I.Come round and hear, my public dear,Come hear, and judge it gently,—The prose so terse, and flowing verse,Of us, the wits of Bentley.II.We offer not intricate plotTo muse upon intently;No tragic word, no bloody sword,Shall stain the page of Bentley.III.The tender song which all day longResounds so sentimént'ly,Through wood and grove all full of love,Will find no place in Bentley.IV.Nor yet the speech which fain would teachAll nations eloquéntly;—'Tis quite too grand for us the blandAnd modest men of Bentley.V.For science deep no line we keep,We speak it reveréntly;—From sign to sign the sun may shine,Untelescoped by Bentley.VI.Tory and Whig, in accents big,May wrangle violéntly:Their party rage shan't stain the page—The neutral page of Bentley.VII.The scribe whose pen is mangling menAnd women pestiléntly,May take elsewhere his wicked ware,—He finds no mart in Bentley.VIII.It pains us not to mark the spotWhere Dan may find his rént lie;The Glasgow chiel may shout for Peel,We know them not in Bentley.IX.Those who admire a merry lyre,—Those who would hear attent'lyA tale of wit, or flashing hit,—Are ask'd to come to Bentley.X.Our hunt will be for grace and glee,Where thickest may the scent lie;At slashing pace begins the chase—Now for the burst of Bentley.
I.Come round and hear, my public dear,Come hear, and judge it gently,—The prose so terse, and flowing verse,Of us, the wits of Bentley.
II.We offer not intricate plotTo muse upon intently;No tragic word, no bloody sword,Shall stain the page of Bentley.
III.The tender song which all day longResounds so sentimént'ly,Through wood and grove all full of love,Will find no place in Bentley.
IV.Nor yet the speech which fain would teachAll nations eloquéntly;—'Tis quite too grand for us the blandAnd modest men of Bentley.
V.For science deep no line we keep,We speak it reveréntly;—From sign to sign the sun may shine,Untelescoped by Bentley.
VI.Tory and Whig, in accents big,May wrangle violéntly:Their party rage shan't stain the page—The neutral page of Bentley.
VII.The scribe whose pen is mangling menAnd women pestiléntly,May take elsewhere his wicked ware,—He finds no mart in Bentley.
VIII.It pains us not to mark the spotWhere Dan may find his rént lie;The Glasgow chiel may shout for Peel,We know them not in Bentley.
IX.Those who admire a merry lyre,—Those who would hear attent'lyA tale of wit, or flashing hit,—Are ask'd to come to Bentley.
X.Our hunt will be for grace and glee,Where thickest may the scent lie;At slashing pace begins the chase—Now for the burst of Bentley.
That a life of this eminent and much regretted man will be written by some competent author, there can be little doubt. That he himself extended his "Random Records" no further than two volumes, containing the history and anecdotes of the early part of his career, is greatly to be lamented. What is here collected is merely worthy of being called "Recollections," and does not assume to itself the character of a piece of biography.
Mr. Colman was the grandson of Francis Colman, Esq. British Resident at the Court of Tuscany at Pisa, who married a sister of the Countess of Bath. George Colman the elder, father of him of whom we write, was born about the year 1733, at Florence, and was placed at an early age at Westminster School, where he very soon distinguished himself by the rapidity of his attainments. In 1748 he went to Christchurch College, Oxford, where he took his Master's degree; and shortly became the friend and associate of Churchill, Bonnell Thornton, Lloyd, and the other principal wits and writers of the day.
Lord Bath was greatly struck by his merit and accomplishments, and induced him to adopt the law as his profession. He accordingly entered at Lincoln's Inn, and was eventually called to the bar. It appears—as it happened afterwards to his son—that the drier pursuits of his vocation were neglected or abandoned in favour of literature and the drama. His first poetical performance was a copy of verses addressed to his cousin, Lord Pulteney. But it was not till 1760 that he produced any dramatic work: in that year he brought out "Polly Honeycombe," which met with considerable success.
It is remarkable that, previous to that season, no new comedy had been produced at either theatre for nine years; and equally remarkable that the year 1761 should have brought before the public "The Jealous Wife," by Colman, "The way to Keep Him," by Murphy, and "The Married Libertine," by Macklin.
In the following year Lord Bath died, and left Mr. Colman a very comfortable annuity, but less in value than he had anticipated. In 1767, General Pulteney, Lord Bath's successor, died, and left him a second annuity, which secured him in independence for life. And here it may be proper to notice a subject which George Colman the younger has touched before in his "Random Records," in which he corrects a hasty and incautious error of the late Margravine of Anspach, committed by her, in her "Memoirs." Speaking of George Colman the elder, she says,
"He was a natural son of Lord Bath, Sir James Pulteney; and his father, perceiving in the son a passion for plays, asked him fairly if he never intended to turn his thoughts to politics, as it was his desire to see him a minister, which, with his naturalendowments, and the expense and pains he had bestowed on his education, he had reason to imagine, with his interest, he might become. Hisfatherdesired to know if he would give up the Muses for diplomacy, and plays for politics; as, in that case, he meant to give him his whole fortune. Colman thanked Lord Bath for his kind communication, but candidly said, that he preferred Thalia and Melpomene to ambition of any kind, for the height of his wishes was to become, at some future time, the manager of a theatre. Lord Bath left him fifteen hundred pounds a-year, instead of all his immense wealth."
Mr. Colman, after exposing the strange mistake of callingtheSir William Pulteney, James, goes on to state, that, being the son of his wife's sister, Lord Bath, on the death of Francis Colman (his brother-in-law), which occurred when the elder George was but one year old, took him entirely under his protection, and placed him progressively at Westminster, Oxford, and Lincoln's Inn. In corroboration of the else unquestioned truth of this statement, he refers to the posthumous pamphlets of his highly-gifted parent, and justly takes credit for saving him from imputed illegitimacy, by explaining that his grandmother was exempt from the conjugal frailty of Venus, and his grandfather from the fate of Vulcan.
George Colman the elder suffered severely from the effects of a paralytic affection, which, in the year 1790, produced mental derangement; and, after living in seclusion for four years, he died on the 14th of April 1794, having been during his life a joint proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, and sole proprietor of the little theatre in the Haymarket.
