Part 1

Transcriber's Note

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

WORKS

_Preparing for Publication._

LAYS AND LEGENDS OF FANCY AND FABLE. A Collection of Oriental Tales, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE IMAGINATIVE CHARACTER OF DIFFERENT AGES AND NATIONS:

Designed to elucidate the philosophy of fiction as well as to afford specimens of those marvels which have entered into popular belief, and taken a permanent place in literature. The classical inventions of the Greeks, the romantic fables of the middle ages, the gorgeous and sometimes gloomy conceptions of the orientals, and our own pleasing superstitions of fairy lore, will be exemplified by specimens, and the influence of fancy on belief will be illustrated by a variety of legends most of which have not hitherto been brought before the English public. By W. C. TAYLOR, L.L.D.

Adorned with Twenty beautiful line Engravings on Steel, from pictures by British Artists, and several Woodcuts, elegantly printed in demy 4to, and richly bound in gilt, _Price_ 21_s._

THE BOOK OF ART; Or, Cartoons, Frescoes, Sculpture, and Decorative Art, as applied to the New Houses of Parliament, as also to building in general: with an Appendix, containing an Historical Notice of the Exhibitions in Westminster Hall.

The Volume, which will contain at least One Hundred Engravings, is printing in the best manner, in royal 4to. _Price_ 15_s._ handsomely bound.

_On the 1st of November, Part 1., Price Half-a-crown, to be continued Monthly, and completed in Ten Parts_,

WANDERINGS OF A PEN AND PENCIL; Being the results of an antiquarian and picturesque tour through the Midland Counties of England, by F. P. PALMER & ALFRED CROWQUILL. The illustrations will be drawn on wood by the latter, and engraved by our best wood-cutters.

The Book will present something of interest for those readers who cherish the affection for antiquity, or an appreciation of manners, customs, and legends which abound in the nooks of "Merry England."

_At Christmas_, THE HONEY STEW OF THE COUNTESS BERTHA. A Fairy Tale.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEXANDER DUMAS BY MARIANNE TAYLOR.

With Coloured Engravings.

_Square Royal._ RAMBLES IN NORMANDY. BY JAMES HAIRBY, M.D.

Normandy, the cradle of our monarchy and aristocracy, the last resting-place of our early kings, and the scene of our first great struggles against France, must ever have strong interest for Englishmen. We find our national associations connected with its most striking localities; and many of our leading families must refer to the archives of this province for the antiquities of their race. It is also as rich in natural scenery as it is in historical associations; its peasants surpass those of the rest of France in industry, intelligence, and comforts; while the numerous English families who annually visit its sea-coast for the purpose of bathing have brought it almost as close to England in alliance as it was anciently in connection.

This Volume will record the impressions of a two years' residence, and sundry journeyings in the province, furnishing a useful guide to visitors, and information for tarry-at-home travellers. The Illustrations will consist of a variety of subjects, Costume, Landscape, and Architecture.

WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE, New-Street-Square.

WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES.

BY THOMAS COOPER, THE CHARTIST, AUTHOR OF "THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES."

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR JEREMIAH HOW, 209. PICCADILLY. 1845.

TO DOUGLAS JERROLD.

My friend, heart-homage, in this simple strain, I yield thee for thy toil to aid the Right! Too long hath genius, with a guilty slight, Passed by the thousands who life's load sustain Of scorn and indigence,—to court the vain And foppish crowd,—or laud, in phrases dight With fulsome flattery, some pampered wight Who counts himself for polished porcelain,— The poor for vulgar clay! A nobler path,— Disdaining hireling censure, hireling praise,— Thou, for thyself, hast chosen. Still, in faith That thy true toil shall hasten the boon days Of brotherhood renewed, brother, toil on!— All upright hearts give thee blythe benison!

ADVERTISEMENT.

