Chapter III: Preface (1)

BEING AN INAUGURAL DISCOURSE ON A CERTAIN SYSTEM OF PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY.

COURTEOUS READER!

Presuming that you have known something of the Comic Annual from its Child-Hood, when it was first put into half binding and began to run alone, I make bold to consider you as an old friend of the family, and shall accordingly treat you with all the freedom and confidence that pertain to such ripe connexions.

How many years is it, think you, “since we were first acquent?”

“By the deep _nine_!” sings out the old bald _Count Fathom_ with the lead-line: no great lapse in the world’s chronology, but a space of infinite importance in individual history. For instance, it has wrought a serious change on the body, if not on the mind, of your very humble servant;--it is not, however, to bespeak your sympathy, or to indulge in what Lord Byron calls “the gloomy vanity of drawing from self,” that I allude to my personal experience. The Scot and lot character of the dispensation, forbids me to think that the world in general can be particularly interested in the state of my Household Sufferage, or that the public ear will be as open to my Maladies as to my Melodies. The simple truth is, that, being a wiser but not sadder man, I propose to admit you to my Private View of a system of Practical Cheerful Philosophy, thanks to which, perchance, the cranium of your Humorist is still secure from such a lecture as was delivered over the skull of Poor Yorick.

In the absence of a certain thin “blue-and-yellow” visage, and attenuated figure,--whose effigies may one day be affixed to the present work,--you will not be prepared to learn that some of the merriest effusions in the forthcoming numbers have been the relaxations of a gentleman literally enjoying bad health--the carnival, so to speak, of a personified Jour Maigre. The very fingers so aristocratically slender, that now hold the pen, hint plainly of the “_ills_ that _flesh_ is heir to:”--my coats have become great coats, my pantaloons are turned into trousers, and, by a worse bargain then Peter Schlemihl’s, I seem to have retained my shadow and sold my substance. In short, as happens to prematurely old port wine, I am of a bad colour with very little body. But what then? That emaciated hand still lends a hand to embody in words and sketches the creations or recreations of a Merry Fancy: those gaunt sides yet shake heartily as ever at the Grotesques and Arabesques and droll Picturesques that my Good Genius (a Pantagruelian Familiar) charitably conjures up to divert me from more sombre realities. It was the whim of a late pleasant Comedian, to suppose a set of spiteful imps sitting up aloft, to aggravate all his petty mundane annoyances; whereas I prefer to believe in the ministry of kindlier Elves, that “nod to me and do me courtesies.” Instead of scaring away these motes in the sunbeam, I earnestly invoke them, and bid them welcome; for the tricksy spirits make friends with the animal spirits, and do not I, like a father romping with his own urchins,--do not I forget half my cares whilst partaking in their airy gambols? Such sports are as wholesome for the mind as the other frolics for the body. For on our own treatment of that excellent Friend or terrible Enemy the Imagination, it depends whether we are to be scared and haunted by a Scratching Fanny, or tended by an affectionate Invisible Girl--like an unknown love, blessing us with “favours secret, sweet, and precious,” and fondly stealing us from this worky-day world to a sunny sphere of her own.

