Chapter V: Preface (3)

At last I gave way to his importunity. On Thursday night, he started from the tree of knowledge by a branch coach; and at nine on Friday morning, I found myself sitting at his desk in the novel character of pedagogue. I am sorry to say, not one of the boys played truant, or was confined at home with a violent illness.--There they were, nine little mischievous wretches, goggling, tittering, pointing, winking, grimacing, and mocking at authority, in a way enough to invoke two Elisha bears out of Southgate Wood. To put a stop to this indecorum, I put on my spectacles, stuck my cane upright in the desk, with the fool’s-cap atop--but they inspired little terror; worn out at last, I seized the cane, and rushing from my dais, well flogged--I believe it is called flogging--the boy, a Creole, nearest me; who, though far from the biggest, was much more daring and impertinent than the rest. So far my random selection was judicious; but it appeared afterwards, that I had chastised an only son, whose mother had expressly stipulated for him an exemption from all punishment. I suspect, with the moral prudence of fond mothers, she had informed the little imp of the circumstance, for this Indian-Pickle fought and kicked his preceptor as unceremoniously as he would have scuffled with Black Diana or Agamemnon. My first move, however, had a salutary effect; the urchins settled, or made believe to settle, to their tasks; but I soon perceived that the genuine industry and application belonged to one, a clever-looking boy, who, with pen and paper before him, was sitting at the further end of a long desk, as great a contrast to the others, as the Good, to the Bad Apprentice in Hogarth. I could see his tongue even at work at one corner of his mouth,--a very common sign of boyish assiduity,--and his eyes never left his task but occasionally to glance towards his master, as if in anticipation of the approving smile, to which he looked forward as the prize of industry. I had already selected him inwardly for a favourite, and resolved to devote my best abilities to his instruction, when I saw him hand the paper, with a sly glance to his neighbour, from whom it passed rapidly down the desk, accompanied by a running titter, and sidelong looks, that convinced me the supposed copy was, indeed, a copy not of “Obey your superiors,” or “Age commands respect,” but of the head of the college, and, as a glimpse showed, a head with very ludicrous features. Being somewhat fatigued with my last execution, I suffered the cane of justice to sleep, and inflicted the fool’s-cap--literally the fool’s--for no clown in pantomime, the great Grimaldi not excepted, could have made a more laughter-stirring use of the costume. The little enormities, who only tittered before, now shouted outright, and nothing but the enchanted wand of bamboo could flap them into solemnity. Order was restored, for they saw I was, like Earl Grey, resolved to “stand by my order;” and while I was deliberating, in some perplexity, how to begin business, the two biggest boys came forward voluntarily, and standing as much as they could in a circle, presented themselves, and began to read as the first Greek class. Mr. Irving may boast of his prophets as much as he will; but in proportion to the numbers of our congregations, I had far more reason to be proud of my gabblers in an unknown tongue. I, of course, discovered no lapsus lingui in the performance, and after a due course of gibberish, the first class dismissed itself, with a brace of bows and an evident degree of self-satisfaction at being so perfect in the present after being so imperfect in the past. I own this first act of our solemn farce made me rather nervous against the next, which proved to be the Latin class, and I have no doubt to an adept would have seemed as much a Latin comedy as those performed at the Westminster school. We got through the second course quite correct, as before, and I found, with some satisfaction, that the third was a dish of English Syntax, where I _was_ able to detect flaws, and the heaps of errors that I had to arrest made me thoroughly sensible of the bliss of ignorance in the Greek and Latin. A general lesson in English reading ensued, through which we glided smoothly enough, till we came to a sandbank in the shape of a Latin quotation, which I was requested to English. It was something like this:--“Nemo mortalius omnibus hora sapit,” which I rendered, “No mortal knows at what hour the omnibus starts”--and with this translation the whole school was perfectly satisfied. Nine more bows.

