Part 8

“The First of March, your honour--bad luck to it of all the black days in the world,--and here it is come sudden on me like a shot!”

“The first of March!--why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then,--the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days.”

The soldier was thunderstruck.--“Twenty-nine days, is it--You’re sartin of that same!--Oh, Mother, Mother!--the Divil fly away wid yere ould Almanack--a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so long in the family of us!”

His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and throw up his cap, with a loud Hurrah!--His second was to throw himself into the arms of his Kathleen, and the third, was to wring my hand off in acknowledgment.

“It’s a happy man I am, your Honour, for my word’s saved, and all by your Honour’s manes--Long life to your Honour for the same!--May ye live a long hundred--and lape-years every one of them!”

NUMBER ONE.

VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.

It’s very hard!--and so it is, To live in such a row, And witness this that every Miss But me, has got a Beau. For Love goes calling up and down, But here he seems to shun; I’m sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One!

I’m sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four! At Number Three, I often see A Lover at the door: And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun,-- It’s very hard they come so near And not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane Without a bit of blind; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five Don’t take at Number One!

’Tis hard with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,-- There’s nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way Has got a grown-up son, But la! he hardly seems to know There is a Number One!

There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine, But he’s intent on pelf, And though he’s pious, will not love His neighbour as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale-- The goods had quite a run! And here I’ve got my single lot On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work And talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be In her declining days. The very maids about the house Have set me down a nun; The Sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in And told me not to swoon: Why can’t he come again without The Phœnix and the Sun! We cannot always have a flue On fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain! Nor awkward in my gait-- I am not crooked, like the bride That went from Number Eight: I’m sure white satin made her look As brown as any bun-- But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose Has slain a score of hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been Quite prodigal of darts. The Imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun! But if he had, he’d never deign To shoot with Number One.

It’s very hard, and so it is To live in such a row! And here a ballad singer comes To aggravate my woe. Oh take away your foolish song And tones enough to stun-- There is “Nae luck about the house,” I know, at Number One!

A DOUBLE KNOCK.

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than others-- Were little ducklings in the pond, Swimming about beside their mothers-- Small things like living water lilies, But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

“It’s very hard,” she used to moan, “That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters--mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings.” For why!--each little yellow navy Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond I mean-- Its wave was rather thick than pearly-- She had two ducks, their napes were green-- She had a drake, his tail was curly,-- Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers-- The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck-- The infant D.’s came forth like others-- But there, alas! the matter stuck! They might as well have all died addle, As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humour in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks,-- No poaching cook--a frying pander To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,-- Beneath her very eyes, Od’ rot ’em! They went like plummets to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works! For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson it bewildered him! To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do But change the breed--and she tried divers, Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e’er survivors-- Like those that copy gems, I’m thinking, They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn: They floundered still,--Batch after batch went! The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment! Whene’er they launched--oh sight of wonder! Like fires the water “got them under!”

No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up and desponded; For Death among the water lilies, Cried “_Duc_ ad me,” to all her dillies.

But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle-- Alas! twas darker than before! At last, about the summer’s middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the sun did!

The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drank So deep his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; But when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face, In each inside at once to spy A ducking turned to giblet pie!

The sight at once explained the case. Making the Dame look rather silly, The tenants of that _Eely Place_ Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_, And so by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks’ abduction.

AN ASSENT TO THE SUMMUT OF MOUNT BLANK.

It was on the 1st of Augst,--I remember by my wags cumming dew, and I wanted to be riz,--that Me and master maid our minds up to the Mounting. I find Master as oppend an acount with the Keep Sack--but as that is a cut abov, and rit in by only Lords and Laddies, I am reduced to a Peer in the pagis of the Comick Anual--Mr H giving leaves.

