THE BALLET.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the butler, "but—my master's compliments, begs to know what your pleasure here is—it is not usual for strangers to land—and——"

"Exactly like the man in the boat, sir," said Daly, "only quite the reverse. I am not here for pleasure—business calls me here—duty, sir—duty. Here, Mr. Higgins, carry the staff to that stump."

These words were addressed to me, and I, completelyinfatuated—fascinated, like the bird by the rattle-snake—did as I was told, not daring to rebel, lest adénoûmentmight ensue, which wouldéclaterin our being jointly and severally kicked into the river, in which case, from the very little, or rather the very great deal, which I had seen of my companion during our short acquaintance, I felt perfectly certain thatIshould sink, andhewould swim; and that, while I was floundering in all the agonies of ignominy and disgrace, he would be capering and flourishing with the two pretty girls in the dining-room, laying all the blame of the affair upon my most incompetent shoulders, and cracking his jokes upon the tyro who had so blunderingly botched the business.

The butler, who found that he made very little impression upon Daly, seemed inclined to come atme, which, as I had not the slightest idea of the game my companion was playing, nor the faintest notion what he expected to be the result, alarmed me considerably. Daly was too much on the alert, however, to permit me to be cross-questioned.

"Sir," said he to the butler, "present my compliments to your master, and make my humble apologies for the liberty I am obliged to take. I am the acting deputy-assistant surveyor of the Grand Junction Paddington Canal Company, and an Act of Parliament is just about to be applied for, to construct and cut a branch from the basin at Brentford into the river Thames, near this point. A great deal depends upon my decision as to the line it will take, and I should not have ventured to land without apprising your master of my business, but that no time is to be lost,inasmuch as my plan for the cut must be ready for the committee to-morrow."

"Cut a canal through my master's grounds, sir?" said the butler.

"Right through," said Daly, poking the fore-finger of his right hand very nearly into the butler's left eye; "and what I am now so particular about is, I am most anxious that the line should not take down the corner of the conservatory."

"Dear me, sir," said the man, "my mistress would go mad at the very thought of such a thing. Will you just wait, sir, while I speak to Sir Timothy?"

"Certainly," said he; "and assure him—assure Sir Timothy—that I will do all I can to preserve the elevation of his mansion; for, as it all depends upon my opinion, I shall, of course, be extremely scrupulous how I decide."

"I am sure, sir," said the astounded and mollified butler, "Sir Timothy will be greatly obliged to you. I'll be back directly, sir."

Saying which, the butler returned to the house, and giving a significant look at the strapping footman, with the grenadier shoulders and balustrade legs, which seemed to imply that he need not kick us into the water till he had consulted his master, the fellow followed him, which afforded me an opportunity of asking my volatile friend what the deuce he was at.

"Leave me alone," said he,—

"'Women and wine compare so well,They run in a perfect parallel.'

"'Women and wine compare so well,

They run in a perfect parallel.'

I am the company's acting deputy-assistant surveyor, and having surveyed this company, I mean to be made a participator in those good things of which they seem to be in full possession. Yes, Mr. Gurney, as King Arthur says—

'It is our royal will and pleasure to be drunk;And this, our friend, shall be as drunk as we.'

'It is our royal will and pleasure to be drunk;

And this, our friend, shall be as drunk as we.'

Who knows but we may make an agreeable and permanent acquaintance with this interesting family?"

"But," said I, "you don't even know their name."

"You are in error," replied Daly; "the man's nameisknown to me."

"Then perhaps you are known tohim," said I.

"That is anon sequitur," said Daly; "I knew nothing of him before I landed here—now I amau-fait—my friend in the powder and sticking-plasters calls his master Sir Timothy. There are hundreds of Sir Timothies; but what do I, upon hearing this little distinctive appellation, but glance my eye to the livery-button of the lacquey—and what do I see there? a serpent issuing from and piercing a garb or gerb. The crest is unique—ergo, my new acquaintance is neither more nor less than Sir Timothy Dod."

"Why," said I, "you are, like myself, a bit of a herald, too!"

"Exactly," replied Daly; "in my composition are

'Arts witharmscontending;'

I am a bit of every thing; but somehow all my accomplishments are so jumbled, and each is so minute in itself, that they are patched together in my mind like the squares of a harlequin's jacket, only to make their master ridiculous. Here, however, comes Sir Timothy himself. You are my clerk—keep the staff and the joke up, and you shall be repaid with some of Tim's very best Lafitte, or I'm an ass."

"Good-day, sir," said Sir Timothy, somewhat warmed with the intelligence given him by the butler, and the exertion of trotting him across his lawn. "My servant tells me that you are here for the purpose of deciding upon the line of some new branch of the Paddington Canal;—it is very extraordinary I never should have heard of it!"

"You ought, Sir Timothy," said Daly, "to have been apprised of it. Do you understand much of ground-plans, Sir Timothy?"

"No, sir; very little indeed," replied the worthy knight.