George Colman the younger became, at Westminster, the schoolfellow and associate of the present Archbishop of York, the Marquess of Anglesea, the late Earl of Buckinghamshire, Doctor Robert Willis, Mr. Reynolds, his brother dramatist, the present Earl Somers, and many other persons, who have since, like himself, become distinguished members of society.
The account which Mr. Colman gives of his introduction by his father to Johnson, Goldsmith, and Foote, when a child, is so highly graphic, and so strongly characteristic of the man, that we give an abridgement of it here:
"On the day of my introduction," says Colman, "Dr. Johnson was asked to dinner at my father's house in Soho-square, and the erudite savage came a full hour before his time. My father, having dressed himself hastily, took me with him into the drawing-room.
"On our entrance, we found Johnson sitting in afauteuilof rose-coloured satin. He was dressed in a rusty suit of brown, clothdittos, with black worsted stockings; his old yellow wig was of formidable dimensions; and the learned head which sustained it rolled about in a seemingly paralytic motion; but, in the performance of its orbit, it inclined chiefly to one shoulder.
"He deigned not to rise on our entrance; and we stood before him while he and my father talked. There was soon a pause in the colloquy; and my father, making his advantage of it, took me by the hand, and said,—'Dr. Johnson, this is a little Colman.' The doctor bestowed a slight ungracious glance upon me, and, continuing the rotary motion of his head, renewed the previous conversation. Again there was a pause;—again the anxious father, who had failed in his first effort, seized the opportunity for pushing his progeny, with—'This is my son, Dr. Johnson.' The great man's contempt for me was now roused to wrath; and, knitting his brows, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, 'Iseehim, sir!' He then fell back in his rose-coloured satinfauteuil, as if giving himself up to meditation; implying that he would not be further plagued, either with an old fool or a young one.
"After this rude rebuff from the doctor, I had the additional felicity to be placed next to him at dinner: he was silent over his meal; but I observed that he was, as Shylock says of Lancelot Gobbo, 'a huge feeder;' and during the display of his voracity, (which was worthy ofBoltCourt,) the perspiration fell in copious drops from his visage upon the table-cloth."
"Oliver Goldsmith, several years before my luckless presentation to Johnson, proved how 'doctors differ.' I was only five years old when Goldsmith took me on his knee, while he was drinking coffee, one evening, with my father, and began to play with me; which amiable act I returned with the ingratitude of a peevish brat, by giving him a very smart slap in the face; it must have been a tingler, for it left the marks of my little spiteful paw upon his cheek. This infantile outrage was followed by summary justice; and I was locked up by my indignant father in an adjoining room, to undergo solitary imprisonment in the dark. Here I began to howl and scream most abominably; which was no bad step towards liberation, since those who were not inclined to pity me might be likely to set me free, for the purpose of abating a nuisance.
"At length a generous friend appeared to extricate me from jeopardy, and that generous friend was no other than the man I had so wantonly molested by assault and battery; it was the tender-hearted doctor himself, with a lighted candle in his hand, and a smile upon his countenance, which was still partially red from the effects of my petulance. I sulked and sobbed, and he fondled and soothed; till I began to brighten. Goldsmith, who, in regard to children, was like the village preacher he has so beautifully described,—for
'Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed,'—
'Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed,'—
seized the propitious moment of returning good-humour; so he put down the candle, and began to conjure. He placed three hats, which happened to be in the room, upon the carpet, and ashilling under each: the shillings he told me, were England, France, and Spain. 'Hey, presto, cockolorum!' cried the doctor,—and, lo! on uncovering the shillings which had been dispersed, each beneath a separate hat, they were all found congregated under one. I was no politician at five years old, and, therefore, might not have wondered at the sudden revolution which brought England, France, and Spain all under one crown; but, as I was also no conjuror, it amazed me beyond measure. Astonishment might have amounted to awe for one who appeared to me gifted with the power of performing miracles, if the good-nature of the man had not obviated my dread of the magician; but, from that time, whenever the doctor came to visit my father,
'I pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;
'I pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;
a game at romps constantly ensued, and we were always cordial friends, and merry play-fellows.
"Foote's earliest notices of me were far from flattering; but, though they had none of Goldsmith's tenderness, they had none of Johnson's ferocity; and when he accosted me with his usual salutation of 'Blow your nose, child!' there was a whimsical manner, and a broad grin upon his features, which always made me laugh.
"His own nose was generally begrimed with snuff; and, if he had never been more facetious than upon the subject of myemunctories, which, by the bye, did not went cleansing, I need not tell the reader, that he would not have been distinguished as a wit;—he afterwards condescended to pass better jokes upon me.
"The paradoxical celebrity which he maintained upon the stage was very singular; his satirical sketches were scarcely dramas, and he could not be called a good legitimate performer. Yet there is no Shakspeare or Roscius upon record who, like Foote, supported a theatre for a series of years by his own acting, in his own writings, and, for ten years of the time, upon awooden leg!"
The reader, if he have not seen these passages before, will, we are sure, sympathise with us in our regrets that the work from which we extract them, carries us only in its two volumes to the year 1785,—a period at which Colman's fame and reputation had yet to be made.
His first decidedly successful drama was "Inkle and Yarico:" this at once established his character as an author. "Ways and Means," "The Mountaineers," and "The Iron Chest" followed; and in 1798 he published those admirable poems known as "My Night-gown and Slippers." His greatest literary triumphs were, however, yet to come. "The Heir at Law" was his first regular comedy; and we doubt very much whether he ever excelled it, or, indeed, if it has been excelled by more than a very few plays in the English language. We know that thetheatrical world, and we believe the author himself, gave a decided preference to "John Bull;" but we admit that as we are unfashionable enough to prefer Sheridan's "Rivals" to his "School for Scandal," so are we prepared unhesitatingly to declare our opinion that "The Heir at Law" is Colman'schef d'œuvre.
"The Poor Gentleman" is an excellent play; and "Who wants a Guinea?" although not so decidedly successful as its predecessors, teems with that rich humour and quaintness of thought which so strongly characterise the writing of its author. His farces of "The Review," "Love laughs at Locksmiths," "We fly by Night," and several others, are all admirable in their way. These were given to the town as the reductions of Arthur Griffinhoofe, anom de guerre, however, which proved quite inefficient in making the public mistake the source whence their amusement was derived.
