PLEA OF SERJEANT BUZFUZ, IN "BARDELL vs. PICKWICK."
The plaintiff gentlemen, the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying for many years the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford. Some time before his death he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlor window a written placard, bearing this inscription—"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Enquire within." I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document—"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!" Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear—she had no distrust—she had no suspicion—all was confidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the widow, "Mr. Bardell was a man of honor—Mr. Bardell was a man of his word—Mr. Bardell was no deceiver—Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse, (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,) the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor window. Did it remain their long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor window three days—three days, gentlemen—a being erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant.
Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness and systematic villainy. I say systematic villainy gentlemen, and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff, or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.
I shall allow you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bar-dell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave half-pence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and after inquiring whether he had won any alley-tors or commoneys lately, (both of which I understand to be species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town,) made use of this respectable expression—"How would you like to have another father?"
Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervid, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery—letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye—letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first:—"Garraway's, twelve o'clock—Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicions—"Dear Mrs. B.—I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expression:—"Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan!" The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed about a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Barbell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire—a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeable to some preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will soon be greased by you!
But enough of this, gentlemen: it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down—but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass but there is no invitation for them to inquire within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his "alley-tors" and his "commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of "knuckle-down," and at tip-chesse, or odd-and-even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in Goswell Street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward—Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans—Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen—heavy damages, is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen. C. Dickens
Sir,—I make no secret of the trade I follow. Among friends and brother authors, I love to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself vivâ vocé. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric; or, to speak more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at your service—or anybody's else. I dare say, now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements you see to be written by the parties concerned, or their friends. No such thing; nine out of ten manufactured by me, in the way of business. Yon must know, sir, that from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement, my success was such, that for some time after I led a most extraordinary life, indeed. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my misfortunes; by advertisements To the charitable and humane! and To those whom Providence has blessed with affluence! And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I suppose never man went through such a series of calamities in the same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable misfortunes; then, sir, though a very industrious tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my little all both times. I lived upon those fires a month. I soon after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs. That told very well; for I had the case strongly attested, and went about to collect the subscriptions myself. I was afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined into a very profitable consumption. I was then reduced to—O no!—then I became a widower with six helpless children. All this I bore with patience, though I made some occasional attempts at felo de se; but, as I did not find those rash actions answer, I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, at last, what with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a business which had always gone rather against my conscience, and in a more liberal way still to indulge my talents for fiction and embellishments, through my favorite channel of diurnal communication; and so, sir, you have my history. R. B. Sheridan.
Mr. President,—Happiness is like a crow perched upon the neighboring top of a far distant mountain, which some fisherman vainly strives, to no purpose, to ensnare. He looks at the crow, Mr. President,—and—Mr. President the crow looks at him; and, sir, they both look at each other. But the moment he attempts to reproach him, he banishes away like the schismatic taints of the rainbow, the cause of which it was the astonishing and perspiring genius of a Newton, who first deplored and enveloped the cause of it. Cannot the poor man, sir, precipitate into all the beauties of nature, from the loftiest mounting up to the most humblest valley as well as the man prepossessed of indigence? Yes, sir; while trilling transports crown his view, and rosy hours allure his sanguinary youth, he can raise his mind up to the laws of nature, incompressible as they are, while viewing the lawless storm that kindleth up the pretentious roaring thunder, and fireth up the dark and rapid lightnings, and causeth it to fly through the intensity of space, that belches forth those awful and sublime meteors, and roll-abolly-aliases, through the unfathomable regions of fiery hemispheres. Sometimes, sir, seated in some lonely retreat, beneath the shadowy shades of an umbrageous tree, at whose venal foot flows some limping stagnant stream, he gathers around him his wife and the rest of his orphan children. He there takes a retrospective view upon the diagram of futurity, and casts his eye like a flashing meteor forward into the past. Seated in their midst, aggravated and exhaled by the dignity and independence coincident with honorable poverty, his countenance irrigated with an intense glow of self-deficiency and excommunicated knowledge, he quietly turns to instruct his little assemblage. He there endeavors to distil into their young youthful minds useless lessons, to guard their juvenile youths against vice and immortality. There, on a clear sunny evening, when the silvery moon is shining forth in all her indulgence and ubiquity, he teaches them the first sediments of gastronomy, by pointing out to them the bear, the lion, and many other fixed invisible consternations, which are continually involving upon their axletrees, through the blue cerulean fundamus above. From this vast ethereal he dives with them to the very bottom of the unfathomable oceans, bringing up from thence liquid treasures of earth and air. He then courses with them on the imaginable wing of fancy through the boundless regions of unimaginable either, until, swelling into impalpable immensity, he is forever lost in the infinite radiation of his own overwhelming genius. Anonymous.
