Book: The Sketches of Seymour (Illustrated), Part 4.
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Robert Seymour >> The Sketches of Seymour (Illustrated), Part 4.
"Tis quite a fag, this 'chay' to drag--the babbies too is cross,
And Mrs. S____ is riled.
'Tis quite a bore; the task is more--more fitt'rer for an horse;
And vith the heat I'm briled!
"No, jaunts adoo! I'll none o' you!"--and soon they reach'd their home,
Wet through and discontent--
"Sure sich a day, I needs must say," exclaim'd his loving spouse,
"Afore I never spent!"
HAMMERING
"Beside a meandering stream
There sat an old gentleman fat;
On the top of his head was his wig,
On the top of his wig was his hat."
I once followed a venerable gentleman along the banks of a mill-stream,
armed at all points with piscatorial paraphernalia, looking out for some
appropriate spot, with all the coolness of a Spanish inquisitor,
displaying his various instruments of refined torture. He at last
perched himself near the troubled waters, close to the huge revolving
wheel, and threw in his float, which danced upon the mimic waves, and
bobbed up and down, as if preparing for a reel. Patiently he sat; as
motionless and unfeeling as a block. I placed myself under cover of an
adjoining hedge, and watched him for the space of half an hour; but he
pulled up nothing but his baited hook;--what his bait was, I know not;
but I suppose, from the vicinity, he was fishing for a "miller's thumb."
Presently, two mealy-mouthed men, from the mill, made their appearance,
cautiously creeping behind him.
I drew myself up in the shadow of the luxuriant quickset to observe their
notions.
A paling in the rear offered the rogues an effectual concealment in case
the angler should turn.
Close to his seat ran some wood-work, upon which they quietly drew the
broad tails of his coat, and driving in a couple of tenpenny nails, left
the unconscious old gentleman a perfect fixture; to be taken at a
valuation, I suppose, part of his personal property being already
"brought to the hammer!" the clattering clamour of the wheel precluding
him from hearing the careful, but no less effectual taps. I certainly
enjoyed the trick, and longed to see the ridiculous issue; but he was so
intent upon his sport--so fixed that he did not discover the nature of
his real attachment while I remained.
Doubtless if he were of a quick and sudden temperament, a snatch of his
humour rent his broad cloth, and he returned home with a woful tail, and
slept not--for his nap was irreparably destroyed!
I hate all twaddle; but when I see an old fool, with rod and line,
"Sitting like patience on a monument,"
and selling the remnant of his life below cost price in the pursuit of
angling,--that "art of ingeniously tormenting,"--a feeling,
"More in sorrow than in anger,"
is excited at his profitless inhumanity.
Vainly do all the disciples of honest Izaak Walton discourse, in
eulogistic strains, of the pleasure of the sport. I can imagine neither
pleasure nor sport derivable from the infliction of pain upon the meanest
thing endowed with life.
This may be deemed Brahminical, but I doubt that man's humanity who can
indulge in the cruel recreation and murder while he smiles.
"What, heretical sentiments," exclaims some brother of the angle, (now I
am an angle, but no angler.) "This fellow hath never trudged at early
dawn along the verdant banks of the 'sedgy lea,' and drunk in the dewy
freshness of the morning air. His lines have never fallen in pleasant
places. He has never performed a pilgrimage to Waltham Cross. He is, in
truth, one of those vulgar minds who take more delight in the simple than
the--gentle!--and every line of his deserves a rod!"
PRACTICE.
"Sweet is the breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds."---MILTON.
"Well, this is a morning!" emphatically exclaimed a stripling, with a
mouth and eyes formed by Nature of that peculiar width and power of
distension, so admirably calculated for the expression of stupid wonder
or surprise; while his companion, elevating his nasal organ and
projecting his chin, sniffed the fresh morning breeze, as they trudged
through the dewy meadows, and declared that it was exactly for all the
world similar-like to reading Thomson's Seasons! In which apt and
appropriate simile the other concurred.
"Tom's a good fellow to lend us his gun," continued he--"I only hope it
ain't given to tricking, that's all. I say, Sugarlips, keep your powder
dry."
"Leave me alone for that," replied Sugarlips; "I know a thing or two,
although this is the first time that ever I have been out. What a
scuffling the birds do make"--added he, peeping into the cage which they
had, as a precautionary measure, stocked with sparrows, in order that
they might not be disappointed in their sport--"How they long to be on
the wing!"
"I'll wing 'em, presently!" cried his comrade, with a vaunting air--" and
look if here ain't the very identical spot for a display of my skill.
