Part 21

Unhappily for Case’s scheme of quiet, Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot, A fact recorded in each day’s diurnals, Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse, Careless of news; But Pompey always read these bloody journals, Full of Kilmany and Killmore work, The freaks of some O’Shaunessy’s shillaly, Of morning frays by some O’Brien Burke, Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly; How scums deserving of the Devil’s ladle, Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it, And if he found an infant in the cradle Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it;-- In fact, he read of burner and of killer, And Irish ravages, day after day, Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say, That “Pompey could not sleep on _Pompey’s Pillar_.”

Judge then the horror of the nigger’s face To find--with such impressions of that dire land-- That Case,--his master, was a packing case For Ireland! He saw in fearful reveries arise, Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men Whose fame associate with Irish plots is, Fitzgeralds--Tones--O’Connors--Hare--and then “Those _Emmetts_,” not so “little in his eyes” As Doctor Watts’s! He felt himself piked, roasted--carv’d and hack’d, His big black burly body seemed in fact A pincushion for Terror’s pins and needles,-- Oh, how he wish’d himself beneath the sun Of Afric--or in far Barbadoes--one Of Bishop Coleridge’s new _black beadles_.

Full of this fright, With broken peace and broken English choking, As black as any raven and as croaking, Pompey rushed in upon his master’s sight, Plump’d on his knees, and clasp’d his sable digits, Thus stirring Curiosity’s sharp fidgets-- “O Massa!--Massa!--Colonel!--Massa Case,-- Not go to Ireland!--Ireland dam bad place; Dem take our bloods--dem Irish--every drop-- Oh why for Massa go so far a distance To have him life?”----Here Pompey made a stop, Putting an awful period to existence.

“Not go to Ireland--not to Ireland, fellow, And murder’d--why should I be murder’d, Sirrah?” Cried Case, with anger’s tinge upon his yellow,-- Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror The Colonel’s saffron, and his own japan,-- “Well, what has that to do--quick--speak outright, boy?” “O Massa”--(so the explanation ran) “Massa be killed--’cause Massa _Orange Man_, And Pompey killed--’cause Pompey not a _White Boy_!”

THE SORROWS OF AN UNDERTAKER.

To mention only by name the sorrows of an Undertaker, will be likely to raise a smile on most faces,--the mere words suggest a solemn stalking parody of grief to the satiric fancy;--but give a fair hearing to my woes, and even the veriest mocker may learn to pity an Undertaker who has been unfortunate in all his undertakings.

My Father, a Furnisher and Performer in the funeral line, used to say of me,--noticing some boyish levities--that “I should never do for an Undertaker.” But the prediction was wrong--my Parent died, and I did for him in the way of business. Having no other alternative, I took possession of a very fair stock and business. I felt at first as if plunged in the Black Sea--and when I read my name upon the shop door, it threw a crape over my spirits, that I did not get rid of for some months.

Then came the cares of business. The scandalous insinuated that the funerals were not so decorously performed as in the time of the Late. I discharged my mutes, who were grown fat and jocular, and sought about for the lean and lank visaged kind. But these demure rogues cheated and robbed me--plucked my feathers and pruned my scarfs, and I was driven back again to my “merrie men,”--whose only fault was making a pleasure of their business.

Soon after this, I made myself prominent in the parish, and obtained a contract for Parochial Conchology--or shells for the paupers. But this even, as I may say, broke down on its first tressels. Having as my first job to inter a workhouse female--Ætat. 96--and wishing to gain the good opinion of the parish, I had made the arrangements with more than usual decency. The company were at the door. Placing myself at the head, with my best burial face, and my slowest solemnity of step, I set forward, and thanks to my professional deafness,--induced by the constant hammering--I never perceived, till at the church gates, that the procession had not stirred from the door of the house. So good a joke was not lost upon my two Mutes, who made it an excuse for chuckling on after occasions. But to me the consequence was serious. A notion arose amongst the poor that I was too proud to walk along with their remains, and the ferment ran so high, that I was finally compelled to give up my contract.