In 1819, Mr. Colman finally retired from the proprietorship and management of the Haymarket Theatre. Upon the escape and flight from England of Captain Davis, the lieutenant of the Yeoman Guard, his Majesty George the Fourth appointed Mr. Colman to succeed him; and on the death of Mr. Larpent he also received the appointment of Examiner of Plays. The former office he relinquished in favour of Sir John Gete, some three or four years since; and in the latter he has, as our readers know, been succeeded by Mr. Charles Kemble.
It would be unjust and unfair to the memory of Mr. Colman were we to let slip this opportunity of saying a few words upon the subject of his conduct in the execution of the duties of this situation; because it has been made the object of attack even by men of the highest talent and reputation, as well as the low ribald abuse of their literary inferiors,—which, however, considering the source whence it came, is not worth noticing.
It has been alleged that Mr. Colman was unnecessarily rigid in his exclusion of oaths and profane sayings from the dramatic works submitted to his inspection; and the gist of the arguments against him touching this rigour went to show that he ought not to expunge such expressions as examiner, because he had used such expressions himself as an author. This reasoning is absurd, the conclusion inconsequential. When Mr. Colman wrote plays, he was not bound by oath to regulate their language by any fixed standard; and, as all other dramatists of the day had done, in a dialogue or depicting a character he used in some—perhaps all his dramas—occasional expletives. But Mr. Colman's plays then had to be submitted to an examiner, who, conscientiously, did his duty; and, from the high moral character of the late licenser, there can be little lesson for doubting thathe, like his successor, drew his pen across any expression which he might have considered objectionable; but no one ever complained of this, because Mr. Larpent had never written a play, or used an oath in its dialogues.
When Mr. Colman assumed the legal and necessary power of correction, he had but one course to pursue: he was sworn to perform a certain duty assigned to him to the best of his judgment, and to correct any expressions which he might consider injurious to the state or to morality. What hadheto do, as licenser, with what he had himself done as author? Thetu quoqueprinciple in this use is even more than usually absurd; it is as if a schoolmaster were to be prevented from flogging a boy for breaking windows, because, when he was a boy, he had broken windows himself.
As we have already stated that it is not our intention to make these few pages a piece of biography, we shall leave to some better qualified person to give the more minute details of Mr. Colman's life. The following lines, written by himself, now many years since, and when he himself was under fifty, give as good an epitome of his career up to that period as fifty pages of matter-of-fact; and from that time until the occurrence of the sad event to which the last stanza, so pathetically—as itnowreads—refers, he lived on in happiness and comfort.
I.Come on, old Time!—Nay, that is stuff;Gaffer! thou comest fast enough;Wing'd foe to feather'd Cupid!—But tell me, Sand-man, ere thy grainsHave multiplied upon my brains,So thick to make me stupid;—II.Tell me, Death's journeyman!—But no!Hear thou my speech: I will not growIrreverent while I try it;For, though I mock thy flight, 'tis saidThe forelock fills me with such dread,I never take thee by it.III.List, then, old Is, Was, and To-be;I'll state accounts 'twixt thee and me.Thou gav'st me, first, the measles;With teething would'st have ta'en me off;Then mad'st me, with the hooping-cough,Thinner than fifty weasels;IV.Thou gav'st small-pox, (the dragon nowThat Jenner combats on a cow,)And then some seeds of knowledge,—Grains of Grammar, which the flailsOf pedants thresh upon our tails,To fit us for a college.V.And, when at Christ-Church, 'twas thy sportTo rack my brains with sloe-juice port,And lectures out of number!There Freshman Folly quaffs and sings,While Graduate Dullness clogs thy wingsWith mathematic lumber.VI.Thy pinions next,—which, while they wave,Fan all our birth-days to the grave,—I think, ere it was prudent,Balloon'd me from the schools to town,Where I was parachuted down,A dapper Temple student.VII.Then, much in dramas did I look,—Much slighted thee and great Lord Coke:Congreve beat Blackstone hollow;Shakspeare made all the statues stale,And in my crown no pleas had HaleTo supersede Apollo.VIII.Ah! Time, those raging heats, I find,Were the mere dog-star of my mind;How cool is retrospection!Youth's gaudy summer solstice o'er,Experience yields a mellow store,—An autumn of reflection!IX.Why did I let the God of songLure me from law to join his throng,Gull'd by some slight applauses?What's verse to A. when versus B.?Or what John Bull, a comedy,To pleading John Bull's causes!X.Yet, though my childhood felt disease,—Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees,Some ragged Muse has netted,—Still, honest Chronos! 'tis most true,To thee (and, 'faith! to others too,)I'm very much indebted.XI.For thou hast made me gaily tough,Inured me to each day that's rough,In hopes of calm to-morrow.And when, old mower of us all,Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall,Some few dear friends will sorrow.XII.Then, though my idle prose or rhymeShould, half an hour, outlive me, Time,Pray bid the stone-engravers,Where'er my bones find church-yard room,Simply to chisel on my tomb,—"Thank Time for all his favours!"
I.Come on, old Time!—Nay, that is stuff;Gaffer! thou comest fast enough;Wing'd foe to feather'd Cupid!—But tell me, Sand-man, ere thy grainsHave multiplied upon my brains,So thick to make me stupid;—
II.Tell me, Death's journeyman!—But no!Hear thou my speech: I will not growIrreverent while I try it;For, though I mock thy flight, 'tis saidThe forelock fills me with such dread,I never take thee by it.
III.List, then, old Is, Was, and To-be;I'll state accounts 'twixt thee and me.Thou gav'st me, first, the measles;With teething would'st have ta'en me off;Then mad'st me, with the hooping-cough,Thinner than fifty weasels;
IV.Thou gav'st small-pox, (the dragon nowThat Jenner combats on a cow,)And then some seeds of knowledge,—Grains of Grammar, which the flailsOf pedants thresh upon our tails,To fit us for a college.
V.And, when at Christ-Church, 'twas thy sportTo rack my brains with sloe-juice port,And lectures out of number!There Freshman Folly quaffs and sings,While Graduate Dullness clogs thy wingsWith mathematic lumber.
