Part 18

The mention of Men-of-War, bringeth to mind, opportunely, certain marine reminiscences, pertinent to this subject, referring some years backward, when, with other uniform than my present invariable sables, I was stationed at * * *, on the coast of Sussex. Little as my present-tense habits and occupations savour of the past sea-service,--yet, reader, in the Navy List amongst the Commanders, or years by-gone in the Ship’s Books of H.M.S Hyperion, presently lying in the sequestered harbour of Newhaven, thou wilt find occurring the surname of Hood; a name associated by friends, marine and mechanic, with a contrivance, for expelling the old enemy, water, by a novel construction of Ships’ pumps.

Stanchest of my sect--the Adam’s-Ale-shunners--wert thou, old Samuel Spiller! in the muster-roll charactered an Able Seaman; but most notable for a Landsman’s aversion to unmitigated Water, hard, or soft--fresh or salt! A petty Officer wert thou in that armed band _versus_ contraband, the Coast Blockade, by some miscalled the Preventive Service, if service it be to prevent the influx of wholesome spirits. To do the smuggler bare justice, no seaman, Nelson-bred, payeth greater reverence, or obedience to that signal sentence,--“England expects every man to _do_ his _duty_!” than he. Thine, Spiller, was done to the uttermost. Spirits, legal or illegal, in tub or flask, or pewter measure, didst thou inexorably seize, and gauger-like try the depth thereof,--thy Royal Master, His Majesty, at the latter end of the seizures, faring no better than thy own begotten sea-urchin, of whom, one day remarking that--“he took after his father,” the young would-be Trinculo retorted, “Father never leaveth none to take.” There were strange rumours afloat, and ashore--Samuel! of thy unprofitable vigilance. Many an illicit _Child_, i.e. a small keg, hath been laid at thy door. Thou hadst a becoming respect for thy comrades, as brave men and true, who could stand fire, but the smugglers, I fear, were ranked a streak higher, as men who could stand treat. Still were thy misdeeds like much of thy own beverage--beyond proof. Even as those delinquent utterers of base notes, who swallow their own dangerous forgeries, so didst thou gulp down whatever might else have appeared against thee in evidence. There was no entrapping thee, like rat, or weasel in that Gin, from which deriving a sea-peerage, thou wert commonly known--with no offence, I trust, to the Noble Vassal of Kensington--as Lord Hollands.

It was by way of water-penance for one of these Cassio-like derelictions of Mine Ancient, that one evening--the evening succeeding the Great Sea Tempest of 1814--I gave him charge of a boat’s crew, to bring in sundry fragmental relics of some shipwreckt Argosy, that were reported to be adrift in our offing. In two hours he returned, and like Venator and Piscator, we immediately fell into dialogue,--Piscator, i.e. Spiller, “for fear of dripping the carpet,” standing aloof, a vox et preterea nihil, in a dark entry.

“Well, Spiller,”--my phraseology was not then inoculated with the quaintness it hath since imbibed from after lecture--“Well, Spiller, what have you picked up?”

“A jib-boom, I think, Sir, a capital spar; and part of a Ship’s starn. The ‘Planter of Barbadies’--famous place for rum, Sir.”

“Was there any sea--are you wet?”

“Only up to my middle, Sir.”

“Very well--stow away the wreck, and go to your grog. Tell Bunce to give you all double allowance.”

“Thank your honour’s honour!”

The voice ceased: and a pair of ponderous sea-soles, with tramp audible as the marble foot of the Spectre in Giovanni, went hurrying down our main-hatchway. Certain misgivings of a discrepancy between the imputed drenching and the weather, an appeal askance of the rum cask, joined with a curiosity perchance, to inspect the ship-fragments--our flottsom and jettsom, led me soon afterwards below, and there, in the mess-room, sate mine officer, high and dry, with a huge tankard in his starboard hand. I made an obvious remark on it, and had an answer--for Michael Spiller was no adept in the Chesterfieldian refinements--from the interior of the drinking-vessel--

“Your Honour’s right, and I ax your Honour’s pardon. I warn’t wet! but I was _very_ dry!”

A BLOW UP.

“Here we go up, up, up.”--THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL.