Wile we waited at Sham Money, our minds sevral tims misgiv, but considdring only twelve Gentelmen and never a footmun had bin up, we determind to make ourselves particler, and so highered gides to sho us up. For a long tim the whether was dout full weather--first it snew--then thew--and then friz--and that was most agreeabil for a tempting. The first thing I did was to change my blew and wite livry, as I guest we shood hav enuf of blew and wite on the mounting--but put on a dred nort for fear of every thing--takin care to hav my pockets well cramd with sand witches, and, as proved arterwards, they broke my falls very much when I slipd on my bred and ams. The land Lord was so kind as lend me His green gaws tap room blind for my eyes, and I recumend no boddy to go up any Snowhill without green vales--for the hice dazls like winkin. Sum of the gides wanted me to ware a sort of crimpt skaits, but thoght my feet would be the stifer for a cramp on--and declind binding any think xcept my list garters round my Shews. I did all this by advize of John Maly Cuthay the Chief Gide, who had bin 8 tims up to every think. Thus a tired we sit out, on our feat, like Capting Paris, with our Nor poles in our hands,--Master in verry good sperrits, and has for me I was quit ellivatted to think what a figger the Summut of Mount Blank wood cut down the airys of Portland Plaice.

Arter sliping and slidding for ours, we cum to the first principle Glazier. To give a correct noshun, let any won suppose a man in fustions with a fraim and glass and puttey and a dimond pensel, and its quit the revers of that. It’s the sam with the Mare of Glass. If you dont think of a mare or any think maid of glass you have it xactly. We was three ours gitting over the Glazier, and then come to the Grand Mullets, ware oar beds was bespoak--that is, nothing but clean sheats of sno,--and never a warmin pan. To protect our heds we struck our poles agin the rock, with a cloath over them, but it looked like a verry little tent to so much mounting. There we was,--all Sno with us Sollitory figgers atop. Nothink can give the sublime idear of it but a twelf Cake.

The Gides pinted out from hear the Pick de Middy, but I was too cold to understand Frentch--and we see a real Shammy leeping, as Master sed, from scrag to scrag, and from pint to pint, for vittles and drink--but to me it looked like jumpin a bout to warm him self. His springs in the middel of Winter I realy beleave as uncredible. Nothink else was muving xcept Havelaunches, witch is stupendus Sno balls in high situations, as leaves their plaices without warnin, and makes a deal of mischief in howses and famlies. We shot of our pistle, but has it maid little or no noise, didnt ear the remarkbly fine ekko.

We dind at the Grand Mullets on cold foul and a shivver of am, with a little O de Colon, agen stomical pans. Wat was moor cumfortble we found haf a bottel of brandey, left behind by sum one before, and by way of return we left behind a littel crewit of Chilly Viniger for the next cummer, whoever he mite be or not. Alter this repass’d we went to our sublime rests, I may say, in the Wurld’s garrits, up 150 pare of stares. As faling out of Bed was dangerus, we riz a wal of stons on each side. Knowing how comfortble Master sleeps at Home, I regretted his unaccommodation, and partickly as he was verry restless, and every tim he stird kickd me about the Hed. I laid awack a good wile thinking how littel Farther, down in Summerset Sheer, thoght I was up in Mount Blank Sheer; but at long and last I went of like a top, and dremt of Summuts. Won may sleep on wus pillers than Nap Sacks.

Next mornin we riz erly, having still a good deal to git up, and skrambled on agin, by crivises and crax as maid our flesh crawl on hands and nees to look at. Master wanted to desend in a crack, but as he mite not git up in a crack agin, his letting himself down was unrecomended. Arter menny ours works, we cum to the Grand Plato. Master called it a vast Amphi-Theater; and so it is, except Du-Crow and the Horses and evry thing. Hear we brekfisted, but was surprizd at our stomicks not having moor hedges, Master only eting a Chickin wing, and me only eting all the rest. We had littel need to not eat,--the most uneasy part to go was to cum. In about too ours we cum to a Sno wall, up rite as high as St. Paul’s; that maid us cum to an alt, and I cood not help saying out, Wat is only too human legs to 200 feet! Howsumever, after a bottel of Wine we was abel to proceed in a zig zag direxion,--the Gides axing the way, and cutting steps afore. After a deal of moor white slavery, we sucsided in gitting up to the Mounting’s top, and no body can hav a distant idea of it, but them as is there. Such Sno! And ice enuf to serve all the Fish Mungers, and the grate Routs till the end of the Wurld!

