Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

Tweasle's injuries were rather painful than dangerous: in a few days he was convalescent, and was beginning to grow valiant in his descriptions of his midnight mishaps, when the following hand-bill was submitted to his notice.

"Whereas a valuable male donkey, the property of Stephen Hedges, was on the night of the 6th of May last maliciously shot at and killed by some person or persons unknown; this is to give notice, that whoever will render such information as shall lead to the conviction of the offender or offenders, shall receive Five Pounds reward."

For some time after reading this, Tweasle appeared full of thought, when he surprised his family by a sudden resolution to send Stephen Hedges five pounds; nor could any remonstrance on the part of his wife change his charitable purpose. No one could account for this: in pence the late tobacconist had always been a pattern of benevolence; but to give pounds was not in the ordinary scale of his charity. None could assign a reason for so boundless a beneficence, more than they could comprehend why Tweasle should, whenever the subject was mentioned, expatiate with so much feeling on "What the poor ass must have suffered!"

TRANSLATION FROM UHLAND

THE DREAMIn a garden fair were roamingTwo lovers hand in hand;Two pale and shadowy creatures,They sat in that flowery land.On the lips they kiss'd each other,On the cheeks so full and smooth;They were lock'd in close embracings,They were blithe with the flush of youth.Two bells were tolling sadly, —The dream has pass'd away;She in the narrow cloister,He in a dungeon lay.

