Part 25

Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, That wine and bun-day, Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats Before they died by bit or sup, Some meddling Marplot would blow up, Just at the moment critical, The economy political Of Saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats. Equally ’twould be undone, Suppose the Bishop of London, On that great day In June or May, When all the large small family of charity, Brown, black, or carroty, Walk in their dusty parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, To sing together till they scare the walls Of old St. Paul’s, Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white, Some say a gratifying sight, Tho’ I think sad--but that’s a schism-- To witness so much pauperism--

Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make In this poor overcrowded world more room, Proposed to shake Down that immense extinguisher, the dome-- Some humane Martin in the charity _Gal_-way I fear would come and interfere, Save beadle, brat, and overseer, To walk back in their parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, Islington--Wapping--or Pall Mall way!

Thus people hatch’d from goose’s egg, Foolishly think a pest a plague, And in its face their doors all shut, On hinges oil’d with cajeput-- Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags At hoisting up of yellow flags, While you and I are crying “Orange Boven!” Why should we let precautions so absorb us, Or trouble shipping with a quarantine-- When if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to _import_ the Cholera Morbus!

A GOOD DIRECTION.

A certain gentleman, whose yellow cheek Proclaimed he had not been in living quite An Anchorite-- Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day; At last, by friends’ advice, was led to seek A surgeon of great note--named Aberfeldie. A very famous Author upon Diet, Who, better starr’d than Alchemists of old, By dint of turning mercury to gold, Had settled at his country house in quiet.

Our Patient, after some impatient rambles Thro’ Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles, At last, to make enquiry had the _nous_,-- “Here, my good man, Just tell me if you can, Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie’s house?” The man thus stopp’d--perusing for a while The yellow visage of the man of bile, At last made answer, with a broadish grin: “Why, turn to right--and left--and right agin, The road’s direct--you cannot fail to go it.”

“But stop! my worthy fellow!--one word more-- From other houses how am I to know it?”

“How!--why you’ll see _blue pillars_ at the door!”

THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING.

The consulter of Johnson’s Dictionary under the term of Sport, or Sporting, would be led into a great mistake by the Doctor’s definition. The word, with the great Lexicographer, signifies nothing but Diversion, Amusement, Play:--but I shall submit to the reader, with a few facts, whether it has not a more serious connexion, or to speak technically, whether it should be Play or Pay.

When I was a young man, having a good deal of ready money, and little wit,--I went upon the Turf. I began cautiously, and as I thought, knowingly. I studied the studbook, and learnt the pedigree of every new colt--yet somehow, between sire and dam, continually losing “the pony.” My first experiment was at Newmarket. By way of securing a leading article, I backed the Duke of _Leeds_, but the race came off, and the Duke was not placed. I asked eagerly who was _first_, and was told _Fourth_. The winner was a slow but strong horse, and I was informed had got in front by being a _laster_. This was a _puzzle_, but I paid for my Riddlesworth, and prepared for the Derby. By good luck I selected an excellent colt to stand upon--he had been tried--it was a booked thing--but the day before the Derby there was a family wash, and the Laundress hung her wet linen on his _lines_. I paid again. I took advice about the Oaks, and instead of backing a single horse, made my stand, like Ducrow, upon four at once. No luck. Terror did not start--Fury came roaring to the post--Belle was told out, and Comet was tail’d off. I paid again--and began dabbling in the Sweepstakes, and burning my fingers with the Matches. Amongst others, a bet offered that I conceived was peculiarly tempting, 20,000 to 20 against Post Obit--a bad horse indeed, yet such odds seemed unjustifiable, even against “an outsider.” But I soon found my mistake. The outsider was in reality an insider,--filling the stomachs of somebody’s hounds.--Pay again! I resolved however to retaliate, and the opportunity presented itself. I had been confidently informed that Centipede had not a leg to stand on, and accordingly laid against him as thick as it would stick. The following was the report of the race: “Centipede jumped off at a tremendous pace,--had it all his own way--and justified his name by coming in a hundred feet in front.”--Pay again! These “hollow” matters however fretted me little, save in pocket. They were won easy, and lost to match--but the “near things” were unbearable. To lose only by half a head,--a few inches of horse-flesh! I remember two occasions when Giraffe won by “a neck,” and Elephant by “a nose.” I was almost tempted to blow out my brains by the nose, and to hang myself by the neck!