I regrets my joy at cumming to the top maid me forget all I ment to do at it; and in partickler to thro a tumble over hed and heals, as was my mane object in going up. Howsumever, I shall allways be abel to say Me and Master as bin to the Summut of Mount Blank, and so has a little butterfly. I ought to mension the curiousness of seeing one there, but we did not ketch it, as it was too far abov us.

We dissented down in much shorter time, and without anny axident xcept Masters sliding telliscope, witch roled of the ice. Wen we cum agin to Sham Money, the Land Lord askd our names to be rit in the book, as was dun, by Mr. W. in prose, but by me in poetry--

“Mount Blank is very hard to be cum at, But Me and Master as bin to its Summut.”

“JOHN JONES.”

SALLY SIMPKIN’S LAMENT.

OR, JOHN JONES’S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

“He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee.”

BRYAN AND PERENNE.

“Oh? what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist.

“It is not painted to the life, For where’s the trowsers blue? Oh Jones, my dear!--oh dear! my Jones, What is become of you?”

“Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,-- The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark!

“Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do! A bite in one place seems enough, But I’ve been bit in two.

“You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share! But let that pass--for now to you I’m neither here nor there.

“Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me!

“Don’t fear my ghost will walk o’ nights To haunt as people say; My ghost _can’t_ walk, for, oh! my legs Are many leagues away!

“Lord! think, when I am swimming round, And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a _half_, Without ‘a _quarter’s_ notice.’

“One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed; Oh! Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist.

“But now, adieu--a long adieu! I’ve solved death’s awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle!”

A HORSE-DEALER

Is a double dealer, for he dealeth more in double meanings than your punster. When he giveth his word it signifieth little, howbeit it standeth for two significations. He putteth his promises like his colts in a break. Over his mouth, Truth, like the turnpike man, writeth up No Trust. Whenever he speaketh, his spoke hath more turns than the fore-wheel. He telleth lies, not white only, or black, but likewise gray, bay, chestnut-brown, cream, and roan--piebald and skewbald. He sweareth as many oaths out of court as any man, and more in; for he will swear two ways about a horse’s dam. If, by God’s grace, he be something honest, it is only a dapple, for he can be fair and unfair at once. He hath much imagination, for he selleth a complete set of capital harness, of which there be no traces. He advertiseth a coach, warranted on its first wheels, and truly the hind pair are wanting to the bargain. A carriage that hath travelled twenty summers and winters, he describeth well-seasoned. He knocketh down machine horses that have been knocked up on the road, but is so tender of heart to his animals that he parteth with none for a fault; “for,” as he sayeth, “blindness or lameness be misfortunes.” A nag, proper only for dog’s meat, he writeth down, but crieth up, “fit to go to any hounds;” or, as may be, “would suit a timid gentleman.” String-halt he calleth “grand action,” and kicking, “lifting the feet well up.” If a mare have the farcical disease, he nameth her “out of Comedy,” and selleth Blackbird for a racer because he hath a running thrush. Horses that drink only water, he justly warranteth to be “temperate,” and if dead lame, declareth them “good in all their paces,” seeing that they can go but one. Roaring he calleth “sound,” and a steed that high bloweth in running, he compareth to Eclipse, for he oustrippeth the wind. Another might be entered at a steeplechase, for why--he is as fast as a church. Thoroughpin with him is synonymous with “perfect leg.” If a nag cougheth, ’tis “a clever hack.” If his knees be fractured, he is “well broke for gig or saddle.” If he reareth, he is “above sixteen hands high.” If he hath drawn a tierce in a cart he is a good fencer. If he biteth, he shows good courage; and he is playful merely, though he should play the devil. If he runneth away, he calleth him “off the Gretna Road, and has been used to carry a lady.” If a cob stumbleth, he considereth him a true goer, and addeth “The proprietor parteth from him to go abroad.” Thus, without much profession of religion, yet is he truly Christian-like in practice, for he dealeth not in detraction, and would not disparage the character even of a brute. Like unto Love, he is blind unto all blemishes, and seeth only a virtue, meanwhile he gazeth at a vice. He taketh the kick of a nag’s hoof like a love token, saying only, before standers-by, “Poor fellow,--he knoweth me!”--and is content rather to pass as a bad rider, than that the horse should he held restive or over-mettlesome which discharges him from its back. If it hath bitten him beside, and moreover bruised his limb against a coach-wheel, then, constantly returning good for evil, he giveth it but the better character, and recommendeth it before all the studs in his stable. In short, the worse a horse may be, the more he chanteth his praise, like a crow that croweth over Old Ball, whose lot it is on a common to meet with the Common Lot.

