Part 3
Although warmth has made a coolness, and our having words has caused a silence--yet as mere writing is not being on speaking terms, and disconsolate parents in the case; I waive venting of animosities till a more agreeable moment. Having perused the afflicted advertisement in the _Times_ with interesting description of person, and ineffectual dragging of New River, beg leave to say that Master Robert is safe and well, having arrived here on Saturday night last, with almost not a shoe to his foot, and no coat at all, as was supposed to be with the approbation of parents. It appears that not supposing the distance between the families extended to him, he walked the whole way down on the footing of a friend, to visit my son Richard, but hearing the newspapers read, quitted suddenly, the same day with the gipsies, and we haven’t an idea what is become of him. Trusting this statement will relieve of all anxiety, remain, Madam, your humble Servant,
BELINDA PUGSLEY.
No. VII.--_To Mr._ SILAS PUGSLEY, _Parisian Dépôt, Shoreditch_.
DEAR BROTHER,
My favour of the present date, is to advise of my safe arrival on Wednesday night, per opposition coach, after ninety miles of discomfort, absolutely unrivalled for cheapness, and a walk of five miles more, through lanes and roads, that for dirt and sludge may confidently defy competition,--not to mention turnings and windings, too numerous to particularise, but morally impossible to pursue on undeviating principles. The night was of so dark a quality as forbade finding the gate, but for the house-dog flying upon me by mistake for the late respectable proprietor, and almost tearing my clothes off my back by his strenuous exertions to obtain the favour of my patronage.
Conscientiously averse to the fallacious statements so much indulged in by various competitors, truth urges to acknowledge that on arrival, I did not find things on such a footing as to ensure universal satisfaction. Mrs. P., indeed, differs in her statement, but you know her success always surpassed the most sanguine expectations. Ever emulous to merit commendation by the strictest regard to principles of economy, I found her laid up with lumbago, through her studious efforts to please, and Doctor Clarke of Wisbeach in the house prescribing for it, but I am sorry to add--no abatement. Dorothy is also confined to her bed, by her unremitting assiduity and attention in the housekeeping line, and Anastasia the same, from listening for nightingales, on a fine July evening, but which is an article not always to be warranted to keep its virtue in any climate,--the other children, large and small sizes, ditto, ditto, with Grace too ill to serve in the nursery,--and the rest of the servants totally unable to execute such extensive demands. Such an unprecedented depreciation in health makes me doubt the quality of country air, so much recommended for family use, and whether constitutions have not more eligibility to offer that have been regularly town-made.
Our new residence is a large lonely Mansion, with no connexion with any other House, but standing in the heart of Lincolnshire fens, over which it looks through an advantageous opening: comprising a great variety of windmills, and drains, and willow-pollards, and an extensive assortment of similar articles, that are not much calculated to invite inspection. In warehouses for corn, &c., it probably presents unusual advantages to the occupier, but candour compels to state that agriculture in this part of Lincolnshire is very flat. To supply language on the most moderate terms, unexampled distress in Spitalfields is nothing to the distress in ours. The corn has been deluged with rain of remarkable durability, without being able to wash the smut out of its ears; and with regard to the expected great rise in hay, our stacks have been burnt down to the ground, instead of going to the consumer. If the hounds hadn’t been out, we might have fetch’d the engines, but the hunter threw George on his head, and he only revived to be sensible that the entire stock had been disposed of at an immense sacrifice. The whole amount I fear will be out of book,--as the Norwich Union refuses to liquidate the hay, on the ground that the policy was voided by the impolicy of putting it up wet. In other articles I am sorry I must write no alteration. Our bull, after killing the house-dog, and tossing William, has gone wild, and had the madness to run away from his livelihood, and, what is worse, all the cows after him--except those that had burst themselves in the clover field, and a small dividend, as I may say, of one in the pound. Another item, the pigs, to save bread and milk, have been turned into the woods for acorns, and is an article producing no returns--as not one has yet come back. Poultry ditto. Sedulously cultivating an enlarged connexion in the Turkey line, such the antipathy to gipsies, the whole breed, geese and ducks inclusive, removed themselves from the premises by night, directly a strolling camp came and set up in the neighbourhood. To avoid prolixity, when I came to take stock, there was no stock to take--namely, no eggs, no butter, no cheese, no corn, no hay, no bread, no beer--no water even--nothing but the mere commodious premises, and fixtures and goodwill--and candour compels to add, a very small quantity on hand of the last-named particular.