My horror now approached: I saw the little wretches lug out their slates, and begin to cuff out the old sums, a sight that made me wish all the slates at the roof of the house. I knew very well that when the army of nine attacked my Bonnycastle, it would not long hold out. Unluckily, from inexperience, I gave them all the same question to work, and the consequence was, each brought up a different result--nor would my practical knowledge of Practice allow me to judge of their merits. I had no resource but, Lavater-like, to go by Physiognomy, and accordingly selected the solution of the most mathematical-looking boy. But Lavater betrayed me. Master White, a chowder-headed lout of a lad, as dull as a pig of lead, and as mulishly obstinate as Muley Abdallah, persisted that his answer was correct, and at last appealed to the superior authority of a Tutor’s Key, that he had kept by stealth in his desk. From this instant my importance declined, and the urchins evidently began to question, with some justice, what right I had to rule nine, who was not competent to the Rule of Three. By way of a diversion, I invited my pupils to a walk; but I wish G---- had been more circumstantial in his instructions before he left. Two of the boys pleaded sick headaches to remain behind; and I led the rest, through my arithmetical failure, under very slender government, by the most unfortunate route I could have chosen,--in fact, past the very windows of their parents, who complained afterwards, that they walked more like bears than boys, and that if Mr. G---- had drawn lots for one at a raffle, he could not have been more unfortunate in his new usher.

To avoid observation, which I did not court, I led them aside into a meadow, and pulling out a volume of Paradise Lost, left the boys to amuse themselves as they pleased. They pleased, accordingly, to get up a little boxing match, à la Crib and Molineux--between Master White and the little Creole, of which I was informed only by a final shout and a stream of blood that trickled, or treacled, from the flat nose of the child of colour. Luckily, as I thought, he was near home, whither I sent him for washing and consolation, and in return for which, in the course of a quarter of an hour, while still in the field, a black footman, in powder blue turned up with yellow, brought me the following note:--

“Mrs. Col. Christopher informs Mr. G----’s Usher, that as the
vulgar practice of pugilism is allowed at Spring Grove Academy,
Master Adolphus Ferdinand Christopher will in future be educated at
home; particularly as she understands Master C. was punished in the
morning, in a way that only becomes blacks and slaves.--To the new
Usher at Mr. G----’s.”

Irritated at this event and its commentary, I resolved to punish Master White, but Master White was nowhere to be found, having expelled himself and run away home, where he complained to his parents of the new usher’s deficiencies, and told the whole story of the sum in Practice, begging earnestly to be removed from a school where, as he said, it was impossible for him to improve himself. The prayer of the petition was heard, and on the morrow, Mr. White’s son was minus at Spring Grove Academy. Calling in the remainder, I ordered a march homewards, where I arrived just in time to hear the sham headaches of the two invalids go off with an alarming explosion--for they had thus concerted an opportunity for playing with gunpowder and prohibited arms. Here was another discharge from the school, for no parents think that their children look the better without eyebrows, and accordingly, when they went home for the night, the fathers and mothers resolved to send them to some other school, where no powder was allowed, except upon the head of the master. I was too much hurt to resume schooling after the boys’ bad behaviour, and so gave them a half-holiday; and never, oh never did I so estimate the blessing of sleep, as on that night when I closed my eyelids on all my pupils! But, alas! sleep brought its sorrows:--I saw boys fighting, flourishing slates, and brandishing squibs and crackers in my visions; and through all,--such is the transparency of dreams,--I beheld the stern shadow of G---- looking unutterable reproaches.

The next morning, with many painful recollections, brought one of pleasure; I remembered that it was the King’s Birthday, and in a fit of very sincere loyalty, gave the whole school, alas! reduced by one half, a whole holiday. Thus I got over the end of the week, and Sunday, literally a day of rest, was spent by the urchins at their own homes. It may seem sinful to wish for the death of a fellow-creature, but I could not help thinking of G----’s relative along with what is called a happy release; and he really was so kind, as we learned by an express from G----, as to break up just after his arrival, and that G---- consequently would return in time to resume his scholastic duties on the Monday morning. With infinite pleasure I heard this good bad news from Mrs. G----, who never interfered in the classical part of the house, and was consequently all unconscious of the reduction in the Spring Grove Establishment. I forged an excuse for immediately leaving off school; “resigned I kissed the rod” that I resigned, and as I departed, no master but my own, was overwhelmed by a torrent of grateful acknowledgments of the service I had done the school, which, as Mrs. G---- protested, could never have got on without me. How it got on I left G---- to discover, and I am told he behaved rather like Macduff at the loss of his “little ones”--but luckily, I had given myself warning before his arrival, and escaped from one porch of the Academy at that nick of time when the Archodidasculus was entering by another, perfectly convinced that, however adapted to “live and learn,” I should never be able to live and teach.

