SKETCHES BY SEYMOUR

PART FIVE

EBOOK EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION:
"Sketches by Seymour" was published in various versions about 1836. The copy used for this PG edition has no date and was published by Thomas Fry, London. Some of the 90 plates note only Seymour's name, many are inscribed "Engravings by H. Wallis from sketches by Seymour." The printed book appears to be a compilation of five smaller volumes. From the confused chapter titles the reader may well suspect the printer mixed up the order of the chapters. The complete book in this digital edition is split into five smaller volumes—the individual volumes are of more manageable size than the 7mb complete version.
The importance of this collection is in the engravings. The text is often mundane, is full of conundrums and puns popular in the early 1800's—and is mercifully short. No author is given credit for the text though the section titled, "The Autobiography of Andrew Mullins" may give us at least his pen-name.
DW

EBOOK EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION:
"Sketches by Seymour" was published in various versions about 1836. The copy used for this PG edition has no date and was published by Thomas Fry, London. Some of the 90 plates note only Seymour's name, many are inscribed "Engravings by H. Wallis from sketches by Seymour." The printed book appears to be a compilation of five smaller volumes. From the confused chapter titles the reader may well suspect the printer mixed up the order of the chapters. The complete book in this digital edition is split into five smaller volumes—the individual volumes are of more manageable size than the 7mb complete version.
The importance of this collection is in the engravings. The text is often mundane, is full of conundrums and puns popular in the early 1800's—and is mercifully short. No author is given credit for the text though the section titled, "The Autobiography of Andrew Mullins" may give us at least his pen-name.
DW

CONTENTS:

ANDREW MULLINS.
—AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER I.—Introductory.

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

"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 of the poor! The former only give a portion of their excess, while the latter willingly divide their humble crust with a fellow sufferer.

The agreeable routine of breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, was unknown in our frugal establishment; if we obtained one good meal a day, under any name, we were truly thankful.

To give some idea of our straitened circumstances, I must relate one solitary instance of display on the maternal side. It was on a Saturday night, the air and our appetites were equally keen, when my sire, having unexpectedly touched a small sum, brought home a couple of pound of real Epping. A scream of delight welcomed the savory morsel.

A fire was kindled, and the meat was presently hissing in the borrowed frying-pan of our landlady.

I was already in bed, when the unusual sound and savor awoke me. I rolled out in a twinkling, and squatting on the floor, watched the culinary operations with greedy eyes.

"Tom," said my mother, addressing her spouse, "set open the door and vinder, and let the neighbors smell ve has something respectable for once."

CHAPTER. III.—On Temperance.

"I wou'dn't like to shoot her exactly; but I've a blessed mind to turn her out!"

"I wou'dn't like to shoot her exactly; but I've a blessed mind to turn her out!"

ARMED with the authority and example of loyalty, for even that renowned monarch—Old King Cole—was diurnally want to call for

"His pipe and his glass"

and induced by the poetical strains of many a bard, from the classic Anacreon to those of more modern times, who have celebrated the virtue of

"Wine, mighty wine!"

it is not to be marvelled at, that men's minds have fallen victims to the fascinations of the juice of the purple grape, or yielded to the alluring temptations of the 'evil spirit.'

It is a lamentable truth, that notwithstanding the laudable and wholesome exertions and admonitions of the Temperance and Tee-total Societies, that the people of the United Kingdom are grievously addicted to an excessive imbibation of spirituous liquors, cordials, and compounds.

Although six-bottle men are now regarded as monstrosities, and drinking parties are nearly exploded, tippling and dram-drinking among the lower orders are perhaps more indulged in than ever.

The gilded and gorgeous temples—devoted to the worship of the reeling-goddess GENEVA—blaze forth in every quarter of the vast metropolis.

Is it matter of wonder, then, that while men of superior intellect and education are still weak enough to seek excitement in vinous potations, that the vulgar, poor, and destitute, should endeavour to drown their sorrows by swallowing the liquid fires displayed under various names, by the wily priests of Silenus!

That such a deduction is illogical we are well aware, but great examples are plausible excuses to little minds.

Both my parents were naturally inclined to sobriety; but, unfortunately, and as it too frequently happens, in low and crowded neighbourhoods, drunkenness is as contagious as the small-pox, or any other destructive malady.

Now, it chanced that in the first-floor of the house in which we dwelt, there also resided one Stubbs and his wife. They had neither chick nor child. Stubbs was a tailor by trade, and being a first-rate workman, earned weekly a considerable sum; but, like too many of his fraternity, he was seldom sober from Saturday night until Wednesday morning. His loving spouse 'rowed in the same boat'—and the 'little green-bottle' was dispatched several times during the days of their Saturnalia, to be replenished at the never-failing fountain of the 'Shepherd and Flock.'

Unhappily, in one of her maudlin fits, Mrs. Stubbs took a particular fancy to my mother; and one day, in the absence of the 'ninth,' beckoned my unsuspecting parent into her sittingroom,—and after gratuitously imparting to her the hum-drum history of her domestic squabbles, invited her to take a 'drop o' summat'—to keep up her I sperrits.'

Alas! this was the first step—and she went on, and on, and on, until that which at first she loathed became no longer disagreeable, and by degrees grew into a craving that was irresistible;—and, at last, she regularly hob-and-nobb'd' with the disconsolate rib of Stubbs, and shared alike in all her troubles and her liquor.

Fain would I draw a veil over this frailty of my unfortunate parent; but, being conscious that veracity is the very soul and essence of history, I feel myself imperatively called upon neither to disguise nor to cancel the truth.

My father remonstrated in vain-the passion had already taken too deep a hold; and one day he was suddenly summoned from his work with the startling information, that 'Mother Mullins'—(so the kind neighbour phrased it) was sitting on the step of a public house, in the suburbs, completely 'tosticated.'

He rushed out, and found the tale too true. A bricklayer in the neighbourhood proposed the loan of his barrow, for the poor senseless creature could not walk a step. Placing her in the one-wheel-carriage, he made the best of his way home, amid the jeers of the multitude. Moorfields was then only partially covered with houses; and as he passed a deep hollow, on the side of which was placed a notice, intimating that

"RUBBISH MAY BE SHOT HERE!"

his eyes caught the words, and in the bitterness of his heart he exclaimed—

"I wou'dn't like to shoot her exactly; but I've a blessed mind to turn her out!"

CHAPTER IV.—A Situation.

"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?" "Why swallows, to be sure,"

"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?" "Why swallows, to be sure,"

IN the vicinity of our alley were numerous horse-rides, and my chief delight was being entrusted with a horse, and galloping up and down the straw-littered avenue.—I was about twelve years of age, and what was termed a sharp lad, and I soon became a great favourite with the ostlers, who admired the aptness with which I acquired the language of the stables.

There were many stock-brokers who put up at the ride; among others was Mr. Timmis—familiarly called long Jim Timmis. He was a bold, dashing, good-humoured, vulgar man, who was quite at home with the ostlers, generally conversing with them in their favourite lingo.

I had frequent opportunities of shewing him civilities, handing him his whip, and holding his stirrup, etc.

One day he came to the ride in a most amiable and condescending humour, and for the first time deigned to address me—"Whose kid are you?" demanded he.

"Father's, sir," I replied.

"Do you know your father, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"A wise child this;" and he winked at the ostler, who, of course, laughed incontinently.

"I want a-lad," continued he; "what do you say—would you like to serve me?"

"If I could get any thing by it."

"D-me, if that a'int blunt."

"Yes, sir; that's what I mean."

"Mean! mean what?"

"If I could get any blunt, sir."

Hereupon he laughed outright, at what he considered my readiness, although I merely used the cant term for "money," to which I was most accustomed, from my education among the schoolmasters of the ride.

"Here, take my card," said he; "and tell the old codger, your father, to bring you to my office to-morrow morning, at eleven."

"Well, blow me," exclaimed my friend the ostler, "if your fortin' arn't made; I shall see you a tip-top sawyer—may I never touch another tanner! Vy, I remembers Jim Timmis hisself vos nothin but a grubby boy—Mother Timmis the washer-woman's son, here in what-d've-call-'em-court—ven he vent to old Jarvis fust. He's a prime feller tho', and no mistake—and thof he's no gentleman born, he pays like one, and vot's the difference?"

The next morning, punctual to the hour, I waited at his office, which was in a large building adjoining the Stock Exchange, as full as a dove-cot, with gentlemen of the same feather.

"O!" said he, eyeing my parent, "and you're this chap's father, are you? What are you?"

"A boot and shoe-maker, sir; and my Andrew is an honest lad."

"For the matter o' that, there's little he can prig here;" replied my elegant and intended master. "But his tongs—eh—old fellow—can't you rig him out a little?"

My father pleaded poverty; and at last he bargained to advance a guinea, and deduct it out of my weekly-wages of two and sixpence, and no board. My father was glad to make any terms, and the affair was consequently soon arranged. I was quickly fitted out, and the next morning attended his orders.

I had, however, little else to do than wait in his office, and run to the Stock Exchange, to summon him when a customer dropped in. I had much leisure, which I trust was not wholly thrown away, for I practised writing on the back of the stock-receipts, of which a quantity hung up in the office, and read all the books I could lay my hands on; although, I must confess, the chief portion of my knowledge of the world has been derived from observation.

"The proper study of mankind is man."

Although quick in temper, and rude in speech and manners, Timmis was kind; and, if he had a failing, it was the ambition of being a patron; and he was certainly not one of those who do a good deed, and

"Blush to find it fame."

He not only employed my father to make his boots, but recommended him to all his friends as a "good-fit," and procured the old man some excellent customers. Among his acquaintance, for he had few friends, was Tom Wallis, a fat, facetious man, about forty, with whom he was always lunching and cracking his jokes. One day, when the stocks were "shut" and business was slack, they started together on a sporting excursion towards the romantic region of Hornsey-wood, on which occasion I had the honour of carrying a well-filled basket of provisions, and the inward satisfaction of making a good dinner from the remnants.

They killed nothing but time, yet they were exceedingly merry, especially during the discussion of the provisions. Their laughter, indeed, was enough to scare all the birds in the neighbourhood.

"Jim, if you wanted to correct those sheep yonder," said Tom, "what sort of tool would you use?"

"An ewe-twig, of course," replied my master.

"No; that's devilish good," said Wallis; "but you ain't hit it yet."

"For a crown you don't do a better?"

"Done!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Why, a Ram-rod to be sure—as we're sportsmen."

My master agreed that it was more appropriate, and the good-natured Tom Wallis flung the crown he had won to me.

"Here's another," continued he, as Mr. Timmis was just raising a bottle of pale sherry to his lips—"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?"

"Why swallows, to be sure," quickly replied my patron; who was really, on most occasions, a match for his croney in the sublime art of punning, and making conundrums, a favourite pastime with the wits of the Stock Exchange.

CHAPTER V.—The Stalking Horse.

"Retributive Justice"

"Retributive Justice"

ON the same landing where Timmis (as he termed it) 'held out,' were five or six closets nick-named offices, and three other boys. One was the nephew of the before-mentioned Wallis, and a very imp of mischief; another, only a boy, with nothing remarkable but his stupidity; while the fourth was a scrubby, stunted, fellow, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with a long pale face, deeply pitted with the small-pox, and an irregular crop of light hair, most unscientifically cut into tufts.

He, by reason of his seniority and his gravity, soon became the oracle of the party. We usually found him seated on the stairs of the first floor, lost in the perusal of some ragged book of the marvellous school—scraps of which he used to read aloud to us, with more unction than propriety, indulging rather too much in the note of admiration style; for which he soon obtained the name of Old Emphatic!—But I must confess we did obtain a great deal of information from his select reading, and were tolerably good listeners too, notwithstanding his peculiar delivery, for somehow he appeared to have a permanent cold in his head, which sometimes threw a tone of irresistible ridicule into his most pathetic bits.

He bore the scriptural name of Matthew and was, as he informed us, a 'horphan'—adding, with a particular pathos, 'without father or mother!' His melancholy was, I think, rather attributable to bile than destitution, which he superinduced by feeding almost entirely on 'second-hand pastry,' purchased from the little Jew-boys, who hawk about their 'tempting' trash in the vicinity of the Bank.

Matthew, like other youths of a poetical temperament, from Petrarch down to Lord Byron, had a 'passion.'

I accidentally discovered the object of his platonic flame in the person of the little grubby-girl—the servant of the house-keeper—for, as the proverb truly says,

"Love and a cough cannot be hid."

The tender passion first evinced itself in his delicate attentions;—nor was the quick-eyed maid slow to discover her conquest. Her penetration, however, was greater than her sympathy. With a tact that would not have disgraced a politician—in a better cause, she adroitly turned the swelling current of his love to her own purposes.

As the onward flowing stream is made to turn the wheel, while the miller sings at the window, so did she avail herself of his strength to do her work, while she gaily hummed a time, and sadly 'hummed' poor Matthew.

There being nearly thirty offices in the building, there were of course in winter as many fires, and as many coal-scuttles required. When the eyes of the devoted Matthew gazed on the object of his heart's desire toiling up the well-stair, he felt he knew not what; and, with a heart palpitating with the apprehension that his proffered service might be rejected (poor deluded mortal!), he begged he might assist her. With a glance that he thought sufficient to ignite the insensible carbon, she accepted his offer. Happy Matthew!—he grasped the handles her warm red-hands had touched!—Cold-blooded, unimaginative beings may deride his enthusiasm; but after all, the sentiment he experienced was similar to, and quite as pure, as that of Tom Jones, when he fondled Sophia Western's little muff.

But, alas!—

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

Two months after this event, 'his Mary' married the baker's man!—

* * * * * * * * * *

Wallis's nephew had several times invited me to pay him a visit at his uncle's house, at Crouchend; and so once, during the absence of that gentleman who was ruralizing at Tonbridge, I trudged down to his villa.

Nothing would suit Master John, but that he must 'have out' his uncle's gun; and we certainly shot at, and frightened, many sparrows.

He was just pointing at a fresh quarry, when the loud crow of a cock arrested his arm.

"That's Doddington's game 'un, I know," said Master John. "What d'ye think—if he did'nt 'pitch into' our 'dunghill' the other day, and laid him dead at a blow. I owe him one!—Come along." I followed in his footsteps, and soon beheld Chanticleer crowing with all the ostentation of a victor at the hens he had so ruthlessly widowed. A clothes-horse, with a ragged blanket, screened us from his view; and Master'John, putting the muzzle of his gun through a hole in this novel ambuscade, discharged its contents point blank into the proclaimer of the morn—and laid him low.

I trembled; for I felt that we had committed a 'foul murder.' Master Johnny, however, derided my fears—called it retributive justice—and ignominiously consigned the remains of a game-cock to a dunghill!

The affair appeared so like a cowardly assassination, in which I was (though unwillingly—) 'particeps criminis'—that I walked away without partaking of the gooseberry-pie, which he had provided for our supper.

CHAPTER VI.—A Commission.

"Och! thin, Paddy, what's the bothuration; if you carry me, don't I carry the whiskey, sure, and that's fair and aqual!"

"Och! thin, Paddy, what's the bothuration; if you carry me, don't I carry the whiskey, sure, and that's fair and aqual!"

I was early at my post on the following morning, being particularly anxious to meet with Mr. Wallis's scapegrace nephew, and ascertain whether anybody had found the dead body of the game-cock, and whether an inquest had been held; for I knew enough of the world to draw my own conclusions as to the result. He, although the principal, being a relative, would get off with a lecture, while I should probably be kicked out of my place.

In a fever of expectation, I hung over the banisters of the geometrical staircase, watching for his arrival.

While I was thus occupied, my nerves "screwed up,"—almost to cracking, Mr. Wallis's office-door was thrown open, and I beheld that very gentleman's round, pleasant physiognomy, embrowned by his travels, staring me full in the face. I really lost my equilibrium at the apparition.

"Oh!—it's you, is it," cried he. "Where's my rascal?"

"He's not come yet, sir," I replied.

"That fellow's never at hand when I want him—I'll cashier him by ___." He slammed to his own door, and—opened it again immediately.

"Timmis come?" demanded he.

"No, sir; I don't think he'll be here for an hour."

"True—I'm early in the field; but what brings you here so soon?—some mischief, I suppose."

"I'm always early, sir, for I live hard by."

"Ha!—well—I wish—."

"Can I do anything for you, sir?" I enquired.

"Why, that's a good thought," said he, and his countenance assumed its usually bland expression. "Let me see—I want to send my carpet-bag, and a message, to my housekeeper."

"I can do it, sir, and be back again in no time," cried I, elated at having an opportunity of obliging the man whom I had really some cause to fear, in the critical situation in which his nephew's thoughtlessness had placed me.

In my eagerness, however, and notwithstanding the political acuteness of my manoeuvre, I got myself into an awful dilemma. Having received the bag, and his message, I walked off, but had scarcely descended a dozen stairs when he recalled me.

"Where the devil are you going?" cried he.

"To your house, sir," I innocently replied.

"What, do you know it, then?" demanded he in surprise.

Here was a position. It was a miracle that I did not roll over the carpet-bag and break my neck, in the confusion of ideas engendered by this simple query.

I could not lie, and evasion was not my forte. A man or boy in the wrong can never express himself with propriety; an opinion in which Quinctilian also appears to coincide, when he asserts—

"Orator perfectus nisi vir bonus esse non potest."

I therefore summoned up sufficient breath and courage to answer him in the affirmative.

"And when, pray, were you there?" said he.

"Yesterday, sir, your nephew asked me to come and see him."

"The impudent little blackguard?" cried he.

"I hope you ain't angry, sir?"

"Angry with you?—no, my lad; you're an active little chap, and I wish that imp of mine would take a pattern by you. Trot along, and mind you have 'a lift' both ways."

Off I went, as light as a balloon when the ropes are cut.

I executed my commission with dispatch, and completely won the favour of Mr. Wallis, by returning the money which he had given me for coach-hire.

"How's this?—you didn't tramp, did you?" said he.

"No, sir, I rode both ways," I replied; "but I knew the coachmen, and they gave me a cast for nothing."

"Umph!—well, that's quite proper—quite proper," said he, considering a moment. "Honesty's the best policy."

"Father always told me so, sir."

"Your father's right;—there's half-a-crown for you."

I was delighted—

"Quantum cedat virtutibus aurum;"

and I felt the truth of this line of Dr. Johnson's, although I was then ignorant of it. I met his nephew on the landing, but my fears had vanished. We talked, however, of the departed bird, and he wished me, in the event of discovery, to declare that I had loaded and carried the gun, and that he would bear the rest of the blame.

This, however, strongly reminded me of the two Irish smugglers:—one had a wooden leg, and carried the cask; while his comrade, who had the use of both his pins, bore him upon his shoulders, and, complaining of the weight, the other replied:—"Och! thin, Paddy, what's the bothuration; if you carry me, don't I carry the whiskey, sure, and that's fair and aqual!" and I at once declined any such Hibernian partnership in the affair, quite resolved that he should bear the whole onus upon his own shoulders.

CHAPTER, VII.—The Cricket Match

"Out! so don't fatigue yourself, I beg, sir."

"Out! so don't fatigue yourself, I beg, sir."

I soon discovered that my conduct had been reported in the most favourable colours to Mr. Timmis, and the consequence was that he began to take more notice of me.

"Andrew, what sort of a fist can you write?" demanded he. I shewed him some caligraphic specimens.

"D___ me, if your y's and your g's hav'nt tails like skippingropes. We must have a little topping and tailing here, and I think you'll do. Here, make out this account, and enter it in the book."

He left me to do his bidding; and when he returned from the Stock-Exchange, inspected the performance, which I had executed with perspiring ardour.

I watched his countenance. "That'll do—you're a brick! I'll make a man of you—d___ me."

From this day forward I had the honour of keeping his books, and making out the accounts. I was already a person of importance, and certainly some steps above the boys on the landing.

I did not, however, obtain any advance in my weekly wages; but on "good-days" got a douceur, varying from half a crown to half a sovereign! and looked upon myself as a made man. Most of the receipts went to my father; whatever he returned to me I spent at a neighbouring book-stall, and in the course of twelve months I possessed a library of most amusing and instructive literature,—Heaven knows! of a most miscellaneous character, for I had no one to guide me in the selection.

Among Mr. Timmis's numerous clients, was one Mr. Cornelius Crobble, a man of most extraordinary dimensions; he was also a "chum" of, and frequently made one of a party with, his friend Mr. Wallis, and other croneys, to white-bait dinners at Blackwall, and other intellectual banquets. In fact, he seldom made his appearance at the office, but the visit ended in an engagement to dine at some "crack-house" or other. The cost of the "feed," as Mr. Timmis termed it, was generally decided by a toss of "best two and three;" and somehow it invariably happened that Mr. Crobble lost; but he was so good-humoured, that really it was a pleasure, as Mr. Wallis said, to "grub" at his expense.

They nick-named him Maximo Rotundo—and he well deserved the title.

"Where's Timmis?" said he, one day after he had taken a seat, and puffed and blowed for the space of five minutes—"Cuss them stairs; they'll be the death o' me."

I ran to summon my master.

"How are you, old fellow?" demanded Mr. Timmis; "tip us your fin."

"Queer!" replied Mr. Crobble,—tapping his breast gently with his fat fist, and puffing out his cheeks—to indicate that his lungs were disordered.

"What, bellows to mend?" cried my accomplished patron— D___ me, never say die!"

"Just come from Doctor Sprawles: says I must take exercise; no malt liquor—nothing at breakfast—no lunch—no supper."

"Why, you'll be a skeleton—a transfer from the consolidated to the reduced in no time," exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the laugh.

"I was a-thinking, Timmis—don't you belong to a cricketclub?"

"To be sure."

—"Of joining you."

"That's the ticket," cried Timmis—"consider yourself elected; I can carry any thing there. I'm quite the cock of the walk, and no mistake. Next Thursday's a field-day—I'll introduce you. Lord! you'll soon be right as a trivet."

Mr Wallis was summoned, and the affair was soon arranged; and I had the gratification of being present at Mr. Crobble's inauguration.

It was a broiling day, and there was a full field; but he conducted himself manfully, notwithstanding the jokes of the club. He batted exceedingly well, "considering," as Mr. Wallis remarked; but as for the "runs," he was completely at fault.

He only attempted it once; but before he had advanced a yard or two, the ball was caught; and the agile player, striking the wicket with ease, exclaimed, amid the laughter of the spectators—"Out! so don't fatigue yourself, I beg, sir."

And so the match was concluded, amid cheers and shouting, in which the rotund, good-natured novice joined most heartily.

CHAPTER VIII.—The Hunter.

"Hunting may be sport, says I, but I'm blest if its pleasure."

"Hunting may be sport, says I, but I'm blest if its pleasure."

Two days after the cricket-match, Mr. Crobble paid a visit to my master.

"Well, old fellow, d___ me me, if you ain't a trump—how's your wind?"—kindly enquired Mr. Timmis.

"Vastly better, thank'ye; how's Wallis and the other fellows?—prime sport that cricketing."

"Yes; but, I say, you'll never have 'a run' of luck, if you stick to the wicket so."

"True; but I made a hit or two, you must allow," replied Mr. Crobble; "though I'm afraid I'm a sorry member."

"A member, indeed!—no, no; you're the body, and we're the—members," replied Mr. Timmis, laughing; "but, halloo! what's that patch on your forehead—bin a fighting?"

"No; but I've been a hunting," said Mr. Crobble, "and this here's the fruits—You know my gray?"

"The nag you swopp'd the bay roadster for with Tom Brown?"

"Him," answered Crobble. "Well, I took him to Hertfordshire Wednesday last—"

"He took you, you mean."

"Well, what's the odds?"

"The odds, why, in your favour, to be sure, as I dare say the horse can witness."

"Well, howsomever, there was a good field—and off we went. The level country was all prime; but he took a hedge, and nearly julked all the life out o' me. I lost my stirrup, and should have lost my seat, had'nt I clutched his mane—"

"And kept your seat by main force?"

"Very good."

"Well, away we went, like Johnny Gilpin. Hunting may be sport, says I, but I'm blest if its pleasure. This infernal horse was always fond of shying, and now he's going to shy me off; and, ecod! no sooner said than done. Over his head I go, like a rocket."

"Like a foot-ball, you mean," interrupted Mr. Timmis.

"And, as luck would have it, tumbles into a ditch, plump with my head agin the bank."

"By jingo! such a 'run' upon the bank was enough to break it," cried my master, whose propensity to crack a joke overcame all feeling of sympathy for his friend.

"It broke my head though; and warn't I in a precious mess—that's all—up to my neck, and no mistake—and black as a chimney-sweep—such mud!"

"And only think of a man of your property investing his substance in mud! That is a good 'un!—Andrew," said he, "tell Wally to come here." I summoned his crony, and sat myself down to the books, to enjoy the sportive sallies of the two friends, who roasted the 'fat buck,' their loving companion, most unmercifully.

"You sly old badger," cried Wallis, "why, you must have picked out the ditch."

"No, but they picked out me, and a precious figure I cut—I can tell you—I was dripping from top to toe."

"Very like dripping, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Timmis, eyeing his fat friend, and bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter. The meeting ended, as usual, with a bet for a dinner at the "Plough" for themselves and their friends, which Mr. Crobble lost—as usual.

CHAPTER IX.—A Row to Blackwall.

'To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady'

'To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady'

STEAM-BOATS did not run to Greenwich and Blackwall at this period; and those who resorted to the white-bait establishments at those places, either availed themselves of a coach or a boat. Being now transformed, by a little personal merit, and a great favour, from a full-grown errand-boy to a small clerk, Mr. Timmis, at the suggestion of my good friend Mr. Wallis, offered me, as a treat, a row in the boat they had engaged for the occasion; which, as a matter of course, I did not refuse: making myself as spruce as my limited wardrobe would permit, I trotted at their heels to the foot of London-bridge, the point of embarkation.

The party, including the boatman, consisted of eight souls; the tide was in our favour, and away we went, as merry a company as ever floated on the bosom of Father Thames. Mr. Crobble was the chief mark for all their sallies, and indeed he really appeared, from his size, to have been intended by Nature for a "butt," as Mr. Wallis wickedly remarked.

"You told, me, Crobble, of your hunting exploit in Hertfordshire," said Mr. Wallis; "I'll tell you something as bangs that hollow; I'm sure I thought I should have split with laughter when I heard of it. You know the old frump, my Aunt Betty, Timmis?"

"To be sure—she with the ten thousand in the threes," replied Mr. Timmis; "a worthy creature; and I'm sure you admire her principal."

"Don't I," cried Wallis; and he winked significantly at his friend.

"Well, what d'ye think; she, and Miss Scragg, her toady, were in the country t'other day, and must needs amuse themselves in an airing upon a couple of prads.

"Well; they were cantering along—doing the handsome—and had just come to the border of a pond, when a donkey pops his innocent nose over a fence in their rear, and began to heehaw' in a most melodious strain. The nags pricked up their ears in a twinkling, and made no more ado but bolted. Poor aunty tugged! but all in vain; her bay-cob ran into the water; and she lost both her presence of mind and her seat, and plumped swash into the pond—her riding habit spreading out into a beautiful circle—while she lay squalling and bawling out in the centre, like a little piece of beef in the middle of a large batter-pudding! Miss Scragg, meanwhile, stuck to her graymare, and went bumping along to the admiration of all beholders, and was soon out of sight: luckily a joskin, who witnessed my dear aunt's immersion, ran to her assistance, and, with the help of his pitch-fork, safely landed her; for unfortunately the pond was not above three or four feet deep! and so she missed the chance of being an angel!"

"And you the transfer of her threes!—what a pity!" said the sympathizing Mr. Timmis.

"When I heard of the accident, of course, as in duty bound, I wrote an anxious letter of affectionate enquiry and condolence. At the same period, seeing an advertisement in the Times—'To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady'—I was so tickled with the co-incidence, that I cut it out, and sent it to her in an envelope."

"Prime! by Jove!"—shouted Mr. Crobble—"But, I say, Wallis—you should have sent her a 'duck' too, as a symbolical memorial of her accident!"

CHAPTER X.—The Pic-Nic.

—-had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow.

—-had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow.

"PEOPLE should never undertake to do a thing they don't perfectly understand," remarked Mr. Crobble, "they're sure to make fools o' themselves in the end. There's Tom Davis, (you know Tom Davis?) he's always putting his notions into people's heads, and turning the laugh against 'em. If there's a ditch in the way, he's sure to dare some of his companions to leap it, before he overs it himself; if he finds it safe, away he springs like a greyhound."

"Exactly him, I know him," replied Mr. Timmis; "that's what he calls learning to shave upon other people's chins!"

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mr. Wallis.

"He's a very devil," continued Mr. Crobble; "always proposing some fun or other: Pic-nics are his delight; but he always leaves others to bring the grub, and brings nothing but himself. I hate Pic-nics, squatting in the grass don't suit me at all; when once down, I find it no easy matter to get up again, I can tell you."

Hereupon there was a general laugh.

"Talking of Pic-nics," said Mr. Timmis. "reminds me of one that was held the other day in a meadow, on the banks of the Lea. The party, consisting of ladies only, and a little boy, had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow. They were presently on their pins, (cow'd, of course,) and sheered off to a respectful distance, while the cow walked leisurely over the table-cloth, smelling the materials of the feast, and popp'd her cloven foot plump into a currant and raspberry pie! and they had a precious deal of trouble to draw her off; for, as Tom Davis said, there were some veal-patties there, which were, no doubt, made out of one of her calves; and in her maternal solicitude, she completely demolished the plates and dishes, leaving the affrighted party nothing more than the broken victuals."

"What a lark!" exclaimed Mr. Crobble; "I would have given a guinea to have witnessed the fun. That cow was a trojan!"

"A star in the milky way," cried Mr. Wallis.

We now approached the 'Plough;' and Mr. Crobble having 'satisfied' the boatman, Mr. Wallis gave me half-a-crown, and bade me make the best of my way home. I pocketed the money, and resolved to 'go on the highway,' and trudge on foot.

"Andrew," said my worthy patron, "now don't go and make a beast of yourself, but walk straight home."

"Andrew," said Mr. Wallis, imitating his friend's tone of admonition; "if any body asks you to treat 'em, bolt; if any body offers to treat you, retreat!"

"Andrew," said Mr. Crobble, who was determined to put in his oar, and row in the same boat as his friends; "Andrew,"—"Yes, Sir;" and I touched my hat with due respect, while his two friends bent forward to catch his words. "Andrew," repeated he, for the third time, "avoid evil communication, and get thee gone from Blackwall, as fast as your legs can carry you—for, there's villainous bad company just landed here—wicked enough to spoil even the immaculate Mr. Cornelius Crobble!"

CHAPTER XI.—The Journey Home.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!"—"Aye, aye-starboard it is!"

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!"—"Aye, aye-starboard it is!"

I FOUND myself quite in a strange land upon parting with my master and his friends. It was war-time, and the place was literally swarming with jack-tars.

Taking to the road, for the footway was quite crowded, I soon reached Poplar. Here a large mob impeded my progress. They appeared all moved with extraordinary merriment. I soon distinguished the objects of their mirth. Two sailors, mounted back to back on a cart-horse, were steering for Blackwall. A large horse-cloth served them as a substitute for a saddle, and the merry fellow behind held the reins; he was smoking a short pipe, while his mate was making an observation with his spy-glass.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!" cried the one in front.

"Aye, aye-starboard it is!" replied his companion, tugging at the rein.

"Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?" bawled a sailor in the crowd.

"To the port o' Blackwall," replied the steersman. "But we're going quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night."

"A queer craft."

"Werry," replied Tom. "Don't answer the helm at all."

"Any grog on board?" demanded the sailor.

"Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage."

"Shiver my timbers!—no grog!" exclaimed the other; "why—you'll founder. If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour. Heave to—and let's drink success to the voyage."

"With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom—larboard."

"Aye, aye—larboard it is."

"Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl."

Tom tugged away, and soon "brought up" at the door of a wine-vaults.

"Let go the anchor," exclaimed his messmate—"that's it—coil up."

"Here, mate—here's a picter of his royal majesty"—giving the sailor alongside a new guinea—"and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health—God bless him."

"Hooray!" shouted the delighted mob.

Their quondam friend soon did his bidding, bringing out a huge china-bowl filled with grog, which was handed round to every soul within reach, and presently dispatched;—two others followed, before they "weighed anchor and proceeded on their voyage," cheered by the ragged multitude, among whom they lavishly scattered their change; and a most riotous and ridiculous scramble it produced.

I was much pleased with the novelty of the scene, and escaped from the crowd as quickly as I conveniently could, for I was rather apprehensive of an attempt upon my pockets.

What strange beings are these sailors! They have no care for the morrow, but spend lavishly the hard-earned wages of their adventurous life. To one like myself, who early knew the value of money, this thoughtless extravagance certainly appeared unaccountable, and nearly allied to madness; but, when I reflected that they are sometimes imprisoned in a ship for years, without touching land, and frequently in peril of losing their lives—that they have scarcely time to scatter their wages and prize-money in the short intervals which chance offers them of mixing with their fellow-men, my wonder changed to pity.

"A man in a ship," says Dr. Johnson, "is worse than a man in a jail; for the latter has more room, better food, and commonly better company, and is in safety."

CHAPTER XII.—Monsieur Dubois.

"I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!—but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!"

"I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!—but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!"