On one of those doubtful occasions, when it is difficult to name the winner, I thought I could determine the point, from some peculiar advantage of situation, and offered to back my opinion. I laid that Cobbler had won, and it was taken; but a signal from a friend decided me that I was wrong, and by way of hedge, I offered to lay that Tinker was the first horse. This was taken like the other, and the Judges declared a dead rob--I mean to say a dead heat.--Pay again!

A likelier chance next offered. There was a difference of opinion, whether Bohea would start for the Cup, and his noble owner had privately and positively assured me that he would. I therefore betted freely that he would _run_ for the Plate, and he _walked_ over!--Pay again! N.B. I found, when it was too late, that I should not have paid in this case, but I did.

The Great St. Leger was still in reserve. Somewhat desperate, I betted round, in sums of the same shape, and my best winner became first favourite at the start. Never shall I forget the sight! I saw him come in ten lengths a-head of everything--hollow! hollow! I had no voice to shout with, and it was fortunate. Man and horse went, as usual, after the race, to be weighed, and were put into the scale. They rose a little in our eyes, and sunk proportionably in our estimation. Roguery was sniffed--the Jockey Club was appealed to, and it gave the stakes to the second horse. All bets went with the stakes, and so--Pay again!

It was time to cut the turf--and I was in a mood for burning it too. I was done by Heath, but the impression on my fortune was not in the finished style. I now turned my attention to aquatics, and having been unfortunate at the One Tun, tried my luck in a vessel of twenty. I became a member of a Yacht Club, made matches which I lost--and sailed for a Cup at the Cowes’ Regatta, but carried away nothing but my own bowsprit. Other boats showed more speed, but mine most bottom; for after the match it upset, and I was picked up by a party of fishermen, who spared my life and took all I had, by way of teaching me, that a preserving is not a saving.--Pay again!

It was time to dispose of The Lucky Lass. I left her to the mate, with peremptory orders to make a sale of her;--an instruction he fulfilled by making all the sail on her he could, and disposing of her--by contract--to a rock, while he was threading the Needles. In the meantime I betook myself to the chase. Sir W. W. had just cut his pack, and I undertook to deal with the dogs:--but I found dog’s meat a dear item, though my friends killed my hunters for me, and I boil’d my own horses. The subscribers, moreover, were not punctual, and whatever differences fell out, I was obliged to make them up.--Pay again! At last I happened to have a dispute with a brother Nimrod as to the capability of his Brown and mine, and we agreed to decide their respective rates, as church rates, by a Steeple Chase. The wager was heavy. I rode for the wrong steeple--leapt a dozen gates--and succeeded in clearing my own pocket.--Pay again!

It was now necessary to retrench. I gave up hunting the county, lest the county should repay it in kind, for I was now getting into its debt. I laid down my horses and took up a gun, leased a shooting-box, and rented a manor, somewhat too far north for me, for after a few moves, I ascertained that the game had been drawn before I took to it. It was useless therefore to try to beat--the dogs, for want of birds, began to point at butterflies. My friends, however, looked for grouse, so I bought them and paid the carriage.--Pay again!

Other experiments I must abridge. I found Pugilistic Sporting, as usual--good with both hands at receiving:--at Cocking the “in-goes” were far exceeded by the “out-goes:”--and at the gaming table, that it was very difficult to pay my way--particularly in coming back. In short I learned pages of meanings at school without trouble, but the signification of that one word Sporting, in manhood has been a long, and an uncomfortable lesson, and I have still an unconquerable relish of its bitterness, in spite of the considerate attentions of my Friends----

“From Sport to Sport they hurry me To banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me They think that I forget.”

THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT!

“So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt’s consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir,--here is the picture!”--LYDIA LANGUISH.

O days of old, O days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balk’d and valour stalk’d On high heroic stilts-- Where are ye gone?--adventures cease, The world gets tame and flat,-- We’ve nothing now but New Police-- There’s no Romance in that!

I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read, Or Radcliffe how to write; That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloister’d quite! Would I had never drunk so deep Of dear Miss Porter’s vat; I only turn to life, and weep-- There’s no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk--no turban’d Turk To Tunis bears me off-- I hear no noises in the night Except my mother’s cough,-- No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house No shape,--but owl or bat, Come flitting after moth or mouse,-- There’s no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman’s press; Instead of looking thin and pale, I’m growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale-- There’s no Romance in that!

