Part 36

The cellar being the centre of gravity, the empty vessels are drawn out, and the full ones drawn in; but with as much science as would require Hercules himself to exercise, and Bacchus to improve. After these operations are performed, what a sight it is to behold the drayman at work over his breakfast, in the taproom if the weather is cold, or on a bench in view of a prospect, if the sunshine appears: the hunch of bread and meat, or a piece of cheese deposited in the hollow of his hand, which he divides into no small portions, are enough to pall the appetite. The manner in which he clenches the frothy pot, and conducts it to his mouth, and the long draft he takes, in gurgles down his unshorn, summer-like throat, almost warrant apprehensions of supply not being equal to demand, and consequent advance of price. He is an entire proof of the lusty quality of his master’s porter, for he is the largest opium-pill in the brewhouse dispensary. While feeding on the fat of the publican’s larder, his horses are shaking up the corn, so unfeelingly crammed in hair-bags, to their reeking nostrils. The drayman is a sort of rough give and take fellow; he uses the whip in a brangle, and his sayings are sometimes, like himself, rather dry. When he returns to the brewhouse, he is to be found in the stable, at the vat, and in the lower apartments. To guard against cold, he prefers a red nightcap to a Welsh wig, and takes great care of the grains, without making scruples. He is a good preparer, well versed in the art of refinement--knows when his articles work well, and is an excellent judge of brown stout. At evening, as his turn relieves him, he takes his next day’s orders at the counting-house, and with clean apron and face, goes to his club; and sometimes even ventures to make a benefit speech in behalf of the sick members, or a disconsolate widow. Now and then, in his best white “foul weather,” he treats his wife and nieces to “the Wells,” or “the Royalty,” taking something better than beer in his pocket, made to hold his “bunch of fives,” or any other esteemed commodity. At a “free and easy,” he sometimes “rubs up,” and enjoys a “bit of ’bacco” out of the tin box, wherein he drops his halfpenny before he fills; and then, like a true Spectator, smokes the company in a genteel way. If called upon for a song, he either complains of hoarseness, or of a bad memory; but should he indulge the call of his Vice on his right hand, he may be heard fifty yards in the wind, after which he is “knocked down” with thund’rous applause. He shakes his collops at a good joke about the “tap,” and agrees with Joe Miller, that

“Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt, But every grin of laughter draws one out.”

An old dog’s-eared song-book is the companion to a bung-plug, a slate memoranda, and sundry utensils, which are his pocket residents. He is proud to wear a pair of fancy garters below knee, and on Mondays his neckcloth and stockings show that he was “clean as a new pin _yesterday_.” Like an undertaker, he smells of the beer to which he is attached, and rarely loses sight of “Dodd’s Sermon on Malt.” He ventures to play sly tricks with his favourite horse, and will give kick for kick when irritated. His language to his team is pure low Dutch, untranslatable, but perfectly understood when illustrated by a cut. It may be said that he moves in his own sphere; for, though he drives through the porter world, he spends much of his time _out of_ the public-house, and is rarely _te-ipse_. What nature denies to others, custom sanctions in him, for “he eats, drinks, and is _merry_.” If a _rough_ specimen of an unsophisticated John Bull were required, I would present the drayman.

J. R. P.

[91] I am here reminded of an old epigram on a “Fat Doctor,” in the _Christmas Treat_, xxxiii.

“When Tadloe treads the streets, the paviers cry ‘_God bless you, sir!_’ and lay their rammers by.”

* * * * *

SONNET.

FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO.

_For the Table Book._

“_En el mundo naciste, no a emmendarle._”

In this wide world, beware to think, my friend, Thy lot is cast to change it, or amend; But to perform thy part, and give thy share Of pitying aid; not to subdue, but bear.

If prudent, thou may’st know the world; if wise, In virtue strong, thou may’st the world despise; For good, be grateful--be to ill resign’d, And to the better world exalt thy mind.

The peril of thy soul in this world fear, But yet th’ Almighty’s wondrous work revere; See all things good but man; and chiefly see, With eye severe, the faults that dwell in thee. On them exert thine energies, and try Thyself to mend, ere judge the earth and sky.

