on the field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the sick list—a pretty excuse—hurting his back—for not being present at such a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck, cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to his charge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking away a man’s life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad? Whitefeather will cut no person’s throat—I will not say who has cheated him, for being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody cheats him, but he’ll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord is not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher—I beg her pardon, Mary Dale—who is a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack’s courage, and with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for he has ten times Jack’s malignity. Jack was hanged because, along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow is not, because with all Jack’s bad qualities, and many more, amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressed fellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is—and has been heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he can’t imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a person give him a good word—stay, stay, yes! I once heard an old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving company gracefully and dismissing them without refreshment. I don’t wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of that compliment. Well! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quite enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones—everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing; whilst he has been rejected by a woman—what a mortification to the low pride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There’s a song about both circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It’s a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it’s past one.” The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the following song:—
The Jockey’s Song
Now list to a ditty both funny and true!—
Merrily moves the dance along—
A ditty that tells of a coward and screw,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all—
Merrily moves the dance along—
Had yet resolution to go to a ball,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
“Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?”—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Said she, “Sir, to dance I should like very well,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
They danc’d to the left, and they danc’d to the right—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
And her troth the fair damsel bestow’d on the knight
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
“Now, what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?”—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Said she, “Sir, an ice I should like very well,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
But the ice, when he’d got it, he instantly ate—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Although his poor partner was all in a fret,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
For he saw ’twas the very last ice on the board,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
“Now, when shall we marry?” the gentleman cried;—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
“Sir, get you to Jordan,” the damsel replied,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
“I never will wed with the pitiful elf”—
Merrily moves the dance along—
“Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
“I’d pardon your backing from red Waterloo,”—
Merrily moves the dance along—
“But I never will wed with a coward and screw,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
XLIII
The next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed up the money which I had received for the horse in a portion of my clothing, where I entertained no fears for its safety, with the exception of a small sum in notes, gold and silver, which I carried in my pocket. Ere departing, however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town, and observe
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