even worse. The mind restricted to drudgery through the week must have relaxation at the end of it; and the tradesmen and clerks, and their ladies, sweethearts, and wives, have a right, in this Christian and civilized country, to share the innocent pleasures of the male part of the creation on the only day upon which they can properly enjoy them. What can be more innocent than going to Richmond, walking upon the hill, or paddling about by the water? What more agreeable or healthy than steaming to Gravesend (where the animosity of the people towards the aristocracy has recently been evinced by their conduct towards the Pier)? What more natural than to eat and drink when arrived there?--No; that is contrary to the law. What! of nature or nations!--No; of Agnew and of Peter. Surely if young ladies are satisfied with soles and eels, and ducks and peas, and sage and onions, and port wine and punch, and such things as these, all eaten fairly and above-board at open windows or in the open air, such persons as Peter and Agnew should rejoice thereat. Confine them in London, deny them harmless gaiety, pen them up with their lovers and friends, tell them they must not stir out, and, like the Snips and Snobs of inferior life, they will turn their thoughts into other channels, and soles and eels, and ducks and peas, will shortly sink in their estimation, only, however, to give place to a catalogue of other things too numerous to mention in the short space of an advertisement.

Oh, if these Agnews and Peters would but be content to take man as God has been pleased to make him, and allow him the free agency with which the Divinity has invested him, how much more wisely would they act! If they themselves believe that piety consists in eating cold meat on Sundays, in avoiding carriages, in eschewing all sorts of social conversation; if they see perdition in a plum-bun, and utter destruction in a glass of mild ale, let them henceforth live on frigid sheep, moan, mump, and be miserable, and fast, and grieve, in direct opposition to the spirit and character of Christians, observing the Protestant Sunday; but do not let them meddle with matters which cannot concern them, and by their success in which they would infallibly corrupt the body of the people, and endanger the safety of the commonwealth.

THE SPINSTER'S PROGRESS.

At 15.--Dimpled cheeks, sparkling eyes, coral lips, and ivory teeth--a sylph in figure. All anxiety for coming out--looks about her with an arch yet timid expression, and blushes amazingly upon the slightest provocation.

16.--Bolder and plumper--draws, sings, plays the harp, dines at table when there are small parties--gets fond of plays, to which she goes in a private box--dreams of a hero--hates her governess--is devoted to poetry.

17.--Having no mother who values herself on her youth, is presented by an aunt--first terrified, then charmed. Comes out--Almack's--Opera--begins to flirt--selects the most agreeable but most objectionable man in the room as the object of her affections--he, eminently pleasant, but dreadfully poor--talks of love in a cottage, and a casement window all over woodbine.

18.--Discards the sighing swain, and fancies herself desperately devoted to a Lancer, who has amused himself by praising her perfections. Delights in _fêtes_ and _déjeuners_--dances herself into half a consumption. Becomes an intimate friend of Henry's sister.

19.--Votes Henry stupid--too fond of himself to care for her--talks a little louder than the year before--takes care to show that she understands the best-concealed _bon-mots_ of the French plays--shows off her bright eyes, and becomes the centre of four satellites who flicker round her.

20.--Begins to wonder why none of the sighers propose--gets a little peevish--becomes a politician--rallies the Whigs--avows Toryism--all women are Tories, except two or three who may be anything--gets praised beyond measure by her party--discards Italian music, and sings party songs--called charming, delightful, and "so natural."

21.--Enraptured with her new system--pursues it with redoubled ardour--takes to riding constantly on horseback--canters every day half-way to the House of Lords with the dear Earl, through St. James's Park, by the side of her uncle--makes up parties and excursions--becomes a comet instead of a star, and changes her satellites for a Tail, by which she is followed as regularly as the great Agitator is. Sees her name in the papers as the proposer of pic-nics, and the patroness of fancy fairs.

22.--Pursues the same course--autumn comes--country-house--large party of shooting men--juxtaposition--constant association--sociability in the evening--sportive gambols--snug suppers--an offer--which, being made by the only dandy she did not care about in the _mêlée_, she refuses.

23.--Regrets it--tries to get him back--he won't come, but marries a rich grocer's widow for her money. Takes to flirting desperately--dresses fantastically--tries a new style of singing--affects a taste--lives with the Italians, calls them divine and charming--gets her uncle to give suppers.

24.--Thinks she has been too forward--retires, and becomes melancholy--affects sentiment, and writes verses in an Annual--makes acquaintances with the _savans_, and the authors and authoresses--wonders she is not married.

25.--Goes abroad with her uncle and a delightful family--so kind and so charming--stays the year there.

26.--Comes home full of new airs and graces--more surprised than ever that she is still single, and begins to fancy she could live very comfortably, if not in a cottage, at least upon a very moderate scale.

27.--Thinks the conversation of rational men infinitely preferable to flirting.

28.--Looks at matrimony as desirable in the way of an establishment, in case of the death of her uncle--leaves off dancing generally--talks of getting old.

29.--Same system--still ineffective--still talks of getting aged--surprised that men do not laugh as they did, when she said so a year or two before.

30.--Begins to inquire when a spinster becomes an old maid.

31.--Dresses more fantastically than ever--rouges a little--country-house not so agreeable as it used to be--goes everywhere in town--becomes good-natured to young girls, and joins in acting charades and dumb proverbs.

32.--Hates balls, or, if she goes to them, likes to sit still and talk to clever middle-aged gentlemen.

33.--Wonders why men of sense prefer flirting with girls to the enjoyment of rational conversation with sensible women.

34.--Uncle dies--break-up of establishment--remains with her aunt--feels old enough to go about without a chaperon.

35.--Takes to cards, where they are played--gives up harp, pianoforte, and singing--beaten out of the field by her juniors.