VI.Thy pinions next,—which, while they wave,Fan all our birth-days to the grave,—I think, ere it was prudent,Balloon'd me from the schools to town,Where I was parachuted down,A dapper Temple student.
VII.Then, much in dramas did I look,—Much slighted thee and great Lord Coke:Congreve beat Blackstone hollow;Shakspeare made all the statues stale,And in my crown no pleas had HaleTo supersede Apollo.
VIII.Ah! Time, those raging heats, I find,Were the mere dog-star of my mind;How cool is retrospection!Youth's gaudy summer solstice o'er,Experience yields a mellow store,—An autumn of reflection!
IX.Why did I let the God of songLure me from law to join his throng,Gull'd by some slight applauses?What's verse to A. when versus B.?Or what John Bull, a comedy,To pleading John Bull's causes!
X.Yet, though my childhood felt disease,—Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees,Some ragged Muse has netted,—Still, honest Chronos! 'tis most true,To thee (and, 'faith! to others too,)I'm very much indebted.
XI.For thou hast made me gaily tough,Inured me to each day that's rough,In hopes of calm to-morrow.And when, old mower of us all,Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall,Some few dear friends will sorrow.
XII.Then, though my idle prose or rhymeShould, half an hour, outlive me, Time,Pray bid the stone-engravers,Where'er my bones find church-yard room,Simply to chisel on my tomb,—"Thank Time for all his favours!"
It is a curious coincidence—although considering the proximity of their ages there may be nothing really strange in it—that Mr. Colman and his intimate friend Bannister should have quitted this mortal world so nearly at the same time. The circumstance, however, gives us an opportunity of bringing their names together in a manner honourable to both. We derive the anecdote from the "Random Records;" and we think it will be at this juncture favourably received by those who admire dramatic authors and actors, and who rejoice to see traits of private worth the concomitants of public excellence.
After recounting the circumstances of his first acquaintance with Bannister, Mr. Colman says,
"In the year of my return from Aberdeen, 1784, unconscious of fear through ignorance of danger, I rushed into early publicity as an avowed dramatist. My father's illness in 1789 obliged me to undertake the management of his theatre; which, having purchased at his demise, I continued to manage as my own. During such progression, up to the year 1796 inclusive, I scribbled many dramas for the Haymarket, and one for Drury-lane; in almost all of which the younger Bannister (being engaged at both theatres) performed a prominent character; so that, for most of the thirteen years I have enumerated, he was of the greatest importance to my theatrical prosperity in my double capacity of author and manager; while I was of some service to him by supplying him with new characters. These reciprocal interests made us, of course, such close colleagues, that our almost daily consultations promoted amity, while they forwarded business.
"From this last-mentioned period, (1796,) we were led by our speculations, one after the other, into different tracks. He had arrived at that height of London popularity when his visits to various provincial theatres in the summer were productive of much more money than my scale of expense in the Haymarket could afford to give him. As he wintered it, however, in Drury-lane, I profited for two years more by his acting in the pieces which I produced there. I then began to write for the rival house in Covent Garden, and this parted us as author and actor: but separating, as we did, through accident, and with the kindest sentiments for each other, it was not likely that we should forget or neglect further to cultivate our mutual regard: that regard is now so mellowed by time that it will never cease till Time himself,—who, in ripening our friendship, has been all the while whetting his scythe for the friends,—shall have mowed down the men, and gathered in his harvest.
"One trait of Bannister, in our worldly dealings with each other, will nearly bring me to the close of this chapter.
"In the year 1807, after having slaved at some dramatic composition,—I forget what,—I had resolved to pass one entire week in luxurious sloth.
"At this crisis,—just as I was beginning the first morning'ssacrifice upon the altar of my darling goddess, Indolence,—enter Jack Bannister, with a huge manuscript under his left arm!—This, he told me, consisted of loose materials for an entertainment, with which he meant to "skirr the country," under the title ofBannister's Budget; but, unless I reduced the chaos into some order for him, and thatinstantly,—he should lose his tide, and with it his emoluments for the season. In such a case there was no balancing between two alternatives, so I deserted my darling goddess to drudge through the week for my old companion.
"To concoct the crudities he had brought me, by polishing, expunging, adding,—in short, almost re-writing them,—was, it must be confessed, labouring under the "horrors of digestion;" but the toil was completed at the week's end, and away went Jack Bannister into the country with hisBudget.
"Several months afterwards he returned to town; and I inquired, of course, what success?—So great, he answered, that in consequence of the gain which had accrued to him through my means, and which he was certain would still accrue, (as he now considered the Budget to be an annual income for some years to come,) he must insist upon cancelling a bond which I had given him, for money he had lent to me. I was astounded; for I had never dreamt of fee or reward.
"To prove that he was in earnest, I extract a paragraph from a latter which he wrote to me from Shrewsbury.
"'For fear of accidents, I think it necessary to inform you that Fladgate, your attorney, is in possession of your bond to me of £700; as I consider itfully discharged, it is but proper you should have this acknowledgment under my hand. J.B.'
"Should my unostentatious friend think me indelicate in publishing this anecdote, I can only say, that it naturally appertains to the sketch I have given of our co-operations in life; and that the insertion of it here seems almost indispensable, in order to elucidate my previous statement of our having blended so muchsentimentwith so muchtraffic. I feel, too, that it would be downright injustice to him if I suppressed it; and would betoken in myself the pride of those narrow-minded persons who are ashamed of acknowledging how greatly they have profited by the liberal spirit of others.
"The bond above mentioned was given, be it observed, on a private account; not for money due to an actor for his professional assistance. Gilliland, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' says that my admission of partners 'enabled the proprietors to completely liquidate all the demands which had for some time past involved the house in temporary embarrassments.' This is a gross mistake; the Haymarket Theatre wasneverembarrassed (on the contrary, it was a prosperous speculation) while under my direction. My own difficulties during part of this time are another matter: I may touchslightlyon this hereafter; but shallnot bore my readers by dwelling long on matters which (however they may have annoyedme) cannot entertain or interestthem.
