Part 39

We will select one line of about three or four miles, which will answer by way of an example of what we mean: A man, driving himself (without a servant), starts from Bishopsgate-street for Kilburn. The day is cold and rainy--his fingers are benumbed; his two coats buttoned up; his money in tight pantaloon-pockets; his horse restive, apt to kick if the reins touch his tail; his gloves soaked with wet; and himself half-an-hour too late for dinner. He has to pull up in the middle of the street in Shoreditch, and pay a toll;--he means to return, therefore he takes a ticket, letter A. On reaching Shoreditch Church, he turns into the Curtain Road, pulls up again, drags off his wet glove with his teeth, his other hand being fully occupied in holding up the reins and the whip; pays again; gets another ticket, number 482; drags on his glove; buttons up his coats, and rattles away into Old Street Road; another gate; more pulling and poking, and unbuttoning and squeezing. He pays, and takes another ticket, letter L. The operation of getting all to rights takes place once more, nor is it repeated until he reaches Goswell Street Road; here he performs all the ceremonies we have already described, for a fourth time, and gets a fourth ticket, 732, which is to clear him through the gates in the New Road, as far as the bottom of Pentonville;--arrived there, he performs once more all the same evolutions, and procures a fifth ticket, letter X, which, unless some sinister accident occur, is to carry him clear to the Paddington Road; but opening the fine space of the Regent's Park, at the top of Portland Street, the north breeze blowing fresh from Hampstead, bursts upon his buggy, and all the tickets which he had received from all the gates which he has paid, and which he had stuffed _seriatim_ between the cushion and lining of his dennet, suddenly rise, like a covey of partridges, from the corner, and he sees the dingy vouchers for his expenditure proceeding down Portland Street at full speed. They are rescued, however, muddy and filthy as they are, by the sweeper of the crossing, who is, of course, rewarded by the driver for his attention with a larger sum than he had originally disbursed for all the gates; and when deposited again in the vehicle, not in their former order of arrangement, the unfortunate traveller spends at least ten minutes at the next gate in selecting the particular ticket which is there required to insure his free passage.

Conquering all these difficulties, he reaches Paddington Gate, where he pays afresh, and obtains a ticket, 691, with which he proceeds swimmingly until stopped again at Kilburn, to pay a toll, which would clear him all the way to Stanmore, if he were not going to dine at a house three doors beyond the very turnpike, where he pays for the seventh time, and where he obtains a seventh ticket, letter G.

He dines and "wines;" and the bee's-wing from the citizen's port gives new velocity to Time. The dennet was ordered at eleven; and, although neither tides nor the old gentleman just mentioned, wait for any man, except Tom Hill, horses and dennets will. It is nearer midnight than eleven when the visitor departs, even better buttoned up than in the morning, his lamps giving cheerfulness to the equipage, and light to the road; and his horse whisking along (his nostrils pouring forth breath like smoke from safety-valves), and the whole affair actually in motion at the rate of ten miles per hour. Stopped at Paddington. "Pay here?"--"L."--"Won't do."--"G?"--(The horse fidgety all this time, and the driver trying to read the dirty tickets by the little light which is emitted through the _tops_ of his lamps,)--"X?"--"It's no letter, I tell you?"--"482,"--"No." At this juncture the clock strikes twelve--the driver is told that his reading and rummaging are alike useless, for that a new day has begun. The coats are, therefore, unbuttoned--the gloves pulled off--the money to be fished out--the driver discovers that his last shilling was paid to the ostler at the inn where his horse was fed and that he must change a sovereign to pay the gate. This operation the toll-keeper performs; nor does the driver discover, until the morning, that one of the half-crowns and four of the shillings which he has received, are bad. Satisfied, however, with what has occurred, he determines at all hazards to drive home over the stones, and avoid all further importunities from the turnpike-keepers. Accordingly, away he goes along Oxford Street, over the pavement, working into one hole and tumbling into another, like a ball on a _trou madame_ table, until, at the end of George Street, St. Giles's, snap goes his axle-tree; away goes his horse, dashing the dennet against a post at the corner of Plumtree Street, leaving the driver, with his collar-bone and left arm broken, on the pavement, at the mercy of two or three popish bricklayers and a couple of women of the town, who humanely lift him to the coach-stand, and deposit him in a hackney-chariot, having previously cut off the skirts of both his coats, and relieved him, not only of his loose change, but of a gold repeater, a snuff-box, and a pocket-book full of notes and memoranda, of no use but to the owner.