THE LOST HEIR.

“Oh, where, and oh where
Is my bonny laddie gone?”--OLD SONG.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chill’d my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub’d with grease and mud.
She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man--
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seem’d to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter mov’d to preach,
She gave her “sorrow words.”

“Oh Lord! oh dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark,
staring wild!
Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying
lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to run, if I only knew
which way--
A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials,
is a needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you
little Kitty M’Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty
deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed
Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little
dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the
other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten
by way of toys.
When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever
the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and
the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don’t be
making a mob in the street;
Oh Serjeant M’Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy,
have you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me like a parcel of
stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled away up a court for
the sake of his clothes by the prigs;
He’d a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a
shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trousers considering not very much patch’d, and red plush,
they was once his Father’s best pair.
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub, or that might
have gone with the rest;
But he’d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn
on the breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew’d in, and not quite
so much jagg’d at the brim.
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and
you’ll know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d my mind would misgive, some old beggar
woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with, but I’d rather see him
laid out in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I’ll break every
bone of ’em I come near,
Go home--you’re spilling the porter--go home Tommy Jones, go along
home with your beer.
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was
Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of
following a Monkey and an Organ.
Oh my Billy--my head will turn right round--if he’s got kiddynapp’d
with them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the
outlandish tatterdemalions.
Billy--where are you, Billy?--I’m as hoarse as a crow, with
screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And sha’n’t have half a voice, no more I sha’n’t, for crying fresh
herrings to-morrow.
Oh Billy, you’re bursting my heart in two, and my life won’t be of
no more vally,
If I’m to see other folks’ darlins, and none of mine, playing like
angels in our alley.
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old
three-legged chair
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a’n’t no Billy
there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know’d
where to run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through
stealing a penny bun,--
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me
raily,
To find my Bill holdin’ up his little innocent hand at the Old
Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say, you may search for
miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from
one end to t’other of St. Giles’s.
And if I called him a beauty, it’s no lie, but only as a Mother
ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn’t been
washed for a week;
As for hair, tho’ its red, its the most nicest hair when I’ve time
to just show it the comb;
I’ll owe ’em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring
him safe and sound home.
He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint, though a little cast
he’s certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge is broke, by his
falling on a pewter pint pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large
teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to play Cupid on the
Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways--but oh I never never
shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nursing him back from
death’s door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang ’em, was at twenty
a penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was spent in plums, and
sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash’d us all and, drat him, made
a seize of our hog.
It’s no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he’s such a
blunderin’ drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling
with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother
and Father about Town.
Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your
best of Mothers!
I’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they’d run
over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he’s stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast
in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has
ketch’d, and the chimbly’s red hot.
Oh I’d give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my
two longin’ eyes on his face.
For he’s my darlin of darlins, and if he don’t soon come back,
you’ll see me drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I’d got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and
wouldn’t I hug him and kiss him!
Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was--but a child don’t not
feel like a child till you miss him.
Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it’s that
Billy as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I’m blest
if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!”

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.

THE OBSERVER.

“It’s very strange,” said the coachman,--looking at me over his left shoulder--“I never see it afore--but I’ve made three observations through life.”

Bat--so called for shortness, though in feet and inches he was rather an Upper Benjamin--was anything but what Othello denominates “a puny whipster.” He had brandished the whip for full thirty years, at an average of as many miles a day; the product of which, calculated according to Cocker, appears in a respectable sum total of six figures deep.

Now an experience picked up in a progress of some three hundred thousand miles is not to be slighted; so I leaned with my best ear over the coachman’s shoulder, in order to catch every syllable.

“I have set on the box, man and boy,” said Bat, looking straight ahead between his leaders, “a matter of full thirty year, and what’s more, never missing a day--barring the Friday I was married; and one of my remarks is--I never see a sailor in top-boots.”

“Now I think of it, Bat,” said I, a little disconcerted at my windfall from the tree of knowledge, “I have had some experience in travelling myself, and certainly do not recollect such a phenomenon.”