"So much the better," I heard Daly distinctly say, for he could not resist an impulse. "If you will just cast your eye over this paper, I will endeavour to explain, sir. A, there you see;—A is your house, Sir Timothy; B is the conservatory; C is the river,—that perhaps you will think strange?"

"No, sir," said Sir Timothy, "not at all."

"Then, sir, D, E, F, and G are the points, from which I take the direct line from the bridge at Brentford; and thus you perceive, by continuing that line to the corner of Twickenham churchyard, where theembouchureis to be——"

"The what, sir?" said Sir Timothy.

"The mouth, sir,—the entrance to the new branch, the canal will clip your conservatory diagonally to the extent of about eighteen feet six inches, and leave it deprived of its original dimensions somewhat in the shape of a cocked-hat box. You see—so, sir,—H, I, K."

"I give you my honour, sir," said Sir Timothy, "such a thing would drive Lady Dod mad!"

"I admit it would be a dreadful cut," said Daly; "and then the noise of the bargemen and the barge-horses close under the windows,—clanking chains,—horrible oaths,—disgusting language——"

"My daughters' bed-rooms are at that end of the house," said Sir Timothy. "What am I to do, sir? What interest can I make? Are the magistrates—are the——"

"No, sir," said Daly, with a face of the most imperturbable gravity; "all that would be perfectly unavailing. The decision as to the line rests entirely with me; and, as I said to Mr. Higgins, my assistant,—Higgins," continued he, calling me to him, "let me present you to Sir Timothy Dod,—I said to Higgins, what a pity it would be to disturb the Dods,—what a cut at their comforts;—it goes against my heart to send in the plan, but the line is so decidedly the shortest. 'Ah, sir!' says Higgins to me, with a deep sigh, I assure you,—'butdoconsider the conservatory.'"

"I'm sure, sir," said Sir Timothy, extending his hand to me, "I feel very grateful for your kindness. It would indeed be a sad thing; and must the decision be made so soon?"

"Immediately, sir," said Daly; "but we are keeping you out here in the open air without your hat. I am afraid, sir, you may catch cold."

"Oh no, sir," said Sir Timothy; "don't mind that. Perhaps, gentlemen, you will do me the kindness to walk in. The servants shall take care of your boat. I will introduce you to Lady Dod, she must try whatherinfluence can effect, and I am sure you have the disposition to serve us. Here, Philip, James, George, some of you, come and make this boat fast, and stay down by her while the gentlemen stop. Let me show you the way, gentlemen."

I never shall forget the look which Daly gave me as we followed the respectable knight to his lady and family,—the triumphant chuckle of his countenance, the daring laugh in his eyes; while I, who only saw in the success of the design the beginning of a signal defeat, scarce knew whether I was walking on my head or my heels: resistance or remonstrance was equally vain under the circumstances, and in a few minutes we found ourselves in the presence of Lady Dod and her daughters, breathing an atmosphere redolent with the fumes of the departed dinner, and the still remaining fruit and wine. I never was so abashed in my life. My friend, on the contrary, seemed perfectly at home; and, placing himself beside her ladyship, made a sign for me to occupy a vacant seat between the young ladies. Never did I see two more lovely girls.

The courtesy of Sir Timothy, the sweetness of my lady, and the constrained fun of the girls, were, I admit, when I recovered my composure in some degree, a good treat; while Daly, "helping himself and passing the bottle" tome, kept up a fire of conversation, which, if the senior Dods had known anything of the world, would have convinced them in ten minutes that the part of acting deputy-assistant measurerwas an assumed one. It certainly was a sight to see the respectable lady of the house pleading the cause of her conservatory, and piling the choicest fruits upon the plate of the arbiter of her destinies, while Fanny's civilities to me were displayed with equal zeal and far superior grace. I would have given the world to have owned the truth; and I am sure, if we had done so, we should not have been the worse received; for, independently of the excellence of the joke and the impudence of the proceeding, the relief which would have been afforded to the minds of the whole Doddery would have ensured us their eternal favour and affection.

Daly having finished the claret, and taken a last "stopper over all" (as the sailors say) of sherry, gave me the signal for departure. I, too, gladly took the hint, and drew back my chair. Fanny looked as if she thought we were in a hurry; however, it was getting late, and my master had some distance to pull. We accordingly rose and prepared to take leave. I bowed my adieu to the girls, and shook hands with Fanny, at which I saw Augusta toss back her head and throw up her sparkling eyes, as much as to say, "Well, Fanny," meaning exactly the reverse. I bowed low to my Lady Dod, and Sir Timothy attended us to our boat. I stepped in; Daly was at the bow; Sir Timothy desired the man who had been left in charge of the funny to go away; and then I saw, with doubt and trepidation, the respectable dupe of Daly's consummate impudence shake him by the hand with a peculiarity of manner which particularly attracted my attention. I saw him in the execution of this manœuvre press upon his palm a bank-note, with a flourish in the corner like the top of a raspberry tartlet.