36.--Quarrels with her cousin, who is just married to the prize Marquess of the season--goes into Wales on a visit to a distant relation.

37.--Returns to London--tries society--fancies herself neglected, and "never goes out"--makes up little tea-parties at her aunt's--very pleasant to everybody else, but never satisfactory to herself.

38.--Feels delight in recounting all the unhappy marriages she can recollect--takes a boy out of an orphan-school, dresses him up in a green jacket, with three rows of sugar-loaf buttons, and calls him a page--patronizes a poet.

39.--Gets fractious--resolves upon making the best of it--turns gourmand--goes to every dinner to which she either is or is not invited--relishes port wine; laughs at it as a good joke--stays in London all the year.

40.--Spasmodic--camphor-julep--a little more rouge--fancies herself in love with a Captain in the Guards--lets him know it--he not susceptible--she uncommonly angry--makes up a horrid story about him and some poor innocent girl of her acquaintance--they are eternally separated by her means--she happy.

41.--Takes to wearing "a front"--port wine gets more popular--avows a resolution never to marry--who would sacrifice her liberty?--quite sure she has seen enough of that sort of thing--Umph!

42.--Turns moralist--is shocked at the vices of the world--establishes a school out of the produce of a fancy fair--subscribes--consults with the rector--excellent man--he endeavours to dissuade her from an extravagant course of proceeding which she has adopted--her regard turns to hate, and she puts herself under the spiritual guidance of a Ranter.

43.--Learns the Unknown Tongues, and likes them--sees none of her old friends--continues during the whole season enveloped in her new devotions.--Her page, having outgrown his green inexpressibles, is dismissed at the desire of her new pastor.

44.--Renounces the Oly Oly Bom school of piety, and gets a pug and a poodle--meets the man she refused when she was two-and-twenty--he grown plump and jolly, driving his wife and two great healthy-looking boys, nearly men, and two lovely girls, nearly women--recollects him--he does not remember her--wishes the family at Old Nick--comes home and pinches her poodle's ears.

45.--Returns to cards at the Dowager's parties, and smells to snuff if offered her.

46.--Her aunt dies.

47.--Lives upon her relations; but by the end of the season feels assured that she must do something else next year.

48.--Goes into the country and selects a cousin, plain and poor--proposes they should live together--scheme succeeds.

49.--Retires to Cheltenham--house in a row near the promenade--subscribes to everything--takes snuff and carries a box--all in fun--goes out to tea in a fly--plays whist--loses--comes back at eleven--camphor julep, and to bed--but not to sleep.

50.--Finds all efforts to be comfortable unavailing--vents all her spleen upon her unhappy cousin, and lavishes all her affections upon a tabby cat, a great, fat, useless Tommy, with a blue riband and a bell round its neck. And there, so far as I have traced it, ends my Spinster's progress up to fifty.

ERRORS OF THE PRESS.

SIR,--We hear a great deal of the licentiousness of the press, and I am not disposed to say that there may not be some good grounds for the complaint; but I beg to assert that, to my own knowledge, much is charged to the account of the licentiousness which is, in truth, only attributable to the errors of the press; and I have had the mortification to see articles of the most innocent information, from my own pen, conveyed to the public with all the colour of libels, by the mere mistake of a single letter.

For instance, I had occasion to report that a certain "noble lord was confined to his house with a violent cold;" next morning, I found that this innocuous piece of intelligence was metamorphosed into a direct inroad on the peace of a noble family, by representing his lordship as being "confined with a violent scold." In the same way, on the occasion of a recent entertainment given by a noble leader of fashion, I had said, very truly, "that, amidst the festivities, the first point of attraction and admiration were her ladyship's looks:" this deserved compliment was changed by the printer into a satire on the whole company, as if the chief point of attraction had been "her ladyship's cooks." In a description of the regatta at Cowes, I was made to represent a lady of fashion as having formed a hasty and ill-assorted match "with a boy," when, in fact, I had only said that the Lady Louisa had, indeed, broken adrift, but had "luckily, before any mischief was done, been made fast to a buoy."

When I reported that "Lord A. had entertained Colonel B., Major C., the Hon. Mr. D., and a few other fashionable friends at dinner," I little expected to find these gentlemen represented as a company of "fashionable fiends." At the particular request of an eminent coachmaker, I mentioned that a noble person, well known for his good taste in equipages, and who happens to have a large and fine family, had launched "a new green cab;" but judge of my horror at seeing it stated, that "his lordship had, this season, brought out another green cub." And I have lately had the misfortune of being the involuntary cause of what is called a hoax upon the public: having announced that Lord K. had made a bet that he would "trot a mile" on the Harrow Road in three minutes, an immense crowd assembled, and was ready to proceed to outrage because his lordship did not "trot a mule," as the printer's error had led them to expect.

Of a more serious kind are the injuries done to private individuals, which no one deplores more than I--the innocent cause of them. I was once employed to recommend to public attention the astonishing talents and performances of that musical wonder "The infant Lyra." I did my best; but the printer gave the whole a most unhappy and malicious appearance by making me, by the transposition of a letter, attribute all these prodigies to "the Infant Lyar." On a late occasion, one of the papers talked of "the general satisfaction given by the royal lump." This looked like a brutal allusion to the temporary illness of an illustrious duke. The truth was, Mr. Editor, that I myself penned that paragraph for an ingenious artist in Bond Street, in order to recommend an improved kind of argand, which he denominated the "Royal Lamp;" and I never can sufficiently regret the injustice done to the gallant General Saldanha, who, in an account of his conduct at Oporto, which I drew up under his own eye, was stated to have "behaved like a hero;" but when it came to be printed, it unhappily appeared as if the general had "behaved like a hare."