This is a novel version, Reader, of “Paradise and the Pen,” but it is as true as it is new. How else could I have converted a serious illness into a comic wellness--by what other agency could I have transported myself, as a Cockney would say, from _Dull_age to _Grin_age? It was far from a practical joke to be laid up in ordinary in a foreign land, under the care of Physicians quite as much abroad as myself with the case; indeed the shades of the gloaming were stealing over my prospect; but I resolved, that, like the sun, so long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything. The raven croaked, but I persuaded myself that it was the nightingale: there was the smell of the mould, but I remembered that it nourished the violets. However my body might cry craven, my mind luckily had no mind to give in. So, instead of mounting on the black long-tailed coach horse, she vaulted on her old Hobby that had capered in the Morris-Dance, and began to exhort from its back. To be sure, said she, matters look darkly enough; but the more need for the lights. Allons! Courage! Things may take a turn, as the pig said on the spit. Never throw down your cards, but play out the game. The more certain to lose, the wiser to get all the play you can for your money. Come--give us a song! chirp away like that best of cricket-players, the cricket himself. Be bowled out or caught out, but never throw down the bat. As to Health, it’s the weather of the body--it hails, it rains, it blows, it snows, at present, but it may clear up by-and-by. You cannot eat, you say, and you must not drink; but laugh and make believe, like the Barber’s wise brother at the Barmecide’s feast. Then, as to thinness, not to flatter, you look like a lath that has had a split with the carpenter and a fall out with the plaster; but so much the better! remember how the smugglers trim the sails of the lugger to escape the notice of the cutter. Turn your edge to the old enemy, and mayhap he won’t see you! Come--be alive! You have no more right to slight your life than to neglect your wife--they are the two better halves that make a man of you! Is not life your means of living? so stick to thy business and thy business will stick to thee. Of course, continued my mind, I am quite disinterested in this advice--for I am aware of my own immortality but for that very reason, take care of the mortal body, poor body, and give it as long a day as you can!

Now, my mind seeming to treat the matter very pleasantly as well as profitably, I followed her counsel, and instead of calling out for relief according to the fable, I kept along on my journey, with my bundle of sticks,--_i.e._ my arms and legs. Between ourselves, it would have been “extremely inconvenient,” as I once heard the opium-eater declare, to pay the debt of nature at that particular juncture; nor do I quite know, to be candid, when it would altogether suit me to settle it, so, like other parties in narrow circumstances, I laughed, and gossiped, and played the agreeable with all my might; and as such pleasant behaviour sometimes obtains a respite from a human creditor, who knows but that it may prove successful with the Universal Mortgagee? At all events, here I am, humming “Jack’s Alive!” and my own dear skilful native physician gives me hopes of a longer lease than appeared from the foreign reading of the covenants. He declares indeed, that, anatomically, my heart is lower hung than usual--but what of that? _The more need to keep it up!_ So huzza! my boys! Comas and Momus for ever! No Heraclitus! Nine times nine for Democritus! And here goes my last bottle of Elixir at the heads of the Blue Devils--be they Prussian blue or indigo, powder-blue or ultramarine!

Gentle reader, how do you like this Laughing Philosophy? The joyous cheers you have just heard, come from a crazy vessel that has clawed, by miracle, off a lee-shore, and I, the skipper, am sitting down to my grog, and recounting to you the tale of the past danger, with the manœuvres that were used to escape the perilous Point. Or rather, consider me as the Director of a Life Assurance, pointing out to you a most beneficial policy, whereby you may eke out your natural term. And, firstly, take precious care of your precious health,--but how, as the housewives say, to make it keep? Why, then, don’t care and smoke-dry it--or pickle it in everlasting acids--like the Germans. Don’t bury it in a potato-pit, like the Irish. Don’t preserve it in spirits, like the Barbadians. Don’t salt it down, like the Newfoundlanders. Don’t pack it in ice, like Captain Back. Don’t parboil it in Hot Baths. Don’t bottle it, like gooseberries. Don’t pot it--and don’t hang it. A rope is a bad Cordon Sanitaire. Above all, don’t despond about it. Let not anxiety “have thee on the hyp.” Consider your health as your best friend, and think as well of it, in spite of all its foibles, as you can. For instance, never dream, though you may have a “clever hack,” of galloping consumption, or indulge in the Meltonian belief, that you are going the pace. Never fancy every time you cough, that you are going to coughy-pot. Hold up, as the shooter says, over the heaviest ground. Despondency in a nice case is the over-weight that may make you kick the beam and the bucket both at once. In short, as with other cases, never meet trouble half-way, but let him have the whole walk for his pains; though it should be a Scotch mile and a bittock. I have even known him to give up his visit in sight of the house. Besides, the best fence against care is a ha! ha!--wherefore take care to have one all round you wherever you can. Let your “lungs crow like Chanticleer,” and as like a GAME cock as possible. It expands the chest, enlarges the heart, quickens the circulation, and “like a trumpet makes the spirit dance.”