BULLUM vs. BOATUM.
What a profound study is the law! How shall I define it? Law is—law. Law is—law; and so forth, and hereby and aforesaid, provided always, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Law is like a country dance; people are led up and down in it till they are tired. It is like physic; they that take the least of it are best off. Law is like a homely gentlewoman; very well to follow. Law is like a scolding wife; very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion; people are bewitched to get into it; it is also like bad weather; most people are glad when they get out of it. We will now mention, in illustration, a case that came before us,—the case of Bullum vs. Boatum. It was as follows:—
There were two farmers—farmer A. and farmer B. Farmer A was seized or possessed of a bull; farmer B. was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore, with a piece of hay twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, vulgo vocato, a hay-band,—after he had made his boat fast to the aforesaid post (as it was very natural for a hungry man to do) went up to town to dinner. Farmer A.'s bull (as it was natural for a hungry bull to do) came down town to look for a dinner; and, observing, discovering, seeing, and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferryboat, ate up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band. The boat, being eaten from its moorings, floated down the river with the bull in it; it struck against a rock, beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat for running away with the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against the bull for running away with the boat. And thus notice of trial was given, Bullum vs. Boatum, Boatum vs. Bullum. The counsel for the bull begun with saying:—"My lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull."
The counsel for the boat observed, that the bull should be non-suited, because, in his declaration, he had not specified what color he was of; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel:—"My lord, if the bull was of no color, he must be of some color; and, if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be of?" I overruled this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color; besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color t in law, for the law can color anything. This cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave it as my opinion, that, as, the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had good action against the water-bailiff.
My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring that, for his client, he would swear anything.
The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record in true law Latin; which set forth in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. The character of the water-bailiff was as follows: "Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in choici, sapor omnibus fishibus qui habuerunt finos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus et well-boats, sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi, turbutus solus;" that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together. But now comes the nicety of the law; for the law is as nice as a new-laid egg. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling; but, it being proved that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were nonsuited; but, such was the lenity of the court, that, upon their paying all costs they were allowed to begin again de novo. G. A Stevens.
May it please the Court—Gentlemen of the Jury—You sit in that box as the great reservoir of Roman liberty, Spartan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You are to swing the great flail of justice and electricity over this immense community, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. You are the great triumphal arch on which evaporates the even scales of justice and numerical computation. You are to ascend the deep arcana of nature, and dispose of my client with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to his future velocity and reverberating momentum. Such is your sedative and stimulating character. My client is only a man of domestic eccentricity and matrimonial configuration, not permitted, as you are, gentlemen, to walk in the primeval and lowest vales of society, but he has to endure the red-hot sun of the universe, on the heights of nobility and feudal eminence. He has a beautiful wife of horticultural propensities, that hen-pecks the remainder of his days with soothing and bewitching verbosity that makes the nectar of his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus.
He has a family of domestic children, that gathers around the fireplace of his peaceful homicide in tumultudinous consanguinity, and cry with screaming and rebounding pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. Such is the glowing and overwhelming character and defeasance of my client, who stands convicted before this court of oyer and terminer, and lex non scripta, by the persecuting pettifogger of this court, who is as much exterior to me as I am interior to the judge, and you, gentlemen of the jury.