THE FALL.

“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”

COUNT FATHOM.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope And, upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss; One--only one--hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! Oh, Heaven! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current’s might: On--on--still on--direct for doom, the river rushed in force, And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed--I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore; Plainly,--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound, The torrent’s voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep; I did not die,--but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find At last the gradual light of life came dawning o’er my mind; And through my brain there thrilled a cry,--a cry as shrill as birds’ Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:-- “It’s Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares! He’s been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs!”

THE ILLUMINATI.

“Light, I say, light.”--OTHELLO.

Those who have peeped into the portfolios of Mr. Geoffrey Crayon, will easily remember his graphic sketches of a locality called Little Britain--and his amusing portraits of its two leading families, the Lambs and the Trotters. I imagine the deserved popularity of the draughtsman made him much in request at routs, soirées, and conversazioni, or so acute an observer would not have failed to notice a nocturnal characteristic of the same neighbourhood,--I mean the frequent and alarming glares of light that illuminate its firmament; but in spite of which, no parish engine rumbles down the steps of St. Botolph, the fire-ladders hang undisturbed in their chains, and the turn-cock smokes placidly in the tap-room of the Rose-and-Crown. For this remarkable apathy, my own more domestic habits enable me to account.

It is the fortune, or misfortune, of the house where I lodge to confront that of Mr. Wix, “Wax and Tallow Chandler to his Majesty;” and certainly no individual ever burned so much to evince his loyalty. He and his windows are always framing an excuse for an illumination.

The kindling aptitude ascribed to Eupyrions, and Lucifers, and Chlorate Matches, is nothing to his. Contrary to Hoyle’s rules for loo,--a single court card is sufficient with him for “a blaze.” He knows and keeps the birthdays of all royal personages, and shows by tallow in tins how they wax in years. As sure as the Park guns go off in the morning, he fires his six-pounders in the evening; as sure as a newsman’s horn is sounded in the street, it blows the same spark into a flame.--In some cases his inflammability was such, he has been known to ignite, and exhibit fire, where he should have shed water. He was once--it is still a local joke--within an ace of rejoicing at Marr’s Murder.

During the long War he was really a nuisance, and what is worse, not indictable. For one not unused to the melting mood, he was strangely given to rejoicing. Other people were content to light up for the great victories, but he commemorated the slightest skirmishes. In civil events the same, whether favourable to Whig or Tory. Like the lover of Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray, he divided his flame between them.--He lighted when the administration of the Duke of Wellington came in, and he lighted when it went out,--in short, it seemed, as with the Roman Catholics, that candle-burning was a part of his religion, and that he had got his religion itself from an illuminated missal.

To aggravate this propensity, Mr. Sperm, the great oil merchant, lives nearly opposite to Mr. Wix, and his principle and his interest coincide exactly with those of his neighbour. Mr. Sperm possesses a very large star,--and, like certain managers, he brings it forward as often as he can. He is quite as lax in his political creed as the chandler, and will light up on the lightest occasions,--for instance, let there be but a peal of bells, and the Genius of the Ring directly invokes the Genius of the Lamp. In short, Mr. Wix and Mr. Sperm both resemble the same thing--a merchant-man getting rid of goods by means of lighters.