"I regret following up one instance of Mr. Gilliland's inaccuracy immediately with another; but he asserts, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' that J. Bannister, 'in the season 1778, made his appearance for the benefit of his father,on the boards of Old Drury.' In contradiction to the foregoing statement a document now lies before me,—I transcribe it verbatim:
"'First appearance,at the Haymarket, for my father's benefit, 1778, in The Apprentice. First appearance at Drury-lane, 1779, in Zaphna, in Mahomet. Took leave of the stage at Drury-lane, Thursday, June 1st, 1815. Garrick instructed me in the four first parts I played,—the Apprentice; Zaphna (Mahomet); Dorilas (Merope); and Achmet (Barbarossa).—Jack Bannister, to his dear friend George Colman. June 30th, 1828.'"
These memoranda, under the circumstances, are curious and affecting.—Deathhasgathered in his harvest, and both the menaregone.
Of Mr. Colman's delightful manners and conversational powers no words can give any adequate idea: with all the advantages of extensive reading, a general knowledge of mankind, and an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour, he blended a joyousness of expression, a kindness of feeling, and a warmth of manner, which rendered him the much-sought companion of every circle of society in which he chose to mix. Of his literary talents all the world can judge; but it is only those who have known him in private life who can appreciate the qualities which we despair of being able justly to describe.
About a year since, a young lady begged this celebrated wit to write some verses in her album: he shook his head; but, good-naturedly promising to try, at once extemporised the following,—most probably his last written and poetical jest.
My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled,Sat up together many a night, no doubt;But now, I've sent the poor old lass to bed,Simply becausemy fire is going out.
My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled,Sat up together many a night, no doubt;But now, I've sent the poor old lass to bed,Simply becausemy fire is going out.
Oh! the balloon, the great balloon!It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,And every one said we should hear of it soonWith news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.But very soon after, folks changed their tune:"The netting had burst—the silk—the shalloon;It had met with a trade-wind—a deuced monsoon—It was blown out to sea—it was blown to the moon—They ought to have put off their journey till June;Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon,Would go up, in November, in any balloon!"Then they talk'd about Green—"Oh! where's Mister Green?And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine?And where is Monk Mason, the man that has beenUp so often before—twelve times or thirteen—And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?The press'd beef with the fat cut off,—nothing but lean?And the portable soup in the patent tureen?Have they got to Grand Cairo? or reached Aberdeen?Or Jerusalem—Hamburgh—or Ballyporeen?—No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!"Stay! here's Mister Gye—Mr. Frederick Gye."At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high,A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy,With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,But I could see nothing at all but the sky;So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to tryAny longer; and feeling remarkably dryFrom sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,I came down again and—you see—here am I!"But here's Mister Hughes!—What says young Mr. Hughes?"Why, I'm sorry to say, we've not got any newsSince the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,Which gave the Mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruiseOver Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruseAt Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews,Politicians, newsmongers, town council, and blues,Turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and Jews,Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,And my father and I are in terrible stews,For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"Here's news come at last! Here's news come at last!A vessel's arrived, which has sail'd very fast;And a gentleman serving before the mast,Mister Nokes, has declared that "the party has pastSafe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they castAs a fat burgomaster was staring aghastTo see such a monster come home on the blast,And it caught in his breeches, and there it stuck fast!"Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,—for shame, Mister Nokes!To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks—Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,And such jesting, your malice but scurvily cloaks;Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!"Oh! what shall we do? oh! where will it end?Can nobody go? Can nobody sendTo Calais—or Bergen-op-zoom—or Ostend?Can't you go there yourself? Can't you write to a friend,For news upon which we may safely depend?"Huzzah! huzzah! one and eight-pence to payFor a letter from Hamborough, just come to sayThey descended at Weilburg about break of day;And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clayWith Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay;And the landgraves, and margraves, and counts beg and preyThat they won't think as yet, about going away;Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,But pack up the balloon in a waggon or dray,And pop themselves into a German "po-shay,"And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,If the gas people there do not ask them to paySuch a sum as must force them at once to say "Nay,"They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs Elysées,And be back again here, the beginning of May.Dear me! what a treat for a juvenileféte!What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,For this all preceding attraction must beat:—Since, there they'll unfold, what we want to be told,How they cough'd, how they sneez'd, how they shiver'd with cold,How they tippled the "cordial," as racy and oldAs Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,And how they all then felt remarkably bold;How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold;And how Mister Green was beginning to scoldBecause Mister Hollond would try to lay holdOf the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd.And there they'll be seen—they'll be all to be seen!The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!With the tight-rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,If the weather should only prove fair and serene.And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,With Holland on one side, who hired the machine,And Monk Mason on t'other, describing the scene;And Fame on one leg in the air, like a queen,With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;While Envy, in serpents and black bombazine,Looks on from below with an air of chagrin.Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,And the people will dance by the light of the moon,And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,Will all join in three cheers for the "monstre" balloon.
Oh! the balloon, the great balloon!It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,And every one said we should hear of it soonWith news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.But very soon after, folks changed their tune:"The netting had burst—the silk—the shalloon;It had met with a trade-wind—a deuced monsoon—It was blown out to sea—it was blown to the moon—They ought to have put off their journey till June;Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon,Would go up, in November, in any balloon!"
Then they talk'd about Green—"Oh! where's Mister Green?And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine?And where is Monk Mason, the man that has beenUp so often before—twelve times or thirteen—And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?The press'd beef with the fat cut off,—nothing but lean?And the portable soup in the patent tureen?Have they got to Grand Cairo? or reached Aberdeen?Or Jerusalem—Hamburgh—or Ballyporeen?—No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!"
Stay! here's Mister Gye—Mr. Frederick Gye."At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high,A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy,With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,But I could see nothing at all but the sky;So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to tryAny longer; and feeling remarkably dryFrom sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,I came down again and—you see—here am I!"
But here's Mister Hughes!—What says young Mr. Hughes?"Why, I'm sorry to say, we've not got any newsSince the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,Which gave the Mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruiseOver Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruseAt Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews,Politicians, newsmongers, town council, and blues,Turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and Jews,Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,And my father and I are in terrible stews,For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"
Here's news come at last! Here's news come at last!A vessel's arrived, which has sail'd very fast;And a gentleman serving before the mast,Mister Nokes, has declared that "the party has pastSafe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they castAs a fat burgomaster was staring aghastTo see such a monster come home on the blast,And it caught in his breeches, and there it stuck fast!"
Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,—for shame, Mister Nokes!To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks—Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,And such jesting, your malice but scurvily cloaks;Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!
"Oh! what shall we do? oh! where will it end?Can nobody go? Can nobody sendTo Calais—or Bergen-op-zoom—or Ostend?Can't you go there yourself? Can't you write to a friend,For news upon which we may safely depend?"
Huzzah! huzzah! one and eight-pence to payFor a letter from Hamborough, just come to sayThey descended at Weilburg about break of day;And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clayWith Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay;And the landgraves, and margraves, and counts beg and preyThat they won't think as yet, about going away;Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,But pack up the balloon in a waggon or dray,And pop themselves into a German "po-shay,"And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,If the gas people there do not ask them to paySuch a sum as must force them at once to say "Nay,"They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs Elysées,And be back again here, the beginning of May.
Dear me! what a treat for a juvenileféte!What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,For this all preceding attraction must beat:—
Since, there they'll unfold, what we want to be told,How they cough'd, how they sneez'd, how they shiver'd with cold,How they tippled the "cordial," as racy and oldAs Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,And how they all then felt remarkably bold;How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold;And how Mister Green was beginning to scoldBecause Mister Hollond would try to lay holdOf the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd.
And there they'll be seen—they'll be all to be seen!The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!With the tight-rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,If the weather should only prove fair and serene.And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,With Holland on one side, who hired the machine,And Monk Mason on t'other, describing the scene;And Fame on one leg in the air, like a queen,With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;While Envy, in serpents and black bombazine,Looks on from below with an air of chagrin.
Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,And the people will dance by the light of the moon,And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,Will all join in three cheers for the "monstre" balloon.
Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing every thing the wrong way; disappointment awaited on all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers' ends: so the nick-name the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy, and the jeering jingle pleased them.
Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived, however, to have herself clawed almost to death while her darling babby was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted the pain by scratching her till the blood came, with the other. Nevertheless she swore he was "the loveliest and sweetest craythur the sun ever shined upon;" and when he was able to run about and wield a little stick, and smash every thing breakable belonging to her, she only praised his precocious powers, and used to ask, "Did ever any one see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did?"
Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; but, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and was most anxious to offer his services on all occasions to any one who would accept them; but they were only those who had not already proved Andy's peculiar powers.
There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called,Owny na Coppal, or, "Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his house from a distant "bottom," as low grounds by a river side are always called in Ireland.
"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said Owny.—"Throth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.
"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."—"Oh, but he won't run."
"Why won't he run?"—"Bekase I won't make him run."
"How can you help it?"—"I'll soother him."
"Well, you're a willin' brat, any how; and so go, and God speed you!" said Owny.
"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should have to coax him."—"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.
Handy Andy
Handy Andy
"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you're able to ride that horse if you get on him."—"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbin's mule betther nor any o' the other boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day, though he kicked the shoes av him."
"After that you may ride any thing," said Owny: and indeed it was true; for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers, that it might be well considered a feat to stick on him.
"Now, take grate care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.—"Don't be afeard sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom, and was too deep for Andy to ford at that season, he went round by Dinny Dowling's mill, where a small wooden bridge crossed the stream.
Here he thought he might as well secure the assistance of Paudeen, the miller's son, to help him in catching the horse; an he looked about the place until he found him, and, telling him the errand on which he was going, said, "If you like to come wid me, we can both have a ride." This was temptation sufficient for Paudeen, and the boys proceeded together to the bottom, and they were not long in securing the horse. When they had got the halter over his head, "Now," said Andy, "give me a lift on him;" and accordingly by Paudeen's catching Andy's left foot in both his hands clasped together in the fashion of a stirrup, he hoisted his friend on the horse's back; and, as soon as he was secure there, Master Paudeen, by the aid of Andy's hand contrived to scramble up after him; upon which Andy applied his heels into the horse's side with many vigorous kicks, and crying "Hurrup!" at the same time, endeavoured to stimulate Owny's steed into something of a pace as he turned his head towards the mill.
"Sure aren't you going to crass the river?" said Paudeen.—"No, I'm going to lave you at home."
"Oh, I'd rather go up to Owny's, and it's the shortest way acrass the river."—"Yes but I don't like—"
"Is it afeard you are?" said Paudeen.—"Not I, indeed," said Andy; though it was really the fact, for the width of the stream startled him; "but Owny towld me to take grate care o' the baste and I'm loath to wet his feet."
"Go 'long wid you, you fool! what harm would it do him? Sure he's neither sugar nor salt that he'd melt."
"Well, I won't, any how," said Andy, who by this time had got the horse into a good high trot, that shook every word ofargument out of Paudeen's body; besides, it was as much as the boys could do to keep their seats on Owny's Bucephalus, who was not long in reaching the miller's bridge. Here voice and rein were employed to pull him in, that he might cross the narrow wooden structure at a quiet pace. But whether his double load had given him the idea of double exertion, or that the pair of legs on each side sticking into his flanks (and perhaps the horse was ticklish) made him go the faster, we know not: but the horse charged the bridge as if an Enniskilliner were on his back, and an enemy before him; and in two minutes his hoofs cluttered like thunder on the bridge, that did not bend beneath him. No, it didnotbend, but it broke: proving the falsehood of the boast, "I may break, but I won't bend:" for, after all, the really strong may bend, and be as strong as ever: it is the unsound, that has only the seeming of strength, that breaks at last when it resists too long.
Surprising was the spin the young equestrians took over the ears of the horse, enough to make all the artists of Astley's envious; and plump they went into the river, where each formed his own ring, and executed some comical "scenes in the circle," which were suddenly changed to evolutions on the "flying cord" that Dinny Dowling threw the performers, which became suddenly converted into a "tight rope" as he dragged thevoltigeursout of the water; and, for fear their blood might be chilled by the accident, he gave them both an enormous thrashing with thedryend of the rope, just to restore circulation; and his exertions, had they been witnessed, would have charmed the Humane Society.