With the exception of the last three sketches, the pieces composing these two volumes were written during the author's confinement, for "conspiracy," in Stafford gaol, merely, as a relief from the intenser thought exercised in the composition of his "Prison-Rhyme,"—"The Purgatory of Suicides,"—already published. Higher merit than naturalness combined with truth is not claimed for any of the stories: they are, simply, such as any man may write who has the least power of pourtraying the images which human life, in some of its humblest, least disguised forms, has impressed on his memory,—while the heart has formed no attachment sufficiently powerful to seduce the judgment into a decision, that it is either wise or honest to hide these images from the observance of others. Nearly all the homely characters sketched are real,—some of them, in their very names; and the few adventures allotted to them, are devoid of romance and intricacy, because they seldom exceed fact.

The "_Old_ Lincolnshire," so often mentioned in these simple pieces, and endeared to the writer of them by the associations of thirty years of his life, is likely soon to disappear before the social changes of that _New_ Lincolnshire which railway "civilisation" will summon into existence:—would that the manufacturing-misery of the modern Leicestershire, outlined in two or three uncoloured and painfully-veritable pictures, might, as speedily, evanish!

Of the three concluding sketches, the writer feels it right to state that the first is merely a slight alteration of a series of paragraphs furnished to the _Stamford Mercury_, in 1838, and records strict facts which were then occurring in Lincolnshire; while the two remaining fragments were intended to form parts of a novel, in some degree autobiographical,—but the completion of which was relinquished, at first, from a toilful engagement with the sterner business of life, and at length from a growing preference for other subjects.

_134, Blackfriars' Road, London, Nov. 1. 1845._

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

PAGE

KUCKY SARSON, THE BARBER; OR, THE DISCIPLE OF EQUALITY 1

RAVEN DICK, THE POACHER; OR, "WHO SCRATCHED THE BULL?" 20

TIM SWALLOW-WHISTLE, THE TAILOR; OR, "EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY" 38

DAVY LIDGITT, THE CARRIER; OR, THE MAN WHO BROUGHT HIS NINEPENCE TO NOUGHT 57

THE FISHERMAN AND THE FIDDLER; OR, "DON'T SAY SO TILL YOU ARE SURE" 72

MASTER ZERUBBABEL, THE ANTIQUARY; AND HOW HE FOUND OUT THE "NOOSE LARNING" 104

THE BEGGARED GENTLEMAN, AND HIS CROOKED STICK 127

THE NURTURE OF A YOUNG SAILOR; OR, THE HISTORY OF COCKLE TOM 142

THE LAST DAYS OF AN OLD SAILOR; OR, "BUTTER YOUR SHIRT! SING TANTARA-BOBUS, MAKE SHIFT!" 159

DOROTHY PYECROFT'S PREACHING; OR, "CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME" 177

THE MINISTER OF MERCY 189

"MERRIE ENGLAND"—NO MORE! 201

SETH THOMPSON, THE STOCKINGER; OR, "WHEN THINGS ARE AT THE WORST, THEY BEGIN TO MEND" 218

SAM SIMKINS, THE RUN-AWAY; OR, VILLAINY AS A REFUGE FROM THE TORTURES OF SOUR-GODLINESS 235

KUCKY SARSON, THE BARBER; OR, THE DISCIPLE OF EQUALITY.

Once upon a time—and that was when "French principles," as they were called, were beginning to spread in England, and here and there one began to profess admiration of the new republic,—there lived in the little town of Caistor, in North Lincolnshire, a notable barber of the name of Habakkuk Sarson,—but "Kucky" was the name by which he was familiarly known; for Lincolnshire folk are a plain folk, and don't like, nor ever did, to trouble themselves with uttering long cramp names.

It would be difficult to say how it was exactly, but somehow or other, in spite of the alarm which landowners and tenantry alike felt at the broaching of Jacobinism,"—that _terror terrorum_ to the squirearchy and farmers,—Kucky Sarson contrived to keep a fair share of custom in the matter of clipping hair and scraping beards. Scarcely an hour of the day but Kucky had a customer; or if customers scanted, he was sure to have company for gossip. Perhaps it was chiefly owing to the frank-heartedness and real courtesy of manner which the barber mingled with his earnest speech—for he was a very great talker, and a good one too,—that he was respected by almost all who knew him, notwithstanding his open profession of the principles of "equality."