Pick out one of the best and biggest, and tie up a-top of yonder stile,
and you shall soon have a specimen of my execution." Sugarlips quickly
did his bidding.
"Now--come forward and stand back! What do ye think o' that, ey?" said
the sportsman--levelling his gun, throwing back his head, closing his
sinister ocular, and stretching out his legs after the manner of the
Colossus of Rhodes--"Don't you admire my style?"
"Excellent!" said Sugarlips--"But I think I could hit it."
"What?"
"Why, the stile to be sure."
"Keep quiet, can't you--Now for it--" and, trembling with eagerness, his
hand pulled the trigger, but no report followed. "The deuce is in the
gun," cried he, lowering it, and examining the lock; "What can ail it?"
"Why, I'll be shot if that ain't prime," exclaimed Sugarlips, laughing
outright.
"What do you mean?"
"I've only forgot the priming--that's all."
"There's a pretty fellow, you are, for a sportsman."
"Well, it's no matter as it happens; for, though 'Time and tide wait for
no man,' a sparrow tied must, you know. There! that will do."
"Sure you put the shot in now?"
"If you put the shot into Dicky as surely, he'll never peck groundsel
again, depend on it."
Again the "murderous tube" was levelled; Sugarlips backed against an
adjoining wall, with a nervous adhesiveness that evidently proved him
less fearful of a little mortar than a great gun!
"That's right; out of the way, Sugarlips; I am sure I shall hit him this
time." And no sooner had he uttered this self-congratulatory assurance
(alas! not life-assurance!) than a report (most injurious to the innocent
cock-sparrow) was heard in the neighbourhood!
"Murder!--mur-der!" roared a stentorian voice, which made the criniferous
coverings of their craniums stand on end
"Like quills upon the fretful porcupine."
In an instant the sportsman let fall his gun, and Sugarlips ran
affrighted towards the stile. He found it really "vox et preterea
nihil;" for a few feathers of the bird alone were visible: he had been
blown to nothing; and, peeping cautiously round the angle of the wall, he
beheld a portly gentleman in black running along with the unwieldy gait
of a chased elephant.
"Old Flank'em, of the Finishing Academy, by jingo!" exclaimed Sugarlips.
"It's a mercy we didn't finish him! Why, he must actually have been on
the point of turning the corner. I think we had better be off; for, if
the old dominie catches us, he will certainly liberate our sparrows, and
--put us in the cage!"
But, where's the spoil?"
"Spoil, indeed!" cried Sugarlips; "you've spoiled him nicely. I've an
idea, Tom, you were too near, as the spendthrift nephew said of his
miserly uncle. If you can't get an aim at a greater distance, you'd
never get a name as a long shot--that's my mind."
PRECEPT.
Uncle Samson was a six-bottle man. His capacity was certainly great,
whatever might be said of his intellect; for I have seen him rise without
the least appearance of elevation, after having swallowed the customary
half dozen. He laughed to scorn all modern potations of wishy-washy
French and Rhine wines--deeming them unfit for the palate of a true-born
Englishman. Port, Sherry, and Madeira were his only tipple--the rest, he
would assert, were only fit for finger-glasses!
--He was of a bulky figure, indeed a perfect Magnum among men, with a
very apoplectic brevity of neck, and a logwood complexion,--and though a
staunch Church-of-England-man, he might have been mistaken, from his
predilection for the Port, to be a true Mussulman. To hear him discourse
upon the age of his wines--the 'pinhole,' the 'crust,' the 'bees'-wing,'
etc., was perfectly edifying--and every man who could not imbibe the
prescribed quantum, became his butt. To temperance and tea-total
societies he attributed the rapid growth of radicalism and dissent.
"Water," he would say, with a sort of hydrophobic shudder, "is only a fit
beverage for asses!"--"To say a man could drink like a fish, was once the
greatest encomium that a bon-vivant could bestow upon a brother
Bacchanalian--but, alas! in this matter-of-fact and degenerate age, men
do so literally--washing their gills with unadulterated water!--Dropsy
and water on the chest must be the infallible result! If such an order
of things continue, all the puppies in the kingdom, who would perhaps
have become jolly dogs in their time, will be drowned! Yes, they'll
inevitably founder, like a water-logged vessel, in sight of port. These
water-drinkers will not have a long reign. They would feign persuade us
that 'Truth lies at the bottom of a well,'--lies, indeed! I tell you
Horace knew better, and that his assertion of 'There is truth in wine,'
was founded on experience--his draughts had no water-mark in 'em, depend
on it."
He was a great buyer of choice "Pieces," and his cellar contained one of
the best stocks in the kingdom, both in the wood and bottle. Poor
Uncle!--he has now been some years "in the wood" himself, and snugly
stowed in the family vault!