So much for foot funerals. Now for coach work. The extravagant charges of the jobbers at last induced me to set up a Hearse and Mourning Coaches of my own, with sleek ebony long-tailed horses to match. One of these--the finest of the set--had been sold to me under warranty of being sound and free from vice; and so he was, but the dealer never told me that he had been a charger at Astley’s. Accordingly on his very first performance, in passing through Bow,--at that time a kind of Fairy Land,--he thought proper, on hearing a showman’s trumpet, to dance a cotillion in his feathers! There was nothing to be done but to travel on with three to the next stage, where I sold the caperer at a heavy loss, and to the infinite regret of my merry mourners, with whom this exhibition had made him a great favourite. From this period my business rapidly declined, till instead of five or six demises, on an average, I put in only two defuncts and a half per week.

In this extremity a “black job” was brought to me that promised to make amends for the rest. One fine morning a brace of executors walked into the shop, and handing to me the following extract of a will, politely requested that I would perform accordingly--and with the pleasing addition that I was to be regardless of the expense. The document ran thus: “Item, I will and desire that after death, my body be placed in a strong leaden coffin, the same to be afterwards enclosed in one of oak, and therein my remains to be conveyed handsomely to the village of *** in Norfolk, my birth-place; there to lie, being duly watched, during one night, in the Family mansion now unoccupied, and on the morrow to be carried thence to the church, the coffin being borne by the six oldest resident and decayed parishioners, male or female, and for the same they shall receive severally the sum of five pounds, to be paid on or before the day of interment.”

It will be believed that I lost no time in preparing the last solid and costly receptacles for the late Lady Lambert; and the unusual bulk of the deceased seemed in prospective to justify a bill of proportionate magnitude. I was prodigal of plumes and scutcheons, of staves and scarfs, and mourning coaches; and finally, raising a whole company of black cavalry, we set out by stages, short and sweet, for our destination. I had been prudent enough to send a letter before me to prepare the bearers, and imprudent enough to remit their fees in advance. But I had no misgivings. My men enjoyed the excursion, and so did I. We ate well, drank well, slept well, and expected to be well paid for what was so well done. At the last stage it happened I had rather an intricate reckoning to arrange, by which means being detained a full hour behind the cavalcade, I did not reach the desired village till the whole party had established themselves at the Dying Dolphin; a fact I first ascertained from hearing the merriment of my two mutes in the parlour. Highly indignant at this breach of decorum, I rushed in on the offending couple; and let the Undertaking Reader conceive my feelings, when the following letter was put into my hands, explaining at once the good joke of the two fellows, or rather, that of the whole village.

“Sir,--We have sought out the six oldest of the pauper parishioners of this place, namely as follows:--

Margaret Squires, aged 101, blind and bed-rid. Timothy Topping, aged 98, paralytic and bed-rid. Darius Watts, aged 95, with loss of both legs. Barbara Copp, 94 years, born without arms. Philip Gill, about 81, an Idiot. Mary Ridges, 79, afflicted with St. Vitus.

“Among whom we have distributed your Thirty Pounds according to desire, and for which they are very grateful.

JOHN GILLS, } SAM. RACKSTROW, } Overseers.”

Such were the six bearers who were to carry Lady Lambert to the church, and who could as soon have carried the church to Lady Lambert. To crown all, I rashly listened to the advice of my thoughtless mutes, and in an evil hour deposited the body without troubling any parishioner, old or young, on the subject. The consequence is, the Executors demur to my bill, because I have not acted up to the letter of my instructions. I have had to stand treat for a large party on the road, to sustain all the charges of the black cavalry, and am besides minus thirty pounds in charity, without even the merit of a charitable intention!

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond; And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was fayre and He was Kinde; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemed Her owne the Urchine’s Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde With Shrikes that Echo answerde round-- O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd!

TO FANNY.

“Gay being, born to flutter!”--SALE’S GLEE.