I never was more agitated. If Daly took this bribe for saving the corner of the conservatory, it was an act of swindling. The strawberries, grapes, and claret, were fit matters of joke, although I admit that it was carrying the joke a little too far; but money,—if he tookthat, I was resolved to avow the whole affair to Sir Timothy, show up mycompanion, and leave him to the fate he deserved. Judge my mingled delight and horror when I heard him say,——

"Sir! what I have done in your house or in your society to induce you to believe me capable of taking a bribe to compromise my duty, I really don't know. Mr. Higgins, I call you to witness that this person has had the insolence to put a fifty-pound bank-note into my hand. Witness, too, the manner in which I throw it back to him." Here he suited the word to the action. "Learn, old gentleman," continued he, with an anger so well feigned that I almost believed him in earnest, "that neither fifty nor fifty thousand pounds will warp an honest man from the duty he owes to his employers; and so, sir, good-night, and rely upon it, your conservatory goes,—rely upon it, Sir Timothy;—it comes in the right line, and the short line, and down it goes—and I feel it incumbent on me not only to tell the history of your petty bribe, but to prove my unimpeachable integrity by running the canal right under your dining-room windows; and so, sir, good-night."

Saying which he jumped into the boat, and, pulling away manfully, left his unfortunate victim in all the horrors of defeated corruption, and the certainty of the destruction of his most favourite object, for the preservation of which he had actually crammed his betrayers, and committed himself to a perfect stranger.

Not being at this present writing in love with any opera dancer, we can see with "eyes unprejudiced," that the performances to which we allude (ballets) are in the highest possible degree objectionable as referring to taste, and disgusting as relating to decency.

First, then, as to taste—nobody upon earth, we should think, can be bold enough to assert that the horizontalelevation of the female leg, and the rapid twisting of the body—the subsequent attitude and expansion of the arms—are graceful—we mean merely as to dancing. No man certainly, except those whose intellects and appetites are more debased than those of men in general, can feel either amusement or gratification in such an exhibition.

Woman is so charming, so fascinating, so winning, and so ruling by the attractions which properly belong to her—by her delicacy—her gentleness—and her modesty—that we honestly confess, whenever we see a lovely girl doing that which degrades her, which must lower her even in her own estimation, we feel a pang of regret, and lament to find conduct applauded to the very echo which reduces the beautiful creatures before us to a mere animal in a state of exhibition.

But if there really be men who take delight in the "Ionici motus" of the Italian Opera, surelyour ownwomen should be spared the sight of such indelicacies: nothing which the Roman satirist mentions as tending to destroy the delicate feelings of the female sex could possibly be worse than those which week after week may be seen in the Haymarket.

We have strenuously attacked, for its unnatural indecency, the custom of dressing actresses in men's attire upon the English stage, but a lady in small clothes is better on a public theatre than a lady with no clothes at all.

We are quite ready to admit, without in the smallest degree lamenting, the superiority of foreigners over the natives of England in the art and mystery of cutting capers, and if the ladies and gentlemen annually imported jumped as high as the volteurs in Potier's "Danaides" at the Porte St. Martin, neither would our envy nor our grief be excited; but we certainly do eye with mistrust and jealousy the avidity with which "foreign manners," "foreign customs," and "foreign morality," are received into our dear and much-loved country.

While custom sanctions the nightly commission of waltzing in our best society, it perhaps is only matter of consolation to the matrons who permit their daughters to be operated upon in the mysteries of that dance, to see that women can be found to commit grosser indelicacies even on a public stage.

A correspondent of theSpectator, in the 67th Number, Vol. I., describes accurately under another name the mechanical part of the foreign waltz of these days, and says:—"I suppose this diversion was first invented to keep up a good understanding between young men and women; but I am sure, had you been here, you would have seen great matter for speculation."

We say so now; but the waltz has proved a bad speculation to the very dowagers who allow it to be committed; for, as can be proved by reference to fashionable parish registers, there have been fewer marriages in good society by one half, annually upon the average, since the introduction of this irritating indecency into England.

If, therefore, the public dances at the King's Theatre are looked at, merely as authorities for the conduct of private balls, the matter is still worse; but we have too high an opinion of our countrywomen in general to think this of them, and we are sure that we are speaking the sentiment of the most amiable and the most charming when we raise the voice of rebuke against the dress and deportment of the ItalianCorps de Ballet.

One advocate we are certain to have in the person of an old gentlewoman next to whom we sat last Saturday se'nnight, who clearly had never been at the Opera during the whole course of her long and doubtlessly respectable life, till that very evening.

When the ballet commenced, she appeared delighted; but when one of the principal females began to elevate her leg beyond the horizontal, she began evidently to fidget, and make a sort of see-saw motion with her head and body, inpure agitation; at every lofty jump I heard her ejaculate a little "Oh!" at a somewhat lengthenedpirouetteshe exclaimed,sotte voce, "Ah!" with a sigh; but at length, when a tremendous whirl had divested the greater part of the performer's figure of drapery—the band ceasing at the moment to give time to the twirl—the poor old lady screamed out, "Oh, la!"—which was heard all over the house, and caused a shout of laughter at the expense of a poor, sober-minded Englishwoman, whose nerves had not been screwed up to a sufficiently fashionable pitch to witness what she saw was a perfect, but thought must have been an accidental exposure, of more of a woman's person than is usually given to the gaze of the million.