To add to stagnation, neither of my two sons in the business nor the two apprentices have been so diligently punctual in executing country orders with despatch and fidelity, as laudable ambition desires, but have gone about fishing and shooting--and William has suffered a loss of three fingers, by his unvarying system of high charges. He and Richard are likewise both threatened with prosecution for trespassing on the Hares in the adjoining landed interest, and Nick is obliged to decline any active share, by dislocating his shoulder in climbing a tall tree for a tom-tit. As for George, tho’ for the first time beyond the circumscribed limits of town custom, he indulges vanity in such unqualified pretensions to superiority of knowledge in farming, on the strength of his grandfather having belonged to the agricultural line of trade, as renders a wholesale stock of patience barely adequate to meet its demands. Thus stimulated to injudicious performance he is as injurious to the best interests of the country, as blight and mildew, and smut and rot, and glanders, and pip, all combined in one texture. Between ourselves, the objects of unceasing endeavours, united with uncompromising integrity, have been assailed with so much deterioration, as makes me humbly desirous of abridging sufferings, by resuming business as a Shoe Marter at the old established House. If Clack & Son, therefore, have not already taken possession and respectfully informed the vicinity, will thankfully pay reasonable compensation for loss of time and expense incurred by the bargain being off. In case parties agree, I beg you will authorise Mr. Robins to have the honour to dispose of the whole Lincolnshire concern, tho’ the knocking down of Middlefen Hall will be a severe blow on Mrs. P. and Family. Deprecating the deceitful stimulus of advertising arts, interest commands to mention,--desirable freehold estate and eligible investment--and sole reason for disposal, the proprietor going to the continent. Example suggests likewise, a good country for hunting for fox-hounds--and a prospect too extensive to put in a newspaper. Circumstances being rendered awkward by the untoward event of the running away of the cattle, &c., it will be best to say--“The Stock to be taken as it stands;”--and an additional favour will be politely conferred, and the same thankfully acknowledged, if the auctioneer will be so kind as bring the next market town ten miles nearer and carry the coach and the waggon once a day past the door. Earnestly requesting early attention to the above, and with sentiments of, &c.
R. PUGSLEY, Sen.
P.S. Richard is just come to hand dripping and half dead out of the Nene, and the two apprentices all but drowned each other in saving him. Hence occurs to add, fishing opportunities among the desirable items.
AN ANCIENT CONCERT.
BY A VENERABLE DIRECTOR
“Give me _old_ music--let me hear The songs of _days_ gone by!”--H. F. CHORLEY.
Oh! come, all ye who love to hear An ancient song in ancient taste, To whom all by-gone Music’s dear As verdant spots in Memory’s waste! Its name “The Ancient Concert” wrongs, And has not hit the proper clef, To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs, To Old Subscribers rather deaf.
Away, then, Hawes! with all your band; Ye beardless boys, this room desert! One youthful voice, or youthful hand, Our concert-pitch would disconcert! No Bird must join our “vocal throng,” The present age beheld at font: Away, then, all ye “Sons of Song,” Your Fathers are the men we want!
Away, Miss Birch, you’re in your prime! Miss Romer, seek some other door! Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time, You count you’re nearly fifty-four! Go, Miss Novello, sadly young! Go, thou composing Chevalier, And roam the county towns among, No Newcome will be welcome here!
Our Concert aims to give at _night_ The music that has had its _day_! So, Rooke, for us you cannot write Till time has made you Raven gray. Your score may charm a modern ear, Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old, But in this Ancient atmosphere, Fresh airs like yours would give us cold!
Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go! Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls; And Master Coward ought to know This is no place for boys and girls! No Massons here we wish to see; Nor is it Mrs. Seguin’s sphere, And Mrs. B----! Oh! Mrs. B----, Such Bishops are not reverend here!