Is this your faith, then, Fanny! What, to chat with every Dun? I’m the one, then, but of many, Not of many but the _One_!

Last night you smil’d on all, Ma’am, That appear’d in scarlet dress; And your Regimental Ball, Ma’am, Look’d a little like a _Mess_.

I thought that of the Sogers (As the Scotch say) one might do And that I, slight Ensign Rogers, Was the chosen man and true.

But ’Sblood! your eye was busy With that ragamuffin mob;-- Colonel Buddell--Colonel Dizzy-- And Lieutenant-Colonel Cobb.

General Joblin, General Jodkin, Colonels--Kelly, Felly, with Majors--Sturgeon, Truffle, Bodkin, And the Quarter-master Smith.

Major Powderum--Major Dowdrum-- Major Chowdrum--Major Bye-- Captain Tawney--Captain Fawney, Captain Any-one--but I!

Deuce take it! when the regiment You so praised, I only thought That you lov’d it in abridgment, But I now am better taught!

I went, as loving man goes, To admire thee in quadrilles; But Fan, you dance fandangoes With just any fop that wills!

I went with notes before us, On the lay of Love to touch; But with all the Corps in chorus, Oh! it is indeed too much!

You once--ere you contracted For the Army--seem’d my own; But now you laugh with all the Staff, And I may sigh alone!

I know not how it chances, When my passion ever dares, But the warmer my advances, Then the cooler are your airs.

I am, I don’t conceal it, But I am a little hurt; You’re a Fan, and I must feel it, Fit for nothing but a _Flirt_!

I dreamt thy smiles of beauty On myself alone did fall; But alas! “Cosi Fan Tutti!” It is thus, Fan, thus with all!

You have taken quite a mob in Of new military flames;-- They would make a fine Round Robin If I gave you all their names!

THE FANCY FAIR.

“It beareth the name of Vanity Fair, because the town where it is kept is ‘lighter than vanity;’ and also because all that is there sold, or that cometh thither, is vanity.”--PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

“I named this place Boothia.”--CAPTAIN ROSS.

“A Fancy Fair,” said my friend L., in his usual quaint style, “is a fair subject for fancy; take up your pen and try. For instance, there was one held at the Mansion House. Conceive a shambling shock-headed clodpole, familiar with the wakes of Bow, Barnet, and Bartlemy, elbowing his awkward way into the Egyptian Hall, his round eyes and mouth all-agape in the ludicrous expectation of seeing the Lord Mayor standing on his very Worshipful head, the Lady Mayoress lifting a hundred weight by her Right Honourable hair, the Sword-Bearer swallowing his blade of state, the Recorder conjuring ribands from his learned and eloquent mouth, and the Senior Alderman with a painted York-and-Lancaster-face, dancing a _saraband_ à la Pierrot! Or fancy Jolterhead at the fair of the Surrey Zoological, forcing his clumsy destructive course through groups of female fashionables, like a hog in a tulip bed, with the equally laughable intention of inspecting long horns and short horns, prime beasts and lean stock, of handling the porkers and coughing the colts. Nay, imagine our bumpkin at the great Fancy Fair of all, blundering up to a stall kept by a Royal Duchess, and enquiring perseveringly for a gilt gingerbread King and Queen--a long-promised fairing to brother Bill at Leighton Buzzard!”

Little did L. dream during this flourish of fancy, that his whimsical fiction had been forestalled by fact; and a deep shade of vexation passed over his features while he perused the following hints from Hants, as conveyed in a _bonâ fide_ letter to the Editor of the Comic Annual.

HONNORD SUR,

Dont no if you Be a Hamshire man, or a man atacht to the fancy, but as Both such myself, have took the libberty to write about what is no joke. Of coarse allude to being Hoaxt up to Lonnon, to sea a fair no fair at all and About as much fancy as you mite fancy on the pint of a pin.--

Have follerd the Fancy, ever since cumming of Age, and bean to every Pugilistical fite, from the Gaim Chicking down to the fite last weak. Have bated Buls drawd Baggers, and Kild rats myself meening to say with my Hone Dogs. Ought to no wot Fancy his. Self prays is no re-comendation But have bean at every Fair Waik or Revvle in England. Ought to no then wot a Fare is.