Near Battle, Mr. Peter Baker Was Powder-maker, Not Alderman Flower’s flour,--the white that puffs And primes and loads heads bald, or gray, or chowder, Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby,--Crowder, Not vile apothecary’s pounded stuffs, But something blacker, bloodier, and louder, Gun-powder! This stuff, as people know, is _semper Eadem_; very hasty in its temper-- Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps, Mere semblances of blows, however slight; So powder fires, although you only p’rhaps Strike light. To make it therefore, is a ticklish business And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizziness, For as all human flash and fancy minders, Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know, There seldom is a mill without a blow Sometimes upon the grinders. But then--the melancholy phrase to soften, Mr. B.’s mill _transpir’d_ so very often! And advertised--than all Price Currents louder, “Fragments look up--there is a rise in Powder.” So frequently, it caused the neighbours’ wonder,-- And certain people had the inhumanity To lay it all to Mr. Baker’s vanity, That he might have to say--“That was _my_ thunder!” One day--so goes the tale, Whether, with iron hoof, Not sparkle-proof, Some ninny-hammer struck upon a nail,-- Whether some glow-worm of the Guy Faux stamp, Crept in the building, with Unsafety Lamp-- One day this mill that had by water ground, Became a sort of windmill and blew round. With bounce that went in sound as far as Dover, it Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky; Besides some visitors who gained thereby, What they had asked--permission “to go over it!” Of course it was a very hard and high blow, And somewhat differed from what’s called a fly-blow. At Cowes’ Regatta as I once observed, A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start; If such a sound could terrify oak’s heart, Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved In fact, it was a very awful thing,-- As people know that have been used to battle, In springing either mine or mill, you spring A precious rattle! The dunniest heard it--poor old Mr. F. Doubted for once if he was ever deaf; Through Tunbridge town it caused most strange alarms; Mr. and Mrs. Fogg, Who lived like cat and dog, Were shocked for once into each other’s arms. Miss M. the milliner--her fright so strong, Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long; The veriest quakers quaked against their wish; The “Best of Sons” was taken unawares, And kick’d the “Best of Parents” down the stairs; The steadiest servant dropped the China dish; A thousand started, though there was but one Fated to win, and that was Mr. Dunn, Who struck convulsively, and hooked a fish!

Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork, Toss’d it just like a hay-maker at work; Her sister not in any better case, For taking wine, With nervous Mr. Pyne, He jerked his glass of Sherry in her face.

Poor Mistress Davy, Bobb’d off her bran-new turban in the gravy: While Mr. Davy at the lower end, Preparing for a Goose a carver’s labour, Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbour, As if for once he meant to help a friend.

The nurse-maid telling little “Jack-a-Norey,” “Bo-peep” and “Blue-cap” at the house’s top, Scream’d, and let Master Jeremiah drop From a fourth story! Nor yet did matters any better go With Cook and Housemaid in the realms below; As for the Laundress, timid Martha Gunning, Expressing faintness and her fear by fits And starts,--she came at last but to her wits, By falling in the ale that John left running.

Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind, Struck all at once deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind, Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse, Then coming to his mind, Was shocked to find, Only a pair of shafts without a horse. Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy’s! From Prospect House, for urchins small and big, Hearing the awful noise, Out rushed a flood of boys, Floating a man in black, without a wig;-- Some carried out one treasure, some another,-- Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry, Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley Murray, But little Tiddy carried his big brother!

Sick of such terrors, The Tunbridge folks resolv’d that truth should dwell No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well, But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors; Accordingly to bring the point to pass, They call’d a meeting of the broken glass, The shatter’d chimney pots, and scatter’d tiles, The damage of each part, And packed it in a cart, Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles; While Doctor Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector, And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex, And some few more, whose names would only vex, Went as a deputation to the Ex Powder-proprietor and Mill-director.

Now Mr. Baker’s dwelling-house had pleased Along with mill-materials to roam, And for a time the deputies were teased, To find the noisy gentleman at home; At last they found him with undamaged skin, Safe at the Tunbridge Arms--not out--but Inn.

The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal, Soon put his spoke in for the common weal-- A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban,-- The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded, And then unfolded, By way of climax, Mrs. Davy’s turban; He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding Knock’d down a lot without a bidding,-- How Mr. Miles, in fright, had giv’n his mare The whip she wouldn’t bear,-- At Prospect House, how Doctor Oates, not Titus, Danc’d like Saint Vitus,-- And Mr. Beak, thro’ Powder’s misbehaving, Cut off his nose whilst shaving;-- When suddenly, with words that seem’d like swearing, Beyond a Licenser’s belief or bearing-- Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage-- “Who is to pay us, Sir,”--he argued thus, “For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-- Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-damage?”

Now many a person had been fairly puzzled By such assailants, and completely muzzled; Baker, however, was not dash’d with ease-- But proved he practised after their own system, And with small ceremony soon dismiss’d ’em, Putting these words into their ears like fleas; “If I do have a blow, well, where’s the oddity? I merely do as other tradesmen do, You, Sir,--and you--and you! I’m only puffing off my own commodity!”

THE WOODEN LEG.