A fico then for the Chesterfieldian canon, that laughter is an ungenteel emotion. Smiles are tolerated by the very pinks of politeness; and a laugh is but the full-blown flower of which a smile is the bud. It is a sort of vocal music--a glee in which everybody can take a part:--and “he who bath not laughter in his soul, let no such man be trusted.” Indeed, there are two classes of Querists particularly to be shunned; thus when you hear a Cui Bono? be sure to leave the room; but if it be Quid Rides? make a point to quit the house, and forget to take its number. None but your dull dogs would give tongue in such a style,--for, as Nimrod says in his “Hunt after Happiness,” “A single _burst_ with Mirth is worth a whole season of _full cries_ with Melancholy.”

Such, dear reader, is the cheerful Philosophy which I practise as well as preach. It teaches to “make a sunshine in a shady place,” to render the mind independent of external foul weather, by compelling it, as old Absolute says, to get a sun and moon of its own. As the system has worked so well in my own case, it is a duty to recommend it to others; and like certain practitioners, who not only prescribe but dispense their own medicines, I have prepared a regular course of light reading, whereof I now present the first packet, in the humble hope that your dull hours may be amused, and your cares diverted, by the laughing lucubrations which have enlivened Hood’s Own.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Preface iii

The Pugsley Papers 1

An Ancient Concert; by a Venerable Director 19

A Letter from an Emigrant 23

Sonnet on Steam; by an Under-Ostler 27

A Report from Below 28

The Last Shilling 32

Ode to M. Brunel 38

The Death of the Dominie 41

Over the Way 44

A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme, in a Letter to
the Editor 48

A Letter from a Market Gardener to the Secretary of the
Horticultural Society 52

Domestic Asides; or Truth in Parenthesis 55

Black, White, and Brown 57

Epigrams--

Composed on Reading a Diary lately published 64

The Last Wish 65

The Devil’s Album 65

The Schoolmaster Abroad 66

The Lost Heir 74

Sketches on the Road--

The Observer 81

The Contrast 82

John Day; a pathetic ballad 85

The Parish Revolution 89

The Furlough; an Irish anecdote 101

Number One; versified from the prose of a Young Lady 104

The Drowning Ducks 107

An Assent to the Summut of Mount Blank 111

Sally Simpkin’s Lament; or John Jones’s Kit-Cat-Astrophe 115

A Horse-Dealer 117

The Fall 120

The Illuminati 122

Sonnet 130

The Steam Service 131

A Lay of Real Life 136

A Valentine. The Weather--To P. Murphy, Esq., M.N.S. 137

The Elland Meeting 139

Poem,--from the Polish 150

A Step-father 154

Conveyancing 157

A Letter from a Settler for Life in Van Diemen’s Land 160

Sonnet 164

A Serio-Comic Reminiscence 165

Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist 169

Saint Mark’s Eve--A tale of the olden time 172

I’m not a Single Man 180

A Greenwich Pensioner 184

The Burning of the Love Letter 186

Sketches on the Road 187

The Apparition 191

The Discovery 193

Little O’P.--An African Fact 197

The Debutante 199

The Angler’s Farewell 206

Popping the Question 208

Sea Song 214

The Black and White Question 216

Stanzas on Coming of Age 229

The Pillory 235

A singular Exhibition at Somerset House 239

The Yeomanry 243

An Unfavourable Review 247

I’m going to Bombay 256

Look before you Leap 260

Ode--To the Advocates Removal of Smithfield
Market 264

Drawn for a Soldier 269

Ode for St. Cecilia’s Eve 272

Reflections on Water 279

A Blow-up 284

The Wooden Leg 290

The Ghost--A very Serious Ballad 295

A Tale of the Great Plague 298

Ode to Madame Hengler, Firework-maker to Vauxhall 304

Rhyme and Reason 308

The Double Knock 310

A Foxhunter 311

Bailey Ballads 314

Lines to Mary--No. I 317

No. II. 319

No. III. 320

Letter--from a Parish Clerk in Barbadoes to one in
Hampshire, with an Enclosure 321