FAMILY STORIES, No. VII

PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"FYTTE I"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce,As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,"You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!Is this the way, youWretch, every day youTreat her who vow'd to love and obey you?Out all night!Me in a fright;Staggering home as it's just getting light!You intoxified brute! you insensible block!Look at the Clock! – Do. – Look at the Clock!"Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes:A face like a ferretBetoken'd her spirit:To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.Now David PryceHad one darling vice;Remarkably partial to anything nice,Nought that was good to him came amiss,Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!Especially ale —If it was not too staleI really believe he'd have emptied a pail;Not that in WalesThey talk of their Ales;To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.That particular day,As I've heard people say,Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,The whole afternoon at the Goat in Boots,With a couple more soakers,Thoroughbred smokers,Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;And, long after day had drawn to a close,And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;"While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!What have we with day to do?Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!"At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,Old "Goat-in-Boots" shew'd them the door;And then came that knock,And the sensible shockDavid felt when his wife cried, "Look at the ClockFor the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!This self-same Clock had long been a boneOf contention between this Darby and Joan;And often among their pother and rout,When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,Pryce would drop a cool hint,With an ominous squintAt its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."That horrid word "Spout"No sooner came out,Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,And with scorn on her lip,And a hand on each hip,"Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip,"You thundering willain,I know you'd be killingYour wife, – ay, a dozen of wives, – for a shilling!You may do what you please,You may sell my chemise,(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,)But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;But patience is apt to wear out at last,And David Pryce in temper was quick,So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,But walking just then wasn't very convenient,So he threw it, instead,Direct at her head.It knock'd off her hat;Down she fell flat;Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that;But, whatever it was, – whether rage and painProduc'd apoplexy, or burst a vein,Or her tumble induc'd a concussion of brain,I can't say for certain, – but this I can,When, sobered by fright, to assist her he ran,Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!The fearful catastropheNamed in my last stropheAs adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,Soon made a great noise; and the shocking fatalityLike wild-fire ran over the whole Principality.And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.Mr. Pryce, to commenceHis "ingenious defence,"Made a "pow'rful appeal" to the jury's "good sense,""The world he must defyEver to justifyAny presumption of "Malice Prepense;"The unlucky lickFrom the end of the stickHe "deplored," he was "apt to be rather too quick;"But, really, her pratingWas so aggravating:Some trifling correction was just what he meant; allThe rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"Then he called Mr. Jones,Who deposed to her tones,And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones."While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap RhysDeclared the DeceasedHad styled him "a Beast,"And swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,The allusions she made to his limbs and his eyes.The jury, in fine, having sat on the bodyThe whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy,Return'd about half-past eleven at nightThe following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!"FYTTE IIMr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he saidHe would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.Not far from his dwelling,From the vale proudly swelling,Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling,For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so fewThat the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,Have really but little or nothing to do;And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by farOn the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.Its first syllable, "Pen,"Is pronounceable; – thenCome two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:But we shan't have to mention it often, so whenWe do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "Pen."Well, – the moon shone brightUpon "Pen" that night,When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,Was scaling its sideWith that sort of strideA man puts out when walking in search of a bride.Mounting higher and higher,He began to perspire,Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,And feeling opprestBy a pain in his chest,He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest;A walk all up hill is apt, as we know,To make one, however robust, puff and blow,So he stopped, and look'd down on the valley below.O'er fell, and o'er fen,Over mountain and glen,All bright in the moonshine, his eye rov'd, and thenAll the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thoughtOf Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taughtOf her Heroes of old,So brave and so bold, —Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold;Of King Edward the First,Of mem'ry accurst;And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,Killing Poets by dozens,With their uncles and cousins,Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved.Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;And how Mr. TudorSuccessfully woo'd her,Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,And so made him Father-in-law to the King.He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,On Gryffyth ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,Which went pit-a-patAs he cried out, "What's that? —That very queer sound?Does it come from the ground?Or the air, – from above, or below, or around?It is not like Talking,It is not like Walking,It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,Or the tramp of a horse, – or the tread of a man, —Or the hum of a crowd, – or the shouting of boys, —It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!Not unlike a Cart's, – but that can't be; for whenCould "all the King's horses and all the King's men,"With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "Pen?"Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk."In vain he look'd backOn the whole of the trackHe had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,And did not seem likely to pass away soon;While clearer and clearer,'Twas plain to the hearer,Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,Very much "like a Coffin a-walking up stairs."Mr. Pryce had begunTo "make up" for a run,As in such a companion he saw no great fun,When a single bright rayShone out on the wayHe had pass'd, and he saw with no little dismayComing after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"Twas so! – it had certainly moved from its place,And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,And nothing was alter'd at all but the Face!In that he perceived, with no little surprise,The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyesBlazing with ire,Like two coals of fire;And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip,And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.No! – he could not mistake it, – 'twas She to the life!The identical Face of his dear defunct Wife!!One glance was enough,Completely "Quant. Suff."As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff," —Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff,David turn'd himself round;Ten feet of groundHe clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses,I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises,At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,And one from a Bailiff much faster than that;At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder,I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder,I've seen little boys run away from a cane,And I've seen, (that is, read of,) good running in Spain;But I never did readOf, or witness, such speedAs David exerted that evening. – IndeedAll I ever have heard of boys, women, or men,Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "Pen!"He reaches its brow, —He has past it, and nowHaving once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, heRolls down the side with uncommon velocity;But, run as he will,Or roll down the hill,That bugbear behind him is after him still!And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,Till, exhausted and sore,He can't run any more,But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door.And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,"Oh! Look at the Clock! – Do. – Look at the Clock!!"Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,She saw nothing there to alarm her; – a frownCame o'er her white forehead,She said "It was horridA man should come knocking at that time of night,And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;To squall and to bawlAbout nothing at all – "She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call,His late wife's disasterBy no means had past her,"She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!"Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes,She turn'd on her heel as she turn'd up her nose.Poor David in vainImplored to remain,He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again."Why the fair was obdurateNone knows, – to be sure, itWas said she was setting her cap at the Curate; —Be that as it may, it is certain the sole holePryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!In that shady retreat,With nothing to eat,And with very bruis'd limbs, and with very sore feet,All night close he kept;I can't say he slept;But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept,Lamenting his sinsAnd his two broken shins,Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,Consigning to Satan, – viz. cruel Miss Davis!Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,And they say he is going to Exeter HallTo make a grand speech,And to preach, and to teachPeople that "they can't brew their malt-liquor too small!"That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor,Was right in proclaiming "Ariston men Udor!"Which means "The pure ElementIs for the belly meant!"And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"At the old Goat-in-Boots, with metheglin, each cup,Mr. Pryce, if he's there,Will get into "the Chair,"And make all his quondam associates stareBy calling aloud to the landlady's daughter,"Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!"The dial he constantly watches; and whenThe long hand's at the "XII," and the short at the "X,"He gets on his legs,Drains his glass to the dregs,Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,And says solemnly, – "Gentlemen!"Look at the Clock!!!"Thomas Ingoldsby.

Tappington Everard, July 24.

