Part 29

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands! All haggard and pinch’d, going down in life’s vale, With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-Dale! No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane, Where once she watch’d heaven, fearing God and the rain-- Or gazed o’er her bleach-field so fairly engross’d, Till the lines wander’d idle from pillar to post! Ah, where are the playful young pinners--ah, where The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air-- The brisk waltzing stockings--the white and the black, That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack-- The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn’d, That blew into shape, and embodied the wind! There was white on the grass--there was white on the spray-- Her garden--it look’d like a garden of May! But now all is dark--not a shirt’s on a shrub-- You’ve ruined her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub! You’ve ruin’d her custom--now families drop her-- From her silver reduced--nay, reduced from her _copper_! The last of her washing is done at her eye, One poor little kerchief that never gets dry! From mere lack of linen she can’t lay a cloth, And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,-- But her children come round her as victuals grow scant, And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want-- When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, And even its pearlashes laid in the grave-- Whilst her tub is a-dry-rotting, stave after stave, And the greatest of Coopers, ev’n he that they dub Sir Astley, can’t bind up her heart or her tub,-- Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub! Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread, If she prays that the evil may visit _your_ head-- Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee, If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City-- In short, not to mention all plagues without number, If she wishes you all in the _Wash_ at the Humber!

Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair, When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare-- When the sum of her suds might be summ’d in a bowl, And the rusty cold iron quite enter’d her soul-- When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye Had caught “the Cock Laundresses’ Coach” going by, Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, In a lather of passion that froth’d as it rose, Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, On her sheet--if a sheet were still left her--to write, Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light--

LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE

FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.

It’s a shame, so it is--men can’t Let alone Jobs as is Woman’s right to do--and go about there Own-- Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up,--and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals,--for upsetting of the Sudds When the world wagg’d well enuff--and Wommen wash’d your old dirty duds, I’m Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam Indins, that’s Flat,-- But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all that-- I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem,--But that was a joke! For I never see none come of it,--that’s out of it--but only sum Smoak-- And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs--and hang you, you know that’s true! And for All your fine Perspectuses,--howsomever you bewhich ’em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do-- It ant as if a Bird’seye Hankicher can take a Birds-high view! But Thats your look-out--I’ve not much to do with that--But pleas God to hold up fine, Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off than Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can--and Ill say it behind your face-- But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,-- As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it--Well thear’s a Pretty go! That comes o’ not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling ’em up so! Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn’d to spel--and That ant your Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn’d,-- For if it warnt for Washing,--and whare Bills is concarnd, What’s the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays--fit for any Cityation?

Well, what I says is this--when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,--but not to hurt human kind, Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that’s loaded with hot water, Thof a xSherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff--wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing[13] balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,--and eating other Peple’s grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steam has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at-- They won’t do for Angell’s--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that’s all Bespoke,-- For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the bettermost of em--aye, and evn them of middling degrees-- Why--Lauk help you--Babby Linen and Bread ant Cheese! Nor we can’t go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers, Like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamber, and that’s what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck’d us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing-- You ant, blame you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear’d At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant you now by your next door nayhbours-- Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp-- And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They’ll scruntch your Bones some day--I’ll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,--for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providence, which your a doing,--nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation-- And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs-- But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one’s Backs-- And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone,-- And every Thing thats hern,--and give every one their Hone!

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen a-be And pull off your Pattins,--and leave the washing to we That nose what’s what--Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day-- When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all, And Crismass cum--and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm Chare-- Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, With a vast more like That,--and all along of Steem Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam-- But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I’m sorry, afore God, if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn,--aye, and Moor to your Prays, You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Mack-Adam’s milky ways--that’s what you might, Or bete Carpets--or get into Parleamint,--or drive crabrolays from morning to night, Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchemen, and slepe upon a poste! (Which is an od way of sleping I must say,--and a very hard pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m awares, Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people up and down Hungerford stares. If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt! Yourn with Anymocity, BRIDGET JONES.

THE BLUE BOAR.

’Tis known to man, ’tis known to woman, ’Tis known to all the world in common, How politics and party strife Vex public, even private, life; But, till some days ago, at least They never worried brutal beast.

I wish you could have seen the creature, A tame domestic boar by nature, Gone wild as boar that ever grunted, By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted. His back was up, and on its ledge The bristles rose like quickset hedge; His eye was fierce and red as coal, Like furnace, shining through a hole, And restless turn’d for mischief seeking; His very hide with rage was reeking; And oft he gnash’d his crooked tusks, Chewing his tongue instead of husks, Till all his jaw was white and yesty, Showing him savage, fierce, and resty.

And what had caused this mighty vapour? A dirty fragment of a paper, That in his rambles he had found, Lying neglected on the ground; A relic of the Morning Post, Two tattered columns at the most, But which our irritated swine (Derived from Learned Toby’s line) Digested easy as his meals, Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel’s.

