The Sketches of Seymour by Robert Seymour (ebook reader TXT) 📖

a pot of treacle to a blue-bottle - As beautiful to the eye as a page of virgin-vellum richly illuminated And As satisfactory as a fat legacy!

Talk of nectar! if Jupiter should really wish to give a bonne-bouche to Juno, Leda, or Venus, or any one of his thousand and one flames, let him skim the milky-way - transform the instrumental part of the music of the spheres into 'hautboys,' and compound the only dish worth the roseate lips of the gentle dames 'in nubibus,' and depend on it, the cups of Ganymede and Hebe will be rejected for a bowl of - Strawberries and Cream.


A DAY'S PLEASURE. - No. I.

THE JOURNEY OUT.

"It's werry hot, but werry pleasant."


Says Mrs. Sibson to her spouse "The days is hot and fair; I think 'twould do the children good To get a little hair!

"For ve've been moping here at home And nothin' seen o' life; Vhile neighbor Jones he takes his jaunts O' Sundays vith his vife!"

"Vell! vell! my dear," quoth Mr. S
"Let's hear vot you purpose; I'm al'ays ready to comply, As you, my love, vell knows.

"I'll make no bones about the cost; You knows I never stick About a trifle to amuse, So, dearest Pol, be quick."

"Vhy, this is it: - I think ve might To Hornsey have a day; Maria, Peg, and Sal, and Bet Ve'd pack into a 'chay.'

"Our Jim and Harry both could valk, (God bless their little feet!) The babby in my arms I'd take - I'm sure 'twould be a treat;"

Quoth he: "I am unanimous!" And so the day was fix'd; And forth they started in good trim, Tho' not with toil umnix'd.

Across his shoulders Sibson bore A basket with the "grub," And to the "chay" perform'd the "horse," Lest Mrs. S should snub.

Apollo smiled! - that is, the sun Blazed in a cloudless sky, And Sibson soon was in a "broil" By dragging of his "fry."

Says S , "My love, I'm dry as dust!" When she replied, quite gay, "Then, drink; for see I've bottled up My spirits for the day."

And from the basket drew a flask, And eke a footless glass; He quaff'd the drink, and cried, "Now, dear, I'm strong as " let that pass!

At last they reach'd the destined spot And prop and babes unpacked; They ran about, and stuff'd, and cramm'd, And really nothing lack'd.

And Sibson, as he "blew a cloud," Declared, "It vos a day!" And vow'd that he would come again - Then call'd for "Vot's to pay?"


A DAY'S PLEASURE. - No. II.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

"Vot a soaking ve shall get."


Across the fields they homeward trudged, when, lo! a heavy rain Came pouring from the sky; Poor Sibson haul'd, the children squall'd; alas! it was too plain They would not reach home dry.

With clay-clogg'd wheels, and muddy heels, and Jim upon his back, He grumbled on his way; "Vell, blow my vig! this is a rig!" cried Sibson, "Vell! alack! I shan't forget this day!

"My shoes is sop, my head's a mop; I'm vet as any think; Oh! shan't ve cotch a cold!" "Your tongue is glib enough!" his rib exclaim'd, and made him shrink,
- For she was such a scold -

And in her eye he could descry a spark that well he knew Into a flame would rise; So he was dumb, silent and glum, as the small "chay" he drew, And ventured no replies.

Slip, slop, and slush! past hedge and bush, the dripping mortals go (Tho' 'twas "no go" S thought); "If this 'ere's fun, vy I for vuu," cried he, with face of woe, "Von't soon again be caught.

"Vet to the skin, thro' thick and thin, to trapes ain't to my mind; So the next holiday I vill not roam, but stick at home, for there at least I'll find The means to soak my clay.

"Tis quite a fag, this 'chay' to drag - the babbies too is cross, And Mrs. S is riled. 'Tis quite a bore; the task is more - more fitt'rer for an horse; And vith the heat I'm briled!

"No, jaunts adoo! I'll none o' you!" - and soon they reach'd their home, Wet through and discontent - "Sure sich a day, I needs must say," exclaim'd his loving spouse, "Afore I never spent!"


HAMMERING

"Beside a meandering stream There sat an old gentleman fat; On the top of his head was his wig, On the top of his wig was his hat."


I once followed a venerable gentleman along the banks of a mill-stream, armed at all points with piscatorial paraphernalia, looking out for some appropriate spot, with all the coolness of a Spanish inquisitor, displaying his various instruments of refined torture. He at last perched himself near the troubled waters, close to the huge revolving wheel, and threw in his float, which danced upon the mimic waves, and bobbed up and down, as if preparing for a reel. Patiently he sat; as motionless and unfeeling as a block. I placed myself under cover of an adjoining hedge, and watched him for the space of half an hour; but he pulled up nothing but his baited hook; - what his bait was, I know not; but I suppose, from the vicinity, he was fishing for a "miller's thumb." Presently, two mealy-mouthed men, from the mill, made their appearance, cautiously creeping behind him.

