The Sketches of Seymour by Robert Seymour (pdf to ebook reader txt) 📕

unconscious Tom approaching, lost in the profundity of thought, and though not in love, ruminating on every miss he had made in that day's bootless trudge.

He almost, touched the stile before his affrighted gaze encountered this 'goblin damned.'

His short crop bristled up, assuming the stiffness of a penetrating hair brush.

For an instant his whole frame appeared petrified, and the tide and current of his life frozen up in thick-ribbed ice.

Jim Smith, meanwhile, holding out a white packet at arm's length, exclaimed in a sepulchral tone,

"D'ye want a pound of magic shot?"


THE PRACTICAL JOKER. - No. II.


Awfully ponderous as the words struck upon the tightened drum of Tom's auriculars, they still tended to arouse his fainting spirit.

"Mer-mer-mercy on us!" ejaculated he, and shrank back a pace or two, still keeping his dilating optics fixed upon the horrible spectre.

"D'ye want a pound of magic shot?" repeated Jim Smith.

"Mur-mur-der!" screamed Tom; and, mechanically raising his gun for action of some kind appeared absolutely necessary to keep life within him, he aimed at the Tempter, trembling in every joint.

Jim, who had as usual never calculated upon such a turning of the tables, threw off his head - his assumed one, of course, and, leaping from the stile, cried aloud -

"Oh! Tom, don't shoot - don't shoot! - it's only me - Jim Smith!"

Down dropped the gun from the sportsman's grasp.

"Oh! you fool! you - you - considerable fool!" cried he, supporting himself on a neighbouring hawthorn, which very kindly and considerately lent him an arm on the occasion. "It's a great mercy - a very great mercy, Jim - as we wasn't both killed! - another minute, only another minute, and - but it won't bear thinking on."

"Forgive me, Tom," said the penitent joker; "I never was so near a corpse afore. If I didn't think the shots were clean through me, and that's flat."

"Sich jokes," said Tom, "is onpardonable, and you must be mad."

"I confess I'm out of my head, Tom," said Jim, who was dangling the huge mask in his hand, and fast recovering from the effects of his fright. "Depend on it, I won't put myself in such a perdicament again, Tom. No, no - no more playing the devil; for, egad! you had liked to have played the devil with me."

"A joke's a joke," sagely remarked Tom, picking up his hat and fowling piece.

"True!" replied Smith; "but, I think, after all, I had the greatest cause for being in a fright. You had the best chance, at any rate; for I could not have harmed you, whereas you might have made a riddle of me."

"Stay, there!" answered Tom; "I can tell you, you had as little cause for fear as I had, you come to that; for the truth is, the deuce a bit of powder or shot either was there in the piece!"

"You don't say so!" said Jim, evidently disappointed and chop-fallen at this discovery of his groundless fears. "Well, I only wish I'd known it, that's all!" - then, cogitating inwardly for a minute, he continued - "but, I say, Tom, you won't mention this little fright of yours?"

"No; but I'll mention the great fright - of Jim Smith - rely upon it," said Tom, firmly; and he kept his word so faithfully, that the next day the whole story was circulated, with many ingenious additions, to the great annoyance of the practical joker.


FISHING FOR WHITING AT MARGATE.

"Here we go up - up - up; And here we go down - down - down."


"Variety," as Cowper says, "is the very spice of life" - and certainly, at Margate, there is enough, in all conscience, to delight the most fastidious of pleasure-hunters.

There sailors ply for passengers for a trip in their pleasure boats, setting forth all the tempting delights of a fine breeze - and woe-betide the unfortunate cockney who gets in the clutches of a pair of plyers of this sort, for he becomes as fixed as if he were actually in a vice, frequently making a virtue of necessity, and stepping on board, when he had much better stroll on land.

Away he goes, on the wings of the wind, like - a gull! Should he be a knave, it may probably be of infinite service to society, for he is likely ever afterwards to forswear craft of any kind!

Donkies too abound, as they do in most watering placesand, oh! what a many asses have we seen mounted, trotting along the beach and cliffs!

The insinuating address of the boatmen is, however, irresistible; and if they cannot induce you to make a sail to catch the wind, they will set forth, in all the glowing colors of a dying dolphin, the pleasurable sport of catching fish!

They tell you of a gentleman, who, "the other day, pulled up, in a single hour, I don't know how many fish, weighing I don't know how much." And thus baited, some unwise gentleman unfortunately nibbles, and he is caught. A bargain is struck, 'the boat is on the shore,' the lines and hooks are displayed, and the victim steps in, scarcely conscious of what he is about, but full well knowing that he is going to sea!

They put out to sea, and casting their baited hooks, the experienced fisherman soon pulls up a fine lively whiting.

"Ecod!" exclaims the cockney, with dilated optics, "this is fine - why that 'ere fish is worth a matter of a shilling in London - Do tell me how you cotched him."