Whitlings and whipsters, dandies, demireps, and dancers may rank us with our fat friend in the tabby silk, to whom we have just referred, if they please; but we will always run the risk of being counted unfashionable rather than immoral.

So few people moving in the world take the trouble of thinking for themselves, that it is necessary to open their eyes to their own improprieties; the natural answer to a question, "How can you suffer your daughters to witness such exhibitions?" is, "Why, everybody else goes, why should not they?" And then, the numerous avocations of an Opera-house evening divert the attention from the stage. True; but there is a class of women differently situated, who are subject to the nuisance, merely because those who do not care about it are indifferent to its correction; we mean the daughters and wives of respectable aldermen and drysalters, and tradesmen of a superior class, who are rattled and shaken to the Opera once or twice in the season, in a hackney-coach, and come into the pit all over finery, with long straws abstracted from "their carriage," sticking in their flounces.

Who is there that does not know that the Lady Patronesses of Almack's have interdicted pantaloons, tight or loose, at their assemblies? We have seen a MS. instruction(which, alas! never was printed) from this mighty conclave, announcing their fiat in these words: "Gentlemen will not be admitted without breeches and stockings!"

No sooner was this mandate, in whatever terms the published one was couched, fulminated from King Street, than the "lean and slippered pantaloon" was exterminated, and, as the Directresses directed, "short hose" were the order of the day.

If the same lovely and honourable ladies were to take the Opera House under their purifying control, and issue, in the same spirit at least, an order that "Ladies will not be permitted to appear without ——" (whatever may be the proper names for the drapery of females) we are quite convinced that they would render a great service to society, and extricate the national character from a reproach which the tacit endurance of such grossnesses has, in the minds of all moderate people, unfortunately cast upon it at present.—John Bull, 1823.

Few persons can have passed through life, or London, without having experienced more or less insult from the authoritative manner and coarse language of the fellows who keep the different toll-bars round the metropolis; but even were those persons uniformly civil and well-behaved, the innumerable demands which they are authorised to make, and the necessary frequency of their conversation and appeals to the traveller, are of themselves enough to provoke the impatience of the most placid passenger in Christendom.

AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.Hook, in his letter to Broderip (facsimile given elsewhere) suggests that as they are going to Ascot racestête-à-tête, it might be as well to speak of it asneck-and-neck. A rough sketch is enclosed of the Zoological Gardens, Hook pointing with pride to thenecksof the giraffes.

Hook, in his letter to Broderip (facsimile given elsewhere) suggests that as they are going to Ascot racestête-à-tête, it might be as well to speak of it asneck-and-neck. A rough sketch is enclosed of the Zoological Gardens, Hook pointing with pride to thenecksof the giraffes.

We will select one line of about three or four miles, which will answer by way of an example of what we mean: A man, driving himself (without a servant), starts from Bishopsgate-street for Kilburn. The day is cold andrainy—his fingers are benumbed; his two coats buttoned up; his money in tight pantaloon-pockets; his horse restive, apt to kick if the reins touch his tail; his gloves soaked with wet; and himself half-an-hour too late for dinner. He has to pull up in the middle of the street in Shoreditch, and pay a toll;—he means to return, therefore he takes a ticket, letterA. On reaching Shoreditch Church, he turns into the Curtain Road, pulls up again, drags off his wet glove with his teeth, his other hand being fully occupied in holding up the reins and the whip; pays again; gets another ticket, number 482; drags on his glove; buttons up his coats, and rattles away into Old Street Road; another gate; more pulling and poking, and unbuttoning and squeezing. He pays, and takes another ticket, letterL. The operation of getting all to rights takes place once more, nor is it repeated until he reaches Goswell Street Road; here he performs all the ceremonies we have already described, for a fourth time, and gets a fourth ticket, 732, which is to clear him through the gates in the New Road, as far as the bottom of Pentonville;—arrived there, he performs once more all the same evolutions, and procures a fifth ticket, letterX, which, unless some sinister accident occur, is to carry him clear to the Paddington Road; but opening the fine space of the Regent's Park, at the top of Portland Street, the north breeze blowing fresh from Hampstead, bursts upon his buggy, and all the tickets which he had received from all the gates which he has paid, and which he had stuffedseriatimbetween the cushion and lining of his dennet, suddenly rise, like a covey of partridges, from the corner, and he sees the dingy vouchers for his expenditure proceeding down Portland Street at full speed. They are rescued, however, muddy and filthy as they are, by the sweeper of the crossing, who is, of course, rewarded by the driver for his attention with a larger sum than he had originally disbursed for all the gates; and when deposited again in the vehicle, not in their former order of arrangement, the unfortunate travellerspends at least ten minutes at the next gate in selecting the particular ticket which is there required to insure his free passage.