Having been attacked with a severe cold, he was compelled to call in the
Doctor, who sent him a sudorific in three Lilliputian bottles; but
although he received the advice of his medical friend, he followed
Shakspeare's,
"Throw physic to the dogs,"
and prescribed for himself a bowl of wine-whey as a febrifuge. His
housekeeper remonstrated, but he would have his 'whey,' and he died!
leaving a handsome fortune, and two good-looking nephews to follow him to
the grave.
Myself and Cousin (the two nephews aforesaid) were vast favourites with
the old gentleman, and strenuously did he endeavour to initiate us in the
art of drinking, recounting the feats of his youth, and his
drinking-bouts with my father, adding, with a smile, "But you'll never be
a par with, your Uncle, Ned, till you can carry the six bottles under
your waistcoat."
My head was certainly stronger than my Cousin's; he went as far as the
third bottle--the next drop was on the floor! Now I did once manage the
fourth bottle--but then--I must confess I was obliged to give it up!
"Young men," would my Uncle say, "should practice 'sans intermission,'
until they can drink four bottles without being flustered, then they will
be sober people; for it won't be easy to make them tipsy--a drunken man I
abominate!"
EXAMPLE.
"You see I make no splash!"
There are some individuals so inflated with self-sufficiency, and
entertain such an overweaning opinion of their skill in all matters, that
they must needs have a finger in every pie.
Perhaps a finer specimen than old V____, of this genius of egotistic,
meddling mortals, never existed. He was a man well-to-do in the world,
and possessed not only a large fortune, but a large family.
He had an idea that no man was better qualified to bring up his children
in the way they should go; and eternally plagued the obsequious tutors of
his sons with his novel mode of instilling the rudiments of the Latin
tongue, although he knew not a word of the language; and the obedient
mistresses of his daughters with his short road to attaining a perfection
in playing the piano-forte, without knowing a note of the gamut: but what
could they say; why, nothing more or less than they were 'astonished;'
which was vague enough to be as true as it was flattering.
And then he was so universally clever, that he even interfered in the
culinary department of his household, instructing the red-elbowed,
greasy, grinning Cook, in the sublime art of drawing, stuffing, and
roasting a goose, for which she certainly did not fail to roast the goose
(her master) when she escaped to the regions below.
Even his medical attendant was compelled to acknowledge the efficacy of
his domestic prescriptions of water-gruel and honey in catarrhs, and
roasted onions in ear-aches, and sundry other simple appliances; and, in
fine, found himself, on most occasions, rather a 'consulting surgeon,'
than an apothecary, for he was compelled to yield to the man who had
studied Buchan's and Graham's Domestic Medicine. And the only
consolation he derived from his yielding affability, were the long bills
occasioned by the mistakes of this domestic quack, who was continually
running into errors, which required all his skill to repair. Nay, his
wife's mantua-maker did not escape his tormenting and impertinent advice;
for he pretended to a profound knowledge in all the modes, from the time
of Elizabeth to Victoria, and deemed his judgment in frills, flounces,
and corsages, as undeniable and infallible.
Of course the sempstress flattered his taste; for his wife, poor soul!
she soon had tact enough to discover, had no voice in the business.
His eldest son, George, had a notion that he could angle. Old V____
immediately read himself up in Walton, and soon convinced--himself, that
he was perfect in that line, and quite capable of teaching the whole art
and mystery.
"See, George," said he, when they had arrived at a convenient spot for
their first attempt, "this is the way to handle your tackle; drop it
gently into the water,--so!" and, twirling the line aloft, he hooked the
branches of an overhanging tree!--sagaciously adding, "You see I make no
splash! and hold your rod in this manner!"
George was too much afraid of his imperious father, to point out his
error, and old V____ consequently stood in the broiling sun for a full
quarter of an hour, before he discovered that he had caught a birch
instead of a perch!
A MUSICAL FESTIVAL.
Matter-of-fact people read the story of Orpheus, and imagine that his
"charming rocks" and "soothing savage beasts," is a mere fabulous
invention. No such thing: it is undoubtedly founded on fact. Nay, we
could quote a thousand modern instances of the power of music quite as
astonishing.
One most true and extraordinary occurrence will suffice to establish the
truth of our proposition beyond a doubt. Molly Scraggs was a cook in a
first-rate family, in the most aristocratic quarter of the metropolis.
The master and mistress were abroad, and Molly had nothing to do but to
indulge her thoughts; and, buried as she was in the pleasant gloom and
quiet of an underground kitchen, nothing could possibly be more
favourable to their developement. She was moreover exceedingly plump,
tender, and sentimental, and had had a lover, who had proved false to his
vows.