It’s very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court, But nothing ever comes to me That’s worth a pen’s report: It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,-- There’s no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance At Brighton one fine day, My chestnut mare began to prance, Took fright, and ran away; Alas! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat; A Butcher caught the rein at length,-- There’s no Romance in that!

Love--even love--goes smoothly on A railway sort of track-- No flinty sire, no jealous Don! No hearts upon the rack; No Polydore, no Theodore-- His ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more-- There’s no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall,-- His forehead’s rather low, He is not pensive--not at all, But smiles his teeth to show; He comes from Wales and yet in size Is really but a sprat; With sandy hair and grayish eyes-- There’s no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks Or long sword hanging down; He dresses much like other folks, And commonly in brown; His collar he will not discard, Or give up his cravat, Lord Byron-like--he’s not a Bard-- There’s no Romance in that!

He’s rather bald, his sight is weak, He’s deaf in either drum; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then--he’s worth a plum. He talks of stocks and three per cents. By way of private chat, Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rentes,-- There’s no Romance in that!

I sing--no matter what I sing, Di Tanti--or Crudel, Tom Bowling, or God save the King Di piacer--All’s well; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnat-- And as to Music “has no choice,”-- There’s no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast, He never serenades; He writes, and sends it by the post, He doesn’t bribe the maids: No stealth, no hempen ladder--no! He comes with loud rat-tat, That startles half of Bedford Row-- There’s no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose His coffee--just two cups, And talks with Pa about the news, Repeats debates, and sups. John helps him with his coat aright, And Jenkins hands his hat; My lover bows, and says good-night-- There’s no Romance in that!

I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent, My aunt she quite approves, My Brother wishes joy from Kent, None try to thwart our loves; On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace Will make me Mrs. Pratt, Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place-- There’s no Romance in that.

THE ABSTRACTION.

---- “draws honey forth that drives men mad.”--LALLA ROOKH.

The speakers were close under the bow-window of the inn, and as the sash was open, Curiosity herself could not help overhearing their conversation. So I laid down Mrs. Opie’s “Illustrations of Lying,”--which I had found lying in the inn window--and took a glance at the partners in the dialogue.

One of them was much older than the other, and much taller; he seemed to have grown like quick-set. The other was thick-set.

“I tell you, Thomas,” said Quickset, “you are a flat. Before you’ve been a day in London, they’ll have the teeth out of your very head. As for me, I’ve been there twice, and know what’s what. Take my advice: never tell the truth on no account. Questions is only asked by way of pumping; and you ought always to put ’em on a wrong scent.”

“But aunt is to send her man to meet me at the Old Bailey,” said Thickset, “and to show me to her house. Now if a strange man says to me, ‘young man, are you Jacob Giles,’--an’t I to tell him?”

“By no manner of means,” answered Quickset; “say you are quite another man. No one but a flat would tell his name to a stranger about London. You see how I answered them last night about what was in the waggon. Brooms, says I, nothing else. A flat would have told them there was the honey-pots underneath; but I’ve been to London before, and know a thing or two.”

“London must be a desperate place,” said Thickset.

“Mortal!” said Quickset, “fobs and pockets are nothing! Your watch is hardly safe if you carried it in your inside, and as for money----”

“I’m almost sorry I left Berkshire,” said Thickset.

“Poo--poo,” said Quickset, “don’t be afeard. I’ll look after ye; cheat me, and they’ve only one more to cheat. Only mind my advice. Don’t say anything of your own head, and don’t object to anything _I_ say. If I say black’s white, don’t contradict. Mark that. Say everything as I say.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Thickset; and with this lesson in his shock head, he began to busy himself about the waggon, while his comrade went to the stable for the horses. At last Old Ball emerged from the stable-door with the head of Old Dumpling resting on his crupper; when a yell rose from the rear of the waggon, that startled even Number 55, at the Bush Inn, at Staines, and brought the company running from the remotest box in its retired tea-garden.

“In the name of everything,” said the landlord, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s gone--all gone, by goles!” cried Thickset, with a bewildered look at Quickset, as if doubtful whether he ought not to have said it was _not_ gone.

“You don’t mean to say the honey-pots!” said Quickset, with some alarm, and letting go the bridle of Old Ball, who very quietly led old Dumpling back again into the stable; “you don’t mean to say the honey-pots?”

“I _don’t_ mean to say the honey-pots,” said Thickset, literally following the instructions he had received.

