Chapter XIV (1)

I must confess I did not guess
A simple marriage vow,
Would make me find all womenkind
Such unkind women now;--
I might be hashed to death, or smashed
By Mr. Pickford’s van,
Without, I fear, a single tear.
I’m not a single man!

A GREENWICH PENSIONER

Is a sort of stranded marine animal, that the receding tide of life has left high and dry on the shore. He pines for his element like a Sea Bear, and misses his briny washings and wettings. What the ocean could not do, the land does, for it makes him sick: he cannot digest properly unless his body is rolled and tumbled about like a barrel-churn. Terra firma is good enough he thinks to touch at for wood and water, but nothing more. There is no wind, he swears, ashore--every day of his life is a dead calm,--a thing above all others he detests--he would like it better for an occasional earthquake. Walk he cannot, the ground being so still and steady that he is puzzled to keep his legs; and ride he will not, for he disdains a craft whose rudder is forward and not astern.

Inland scenery is his especial aversion. He despises a tree “before the mast,” and would give all the singing birds of Creation for a Boatswain’s whistle. He hates prospects, but enjoys retrospects. An old boat, a stray anchor, or decayed mooring ring, will set him dreaming for hours. He splices sea and land ideas together. He reads of “shooting off a tie at Battersea,” and it reminds him of a ball carrying away his own pigtail. “Canvassing for a situation,” recalls running with all sails set for a station at Aboukir. He has the advantage of our Economists as to the “Standard of Value,” knowing it to be the British ensign. The announcement of “an arrival of foreign vessels, with our ports open,” claps him into a Paradise of prize money, with Poll of the _Pint_. He wonders sometimes at “petitions to be discharged from the Fleet,” but sympathises with those in the Marshalsea Court, as subject to a Sea Court Martial. Finally, try him even in the learned languages, by asking him for the meaning of “Georgius Rex,” and he will answer, without hesitation, “The wrecks of the Royal George.”

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER.

“Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery
Ordeal.”--HIST. ENG.

No morning ever seemed so long!--
I tried to read with all my might:
In my left hand “My Landlord’s Tales,”
And threepence ready in my right.

’Twas twelve at last--my heart beat high!--
The Postman rattled at the door!--
And just upon her road to church,
I dropt the “Bride of Lammermoor!”

I seized the note--I flew up stairs--
Flung-to the door, and locked me in--
With panting haste I tore the seal--
And kissed the B in Benjamin!

’Twas full of love--to rhyme with dove--
And all that tender sort of thing--
Of sweet and meet--and heart and dart--
But not a word about a ring!

In doubt I cast it in the flame,
And stood to watch the latest spark--
And saw the love all end in smoke--
Without a Parson and a Clerk!

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.

THE DILEMMA

“Read! it’s very easy to say read.”--THE BURGOMASTER.

“I have trusted to a reed.”--OLD PROVERB.

“Hoy!--Cotch!--Co-ach!--Coachy!--Coachee--hullo!--holloo!--woh!--wo-hoay!--wough-hoaeiouy!”--for the last cry was a waterman’s, and went all through the vowels.

The Portsmouth Rocket pulled up, and a middle-aged, domestic-looking woman, just handsome enough for a plain cook at an ordinary, was deposited on the dicky; two trunks, three bandboxes, a bundle, and a hand-basket, were stowed in the hind boot. “This is where I’m to go to,” she said to the guard, putting into his hand a slip of paper. The guard took the paper, looked hard at it, right side upwards, then upside down, and then he looked at the back; he in the mean time seemed to examine the consistency of the fabric between his finger and thumb; he approached it to his nose as if to smell out its meaning; I even thought that he was going to try the sense of it by tasting, when by a sudden jerk, he gave the label with its direction to the winds, and snatching up his key-bugle began to play “Oh where, and oh where,” with all his breath.

I defy the metaphysicians to explain by what vehicle I travelled to the conclusion that the guard could not read, but I felt as morally sure of it as if I had examined him in his a--b--ab. It was a prejudice not very liberal; but yet it clung to me, and fancy persisted in sticking a dunce’s cap on his head. Shakspeare says that “he who runs may read,” and I had seen him run a good shilling’s worth after an umbrella that dropped from the coach; it was a presumptuous opinion therefore to form, but I formed it notwithstanding--that he was a perfect stranger to all those booking-offices where the clerks are schoolmasters. Morally speaking, I had no earthly right to clap an ideal Saracen’s Head on his shoulders; but, for the life of me, I could not persuade myself that he had more to do with literature than the Blue Boar.

Women are naturally communicative: after a little while the female in the dicky brought up, as a military man would say, her reserve, and entered into recitative with the guard during the pauses of the key-bugle. She informed him in the course of conversation, or rather dicky gossip, that she was an invaluable servant, and, as such, had been bequeathed by a deceased master to the care of one of his relatives at Putney, to exert her vigilance as a housekeeper, and to overlook everything for fifty pounds a year. “Such places,” she remarked, “is not to be found every day in the year.”