What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus! To sing the songs gone gray with age! No, Grisi, no,--but come to us And welcome, when you leave the stage! Off, Ivanhoff!--till weak and harsh!-- Rubini, hence! with all the clan! But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache, A little shrivell’d thin old man.
Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please! Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch; You’d run us out of breath with Glees, And Catches that we could not catch. Away, ye Leaders all, who lead With violins, quite modern things; To guide our Ancient band we need Old fiddles out of leading strings!
But come, ye Songsters, over-ripe, That into “childish trebles break!” And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe That cannot sing without a shake! Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin A slender thread of ancient voice, Old notes that almost seem call’d in; At such as you we _shall_ rejoice!
No thund’ring Thalbergs here shall balk, Or ride your pet _D-cadence_ o’er, But fingers with a little chalk Shall, moderato, keep the score! No Broadwoods here, so full of tone, But Harpsichords assist the strain: No Lincoln’s pipes, we have our own Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain.
And welcome! St. Cecilians, now Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows, Who will strike up, no matter how, With organs that survive their bellows! And bring, oh bring, your ancient styles In which our elders lov’d to roam, Those flourishes that strayed for miles, Till some good fiddle led them home!
Oh come, ye ancient London Cries, When Christmas Carols erst were sung! Come, Nurse, who dron’d the lullabies, “When Music, heavenly Maid, was young!” No matter how the critics treat, What modern sins and faults detect The Copy-Book shall still repeat, These Concerts must “Command respect!”
A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT.
_Squampash Flatts, 9th November, 1827._
DEAR BROTHER,
Here we are, thank Providence, safe and well, and in the finest country you ever saw. At this moment I have before me the sublime expanse of Squampash Flatts--the majestic Mudiboo winding through the midst--with the magnificent range of the Squab mountains in the distance. But the prospect is impossible to describe in a letter! I might as well attempt a Panorama in a pill-box!
We have fixed our Settlement on the left bank of the river. In crossing the rapids we lost most of our heavy baggage and all our iron work, but by great good fortune we saved Mrs. Paisley’s grand piano and the children’s toys. Our infant city consists of three log huts and one of clay, which, however, on the second day, fell in to the ground landlords. We have now built it up again;--and, all things considered, are as comfortable as we could expect--and have christened our settlement New London, in compliment to the Old Metropolis. We have one of the log houses to ourselves--or at least shall have when we have built a new hog-sty. We burnt down the first one in making a bonfire to keep off the wild beasts, and for the present the pigs are in the parlour. As yet our rooms are rather usefully than elegantly furnished. We have gutted the Grand Upright, and it makes a convenient cupboard,--the chairs were obliged to blaze at our bivouacs, but thank Heaven we have never leisure to sit down, and so do not miss them. My boys are contented, and will be well when they have got over some awkward accidents in lopping and felling. Mrs. P. grumbles a little, but it is her custom to lament most when she is in the midst of comforts. She complains of solitude, and says she could enjoy the very stiffest of stiff visits.
The first time we lighted a fire in our new abode, a large serpent came down the chimney, which I looked upon as a good omen. However, as Mrs. P. is not partial to snakes, and the heat is supposed to attract those reptiles, we have dispensed with fires ever since. As for wild beasts, we hear them howling and roaring round the fence every night from dusk till daylight, but we have only been inconvenienced by one Lion. The first time he came, in order to get rid of the brute peaceably, we turned out an old ewe, with which he was well satisfied;--but ever since he comes to us as regular as clock-work for his mutton; and if we do not soon contrive to cut his acquaintance, we shall hardly have a sheep in the flock. It would have been easy to shoot him, being well provided with muskets, but Barnaby mistook our remnant of gunpowder for onion seed, and sowed it all in the kitchen garden. We did try to trap him into a pitfall; but after twice catching Mrs. P., and every one of the children in turn, it was given up. They are now, however, perfectly at ease about the animal, for they never stir out of doors at all, and to make them quite comfortable, I have blocked up all the windows and barricaded the door.