“I’ll take my oath you haven’t,” said Bat, giving the near leader a little switch of self-satisfaction. “I once driv the Phenomenon myself. There’s no such thing in nature. And I’ll tell you another remarkable remark I’ve made through life--I never yet see a Jew Pedlar with a Newfoundland dog.”

“As for that, Bat,” said I, perhaps willing to retort upon him a little of my own disappointment, “though I cannot call such a sight to mind--I will not undertake to say I have never met with such an association.”

“If you have, you’re a lucky man,” said Bat, somewhat sharply, and with a smart cut on the wheeler; “I belong to an association too, and we’ve none of us seen it. There’s a hundred members, and I’ve enquired of every man of ’em, for it’s my remark. But some people see a deal more than their fellows. Mayhap you’ve seen the other thing I’ve observed through life, and that’s this--I’ve never observed a black man drive a long stage.”

“Never, Bat,” said I, desiring to conciliate him, “never in the whole course of my stage practice; and for many years of my life I was a daily visitant to Richmond.”

“And no one else has ever seen it,” said Bat. “That’s a correct remark, anyhow. As for Richmond, he never drove a team in his life, for I asked him the question myself, just after his fight with Shelton.”

THE CONTRAST.

“I hope the Leviathan is outward-bound,” I ejaculated, half aloud, as I beheld the Kit-Kat portion of the Man-Mountain occupying the whole frame of the coach-window. But Hope deceived as usual; and in he came.

I ought rather to have said he essayed to come in,--for it was only after repeated experiments upon material substances, that he contrived to enter the vehicle edgeways,--if such blunt bodies may be said to have an edge at all. As I contemplated his bulk, I could not help thinking of the mighty Lambert, and was ready to exclaim with Gratiano, “A Daniel! a second Daniel!”

The Brobdignaggian had barely subsided in his seat, when the opposite door opened, and in stepped a Liliputian! The conjunction was whimsical. Yonder, thought I, is the Irish Giant, and the other is the dwarf, Count Borulawski. This coach is their travelling caravan--and as for myself, I am no doubt the showman.

I was amusing myself with this and kindred fancies, when a hand suddenly held up something, at the coach window. “It’s my luggage,” said the Giant, with a small penny-trumpet of a pipe, and taking possession of a mere golden pippin of a bundle.

“The three large trunks and the biggest carpet-bag are _my_ property,” said the Dwarf, with a voice as unexpectedly stentorian.

“Warm day, Sir,” squeaked the Giant, by way of small talk.

“Prodigious preponderance of caloric in the atmosphere,” thundered the Dwarf, by way of big talk.

“Have you paid your fare, gentlemen?” asked the coachman, looking in at the door.

“I have paid half of mine,” said the Stupendous, “and it’s booked. My name is Lightfoot.”

“Mine is Heavyside,” said the Pigmy, “and I have disbursed the sum total.”

The door slammed--the whip cracked--sixteen horse-shoes made a clatter, and away bowled the New Safety; but had barely rolled two hundred yards, when it gave an alarming bound over some loose paving stones, followed by a very critical swing. The Dwarf, in a tone louder than ever, gave vent to a prodigious oath; the Giant said, “Dear me!”

There will something come of this, said I to myself; so, feigning I sleep, I leaned back in a corner, with a wary ear to their conversation. The Gog had been that morning to the Exhibition of Fleas, in Regent Street, and thought them “prodigious!” The Runtling had visited the Great Whale at Charing-Cross, and “thought little of it.” The Goliath spoke with wonder of the “vast extent of view from the top of the Monument.” The David was “disappointed by the prospect from Plinlimmon.” The Hurlothrumbo was “amazed by the grandeur of St. Paul’s.” The Tom Thumb spoke slightingly of St. Peter’s at Rome. In theatricals their taste held the same mathematical proportion. Gog “must say he liked the Minors best.” The “Wee Thing” declared for the Majors. The Man-Mountain’s favourite was Miss _Foote_ = twelve inches. The Manikin preferred Miss _Cubitt_ = eighteen.

The conversation, and the contrast, flourished in full flower through several stages, till we stopped to dine at the Salisbury Arms, and then--

The Folio took a chair at the ordinary--

The Duodecimo required “a room to himself.”