“What made you screech out then?” said Quickset, appealing to Thickset.

“What made me screech out, then?” said Thickset, appealing to Quickset, and determined to say as he said.

“The fellow’s drunk,” said the landlord; “the ale’s got into his head.”

“Ale,--what ale has he had?” enquired Quickset rather anxiously.

“Ale,--what ale have I had?” echoed Thickset, looking sober with all his might.

“He’s not drunk,” shouted Quickset; “there’s something the matter.”

“I’m not drunk; there _is_ something the matter,” bellowed Thickset, and with his fore-finger he pointed to the waggon.

“You don’t mean to say the honey,” said Quickset, his voice falling.

“I _don’t_ mean to say the honey,” said Thickset, his caution rising.

The gesture of Thickset, however, had conveyed some vague notion of danger to his companion. With the agility of a cat he climbed on the waggon, and with the superhuman activity of a demon, soon pitched down every bundle of besoms. There is a proverb that new brooms sweep clean, and they certainly seemed to have swept every particle of honey clean out of the waggon.

Quickset was thunderstruck; he stood gazing at the empty vehicle in silence; while his hands wandered wildly through his hair, as if in search of the absent combs.

When he found words at last, they were no part of the Litany. Words, however, did not suffice to vent his passion; and he began to stamp and dance about, till the mud of the stable-yard flew round like anything you like.

“A plague take him and his honey-pots, too,” said the chambermaid, as she looked at a new pattern on her best gingham.

“It’s no matter,” said Quickset. “I won’t lose it. The house must stand the damage. Mr. Bush, I shall look to you for the money.”

“He shall look to you for the money,” da-capo’d Thickset.

“You may look till doomsday,” said the landlord. “It’s all your own fault; I thought nobody would steal brooms. If you had told me there was honey, I would have put the waggon under lock and key.”

“Why, there _was_ honey,” said Quickset and Thickset.

“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Bush, “you said last night in the kitchen there was nothing but brooms.”

“I heard him,” said John Ostler; “I’ll take my oath to his very words!”

“And so will I,” roar’d the chambermaid, glancing at her damaged gown.

“What of that?” said Quickset, “I know I said there was nothing but brooms.”

“I know,” said Thickset, “I’m positive, he said there was nothing but brooms.”

“He confesses it himself,” said the landlady.

“And his own man speaks agin him,” said the chambermaid.

“I saw the waggon come in, and it didn’t seem to have any honey in it,” said the head waiter.

“May be the flies have eaten it,” said the postillion.

“I’ve seen two chaps the very moral of them two at the bar of the Old Bailey,” said Boots.

“It’s a swindle, it is,” said the landlady, “and Mr. Bush shan’t pay a farthing.”

“They deserve tossing in a blanket,” said the chambermaid.

“Duck ’em in the horsepond,” shouted John Ostler.

“I think,” whispered Thickset, “they are making themselves up for mischief!”

There was no time to be lost. Quickset again lugged Old Ball and Old Dumpling from the stable, while his companion tossed the brooms into the waggon. As soon as possible they drove out of the unlucky yard, and as they passed under the arch, I heard for the last time the voice of Thickset:

“You’ve been to London before, and to be sure know best; but somehow, to my mind, the telling the untruth don’t seem to answer.”

The only reply was a thwack, like the report of a pistol, on the crupper of each of the horses. The poor animals broke directly into something like a canter: and as the waggon turned a corner of the street, I shut down the sash, and resumed my “Illustrations of Lying.”

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I’m come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear!

“Into our town a serjeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap--alas! His bow enlisted mine!

“They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March!

“A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep’,-- No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step.”

“O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabouts he lies? I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes.”

Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear’d to deeply strike:-- “Walk in,” he said, “among the dead, And pick out which you like.”

And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattress was a horse.

“O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage; What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?”

“O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You’re come to my last kissing; Before I’m set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing!”

“Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don’t agree so well With stomachs as French bricks.

“This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;-- Instead of opening a ball, A ball has open’d me.

“Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;-- I wish mine hadn’t come so straight, But been a ‘crooked billet.’

“And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;-- He had no pity in his heart, For he had _steel’d his breast_.

“Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away; I call’d for quarter, but, alas! It was not Quarter-day.

“He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint:-- O Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point.

“With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do-- But soon by charging over me, The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

“With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I’m quite convinc’d the field of Mars Is not a field of clover!