The last sentence was prophetic!

“If it’s Putney,” said the guard, “it’s the very place we’re going through. Hold hard, Tom, the young woman wants to get down.” Tom immediately pulled up; the young woman did get down, and her two trunks, three bandboxes, her bundle, and her hand-basket, were ranged round her. “I’ve had a very pleasant ride,” she said, giving the fare with a smirk and a courtesy to the coachman, “and am very much obliged,”--dropping a second courtesy to the guard,--“for other civilities. The boxes and things is quite correct, and won’t give further trouble, Mr. Guard, except to be as good as pint out the house I’m going to.” The guard thus appealed to, for a moment stood all aghast; but at last his wits came to his aid, and he gave the following lesson in geography.

“You’re all right--ourn a’n’t a short stage, and can’t go round setting people down at their own doors; but you’re safe enough at Putney--don’t be alarmed, my dear--you can’t go out of it. It’s all Putney, from the bridge we’ve just come over, to that windmill you almost can’t see t’other side of the common.”

“But, Mr. Guard, I’ve never been in Putney before, and it seems a scrambling sort of a place. If the coach can’t go round with me to the house, can’t you stretch a pint and set me down in sight of it?”

“It’s impossible--that’s the sum total; this coach is timed to a minute, and can’t do more for outsides if they was all kings of England.”

“I see how it is,” said the female, bridling up, while the coachman, out of patience, prepared to do quite the reverse; “some people are very civil, while some people are setting beside ’em in dickies; but give me the paper again, and I’ll find my own ways.”

“It’s chucked away,” said the guard as the coach got into motion; “but just ask the first man you meet--anybody will tell you.”

“But I don’t know who or where to ask for,” screamed the lost woman after the flying Rocket; “I can’t read; but it was all down in the paper as is chucked away.”

A loud flourish of the bugle to the tune of “My Lodging is on the Cold Ground” was the only reply: and as long as the road remained straight, I could see “the Bewildered Maid” standing in the midst of her baggage, as forlorn as Eve, when, according to Milton,

“The world was all before her, where to choose
Her _place_--”

THE APPARITION.

In the dead of the night, when from beds that are turfy,
The spirits rise up on old cronies to call,
Came a shade from the shades on a visit to Murphy,
Who had not foreseen such a visit at all.

“Don’t shiver and shake,” said the mild Apparition,
“I’m come to your bed with no evil design;
I’m the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician,
Once great like yourself in the Almanack line.”

Like you I was once a great prophet on weather,
And deemed to possess a more prescient knack
Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together,
The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack.

With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion,
I saw my old mantle lugg’d out from the shelf,
Turn’d, trimmed, and brushed up, and again brought in fashion,
I seem’d to be almost reviving myself!

But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle--
As too many cooks make a mull of the broth--
To find that two Prophets were under my mantle,
And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth.

Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble,
Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps;
Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble,
The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps!

But think how the people would worship and wonder,
To find you “hail fellows, well met,” in your hail,
In one tune with your rain, and your wind and your thunder,
“’Fore God,” they would cry, “they are both in a tale!”
Consider the hint.

THE DISCOVERY.

“It’s a nasty evening,” said Mr. Dornton, the stockbroker, as he settled himself in the last inside place of the last Fulham coach, driven by our old friend Mat--an especial friend in need, be it remembered, to the fair sex.

“I wouldn’t be outside,” said Mr. Jones, another stockbroker, “for a trifle.”

“Nor I, as a speculation in options,” said Mr. Parsons, another frequenter of the Alley.

“I wonder what Mat is waiting for,” said Mr. Tidwell, “for we are full inside and out.”

Mr. Tidwell’s doubt was soon solved,--the coach-door opened and Mat somewhat ostentatiously enquired, what indeed he very well knew--“I believe every place is took up inside?”

“We’re all here,” answered Mr. Jones, on behalf of the usual complement of old stagers.

“I told you so, Ma’am,” said Mat, to a female who stood beside him, but still leaving the door open to an invitation from within. However, nobody spoke--on the contrary, I felt Mr. Hindmarsh, my next neighbour, dilating himself like the frog in the fable.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” exclaimed the woman; “I’ve nowhere to go to, and it’s raining cats and dogs!”

“You’d better not hang about, anyhow,” said Mat, “for you may ketch your death,--and I’m the last coach,--aint I, Mr. Jones?”

“To be sure you are,” said Mr. Jones, rather impatiently; “shut the door.”

“I told the lady the gentlemen couldn’t make room for her,” answered Mat, in a tone of apology,--“I’m very sorry, my dear” (turning towards the female), “you should have _my_ seat, if you could hold the ribbons--but such a pretty one as you ought to have a coach of her own.”

He began slowly closing the door.

“Stop, Mat, stop!” cried Mr. Dornton, and the door quickly unclosed again; “I can’t give up my place for I’m expected home to dinner; but if the lady wouldn’t object to sit on my knees----”

“Not the least in the world,” answered Mat, eagerly; “you won’t object, will you, Ma’am, for once in a way, with a married gentleman, and a wet night, and the last coach on the road?”