This Borax of the law here has brought witnesses into this court, who swear that my client has stolen a firkin of butter. Now, I say, every one of them swore to a lie, and the truth is concentrated within them. But if it is so, I justify the act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a public good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. But I take no other mountainous and absquatulated grounds on this trial, and move that a quash be laid upon this indictment.
Now I will prove this by a learned expectoration of the principle of the law. Now butter is made of grass, and, it is laid down by St. Peter Pindar, in his principle of subterraneous law, that grass is couchant and levant, which in our obicular tongue, means that grass is of a mild and free nature; consequently, my client had a right to grass and butter both.
To prove my second great principle, "let facts be submitted to a candid world." Now butter is grease, and Greece is a foreign country, situated in the emaciated regions of Liberia and California; consequently my client cannot be tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of this court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respondentia, and cap the great climax of logic, by quoting an inconceivable principle of law, as laid down in Latin, by Pothier, Hudibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and Sangrado. It is thus: Hæc hoc morus multicaulis, a mensa et thoro, ruta baga centum. Which means; in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty, where one is innocent.
Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; then you come to my client, who is innocent and acquitted according to law. If these great principles shall be duly depreciated in this court, then the great North pole of liberty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness, shading there publican regions of commerce and agriculture, will stand the wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the pirates of the hyperborean seas, and the marauders of the Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you convict my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a state of hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife i will stand lone and delighted like a dried up mullen-stalk in a sheep-pasture. Anonymous.
It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,—for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better; you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 't will help amazingly. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse,—he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs,—let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the "even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!
If you find a baby a-bed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulder, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bedclothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions. Anonymous.
The Union! Inspiring theme! How shall I find words to describe its momentous magnificence and its beatific lustre? The Union!—it is the ark of our safety!—the palladium of our liberties!—the safeguard of our happiness!—and the ægis of our virtues! In the Union we live and move and go ahead It watches over us at our birth—it fans us in our cradles—it accompanies us to the district school—it gives us our victuals in due season—it selects our wives for us from "America's fair daughters," and it does a great many other things; to say nothing of putting us to sleep sometimes, and keeping the flies from our innocent repose.
While the Union lasts, we have the most remarkable prospect of plenty of fodder, with occasional drinks. By its beneficent energies, however, should the present supply give out, we shall rise superior to the calculations of an ordinary and narrow prudence, and take in Cuba, Hayti, and Mexico, and such parts of all contiguous islands as may offer prospects for an advantageous investment.
Palsied be the arm, then, and blistered the tongue, and humped the back, and broken the legs, and eviscerated the stomach, of every person who dares to think, or even dream of harming it! May the heaviest curses of time fall upon his scoundrelly soul! May his juleps curdle in his mouth. May he smoke none but New Orleans tobacco! May his family be perpetually ascending the Mississippi in a steamboat! May his own grandmother disown him! And may the suffrages of his fellow-citizens pursue him like avenging furies, till he is driven howling into Congress. For oh! my dear, dear friends—my beloved fellow-citizens, who can foretell the agonies, or the sorrows, or the blights, and the anguish, and the despair, and the black eyes, and the bloody noses, that would follows upon the dispersion of our too happy, happy family.
The accursed myrmidons of despotism, with gnashing teeth and blood-stained eyes, would rush at large over the planet. They would lap the crimson gore of the most respectable and wealthy citizens. The sobs of females, and the screams of children, would mingle with the bark of dogs and the crash of falling columns. A universal and horrid night would mantle the skies, and one by one, the strong pillars of the universe go crumbling into ruin, amid the gleam of bowie-knives and the lurid glare of exploding steamboats. Anonymous.
Feller-Citizens,—I've bin honored with a invite to norate before you to-day; and when I say that I scarcely feel ekal to the task, I'm sure you will believe me. I'm a plane man. I don't know nothing about no ded langwidges and am a little shaky on livin ones. There 4, expect no flowry talk from me. What I shall say will be to the pint, right strate out. I am not a politician and my other habits air good. I've no enemys to reward, nor friends to sponge. But I'm a Union man. I luv the Union—it is a Big thing and it makes my hart bleed to see a lot of ornery people a-movin heaven—no, not heaven, but the other place—and earth, to bust it up.