“Peregrine and Gauntlet heard the sound of the stump ascending the wooden staircase with such velocity, that they at first mistook it for the application of drum-sticks to the head of an empty barrel.”--PEREGRINE PICKLE.

Ever since the year 1799, I have had, in the coachman phrase, an off leg and a near one; the right limb, thanks to a twelve-pounder, lies somewhere at Seringapatam, its twin-brother being at this moment under a table at Brighton. In plain English, I have a wooden leg. Being thus deprived of half of the implements for marching, I equitably retired, on half-pay, from a marching regiment, and embarked what remained of my body, for the land of its nativity, literally fulfilling the description of man, “with one foot on sea and one on shore,” in the Shakspearian song.

A great deal has been said and sung of our wooden walls and hearts of oak, but legs of ditto make but an inglorious figure on the ocean. No wrestler from Cornwall or Devonshire ever received half so many fair back-falls as I, the least roll of the vessel--and the equinoctial gales were in full blow--making me lose, I was going to say, my feet. I might have walked in a dead calm, and as a soldier accustomed to exercise, and moreover a foot soldier, and used to walking, I felt a great inclination to pace up and down the deck, but a general protest from the cabins put an end to my promenade. As Lear recommends, my wooden hoofs ought to have been “shod with felt.”

At last the voyage terminated, and in my eagerness to land, I got into a fishing-boat, which put me ashore at Dungeness. Those who have enjoyed a ramble over its extensive shingle, will believe that I soon obtained abundance of exercise in walking with a wooden leg among its loose pebbles; in fact, when I arrived at Lydd, I was, as the cricketers say, “stumped out.” It was anything but one of Foote’s farces.

The next morning saw me in sight of home,--as a provincial bard says--

“But when home gleams upon the wanderer’s eye, Quicken his steps--he almost seems to fly.”

But I wish he had seen me doing my last half mile over Swingfield Hill. I found its deep sand anything but a quicksand, in spite of a distinct glimpse of the paternal roof. I am convinced, when “Fleet Camilla scours the plain,” she does not do it with sand. At last I stood at the lodge-gate, which opened, and let me into a long avenue, the path of which had been newly gravelled, but not well rolled; accordingly, I cut out considerable work for myself and the gardener, who, as he watched the holes I picked in his performance, seemed to look on my advance much as Apollyon did on Pilgrim’s Progress. By way of relief, I got upon the grass, but my wooden leg, though it was a blackleg, did not thrive much upon the turf. Arrived at the house door, filial anxiety caused me to forget to scrape and wipe, and I proceeded to make a fishy pattern of soles and dabs up the stair carpet. The good wife in the Scotch song says--

“His very foot has music in’t, As he comes up the stair.”

If there was any music in mine, it was in the stump, which played a sort of “Dead March in Saul,” up to the landing-place, where the sound and sight of my Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane threw my poor mother into a Macbeth fit of horror, for the preparatory letter which should have broken my leg to her, had been lost on its passage. As for my father, I will not attempt to describe his transport, for I came upon him,

“As fools rush in where angels fear to tread;”

and Gabriel or Michael would not have escaped a volley for treading on his gouty foot. At the same moment, Margaret and Louisa, with sisterly impetuosity, threw themselves on my neck, and not being attentive to my “outplay or loose leg,” according to Sir Thomas Parkyn’s “Instructions for Wrestling,” the result was a “hanging trippet.” “A hanging trippet is when you put your toe behind your adversary’s heel, on the same side, with a design to hook his leg up forwards, and throw him on his back.”

The reader will guess my satisfaction when night came, and allowed me to rid myself of my unlucky limb. Fatigued with my walk through dry sand and wet gravel, exhausted by excessive emotion, and, maybe, a little flustered by dipping into the cup of welcome, I literally tumbled into bed, and was soon dreaming of running races and leaping for wagers, gallopading, waltzing, and other feats of a biped, when I was suddenly aroused by shrill screams of “Thieves!” and “Murder!” with a more hoarse call for “Frank! Frank!” There were burglars, in fact, in the house, who were packing and preparing to elope with the family plate, without the consent of parents. It was natural for the latter to call a son and a soldier to the rescue, but son or soldier never came in time to start for the plate; not that I wanted zeal or courage, or arms, but I wanted that unlucky limb, and I groped about a full half hour in the dark, before I could lay my hand upon my leg.

The next morning I took a solitary stroll before breakfast to look at the estate; but during my absence abroad, some exchanges of land had taken place with our neighbour, Sir Theophilus. The consequence was, in taking my wood through a wood of his, but which had formerly been our own, and going with my “best leg foremost,” as a man in my predicament always does, I popped it into a man-trap. Thus my timber failed me at a pinch when it might really have stood my friend. Luckily the trap was one of the humane sort;--but it was far from pleasant to stand in it for two hours calling out for Leg Bail.