As for the horse, his legs stuck through the bridge, as though he had been put in achiroplast, and he went playing away on the water with considerable execution, as if he were accompanying himself in the song which he was squealing at the top of his voice. Half the saws, hatchets, ropes, and poles in the parish were put in requisition immediately; and the horse's first lesson inchiroplasticexercise was performed with no other loss than some skin and a good deal of hair. Of course Andy did not venture on taking Owny's horse home; so the miller sent him to his owner with an account of the accident. Andy for years kept out of Owny na Coppal's way; and at any time that his presence was troublesome, the inconvenienced party had only to say, "Isn't that Owny na Coppal coming this way?" and Andy fled for his life,
When Andy grew up to what in country parlance is called "a brave lump of a boy," his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself; so she took him one day along with her to the squire's, and waited outside the door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs that were thrusting their herds into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance mightgive her "a sight o' the squire afore he wint out or afore he wint in;" and, after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the "handiest craythur alive—and so willin'—nothing comes wrong to him."
"I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?" said the squire.—"Throth, an' your honour, that's just it—if your honour would be plazed."
"What can he do?"—"Anything, your honour."
"That meansnothing, I suppose," said the squire.—"Oh, no, sir. Everything, I mane, that you would desire him to do."
To every one of these assurances on his mother's part Andy made a bow and a scrape.
"Can he take care of horses?"—"The best of care, sir," said the mother, while the miller, who was standing behind the squire waiting for orders, made a grimace at Andy, who was obliged to cram his face to his hat to hide the laugh, which he could hardly smother from being heard, as well as seen.
"Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we'll see what he can do."—"May the Lord—"
"That'll do—there, now go."—"Oh, sure, but I'll pray for you, and—"
"Will you go?"—"And may angels make your honour's bed this blessed night, I pray!"
"If you don't go, your son shan't come."
Judy and her hopeful boy turned to the right-about in double-quick time, and hurried down the avenue.
The next day Andy was duly installed into his office of stable-helper; and, as he was a good rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the hounds, as there was a want of such a functionary in the establishment; and Andy's boldness in this capacity made him soon a favourite with the squire, who was one of those rollicking boys on the pattern of the old school, who scorned the attentions of a regular valet, and let any one that chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his hot water for shaving, or his coat, whenever itwasbrushed. One morning, Andy, who was very often the attendant on such occasions, came to his room with hot water. He tapped at the door.
"Who's that?" said the squire, who was but just risen, and did not know but it might be one of the women servants.—"It's me, sir."
"Oh—Andy! Come in."—"Here's the hot wather, sir," said Andy, bearing an enormous tin can.
"Why, what the d—l brings that tin can here? You mightas well bring the stable-bucket."—"I beg your pardon, sir," said Andy retreating. In two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously, and said, "The maids in the kitchen, your honour, says there's not so much hot wather ready."
"Did I not see it a moment since in your hands?"—"Yes, sir, but that's not nigh the full o' the stable-bucket."
"Go along, you stupid thief! and get me some hot water directly."—"Will the can do, sir?"
"Ay, anything, so you make haste."
Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can.
"Where'll I put it, sir?"—"Throw this out," said the squire, handing Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be replenished with the hot.
Andy took the jug, and, the window of the room being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. The squire stared with wonder, and at last said,
"What did you do that for?"—"Sure youtowldme to throw it out, sir."
"Go out of this, you thick-headed villain!" said the squire, throwing his boots at Andy's head, along with some very neat curses. Andy retreated, and thought himself a very ill-used person.
Though Andy's regular business was "whipper-in," yet he was liable to be called on for the performance of various other duties: he sometimes attended at table when the number of guests required that all the subs should be put in requisition, or rode on some distant errand for "the mistress," or drove out the nurse and children on the jaunting-car; and many were the mistakes, delays, or accidents arising from Handy Andy's interference in such matters; but, as they were never serious, and generally laughable, they never cost him the loss of his place or the squire's favour, who rather enjoyed Andy's blunders.
The first time Andy was admitted into the mysteries of the dining-room, great was his wonder. The butler took him in to give him some previous instructions, and Andy was so lost in admiration at the sight of the assembled glass and plate, that he stood with his mouth and eyes wide open, and scarcely heard a word that was said to him. After the head-man had been dinning his instructions into him for some time, he said he might go until his attendance was required. But Andy moved not; he stood with his eyes fixed by a sort of fascination on some object that seemed to rivet them with the same unaccountable influence that the snake exercises over its victim.
"What are you looking at?" said the butler.—"Them things, sir," said Andy, pointing to some silver forks.
"Is it the forks?" said the butler.—"Oh no, sir! I know what forks is very well; but I never seen them things afore."
"What things do you mean?"—"These things, sir," said Andy, taking up one of the silver forks, and turning it round and round in his hand in utter astonishment, while the butler grinned at his ignorance, and enjoyed his own superior knowledge.
"Well!" said Andy, after a long pause, "the divil be from me if ever I seen a silver spoon split that way before."
The butler laughed a horse-laugh, and made a standing joke of Andy's split spoon; but time and experience made Andy less impressed with wonder at the show of plate and glass, and the split spoons became familiar as 'household words' to him; yet still there were things in the duties of table attendance beyond Andy's comprehension,—he used to hand cold plates for fish, and hot plates for jelly, &c. But 'one day,' as Zanga says,—'one day' he was thrown off his centre in a remarkable degree by a bottle of soda water.
It was when that combustible was first introduced into Ireland as a dinner beverage that the occurrence took place, and Andy had the luck to be the person to whom a gentlemen applied for some soda-water.
"Sir?" said Andy.—"Soda-water," said the guest, in that subdued tone in which people are apt to name their wants at a dinner-table.
Andy went to the butler. "Mr. Morgan, there's a gintleman——"—"Let me alone, will you?" said Mr. Morgan.
Andy manœuvred round him a little longer, and again essayed to be heard.
"Mr. Morgan!"—"Don't you see I'm as busy as I can be! Can't you do it yourself?"
"I dunna what he wants."—"Well, go and ax him," said Mr. Morgan.
Andy went off as he was bidden, and came behind the thirsty gentleman's chair, with "I beg your pardon sir."
"Well!" said the gentleman.
"I beg your pardon, sir; but what's this you ax'd me for?"—"Soda-water."
"What, sir?"—"Soda-water; but, perhaps, you have not any."
"Oh, there's plenty in the house, sir! Would you like it hot, sir."