The Puppet bespoke a leg of mutton--

The Colossus ordered a mutton-chop.

The Imp rang the bell for “the loaf”--

The Monster called for a roll.

A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum.

A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum.

We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, “The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!”

The Mammoth hummed “The Streamlet.”

The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna.

The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva.

A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through the holes that time has made in her sieve: but I remember distinctly, as we passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while

The Pigmy bussed the landlady--a buxom widow, fat, fair, and forty--

The Giant kissed her daughter--a child ten years old, and remarkably small for her age.

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

“A Day after the Fair.”--OLD PROVERB.

John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman-kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can avail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.

The bar-maid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho’ he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.

One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump--
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.

But still be stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’
He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.

Oh, Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho’ I have never had a wife,
I’ve lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being’s link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water’s praise
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho’ he drank nothing else--
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,
For, looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk--
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.

THE PARISH REVOLUTION.

“From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.”

_Alarming news from the country--awful insurrection at Stoke Pogis--The Military called out--Flight of the Mayor._

We are concerned to state, that accounts were received in town at a late hour last night, of an alarming state of things at Stoke Pogis. Nothing private is yet made public; but report speaks of very serious occurrences. The number of killed is not known, as no despatches have been received.

_Further Particulars._

Nothing is known yet; papers have been received down to the 4th of November, but they are not up to anything.

_Further further Particulars_ (_Private Letter_).

It is scarcely possible for you, my dear Charles, to conceive the difficulties and anarchical manifestations of turbulence, which threaten and disturb your old birth-place, poor Stoke Pogis. To the reflecting mind, the circumstances which hourly transpire afford ample food for speculation and moral reasoning. To see the constituted authorities of a place, however mistaken or misguided by erring benevolence, plunging into a fearful struggle with an irritated, infuriated, and I may say, armed populace, is a sight which opens a field for terrified conjecture. I look around me with doubt, agitation, and dismay; because, whilst I venerate those to whom the sway of a part of a state may be said to be intrusted, I cannot but yield to the conviction that the abuse of power must be felt to be an overstep of authority in the best intentioned of the Magistracy. This even you will allow. Being on the spot, my dear Charles, an eye-witness of these fearful scenes, I feel how impossible it is for me to give you any idea of the prospects which surround me. To say that I think all will end well, is to trespass beyond the confines of hope; but whilst I admit that there is strong ground for apprehending the worst, I cannot shut my eyes to the conviction, that if firm measures, tempered with concession, be resorted to, it is far from being out of the pale of probability that serenity may be re-established. In hazarding this conclusion, however, you must not consider me as at all forgetting the responsibilities which attach to a decidedly formed opinion. Oh, Charles! you who are in the quiet of London, can little dream of the conflicting elements which form the storm of this devoted village. I fear you will be wearied with all these details; but I thought at this distance, at which you are from me, you would wish me to run the risk of wearying you rather than omit any of the interesting circumstances. Let Edward read this; his heart, which I know beats for the Parish, will bleed for us.

I am, &c.
H. J. P.

P.S.--Nothing further has yet occurred, but you shall hear from me again to-morrow.

_Another Account._

Symptoms of disunion have for some time past prevailed between the authorities of Stoke Pogis, and a part of the inhabitants. The primum mobile or first mobbing, originated in an order of the Mayor’s, that all tavern doors should shut at eleven. Many complied, and shut, but the door of the Rampant Lion openly resisted the order. A more recent notice has produced a new and more dangerous irritation on our too combustible population. A proclamation against Guy Fauxes and Fireworks was understood to be in preparation, by command of the chief Magistrate. If his Worship had listened to the earnest and prudential advice of the rest of the bench, the obnoxious placard would not have been issued till the 6th, but he had it posted up on the 4th, and by his precipitation has plunged Stoke Pogis into a convulsion, that nothing but Time’s soothing syrup can alleviate.