French and English 326

Our Village 329

The Scrape Book 335

A True Story 339

The Sorrows of an Undertaker 343

The Carelesse Nurse Mayd 347

To Fanny 349

The Fancy Fair 352

Poems, by a Poor Gentleman 357

Stanzas--written under the Fear of Bailiffs 360

Sonnet--written in a Workhouse 360

Sonnet--A Somnambulist 361

Fugitive Lines on Pawning my Watch 361

The Life of Zimmerman (by Himself) 364

The Portrait; being an apology for not making an
Attempt on my own Life 369

The Compass, with Variations 375

Summer--A Winter Eclogue 382

Pair’d _not_ match’d 390

The Duel--A Serious Ballad 394

The Rope Dancer--An Extravaganza, after Rabelais 397

Sonnet to Vauxhall 410

Ode to Mr. Malthus 411

A Good Direction 416

The Pleasures of Sporting 418

There’s no Romance in that 424

The Abstraction 429

A Waterloo Ballad 435

Miller Redivivus 440

A Zoological Report 444

Literary Reminiscences 448

Shooting Pains 458

The Schoolmaster’s Motto 462

HOOD’S OWN:

OR, LAUGHTER FROM YEAR TO YEAR.

THE PUGSLEY PAPERS.

How the following correspondence came into my hands must remain a Waverley mystery. The Pugsley Papers were neither rescued from a garret, like the Evelyn,--collected from cartridges, like the Culloden,--nor saved, like the Garrick, from being shredded into a snow storm at a Winter Theatre. They were not snatched from a tailor’s shears, like the original parchment of Magna Charta. They were neither the Legacy of a Dominie, nor the communications of My Landlord,--a consignment, like the Clinker Letters, from some Rev. Jonathan Dustwich,--nor the waifs and strays of a Twopenny Post Bag. They were not unrolled from ancient papyri. They were none of those that “line trunks, clothe spices,” or paper the walls of old attics. They were neither given to me nor sold to me,--nor stolen,--nor borrowed and surreptitiously copied,--nor left in a hackney coach, like Sheridan’s play,--nor misdelivered by a carrier pigeon,--nor dreamt of, like Coleridge’s Kubla Khan,--nor turned up in the Tower, like Milton’s Foundling MS.,--nor dug up,--nor trumped up, like the eastern tales of Horam harum Horam, the son of Asmar,--nor, brought over by Rammohun Roy,--nor translated by Doctor Bowring from the Scandinavian, Batavian, Pomeranian, Spanish, or Danish, or Russian, or Prussian, or any other language dead or living. They were not picked from the Dead Letter Office, nor purloined from the British Museum. In short, I cannot, dare not, will not, hint even at the mode of their acquisition: the reader must be content to know, that, in point of authenticity, the Pugsley Papers are the extreme reverse of Lady L.’s celebrated Autographs, which were all written by the proprietor.

No. I.--_From Master_ RICHARD PUGSLEY, _to Master_ ROBERT ROGERS, _at Number 132, Barbican_.

DEAR BOB,

Huzza!--Here I am in Lincolnshire! It’s good-bye to Wellingtons and Cossacks, Ladies’ double channels, Gentlemen’s stout calf, and ditto ditto. They’ve all been sold off under prime cost, and the old Shoe Mart is disposed of, goodwill and fixtures for ever and ever. Father has been made a rich Squire of by will, and we’ve got a house and fields, and trees of our own. Such a garden, Bob!--It beats White Conduit.