Conquering all these difficulties, he reaches Paddington Gate, where he pays afresh, and obtains a ticket, 691, with which he proceeds swimmingly until stopped again at Kilburn, to pay a toll, which would clear him all the way to Stanmore, if he were not going to dine at a house three doors beyond the very turnpike, where he pays for the seventh time, and where he obtains a seventh ticket, letterG.

He dines and "wines;" and the bee's-wing from the citizen's port gives new velocity to Time. The dennet was ordered at eleven; and, although neither tides nor the old gentleman just mentioned, wait for any man, except Tom Hill, horses and dennets will. It is nearer midnight than eleven when the visitor departs, even better buttoned up than in the morning, his lamps giving cheerfulness to the equipage, and light to the road; and his horse whisking along (his nostrils pouring forth breath like smoke from safety-valves), and the whole affair actually in motion at the rate of ten miles per hour. Stopped at Paddington. "Pay here?"—"L."—"Won't do."—"G?"—(The horse fidgety all this time, and the driver trying to read the dirty tickets by the little light which is emitted through thetopsof his lamps,)—"X?"—"It's no letter, I tell you?"—"482,"—"No." At this juncture the clock strikes twelve—the driver is told that his reading and rummaging are alike useless, for that a new day has begun. The coats are, therefore, unbuttoned—the gloves pulled off—the money to be fished out—the driver discovers that his last shilling was paid to the ostler at the inn where his horse was fed and that he must change a sovereign to pay the gate. This operation the toll-keeper performs; nor does the driver discover, until the morning, that one of the half-crowns and four of the shillings which he has received, are bad. Satisfied, however, with what has occurred, he determinesat all hazards to drive home over the stones, and avoid all further importunities from the turnpike-keepers. Accordingly, away he goes along Oxford Street, over the pavement, working into one hole and tumbling into another, like a ball on atrou madametable, until, at the end of George Street, St. Giles's, snap goes his axle-tree; away goes his horse, dashing the dennet against a post at the corner of Plumtree Street, leaving the driver, with his collar-bone and left arm broken, on the pavement, at the mercy of two or three popish bricklayers and a couple of women of the town, who humanely lift him to the coach-stand, and deposit him in a hackney-chariot, having previously cut off the skirts of both his coats, and relieved him, not only of his loose change, but of a gold repeater, a snuff-box, and a pocket-book full of notes and memoranda, of no use but to the owner.

The unhappy victim at length reaches home, in agonies from the continued roughness of the pre-adamite pavement, is put to bed—doctors are sent for, the fractures are reduced, and in seven weeks he is able to crawl into his counting-house to write a cheque for a new dennet, and give his people orders to shoot his valuable horse, who has so dreadfully injured himself on the fatal night as to be past recovery.

Tom Sheridan was staying at Lord Craven's at Benham (or rather Hampstead), and one day proceeded on a shooting excursion, like Hawthorn, with only "his dog and his gun," on foot, and unattended by companion or keeper; the sport was bad—the birds few and shy—and he walked and walked in search of game, until, unconsciously, he entered the domain of some neighbouring squire.

A very short time after, he perceived advancing towards him, at the top of his speed, a jolly, comfortable-looking gentleman, followed by a servant, armed, as it appeared, for conflict. Tom took up a position, and waited the approach of the enemy.

"Hallo! you sir," said the squire, when within half-earshot, "what are you doing here, sir, eh?"

"I'm shooting, sir," said Tom.

"Do you know where you are, sir?" said the squire.

"I'm here, sir," said Tom.

"Here, sir," said the squire, growing angry; "and do you know where hereis, sir? These, sir, aremymanors; what d'ye think of that, sir, eh?"

"Why, sir, as to your manners," said Tom, "I can't say they seem over agreeable."

"I don't want any jokes, sir," said the squire, "I hate jokes. Who are you, sir?—what are you?"

"Why, sir," said Tom, "my name is Sheridan—I am staying at Lord Craven's—I have come out for some sport—I have not had any, and I am not aware that I am trespassing."

"Sheridan!" said the squire, cooling a little; "oh, from Lord Craven's, eh? Well, sir, I could not knowthat, sir—I——'

"No, sir," said Tom, "but you need not have been in a passion."

"Not in a passion! Mr. Sheridan," said the squire, "you don't know, sir, what these preserves have cost me, and the pains and trouble I have been at with them; it's all very well foryouto talk, but if you were inmyplace I should like to know whatyouwould say upon such an occasion."

"Why, sir," said Tom, "if I were inyourplace, under all the circumstances, I should say—'I am convinced, Mr. Sheridan, you did not mean to annoy me; and, asyou look a good deal tired, perhaps you'll come up to my house and take some refreshment?'"

The squire was hit hard by this nonchalance, and (as the newspapers say), "it is needless to add," acted upon Sheridan's suggestion.

"So far," said poor Tom, "the story tells for me,—now you shall hear the sequel."