“If I thought I shouldn’t uncommode,” said the lady, precipitately furling her wet umbrella, which she handed in to one gentleman, whilst she favoured another with her muddy pattens. She then followed herself, Mat shutting the door behind her, in such a manner as to help her in. “I’m sure I’m obliged for the favour,” she said, looking round; “but which gentleman was so kind?”

“It was I who had the pleasure of proposing, Madam,” said Mr. Dornton; and before he pronounced the last word she was in his lap, with an assurance that she would sit as lightsome as she could. Both parties seemed very well pleased with the arrangement; but to judge according to the rules of Lavater, the rest of the company were but ill at ease. For my own part, I candidly confess I was equally out of humour with myself and the person who had set me such an example of gallantry. I, who had read the lays of the Troubadours--the awards of the old “Courts of Love,”--the lives of the “preux Chevaliers”--the history of Sir Charles Grandison--to be outdone in courtesy to the sex by a married stockbroker! How I grudged him the honour she conferred upon him--how I envied his feelings!

I did not stand alone, I suspect, in this unjustifiable jealousy. Messrs. Jones, Hindmarsh, Tidwell, and Parsons, seemed equally disinclined to forgive the chivalrous act which had, as true knights, lowered all our crests and blotted our scutcheons, and cut off our spurs. Many an unfair gibe was launched at the champion of the fair, and when he attempted to enter into conversation with the lady, he was interrupted by incessant questions of “What is stirring in the Alley?”--“What is doing in Dutch?”--“How are the Rentes?”

To all these questions Mr. Dornton incontinently returned business-like answers, according to the last Stock Exchange quotations; and he was in the middle of an elaborate enumeration, that so and so was very firm, and so and so very low, and this rather brisk, and that getting up, and operations, and fluctuations, and so forth, when somebody enquired about Spanish Bonds.

“They are looking up, _my dear_,” answered Mr. Dornton, somewhat abstractedly; and before the other stockbrokers had done tittering the stage stopped. A bell was rung, and whilst Mat stood beside the open coach-door, a staid female in a calash and clogs, with a lantern in her hand, came clattering pompously down a front garden.

“Is Susan Pegge come?” enquired a shrill voice.

“Yes, I be,” replied the lady who had been dry nursed from town;--“are you, Ma’am, number ten, Grove Place?”

“This is Mr. Dornton’s,” said the dignified woman in the hood advancing her lantern,--“and--mercy on us! you’re in master’s lap!”

A shout of laughter from five of the inside passengers corroborated the assertion, and like a literal cat out of the bag, the ci-devant lady, forgetting her umbrella and her pattens, bolted out of the coach, and with feline celerity rushed up the garden, and down the area, of number ten.

“Renounce the woman!” said Dr. Dornton, as he scuttled out of the stage--“Why the devil didn’t she tell me she was the new cook?”

LITTLE O’P.--AN AFRICAN FACT.

It was July the First, and the great hill of Howth
Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south,
And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork,
Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork.
Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name,
And little O’Patrick was mate of the same;
For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope,
They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope.
Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast,
Only little O’P. made a swim to the coast;
And when he revived from a sort of a trance,
He saw a big Black with a very long lance.
Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue,
“Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung!”
Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf,
And down came a hundred as black as himself.
They brought with them _guattul_, and pieces of _klam_,
The first was like beef, and the second like lamb;
“Don’t I know,” said O’P., “what the wretches are at?
They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!”
In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,
His rations of _jarbul_ he suffer’d to rot;
He would not touch _purry_ or _doolberry-lik_,
But kept himself _growing_ as thin as a stick.
Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,
He would not let _chobbery_ enter his mouth,
But kicked down the _krug_ shell, tho’ sweetened with _natt_,--
“I an’t to be pisoned the likes of a rat!”
At last the great _Joddry_ got quite in a rage,
And cried, “O mi pitticum dambally nage!
The _chobbery_ take, and put back on the shelf,
Or give me the _krug_ shell, I’ll drink it myself!
The _doolberry-lik_ is the best to be had,
And the _purry_ (I chew’d it myself) is not bad;
The _jarbul_ is fresh, for I saw it cut out,
And the _Bok_ that it came from is grazing about.
My _jumbo_! but run off to Billery Nang,
And tell her to put on her _jigger_ and _tang_,
And go with the _Bloss_ to the man of the sea,
And say that she comes as his _Wulwul_ from me.”
Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep,
With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep,
And the moment he spied her, said little O’P.,
“Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow’s at me!”
But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms,
She came to accept him for life in her arms,
And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love,
A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove,
With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss,
Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss;
At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack,
And _Joddry_ began to look blacker than black;
“By Mumbo! by Jumbo!--why here is a man
That won’t be made happy, do all that I can;
He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed,
Let the _Rham_ take his _shangwang_ and chop off his head!”

THE DEBUTANTE.

