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

satisfied - perfectly satisfied?" demanded he.

"Beyond my wishes, sir."

"I am not," said he shortly.

"No, sir?" exclaimed I, with surprise.

"No, Sir!" repeated he. "Those who sow should reap. I've no children - I'm an idle fellow-a drone, sir - and won't consent to consume all the honey. Don't speak, sir - read that!" and he pulled a parchment from his pocket.

It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge, Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler's son,

ANDREW MULLINS.


A RIGMAROLE. - PART I.

"De omnibus rebus."


The evening is calm - the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house, which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public - all nature, etc. - the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree - the sweet-voiced pot-boy has commenced his rounds with "early beer," and with leathern lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act
- greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood - "Baked sheeps' heads, hot!" - O! savoury morsel! - May no legislative measure ever silence this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling - may the tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep's head!

"I never sees a sheep's head, but I thinks on you," said Mrs. Spriggins, whose physiognomy was as yellow and as wrinkled as a duck's foot. Spriggins whipped his horse, for they were driving in a one-horse chaise, with two boys, and an infant in arms - Spriggins whipped his horse spitefully, for Mrs. S.'s sarcasm inspired him with a splenetic feeling; and as he durst not chastise her, the animal received the benefit of her impetus. Spriggins was a fool by nature, and selfish by disposition. Mrs. S. was a shrivelled shrew, with a "bit o' money;" - that was the bait at which he, like a hungry gudgeon, had seized, and he was hooked! The "spousals" had astonished the vulgar - the little nightingale of Twickenham would have only smiled; for has he not sweetly sung -

"There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late She finds some honest gander for her mate;"

and her union was a verification of this flowing couplet.

At different times, what different meanings the self-same words obtain. According to the reading of the new poor-law guardians, "Union," as far as regards man and wife, is explained "Separation;" or, like a ship when in distress, the "Union" is reversed! In respect of his union, Spriggins would have most relished the reading of the former! But there are paradoxes - a species of verbal puzzle - which, in the course of this ride, our amiable family of the Spriggins's experienced to their great discomfort.

Drawing up a turnpike-gate, Mrs. S. handed a ticket to the white-aproned official of the trust.

"You should have gone home the way you came out - that ticket won't do here," said the man; "so out with your coppers - three-pence."

"I don't think I've got any half-pence!" said Mr. S., fumbling in his pennyless pocket.

"Well, then, I must give you change."

"But I'm afraid I hav'nt got any silver," replied Mr. S., with a long face. - "I say, mister, cou'dn't you trust me? - I'd be wery sure to bring it to you."

But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.

"Vell, I'm blessed," exclaimed Mr. S. - and so he was - with a scolding wife and a squalling infant; "and they calls this here a trust, the fools! and there ain't no trust at all!"

And the poor animal got another vindictive cut. Oh! Mr. Martin! - thou friend of quadrupeds! - would that thou had'st been there. "It's all my eye and Betty Martin!" muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded beast he drove, and retraced the road.


A RIMAROLE - PART II.

"Acti labores sunt jucundi"


The horse is really a noble animal - I hate all rail-roads, for putting his nose out of joint - puffing, blowing, smoking, jotting - always going in a straight line: if this mania should continue, we shall soon have the whole island ruled over like a copy-book - nothing but straight lines - and sloping lines through every county in the kingdom!

Give me the green lanes and hills, when I'm inclined to diverge; and the smooth turnpike roads, when disposed to "go a-head." - "I can't bear a horse," cries Numps: now this feeling is not at all reciprocal, for every horse can bear a man. "I'm off to the Isle of Wight," says Numps: "Then you're going to Ryde at last," quoth I, "notwithstanding your hostility to horse-flesh." "Wrong!" replies he, "I'm going to Cowes." "Then you're merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!" The ninny! he does not know the delight of a canter in the green fields - except, indeed, the said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher!

My friend Rory's the boy for a horse; he and his bit o' blood are notorious at all the meetings. In fact I never saw him out of the saddle: he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur - full of anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly. I last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster
- his "bit o' blood" had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making his way to the appointed spot.