I could give many more instances of scrapes, besides the perpetual hobble which my wooden leg brought me into, but I will mention only one. At the persuasion of my friends, a few years ago, I stood for Rye, but the electors, perhaps, thought I only half stood for it, for they gave me nothing but split votes. It was perhaps as well that I did not go into the House, for with two such odd legs I could never properly have “paired off.” The election expenses, however, pressed, heavily on my pocket, and to defray them, and all for one Wooden Leg, I had to cut down some thousand loads of timber.

THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

“I’ll be your second.”--LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in Town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out, One Friday he died hard, And left a widow’d wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing thus came about, She asked him in at home, and then At church he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phœnix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand.

One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two!

“Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow’s deeds, Already getting up a flame, To burn your widow’s weeds?

“It’s not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory--like Roger’s, Should still be bound in green!

“Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubt-- I’m like an old For-get-me-Not, With all the leaves torn out!

“To think that on that finger-joint, Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul, It struck like ‘Knock and Ring.’

“A ton of marble on my breast Can’t hinder my return; Your conduct, Ma’am, has set my blood A-boiling in my urn!

“Remember on! remember how The marriage rite did run-- If ever we one flesh should be, ’Tis now--when I have none!

“And you, Sir--once a bosom friend-- Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly too can give no blow, Consider you are kick’d.

“A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up!--you marry, Ma’am, And I’ll come up again.”

More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow, and off he went, Like fowling-piece at cock!

A TALE OF THE GREAT PLAGUE.

“This is one of the _pest_ discretions.”--SIR HUGH EVANS.

About five or six years after that deplorable great Plague of London, there befel a circumstance which, as it is not set forth in Defoe his history of the pestilence, I shall make bold to write down herein, not only on account of the strangeness of the event, but also because it carries a moral pick-a-back, as a good story ought to do.

It is a notoriously known fact, as collected from the bills of mortality, that there died of the plague in the mere metropolis a matter of some hundreds of thousands of human souls; yet notwithstanding this most awful warning to evil doers, the land did nevertheless bring forth such a rank crop of sin and wickedness, that the like was never known before or after; the City of London, especially, being overrun with bands of thieves and murtherers, against whom there was little or no check, the civical police having been utterly disbanded and disrupt during the ravages of the pestilence. Neither did men’s minds turn for some time towards the mere safeguard of property, being still distracted with personal fears, for although the pest had, as it were, died of the excess of its own violence, yet from time to time there arose flying rumours of fresh breakings out of the malady. The small-pox and the malignant fever being the prolific parents of such like alarms. Accordingly many notable robberies and divers grievous murthers having been acted with impunity during the horrible crisis of the pest, those which had before been wicked were now hardened, and became a thousand times worse, till the city and the neighbourhood thereof seemed given in prey to devils, who had been loosened for a season from the everlasting fetters of the law.

Now four of these desperadoes having met together at the Dolphin in Deptford, they laid a plot together to rob a certain lone mansion house which stood betwixt the Thames marshes and the Forest of Hainault, and which was left in the charge of only one man, the family being gone off to another mansion house in the county of Wiltshire, for the sake of a more wholesome air. And the manner of the plot was this: one of the villains going in a feigned voice was to knock at the front-door and beg piteously for a night’s shelter, and then the door, being opened, the other knaves were to rush in and bind the serving-man, or murther him, as might seem best, and so taking his keys they were to ransack the house, where they expected to find a good store of plate. Accordingly, one Friday, at the dead of the night, they set forth, having for leader a fellow that was named Blackface, by reason of a vizard which he wore always on such errands, diverting themselves by the way with laying out each man his share of the booty in the manner that pleased him best, wine and the women of Lewkener’s Lane coming in you may be sure for the main burthen of the song. At last they entered the fore-court of the house which they were to rob, and which was as silent as death, and as dark, excepting a glimmer from one window towards the top. Blackface then, as agreed upon, began to beat at the door, but being flushed with drink, instead of entreating for an entrance, he shouted out to the serving-man, bidding him with many terrible oaths to come down and to render up his keys, for that they were come to relieve him of his charge.

“In the name of God, my masters,” cried the serving-man from the window, “what do you want here?”

“We are come,” returned Blackface, “to relieve you of your trust, so throw us down your keys.”

“An that be all,” said the serving-man, whose name was Adams, “wait but a little while and you shall have the keys and my place to boot. Come again but a few hours hence, and you shall find me dead, when you may do with me and my trust as you list.”

“Come, come,” cries Blackface, “no preaching, but come down and open, or we will bring fire and faggot to the door.”