The unhappy victim at length reaches home, in agonies from the continued roughness of the pre-adamite pavement, is put to bed--doctors are sent for, the fractures are reduced, and in seven weeks he is able to crawl into his counting-house to write a cheque for a new dennet, and give his people orders to shoot his valuable horse, who has so dreadfully injured himself on the fatal night as to be past recovery.

TOM SHERIDAN'S ADVENTURE.[66]

Tom Sheridan was staying at Lord Craven's at Benham (or rather Hampstead), and one day proceeded on a shooting excursion, like Hawthorn, with only "his dog and his gun," on foot, and unattended by companion or keeper; the sport was bad--the birds few and shy--and he walked and walked in search of game, until, unconsciously, he entered the domain of some neighbouring squire.

A very short time after, he perceived advancing towards him, at the top of his speed, a jolly, comfortable-looking gentleman, followed by a servant, armed, as it appeared, for conflict. Tom took up a position, and waited the approach of the enemy.

"Hallo! you sir," said the squire, when within half-earshot, "what are you doing here, sir, eh?"

"I'm shooting, sir," said Tom.

"Do you know where you are, sir?" said the squire.

"I'm here, sir," said Tom.

"Here, sir," said the squire, growing angry; "and do you know where here _is_, sir? These, sir, are _my_ manors; what d'ye think of that, sir, eh?"

"Why, sir, as to your manners," said Tom, "I can't say they seem over agreeable."

"I don't want any jokes, sir," said the squire, "I hate jokes. Who are you, sir?--what are you?"

"Why, sir," said Tom, "my name is Sheridan--I am staying at Lord Craven's--I have come out for some sport--I have not had any, and I am not aware that I am trespassing."

"Sheridan!" said the squire, cooling a little; "oh, from Lord Craven's, eh? Well, sir, I could not know _that_, sir--I----'

"No, sir," said Tom, "but you need not have been in a passion."

"Not in a passion! Mr. Sheridan," said the squire, "you don't know, sir, what these preserves have cost me, and the pains and trouble I have been at with them; it's all very well for _you_ to talk, but if you were in _my_ place I should like to know what _you_ would say upon such an occasion."

"Why, sir," said Tom, "if I were in _your_ place, under all the circumstances, I should say--'I am convinced, Mr. Sheridan, you did not mean to annoy me; and, as you look a good deal tired, perhaps you'll come up to my house and take some refreshment?'"

The squire was hit hard by this nonchalance, and (as the newspapers say), "it is needless to add," acted upon Sheridan's suggestion.

"So far," said poor Tom, "the story tells for me,--now you shall hear the sequel."

After having regaled himself at the squire's house, and having said five hundred more good things than he swallowed; having delighted his host, and more than half won the hearts of his wife and daughters, the sportsman proceeded on his return homewards.

In the course of his walk he passed through a farm-yard; in the front of the farm-house was a green, in the centre of which was a pond, in the pond were ducks innumerable swimming and diving; on its verdant banks a motley group of gallant cocks and pert partlets, picking and feeding--the farmer was leaning over the hatch of the barn, which stood near two cottages on the side of the green.

Tom hated to go back with an empty bag; and having failed in his attempts at higher game, it struck him as a good joke to ridicule the exploits of the day himself, in order to prevent any one else from doing it for him, and he thought to carry home a certain number of the domestic inhabitants of the pond and its vicinity would serve the purpose admirably. Accordingly, up he goes to the farmer and accosts him very civilly--

"My good friend," says Tom, "I'll make you an offer."