After having regaled himself at the squire's house, and having said five hundred more good things than he swallowed; having delighted his host, and more than half won the hearts of his wife and daughters, the sportsman proceeded on his return homewards.

In the course of his walk he passed through a farm-yard; in the front of the farm-house was a green, in the centre of which was a pond, in the pond were ducks innumerable swimming and diving; on its verdant banks a motley group of gallant cocks and pert partlets, picking and feeding—the farmer was leaning over the hatch of the barn, which stood near two cottages on the side of the green.

Tom hated to go back with an empty bag; and having failed in his attempts at higher game, it struck him as a good joke to ridicule the exploits of the day himself, in order to prevent any one else from doing it for him, and he thought to carry home a certain number of the domestic inhabitants of the pond and its vicinity would serve the purpose admirably. Accordingly, up he goes to the farmer and accosts him very civilly—

"My good friend," says Tom, "I'll make you an offer."

"Of what, sur?" says the farmer.

"Why," replies Tom, "I've been out all day fagging after birds, and haven't had a shot—now, both my barrels are loaded—I should like to take home something; what shall I give you to let me have a shot with each barrel at those ducks and fowls—I standing here—and to have whatever I kill?"

"What sort of a shot are you?" said the farmer.

"Fairish," said Tom, "fairish."

"And tohaveall you kill?" said the farmer, "eh?"

"Exactly so," said Tom.

"Half a guinea," said the farmer.

"That's too much," said Tom. "I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll give you a seven-shilling piece, which happens to be all the money I have in my pocket."

"Well," said the man, "hand it over."

The payment was made—Tom, true to his bargain, took his post by the barn-door, and let fly with one barrel and then with the other; and such quacking and splashing, and screaming and fluttering, had never been seen in that place before.

Away ran Tom, and, delighted at his success, picked up first a hen, then a chicken, then fished out a dying duck or two, and so on, until he numbered eight head of domestic game, with which his bag was nobly distended.

"Those were right good shots, sir," said the farmer.

"Yes," said Tom, "eight ducks and fowls were more than you bargained for, old fellow—worth rather more, I suspect, than seven shillings—eh?"

"Why, yes," said the man, scratching his head—"I think they be; but what do I care for that—they are none of them mine!"

"Here," said Tom, "I was for once in my lifebeaten, and made off as fast as I could, for fear the right owner of my game might make his appearance—not but that I could have given the fellow that took me in seven times as much as I did for his cunning and coolness."

In Chester's town a man there dwelt,Not rich as Crœsus, but a buck;The pangs of love he clearly felt—His name wasThomas Clutterbuck.The lady he did most approveMost guineas gold had got 'em;And Clutterbuck fell deep in loveWithPolly Higginbottom.O Thomas Clutterbuck!And O Polly Higginbottom!I sing the loves—the smiling lives—Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.A little trip he did propose:—Upon the Dee they got 'em;The wind blew high—he blew his nose,And sung to Polly Higginbottom.The strain was sweet—the stream was deep—He thought his notes had caught her;But she, alas! first fell—asleep;And then fell—in the water.O Polly Higginbottom!She went to the bottom—I sing the death—the doleful death!—Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!Yet still he strain'd his little throat;To love he did invite her;And never miss'd her—till his boat,He thought, went rather lighter.But when he found that she was lost,The summum of his wishes—He boldly paid the waterman,And jump'd among the fishes.O Polly Higginbottom,He comes to the bottom!I sing the death—the double death—Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.Round Chester stalk the river ghostsOf this young man and fair maid:His head looks like asalmon-trout;Her tail is like amermaid.Moral.Learn this, ye constant lovers all,Who live on England's island—The way to shun a watery deathIs making love on dry land!O Polly Higginbottom,Who lies at the bottom!So sing the ghosts—the water-ghosts—Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

In Chester's town a man there dwelt,

Not rich as Crœsus, but a buck;

The pangs of love he clearly felt—

His name wasThomas Clutterbuck.

The lady he did most approve

Most guineas gold had got 'em;

And Clutterbuck fell deep in love

WithPolly Higginbottom.

O Thomas Clutterbuck!

And O Polly Higginbottom!

I sing the loves—the smiling lives—

Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

A little trip he did propose:—Upon the Dee they got 'em;The wind blew high—he blew his nose,And sung to Polly Higginbottom.The strain was sweet—the stream was deep—He thought his notes had caught her;But she, alas! first fell—asleep;And then fell—in the water.O Polly Higginbottom!She went to the bottom—I sing the death—the doleful death!—Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!

A little trip he did propose:—

Upon the Dee they got 'em;

The wind blew high—he blew his nose,

And sung to Polly Higginbottom.

The strain was sweet—the stream was deep—

He thought his notes had caught her;

But she, alas! first fell—asleep;

And then fell—in the water.

O Polly Higginbottom!

She went to the bottom—

I sing the death—the doleful death!—

Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!