* * * * *

ACQUAINTANCE TABLE.

2 Glances make 1 Bow. 2 Bows 1 How d’ye do. 6 How d’ye do’s 1 Conversation. 4 Conversations 1 Acquaintance.

* * * * *

~The Royal Table.~

ORIGIN OF

MARKING THE KING’S DISHES

WITH THE COOKS’ NAMES.

King George II. was accustomed every other year to visit his German dominions with the greater part of the officers of his household, and especially those belonging to the kitchen. Once on his passage at sea, his first cook was so ill with the sea-sickness, that he could not hold up his head to dress his majesty’s dinner; this being told to the king, he was exceedingly sorry for it, as he was famous for making a Rhenish soup, which his majesty was very fond of; he therefore ordered inquiry to be made among the assistant-cooks, if any of them could make the above soup. One named Weston (father of Tom Weston, the player) undertook it, and so pleased the king, that he declared it was full as good as that made by the first cook. Soon after the king’s return to England, the first cook died; when the king was informed of it, he said, that his steward of the household always appointed his cooks, but that he would now name one for himself, and therefore asking if one Weston was still in the kitchen, and being answered that he was, “That man,” said he, “shall be my first cook, for he makes most excellent Rhenish soup.” This favour begot envy among all the servants, so that, when any dish was found fault with, they used to say it was Weston’s dressing: the king took notice of this, and said to the servants, it was very extraordinary, that every dish he disliked should happen to be Weston’s; “in future,” said he, “let every dish be marked with the name of the cook that makes it.” By this means the king detected their arts, and from that time Weston’s dishes pleased him most. The custom has continued ever since, and is still practised at the king’s table.

* * * * *

MONEY--WEIGHTS AND MEASURES.

POUND, is derived from the Latin word _pondus_.

OUNCE, from _uncia_, or twelfth, being the twelfth of a pound troy.

INCH, from the same word, being the twelfth of a foot.

YARD, from the Saxon word _gyrd_, or _girth_, being originally the circumference of the body, until Henry I. decreed that it should be the length of his arm.

HALFPENNY and FARTHING. In 1060, when William the Conqueror began to reign, the PENNY, or sterling, was cast, with a deep cross, so that it might be broken in half, as a HALF-penny, or in quarters, for _Four_things, or _Far_things, as we now call them.

* * * * *

OLD MUG-HOUSES.

The internal economy of a mug-house in the reign of George I. is thus described by a foreign traveller:--

At the mug-house club in Long-acre, where on Wednesdays a mixture of gentlemen, lawyers, and tradesmen meet in a great room, a grave old gentleman in his grey hairs, and nearly ninety years of age, is their president, and sits in an armed chair some steps higher than the rest. A harp plays all the while at the lower end of the room; and now and then some one of the company rises and entertains the rest with a song, (and by the by some are good masters.) Here is nothing drank but ale, and every gentleman chalks on the table as it is brought in: every one also, as in a coffee-house, retires when he pleases.

N. B. In the time of the parliament’s sitting, there are clubs composed of the members of the commons, where most affairs are digested before they are brought into the house.

* * * * *

“AS DRUNK AS DAVID’S SOW.”

A few years ago, one David Lloyd, a Welchman, who kept an inn at Hereford, had a living sow with six legs which occasioned great resort to the house. David also had a wife who was much addicted to drunkenness, and for which he used frequently to bestow on her an admonitory drubbing. One day, having taken an extra cup which operated in a powerful manner, and dreading the usual consequences, she opened the stye-door, let out David’s sow, and lay down in its place, hoping that a short unmolested nap would sufficiently dispel the fumes of the liquor. In the mean time, however, a company arrived to view the so much talked of animal; and Davy, proud of his office, ushered them to the stye, exclaiming, “Did any of you ever see such a creature before?”--“Indeed, Davy,” said one of the farmers, “I never before saw a sow so drunk as thine in all my life!”--Hence the term “as drunk as David’s sow.”

* * * * *

SINGULAR RETURN.