"Of what, sur?" says the farmer.

"Why," replies Tom, "I've been out all day fagging after birds, and haven't had a shot--now, both my barrels are loaded--I should like to take home something; what shall I give you to let me have a shot with each barrel at those ducks and fowls--I standing here--and to have whatever I kill?"

"What sort of a shot are you?" said the farmer.

"Fairish," said Tom, "fairish."

"And to _have_ all you kill?" said the farmer, "eh?"

"Exactly so," said Tom.

"Half a guinea," said the farmer.

"That's too much," said Tom. "I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll give you a seven-shilling piece, which happens to be all the money I have in my pocket."

"Well," said the man, "hand it over."

The payment was made--Tom, true to his bargain, took his post by the barn-door, and let fly with one barrel and then with the other; and such quacking and splashing, and screaming and fluttering, had never been seen in that place before.

Away ran Tom, and, delighted at his success, picked up first a hen, then a chicken, then fished out a dying duck or two, and so on, until he numbered eight head of domestic game, with which his bag was nobly distended.

"Those were right good shots, sir," said the farmer.

"Yes," said Tom, "eight ducks and fowls were more than you bargained for, old fellow--worth rather more, I suspect, than seven shillings--eh?"

"Why, yes," said the man, scratching his head--"I think they be; but what do I care for that--_they are none of them mine_!"

"Here," said Tom, "I was for once in my life _beaten_, and made off as fast as I could, for fear the right owner of my game might make his appearance--not but that I could have given the fellow that took me in seven times as much as I did for his cunning and coolness."

POLLY HIGGINBOTTOM.[67]

In Chester's town a man there dwelt, Not rich as Crœsus, but a buck; The pangs of love he clearly felt-- His name was _Thomas Clutterbuck_. The lady he did most approve Most guineas gold had got 'em; And Clutterbuck fell deep in love With _Polly Higginbottom_. O Thomas Clutterbuck! And O Polly Higginbottom! I sing the loves--the smiling lives-- Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

A little trip he did propose:-- Upon the Dee they got 'em; The wind blew high--he blew his nose, And sung to Polly Higginbottom. The strain was sweet--the stream was deep-- He thought his notes had caught her; But she, alas! first fell--asleep; And then fell--in the water. O Polly Higginbottom! She went to the bottom-- I sing the death--the doleful death!-- Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!

Yet still he strain'd his little throat; To love he did invite her; And never miss'd her--till his boat, He thought, went rather lighter. But when he found that she was lost, The summum of his wishes-- _He boldly paid the waterman_, And jump'd among the fishes. O Polly Higginbottom, He comes to the bottom! I sing the death--the double death-- Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Round Chester stalk the river ghosts Of this young man and fair maid: His head looks like a _salmon-trout_; Her tail is like a _mermaid_.

MORAL.

Learn this, ye constant lovers all, Who live on England's island-- The way to shun a watery death Is making love on dry land! O Polly Higginbottom, Who lies at the bottom! So sing the ghosts--the water-ghosts-- Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

SONG.[68]

Mary once had lovers two-- Whining--pining--sighing: "Ah!" cries one, "what shall I do? Mary dear, I'm dying!" T' other vow'd him just the same-- Dead in grief's vagary; But sighs could never raise a flame In the heart of Mary.

A youth there came, all blithe and gay-- Merry--laughing--singing-- Sporting--courting, all the day-- And set the bells a-ringing. Soon he tripp'd it off to church, Lightly, gay, and airy; Leaving t' others in the lurch, Sighing--after Mary.

PHILIP.

In the famed town of Cadiz Lived the fairest of ladies, Donna Louisa Isabella: And she had a lover, Who did his mind discover; And she thought him a charming fellow.

Now this fairest of ladies Had a father lived in Cadiz, And he lock'd her within a high tower: And her lover coming thither, He promised to be with her At a certain appointed hour.

He was there at the time, And he call'd out in rhyme-- For his heart was consumed to a cinder-- "You have nothing now to fear, Since your Philip now is here;-- Louisa, pray come to the window!"

