Page images
PDF
EPUB

facture. The silk spun in this country is by no means so good; whether it be the case that the silk-worm does not keep its health in our northern latitudes, or not, I have too little confidence in my own opinion to say: but this I can tell from experience, that we are more apt to be mistaken as to the animal itself, thereby rendering all our labour fruitless, and our efforts abortive. The writer of this article bought several papers full of the embryos of the silk-worm, but after waiting in eager expectation for a twelvemonth, to his utter consternation and astonishment, they turned out to be nought else but common maggots.

The poor-rates are a great bore in this country, but it is all owing to the excess of population, and for this I have before suggested a remedy. If the overplus of the population were to be called together, and some able speaker, say one of the advocates of the Scottish bar, selected to address them, and lay down to them in a placid and precise manner, the hardships they entail on society, and the impropriety of their ever having been born, unquestionably then the overplus of population, provided they consisted of well-educated, decent, and sensible people, could have no objection either to be transported beyond seas, or dispatched in as gentle a manner as could be devised. Until a great national meeting is called for the purpose, we must be content to put up with many evils. Mendicity is not the least of these, and to the public in general we recommend the following plan, which is as yet in private circulation, and does not seem to have reached the ear of the Society for the Suppression of Begging. It originated from the ingenuity of one of that useful class of the community, a French cook; but as he had been for several years domesticated in this country, no other realm can presume to come in for a share of the honour, which is purely national. It is said that M. Say, Benjamin Constant, and Carnot, claim it for France; but this is only a report.

The house, in which this ingenious French cook served, was infested from morning to night, and the court-yard literally swarming with beggars, as

July 10th.-Settled with Bullock and Badcock for the "Poems by a Military Amateur. Balance in my favour of

"thick as the motes that people the sun-beams." The proprietor was dunned with petitions, and the watch-dog, which was chained at the outer gate, had actually worn down his teeth to the stumps in biting the intruders. No further service could thus be expected from him. Long did the French cook ponder, during his evening reveries over his tumbler by the kitchen fire, what could be done in the present unfortunate dilemma. For a long series of evenings he beat his brains to no purpose; at length, after a long hour's silence, he one night started up, and almost severed, with his heel, the butler's gouty toe from his body, exclaim ing-" Eureka! I have found it!!"

He set about preparing a most hellish decoction, which he seasoned with Cayenne pepper, (the Capsicum Annuum of Linnæus), until it was enough, without a metaphor, to set the stomach on fire, and cause an interna conflagratio.'

[ocr errors]

66

Next morning he set about putting his project in practice, and the first beggar that approached he beckoned him to come in, shut the kitchen door, and having filled out a bumper, bade him whip it off, and be gone, lest his master should appear. The mendicant, glad of the treat, turned up his little finger in a twinkling, and retreated as fast as his legs could carry him, but not far; for his eyes threatened to start from his head, and the saliva ran from the corners of his mouth, after the fashion of a waterspout. Thus was one dispatched; he came no more. Again-again-a hundred times was the project tried, and uniformly with the same success; till, in less than three weeks, not one beggar was to be seen in that country side. The French cook is, we understand, at present putting in for a patent, which we have no doubt will be granted.

By this the public may observe, that the way to get quit of beggars is by the immediate use of the hellish decoction; and not by following the vain, void, visionary, childish, and nugatory schemes, at present inculcated by the writers on political economy.

M. O.

L. 3: 15: 112. Very bad concern. Cost me three month's severe composition. Cannot fathom what the read

ing public of this age would swallow:
What I write most carelessly they re-
lish best. Hope I shall succeed bet
ter with my
"Treatise on the educa-
tion of young ladies."

July 12th.—Went to Newmarket. Beat three to one, at starting, on the blue body, and buff sleeves; fairly taken in, as he came last; or rather never came in, being distanced. Gulled out of a guinea and half, and got very angry. Run, after the race, a foot match with Lieutenant Finch; shammed lameness at first, and then beat him hollow; running the last fifty yards backwards. Out of pocket by this excursion 10s. 6d.

13th. Played three hours at billiards with a knowing one, who took me in. Proposed whist, at which I am a dead hand, and fairly came paddy over him. Rose in a passion, and broke

[ocr errors]

off farther connection with me, swearing there was foul play. Gained by my acquaintance with him L.2: 10:3. Got drunk.

14th.-Headache in the morning. Wrote sonnet to Despondency-ditto to Despair. Got up and shaved, felt better,-went out at twelve to a match at cricket-returned successful—a dinner and drink at stake-dressed at five-excellent claret-got drunk. Returned home, and read Rogers' Human Life-did not much like it-too wirewove. Took up Story of Rimini thought more highly of it-last book admirable.

15th.-Dreamt all night of Cockaigne terrible jargon these fellows speak. Felt squeamish; but after dispatching a bottle of soda water, sate down and composed the following letter and love · song.

LOVE SONG,

By a Junior Member of the Cockney School.

TO THE EDITOR OF LA BELLE ASSEMBLEE.

(This letter is private, so you must not print it.)

SIR, AS I am not at all pleased with the strain of sentiment and affectation, that disfigures and runs through the love poems of Burns and Byron, I have endeavoured to hit on a key somewhat nearer to the well-head of the human heart, and somewhat truer to the feelings of domestic nature, mutual endearment, and connubial felicity. Descriptions of simple life, and rural nature, are very well to those who have had an opportunity of seeing them; but to me, and the multitudes like me, who live in the great city, it is but just that the writers of the present age should adopt something that would come home to our feelings and businesses. A friend of mine, that came off a far journey last week, very jauntily told me, that cabbages grew on fir trees, that cows can eat potatoes, and that they feed sheep on cyder in Kent; but I was not such a spoonie as to believe him. If the accompanying poem be adapted to your miscellany, please insert it, and believe me,

Oh! lovely Polly Savage,

Oh! charming Polly Savage,
Your eye beats Day and Martin,
Your cheek is like red cabbage.
As I was going down the Strand
It smote my heart with wonder,
To see the lovely damsel,
A-sitting at a yinder.

Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.

Oh! once I loved another girl,
Her name it was Maria;
But, Polly dear, my love for you
Is forty-five times higher.

Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
We'll take a shop in Chicken Lane,
And I will stand prepared,
To sell fat bacon by the pound,
And butter by the yard.

Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c,

Your most obliged Friend,

WM. TIMS GOODENOUGH.
And when at five o'clock, my love,
We sit us down to dine,

How I will toast your darling health,
In draughts of currant vine.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c,
Oh then our little son shall be
As wanton as a spaniel,
Him that we mean to cristen'd be,
Jacques Timothy Nathaniel.

Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c,

And if we have a little girl,

I'm sure you wont be sorry
To hear me call the pretty elf,
Euphemiar Helen Laurar.

Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
Then fare-thee-well a little space,
My heart can never falter,
And next time when I see your face,
"Twill be at Hymen's haltar.

Oh lovely Polly Savage, &c.

18th. Wet morning,-could not venture to stir abroad,-just shews us how much men alter. A few years ago, when my country demanded my services, I braved the dangers of every clime, the torrid heats of a Spanish summer, and the damp atmosphere of the United States, Dare say, however, that I could do so again, if occasion required. Took a chair by the fire, and read over again Crabbe's Borough.

Think the Reverend Gentleman shews pluck; but do not remember in all his pictures of human life, ever observing the portrait of one butcher introduced. Pondered whether I might venture to remedy this defect, and send him my delineation to be hung up in the Gallery of Portraits, in the next edition of his admirable work.

Wrote what follows in twenty minutes, and copied it verbatim as under.

THE SOMNAMBULATORY BUTCHER.-An Episode.

Reflections, birth,-parentage,-boyish tricks,-education,-change of dress,-apprenticeship,-bladders and Dr Lavement,-bad habits,-ditto cured by his mother, caution, and moral.

Men's legs, if man may trust the common talk,
Are engines put in motion when men walk;
But when we cross our knees, and take a chair
Beside the fire, they're not in motion there:
So this we learn by wisdom, art, and skill,
That legs are made to stir, or to sit still.
Yet sometimes I have heard that, when the head
In woollen cap lay snoring on the bed,

The legs, without the sanction of the brain,
Were fond to wander on the midnight plain,
Pursue, mid darkness, tasks of common day,
Yet come, as will'd Caprice, unharm'd away;
Which to illustrate, let the reader bend
A willing ear, and list his warning friend.

James Neckum Theodore Emmanuel Reid,
Was meanly born, and was ignobly bred,
Lived upon pottage, slept within a shed;
His mother, but it were in vain to look-
Her's was no marriage by the session book ;
His mother, fool, had never taken pains
To gird her neck with matrimonial chains,
And he, her leman, seeing what would be,
Turn'd a blue-neck'd marine, and cross'd the sea;
So, in neglect and wrath the child was born,

While neighbours chuckled with their looks of scorn;
But fast he throve, and fat he grew, and that
Was felt most keenly by the tortured cat,
Whose ears he pinch'd, whose tail he drew, until
'Twas forced, when fairly vanquish'd, to lie still;
The chickens, too, no sinecure of life,

Had with the boy, who pull'd their necks in strife,
Till from the sockets started their black eyes,
And died their vanish'd voice in feeble cries.

At length a cap upon his head was braced,
Shoes shod his feet, and breeches girt his waist;
Tall as a leek he grew, his hair was long,

And through its folds the wild winds sang a song;
From mother's clutches oft would he elope,
And little knew his morning face of soap;
Till, having spent the morn in game and play
With comrades dirty, frolicksome, and gay,
As duly as the village clock struck two,
As duly parted he from ragged crew,

[ocr errors]

And homewards wended, fast and nothing loth,
To dip his whispers in his mother's broth.

The boy grew strong; the master of the school
Took him in charge, and with a birch did rule;
Full long and oft he blubber'd; but, at length,
Within a week, he learned to letter tenth;
And ere six moons had waxed, and waned, and set,
He had reached z, and knew his alphabet.