Feller-citizens—I haint got time to notis the growth of Ameriky frum the time when the Mayflowers cum over in the Pilgrim and brawt Plymouth Rock with them, but every skool boy nose our career has bin tremenjis. You will excuse me if I don't prase the early settlers of the Kolonies. I spose they ment well, and so, in the novel and techin langwidge of the nusepapers, "peas to their ashis." There was no diskount, however, on them brave men who fit, bled and died in the American Revolushun. We need n't be afraid of setting 'em up two steep. Like my show, they will stand any amount of prase. G. Washington was abowt the best man this world ever sot eyes on, He was a clear-headed, warm-harted, and stiddy goin man. He never slept over! The prevailin weakness of most public men is to slop over! They git filled up and slop. They Rush Things. They travel too much on the high presser principle. They git onto the fust poplar hobby-hoss which trots along, not caring a cent whether the beest is even goin, clear sited and sound or spavined, blind and bawky. Of course they git throwed eventooualy, if not sooner. When they see the multitood goin it blind they go pel mel with it, instid of exerted theirselves to set it right. They can't see that the crowd which is now bearin then triumfuntly on its shoulders will soon diskiver its error and cast them into the hoss pond of oblivyon, without the slitest hesitashun. Washington never slopt over. That was n't George's stile. He luved his country dearly. He was n't after the spiles. He was a human angel in a 3 cornered hat and knee britches, and we shant see his like right away. My frends, we cant all be Washingtons, but we kin all be patrits and behave ourselves in a human and a Christian manner. When we see a brother goin down hill to Ruin let us not give him a push, but let us seize rite hold of his coat-tails and draw him back to Morality.
Imagine G. Washington and P. Henry in the characters of seseshers! As well fancy John Bunyan and Dr. Watts in spangled tites, doin the trapeze in a one-horse circus.
I tell you, feller-citizens, it would have bin ten dollars in Jeff Davis's pocket if he'd never been born! C. F. Brown.
The DUEL.
In Brentford town, of old renown,There lived a Mister BrayWho fell in love with Lucy Bell,And so did Mister Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,By all it was allowed,Such fair "outside" was never seen,—An angel on a cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,"You choose to rival me,And court Miss Bell; but there your courtNo thoroughfare shall be.
"Unless you now give up your suit,You may repent your love;—I who have shot a pigeon match,Can shoot a turtle dove.
"So pray, before you woo her more,Consider what you do:If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—I'll pop it into you."
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,"Your threats I do explode;—One who has been a volunteerKnows how to prime and load.
"And so I say to you, unlessYour passion quiet keeps,I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,May chance to hit a sheep's!"
Now gold is oft for silver changed,And that for copper red;But these two went away to giveEach other change for lead.
But first they found a friend apiece,This pleasant thought to give—That when they both were dead, they'd haveTwo seconds yet to live.
To measure out the ground, not longThe seconds next forbore;And having taken one rash step,They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol pan,Against the deadly strife;By putting in the prime of deathAgainst the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes;But when they took their stands,Fear made them tremble so, they foundThey both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,"Here one of us must fall,And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now,Be doomed to have a ball.
"I do confess I did attachMisconduct to your name!If I withdraw the charge, will thenYour ramrod do the same?"
Said Mr. B., "I do agree;—But think of Honor's courts,—If we go off without a shot,There will be strange reports.
"But look! the morning now is bright,Though cloudy it begun;Why can't we aim above as ifWe had called out the sun?"
So up into the harmless airTheir bullets they did send;And may all other duels haveThat upshot in the end.T. Hood.
Amongst the great inventions of this age,Which every other century surpasses,Is one,—just now the rage,—Called "Singing for all classes,"That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,To learn to warble like the birds in June—In time and tune,Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!