We have lost only one of our number since we came; namely, Diggory, the market gardener, from Glasgow, who went out one morning to botanise, and never came back. I am much surprised at his absconding, as he had nothing but a spade to go off with. Chippendale, the carpenter, was sent after him, but did not return; and Gregory, the smith, has been out after them these two days. I have just despatched Mudge, the Herdsman, to look for all three, and hope he will soon give a good account of them, as they are the most useful men in the whole settlement, and, in fact, indispensable to its existence.
The river Mudiboo is deep, and rapid, and said to swarm with alligators, though I have heard but of three being seen at one time, and none of those above eighteen feet long; this however, is immaterial, as we do not use the river fluid, which is thick and dirty, but draw all our water from natural wells and tanks. Poisonous springs are rather common, but are easily distinguished by containing no fish or living animal. Those, however, which swarm with frogs, toads, newts, efts, &c., are harmless, and may be safely used for culinary purposes.
In short, I know of no drawback but one, which, I am sanguine, may be got over hereafter, and do earnestly hope and advise, if things are no better in England than when I left, you, and as many as you can persuade, will sell off all, and come over to this African Paradise.
The drawback I speak of is this: although I have never seen any one of the creatures, it is too certain that the mountains are inhabited by a race of Monkeys, whose cunning and mischievous talents exceed even the most incredible stories of their tribe. No human art or vigilance seems of avail; we have planned ambuscades, and watched night after night, but no attempt has been made; yet the moment the guard was relaxed, we were stripped without mercy. I am convinced they must have had spies night and day on our motions, yet so secretly and cautiously, that no glimpse of one has yet been seen by any of our people. Our last crop was cut and carried off, with the precision of an English Harvesting. Our spirit stores--(you will be amazed to hear that these creatures pick locks with the dexterity of London burglars)--have been broken open and ransacked, though half the establishment were on the watch; and the brutes have been off to their mountains, five miles distant, without even the dogs giving an alarm. I could almost persuade myself at times, such are their supernatural knowledge, swiftness, and invisibility, that we have to contend with evil spirits. I long for your advice, to refer to on this subject, and am,
Dear Philip, Your loving brother, AMBROSE MAWE.
P.S. Since writing the above, you will be concerned to hear the body of poor Diggory has been found, horribly mangled by wild beasts. The fate of Chippendale, Gregory, and Mudge, is no longer doubtful. The old Lion has brought the Lioness, and the sheep being all gone, they have made a joint attack upon the Bullock-house. The Mudiboo has overflowed, and Squampash Flatts are a swamp. I have just discovered that the Monkeys are my own rascals, that I brought out from England. We are coming back as fast as we can.
SONNET ON STEAM.
BY AN UNDER-OSTLER.
I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!
A REPORT FROM BELOW!
“Blow high, blow low.”--SEA SONG.
As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot-- They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot-- For Memory brought a deed to match, At Deptford done by night-- Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t’other eye a Blight!
To be belabour’d out of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse mov’d both man and dame, He seized the tongs--she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer’s vat, And then--as white as my cravat-- Poor Mary May, the servant!
Lord, how the couple’s teeth did chatter! Master and Mistress both flew at her, “Speak! Fire? or Murder? What’s the matter?” Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:--
“We was both, Ma’am, in the wash-house, Ma’am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; ‘Mary,’ says she to me, ‘I say’--and there she stops for coughin’, ‘That dratted copper flue has took to smokin’ very often, But please the pigs,’--for that’s her way of swearing in a passion, ‘I’ll blow it up, and not be set a coughin’ in this fashion!’ Well, down she takes my master’s horn--I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper. I’m sartin sure it can’t not take a pound to sky a copper; You’ll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over--‘Teach your grandmother to suck A powder horn,’ says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, ‘Come,’ says she, quite in a huff, ‘come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.’ So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonised, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and cramps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother. Well, she’ll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t’other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it’s well my master wasn’t in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never see a sight so shockin’; Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking-- Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in ’em--none but--nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with her finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma’am, you won’t believe it, but it’s Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--‘Why, where _is_ the powder blew?’”
THE LAST SHILLING.