_For the Table Book._

An inhabitant of the parish of Clerkenwell being called upon, a short time ago, to fill up the blanks of a printed circular under the following heads, in pursuance of an act of parliament passed in the sixth year of his present majesty’s reign, entitled “An Act for consolidating and amending the Laws relative to Jurors and Juries,” sent in his return as follows:--

“STREET.”

_Baker-street_--badly paved--rascally lighted--with one old woman of a watchman.

“TITLE, QUALITY, CALLING, OR BUSINESS.”

No _title_--no _quality_--no _calling_, except when my wife and sixteen children call for bread and butter--and as for _business_, I _have_ none. Times are bad, and there’s no _business_ to be done.

“NATURE OF QUALIFICATION; WHETHER FREEHOLD, COPYHOLD, OR LEASEHOLD PROPERTY.”

No _freehold_ property--no _copyhold_ property--no _leasehold_ property. In fact, no _property_ at all! I live by my _wits_, as one half of the world live, and am therefore NOT _qualified_.

GASPARD.

* * * * *

~Suburban Sonnets.~

I.

ISLINGTON.

Thy fields, fair Islington! begin to bear Unwelcome buildings, and unseemly piles; The streets are spreading, and the Lord knows where Improvement’s hand will spare the neighb’ring stiles: The rural blandishments of Maiden Lane Are ev’ry day becoming less and less, While kilns and lime roads force us to complain Of nuisances time only can suppress. A few more years, and COPENHAGEN HOUSE Shall cease to charm the tailor and the snob; And where attornies’ clerks in smoke carouse, Regardless wholly of to-morrow’s job, Some Claremont Row, or Prospect-Place shall rise, Or terrace, p’rhaps, misnomer’d PARADISE!

II.

HAGBUSH LANE.

Poor HAGBUSH LANE! thy ancient charms are going To rack and ruin fast as they can go; And where but lately many a flow’r was growing, Nothing shall shortly be allow’d to grow! Thy humble cottage, where as yet they sell No “nut-brown ale,” or luscious Stilton cheese-- Where dusky gipsies in the summer dwell, And donkey drivers fight their dogs at ease, Shall feel ere long the lev’lling hand of taste, If that be _taste_ which darkens ev’ry field; Thy garden too shall likewise be displac’d, And no more “cabbage” to its master yield; But, in its stead, some new Vauxhall perchance Shall rise, renown’d for pantomime and dance!

III.

HIGHGATE.

Already, HIGHGATE! to thy skirts they bear Bricks, mortar, timber, in no small degree, And thy once pure, exhilarating air Is growing pregnant with impurity! The would-be merchant has his “country box” A few short measures from the dusty road, Where friends on Sunday talk about the stocks Or praise the beauties of his “neat abode:” One deems the wall-flow’r garden, in the front, Unrivall’d for each aromatic bed; Another fancies that his old sow’s grunt “Is so much _like_ the country,” and instead Of living longer down in Crooked-lane, Resolves, at once, to “ruralize” again!

J. G.

_Islington._

Vol. I.--13.

The verdant lawns which rise above the rill Are not unworthy Virgil’s past’ral song.

On the west side of Hampstead, in the middle of one of the pleasant meadows called Shepherd’s fields, at the left-hand of the footpath going from Belsize-house towards the church, this arch, embedded above and around by the green turf, forms a conduit-head to a beautiful spring: the specific gravity of the fluid, which yields several tuns a day, is little more than that of distilled water. Hampstead abounds in other springs, but they are mostly impregnated with mineral substances. The water of “Shepherd’s well,” therefore, is in continual request, and those who cannot otherwise conveniently obtain it, are supplied through a few of the villagers, who make a scanty living by carrying it to houses for a penny a pail-full. There is no carriage-way to the spot, and these poor things have much hard work for a very little money.