Has for the Lonnon job--could Sea nothin like Fancy and nothing like fare. Only a Toy shop out of Town with a gals skool looking after it, without a Guvverness and all oglein like Winkin. Lots of the fare sects but no thimbel rig, no priking in the garter no nothing. Am blest if our hone little Fare down at Goos Grean don’t lick it all to Styx. Bulbeating, Baggerdrawing, Cuggleplaying, Rastlin, a Sopped pigtale, a Mane of Cox Jackasreacing jumpin in Sax, and a Grand Sire Peal of Trouble Bobs puld by the Collige youths by way of givin a Bell’s Life to the hole. Call that Fancy. Too wild Best Shoes, fore theaters besides a Horseplay a Dwarft a She Giant, a fat Child a prize ox five carriboo savidges, a lurned Pigg an Albany with wite Hares, a real See Murmad a Fir Eater and lots of Punshes and Juddis. Call that a Fare.

Now for Lonnon. No Sanderses--no Richardsens no wumwills menageris no backy boxis to shy for--no lucky Boxis. No poster makin no jugling or Dancing. Prest one yung laidy in ruge cheaks and trowsers verry civelly For a bit of a caper on the tite rop--But miss got on the hi rop, and call’d for a conestubble. Askt annother in a ridding habbit for the faver of a little horsemunship and got kicked out of her Booth. Goos Grean for my munny! Saw a yung laidy there that swallerd a Sord and wasn’t too Partickler to jump threw a hoop. Dutchesses look dull after that at a Fare. Verry dignified, but Prefer the Wax Wurk, as a Show. Dont sea anny think in Watch Pappers cut out by Countisses that have been born with all their harms and legs--not Miss Biffins.

Must say one thing for Goos Grean. Never got my pockit pict xcept at Lonnon--am sorry to say lost my Reader and Ticker and every Dump I had let alone a single sovran. And lost the best part of that besides to a Yung Laidy that nevver gave change. Greenish enuf says you for my Tim of Day but I was gammund by the baggidge to bye five shillin Pin Cushins. Wish Charrity had stayd at Hoam! The ould Mare got a coald by waiting outside. And the five Charrity pincushins hadn’t bran enuf in their hole boddys to make her a Mash.

Am told the Hospittle don’t clear anny grate proffits after all is dun and Like enuff. A Fare should be a Fare and fokes at Room oght to do as Room does. Have a notion Peeressis that keep Booths wood take moor Munny if they wasn’t abuv having the dubble drums and speakin trumpets and gongs. There’s nothin like goin the hole Hog!

Shall be happy, sur, to sea You at Goos Green next Fare and pint out the Difference. Maybe in Flurtashun and Matchmacking and getting off Dorters along with the dolls we ar a littel cut out, but for Ginuen Fancy and Fun and Fair Play its a mear Green Goos to Goos Green.

Remain Sur, Your humbel tu command, JACOB GILES.

P.S. Think Vallintins day wood be a Good fixter for next Fancy Fare. Shan’t say why. Sniff sumthing of the kind going on amung our hone Gals--Polly as just begd a sak of bran and she dont keap rabits. Pincushins and nothin else. Tother day cum across a large Watchpokit and suspect Mrs. G is at the Bottom of it. No churnin butter, no packin egs, no setten Hens and crammin Turkis--All sniping ribbins folding papper sowin up satten and splitting hole trusses of straw. Am blest if its for litterin down Horsis. Dont no how its all to be got to markit at Lonnon, the nine Gals and all ’xcept its by a Pickfurd Van.

POEMS BY A POOR GENTLEMAN.

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggins stretched beneath a rug.--GOLDSMITH.