His education finish'd, choice he made
Of a most lucrative, and wholesome trade;
The leathern cap was now dismiss'd; and red,
Yea fiery, glow'd the cowl upon his head;
And, like a cherry dangling from the crown,
A neat wool tassel in the midst hung down;
Around his waist, with black tape girded tight,
Was tied a worsted apron, blue and white;
His Shetland stockings, mocking winter's cold,
Despising garters, up his thighs were roll'd,
And, by his side, horn-handled steels, and knives,
Gleam'd from his pouch, and thirsted for sheep's lives.
For, dextrous, he could split dead cows in halves,
And, though a calf himself, he slaughter'd calves.
But brisker look'd the youth, and nothing sadder,
For of each mother's son he got the bladder,
And straight to Galen's-head in joy he bore it,
Where Dr Lavement gave a penny for it.

But he had failings, as I said before,
So, duly as his nose began to snore,
His legs ran with his body to the door;

Aud forth he used to roam, with sidelong neck,
To as the Scots folks term it-lift the sneck.
All in his shirt and woollen cap he strayed,
Silent, though dreaming; cold, but undismay'd.
The moon was shining 'mid the depth of Heaven,
And from the chill north, fleecy clouds were driven
Athwart its silver aspect, till they grew
Dimmer, and dimmer, in the distant blue;
The trees were rustling loud; nor moon, nor trees,
Nor cloud, could on his dreaming phrenzy sieze,
But, walking with closed eyes across the street,
He lifted handsomely his unshod feet,

Till nought, at length, his wandering ankles propt,
And head and heels into the pond he dropt.

}

Then rose the loud lament; the earth and skies Rung with his shouts, and echoed with his cries; The neighbours, in their night-caps, throng'd around, Call'd forth in marching order at the sound; They haled young Neckum out, a blanket roll'd Around his limbs with comfortable fold, Hurried him home, and told him, cursing deep, "That if again with cries he broke their sleep, Him they would change into a wandering ghost, Draw from the pond, but hang him on a post."

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

Night after night, if rainy, cold, or fair,
Forth went our hero, just to take the air;
Ladies were terrified, and, fainting, cried,
A ghost in white had wander'd by their side!
The soldier home his quaking path pursued,
With hair on end, gun cock'd, and bayonet screw'd,
And frightful children run to bed in fear,
When mothers said the ghost in white was near!

'Twas a hard case, but Theodore's mother quick
Fell on a scheme to cure him of the trick ;
Hard by his bed a washing-tub she placed,
So, when he rose, it washed him to the waist;
And loud he roar'd,-while startled at the sound,
Old women bolted from their beds around-

66 Save, save a wandering sinner, or he's drown'd!!!"

He rose no more, as I'm inform'd, in sleep,
But duly fell'd down cows, and slaughter'd sheep,
Took to himself a wife, a pretty wench,

Sold beef by pounds, and cow-heel on a bench;
In ten years had seven boys, and five fair girls,
With cheeks like roses, and with teeth like pearls ;
Lay still in bed like any decent man,

Pursued through life a staid, and honest plan,
And lived beloved, while honours thicken'd o'er him,
Justice of Peace, and Custos Rotulorum.

So all my readers from this tale may learn,
The right way from the wrong way to discern;
Never by dreams and nonsense to be led,
Walk when they wake, and slumber when in bed!

-Read last night a volume of the Heart of Mid-Lothian. The author's name as well known to me, as if he had put it on the title page. "None but himself can be his parallel." Well may we say, as my friend Ovid said of Telamon Ajax,

"None but himself, himself could overthrow."

This book knits my heart more firmly than ever to the "land of the mountain and the flood." When sitting in my chamber, I am transported there in a twinkling; the scenes rise before me in all their native majesty,—the Castle, the High Street, and the Porteous mob. Am most pleased with the scenes at Davie Deans's cottage, Leonard's Hill, and Arthur's Seat. Many a time have I, reclining among the ruins of St Anthony's Chapel, surveyed, in ecstatic admiration, the magnificent prospect around ;-the blue and castellated majesty of Dunedin, 66 throwing its white arms to the sea ;"-the variegated succession of woodlands, and pasture, and green fields;-the broad ex

panse of the Forth, with its multitude of gliding sails;-and, far in the north, the pale green, or the remoter hazy, blue mountains of Fife and Stirlingshire. At my feet, the Palace of Holyrood, the habitation of kings, the mansion of the Stuarts, with the Gothic ruins of its chapel, its grey towers, and its desolate garden, spotted with darkgreen shrubs, and melancholy flowers;

and, stretching around me in emerald smoothness, the far extending park, with its well-trodden pathway. Often have I, returning half cut, from dining at the mess of my fellow-soldiers at Piershill, felt an inward trepidation in entering that park, and instinctively grasped my sword, when I thought on the ghost of Ailie Mushat, who is said, yet to

"Visit the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous."

N. B. A good subject for poetry; to remember it the first idle hour.

(After a few pages,-commemorative of a battle between two of the

« PreviousContinue »