He read, and mused, and pored and read, His shoulders shrugg’d, and shook his head; Now at a line he gave a grunt, Now at a phrase took sudden stunt, And snorting turn’d his back upon it, But always came again to con it; In short he petted up his passion, After a very human fashion, When Temper’s worried with a bone She’ll neither like nor let alone. At last his fury reach’d the pitch Of that most irritating itch, When mind and will, in fever’d faction, Prompt blood and body into action; No matter what, so bone and muscle May vent the frenzy in a bustle; But whether by a fight or dance Is left to impulse and to chance. So stood the Boar, in furious mood Made up for any thing but good; He gave his tail a tighter twist, As men in anger clench the fist, And threw fresh sparkles in his eye From the volcano in his fry-- Ready to raze the parish pound, To pull the pigsty to the ground, To lay Squire Giles, his master, level, Ready, indeed, to play the devil.

So, stirr’d by raving demagogues, I’ve seen men rush, like rabid dogs, Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle, And like his Boarship, in a bristle, Resolved unanimous on rumpus From any quarter of the compass; But whether to duck Aldgate Pump, (For wits in madness never jump) To liberate the beasts from Cross’s; Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross’s; On Waithman’s column hang a weeper; Or tar and feather the old sweeper; Or break the panes of landlord scurvy, And turn the King’s Head topsy-turvy; Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall; Or take his cross from old Saint Paul; Or burn those wooden Highland fellows, The snuff-men’s idols, ‘neath the gallows! None fix’d or cared--but all were loyal To one design--a battle royal.

Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood, Trampling the Morning Post to mud, With tusks prepared to run a muck;-- And sorrow for the mortal’s luck That came across him Whig or Tory, It would have been a tragic story-- But fortune interposing now, Brought Bessy into play--a Sow;-- A fat, sleek, philosophic beast That never fretted in the least, Whether her grains were sour or sweet, For grains are grains, and she could eat. Absorb’d in two great schemes capacious, The farrow and the farinaceous, If cares she had, they could not stay, She drank, and _wash’d_ them all away. In fact this philosophic sow Was very like a German frow; In brief--as wit should be and fun,-- If sows turn Quakers, she was one; Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab, In bran-new muddy suit of drab. To still the storm of such a lubber, She came like oil--at least like blubber-- Her pigtail of as passive shape As ever droop’d o’er powder’d nape; Her snout, scarce turning up--her deep Small eyes half settled into sleep; Her ample ears, dependent, meek, Like fig-leaves shading either cheek; Whilst, from the corner of her jaw, A sprout of cabbage, green and raw, Protruded,--as the Dove, so stanch For Peace, supports an olive branch,-- Her very grunt, so low and mild, Like the soft snoring of a child, Inquiring into his disquiets, Served like the Riot Act, at riots,-- He laid his restive bristles flatter, And took to arguefy the matter.

“O Bess, O Bess, here’s heavy news! They mean to ‘mancipate the Jews! Just as they turn’d the blacks to whites, They want to give them equal rights, And, in the twinkling of a steeple, Make Hebrews quite like other people. Here, read--but I forget your fetters, You’ve studied litters more than letters.”

“Well,” quoth the Sow, “and no great miss, I’m sure my ignorance is bliss; Contentedly I bite and sup, And never let my flare flare-up; Whilst you get wild and fuming hot-- What matters Jews be Jews or not? Whether they go with beards like Moses, Or barbers take them by the noses, Whether they live, permitted dwellers, In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars, Or climb their way to civic perches, Or go to synagogues or churches?” “Churches!--ay, there the question grapples, No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell’s!”

“To chapel--well--what’s that to you? A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew? We pigs,--remember the remark Of our old drover Samuel Slark, When trying, but he tried in vain, To coax me into Sermon Lane, Or Paternoster’s pious Row,-- But still I stood and grunted No! Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner, Till bolting off, at Amen Corner, He cried, provoked at my evasion, ‘Pigs, blow ’em! ar’n’t of no persuasion!’”

“The more’s the pity, Bess--the more--” Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar; “If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans, They’d make a sin of sage and onions; The curse of endless flames endorse On every boat of apple-sauce; Give brine to Satan, and assess Blackpuddings with bloodguiltiness; Yea, call down heavenly fire and smoke To burn all Epping into coke!”

“Ay,” cried the Sow, extremely placid, In utter contrast to his acid, “Ay, that would be a Sect indeed! And every swine would like the creed, The sausage-making curse and all; And should some brother have a call, To thump a cushion to that measure, I would sit under him with pleasure; Nay, put down half my private fortune T’ endow a chapel at Hog’s Norton.-- But what has this to do, my deary, With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?”