Now, Bob, I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to come down here for the holidays. Don’t be afraid. Ask your Sister to ask your Mother to ask your Father to let you come. It’s only ninety mile. If you’re out of pocket money, you can walk, and beg a lift now and then, or swing by the dickies. Put on cordroys, and don’t care for cut behind. The two prentices, George and Will, are here to be made farmers of, and brother Nick is took home from school to help in agriculture. We like farming very much, it’s capital fun. Us four have got a gun, and go out shooting: it’s a famous good un, and sure to go off if you don’t full cock it. Tiger is to be our shooting dog, as soon as he has left off killing the sheep. He’s a real savage, and worries cats beautiful. Before Father comes down, we mean to bait our bull with him.

There’s plenty of New Rivers about, and we’re going a fishing as soon as we have mended our top joint. We’ve killed one of our sheep on the sly to get gentles. We’ve a pony, too, to ride upon when we can catch him, but he’s loose in the paddock, and has neither mane nor tail to signify to lay hold of. Isn’t it prime, Bob? You must come. If your Mother won’t give your Father leave to allow you,--run away. Remember, you turn up Goswell Street to go to Lincolnshire, and ask for Middlefen Hall. There’s a pond full of frogs, but we won’t pelt them till you come, but let it be before Sunday, as there’s our own orchard to rob, and the fruit’s to be gathered on Monday.

If you like sucking raw eggs, we know where the hens lay, and mother don’t; and I’m bound there’s lots of birds’ nests. Do come, Bob, and I’ll show you the wasps’ nest, and everything that can make you comfortable. I dare say you could borrow your father’s volunteer musket of him without his knowing of it; but be sure anyhow to bring the ramrod, as we have mislaid ours by firing it off. Don’t forget some bird-lime, Bob--and some fish-hooks--and some different sorts of shot--and some gut and some gunpowder and a gentle box, and some flints,--some May flies, and a powder horn,--and a landing net and a dog-whistle--and some porcupine quills, and a bullet mould--and a trolling-winch, and a shot-belt and a tin can. You pay for ’em, Bob, and I’ll owe it you.

Your old friend and schoolfellow,
RICHARD PUGSLEY.

No. II.--_From the Same to the Same._

DEAR BOB,

When you come, bring us a ’bacco-pipe to load the gun with. If you don’t come, it can come by the waggon. Our Public House is three mile off, and when you’ve walked there it’s out of everything. Yours, &c.,

RICH. PUGSLEY.

No. III.--_From Miss_ ANASTASIA PUGSLEY, _to Miss_ JEMIMA MOGGRIDGE, _at Gregory House Establishment for Young Ladies, Mile End_.

MY DEAR JEMIMA,

Deeply solicitous to gratify sensibility, by sympathising with our fortuitous elevation, I seize the epistolary implements to inform you, that, by the testamentary disposition of a remote branch of consanguinity, our tutelary residence is removed from the metropolitan horizon to a pastoral district and its congenial pursuits. In futurity I shall be more pertinaciously superstitious in the astrological revelations of human destiny. You remember the mysterious gipsy at Hornsey Wood?--Well, the eventful fortune she obscurely intimated, though couched in vague terms, has come to pass in minutest particulars; for I perceive perspicuously, that it predicted that papa should sell off his boot and shoe business at 133, Barbican, to Clack and Son, of 144, Hatton Garden, and that we should retire, in a station of affluence, to Middlefen Hall, in Lincolnshire, by bequest of our great-great maternal uncle, Pollexfen Goldsworthy Wrigglesworth, Esq., who deceased suddenly of apoplexy at Wisbeach Market, in the ninety-third year of his venerable and lamented age.

At the risk of tedium, I will attempt a cursory delineation of our rural paradise, altho’ I feel it would be morally arduous, to give any idea of the romantic scenery of the Lincolnshire Fens. Conceive, as far as the visual organ expands, an immense sequestered level, abundantly irrigated with minute rivulets, and studded with tufted oaks, whilst more than a hundred windmills diversify the prospect and give a revolving animation to the scene. As for our own gardens and grounds, they are a perfect Vauxhall--excepting, of course, the rotunda, the orchestra, the company, the variegated lamps, the fire-works, and those very lofty trees. But I trust my dear Jemima will supersede topography by ocular inspection; and in the interim I send for acceptance a graphical view of the locality, shaded in Indian ink, which will suffice to convey an idea of the terrestrial verdure and celestial azure we enjoy, in lieu of the sable exhalations and architectural nigritude of the metropolis.