_From another quarter._

We are all here in the greatest alarm! a general rising of the inhabitants took place this morning, and they have continued in a disturbed state ever since. Everybody is in a bustle and indicating some popular movement. Seditious cries are heard! the bell-man is going his rounds, and on repeating “God save the King!” is saluted with “Hang the crier!” Organised bands of boys are going about collecting sticks, &c., whether for barricades or bonfires is not known; many of them singing the famous Gunpowder Hymn, “Pray remember,” &c. These are features that remind us of the most inflammable times. Several strangers of suspicious gentility arrived here last night, and privately engaged a barn; they are now busily distributing hand-bills amongst the crowd: surely some horrible tragedy is in preparation!

_A later account._

The alarm increases. Several families have taken flight by the waggon, and the office of Mr. Stewart, the overseer, is besieged by persons desirous of being passed to their own parish. He seems embarrassed and irresolute, and returns evasive answers. The worst fears are entertaining.

_Fresh Intelligence._

The cause of the overseer’s hesitation has transpired. The pass-cart and horse have been lent to a tradesman, for a day’s pleasure, and are not returned. Nothing can exceed the indignation of the paupers! they are all pouring towards the poor-house headed by Timothy Gubbins, a desperate drunken character, but the idol of the Workhouse. The constables are retiring before this formidable body. The following notice is said to be posted up at the Town-hall: “Stick No Bills.”

_Eleven o’clock._

The mob have proceeded to outrage--the poor poor-house has not a whole pane of glass in its whole frame! The Magistrates, with Mr. Higginbottom at their head, have agreed to call out the military; and he has sent word that he will come as soon as he has put on his uniform.

A terrific column of little boys has just run down the High-street, it is said to see a fight at the Green Dragon. There is an immense crowd in the Market-Place. Some of the leading shopkeepers have had a conference with the Mayor, and the people are now being informed by a placard of the result. Gracious Heaven! how opposite is it to the hopes of all moderate men--“The Mare is Hobstinate--He is at the Roes and Crown--But refuses to treat.”

_Twelve o’clock._

The military has arrived, and is placed under his own command. He has marched himself in a body to the market-place, and is now drawn up one deep in front of the Pound. The mob are in possession of the walls, and have chalked upon them the following proclamation; “Stokian Pogians be firm! stick up for bonfires! stand to your squibs!”

_Quarter past Twelve._

Mr. Wigsby, the Master of the Free School, has declared on the side of Liberty, and has obtained an audience of the Mayor. He is to return in fifteen minutes for his Worship’s decision.

_Half past Twelve._

During the interval, the Mayor has sworn in two special constables, and will concede nothing. When the excitement of the mob was represented to him by Mr. Wigsby, he pointed to a truncheon on a table and answered, “They may do their worsest.” The exasperation is awful--the most frightful cries are uttered, “Huzza for Guys! Gubbins for ever! and no Higginbottom!” The military has been ordered to clear the streets, but his lock is not flinty enough, and his gun refuses to fire on the people.

* * * * *

The constables have just obtained a slight advantage; they made a charge altogether, and almost upset a Guy. On the left-hand side of the way they have been less successful; Mr. Huggins, the beadle, attempted to take possession of an important street post, but was repulsed by a boy with a cracker. At the same moment Mr. Blogg, the churchwarden, was defeated in a desperate attempt to force a _passage_ up a _court_.

_One o’clock._

The military always dines at one, and has retreated to the Pig and Puncheon. There is a report that the head constable is taken with all his staff.

_Two o’clock._

A flying watchman has just informed us that the police are victorious on all points, and the same has been confirmed by a retreating constable. He states that the Pound is full--Gubbins in the stocks, and Dobbs in the cage. That the whole mob would have been routed, but for a very corpulent man, who rallied them on running away.

_Half-past Three._

The check sustained by the mob proves to have been a reverse, the constables are the sufferers. The cage is chopped to faggots, we haven’t a pound, and the stocks are rapidly falling. Mr. Wigsby has gone again to the Mayor with overtures, the people demand the release of Dobbs and Gubbins, and the demolition of the stocks, the pound, and the cage. As these are already destroyed, and Gubbins and Dobbs are at large, it is confidently hoped by all moderate men, that his Worship will accede to the terms.

Four o’clock.