Whether this grand harmonic schemeWill ever get beyond a dream,And tend to British happiness and gloryMay be no, and may be yes,Is more than I pretend to guess—However here's my story.In one of those small, quiet streets,Where business retreats,
To shun the daily bustle and the noiseThe shoppy Strand enjoys,But land, joint-companies, and life-insuranceFind past endurance—In one of these back streets, to peace so dear,The other day a ragged wightBegan to sing with all his might,"I have a silent sorrow here!"
Heard in that quiet place,Devoted to a still and studious race,The noise was quite appalling!To seek a fitting simile, and spin it,Appropriate to his calling,His voice had all Lablache's body, in it;But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,And was in factOnly a forty-boatswain power of bawling!
'T was said indeed for want of vocal nousThe stage had banished him when he 'tempted it,For though his voice completely filled the house,It also emptied it.However, there he stoolsVociferous—a ragged don!And with his iron pipes laid on—A row to all the neighborhood.
In vain were sashes closed,And doors against the persevering Stentor;Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed,The intruding voice would enter,Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum;Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,Ladies, and masters who attend the schools,Clerks, agents all provided with their tools,Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em—How it did bore 'em!
Louder and louder still,The fellow sang with horrible good-will,Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities,From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw,In deeds of lawThey had to draw;With dreadful incongruitiesIn posting legers, making up accounts,To large amounts,Or casting up annuities—Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse,Against whose overwhelming forceNo invoice stood a chance, of course!
From room to room, from floor to floor,From Number One to Twenty-four,The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost,Down came Miss Frost,Expostulating at her open door—"Peace, monster, peace!Where is the new police?I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!You really send my serious thoughts astray,Do—there's a dear, good man—do, go away."Says he, "I won't!"
The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,That sounded like a wooden d—n;For so some moral people, strictly lothTo swear in words, however up,Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,—In fad, this sort of physical transgressionIs really no more difficult to trace,Than in a given faceA very bad expression.
However in she wentLeaving the subject of her discontentTo Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten;Who throwing up the sash,With accents rash,Thus hailed the most vociferous of men;"Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant;I cannot write a sentence—no one can't!So pack up your trumps,—And stir your stumps."Says he "I shan't!"
Down went the sash,As if devoted to "eternal smash."(Another illustrationOf acted imprecation,)While close at hand, uncomfortably near,The independent voice, so loud and strong,And clanging like a gong,Roared out again the everlasting song,"I have a silent sorrow here!"
The thing was hard to stand!The music-master could not stand it,But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand,As savage as a bandit,Made up directly to the tattered man,And thus in broken sentences began:"Com—com—I say!You go away!Into two parts my head you split—My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,When I do play—You have no business in a place so still!Can you not come another day?"Says he, "I will."
"No—no—you scream and bawl!You must not come at all!You have no right, by rights, to beg-You have not one off leg—You ought to work—you have not some complaint—You are not cripple in your back or bones—Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"—Says he, "It ain't."
"I say you ought to labor!You are in a young case,You have not sixty years upon your face,To come and beg your neighbor—And discompose his music with a noiseMore worse than twenty boys—Look what a street it is for quiet!No cart to make a riot,No coach, no horses, no postillion:If you will sing, I say, it is not justTo sing so loud."Says he, "I must!I'm singing for the million!"T. Hood.
Thou happy, happy elf!(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite,With spirits feather light,Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestruck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink.)
Thou cherub, but of earth;Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeyFrom every blossom in the world that blows,Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!)With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint,(Where did he learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the south,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—(I'll tell you what, my love,I cannot write unless he's sent above.)T. Hood.
I wrote some lines, once on a timeIn wondering merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,I laughed as I would die;Albeit in the general way,A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;How kind it was of him,To mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!
"These to the printer," I exclaimed,And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon a grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad.And shot from ear to ear;He read the third; a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;The fifth; his waistband split;The sixth; he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watched that wretched man;And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.O. W. Holmes.