You who know my pastoral aspirings, and have been the indulgent confidant of my votive tributes to the Muses, will conceive the refined nature of my enjoyment when I mention the intellectual repast of this morning. I never could enjoy Bloomfield in Barbican,--but to-day he read beautifully under our pear-tree. I look forward to the felicity of reading Thomson’s Summer with you on the green seat, and if engagements at Christmas permit your participation in the bard, there is a bower of evergreens that will be delightful for the perusal of his Winter.

I enclose, by request, an epistolary effusion from sister Dorothy, which I know will provoke your risible powers, by the domesticity of its details. You know she was always in the homely characteristics a perfect Cinderella, though I doubt whether even supernatural agency could adapt her foot to a diminutive vitrified slipper, or her hand for a prince of regal primogeniture. But I am summoned to receive, with family members, the felicitations of Lincolnshire aristocracy; though whatever necessary distinctions may prospectively occur between respective grades in life, they will only superficially affect the sentiments of eternal friendship between my dear Jemima and her affectionate friend,

ANASTASIA PUGSLEY.

No. IV.--_From Miss_ DOROTHY PUGSLEY _to the Same_.

MY DEAR MISS JEMIMA,

Providence having been pleased to remove my domestic duties from Barbican to Lincolnshire, I trust I shall have strength of constitution to fulfil them as becomes my new allotted line of life. As we are not sent into this world to be idle, and Anastasia has declined housewifery, I have undertaken the Dairy, and the Brewery, and the Baking, and the Poultry, the Pigs and the Pastry,--and though I feel fatigued at first, use reconciles to labours and trials, more severe than I at present enjoy. Altho’ things may not turn out to wish at present, yet all well-directed efforts are sure to meet reward in the end, and altho’ I have chumped and churned two days running, and it’s nothing yet but curds and whey, I should be wrong to despair of eating butter of my own making before I die. Considering the adulteration committed by every article in London, I was never happier in any prospect, than of drinking my own milk, fattening my own calves, and laying my own eggs. We cackle so much I am sure we new-lay somewhere, tho’ I cannot find out our nests; and I am looking every day to have chickens, as one pepper-and-salt-coloured hen has been setting these two months. When a poor ignorant bird sets me such an example of patience, how can I repine at the hardest domestic drudgery! Mother and I have worked like horses to be sure, ever since we came to the estate; but if we die in it, we know it’s for the good of the family, and to agreeably surprise my Father, who is still in town winding up his books. For my own part, if it was right to look at things so selfishly, I should say I never was so happy in my life; though I own I have cried more since coming here than I ever remember before. You will confess my crosses and losses have been unusual trials, when I tell you, out of all my makings, and bakings, and brewings, and preservings, there has been nothing either eatable or drinkable; and what is more painful to an affectionate mind,--have half poisoned the whole family with home-made ketchup of toadstools, by mistake for mushrooms. When I reflect that they are preserved, I ought not to grieve about my damsons and bullaces, done by Mrs. Maria Dover’s receipt.

Among other things, we came into a beautiful closet of old china, which, I am shocked to say, is all destroyed by my preserving. The bullaces and damsons fermented, and blew up a great jar with a violent shock that smashed all the tea and coffee cups, and left nothing but the handles hanging in rows on the tenter-hooks. But to a resigned spirit there’s always some comfort in calamities, and if the preserves work and ferment so, there’s some hope that my beer will, as it has been a month next Monday in the mash tub. As for the loss of the elder wine, candour compels me to say it was my own fault for letting the poor blind little animals crawl into the copper; but experience dictates next year not to boil the berries and kittens at the same time.