“Inside or out, Ma’am?” asked the coachman, as he stood civilly with the door in his hand.

“If you please, I’ll try _in_ first,” answered the woman, poking in an umbrella before her, and then a pair of pattens--“I’m not used to coaching, and don’t think I could keep myself on the top.”

In she came, and after some floundering, having first tried two gentlemen’s laps, she found herself in the centre of the front seat, where she composed herself, with something of the air of a Catherine Hayes, getting into a sledge for a trip to Tyburn. Except for her fear, which literally made a fright of her, I should have called her a pretty-looking woman,--but the faces she pulled were horrible. As the cad enclosed her luggage in the hind-boot with a smart slam, her features underwent an actual spasm; and I heard her whisper to herself, “somethink broke.” As she spoke thus, she started on her feet, and the horses doing the same thing at the same moment, the timid female found herself suddenly hugging the strange gentleman opposite, for which she excused herself by saying, “she wasn’t accustomed to be so carried away.”

Down she plumped again in her old place, but her physiognomy didn’t improve. She seemed in torture, as if broken, not upon one wheel, but upon four. Her eyes rolled, her eyebrows worked up and down, as if trying to pump out tears that wouldn’t come,--her lips kept going like a rabbit’s, though she had nothing to eat, and I fancied I could hear her grinding her teeth. Her hands, meanwhile, convulsively grasped a bundle on her lap, till something like orange-juice squeezed out between her fingers. When the coach went on one side, she clutched the arm of whichever of her neighbours sat highest, and at a _pinch_ she laid hold of both. At last she suddenly turned pale, and somewhat hastily I suggested that she perhaps did not prefer to ride backwards.

“If it’s all the same to _you_, Sir, I should really be glad to change seats.”

The removal was effected, not without some difficulty, for she contrived to tread on all our feet, and hang on all our necks, before she could subside. It was managed, however, and there we sat again, vis-a-vis, if such a phrase may be used where one visage was opposed to visages innumerable; for if her face was her fortune, she screwed as much out of it as she could. She hardly needed to speak, but she did so after a short interval.

“I hope you’ll excuse, but I can’t ride forrards neither.”

“The air’s what you wan’t Ma’am,” said a stout gentleman in the corner.

“Yes, I think that _would_ revive me,” said the female, with what the musicians call a veiled voice, through her handkerchief.

“Let the lady out!” squealed a little man, who sat on her left, whilst a stout gentleman on her right, after looking in vain for a check-string, gave a pull at the corner of the skirt of a great-coat that hung over the window, almost pulling the owner off the roof. The Chronometer stopped.

“It’s the lady,” said the little man to the coachman, as the latter appeared at the door; “she wants to be inside out.”

“It’s as the gentleman says,” added the female; “I an’t quite myself, but I don’t want to affect the fare. You shan’t be any loser, for I’ll discharge in full.”

“There’s the whole dicky to yourself, Ma’am,” said the coachman, with something like a wink, and after some scuffling and scrambling, we felt her seating herself on the “backgammon board” as if she never meant to be taken up.

“It seems ungallant,” said the little man, as we got into motion again; “but I think women oughtn’t to travel, particularly in what are called short stages, for they’re certain to make them long ones. First of all, they have been told to make sure of the right coach, and they spell it all over, from ‘Horne and Co.’ and ‘licensed to carry,’ to No. nine thousand, fourteen hundred and nine. Then they never believe the cads. If one cries ‘Hackney,’ they say ‘that means Camberwell, and I’ve had enough of getting into wrong stages.’ Then they have to ascertain it’s the first coach, and when it will start exactly, and when they’re sure of both points, they’re to be hunted for in a pastry-cook’s shop, and out of that into a fruiterer’s. At last you think you have ’em--but no such thing. All the luggage is to be put in under their own eyes--there’s a wrangle, of course, about that,--and when they’re all ready, with one foot on the step, they’ve been told to make their bargain with the coachman before they get in.”

“My own mother to a T,” exclaimed the fat man; “she agreed with a fly-man, at Brighton, to convey her to the Devil’s Dyke for twelve shillings; but when it came to setting off, she couldn’t resist the spirit of haggling. Says she, ‘What’ll you take me to the Devil for, without the Dyke?’”

A loud scream interrupted any further illustration of female travelling, and again the Chronometer stopped, losing at the rate of ten miles in the hour. We all had a shrewd guess at the cause, but the little man nevertheless thought proper to pop his little head out of the window, and enquire with a big voice “What the plague we were stopping for?”

“It’s the _lady_ agin, Sir,” said the coachman, in a dissatisfied tone. “She says the dicky shakes so, she’s sure it will come off: but it’s all right now--I’ve got her in front.”

“It’s very well,” said the little man, “but if I travel with a woman again in a stage----”

“Poo! poo!--consider your own wife,” said the stout man; “women can’t be stuck in garden-pots and tied to sticks; they must come up to London now and then. She’ll be very comfortable in front.”