Indeed, it was a maxim of Kucky Sarson, that, "if you believed all men to be equal, you ought to treat every man like a gentleman." "That is the especial hinderance to the spread of first principles, sir," said Kucky to a customer one day. "Democrats foolishly imagine, sir, that democracy consists in barking like a bull-dog, or growling like a bear, at every man they meet; when, the fact is, that that is just the way to repel a sensible man from both yourself and your principles. Don't you think so, sir?"

Kucky's customer would have answered, but Kucky held him at that moment by the nose, and was applying a keen razor to his upper lip. The earnest shaver did not think of this, but supposed, since his customer was a stranger, that he was either modest or unacquainted with politics; and, in the latter case, Kucky was too true an enthusiast to omit the opportunity of trying to make a convert—so he resumed, after clearing his throat with a loud "a-hem!"

"If the beautiful principles of equality do not spread, sir," he said, resolving to show his best graces of conversational style to a well-dressed stranger, "in my humble opinion, it will be chiefly attributable to the miscalculating rudeness of those who affect to advocate them. These principles, in themselves, are so self-evidently true, and so happily calculated to ensure the felicity of the human family, that it is impossible for any unprejudiced man to——"

"Pardon me, friend," said the stranger, extricating his nose from the barber's fingers somewhat dexterously, "there may be considerable doubt about the self-evident truth of the principles you are speaking of: you seem to me to be somewhat too hasty in concluding that every one, from even a candid review of them, must acknowledge them to be incontrovertible. Give me leave to say, my good friend, that nothing will be more stoutly controverted than these same doctrines of human equality."

"Men may controvert them, sir," rejoined the barber, with some shade of an approach to asperity of manner, "but I cannot, in my conscience, give them credit for sincerity. Who was ever born into the world with a star on his breast or his shoulder, to signify that he ought to rule his fellows solely by his own will?—or who was ever created with a crook on his knee, to signify that he ought to bow down to the caprice of others? No, sir, the doctrines of equality are as clear as daylight when opposed to the darkness of slavery and mastership. In short, sir, 'Right is every man's, but wrong is no man's right,' was a maxim of my grandfather,—and I think it settles the question."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the stranger, staring at the barber's last words, and opening his lips till the lather ran into his mouth.

"Yes, sir—I think so," repeated Kucky, striving to look as confident as before, but evidently somewhat doubtful, on second thought, of the conclusiveness of his own odd logic,—"I think so, sir; for, as I hold it to be a natural right for every man to be governed only by his own consent, so I conclude it to be wrong for any other man to attempt to rule him without first asking his will or waiting his choice. I think those two points are as clear as twice two makes four: the first is a right, and belongs to every man, and the second is a wrong that should be practised by no man. Does not my grandfather's precept mean the same thing—'Right is every man's, but wrong is no man's right?'"

"Pardon me, my friend," replied the gentleman, unable entirely to suppress a smile, "if I say that I admire your sincerity more than your logic. Allow me further to say——"

"Oh, allow, sir!" exclaimed the barber, bowing very low, and spreading out his hands,—"to be sure, I allow every man to judge for himself, sir. It would be extremely inconsistent in me, who claim the fullest freedom of opinion myself, to refuse others the liberty of thought, sir. I pray you, sir, forgive me if I have been a little too positive in my manner: I will assure you, sir, I am not a bigot,—indeed, I am not——"

"Stay, stay, my friend!" cried the stranger, puzzled and bothered with the superlative politeness of him of the razor, "if you will finish your operation upon my chin, we will have half-an-hour's talk on these subjects afterwards. In the mean time, believe me, I am happy to find you are so truly tolerant of other men's opinions: if we all cultivated that spirit, this world would speedily be much happier than it is."

"Excellent—excellent, sir!" exclaimed the honest and enthusiastic barber, resuming his shaving, but too much excited to leave his favourite theme—"you speak like a true gentleman, sir. I see we really agree, although we may seem to differ; for you have just maintained a sentiment which is purely in accordance with the principles I profess. Some great man once said, 'No man was ever born with a saddle on his back, nor was any other man brought into the world ready booted and spurred to ride him.' That was a very true and striking saying: do you recollect it, sir?"