“Sow that you are! this Bill, if current, Would be as good as our death-warrant;-- And, with its legislative friskings, Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins! Unjew the Jews, what follows then? Why, they’ll eat pork like other men, And you shall see a Rabbi dish up A chine as freely as a Bishop! Thousands of years have pass’d, and pork Was never stuck on Hebrew fork; But now, suppose that relish rare Fresh added to their bill of fare, Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine, Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin, And then, beyond all goose or duckling”--

“Yes, yes--a little tender suckling! It must be held the aptest savour To make the eager mouth to slaver! Merely to look on such a gruntling, A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling, It makes one--ah! remembrance bitter! It made me eat my own dear litter!”

“Think, then, with this new waken’d fury, How we should fare if tried by _Jewry_! A pest upon the meddling Whigs! There’ll be a pretty run on pigs! This very morn a Hebrew brother With three hats stuck on one another, And o’er his arm a bag, or poke, A thing pigs never find a joke, Stopp’d--rip the fellow!--though he knew I’ve neither coat to sell nor shoe, And cock’d his nose--right at me, lovey! Just like a pointer at a covey!

To set our only friends agin us! That neither care to fat nor thin us! To boil, to broil, to roast, or fry us, But act like real Christians by us!-- A murrain on all legislators! Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten ’taters! A bulldog at their ears and tails! The curse of empty troughs and pails Famish their flanks as thin as weasels! May all their children have the measles; Or in the straw untimely smother, Or make a dinner for the mother! A cartwhip for all law inventors! And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters! Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch in And parish pounds to pine the flitch in, Cold, and high winds, the Devil send ’em-- And then may Sam the Sticker end ’em!”

’Twas strange to hear him how he swore! A Boar will curse, though like a boar, While Bess, like Pity, at his side Her swine-subduing voice supplied! She bade him such a rage discard; That anger is a foe to lard; ’Tis bad for sugar to get wet, And quite as bad for fat to fret; “Besides,”--she argued thus at last-- “The Bill you fume at has not pass’d, For why, the Commons and the Peers Have come together by the ears: Or rather, as we pigs repose, One’s tail beside the other’s nose, And thus, of course, take adverse views Whether of Gentiles or of Jews. Who knows? They say the Lords’ ill-will Has thrown out many a wholesome Bill, And p’rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitious May swamp a measure so _Jew-dish-us_!”

The Boar was conquer’d: at a glance, He saw there really was a chance-- That as the Hebrew nose is hooked, The Bill was equally as crooked; And might outlast, thank party embers, A dozen tribes of Christian members;-- So down he settled in the mud, With smoother back, and cooler blood, As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar, As any over tavern-door.

MORAL.

The chance is small that any measure Will give all classes equal pleasure; Since Tory Ministers or Whigs, Sometimes can’t even “please the Pigs.”

A FLYING VISIT.

“A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine--find out moonshine!”--_Midsummer Night’s Dream._

The by-gone September, As folks may remember, At least if their memory saves but an ember, One fine afternoon, There went up a Balloon, Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

For, nearing the sky, At about a mile high, The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly; So cutting his string, In a Parasol thing, Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

Meanwhile, thus adrift, The Balloon made a shift To rise very fast, with no burden to lift; It got very small, Then to nothing at all; And then rose the question of where it would fall?

Some thought that, for lack Of the man and his pack, ’Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack; Some held, but in vain, With the first heavy rain, ’Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

But still not a word For a month could be heard Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird: The firm Gye and Hughes, Wore their boots out and shoes, In running about and inquiring for news.

Some thought it must be Tumbled into the Sea; Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie: For Germans, as shown By their writings, ’tis known Are always delighted with what is high-flown.

Some hinted a bilk, And that maidens who milk, In far distant Shires would be walking in silk: Some swore that it must, “As they said at the _fust_, Have gone again’ flashes of lightning and _bust_!”

However, at last, When six weeks had gone past, Intelligence came of a plausible cast; A wondering clown, At a hamlet near town, Had seen “like a moon of green cheese” coming down.

Soon spread the alarm, And from cottage and farm, The natives buzz’d out like the bees when they swarm; And off ran the folk,-- It is such a good joke To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

And lo! the machine, Dappled yellow and green, Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen: “Yes, yes,” was the cry, “It’s the old one, sure_ly_, Where _can_ it have been such a time in the sky?

“Lord! where will it fall? It can’t find out Vauxhall, Without any pilot to guide it at all!” Some wager’d that Kent Would behold the event, Debrett had been posed to _predict_ its “descent.”

Some thought it would pitch In the old Tower Ditch, Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul’s it would hitch, And Farmers cried “Zounds! If it drops on our grounds, We’ll try if Balloons can’t be put into pounds!”

But still to and fro It continued to go, As if looking out for soft places below-- No difficult job, It had only to bob Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

Who, too apt to stare At some castle in air, Forget that the earth is their proper affair; Till, watching the fall Of some soap-bubble ball, They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.