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

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!"


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!"


The love-lorn Matthew had departed, no doubt unable to bear the sight of that staircase whose boards no longer resounded with the slip-slap of the slippers of that hypocritical beauty, "his Mary." With him, the romance of the landing-place, and the squad, had evaporated; and I had no sympathies, no pursuits, in common with the remaining "boys" - my newly-acquired post, too, nearly occupied the whole of my time, while my desire of study increased with the acquisition of books, in which all my pocket-money was expended.

One day, my good friend, Mr. Wallis, entered the office, followed by a short, sharp-visaged man, with a sallow complexion; he was dressed in a shabby frock, buttoned up to the throat - a rusty black silk neckerchief supplying the place of shirt and collar.

He stood just within the threshold of the door, holding his napless hat in his hand.

"Well, Wally, my buck," cried my master, extending his hand.

Mr. Wallis advanced close to his elbow, and spoke in a whisper; but I observed, by the direction of his eyes, that the subject of his communication was the stranger.

"Ha!" said Mr. Timmis, "it's all very well, Walley - but I hate all forriners; - why don't he go back to Frogland, and not come here, palming himself upon us. It's no go - not a scuddick. They're all a parcel o' humbugs - and no mistake!"

As he uttered this gracious opinion sufficiently loud to strike upon the tympanum of the poor fellow at the door, I could perceive his dark eyes glisten, and the blood tinge his woe-begone cheeks; his lips trembled with emotion: there was an evident struggle between offended gentility, and urgent necessity.

Pride, however, gained the mastery; and advancing the right foot, he raised his hat, and with peculiar grace bowing to the two friends - "Pardon, Monsieur Vallis," said he, in tremulous accents, "I am 'de trop;' permit, me to visdraw" - and instantly left the office.

Mr. Timmis, startled by his sudden exit, looked at Mr. Wallis for an explanation.

"By !" exclaimed Mr. Wallis seriously - "you've hurt that poor fellow's feelings. I would sooner have given a guinea than he should have heard you. Dubois is a gentleman; and altho' he's completely 'stumped,' and has'nt a place to put his head in, he's tenacious of that respect which is due to every man, whether he happens to be at a premium, or a discount."

"Go it!" cried Mr. Timmis, colouring deeply at this merited reproof - "If this ain't a reg'lar sermon! I didn't mean to hurt his feelings, d me; I'm a reg'lar John Bull, and he should know better than to be popped at my bluntness. D me, I wouldn't hurt a worm - you know I wouldn't, Wallis."

There was a tone of contrition in this rambling apology that satisfied Mr. Wallis of its truth; and he immediately entered into an explanation on the Frenchman's situation. He had known him, he said, for several years as a tutor in the family of one of his clients, by whom he was much respected: a heavy loss had compelled them suddenly to reduce their establishment; Dubois had entreated to remain with his pupil - refused to receive any salary - and had even served his old patron in the capacity of a menial, adhering to him in all his misfortunes, and only parted with him, reluctantly, at the door of the debtor's prison!

"Did he do that?" said my master; and I saw his eyes moisten at the relation. "A French mounseer do that! Game - d me!" - and lifting the lid of his desk, he drew out a five pound note! "Here, Wallis, tip him this flimsey! Tell him - you know what to say - I'm no speechifier - but you know what I mean." I almost jumped up and hugged my master, I was so excited.

The next day Monsieur Dubois again made his appearance; and Mr. Wallis had the pleasure of beholding Mr. Timmis and his gallic friend on the best terms imaginable.

As for me, I had good cause to rejoice; for it was agreed that I should take lessons in the "foreign lingo," by way of giving him "a lift," as Mr. Timmis expressed it. I remember him with feelings of gratitude; for I owe much more than the knowledge of the language to his kindness and instruction.

As for Mr. Timmis, he could never sufficiently appreciate his worth, although he uniformly treated him with kindness.

"Talk of refinement," said he, one day, when discussing Dubois' merits with Mr. Wallis; "I saw a bit to-day as bangs everything. A cadger sweeping a crossing fell out with a dustman. Wasn't there some spicy jaw betwixt 'em. Well, nothing would suit, but the dustman must have a go, and pitch into the cadger.

"D me, what does the cove do, but he outs with a bit of dirty pasteboard, and he says, says he, 'I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar! - but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!' Wasn't there a roar! I lugg'd out a bob, and flung it at the vagabond for his wit."


CHAPTER XIII. - My Talent Called into Active Service.

"Ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?"

"I should think so," replied his sooty brother, "they're sich ugly warmints."


Having to deliver a letter, containing an account and a stock receipt, to one of Mr. Timmis's clients, residing at the west end of the town; in crossing through one of the fashionable squares, I observed a flat-faced negro servant in livery, standing at the door of one of the houses.

Two chimney sweepers