Poetry and poverty begin with the same letter, and in more respects than one, are “as like each other as two P’s.”--Nine tailors are the making of a man, but not so the nine Muses. Their votaries are notoriously only water drinkers, eating mutton cold, and dwelling in attics. Look at the miserable lives and deaths recorded of the poets. “Butler,” says Mr. D’Israeli, “lived in a cellar, and Goldsmith in a Deserted Village. Savage ran wild,--Chatterton was carried on St. Augustine’s Back like a young gipsy; and his half-starved _Rowley_ always said Heigho, when he heard of gammon and spinach. Gray’s day’s were ode-ious, and Gay’s gaiety was fabulous. Falconer was shipwrecked. Homer was a blind beggar, and Pope raised a subscription for him, and went snacks. Crabbe found himself in the poor-house, Spenser couldn’t afford a great-coat, and Milton was led up and down by his daughters to save the expense of a dog.”

It seems all but impossible to be a poet, in easy circumstances. Pope has shown how verses are written by Ladies of Quality--and what execrable rhymes Sir Richard Blackmore composed in his chariot; in a hay-cart he might have sung like a Burns.

As the editors of magazines and annuals (save one) well know, the truly poetical contributions which can be inserted, are not those which come post free, in rose-coloured tinted paper, scented with musk, and sealed with fancy wax. The real article arrives by post, unpaid, sealed with rosin, or possibly with a dab of pitch or cobbler’s wax, bearing the impression of a halfpenny, or more frequently of a button,--the paper is dingy, and scant--the hand-writing has evidently come to the author by nature--there are trips in the spelling, and Priscian is a little scratch’d or so--but a rill of the true Castalian runs through the whole composition, though its fountain-head was a broken tea-cup, instead of a silver standish. A few years ago I used to be favoured with numerous poems for insertion, which bore the signature of Fitz-Norman; the crest on the seal had probably descended from the Conquest, and the packets were invariably delivered by a Patagonian footman in green and gold. The author was evidently rich, and the verses were as palpably poor; they were declined, with the usual answer to correspondents who do not answer, and the communications ceased--as I thought for ever, but I was deceived; a few days back one of the dirtiest and raggedest of street urchins delivered a soiled whity brown packet, closed with a wafer, which bore the impress of a thimble. The paper had more the odour of tobacco than of rose leaves, and the writing appeared to have been perpetrated with a skewer dipped in coffee-grounds; but the old signature of Fitz-Norman had the honour to be my “very humble servant” at the foot of the letter. It was too certain that he had fallen from affluence to indigence, but the adversity which had wrought such a change upon the writing implements, had, as usual, improved his poetry. The neat crowquill never traced on the superfine Bath paper any thing so unaffected as the following:--

STANZAS.

WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.

Alas! of all the noxious things That wait upon the poor, Most cruel is that Felon-Fear That haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”

Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toil, The Sheriffs seek the cell:-- So I expect their officers, And tremble at the bell!

I look for _beer_, and yet I quake With fright at every _tap_; And dread a _double-knock_, for oh! I’ve not a _single rap_!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE.

Oh, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask: The overseer is gone--that vandal elf-- And hemp, unpick’d, may go and hang itself, While I, untask’d, except with Cowper’s Task, In blessed literary leisure bask, And lose the workhouse, saving in the works Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes; Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask; The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence, The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair-- Unlearned toil, unletter’d labours hence! But, hark! I hear the master on the stair And Thomson’s Castle, that of Indolence, Must be to me a castle in the air.

SONNET.--A SOMNAMBULIST.

“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”--BYRON.

Methought--for Fancy is the strangest gadder When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven-- Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder, With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven: Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven When I set foot upon that long one-pair; And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven, Nor yet of landing-place became aware; Step after step in endless flight seem’d there; But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still, To gain that blessed haven from all care, Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill, When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair-- Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp--upon the Brixton Mill!

FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.

“Aurum _potabile_:”--Gold biles the pot.--FREE TRANSLATION.

Farewell then, my golden repeater, We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop; And hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop!