Part 17

“Sir, I have heard you with delight. I can procure you an engagement, not perhaps for the Romeos, but all great actors have risen by slow degrees, and the best of them has, at his outset, been attacked by some snake in the grass.” He now pointed out the reptile, who slunk away, looking heartily ashamed of himself. The gentleman continued, “Mr. Richardson and Company are now acting at the fair. I am his scene-painter; see here, I have sketched you in your happiest attitude. Come with me.” We went to the booth. I was hired; but unluckily, my powers being suited for a larger stage, so overpowered my present audience, that I was taken out of all speaking parts, for fear of fatal consequences. Nevertheless, my grace in processions soon raised so much jealousy against me, that in the autumn Master recommended me to one of the Minors in town, where, for twice as much salary, I was never expected to appear before the curtain, but to make myself useful among the carpenters and scene-shifters. That Christmas, during the rehearsal of a Pantomime, four of us were set to catch an Harlequin, each to hold the corner of a blanket, and be ready for his jump through the scene. Alas! one gentleman brought his pot, and one his pipe, and the third an inclination for a snooze. Two were asleep, and one draining the last drops of stout from the pewter. I alone upheld my corner from the boards, when the awful leap came on us, like a star-shoot. I still see the momentary gleam of that strait, spangled, fish-like, head-long figure. Can, candle, bottle, pipes, all crashed beneath the heavy tumbler. With a torrent of apologies, we scrambled up in the dark, to raise the fallen hero; but there he lay, on his face, with legs and arms outspread, as we could feel, without sense, or sound, or motion, cold, stiff, and _dead_! For an instant all was horrid silence; we were as breathless as he. I resolved to give myself up to justice, yet found voice in the boldness of innocence to shout “Help! Lights! All his bones are broken!” “And all yours _shall_ be, ye dogs!” cried a voice. We looked up; there stood one Harlequin over us alive; there lay another under us, without a chance of ever more peeping through the blanket of the dark. That the speaker was no ghost we were soon convinced, as his magic bat battered us. The truth was, he had thrown at us the stuffed Harlequin used in flying ascents, to try our vigilance, before he risked his own neck. I felt, however, that I _might_ have been of a party who had killed a man. It was a judgment on me for being in such a place, with any less excuse than that of acting Romeo. I took my wife and babe back to Cheshire. We knelt at my father’s feet, promising to serve in the shop; fortunately it was one of his melting days: he raised us to his arm;--we formed a _tableau generale_--and the curtain dropped.

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET.

“Sweeping our flocks and herds.”--DOUGLAS.

O philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology! Be not dismay’d although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers, Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow’d--like Iö--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson’s with a _Fear-on_!

Or, in St. Martin’s Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-- Fancy the terror of your timid daughters While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it--Slaughter’s.

Or fancy this:-- Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly ’tis “Aries Taurus Virgo!” You don’t know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden! Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate_!

Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows-- “’Tis well for you that live apart--unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_.

“Folks that too freely sup Must e’en put up With their own troubles If they can’t digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That _others’_ victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us! We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity’s sake! We don’t want oxen at our doors to _rump-us_!

“If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad! We constantly are roar’d awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the ‘Night Thoughts’ of our Young!”

Such are the woes of sleepers--now let’s take The woes of those that wish to keep _a Wake_ Oh think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these “Bulls of Basan,” far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, “what shows a Dwarf,” Seeing a red Cow come To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forc’d with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep’s heads, a porker’s, and an Ox’s! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses, Just when the Ghost is certain, A great rent in the curtain, And enter two tall skeletons--of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics! Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!

Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right, And to each show and sight Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude, To Richardson’s Stage Dramas, Dio--and Cosmo--ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows--a Show of Gratitude!

DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER.

I was once--for a few hours only--in the militia. I suspect I was in part answerable for my own mishap. There is a story in Joe Miller of a man, who, being _pressed_ to serve his Majesty on another element, pleaded his polite breeding, to the gang, as a good ground of exemption: but was told that the crew being a set of sad unmannerly dogs, a Chesterfield was the very character they wanted. The militia-men acted, I presume, on the same principle. Their customary schedule was forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fill up, and in a moment of incautious hilarity--induced, perhaps, by the absence of all business or employment, except pleasure--I wrote myself down in the descriptive column as “_Quite a Gentleman_.”

The consequence followed immediately. A precept, addressed by the High Constable of Westminster to the Low ditto of the parish of St. M*****, and endorsed with my name, informed me that it had turned up in that involuntary lottery, the Ballot.

At sight of the Orderly, who thought proper to deliver the document into no other hands than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife fainted on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions in military service--a soldier was a soldier--and they imagined that, on the very morrow, I might be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They were unfortunately ignorant of that benevolent provision which absolved the militia from going out of the kingdom--“except in case of an invasion.” In vain I represented that we were “locals;” they had heard of local diseases, and thought there might be wounds of the same description. In vain I explained that we were not troops of the line;--they could see nothing to choose between being shot in a line, or in any other figure. I told them next that I was not obliged to serve myself; but they answered, “’twas so much the harder I should be obliged to serve any one else.” My being sent abroad, they said, would be the death of them; for they had witnessed, at Ramsgate, the embarkation of the Walcheren expedition, and too well remembered “the misery of the soldiers’ wives at seeing their husbands in _transports_!”

I told them that, at the very worst, if I _should_ be sent abroad, there was no reason why I should not return again; but they both declared, they never did, and never would believe in those “Returns of the Killed and Wounded.”

The discussion was in this stage when it was interrupted by another loud single knock at the door, a report equal in its effects on us to that of the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels; and before we could recover ourselves, a strapping Serjeant entered the parlour with a huge bow, or rather rain-bow, of party-coloured ribbons in his cap. He came, he said to offer a substitute for me; but I was prevented from reply by the indignant females asking him in the same breath, “Who and what did he think _could_ be a substitute for a son and a husband?”

The poor Serjeant looked foolish enough at this turn; but he was still more abashed when the two anxious Ladies began to cross-examine him on the length of his services abroad, and the number of his wounds, the campaigns of the Militia-man having been confined doubtless to Hounslow, and his bodily marks militant to the three stripes on his sleeve. Parrying these awkward questions he endeavoured to prevail upon me to see the proposed proxy, a fine young fellow, he assured me, of unusual stature; but I told him it was quite an indifferent point with me whether he was 6-feet-2 or 2-feet-6, in short whether he was as tall as the flag or “under the standard.”

The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of profound peace, that a civil war, or an invasion, was very unlikely; and as for an occasional drill, that I could make shift, like Lavater, to right-about-face.

Accordingly I declined seeing the substitute, and dismissed the Serjeant with a note to the War-Secretary to this purport:--“That I considered myself _drawn_; and expected therefore to be well _quarter’d_. That, under the circumstances of the country, it would probably be unnecessary for militia-men ‘to be mustarded;’ but that if his Majesty did ‘_call me out_,’ I hoped I should ‘_give him satisfaction_.’”

The females were far from being pleased with this billet. They talked a great deal of moral suicide, wilful murder, and seeking the bubble reputation in the cannon’s mouth; but I shall ever think that I took the proper course, for, after the lapse of a few hours, two more of the General’s red-coats, or General postmen, brought me a large packet sealed with the War-office Seal, and superscribed “Henry Hardinge;” by which I was officially absolved from serving on Horse, or on Foot, or on both together, then and thereafter.

And why, I know not--unless his Majesty doubted the handsomeness of discharging me in particular, without letting off the rest;--but so it was, that in a short time afterwards there issued a proclamation, by which the services of all militia-men were for the present dispensed with,--and we were left to pursue our several avocations,--of course, all the lighter in our _spirits_ for being _disembodied_.

ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S EVE.

“Look out for squalls.”--THE PILOT.

O come, dear Barney Isaacs, come, Punch for one night can spare his drum As well as Pipes of Pan! Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon, Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon As you can leave the Van; Blind Billy, bring your violin; Miss Crow, you’re great in Cherry Ripe! And Chubb, your viol must drop in It’s bass to Soger Tommy’s pipe. Ye butchers, bring your bones: An organ would not be amiss; If grinding Jim has spouted his, Lend yours, good Mister Jones.

Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny,--do Keep sober for an hour or two, Music’s charms to help to paint. And, Sandy Gray, if you should not Your bagpipes bring--O tuneful Scot! Conceive the feelings of the Saint!

Miss Strummel issues an invite, For music, and turn-out to-night In honour of Cecilia’s session; But ere you go, one moment stop, And with all kindness let me drop A hint to you, and your profession: Imprimis then: Pray keep within The bounds to which your skill was born, Let the one-handed let alone Trombone, Don’t--rheumatiz! seize the violin, Or Ashmy snatch the horn! Don’t ever to such rows give birth, As if you had no end on earth, Except to “wake the lyre;” Don’t “strike the harp,” pray never do, Till others long to strike it too; Perpetual harping’s apt to tire; Oh I have heard such flat-and-sharpers, I’ve blest the head Of good King Ned, For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers!

Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing, Take a prodigious deal of wooing; And then sit down to thrum the strain, As if you’d never rise again-- The least Cecilia-like of things: Remember that the saint has wings. I’ve known Miss Strummel pause an hour, Ere she could “Pluck the Fairest Flower,” Yet without hesitation, she Plunged next into the “Deep Deep Sea,” And when on the keys she _does_ begin, Such awful torments soon you share, She really seems like Milton’s “Sin,” Holding the keys of--you know where!

Never tweak people’s ears so toughly, That urchin-like they can’t help saying-- “O dear! O dear--you call this playing, But oh, it’s playing very roughly!” Oft, in the ecstasy of pain, I’ve cursed all instrumental workmen, Wish’d Broadwood Thurtell’d in a lane, And Kirke White’s fate to every Kirkman--

I really once delighted spied “Clementi Collard” in Cheapside.

Another word,--don’t be surprised, Revered and ragged street Musicians, You have been only half-baptised, And each name proper, or improper, Is not the value of a copper, Till it has had the due additions, Husky, Rusky, Ninny, Tinny, Hummel, Bummel, Bowski, Wowski, All these are very good selectables; But none of your plain pudding-and-tames-- Folks that are called the hardest names Are music’s most respectables. Ev’ry woman, ev’ry man, Look as foreign as you can, Don’t cut your hair, or wash your skin, Make ugly faces and begin.

Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears, And now to show they understand it! Miss Crowe her scrannel throttle clears. And all the rest prepare to band it. Each scraper ripe for concertante, Rozins the hair of Rozinante: Then all sound A, if they know which, That they may join like birds in June: Jack Tar alone neglects to tune, For he’s all over concert-pitch. A little prelude goes before, Like a knock and ring at music’s door Each instrument gives in its name; Then sitting in They all begin To play a musical round game. Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand, Leads a first fiddle to the band, A second follows suit; Anon the ace of Horns comes plump On the two fiddles with a trump. Puffindorf plays a flute. This sort of musical revoke, The grave bassoon begins to smoke And in rather grumpy kind Of tone begins to speak its mind; The double drum is next to mix, Playing the Devil on Two Sticks-- Clamour, clamour, Hammer, hammer, While now and then a pipe is heard, Insisting to put in a word, With all his shrilly best, So to allow the little minion Time to deliver his opinion, They take a few bars rest.

Well, little Pipe begins--with sole And small voice going through the _hole_, Beseeching, Preaching, Squealing, Appealing, Now as high as he can go, Now in language rather low, And having done--begins once more, Verbatim what he said before. This twiddling twaddling sets on fire All the old instrumental ire, And fiddles for explosion ripe, Put out the little squeaker’s pipe; This wakes bass viol--and viol for that, Seizing on innocent little B flat, Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat-- They all seem miching malico! To judge from a ramble unawares, The drum has had a pitch down stairs; And the trumpet rash, By a violent crash, Seems splitting somebody’s calico! The viol too groans in deep distress, As if he suddenly grew sick; And one rapid fiddle sets off express,-- Hurrying, Scurrying, Spattering, Clattering, To fetch him a Doctor of Music. This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying Beyond the Piano’s pacifying, The cymbal Gets nimble, Triangle Must wrangle, The band is becoming most martial of bands, When just in the middle, A quakerly fiddle, Proposes a general shaking of hands! Quaking, Shaking, Quivering, Shivering, Long bow--short bow--each bow drawing: Some like filing,--some like sawing; At last these agitations cease, And they all get The flageolet, To breathe “a piping time of peace.” Ah, too deceitful charm, Like light’ning before death, For Scrapenberg to rest his arm, And Puffindorf get breath! Again without remorse or pity, They play “The Storming of a City.” Miss S. herself compos’d and plann’d it-- When lo! at this renew’d attack, Up jumps a little man in black,-- “The very Devil cannot stand it! And with that, Snatching hat, (Not his own,) Off is flown, Thro’ the door, In his black, To come back Never, never, never more?”

Oh Music! praises thou hast had, From Dryden and from Pope, For thy good notes, yet none I hope, But I e’er praised the bad, Yet are not saint and sinner even? Miss Strummel on Cecilia’s level? One drew an angel down from heaven! The other scar’d away the Devil!

REFLECTIONS ON WATER.

“When the butt is out, we will drink water: not a drop before.”--TEMPEST.

I have Stefano’s aversion to Water. I never take any by chance into my mouth, without the proneness of our Tritons and Dolphins of the Fountain,--to spout it forth again. It is, on the palate, as in tubs and hand-basins, egregiously washy. It hath not for me, even what is called “an amiable weakness.” For the sake only of quantity, not quality, do I sometimes adulterate my Cogniac or Geneva with the flimsy fluid. Aquarius is not my sign; at the praises heaped on Sir Hugh Myddelton, for leading his trite streamlet up to London,--my lip curleth. Methinks if such a sloppy labour could at one time more than another betray a misguided taste, it was in those days, when we are told,--“The Grete Conduict, in Chepe, did runne forth Wyne.” And then to hear talk withal of the New River _Head_,--as if, forsooth, the weak current poured even from Ware unto London, were capable of that goodly headed capital, the _caput_, of Stout Porter, or lusty Ale.

The taste for aquatics is none of mine. I laugh at Cowes’--it should be Calves’--Regattas; it passeth my understanding, to conceive the pleasure of contending with all your sail and sea, your might and main, for a prize cup of water. Gentle reader, if ever we two should encounter at good-men’s feasts, say not before me, that “your mouth waters,” for fear of my compelled rejoinder, “The more pump you!”

I am told--_Dic mihi_--by Sir Lauder Dick, that the great floods is Morayshire destroyed I know not how many Scottish bridges,--and I believe it. The element was always our Arch-Enemy. Witness the Deluge, when the whole human-kind would have perished, with water on the chest, but for Noah’s chest on the water. Drowning--by some called Dying made Easy--is to my notions horrible. Conceive an unfortunate gentleman--not by any means thirsty--compelled to swill gulp after gulp of the vapid fluid, even to swelling, “as the water you know will swell a man.” If I said I would rather be hanged, it would be but the truth; although “Veritas in _Puteo_” hath given me almost a disrelish for truth itself.

Excepting their imaginary Castaly, I should be glad to know what poet hath sung ever in the praise of Water? Of wine, many. “Tak _Tent_,” saith the Scottish Burns; “O, was ye at the _Sherry_?”--singeth another. The lofty Douglas, in commending Norval, thus hinteth his cellar; “His _Port_ I like.” Shakspeare discourseth eloquently of both as “Red and white,” and addeth,--“with sweet and cunning hand _laid on_;”--i.e. laid on in pipes. For Madeira, see Bowles of it; and the Muse of Pringle luxuriates in the Cape. Then is there also Mountain celebrated by Pope,--“The Shepherd loves the mountain,”--to Moslem, forbidden draught; yet which Mahomet would condescend to fetch himself, if it failed in coming to hand. Sack, too,--as dear to Oriental Sultanas as his Malmsey to Clarence,--is by Byron touched on in his Corsair; but then, through some Koran-scrupulousness perchance, they take it--in Water!

Praise there hath been of water; but, as became the subject, in prose; M. hath written a volume, I am told, in its commendation, and above all of its nutritive quality; and truly to see it floating the Victory with all her armament and complement of guns, and men, one must confess there is some _support_ in it--at least as an outward application! but then taken internally, look at the wreck of the Royal George!