SONG OF THE MONTH. No. IX

September, 1837THE DOUBLE BARRELBY FATHER PROUTDuo quisque Alpina coruscatGæsa manu. —Æneid. lib. 8.Παν πραγμα δυας εχει λαβας. —Epictetus.September the first on the moorland hath burst,And already with jocund carolEach Nimrod of nouse hurries off to the grouse,And has shouldered his double barrel;For well doth he ken, as he hies through the glen,That scanty will be his laurelWho hath notOn the spot(Should he miss a first shot)Some resource in a double barrel.'Twas the Goddess of Sport, in her woodland court,Diana, first taught this moral,Which the Goddess of Love soon adopted, and stroveTo improve on the "double barrel."Hence her Cupid, we know, put two strings to his bow;And she laughs, when two lovers quarrel,At the lotOf the sotWho, to soothe him, han't gotThe resource of a double barrel.Nay, the hint was too good to lie hid in the wood,Or to lurk in two lips of coral;Hence the God of the Grape (who his betters would ape)Knows the use of a double barrel.His escutcheon he decks with a double XX,And his blithe October carolFollows upWith the supOf a flowing ale-cupSeptember's double barrel.Water-grass-hill, Kal. VIIbres.

GENIUS; OR, THE DOG'S-MEAT DOG.

BEING A SECOND "TAILED SONNET," IN THE ITALIAN MANNER. 10

BY EGERTON WEBBE"Hal, thou hast the most unsavoury similes." —FalstaffSince Genius hath the immortal facultyOf bringing grist to other people's mills,While for itself no office it fulfils,And cannot choose but starve amazingly,Methinks 'tis very like the dog's-meat dog,That 'twixt Black Friars and White sometimes I've seen, —Afflicted quadruped, jejune and lean,Whom none do feed, but all do burn to flog.For why? He draws the dog's-meat cart, you see, —Himself a dog. All dogs his coming hail,Long dogs and short, and dogs of various tail,Yea truly, every sort of dogs that be.Where'er he cometh him his cousins greet,Yet not for love, but only for the meat, —In Little Tower Street,Or opposite the pump on Fish-street Hill,Or where the Green Man is the Green Man still,Or where you will: —It is not he, but, ah! it is the cartWith which his cousins are so loth to part;(That's nature, bless your heart!)And you'll observe his neck is almost stiffWith turning round to try and get a sniff,As now and then a whiff,Charged from behind, a transient savour throws,That curls with hope the corners of his nose,Then all too quickly goes,And leaves him buried in conjectures dark,Developed in a sort of muffled bark.For I need scarce remarkThat that sagacious dog hath often guess'dThere's something going on of interestBehind him, not confest;And I have seen him whisk with sudden startEntirely round, as he would face the cart,Which could he by no art,Because of cunning mechanism. Lord!But how a proper notion to afford?How possibly record,With any sort of mental satisfaction,The look of anguish – the immense distraction —Pictured in face and action,When, whisking round, he hath discovered thereFive dogs, – all jolly dogs – besides a pairOf cats, most debonair,In high assembly met, sublimely lunching,Best horse's flesh in breathless silence munching,While he, poor beast! is crunchingHis unavailing teeth? – You must be sensible'Tis aggravating – cruel – indefensible —Incomprehensible.And to his grave I do believe he'll go,Sad dog's-meat dog, nor ever knowWhence all those riches flowWhich seem to spring about him where he is,Finding their way to every mouth but his. —I know such similesBy some are censured as not being savoury;But still it's better than to talk of "knavery,"And "wretched authors' slavery,"With other words of ominous import.I much prefer a figure of this sort.And so, to cut it short,(For I abhor all poor rhetoric fuss,)Ask what the devil I mean – I answer thus,That dog's a Genius

OLIVER TWIST;

OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS

BY BOZILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovered from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him; and the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued, which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

"Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see."

"I see it is, ma'am," replied Oliver, with a sigh. "Why have they taken it away?"

"It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that, as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.

"On, no, indeed it didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it; I quite loved it."

"Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There, I promise you that; now let us talk about something else."

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time, and as the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so listened attentively to a great many stories she told him about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies, and who was also such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated a long time on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea; and after tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage, which he learnt as quickly as she could teach, and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly, everybody so kind and gentle, that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as Oliver was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

"Bless us, and save us! wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! if we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence."

Oliver did as the old lady bade him, and, although she lamented grievously meanwhile that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible on the longest notice to have made much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser, – which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist every day of their lives.

"There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

"A great number, sir," replied Oliver; "I never saw so many."

"You shall read them if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides, – that is, in some cases, because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts."

"I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

"Not those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; "but other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?"

"I think I would rather read them, sir," replied Oliver.

"What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?" said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it would be a much better thing to be a bookseller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing, which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.

"Well, well," said the old gentleman, composing his features, "don't be afraid; we won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to."