"I recollect it, and admire it much," answered the gentleman; "but I do not just now remember whose it is."

"Nor I, sir," rejoined the garrulous barber; "but that is of little consequence, sir: truths are valuable solely for their own weight, and not for the sake of those who utter them."

"There, again, we differ," observed the stranger. "I think that many truths are doubly valuable;—first, for their intrinsic excellence, and often, secondarily, for the sake of the great and the good men who utter them. For instance, the striking saying you have just quoted becomes, to my mind, as a passionate lover of his own country, increasedly valuable, when I remember that it is attributed to the illustrious patriot-martyr, Algernon Sydney."

"Why, sir," resumed Kucky Sarson, who was the soul of ingenuity at an argument, "the man, and the truth he utters, are very often one, essentially. Some men's lives—nay, their very deaths,—are great truths in themselves,—like the life and death of the noble commonwealthsman you have just mentioned: in such cases the man becomes so closely and entirely identified with the truths he utters, that he and they may be said to be one."

"You are now really becoming too refined for me, my friend," replied the gentleman, laughing. "But give me the pleasure of your company for a couple of hours at my inn, if you please, and I will do my best to discuss these points with you, good-humouredly and charitably, over a glass of wine."

The barber was making his politest acknowledgments, and was assuring the gentleman that he felt highly honoured and gratified by his handsome invitation, when old Farmer Garbutt, a regular customer of Kucky's for more than thirty years past, although a stout "church-and-king" man, pushed his burly person in at the little shop door, and gruffly bidding the barber "good-morning," sat down in the shaving-chair, which the gentleman had just quitted. Farmer Garbutt could not have come at a moment when he was less welcome; but Bucky Sarson could not decline to shave a beard he had shorn for so long a period, and therefore politely assured the strange gentleman that he would be with him, at his inn, in the course of a quarter of an hour.

Ere the farmer's beard was cleansed, however, more than one additional chin had gathered round the chair; and what was most vexing to Kucky, in his impatient mood, was the "striking fact" that all the chins and their beards belonged to the most extreme and sturdy opposers of Kucky's republican principles to be found among his regular customers. With all his acquirement of _suave_ manners, the poor barber was greatly in danger of going into a passion, as he heard, first one, and then another, allude, jeeringly, to the persecution that was commencing against Kucky's favourite doctrines. Yet he kept down the rising storm within, though with a considerable struggle:—

"Ay, ay—they'll soon hang all the levellers out o' the way, I'll warrant 'em!" said gruff Garbutt, rolling his eye in wicked waggery at his neighbours, and then threateningly at Kucky.

"What else can folk expect that side with cutting off kings' heads?" cried Bobby Sparrow, a dapper little master-tailor, who made and repaired habits for the parson, and all the genteel people, of Caistor and its vicinity.

"More by token—such folk as would pull down all the parish churches, and murder all the Protestants!" added old Davy Gregson, a fat little retired man of business, who liked to enjoy his joke,—sitting in a corner of the old shop, and thrusting his tongue grotesquely into his cheek,—although he was nearly fourscore.

"You will please to remember, gentlemen," interjected the barber, driven to the extremity of his temper, "that _I_ am _not_ an advocate either for cutting off kings' heads, or pulling down parish churches, or murdering people of any religion, much more my own."

"But ye take part with rogues that do, neighbour Kucky," said Bobby Sparrow, with provoking pertness,—"and the more's the shame to you!"

"Ay, marry, good faith—that he does!" exclaimed old Davy Gregson, enjoying the barber's apparent soreness; "and it has always been held that the abettor is as bad as the thief or the murderer!"

"If you mean to be respected, Kucky Sarson," growled old farmer Garbutt, "be advised, and give up all your Jacobin notions. The Squire says it would be ruin for this country to be without a king and an established church. I had a famous talk with him on all these things at the rent-day; and so he said: and if such gentlefolk as Squire Pelham don't know what belongs to good government, I should like to know who does."