The lady appears, And quiets all his fears; For his boldness she likes him the better. "All I want," says he, "to do, Is to get convey'd to you-- This very interesting letter!"

THE BLACKSMITH.

A blacksmith, you'll own, is so clever, And great in the world is his place; And the reason I've guess'd, why for ever A blacksmith's deserving of grace. Great lawyers who plead and who preach, While many good causes they mar, May yield to the blacksmith to teach, For he labours still more at the _bar_!

When great men do wrong in the State, The Commons try hard at their polls; While the blacksmith, as certain as fate, Could have 'em _haul'd over the coals_. And if rogues put their name to a draft, The law for their hanging will teaze; But blacksmiths are free from all craft, And may _forge_ just as much as they please.

The _vices_ of trade he holds cheap, And laughs at the world as it rails, For, spite of the pother they keep, They can't make a smith _eat his nails_! And if, to his praise be it spoke, To raise him still higher and higher; You may say, and without any joke, All he gets is got _out of the fire_!

Then let blacksmiths be toasted round, For well it may always be said, When a fortune by blacksmiths is found, They must hit the right _nail o' the head_.

No _irony_ now I'm about, To his _metal_ you'll find him still true, Since I've _hammer'd his history out_, I hope 'twill be temper'd by you.

"MY FATHER DID SO BEFORE ME."[69]

When I was a chicken I went to school, My master would call me an obstinate fool, For I ruled the roast, and I roasted all rule, And he wonder'd how ever he bore me. His tables I blotted, his windows I broke, I fired his wig, and I laughed at the smoke, And always replied if he row'd at the joke, Why--my father did so before me.

I met a young girl, and I pray'd to the miss, I fell on my knee, and I ask'd for a kiss, She twice said no, but she once said yes, And in marriage declared she'd restore me. We loved and we quarrell'd, like April our strife, I guzzled my stoup, and I buried my wife; But the thing that consoled me at this time of life Was--my father did so before me.

Then now I'm resolv'd at all sorrows to blink-- Since winking's the tippy I'll tip 'em the wink, I'll never get drunk when I cannot get drink, Nor ever let misery bore me. I sneer at the Fates, and I laugh at their spite, I sit down contented to sit up all night, And when my time comes, from the world take my flight, For--my father did so before me.

"THROUGHOUT MY LIFE THE GIRLS I'VE PLEASED."

Throughout my life the girls I've pleased, So merry, so blithe and gay; I've coax'd, I've flatter'd, I've sigh'd, and teased, And stole their young hearts away. With their lips so red, and their eyes so bright, Their nut-brown locks and their teeth so white, The lasses were always my delight, And I am the boy for them. With my capering, tapering, twirling toe, My billet-doux note or letter a; My sighing--pining--whining--oh! My person--eye--etcetera!

My taste is wondrous civil, too; For mark, ye ladies, this-- There's nought you say, there's nought you do, To me can come amiss. If serious be your turn of mind, To grunt and groan I'm then inclined; But if you'll laugh, why, still you'll find That I'm the boy for you. With my capering, etc.

Then as to person, what of that? Of all the girls I've seen, If they've been plump, I've loved them fat; If thin, admired them lean; And as to height, make no ado; It matters not, I tell you true, Whether two feet six, or six feet two, Still I am the boy for you. With my capering, etc.

THE CHAMBERMAID.

When clouds obscure the evening sky, And rains in torrents pour, The inn with joy the travellers spy, And seek its welcome door. 'Tis there I stand to please them all, And follow still my trade; I smile and run whene'er they call, A merry little chambermaid.

But when appears the dawn of day, Farewell to every guest, They take their leaves and onward stray, Some east and others west. And when that horrid bore, the bill, Is call'd for, read, and paid, I cry, "I hope, give what you will, You'll not forget the chambermaid."