I first knew this spring in my childhood, when domiciled with a relation, who then occupied Belsize-house, by being allowed to go with Jeff the under-gardener, whose duty it was to fetch water from the spring. As I accompanied _him_, so a tame magpie accompanied _me_: Jeff slouched on with his pails and yoke, and my ardour to precede was restrained by fear of some ill happening to Mag if I did not look after the rogue. He was a wayward bird, the first to follow wherever I went, but always according to his own fashion; he never put forth his speed till he found himself a long way behind, so that Jeff always led the van, and Mag always brought up the rear, making up for long lagging by long hopping. On one occasion, however, as soon as we got out of the side-door from the out-house yard into Belsize-lane, Mag bounded across the road, and over the wicket along the meadows, with quick and long hops, throwing “side-long looks behind,” as if deriding my inability to keep up with him, till he reached the well: there we both waited for Jeff, who for once was last, and, on whose arrival, the bird took his station on the crown of the arch, looking alternately down to the well and up at Jeff. It was a sultry day in a season of drought, and, to Jeff’s surprise, the water was not easily within reach; while he was making efforts with the bucket, Mag seemed deeply interested in the experiment, and flitted about with tiresome assiduity. In a moment Jeff rose in a rage, execrated poor Mag, and vowed cruel vengeance on him. On our way home the bird preceded, and Jeff, to my continual alarm in behalf of Mag, several times stopped, and threw stones at him with great violence. It was not till we were housed, that the man’s anger was sufficiently appeased to let him acquaint me with its cause: and then I learned that Mag was a “wicked bird,” who knew of the low water before he set out, and was delighted with the mischief. From that day, Jeff hated him, and tried to maim him: the creature’s sagacity in eluding his brutal intent, he imputed to diabolical knowledge; and, while my estimation of Jeff as a good-natured fellow was considerably shaken, I acquired a secret fear of poor Mag. This was my first acquaintance with the superstitious and dangerous feelings of ignorance.

The water of Shepherd’s well is remarkable for not being subject to freeze. There is another spring sometimes resorted to near Kilburn, but this and the ponds in the Vale of Health are the ordinary sources of public supply to Hampstead. The chief inconvenience of habitations in this delightful village is the inadequate distribution of good water. Occasional visitants, for the sake of health, frequently sustain considerable injury by the insalubrity of private springs, and charge upon the fluid they breathe the mischiefs they derive from the fluid they drink. The localities of the place afford almost every variety of aspect and temperature that invalids require: and a constant sufficiency of wholesome water might be easily obtained by a few simple arrangements.

*

_March 19, 1827._

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. X.

[From the “Fair Maid of the Exchange,” a Comedy, by Thomas Heywood, 1637.]

_Cripple offers to fit Frank Golding with ready made Love Epistles._

_Frank._ Of thy own writing? _Crip._ My own, I assure you, Sir. _Frank._ Faith, thou hast robb’d some sonnet-book or other. And now would’st make me think they are thy own. _Crip._ Why, think’st thou that I cannot write a Letter, Ditty, or Sonnet, with judicial phrase, As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, As the best Ovid-imitating dunce In the whole town? _Frank._ I think thou can’st not. _Crip._ Yea, I’ll swear I cannot. Yet, Sirrah, I could coney-catch the world, Make myself famous for a sudden wit, And be admired for my dexterity, Were I disposed. _Frank._ I prithee, how? _Crip._ Why, thus. There lived a Poet in this town, (If we may term our modern writers Poets), Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued; his pen, of steel; His ink was temper’d with the biting juice And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew; He never wrote but when the elements Of fire and water tilted in his brain. This fellow, ready to give up his ghost To Lucia’s bosom, did bequeath to me His Library, which was just nothing But rolls, and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit, Such as durst never visit Paul’s Church Yard. Amongst ’em all I lighted on a quire Or two of paper, fill’d with Songs and Ditties, And here and there a hungry Epigram; These I reserve to my own proper use, And Pater-noster-like have conn’d them all. I could now, when I am in company, At ale-house, tavern, or an ordinary, Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty (Or one at least should seem extemporal), Out of the abundance of this Legacy, That all would judge it, and report it too, To be the infant of a sudden wit, And then were I an admirable fellow. _Frank._ This were a piece of cunning. _Crip._ I could do more; for I could make enquiry, Where the best-witted gallants use to dine, Follow them to the tavern, and there sit In the next room with a calve’s head and brimstone, And over-hear their talk, observe their humours, Collect their jests, put them into a play, And tire them too with payment to behold What I have filch’d from them. This I could do But O for shame that man should so arraign Their own fee-simple wits for verbal theft! Yet men there be that have done this and that, And more by much more than the most of them.[92]