Yet still he strain'd his little throat;To love he did invite her;And never miss'd her—till his boat,He thought, went rather lighter.But when he found that she was lost,The summum of his wishes—He boldly paid the waterman,And jump'd among the fishes.O Polly Higginbottom,He comes to the bottom!I sing the death—the double death—Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Yet still he strain'd his little throat;

To love he did invite her;

And never miss'd her—till his boat,

He thought, went rather lighter.

But when he found that she was lost,

The summum of his wishes—

He boldly paid the waterman,

And jump'd among the fishes.

O Polly Higginbottom,

He comes to the bottom!

I sing the death—the double death—

Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Round Chester stalk the river ghostsOf this young man and fair maid:His head looks like asalmon-trout;Her tail is like amermaid.

Round Chester stalk the river ghosts

Of this young man and fair maid:

His head looks like asalmon-trout;

Her tail is like amermaid.

Moral.

Learn this, ye constant lovers all,Who live on England's island—The way to shun a watery deathIs making love on dry land!O Polly Higginbottom,Who lies at the bottom!So sing the ghosts—the water-ghosts—Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Learn this, ye constant lovers all,

Who live on England's island—

The way to shun a watery death

Is making love on dry land!

O Polly Higginbottom,

Who lies at the bottom!

So sing the ghosts—the water-ghosts—

Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Mary once had lovers two—Whining—pining—sighing:"Ah!" cries one, "what shall I do?Mary dear, I'm dying!"T' other vow'd him just the same—Dead in grief's vagary;But sighs could never raise a flameIn the heart of Mary.A youth there came, all blithe and gay—Merry—laughing—singing—Sporting—courting, all the day—And set the bells a-ringing.Soon he tripp'd it off to church,Lightly, gay, and airy;Leaving t' others in the lurch,Sighing—after Mary.

Mary once had lovers two—

Whining—pining—sighing:

"Ah!" cries one, "what shall I do?

Mary dear, I'm dying!"

T' other vow'd him just the same—

Dead in grief's vagary;

But sighs could never raise a flame

In the heart of Mary.

A youth there came, all blithe and gay—Merry—laughing—singing—Sporting—courting, all the day—And set the bells a-ringing.Soon he tripp'd it off to church,Lightly, gay, and airy;Leaving t' others in the lurch,Sighing—after Mary.

A youth there came, all blithe and gay—

Merry—laughing—singing—

Sporting—courting, all the day—

And set the bells a-ringing.

Soon he tripp'd it off to church,

Lightly, gay, and airy;

Leaving t' others in the lurch,

Sighing—after Mary.

In the famed town of CadizLived the fairest of ladies,Donna Louisa Isabella:And she had a lover,Who did his mind discover;And she thought him a charming fellow.Now this fairest of ladiesHad a father lived in Cadiz,And he lock'd her within a high tower:And her lover coming thither,He promised to be with herAt a certain appointed hour.He was there at the time,And he call'd out in rhyme—For his heart was consumed to a cinder—"You have nothing now to fear,Since your Philip now is here;—Louisa, pray come to the window!"The lady appears,And quiets all his fears;For his boldness she likes him the better."All I want," says he, "to do,Is to get convey'd to you—This very interesting letter!"

In the famed town of CadizLived the fairest of ladies,Donna Louisa Isabella:And she had a lover,Who did his mind discover;And she thought him a charming fellow.

In the famed town of Cadiz

Lived the fairest of ladies,

Donna Louisa Isabella:

And she had a lover,

Who did his mind discover;

And she thought him a charming fellow.

Now this fairest of ladiesHad a father lived in Cadiz,And he lock'd her within a high tower:And her lover coming thither,He promised to be with herAt a certain appointed hour.

Now this fairest of ladies

Had a father lived in Cadiz,

And he lock'd her within a high tower:

And her lover coming thither,

He promised to be with her

At a certain appointed hour.

He was there at the time,And he call'd out in rhyme—For his heart was consumed to a cinder—"You have nothing now to fear,Since your Philip now is here;—Louisa, pray come to the window!"

He was there at the time,

And he call'd out in rhyme—

For his heart was consumed to a cinder—

"You have nothing now to fear,

Since your Philip now is here;—

Louisa, pray come to the window!"

The lady appears,And quiets all his fears;For his boldness she likes him the better."All I want," says he, "to do,Is to get convey'd to you—This very interesting letter!"

The lady appears,

And quiets all his fears;

For his boldness she likes him the better.

"All I want," says he, "to do,

Is to get convey'd to you—

This very interesting letter!"

A blacksmith, you'll own, is so clever,And great in the world is his place;And the reason I've guess'd, why for everA blacksmith's deserving of grace.Great lawyers who plead and who preach,While many good causes they mar,May yield to the blacksmith to teach,For he labours still more at thebar!When great men do wrong in the State,The Commons try hard at their polls;While the blacksmith, as certain as fate,Could have 'emhaul'd over the coals.And if rogues put their name to a draft,The law for their hanging will teaze;But blacksmiths are free from all craft,And mayforgejust as much as they please.Thevicesof trade he holds cheap,And laughs at the world as it rails,For, spite of the pother they keep,They can't make a smitheat his nails!And if, to his praise be it spoke,To raise him still higher and higher;You may say, and without any joke,All he gets is gotout of the fire!Then let blacksmiths be toasted round,For well it may always be said,When a fortune by blacksmiths is found,They must hit the rightnail o' the head.Noironynow I'm about,To hismetalyou'll find him still true,Since I'vehammer'd his history out,I hope 'twill be temper'd by you.

