Sketches by Seymour Part 10

Should the weather prove rainy, the hungry traveller may certainly get a wet on the road, although he starves before he reaches the wished-for inn.

As there is likewise no more chance of meeting a good tempered guide on a cross-road, than of finding eggs and bacon, in an edible state, at least on a common--and as he can no more pull in the summer-rains than he can the reins of a runaway stallion; the result is, the inexperienced youth ludicrously represents so many pounds of 'dripping,' and although he may be thirsty, he will have no cause to complain that he is--dry! The best mode for an honest man to go round the country, is to take a straight-forward course, especially when the surcharged clouds do rule the horizon with sloping lines of rain! Besides, it is by no means a pleasant thing for a man with a scanty wardrobe, to find his clothes running away at a most unpleasant rate, while he can scarcely drag one clay-enc.u.mbered leg after the other.

It is a difficult trial, too, of a man's philosophy, after trudging over a long field, to be encountered by the mockery of a 'ha! ha!'--fence! He utters a few bitter expletives, perhaps, but nought avails his railing against such a fence as that!

The shower which makes all nature smile, only causes him to laugh--on the wrong side of his mouth, for he regards it as a temperance man does a regular soaker!

Reader! never attempt a bye-way on a wet day, with a stick and bundle at your back--(if you have a waterproof trunk, you may indeed weather it)--but go a-head on the turnpike road--the way of all mails--leaving long and short commons to the goose and donkey--and the probability is, that you may not only I make a sign before you die, but get a feed--and a shelter.

SCENE XVII.

"I'm dem'd if I can ever hit 'em."

It is a most extraordinary thing, 'pon my veracity: I go out as regularly as the year, and yet I never bring down an individual bird.

I have one of the best Mantons going with such a bore! and then I use the best shot--but not being the best shot in the world myself--I suppose is the identical reason why I never hit any thing. I think it must arise from a natural defect in my sight; for when I suppose a covey as near--as my miser of an uncle--they are probably as distant--as my ninety-ninth cousin!

Such a rum go!--the other day I had a troop of fellows at my heels, laughing like mad; and what do you think?--when I doffed my shooting jacket, I found some wag had stuck the top of a printed placard on my back, with the horrid words, "A young Gentleman missing!"

It was only last week, a whole flight of sparrows rose at my very feet--I fired--bang!--no go!--but I heard a squall; and elevating my gla.s.s, lo! I beheld a cottage within a few yards of my muzzle--the vulgar peasant took the trouble to leap his fence, and inform me I had broken his windows--of course I was compelled to pay him for his panes.

To be sure he did rather indicate a disposition to take away my gun--which I certainly should never have relinquished without a struggle--and so I forked out the dibs, in order to keep the piece! I'm quite positive, however, that the vagabond over-charged me, and I kicked, as was quite natural, you know, under such circ.u.mstances!

I really have an imperfect notion of disposing of my shooting-tackle--but I'm such an unfortunate devil, that I really believe when I post 'em up for sale--my gun will not go off!--dem me!

SCENE XVIII.

"Have you read the leader in this paper, Mr. Brisket?"

"No! I never touch a newspaper; they are all so werry wenal, and Ovoid of sentiment!"

BOB.

O! here's a harticle agin the fools, Vich our poor British Nation so misrules: And don't they show 'em up with all their tricks-- By gos.h.!.+ I think they'd better cut their sticks; They never can surwive such cuts as these is!

BRISKET.

It's werry well; but me it never pleases; I never reads the news, and sees no merit In anythink as breathes a party sperrit.

BOB.

Ain't you a hinglishman? and yet not feel A hint'rest, Brisket, in the common-weal?

BRISKET.

The common-weal be--anything for me,-- There ain't no sentiment as I can see In all the stuff these sons of--Britain prate-- They talk too much and do too little for the state.

BOB.

O! Brisket, I'm afeard as you're a 'Rad?'

BRISKET.

No, honour bright! for sin' I was a lad I've stuck thro' thick and thin to Peel, or Vellinton--for Tories is genteeler; But I'm no politician. No! I read These 'Tales of Love' vich tells of hearts as bleed, And moonlight meetins in the field and grove, And cross-grain'd pa's and wictims of true love; Wirgins in white a-leaping out o' winders-- Vot some old codger cotches, and so hinders-- From j'ining her true-love to tie the knot, Who broken-hearted dies upon the spot!

BOB.

That's werry fine!--but give me politics-- There's summat stirring even in the tricks Of them vot's in to keep the t'others out,-- How I Should like to hear the fellers spout!

For some on 'em have sich a lot o' cheek, If they war'n't stopp'd they'd go it for a week.

BRISKET.

But they're so wulgar, Bob, and call sich names As quite the tag-rag of St. Giles' shames The press too is so wenal, that they think All party herrors for the sake o' c.h.i.n.k.

BOB.

But ain't there no false lovers in them tales, Vot hover wirgin hinnocence perwails?

BRISKET.

Vy, yes, but in the end the right one's married, And after much to do the point is carried So give me love sincere and tender, And all the rest's not worth a bender.

SCENE XIX.

AN EPISTLE

FROM

SAMUEL SOFTLY, ESQ. TO HIS FRIEND, RICHARD GUBBINS, ESQ. OF TOOLEY STREET.

O! d.i.c.k!

Such a misfortin' has you never heard on as come upon your friend. I'll jist give you a breef houtline of the circ.u.mstantials as near as my flurry vill let me. T'other mornin' I vips up my gun for to go a-shootin', and packin' up my hammunition, and some sanwidges, I bids adoo to this wile smoky town, vith the intention of gettin' a little hair. Vell! on I goes a-viss.h.i.+n' and thinkin' on nothin', and happy as the b.u.mblebees as vos a-numming around me. Vell! a'ter an hour or more's valking, not an house nor a brick vos wisible.

Natur', in all her werdur', vos smilin' like a fat babby in its maternal harms! But, as somebody has it--

"Man never ain't, but al'ays to be bless'd,"

and I'm bless'd if that ain't true too, as you shall see presently. Vell!

I pops at von bird and then at another; but vether the poor creturs vos unaccustom'd to guns, and so vos frighten'd, I don't know, but somehow I couldn't hit 'em no-how.

Vell! and so I vos jist a-chargin' agin ven a great he-fellow, in a ruff coat and partic'lar large viskers, accostes me (ciw.i.l.l.y I must say, but rayther familler)--

"Birds shy?" says he.

"Werry;--ain't hit nothin'," says I.