“I wish she may,” said the little man, rather tartly, “but it’s hard to suit the sex;”--and, as if to confirm the sentence, the coach, after proceeding about a mile, came again to a full stop.

“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” said the coachman, with a touch of his hat, as be looked in at the window, “but she won’t do in front!”

“Just like ’em!” muttered the little man, “the devil himself can’t please a woman.”

“I should think,” suggested the stout man, “if you were to give her the box seat, with your arm well round her waist.”

“No, I’ve tried that,” said the coachman, shaking his head; “it did pretty well over the level, but we’re coming on a hill, and she can’t face it.”

“Set her down at once, bag and baggage,” said the little man; “I’ve an appointment at one.”

“And for my part,” said a gentleman in black, “if there’s any delay, I give you legal notice I shall hire a chaise at the expense of the coach proprietors.”

“That’s just it, curse her,” said the perplexed coachman, deliberately taking off his hat, that he might have a scratch at his head; “she’s had her pick, outside and in, back and front, and it’s no use of course to propose to her to sit astride on the pole.”

“Oh Eve! Eve! Eve!” exclaimed the little man, who seemed to owe the sex some peculiar grudge.

The man in black looked at his watch.

The coachman pulled out a handful of silver, and began to count out a portion, preparatory to offering to return the woman her fare if she would get down--when a cheering voice hailed him from above.

“It’s all right, Tom--jump up--the lady’s creeping into the boot.”

“She won’t like that, I guess,” muttered Tom to himself, but in a second the money jingled back into his pocket, and he was on his box in the twinkling of an eye. Away went the coach over the brow of the hill, and began to spin down the descent with an impetus increasing at every yard. The wheels rattled--the chains jingled--the horse-shoes clattered--and the maid in the boot shrieked like a maid in Bedlam.

“Poor thing!” ejaculated the stout gentleman.

The little man grinned--villanously like an ape.

The man in black pretended to be asleep.

Meanwhile her screams increased in volume, and ascended in pitch--interrupted only by an occasional “oh Lord!” and equivalent ejaculations. It was piteous to hear her; but there was no help for it. To stop the coach was impossible; it had pressed upon the horses till, in spite of all the coachman’s exertions, they broke into a gallop, and it required his utmost efforts to keep them together. An attempt to pull up would have upset us, as sure as fate; luckily for us all Tom did not make the experiment, and the Chronometer, after running down one hill and half way up another, was stopped without accident.

“How’s the lady?” asked the stout man, anxiously thrusting his head and shoulders out at one window, whilst I acted the same part at the other; and, as the sufferer got down on my side of the coach, my curiosity was first gratified. Never was figure more forlorn: her face was as pale as ashes, and her hair hung about it in all directions through heat and fright--her eyes as crazy as her hair, and her mouth wide open.

“How’s the lady?” repeated the stout gentleman.

As for her straw bonnet, it was like Milton’s Death, of no particular shape at all, flat where it should have been full, square where it ought to have been round, turned up instead of down, and down instead of up--it had as many corners and nubbles about it as a crusty loaf. Her shawl or scarf had twisted round and round her like a snake, and her pelisse showed as ruffled and rumpled and all awry as if she had just rolled down Greenwich Hill.

“How’s the lady? I say,” bellowed the big man.

One of her shoes had preferred to remain with the boot, and as the road was muddy, she stood like a Numidian crane, posturing and balancing on one leg; whilst Tom, hunting after the missing article, which declined to turn up till everything else had been taken out of “the leathern conveniency,” and as it was one of the old-fashioned boots it held plenty of luggage.

“How is the lady?” was shouted again with no better success.

It was evident she had not escaped with the fright merely; her hands wandered from her ribs to the small of her back, and then she rubbed each knee. It was some time before she could fetch her breath freely, but at last she mustered enough for a short exclamation.

“Oh them trunks!”

“How’s the lady?” shouted the fat man for the last time; for finding that it obtained no answer, he opened the door and bolted out, just in time to have the gratification of putting on the woman’s one shoe, whilst she clung with both her arms round his short neck.

“There, my dear,” he said with a finishing slap on the sole. “Bless my heart, though, it’s a distressing situation! Coachman, how far is she from London?”

“A good nine mile,” answered Tom.

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the stout man. “She can’t _do_ it!”

“It’s only nine mile,” said the woman, with a sort of hysterical giggle;--“and I’m fond of walking.”

“Give her her luggage, then, at once,” cried the little man from the coach. The dark man held out his watch. A passenger on the top swore horribly, and threatened to get down, and Tom himself, as well as his horses, were on the fret.

“There is no remedy,” sighed the fat man, as he resumed his old seat in the corner of the coach. The whip smacked--I leaned out for a parting look.

There she stood nursing three bundles, each as big as a baby, and as we rolled off I heard her last words in this soliloquy:

“How _ham_ I to _hever_ to get to York by the mail?”

THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL.

“Resign’d, I kissed the rod.”

Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish,
To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the _Chub_, tho’ it’s chubby, be _thinnish_!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With _attention_ I look,
I can ne’er see my hook with _a Tench on_!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice
Of the “_Council of Nice_,”
And rejected their “_Diet of Worms_,” now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,
Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;
For the gut I have brought,
I had better have bought
A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,
It is vain in this river to search then;
I may wait till it’s night,
Without any bite,
And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,
And I fear it is not
“Carpe diem,” a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water lottery!
What then can I deem
Of so fishless a stream
But that ’tis--like St. Mary’s--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton’s own showing,--
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels,
In a path that’s devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I’m weary of dipping and casting;
And hungry and faint,--
Let the Fancy just paint
What it is _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,
While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell,--
So, wet to the skin,
I’ll e’en back to my Inn,
Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

POPPING THE QUESTION.

My friend Walker is a great story-teller. He reminds me of the professional tale-bearers in the East, who, without being particularly requested by the company, begin reciting the adventures of Sinbad, or the life, death, and resurrection of Little Hunchback. No sooner does conversation flag for a few minutes, than W. strikes up, with some such prelude as, “I told you about the Flying Fish affair before,--but as you wish me to refresh your memory, you shall have it again.” He then deliberately fills his glass, and furnishes himself with a cork, a bit of orange-peel, or an apple-paring, to be shredded and sub-shredded during the course of narration. Many Scotchmen, by-the-way, and most Canadians, are given to the same manual propensity. A lady located towards the Back Settlements informed me, that at a party she gave, the mantelshelf, chairs, tables, and every wooden article of furniture, was nicked and notched by the knives of her guests, like the tallies of our Exchequer. It is most probably an Indian peculiarity, and derived by intercourse or intermixture with the Chipaways--but to return to W. The other day, after dinner, with a select few of my friends, there occurred one of those sudden silences, those verbal armistices, or suspensions of words, which frequently provoke at irresistible allusion to a Quaker’s meeting. Of this pause W. of course availed himself.

“You were going, Sir,” addressing the gentleman opposite, “to ask me about the Pop business,--but I ought first to tell you how I came to be carrying ginger-beer in my pocket.”

The gentleman thus appealed to, a straightforward old drysalter, who had never seen W. in his life before, naturally stared at such a bold anticipation of his thoughts; but before he could find words to reply, W. had helped himself to a dozen almonds, which he began mincing, while he set off at a steady pace in his story.

“The way I came to have ginger-beer in my pocket, was this. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with Hopkins, Sir, of the Queen’s Arms in the Poultry,” the drysalter shook his head; “it’s the house I frequent, and a very civil obliging sort of fellow he is--that is to say, was, two summers ago. The season was very sultry, and says I, Hopkins, I wonder you don’t keep ginger pop--it’s a pleasant refreshing beverage at this season, and particularly wholesome. Well, Hopkins was very thankful for the hint, for he likes to have everything that can be called for, and he was for sending off an order at once to the ginger-beer manufactory, but I persuaded him better. None of their wholesale trash, said I, but make your own. I’ll give you a recipe for it--the best ever bottled. But I couldn’t gain my point. Hopkins hum’d and haw’d, and thought nobody could make it but the makers. There was no setting him right, so at last I determined to put him to the proof. I’ll tell you what, Hopkins, said I, you don’t like the trouble, or I’d soon convince you that a man who isn’t a maker can make it as well as anyone--perhaps better. You shall have a sample of mine--I’ve got a few bottles at my counting-house, and it’s only a step. Of course, Hopkins was very much obliged, and off I went. In confidence between you and me, Sir,--though I never had the pleasure of seeing you before--I wanted to introduce ginger-beer at the Queen’s Arms as a public benefit.”

“I am sure, Sir--I’m very much obliged,” stammered the drysalter, at a loss what to say. “Ginger-beer, I’ve no doubt, is very efficacious, and particularly after fruit or lobsters, for I observe you always see them at the same shops.”

“The best drink in the dog-days all to nothing,” returned W., “but ought to be amazingly well corked and wired down--and I’ll tell you why--it will get vapid and maybe worse. Well, I’d got it in my coat pocket, and was walking back, just by Bow Church, no more thinking of green silk pelisses than you are, Sir, at this moment--upon my honour I wasn’t--when something gave a pop and a splash, and I heard a female scream. I was afraid to look round and when I did, you might have knocked me down with a straw. You know, Tom (addressing me,) I’m not made of brass,--for the minute I felt more like melted lead--heavy and hot. Two full kettles seemed poured over me--one warm within, and the other cold without. You never saw such an object! There she stood, winking and gasping, and all over froth and foam, like a lady just emerged out of the sea only they don’t bathe in green silk pelisses and satin bonnets. You might have knocked me down with a hair. What I did or said at first I don’t know; I only remember that I attempted to wipe her face with my handkerchief, but she preferred her own. To make things worse, the passengers made a ring round us, as if we had been going to fight about it, and a good many of ’em set up a laugh. I would rather have been surrounded by banditti. I don’t tell a lie if I say I would gladly have been tossed out of the circle by a mad bull. How I longed to jump like a Harlequin into a twopenny post-box, or to slip down a plug like an eel!”