In this eligible situation and temper for receiving soft impressions, she
sat negligently rocking herself in her chair, and polishing the lid of a
copper saucepan! when the sweet, mellifluous strains of an itinerant band
struck gently upon the drum of her ear. "Wapping Old Stairs" was
distinctly recognized, and she mentally repeated the words so applicable
to her bereaved situation.
"Your Molly has never proved false she declares," 'till the tears
literally gushed from her "blue, blue orbs," and trickled down her plump
and ruddy cheeks; but scarcely had she plunged into the very depths of
the pathos induced by the moving air, which threatened to throw her into
a gentle swoon, or kicking hysterics, when her spirit was aroused by the
sudden change of the melancholy ditty, to the rampant and lively tune,
with the popular burden of, "Turn about and wheel about, and jump Jim
Crow!"
This certainly excited her feelings; but, strange to say, it made her
leap from her chair, exasperated, as it were, by the sudden revulsion,
and rush into the area.
"Don't, for goodness sake, play that horrid 'chune,'" said Molly,
emphatically addressing the minstrels.
The 'fiddle' immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching
the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked
the cook to name any other tune she preferred.
"Play us," said she, "'Oh! no, we never mention her,' or summat o' that
sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally."
"Yes, marm," replied the 'fiddle,' obsequiously; and, whispering the
'harp' and 'bass,' they played the air to her heart's content.
In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the
kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a
gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them
to the musicians.
"Thanky'e, marm, I'm sure," said the 'bass,' sticking his teeth into the
pie-crust.
"The mutton 's rayther fat, but it 's sweet, at any rate--"
"Yes, marm," said the 'fiddle;' "it's too fat for your stomach, I'm sure,
marm;" and consigned it to his green-baize fiddle-case.
"Now," said Molly,--"play us, 'Drink to me only,' and I'll draw you a mug
o' table-ale."
"You're vastly kind," said the 'fiddle;' "it's a pleasure to play anythink
for you, marm, you've sich taste;" and then turning to his comrades, he
added, with a smile--"By goles! if she ain't the woppingest cretur as
ever I set eyes on--"
The tune required was played, and the promised ale discussed. The
'bass,' with a feeling of gratitude, voted that they should give a
parting air unsolicited.
"Vot shall it be?" demanded the 'harp.'
"Vy, considering of her size," replied the 'fiddle,' "I thinks as nothink
couldn't be more appropriate than
'Farewell to the mountain!'"
and, striking up, they played the proposed song, marching on well pleased
with the unexpected appreciation of their musical talent by the kind, and
munificent Molly Scraggs!
THE EATING HOUSE.
From twelve o'clock until four, the eating houses of the City are crammed
with hungry clerks.
Bills of fare have not yet been introduced,--the more's the pity; but, in
lieu thereof, you are no sooner seated in one of the snug inviting little
settles, with a table laid for four or six, spread with a snowy cloth,
still bearing the fresh quadrangular marks impressed by the mangle, and
rather damp, than the dapper, ubiquitous waiter, napkin in hand, stands
before you, and rapidly runs over a detailed account of the tempting
viands all smoking hot, and ready to be served up.
"Beef, boiled and roast; veal and ham; line of pork, roast; leg boiled,
with pease pudding; cutlets, chops and steaks, greens, taters, and
pease," etc. etc.
Some are fastidious, and hesitate; the waiter, whose eyes are 'all about
him,' leaves you to meditate and decide, while he hastens to inform a new
arrival, and mechanically repeats his catalogue of dainties; and, bawling
out at the top of his voice, "One roast beaf and one taters," you echo
his words, and he straightway reports your wishes in the same voice and
manner to the invisible purveyors below, and ten to one but you get a
piece of boiled fat to eke out your roast meat.
In some houses, new and stale bread, at discretion, are provided; and
many a stripling, lean and hungry as a greyhound, with a large appetite
and a small purse, calls for a small plate, without vegetables, and fills
up the craving crannies with an immoderate proportion of the staff of
life, while the reckoning simply stands, "one small plate 6d., one bread
1d., one waiter 1d.;" and at this economical price satisfies the demands
of his young appetite.
But still, cheap as this appears, he pays it the aggregate, for there are
frequently 500 or 600 diners daily at these Establishments; and the
waiter, who generally purchases his place, and provides glass, cloths,
etc. not only makes a 'good thing of it,' but frequently accumulates
sufficient to set up on his own account, in which case, he is almost sure
of being followed by the regular customers.
For he is universally so obliging, and possesses such a memory, and an
aptness in discovering the various tastes of his visitors, that he seldom
fails in making most of the every-day feeders his fast friends.