A blacksmith, you'll own, is so clever,

And great in the world is his place;

And the reason I've guess'd, why for ever

A blacksmith's deserving of grace.

Great lawyers who plead and who preach,

While many good causes they mar,

May yield to the blacksmith to teach,

For he labours still more at thebar!

When great men do wrong in the State,The Commons try hard at their polls;While the blacksmith, as certain as fate,Could have 'emhaul'd over the coals.And if rogues put their name to a draft,The law for their hanging will teaze;But blacksmiths are free from all craft,And mayforgejust as much as they please.

When great men do wrong in the State,

The Commons try hard at their polls;

While the blacksmith, as certain as fate,

Could have 'emhaul'd over the coals.

And if rogues put their name to a draft,

The law for their hanging will teaze;

But blacksmiths are free from all craft,

And mayforgejust as much as they please.

Thevicesof trade he holds cheap,And laughs at the world as it rails,For, spite of the pother they keep,They can't make a smitheat his nails!And if, to his praise be it spoke,To raise him still higher and higher;You may say, and without any joke,All he gets is gotout of the fire!

Thevicesof trade he holds cheap,

And laughs at the world as it rails,

For, spite of the pother they keep,

They can't make a smitheat his nails!

And if, to his praise be it spoke,

To raise him still higher and higher;

You may say, and without any joke,

All he gets is gotout of the fire!

Then let blacksmiths be toasted round,For well it may always be said,When a fortune by blacksmiths is found,They must hit the rightnail o' the head.Noironynow I'm about,To hismetalyou'll find him still true,Since I'vehammer'd his history out,I hope 'twill be temper'd by you.

Then let blacksmiths be toasted round,

For well it may always be said,

When a fortune by blacksmiths is found,

They must hit the rightnail o' the head.

Noironynow I'm about,

To hismetalyou'll find him still true,

Since I'vehammer'd his history out,

I hope 'twill be temper'd by you.

When I was a chicken I went to school,My master would call me an obstinate fool,For I ruled the roast, and I roasted all rule,And he wonder'd how ever he bore me.His tables I blotted, his windows I broke,I fired his wig, and I laughed at the smoke,And always replied if he row'd at the joke,Why—my father did so before me.I met a young girl, and I pray'd to the miss,I fell on my knee, and I ask'd for a kiss,She twice said no, but she once said yes,And in marriage declared she'd restore me.We loved and we quarrell'd, like April our strife,I guzzled my stoup, and I buried my wife;But the thing that consoled me at this time of lifeWas—my father did so before me.Then now I'm resolv'd at all sorrows to blink—Since winking's the tippy I'll tip 'em the wink,I'll never get drunk when I cannot get drink,Nor ever let misery bore me.I sneer at the Fates, and I laugh at their spite,I sit down contented to sit up all night,And when my time comes, from the world take my flight,For—my father did so before me.

When I was a chicken I went to school,

My master would call me an obstinate fool,

For I ruled the roast, and I roasted all rule,

And he wonder'd how ever he bore me.

His tables I blotted, his windows I broke,

I fired his wig, and I laughed at the smoke,

And always replied if he row'd at the joke,

Why—my father did so before me.

I met a young girl, and I pray'd to the miss,I fell on my knee, and I ask'd for a kiss,She twice said no, but she once said yes,And in marriage declared she'd restore me.We loved and we quarrell'd, like April our strife,I guzzled my stoup, and I buried my wife;But the thing that consoled me at this time of lifeWas—my father did so before me.

I met a young girl, and I pray'd to the miss,

I fell on my knee, and I ask'd for a kiss,

She twice said no, but she once said yes,

And in marriage declared she'd restore me.

We loved and we quarrell'd, like April our strife,

I guzzled my stoup, and I buried my wife;

But the thing that consoled me at this time of life

Was—my father did so before me.

Then now I'm resolv'd at all sorrows to blink—Since winking's the tippy I'll tip 'em the wink,I'll never get drunk when I cannot get drink,Nor ever let misery bore me.I sneer at the Fates, and I laugh at their spite,I sit down contented to sit up all night,And when my time comes, from the world take my flight,For—my father did so before me.

Then now I'm resolv'd at all sorrows to blink—

Since winking's the tippy I'll tip 'em the wink,

I'll never get drunk when I cannot get drink,

Nor ever let misery bore me.

I sneer at the Fates, and I laugh at their spite,

I sit down contented to sit up all night,

And when my time comes, from the world take my flight,

For—my father did so before me.

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