I drew myself up in the shadow of the luxuriant quickset to observe their notions.

A paling in the rear offered the rogues an effectual concealment in case the angler should turn.

Close to his seat ran some wood-work, upon which they quietly drew the broad tails of his coat, and driving in a couple of tenpenny nails, left the unconscious old gentleman a perfect fixture; to be taken at a valuation, I suppose, part of his personal property being already "brought to the hammer!" the clattering clamour of the wheel precluding him from hearing the careful, but no less effectual taps. I certainly enjoyed the trick, and longed to see the ridiculous issue; but he was so intent upon his sport - so fixed that he did not discover the nature of his real attachment while I remained.

Doubtless if he were of a quick and sudden temperament, a snatch of his humour rent his broad cloth, and he returned home with a woful tail, and slept not - for his nap was irreparably destroyed!

I hate all twaddle; but when I see an old fool, with rod and line,

"Sitting like patience on a monument,"

and selling the remnant of his life below cost price in the pursuit of angling, - that "art of ingeniously tormenting," - a feeling,

"More in sorrow than in anger,"

is excited at his profitless inhumanity.

Vainly do all the disciples of honest Izaak Walton discourse, in eulogistic strains, of the pleasure of the sport. I can imagine neither pleasure nor sport derivable from the infliction of pain upon the meanest thing endowed with life.

This may be deemed Brahminical, but I doubt that man's humanity who can indulge in the cruel recreation and murder while he smiles.

"What, heretical sentiments," exclaims some brother of the angle, (now I am an angle, but no angler.) "This fellow hath never trudged at early dawn along the verdant banks of the 'sedgy lea,' and drunk in the dewy freshness of the morning air. His lines have never fallen in pleasant places. He has never performed a pilgrimage to Waltham Cross. He is, in truth, one of those vulgar minds who take more delight in the simple than the - gentle! - and every line of his deserves a rod!"


PRACTICE.

"Sweet is the breath of morn when she ascends With charm of earliest birds."MILTON.


"Well, this is a morning!" emphatically exclaimed a stripling, with a mouth and eyes formed by Nature of that peculiar width and power of distension, so admirably calculated for the expression of stupid wonder or surprise; while his companion, elevating his nasal organ and projecting his chin, sniffed the fresh morning breeze, as they trudged through the dewy meadows, and declared that it was exactly for all the world similar-like to reading Thomson's Seasons! In which apt and appropriate simile the other concurred.

"Tom's a good fellow to lend us his gun," continued he - "I only hope it ain't given to tricking, that's all. I say, Sugarlips, keep your powder dry."

"Leave me alone for that," replied Sugarlips; "I know a thing or two, although this is the first time that ever I have been out. What a scuffling the birds do make" - added he, peeping into the cage which they had, as a precautionary measure, stocked with sparrows, in order that they might not be disappointed in their sport - "How they long to be on the wing!"

"I'll wing 'em, presently!" cried his comrade, with a vaunting air - "and look if here ain't the very identical spot for a display of my skill. Pick out one of the best and biggest, and tie up a-top of yonder stile, and you shall soon have a specimen of my execution." Sugarlips quickly did his bidding.

"Now - come forward and stand back! What do ye think o' that, ey?" said the sportsman - levelling his gun, throwing back his head, closing his sinister ocular, and stretching out his legs after the manner of the Colossus of Rhodes - "Don't you admire my style?"

"Excellent!" said Sugarlips - "But I think I could hit it."

"What?"

"Why, the stile to be sure."

"Keep quiet, can't you - Now for it - " and, trembling with eagerness, his hand pulled the trigger, but no report followed. "The deuce is in the gun," cried he, lowering it, and examining the lock; "What can ail it?"

"Why, I'll be shot if that ain't prime," exclaimed Sugarlips, laughing outright.

"What do you mean?"

"I've only forgot the priming - that's all."

"There's a pretty fellow, you are, for a sportsman."

"Well, it's no matter as it happens; for, though 'Time and tide wait for no man,' a sparrow tied must, you know. There! that will do."

"Sure you put the shot in now?"

"If you put the shot into Dicky as surely, he'll never peck groundsel again, depend on it."

Again the "murderous tube" was levelled; Sugarlips backed against an adjoining wall, with a nervous adhesiveness that evidently proved him less fearful of a little mortar than a great gun!

"That's right; out of the way, Sugarlips; I am sure I shall hit him this time." And no sooner had he uttered this self-congratulatory assurance (alas! not life-assurance!) than a report (most injurious to the innocent cock-sparrow) was heard in the neighbourhood!

"Murder! - mur-der!" roared a stentorian voice, which made the criniferous coverings of their craniums stand on end.

"Like quills upon the fretful porcupine."

In an instant the sportsman let fall his gun, and Sugarlips ran affrighted towards the stile. He found it really "vox et preterea nihil;" for a few feathers of the bird alone were visible: he had been blown to nothing; and, peeping