“Very distressing, indeed,” said the drysalter.

“I don’t think,” resumed W., “I felt as much when my poor mother died--I don’t, upon my soul! _She_ was expected for years, but the lady in green came like a thunderbolt!--When I saw the ginger-beer weltering down her, I would almost as soon have seen blood. I felt little short of a murderer. How I got her into Tweedie’s shop, Heaven knows! I suppose I pulled her in, for I cannot remember one word of persuasion. However, I got her into Tweedie’s, and had just sense enough to seat her in a chair, and to beg for a few dry cloths. To do the dear creature justice, she bore it all angelically,--but every smile, every syllable making light of her calamity, went to my heart. You don’t know my original old friend, Charles Mathews, do you, Sir?”

The drysalter signified dissent.

“No matter--his theory is right all over--it is as true as gospel!” exclaimed W., with an asseverating thump upon the table. “There _is_ an infernal, malicious, aggravating little demon, hovers up aloft about us, wherever we go, ready to magnify any mischief, and deepen every disaster. Sure I am he hovered about me! The cloths came--but as soon as I began to wipe briskly, bang again went ‘t’other bottle,’ and uncorked itself before it was called for. I shall never forget the sound! Pop, whiz, fiz, whish--ish--slish--slosh--slush--guggle, guggle, guggle: I’d rather have been at the exploding of the Dartford Powder Mills! At the first report I turned hastily round, but by so doing, I only diverted the _jet_ from the open cases on the counter, to the show-trays in the shop window, filled with Tweedie’s choicest cutlery; and as I completed the pirouette, I favoured Tweedie himself with the tail of the spout!”

“Very unpleasant, indeed,” said the drysalter, with a hard wink, as if the fussy fluid had flown in his own face.

“Unpleasant!” ejaculated W., “it was unendurable! I could have cut my throat with one of the wet razors--I could have stabbed myself with a pair of the splashed scissors! The mess was frightful--bright steel buckles, buttons, clasps, rings, all cut and polished--I saw Tweedie himself shake his head as he looked at the chains and some of the delicate articles. It wasn’t a time to stand upon words, and I believe I cursed and swore like a trooper. I know I stamped about, for I went on the lady’s foot, and that made me worse than ever. Tweedie says I raved; and I do remember I cursed myself for talking of ginger-beer, as well as Hopkins for not keeping it in his house. At last I got so rampant, that even the lady began to console me, and as she had a particularly sweet voice and manner, and Tweedie too, trying to make things comfortable, I began to hear reason: but if ever I carry ginger-beer again in my pocket, along Cheapside----”

“Till you’re a widower,” said I.

“I was coming to that, Sir,” continued W., still addressing the drysalter. “I insisted on putting the lady into a coach, and by that means obtained her address, and as common politeness dictated, I afterwards called and was well received. A new green silk dress was graciously accepted, and a white one afterwards met with the same kind indulgence, when the lady condescended to be Mrs. Walker. Our fortunes, Sir, in this world, hinge frequently on trifles. Through an explosion of pop I thus popped into a partner with a pretty fortune; but for all that, I would not have any man, like the Persian in Hajji Baba, mistake a mere accident for the custom of the country. For Cœlebs in Search of a Wife to walk up and down Cheapside with a bottle of ginger-beer in his pocket, would be Quixotic in the extreme.”

SEA SONG.

AFTER DIBDIN.

Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that--
And it finds its own level for sartin--
For it sartinly drinks very flat:--
For my part a drop of the creature
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by nature
The sea would have never been salt!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat!--

One day when I was but half sober,--
Half measures I always disdain--
I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax’d for some Water Champagne;--
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,
Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat.

THE BLACK AND WHITE QUESTION.

“The game is made, gentlemen, choose your colour.”

Amongst the many important topics which at present excite a popular interest, must be reckoned the great question whether the West Indian apprentices ought or ought not to be considered ought of their time? A subject presenting such very strong lights and shadows, necessarily produces a powerful and Rembrandt-like effect on the public mind; nevertheless, it is only lately and accidentally, that I have been induced to look critically into the colouring and handling of the picture. It is not my wont to walk wilfully on Debatable Ground; but in the present instance, I was seduced involuntarily into the dangerous confines of “all we love and all we hate,” the borderland, where party contends with party.

A few days ago, I was giving an order to a tradesman in the Strand--_not far from Warren’s_--when, to the utter surprise and disconcertment of the master of the shop, a poor African stepped in from the street, and, with an obsequious bow, made an offer of his sable services for a term of years.