"With a hook!" replied the boatman.

"To be sure you did - but why did'nt he bite mine?"

"'Cause he came t'other side, I s'pose."

"Vell, let me try that side then," cries the tyro, and carefully changes his position. - "Dear me, this here boat o'yourn wobbles about rayther, mister."

"Nothing, sir, at all; it's only the motion of the water."

"I don't like it, tho'; I can tell you, it makes me feel all over somehow."

"It will go off, sir, in time; there's another," and he pulls in another wriggling fish, and casts him at the bottom of the boat. "Well, that's plaguey tiresome, any how - two! and I've cotched nothin' yet - how do you do it?"

"Just so - throw in your hook, and bide a bit - and you'll be sure, sir, to feel when there's any thing on your hook; don't you feel any thing yet?"

"Why, yes, I feels werry unwell!" cries the landsman; and, bringing up his hook and bait, requests the good-natured boatman to pull for shore, 'like vinkin,' - which request; the obliging fellow immediately complies with, having agreeably fished at the expense of his fare; and, landing his whitings and the flat, laughs in his sleeve at the qualms of his customer.

But there is always an abundant crop of such fools as he, who pretend to dabble in a science, in utter ignorance of the elements; while, like Jason of old, the wily boatman finds a sheep with a golden fleece, - although his brains are always too much on the alert to be what is technically termed - wool-gathering. Some people are desirous of seeing every thing; and many landsmen have yet to learn, that they may see a deal, without being a-board!


ANDREW MULLINS. - AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


CHAPTER I. - Introductory.

"Let the neighbors smell ve has something respectable for once."


There is certainly no style of writing requiring so much modest assurance as autobiography; a position which, I am confident, neither Lord Cherbury, nor Vidocq, or any other mortal blessed with an equal developement of the organ of self-esteem, can or could deny.

HOME, ("sweet home,") - in his Douglas - gives, perhaps, one of the most concise and concentrated specimens extant, of this species of composition. With what an imposing air does his youthful hero blow his own trumpet in those well-known lines, commencing,

"My name is Norval."

Although a mere cock-boat in comparison with these first-rates, I think I may safely follow in their wake. Should the critics, however, condescend to carp at me for likening myself to a cock-boat, I have no objection, if by a twist of their ingenuity, they can prove me to be a little funny!

Economy was one of the most prominent characteristics of the family from which I sprang. Now, some authors would weary their indulgent readers with a flatulent chapter upon the moral beauty of this virtue; but as my first wish is to win favor by my candor, I must honestly confess, that necessity was the parent of this lean attenuated offspring! - For, alas!

My 'angel mother,' (as Anna Maria phrases it,) was a woman of ten thousand, for she dwelt in one of the most populous districts of London! My sire, was of the most noble order of St. Crispin; and though he had many faults, was continually mending - being the most eminent cobbler in the neighbourhood.

Even in the outset of their connubial partnership, they started under the most favorable auspices - for, whereas other couples marry for love or money, they got married for 'nothing' taking advantage of the annual gratuitous splicings performed at Shoreditch Church on one sunshiny Easter Monday.

In less than three years my amiable mother presented her lord and master with as many interesting pledges of their affection - I was the cobbler's last - and

'Though last, not least, in their dear love.'


CHAPTER II. - Our Lodging.


Our precarious means were too small to permit us to rent a house, we therefore rented one large room, which served us for -

"Parlor and kitchen and all!"

in the uppermost story of a house, containing about a dozen families.

This 'airy' apartment was situated in a narrow alley of great thoroughfare, in the heart of the great metropolis.

The lower part of this domicile was occupied by one James, who did 'porter's work,' while his wife superintended the trade of a miscellaneous store, called a green-grocer's; although the stock comprised, besides a respectable skew of cabbages, carrots, lettuces, and other things in season, a barrel of small beer, a side of bacon, a few red herrings, a black looking can of 'new milk,' and those less perishable articles, Warren's blacking, and Flanders' bricks; while the window was graced with a few samples of common confectionary, celebrated under the sweet names of lollypops, Buonaparte's ribs, and bulls'-eyes.

In one pane, by permission, was placed the sign board of my honored parent, informing the reading public, that

'Repairs were neatly executed!'

In my mind's eye how distinctly do I behold that humble shop in all the greenness and beauty of its Saturday morning's display.

Nor can I ever forget the kind dumpy motherly Mrs. James, who so often patted my curly head, and presented me with a welcome slice of bread and butter and a drink of milk, invariably repeating in her homely phrase, "a child and a chicken is al'ays a pickin'" - and declaring her belief, that the 'brat' got scarcely enough to "keep life and soul together" - the real truth of which my craving stomach inwardly testified.

Talk of the charities of the wealthy, they are as 'airy nothings' in the scale, compared with the unostentatious sympathy