The gentleman laughed, and, supposing the new fashion was not understood in the present company, said "Never mind."
But Andy was too anxious to please, to be so satisfied, and again applied to Mr. Morgan.
"Sir!" said he.—"Bad luck to you! can't you let me alone?"
"There's a gintleman wants some soap and wather."
"Some what?"—"Soap and wather, sir."
"Divil sweep you!—Soda-wather you mane. You'll get it under the sideboard."
"Is it in the can, sir?"—"The curse o' Crum'll on you—in the bottles."
"Is this it, sir?" said Andy, producing a bottle of ale.—"No, bad cess to you!—the little bottles."
"Is it the little bottles with no bottoms, sir?"—"I wishyouwor in the bottom o' the say!" said Mr. Morgan, who was fuming and puffing, and rubbing down his face with his napkin, as he was hurrying to all quarters of the room, or, as Andy said, in praising his activity, that he was "like bad luck,—everywhere."
"There they are!" said Morgan, at last.
"Oh! them bottles that won't stand," said Andy; "sure, them's what I said, with no bottoms to them. How'll I open it—it's tied down?"—"Cut the cord, you fool!"
Andy did as he was desired; and he happened at the time to hold the bottle of soda-water on a level with the candles that shed light over the festive board from a large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with the projected cork, which, performing its parabola the length of the room, struck the squire himself in the eye at the foot of the table, while the hostess at the head had a cold-bath down her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water jumping out of the bottle, held it from him at arm's length; every fizz it made, exclaiming, "Ow!—ow!—ow!" and, at last, when the bottle was empty, he roared out, "Oh, Lord!—it's all gone!"
Great was the commotion;—few could resist laughter except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda-water. The extinguished candles were relighted,—the squire got his eye open again,—and, the next time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said, in a low and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow, "Send that fellow out of the room!" but, within the same instant, resumed the former smile, that beamed on all around as if nothing had happened.
Andy was expelled thesalle à mangerin disgrace, and for days kept out of his master's and mistress's way: in the mean time the butler made a good story of the thing in the servants' hall; and, when he held up Andy's ignorance to ridicule, by telling how he asked for "soap and water," Andy was given the name of "Suds," and was called by no other, for months after.
But, though Andy's function in the interior were suspended, his services in out-of-door affairs were occasionally put in requisition. But here his evil genius still haunted him, and he put his foot in a piece of business his master sent him upon one day, which was so simple as to defy almost the chance of Andy making any mistake about it; but Andy was very ingenious in his own particular line.
"Ride into the town, and see if there's a letter for me," said the squire, one day, to our hero.—"Yis, sir."
"You know where to go?"—"To the town, sir."
"But do you know where to go in the town?"—"No, sir."
"And why don't you ask, you stupid thief?"—"Sure, I'd find out, sir."
"Didn't I often tell you to ask what you're to do, when you don't know?"—"Yis, sir."
"And why don't you?"—"I don't like to be throublesome, sir."
"Confound you!" said the squire; though he could not help laughing at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance.
"Well," continued he, "go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?"—"Yis, sir; where they sell gunpowdher."
"You're right for once," said the squire; for his Majesty's postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. "Go then to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember,—not gunpowder, but a letter."
"Yis, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster, (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broad-cloth, and linen-drapery,) Andy presented himself at the counter, and said,
"I want a letther, sir, if you plase."
"Who do you want it for?" said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life: so Andy thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.
"I want a letther, sir, if you plase."
"And who do you want it for?" repeated the postmaster.
"What's that to you?" said Andy.
The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the direction.
"The directions I got was to get a letther here,—that's the directions."
"Who gave you those directions?"—"The masther."
"And who's your master?"—"What consarn is that o' yours?"
"Why, you stupid rascal! if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?"—"You could give it if you liked; but you're fond of axin' impidint questions, bekase you think I'm simple."
"Go along out o' this. Your master must be as great a goose as yourself to send such a messenger."—"Bad luck to your impidince!" said Andy; "is it Squire Egan you dar to say goose to?"
"Oh, Squire Egan's your master, then?"—"Yis; have you anything to say agin it?"
"Only that I never saw you before."—"Faith, then you'll never see me agin if I have my own consint."
"I won't give you any letter for the squire, unless I know you're his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?"—"Plenty," said Andy; "it's not every one is as ignorant as you."
Just at this moment a person entered the house to get a letter, to whom Andy was known; and he vouched to the postmaster that the account he gave of himself was true.—"You may give him the squire's letter. Have you one for me?"—"Yes, sir," said the postmaster, producing one: "fourpence."
The new-comer paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his letter.
"Here's a letter for the squire," said the postmaster. "You've to pay me elevenpence postage."
"What 'ud I pay elevenpence for?"—"For postage."
"To the divil wid you! Didn't I see you give Mr. Delany a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this; and now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I'm a fool?"
"No; but I'm sure of it," said the postmaster.—"Well, you're welkim to think what you plase; but don't be delayin' me now; here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the letther."
"Go along, you stupid thief!" said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mousetrap.
While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying, "Will you gi' me the letther?"
He waited for above half an hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get the common justice for his master which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence.
The squire in the mean time was getting impatient for his return, and, when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.—"There is, sir," said Andy.
"Then give it to me."—"I haven't it, sir."
"What do you mean?"—"He wouldn't give it to me, sir."
"Who wouldn't give it to you?"—"That owld chate beyant in the town,—wanting to charge double for it."
"Maybe it's a double letter. Why the devil didn't you pay what he asked, sir?"—"Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated. It's not a double letther at all: not above half the size o' one Mr. Delany got before my face for fourpence."
"You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun! and pay whateverhe asks, and get me the letter."—"Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence a-piece."
"Go back, you scoundrel! or I'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horse-pond!"
Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each, from a parcel of them that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.
"I'm for that letther," said Andy.—"I'll attend to you by-and-by."
"The masther's in a hurry."—"Let him wait till his hurry's over."
"He'll murther me if I'm not back soon."—"I'm glad to hear it."
While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters that lay on the counter; so, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap; and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.
Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattle along the road homeward as fast as his hack could carry him. He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said "Look at that!" he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying,
"Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o' your money, any how!"