Thus happy might I pass my life, But love rules in my breast, And till I'm made a happy wife, I ne'er shall be at rest. Then Fortune's gifts in vain she sheds, For love I leave my trade; And give my all to him who weds The merry little chambermaid.

SONG.[70]

When I was a very little fellow, To Italy I went Upon music intent, With a voice very pliable and mellow. Il sondo to my earo Si suito e so clearo. I like it;--I love it;--I adore, oh And den it was I resolved to have some more, Che il gela del timore Sua Pace in tanta pena Tanta Smorza l'ardore, Gia sento in ogni vena.

To Turkey then I bent my way; Tink, tink, a ting a ring, oh! When cymbals jingle, music play, Ting, ting a ting a ring, oh! Yet then I change; To Germany I range; And Holland, too, mynher vat is der name, Bazzoon, O Gloch da cram bo Vat can a, do, do! Then turn again To flippant Spain, Fast as ever I can go, Where pretty sets With castanets Tack a rack to the merry Fandango.

In France I there Learn'd many an air, And music made my gain With _Comment ça_, _Monsieur?_ Ha! Ha! Miron ton ton ton tain! But near home I got land, And lilted I into Scotland, Where Donald loo'd fair Maggie bonnie; She loo'd Jock and hated Johnny; Wi bit love between 'em ganging, Sawney gied the lad a banging.

And now to Hibernia, the true land of harmony, Tippling your whiskey to Shelim a gig, Music, love, wine, and true friendship so charming ye, Blood and ouns, boderoo, fizle my gig. In England, no music is fit to be read, Save one glorious tune that's in every one's head. 'Tis a tune we delight in, So glorious to sing; God save great George our King, Long live our noble King!

GOD SAVE THE KING.

SIR TILBURY TOTT.[71]

The plump Lady Tott to her husband one day Said, "Let us go driving this evening, I pray." (Lady Tott was an alderman's daughter.) "Well, where shall we go?" said Sir Tilbury Tott; "Why, my love," said my lady, "the weather is hot, Suppose we drive round by the water,-- The water,-- Suppose we drive round by the water."

The dinner was ended, the claret was "done," The knight getting up--getting down was the sun,-- And my lady agog for heart-slaughter; When Sir Tilbury, lazy, like cows after grains, Said, "The weather is lowering, my love; see, it rains,-- Only look at the drops in the water,-- The water,-- Only look at the drops in the water."

Lady Tott, who, when earnestly fix'd on a drive, Overcame all excuses Sir Til might contrive, Had her bonnet and parasol brought her: Says she, "Dear Sir Til, don't let me ask in vain; The dots in the pond which you take to be rain, Are nothing but flies in the water,-- The water,-- Are nothing but flies in the water."

Sir Tilbury saw that he could not escape; So he put on his coat, with a three-doubled cape, And then by the hand gently caught her; And lifting her up to his high one-horse "shay," She settled her "things," and the pair drove away, And skirted the edge of the water,-- The water,-- And skirted the edge of the water.

Sir Til was quite right; on the top of his crown, Like small shot in volleys, the rain pepper'd down,-- Only small shot would do much more slaughter,-- Till the gay Lady Tott, who was getting quite wet, Said, "My dear Sir T. T.," in a kind of half pet, "Turn back, for I'm drench'd with rain-water,-- Rain-water,-- Turn back, for I'm drench'd with rain-water."

"Oh, dear Lady T," said Til, winking his eye, "You everything know so much better than I;" (For, when angry, with kindness he fought her.) "You may fancy this rain, as I did before, But you show'd me my folly;--'tis really no more Than the skimming of flies in the water,-- The water,-- Than the skimming of flies in the water."

He drove her about for an hour or two, Till her ladyship's clothes were completely soak'd through, Then home to Tott Cottage he brought her, And said, "Now, Lady T., by the joke of to-night, I'll _reign_ over you; for you'll own that I'm right, And know rain, ma'am, from flies in the water,-- The water,-- Know rain, ma'am, from flies in the water."

VENICE PRESERVED.[72]

_Tune_--"The Sprig of Shillelagh."