"Squire Pelham's great-grandfather was of a somewhat different opinion," answered the barber: "Peregrine Pelham was his name; and he signed the death-warrant of Charles Stuart."

"The Lord be merciful to us!" exclaimed old Davy, beginning to look really alarmed—"why, that was in the time of the awful troubles that my grandmother used to talk so sorrowfully about!—Surely you don't wish that such grievous days were come again, do you, Kucky Sarson?"

"God forbid!" ejaculated farmer Garbutt, solemnly.

"You all _know_ I don't, before you ask me," answered the barber, with some show of dignity. "I defy any one of you to say that there is a quieter and more upright citizen in England than I am. Who can say that I ever injured him? who dares say that I ever cheated any man of one farthing—ay, or that I owe him one? And do I ever try to compel any man to think as I think? Speak!—any one of you that can charge me with an act of wrongfulness, or a single speech of intolerance!"

"Well, well—excuse us, Kucky! We all regard you as an excellent neighbour. But you seem more short about taking a joke than usual," answered the dapper little master-tailor.

The barber merely bowed, and said, "Well, well—never mind, never mind, neighbours! we are none the worse friends for a joke." But he was conscious that he felt short-tempered, and heartily wished his customers would shorten their stay, in order that he might visit the gentleman at his inn. Agreeably to his wish, the farmer, the master-tailor, and the retired man of business each shook hands heartily with Kucky, after a few more sentences of restorative kindness, and bid him "good-day." The barber forthwith doffed his apron and fore-pocket, adjusted his neckerchief, brushed his hat, exchanged his shop jacket for his holiday-coat, and crying "Shop, my dear!" to his wife, hurried away towards the inn, where, according to the strange gentleman's request, Kucky had promised to meet him.

To the barber's great mortification, when he arrived at the inn the gentleman had been called out, and had left word that he would be happy to receive his new acquaintance at six in the evening. Kucky Sarson felt half disposed to be unhappy with disappointment; for he feared that he would be unable to leave his shop at that busy hour of the evening. He was hastening homeward, and striving to banish this unpleasant feeling, when, passing by the end of a narrow street or lane, he suddenly saw the strange gentleman in close conversation with a ragged, dirty-looking female, who seemed by her uncouth garb and sun-burnt complexion to belong to the wandering race of the gypsies. The barber stopped short and gazed in astonishment at what he saw. The woman bent her keen eyes upon him; but the strange gentleman seemed too much absorbed in looking at and talking to the gypsy to be aware that he was discovered.

The barber passed on to his shop, pondering much upon what he had observed.—"What in the name of prudence and propriety!" soliloquised Kucky, "can such a person have to do with a houseless out-cast and vagabond of a gypsy?" The more he thought upon it, the more he wondered; till, in the course of an hour, seeing that no one stepped into the shop, he felt so exquisitely curious to know the meaning of what he had seen, that he once more doffed his apron and shop-coat, put on his holiday covering, and sallied forth again in search of the strange gentleman's secret.

Turning the first corner of the street, he suddenly ran hard against his old gossip, Davy Gregson, and nearly knocked him down in his haste.

"Hey-day, Kucky!" exclaimed Davy, "what a hurry you are in!—I reckon you are posting away to see the gentleman dance with the gypsy!"

Davy Gregson's exclamation operated like lightning upon the barber: he took to his heels and ran, in the direction from whence Davy came, with all the mettle he possessed. Just as he was crossing the way, however, at the end of one street with the intent to run down another, he was suddenly seized by little Bobby Sparrow, the dapper master-tailor.

"What the dickens are you running so for, Kucky?" asked the little man; "you'll be too late to see the gentleman huddle the gypsy—it's all over, and——"

"Huddle the gypsy!" exclaimed Kucky, "I thought he was dancing with her?"

"So he was: but he fell to kissing and huddling her after that," answered Sparrow.

"For Heaven's sake let me go see," cried the barber; and bolted away again at the hazard of tearing his coat, which the tailor had kept hold of. But before he had stretched one hundred yards, he was once more stopped; and this time it was by the strong and effectual gripe of gruff farmer Garbutt.