I mean to attempt cream cheese as soon as we can get cream,--but as yet we can’t drive the Cows home to be milked for the Bull--he has twice hunted Grace and me into fits, and kept my poor Mother a whole morning in the pigsty. As I know you like country delicacies, you will receive a pound of my fresh butter when it comes, and I mean to add a cheese as soon as I can get one to stick together. I shall send also some family pork for Governess, of our own killing, as we wring a pig’s neck on Saturday. I did hope to give you the unexpected treat of a home-made loaf, but it was forgot in the oven from ten till six, and so too black to offer. However, I hope to surprise you with one by Monday’s carrier. Anastasia bids me add she will send a nosegay for respected Mrs. Tombleson, if the plants don’t die off before, which I am sorry to say is not improbable.

It’s really shocking to see the failure of her cultivated taste, and one in particular, that must be owned a very pretty idea. When we came, there was a vast number of flower roots, but jumbled without any regular order, till Anastasia trowelled them all up, and set them in again, in the quadrille figures. It must have looked sweetly elegant, if it had agreed with them, but they have all dwindled and drooped like deep declines and consumptions. Her dahlias and tulips too have turned out nothing but onions and kidney potatoes, and her ten week stocks have not come up in twenty. But as Shakspeare says, Adversity is a precious toad--that teaches us Patience is a jewel.

Considering the unsettled state of coming in, I must conclude, but could not resist giving your friendliness a short account of the happy change that has occurred, and our increase of comforts. I would write more, but I know you will excuse my listening to the calls of dumb animals. It’s the time I always scald the little pigs’ bread and milk, and put saucers of clean water for the ducks and geese. There are the fowls’ beds to make with fresh straw, and a hundred similar things that country people are obliged to think of.

The children, I am happy to say, are all well, only baby is a little fractious, we think from Grace setting him down in the nettles, and he was short-coated last week. Grace is poorly with a cold, and Anastasia has got a sore throat, from sitting up fruitlessly in the orchard to hear the nightingale; perhaps there may not be any in the Fens. I seem to have a trifling ague and rheumatism myself, but it may be only a stiffness from so much churning, and the great family wash-up of everything we had directly we came down, for the sake of grass-bleaching on the lawn. With these exceptions, we are all in perfect health and happiness, and unite in love, with

Dear Miss Jemima’s affectionate friend,
DOROTHY PUGSLEY.

No. V.--_From_ MRS. PUGSLEY _to_ MRS. MUMFORD, _Bucklersbury_.

MY DEAR MARTHA,

In my ultimatum I informed of old Wrigglesworth paying his natural debts, and of the whole Middlefen estate coming from Lincolnshire to Barbican. I charged Mr. P. to send bulletings into you with progressive reports, but between sisters, as I know you are very curious, I am going to make myself more particular. I take the opportunity of the family being all restive in bed, and the house all still, to give an account of our moving. The things all got here safe, with the exception of the Crockery and Glass, which came down with the dresser, about an hour after its arrival. Perhaps if we hadn’t overloaded it with the whole of our breakables, it wouldn’t have given way,--as it is, we have only one plate left, and that’s chipt, and a mug without a spout to keep it in countenance. Our furniture, &c., came by the waggon, and I am sorry to say a poor family at the same time, and the little idle boys with their knives have carved and scarified my rosewood legs, and, what is worse, not of the same patterns; but as people say, two Lincolnshire removes are as bad as a fire of London.

The first thing I did on coming down, was to see to the sweeps going up,--but I wish I had been less precipitous, for the sooty wretches stole four good flitches of bacon, as was up the kitchen chimbly, quite unbeknown to me. We have filled up the vacancy with more, which smoked us dreadfully, but what is to be cured must be endured. My next thing was to have all holes and corners cleared out, and washed, and scrubbed, being left, like bachelor’s places, in a sad state by old single W.; for a rich man, I never saw one that wanted so much cleaning out. There were heaps of dung about, as high as haystacks, and it cost me five shillings a load to have it all carted off the premises; besides heaps of good-for-nothing littering straw, that I gave to the boys for bonfires. We are not all to rights yet, but Rome wasn’t built in St. Thomas’s Day.