* * * * *

After this Specimen of the pleasanter vein of Heywood, I am tempted to extract some lines from his “Hierarchie of Angels, 1634;” not strictly as a Dramatic Poem, but because the passage contains a string of names, all but that of _Watson_, his contemporary Dramatists. He is complaining in a mood half serious, half comic, of the disrespect which Poets in his own times meet with from the world, compared with the honors paid them by Antiquity. _Then_ they could afford them three or four sonorous names, and at full length; as to Ovid, the addition of Publius Naso Sulmensis; to Seneca, that of Lucius Annæas Cordubensis; and the like. _Now_, says he,

Our modern Poets to that pass are driven, Those names are curtail’d which they first had given; And, as we wish’d to have their memories drown’d, We scarcely can afford them half their sound. Greene, who had in both Academies ta’en Degree of Master, yet could never gain To be call’d more than Robin: who, had he Profest ought save the Muse, served, and been free After a sev’n years prenticeship, might have (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. Marlowe, renown’d for his rare art and wit, Could ne’er attain beyond the name of Kit; Although his Hero and Leander did Merit addition rather. Famous Kid Was call’d but Tom. Tom Watson; though he wrote Able to make Apollo’s self to dote Upon his Muse; for all that he could strive, Yet never could to his full name arrive. Tom Nash (in his time of no small esteem) Could not a second syllable redeem. Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank Of the rarest wits, was never more than Frank. Mellifluous SHAKSPEARE, whose inchanting quill Commanded mirth or passion, was but WILL; And famous Jonson, though his learned pen Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben. Fletcher, and Webster, of that learned pack None of the meanest, neither was but Jack; Decker but Tom; nor May, nor Middleton; And he’s now but Jack Ford, that once were John.

Possibly our Poet was a little sore, that this contemptuous curtailment of their Baptismal Names was chiefly exercised upon his Poetical Brethren of the _Drama_. We hear nothing about Sam Daniel, or Ned Spenser, in his catalogue. The familiarity of common discourse might probably take the greater liberties with the Dramatic Poets, as conceiving of them as more upon a level with the Stage Actors. Or did their greater publicity, and popularity in consequence, fasten these diminutives upon them out of a feeling of love and kindness; as we say Harry the Fifth, rather than Henry, when we would express good will?--as himself says, in those reviving words put into his mouth by Shakspeare, where he would comfort and confirm his doubting brothers:

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry!

And doubtless Heywood had an indistinct conception of this truth, when (coming to his own name), with that beautiful _retracting_ which is natural to one that, not Satirically given, has wandered a little out of his way into something recriminative, he goes on to say:

Nor speak I this, that any here exprest Should think themselves less worthy than the rest, Whose names have their full syllables and sound; Or that Frank, Kit, or Jack, are the least wound Unto their fame and merit. I for my part (Think others what they please) accept that heart, Which courts my love in most familiar phrase; And that it takes not from my pains or praise, If any one to me so bluntly come: I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.

C. L.

[92] The full title of this Play is “The Fair Maid of the Exchange, with the humours of the Cripple of Fenchurch.” The above Satire against some Dramatic Plagiarists of the time, is put into the mouth of the Cripple, who is an excellent fellow, and the Hero of the Comedy. Of his humour this extract is a sufficient specimen; but he is described (albeit a tradesman, yet wealthy withal) with heroic qualities of mind and body; the latter of which he evinces by rescuing his Mistress (the Fair Maid) from three robbers by the main force of one crutch lustily applied; and the former by his foregoing the advantages which this action gained him in her good opinion, and bestowing his wit and finesse in procuring for her a husband, in the person of his friend Golding, more worthy of her beauty, than he could conceive his own maimed and halting limbs to be. It would require some boldness in a dramatist now-a-days to exhibit such a Character; and some luck in finding a sufficient Actor, who would be willing to personate the infirmities, together with the virtues, of the Noble Cripple.