"I was in Buckinghamshire last week," said he; "a fine turn out - such a field! I got an infernal topper tho' - smashed my best tile; tell you how it was. There was a high paling - put Spitfire to it, and she took it in fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely! Thought I was brained - but we did it cleverly however - although, if ever I made a leap in the dark, that was one. I was at fault for a minute - but Spitfire was all alive, and had it all her own way: with some difficulty I got my nob out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!"

I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of sport, we parted.

Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime - so true is it - that

"The pleasure we delight in physic's pain;"

his days pass lightly, and all his years are leap years!

He has lately inherited a considerable property, accumulated by a miserly uncle, and has most appropriately purchased an estate in one of the Ridings of Yorkshire!

With all his love for field-sports, however, he is no better "the better," says he, "is often the worse; and I've no notion of losing my acres in gambling; besides, my chief aim being to be considered a good horseman, I should be a consummate fool, if, by my own folly, I lost my seat!"


A RIGMAROLE - PART III.

"Oderunt hilarem tristes."


The sad only hate a joke. Now, my friend Rory is in no sense a sad fellow, and he loves a joke exceedingly. His anecdotes of the turf are all racy; nor do those of the field less deserve the meed of praise! Lord F was a dandy sportsman, and the butt of the regulars. He was described by Rory as a "walkingstick" - slender, but very "knobby" - with a pair of mustaches and an eye-glass. Having lost the scent, he rode one day slick into a gardener's ground, when his prad rammed his hind-legs into a brace of hand-glasses, and his fore-legs into a tulip-bed. The horticulturist and the haughty aristocrat - how different were their feelings - the cucumber coolness of the 'nil admirari' of the one was ludicrously contrasted with the indignation of the astonished cultivator of the soil. "Have you seen the hounds this way?" demanded Lord F , deliberately viewing him through his glass.

"Hounds!" bitterly repeated the gardener, clenching his fist. "Dogs, I mean," continued Lord F ; "you know what a pack of hounds are - don't you?"

"I know what a puppy is," retorted the man; "and if so be you don't budge, I'll spile your sport. But, first and foremost, you must lug out for the damage you have done - you're a trespasser."

"I'm a sportsman, fellow - what d'ye mean?"

"Then sport the blunt," replied the gardener; and, closing his gates, took Lord F prisoner: nor did he set him free till he had reimbursed him for the mischief he had done.

This was just; and however illegal were the means, I applauded them for the end.

Our friend B d, that incorrigible punster, said, "that his horse had put his foot in - and he had paid his footing,"

B d, by the bye, is a nonpareil; whether horses, guns, or dogs, he is always "at home:" and even in yachting, (as he truly boasts) he is never "at sea." Riding with him one day in an omnibus, I praised the convenience of the vehicle; "An excellent vehicle," said he, "for punning;" - which he presently proved, for a dowager having flopped into one of the seats, declared that she "never rid vithout fear in any of them omnibus things."

"What is she talking about?" said I.

"De omnibus rebus," replied he, - "truly she talks like the first lady of the land; but, as far as I can see, she possesses neither the carriage nor the manners!"

"Can you read the motto on the Conductor's button?" I demanded. "No;" he replied, "but I think nothing would be more appropriate to his calling than the monkish phrase - 'pro omnibus curo!'"

At this juncture a jolt, followed by a crash, announced that we had lost a wheel. The Dowager shrieked. "We shall all be killed," cried she; "On'y to think of meeting vun's death in a common omnibus!"

"Mors communis omnibus!" whispered B d, and

I had written thus far, when spit - spit - splutter - plop! - my end of candle slipped into the blacking bottle in which it was "sustained," and I was left to admire - the stars of night, and to observe that "Charles's wain was over the chimney;" so I threw down my pen - and, as the house was a-bed - and I am naturally of a "retiring" disposition, I sought my pallet - dreaming of literary fame! - although, in the matter of what might be in store for me, I was completely in the dark!


AN INTERCEPTED LETTER FROM DICK SLAMMER TO HIS FRIEND SAM FLYKE.


eppin-toosday

my dear sam

i've rote this ere for to let you no i'm in jolly good health and harty as a brick - and hope my tulip as your as vellread this to sal who can't do the