It was providential I hampered myself with cold provisions, for except the bacon there were no eatables in the house. What old W. lived upon is a mystery, except salads, for we found a whole field of beet-root, which, all but a few plants for Dorothy to pickle, I had chucked away. As the ground was then clear for sowing up a crop, I directed George to plough it up, but he met with agricultural distress. He says as soon as he whipped his horses, the plough stuck its nose in the earth, and tumbled over head and heels. It seems very odd when ploughing is so easy to look at, but I trust he will do better in time. Experience makes a King Solomon of a Tom Noddy.

I expect we shall have bushels upon bushels of corn, tho’ sadly pecked by the birds, as I have had all the scarecrows taken down for fear of the children dreaming of them for Bogies. For the same dear little sakes I have had the well filled up, and the nasty sharp iron spikes drawn out of all the rakes and harrows. Nobody shall say to my teeth, I am not a good Mother. With these precautions I trust the young ones will enjoy the country when the gipsies have left, but till then, I confine them to round the house, as it’s no use shutting the stable door after you’ve had a child stole.

We have a good many fine fields of hay, which I mean to have reaped directly, wet or shine; for delays are as dangerous as pickles in glazed pans. Perhaps St. Swithin’s is in our favour, for if the stacks are put up dampish they won’t catch fire so easily, if Swing should come into these parts. The poor boys have made themselves very industrious in shooting off the birds, and hunting away all the vermin, besides cutting down trees. As I knew it was profitable to fell timber, I directed them to begin with a very ugly straggling hollow tree next the premises, but it fell the wrong way, and knocked down the cow-house. Luckily the poor animals were all in the clover-field at the time. George says it wouldn’t have happened but for a violent sow, or rather sow-west,--and it’s likely enough, but it’s an ill wind that blows nothing to nobody.

Having writ last post to Mr P., I have no occasion to make you a country commissioner. Anastasia, indeed, wants to have books about everything, but for my part and Dorothy’s we don’t put much faith in authorised receipts and directions, but trust more to nature and common sense. For instance, in fatting a goose, reason points to sage and onions,--why our own don’t thrive on it, is very mysterious. We have a beautiful poultry yard, only infested with rats,--but I have made up a poison, that, I know by the poor ducks, will kill them if they eat it.

I expected to send you a quantity of wall-fruit, for preserving, and am sorry you bought the brandy beforehand, as it has all vanished in one night by picking and stealing, notwithstanding I had ten dozen of bottles broke on purpose to stick a-top of the wall. But I rather think they came over the pales, as George, who is very thoughtless, had driven in all the new tenter-hooks with the points downwards. Our apples and pears would have gone too, but luckily we heard a noise in the dark and threw brickbats out of window, that alarmed the thieves by smashing the cowcumber frames. However, I mean on Monday to make sure of the orchard, by gathering the trees,--a pheasant in one’s hand is worth two cock sparrows in a bush. One comfort is, the house dog is very vicious, and won’t let any of us stir in or out after dark--indeed, nothing can be more furious, except the bull, and at me in particular. You would think he knew my inward thoughts, and that I intend to have him roasted whole when we give our grand house-warming regalia. With these particulars, I remain, with love, my dear Dorcas, your affectionate sister,

BELINDA PUGSLEY.

P.S.--I have only one anxiety here, and that is, the likelihood of being taken violently ill, nine miles off from any physical powers, with nobody that can ride in the house, and nothing but an insurmountable hunting horse in the stable. I should like, therefore, to be well doctor-stuff’d from Apothecaries’ Hall, by the waggon or any other vehicle. A stitch in the side taken in time saves nine spasms. Dorothy’s tincture of the rhubarb stalks in the garden, doesn’t answer, and it’s a pity now they were not saved for pies.

No. VI.--_From Mrs._ PUGSLEY _to Mrs._ ROGERS.

MADAM,

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.