"Tom, bring me a small plate of boiled beef and potatoes," cries one of
his regulars. Placing his hand upon the table-cloth; and knocking off
the crumbs with his napkin, he bends to the gentleman, and in a small.
confidential voice informs him,
"The beef won't do for you, Sir,--it's too low, it's bin in cut a hour.
Fine ribs o' lamb, jist up."
"That will do, Tom," says the gratified customer.
"Grass or spinach, Sir? fine 'grass,'--first this season."
"Bring it, and quick, Tom," replies the gentleman, pleased with the
assiduous care he takes in not permitting him to have an indifferent cut
of a half cold joint.
The most extraordinary part of the business is, the ready manner in which
he 'casts up' all you have eaten, takes the reckoning, and then is off
again in a twinkling.
A stranger, and one unaccustomed to feed in public, is recognised in a
moment by his uneasy movements. He generally slinks into the nearest
vacant seat, and is evidently taken aback by the apparently abrupt and
rapid annunciation of the voluble and active waiter, and, in the hurry
and confusion, very frequently decides upon the dish least pleasant to
his palate.
A respectable gentleman of the old school, of a mild and reverend
appearance, and a lean and hungry figure, once dropped into a settle
where we were discussing a rump steak and a shallot, tender as an infant,
and fragrant as a flower garden! Tom pounced upon him in a moment, and
uttered the mystic roll. The worthy senior was evidently confused and
startled, but necessity so far overcame his diffidence that he softly
said,
"A small portion of veal and ham, well done."
Tom, whirled round, continuing the application of his eternal napkin to a
tumbler which he was polishing, bawled out in a stentorian voice,
"Plate o' weal, an' dam well done!"
We shall never sponge from the slate of our memory the utter astonishment
expressed in the bland countenance of the startled old gentleman at this
peculiar echo of his wishes.
SCENE X.(b)
"This is a werry lonely spot, Sir; I wonder you ar'n't afeard of being
robbed."
Job Timmins was a tailor bold,
And well he knew his trade,
And though he was no fighting man
Had often dress'd a blade!
Quoth he, one day--"I have not had
A holiday for years,
So I'm resolv'd to go and fish,
And cut for once the shears."
So donning quick his Sunday's suit,
He took both rod and line,
And bait for fish--and prog for one,
And eke a flask of wine.
For he was one who loved to live,
And said--"Where'er I roam
I like to feed--and though abroad,
To make myself at home."
Beneath a shady grove of trees
He sat him down to fish,
And having got a cover, he
Long'd much to get a dish.
He cast his line, and watch'd his float,
Slow gliding down the tide;
He saw it sink! he drew it up,
And lo! a fish he spied.
He took the struggling gudgeon off,
And cried--"I likes his looks,
I wish he'd live--but fishes die
Soon as they're--off the hooks!"
At last a dozen more he drew--
(Fine-drawing 'twas to him!)
But day past by--and twilight came,
All objects soon grew dim.
"One more!" he cried, "and then I'll pack,
And homeward trot to sup,"--
But as he spoke, he heard a tread,
Which caused him to look up.
Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed
Upon the stranger's face;
For cut purse! robber! all too plain,
His eye could therein trace.
"Them's werry handsome boots o' yourn,"
The ruffian smiling cried,
"Jist draw your trotters out--my pal--
And we'll swop tiles, besides."
"That coat too, is a pretty fit--
Don't tremble so--for I
Von't rob you of a single fish,
I've other fish to fry."
Poor Timmins was obliged to yield
Hat, coat, and boots--in short
He was completely stripp'd--and paid
Most dearly for his "sport."
And as he homeward went, he sigh'd--
"Farewell to stream and brook;
O! yes, they'll catch me there again
A fishing--with a hook!"
GONE!
Along the banks, at early dawn,
Trudged Nobbs and Nobbs's son,
With rod and line, resolved that day
Great fishes should be won.
At last they came unto a bridge,
Cried Nobbs, "Oh! this is fine!"
And feeling sure 'twould answer well,
He dropp'd the stream a line.
"We cannot find a fitter place,
If twenty miles we march;
Its very look has fix'd my choice,
So knowing and--so arch!"
He baited and he cast his line,
When soon, to his delight,
He saw his float bob up and down,
And lo! he had a bite!
"A gudgeon, Tom, I think it is!"
Cried Nobbs, "Here, take the prize;
It weighs a pound--in its own scales,
I'm quite sure by its size."
He cast again his baited hook,
And drew another up!
And cried, "We are in luck to-day,
How glorious we shall sup!"