The Mayor has rejected the terms. It is confidently affirmed that after this decision, he secretly ordered a post-chaise, and has set off with a pair of post horses as fast as they can gallop. A meeting of the principal tradesmen has taken place, and the butcher, the baker, the grocer, the cheesemonger, and the publican, have agreed to compose a Provisional Government. In the mean time the mob are loud in their joy,--they are letting off squibs and crackers, and rockets, and devils in all directions, and quiet is completely restored.

We subjoin two documents,--one containing the articles drawn up by the Provisional Government and Mr. Wigsby; the other, the genuine narrative of a spectator.

DEAR CHARLES,

The events of the last few hours, since I closed my minute narration, are pregnant with fate; and no words that I can utter on paper will give you an idea of their interest. Up to the hour at which I closed my sheet, anxiety regulated the movement of every watchful bosom; but since then, the approaches to tranquillity have met with barriers and interruptions. To the meditative mind, these popular paroxysms have their desolating deductions. Oh, my Charles, I myself am almost sunk into an Agitator--so much do we take the colour from the dye in which our reasoning faculties are steeped. I stop the press--yes, Charles--I stop the press of circumstances to say, that a dawn of the Pacific is gleaming over the Atlantic of our disturbances; and I am enabled, by the kindness of Constable Adams, to send you a Copy of the Preliminaries, which are pretty well agreed upon, and only wait to be ratified. I close my letter in haste. That peace may descend on the Olive Tree of Stoke Pogis, is the earnest prayer of, &c.

H. J. P.

P.S.--Show the articles to Edward. He will, with his benevolence, at once see that they are indeed precious articles for Stoke Pogis.

CONDITIONS.

1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed their thirds, and Novembers their fifths.

2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and their persons respected.

3. That no arson be allowed, but all bonfires shall be burnt by the common hangman.

4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the place.

5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame Hengler, in a cartridge box.

6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.

7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorised to stand no nonsense.

8. That his Majesty’s mail be permitted to pass on the night in question.

9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish expense.

10. That the ashes of old bonfires be never raked up.

(_Signed_) { WAGSTAFF, High Constable.
{ WIGSBY.

_Narrowtiv of a High Whitness who seed everything proceed out of a Back-winder up Fore Pears to Mrs. Humphris._

O Mrs. Humphris! Littel did I Dram, at my Tim of Life, to see Wat is before me. The hole Parrish is throne into a pannikin! The Revelations has reeched Stock Poggis--and the people is riz agin the King’s Rain, and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and Me as bean siting abscondingly at the tiptop of the Hows crying for lowness. We have lockd our too selves in the back Attical Rome, and nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like the Frentch Plot--sum say sum thing moor arter the Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them Brown holland brum gals!

Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mister Higgins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus!--All riotism and hubbub.--There is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the Hows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long winders. Poor man!--for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in his shews!

I hobserve Mr. Tuder’s bauld Hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, and so is Mister Waggstaff the Constable, considdering his rhummatiz has only left one Harm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He and his men air staving the mobb’s heds to make them Suppurate. They are trying to Custardise the Ringleders. But as yet hav Captivated Noboddy. There is no end to accidence. Three insensible boddis are Carrion over the way on Three Cheers, but weather Naybers or Gyes is dubbious. Master Gollop, too, is jest gone By on one of his Ant’s Shuters, with a Bunch of exploded Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. and Me tremble like Axle trees, for our Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open Winder they sliped out. With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps they may git into.

Mister J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate agin the mobb; and I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. Mrs. Griggs is in the Sam state of Singularity as meself. Onely think, Mrs. H., of two Loan Wimin looken Down on such a Heifervescence, and as Hignorant as the unbiggotted Babe of the state of our Husbandry! to had to our Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean. No moor as the Backer, and We shold here Nothing if Mister Higgins handn’t hollowed up Fore Storys. What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as reffused to Reed the Riot Ax, and the Town Clark is no Schollard! Isn’t that a bad Herring!