I'm not a chicken; I have seenFull many a chill September,And though I was a youngster then,That gale I well remember;The day before my kite-string snapped,And I, my kite pursuing,The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,When married pairs get clashing;There was a heavy sigh or two,Before the fire was flashing,—A little stir among the clouds,Before they rent asunder,—A little rocking of the trees,And then came on the thunder.
Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled,And how the shingles rattled!And oaks were scattered on the ground,As if the Titans battled;And all above was in a howl,And all below a clatter,—The earth was like a frying-pan,Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,And all our things were drying;The storm came roaring through the lines,And set them all a flying;I saw the shirts and petticoatsGo riding off like witches;I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,Alas! too late to win them;I saw them chase the clouds as ifA demon had been in them;They were my darlings and my pride,—My boyhood's only riches,—"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—"My breeches! O my breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams,How changed from what I knew them!The dews had steeped their faded thread,The winds had whistled through them;I saw the wide and ghastly rents,Where demon claws had torn them;A hole was in their amplest part,As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,And tailors kind and clever,But those young pantaloons have goneForever and forever!And not till fate has cut the lastOf all my earthly stitches,This aching heart shall cease to mournMy loved, my long-lost breeches!O. W. Holmes.
In Manchester a maiden dwelt,Her name was Phbe Blown;Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,And, she was considered by good judges to beby all odds the best looking girl in town.
Her age was nearly seventeen,Her eyes were sparkling bright;A very lovely girl she was,And for about a year and a half there had been a young manpaying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.
Now Reuben was a nice young manAs any in the town,And Phbe loved him very dear,But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living,he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.
Her parents were resolvedAnother she should wed,A rich old miser in the place,And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have hisdaughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.
But Phbe's heart was brave and strong,She feared not her parents' frowns;And as for Reuben Wright so bold,I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Phbe)he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.
So Phbe Brown and Reuben WrightDetermined they would marry;Three weeks ago last Tuesday night,They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holybonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the oldHarry.
But Captain Brown was wide awake,He loaded up his gun,And then pursued the loving pair;He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and thenReuben and Phbe started off upon the run.
Old Brown then took a deadly aimToward young Reuben's head,But, oh! it was a bleeding shame,He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakableanguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.
Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart,And vengeance crazed his brain,He drew an awful jack-knife out,And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's verydoubtful about his ever coming to again.
The briny drops from Reuben's eyesIn torrents pouréd down,—And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history ofReuben and Phbe and likewise old Captain Brown.Anonymous.
A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,—By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,—Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town,Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.
This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate;But, alas! when he entered he found it too late;For in each dwelt a smith;—a more hard-working twoNever doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.
At six in the morning, their anvils, at work,Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk."These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep,That I never can get above eight hours of sleep."
From morning till night they keep thumping away,—No sound but the anvil the whole of the day;His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song,Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong.
He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop;But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop;At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,)He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move."
"Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends.""Then come to my house, and let us part friends;You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion,That each may live long in his new habitation."
He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale;He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale;So much was he pleased with the thought that each guestWould take from him noise, and restore him to rest.
"And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move?I hope to some spot where your trade will improve.""Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz,"Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!"Anonymous.
John Bull for pastime took a prance,Some time ago, to peep at France;To talk of sciences and arts,And knowledge gained in foreign parts.Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,And answered John in heathen Greek:To all he asked, 'bout all he saw,'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."
John, to the Palais-Royal came,Its splendor almost struck him dumb."I say, whose house is that there here?""House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."—"What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;"This fellow is some mighty Don:No doubt he 's plenty for the maw,I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."
John saw Versailles from Marlé's height,And cried, astonished at the sight,"Whose fine estate is that there here?""State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.""His? What the land and houses too?The fellow's richer than a Jew:On everything he lays his claw!I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."
Next tripping came a courtly fair,John cried, enchanted with her air,"What lovely wench is that there here?""Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.""What, he again? Upon my life!A palace, lands, and then a wifeSir Joshua might delight to draw:I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."
"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John."Je vous n'entends paw."—"what is he gone?Wealth fame, and beauty could not savePoor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!His race is run, his game is up,—I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;But since he chooses to withdraw,Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."C. Dibdin.