It would require a far better artist than myself to do justice to the scene which ensued on so unusual an application. The late Elia, in his Essay on “Imperfect Sympathies,” has alluded to the natural repugnance of the pale faces to the dark ones. “In the negro countenance,” he says, “you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces, or rather masks, that have looked out kindly upon one in casual encounters in the streets and highways. I love what Fuller beautifully calls ‘these images of God cut in ebony.’ But I should not like to associate with them--to share my meals and my good-nights with them--because they are black.” Such a feeling is truly an imperfect sympathy, but my Strand shopkeeper evidently went beyond the essayist, and regarded “the nigger” with a positive antipathy. “A good horse,” says the proverb, “cannot be of a bad colour,” but I could not help feeling that a good man might be of an unfortunate complexion, howbeit, of a hue which wears well, washes well, does not fly, and, moreover, hides the dirt. So far from being able to endure a moor as his companion, the master tradesman could not look upon him as fit to be his subordinate. The mere possibility of such a connexion had never occurred to him, or assuredly, to the advertisement in the window for an apprentice, he would have added “a White will be preferred,” or “No African need apply.” In the meantime, it was sufficiently obvious that, even if indentured, a Hottentot would never be “treated as one of the family.” Whilst the master stared an unequivocal rejection, his wife looked over his shoulder at the applicant, with all the _physical_ expression in her countenance, of the anticipation of a black dose; the little boy took fright and tried to bolt; the baby even set its infantine face against the adoption, and the very dog barked and growled at the intruder as at a breed that was vermin. The result of such a scrutiny needs hardly to be told; the poor candidate was unanimously blackballed to his face, and recommended, unceremoniously, to make himself as scarce as a swan of the same complexion.

It will do me no credit, I fear, with our active Abolitionists, to confess, that the above little incident set me seriously thinking, for the first time, on the condition of the Negro Apprentices. In addition to my dread of becoming a _sidesman_--and there is a spirit abroad which can convert even a black suit into a party-coloured one--I am too apt to take matters upon trust, and to suppose that the name stands for the thing. Thus, in my simple belief, the outward-bound and the homeward-bound apprentices, conformed to the same or nearly the same articles; and if I thought at all of the sable ones, it was as walking abroad on Sundays, drest in all their best, only with Phœbe or Miss Diana, instead of “Sally in our Alley.” A common sense of the eternal principles of justice helped, beside, to mislead me; for who, with a drachm of philosophy, or a scruple of Christianity, could suppose, that whilst the accidents of colour are overlooked in a good horse, the moral qualities of a human being were weighed down by such skin-deep casualties as occur every day in a baker’s oven? The scene in the Strand, however, aroused certain misgivings; and for the mere repose of my mind, it became necessary to procure further information, in order to come to a settled opinion on the subject. To this end, it was desirable to obtain the sentiments of a Black Apprentice, or at least of a Black, and of an Apprentice, and fortune favoured me in the search. Having delivered my instructions to the tradesman, it occurred to me to pay an overdue visit to a decayed kinswoman in the same neighbourhood, and in whose family affairs I took a friendly interest. She happened to be at home; and after a preliminary conversation on the weather, and Mr. Murphy, and the current news of the day, the discourse turned on her son Richard, whom she had recently articled to an architect; she had doubts, she said, of his being exactly comfortable in his situation, but it was no fault of hers, as he had been placed in it at his own urgent instances, in proof whereof she handed to me the following letter:--

MY DEAR MOTHER,

This is to say I am in good health and quite comfortable, and as
happy as can be expected away from home. I like being an architect
very much. All the work I have had to do for the last fortnight,
has been to copy a drawing of a gate for a Porter’s Lodge, and to
look over portfolios of nice prints. My master is very kind, and
lets me fill up my time at over-hours how I like. I always dine
with him and Mrs. G., and have plenty to eat of whatever I prefer.
Last Sunday we had leg of lamb and asparagus, and a pigeon pie,
and a tart, besides a glass of wine afterwards. I’m allowed to sit
up to supper because I said I liked music, for Mr. G. plays on the
flute, and Mrs. G. sings to the piano. He is a very good man, and
she is a very motherly good woman; and the other night, because it
was so cold, I had a tumbler of hot elder wine. For the present I
sleep in the best spare bed till my own is got ready for me--and
when company comes I’m not sent off to it, but played last night
with the visitors till twelve o’clock, and they won all my pocket
money. I do hope and pray you won’t forget to send me some more, as
there’s another party next week. Altogether, I could not be better
off for food, or amusement, or any thing, so that I needn’t be any
longer on liking, as I like it very much, and am agreeable to be
bound as soon as you and master think proper; and I do hope you
won’t stick about the premium, as you seemed to think it a great
deal--but consider the treatment. Give my kind love to everybody,
and accept the same yourself, from, dear mother, your dutiful and
affectionate son,

RICHARD RUGGLES.

P.S.--Mr. and Mrs. G. desire their best compliments--they are
always asking about you in the most friendly way. Pray remember
what I said about the premium, as I could never be so happy
anywhere else, or make such progress in my profession.

It may be supposed that I did not read the above effusion throughout, without a smile on my countenance; but the mother gravely shook her head, and said she had now to submit to me a very different statement, whereupon with a sigh, and a reflection on the duplicity of the world in general, and of architects in particular, she placed in my hands, Protocol No. 2.

DEAR MOTHER,