O Mrs. Humphris! It is umpossible to throe one’s hies from one End of Stock Poggis to the other, without grate Pane. Nothing is seed but Wivs asking for Huzbinds--nothing is heard but childerin looking for Farthers. Mr. Hatband the Undertacker as jist bean squibed and obligated for safeness to inter his own Hows. Mr. Higgins blames the unflexable Stubbleness of the Mare and says a littel timely Concussion wood have been of Preventive Servis. Haven nose! For my Part I don’t believe all the Concussion on Hearth wood hav prevented. the Regolater bein scarified by a Squib and runnin agin the Rockit--or that it could unshatter Pore Master Gollop, or Squentch Wider Welsh’s rix of Haze witch is now Flamming and smocking in two volumes. The ingins as been, but could not Play for want of Pips witch is too often the Case with Parrish inginuity. Wile affares are in this friteful Posture, thank Haven I have one grate comfit. Mr. J. is cum back on his legs from Twelve to won tired in the extreams with being a Standing Army, and his Uniformity spatterdashed all over. He says his hone saving was onely thro leaving His retrenchments.

Pore Mr. Griggs has cum In atter his Wif in a state of grate exaggeration. He says the Boys hav maid a Bone Fire of his garden fence and Pales upon Pales can’t put it out. Severil Shells of a bomastic nater as been picked up in his Back Yard and the old Cro’s nest as bean Perpetrated rite thro by a Rockit. We hay sent out the def Shopmun to here wait he can and he says their is so Manny Crackers going he dont no witch report to Belive, but the Fishmongerers has Cotchd and with all his Stock compleatly Guttid. The Brazers next Dore is lickwise in Hashes,--but it is hopped he as assurance enuf to cover him All over.--They say nothing can save the Dwellins adjourning. O Mrs. H. how greatful ought J and I to bee that our hone Premiss and propperty is next to nothing! The effex of the lit on Bildings is marvulous. The Turrit of St. Magnum Bonum is quit clear and you can tell wat Time it is by the Clock verry planely only it stands!

The noise is enuf to Drive won deleterious! Too Specious Conestabbles is persewing littel Tidmash down the Hi Street, and sho grate fermness, but I trembel for the Pelisse. Peple drops in with New News every Momentum. Sum say All is Lost--and the Town Criar is missin. Mrs. Griggs is quite retched at herein five littel Boys is throwd off a spirituous Cob among the Catherend Weals. But I hope it wants cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed has had his hies Blasted by sum blowd Gun Powder. You Mrs. H. are Patrimonial, and may supose how these flying rummers Upsetts a Mothers Speerits.

O Mrs. Humphris how I envy you that is not tossing on the ragging bellows of these Flatulent Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic Govininent in such Sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padington. May you never go thro such Transubstantiation as I hav bean riting in! Things that stood for Sentries as bean removed in a Minuet--and the verry effigis of wat was venerablest is now burning in Bone Fires. The Worshipfull chaer is emty. The Mare as gon off clandestiny with a pare of Hossis, and without his diner. They say he complanes that his Corperation did not stik to him as it shold have dun But went over to the other Side. Pore Sole--in sich a case I dont wunder he lost his Stommich. Yisterday he was at the summut of Pour. Them that ours ago ware enjoying parrish officiousness as been turnd out of there Dignittis! Mr. Barber says in futer all the Perukial Authoritis will be Wigs.

Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Ministir think of Stock Poggis’s constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer Mrs. Humphris most frendly and trully

BRIDGET JONES.

THE FURLOUGH.

AN IRISH ANECDOTE.

“Time was called.”--BOXIANA.

In the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the following incident.

I was standing one morning at the window of “mine Inn,” when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach.

“Come down wid ye, Thady,”--the speaker was the old woman--“come down now to your ould mother. Sure it’s flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off the bones I give ye. Come down, Thady, darlin!”

“It’s honour, mother,” was the short reply of the soldier; and with clenched hands and set teeth he took a stiffer posture on the coach.

“Thady, come down--come down, ye fool of the world--come along down wid ye!” The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory than the last; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced: “It’s honour, brother!” and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof.

“Oh Thady, come down; sure it’s me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye. Come down, or ye’ll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down then!” The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast a look upward, that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier’s countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before.

“It’s honour, honour bright, Kathleen!” and as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all the three in chorus, with the same answer.

“Come down, Thady, honey!--Thady, ye fool, come down!--Oh Thady, come down to me!”

“It’s honour, mother!--It’s honour, brother!--Honour bright, my own Kathleen!”

Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and enquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on Furlough, to visit his family,--and having exceeded as he thought the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the Furlough expired.

“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_.