Sketches by Seymour — Complete

“Sniggs's rencontre with the bird-catcher reminds me of Tom Swivel's meeting with the Doctor,” observed Smart.

“Make a report,” cried Jack Saggers.

“Well, you must know, that I had lent him my piece for a day's shooting; and just as he was sauntering along by a dead wall near Hampstead, looking both ways at once for a quarry (for he has a particular squint), a stout gentleman in respectable black, and topped by a shovel-hat, happened to be coming in the opposite direction. With an expression of terror, the old gentleman drew himself up against the unyielding bricks, and authoritatively extending his walking-stick, addressed our sportsman in an angry tone, saying: 'How dare you carry a loaded gun pointed at people's viscera, you booby?' Now Tom is a booby, and no mistake, and so dropping his under jaw and staring at the reverend, he answered: 'I don't know vot you mean by a wiserar. I never shot a wiserar!'”

“Devilish good!” exclaimed Saggers; and, as a matter of course, everybody laughed.

Passing about the bottle, the club now became hilarious and noisy; when the hammer of the president rapped them to order, and knocked down Sniggs for a song, who, after humming over the tune to himself, struck up the following:
CHAUNT
When the snow's on the ground and the trees are all bare,
And rivers and gutters are turned into ice,
The sportsman goes forth to shoot rabbit or hare,
And gives them a taste of his skill in a trice.
Bang! bang! goes his Joe,
And the bird's fall like snow,
And he bags all he kills in a trice.

CHORUS.
Bang! bang! goes his Joe,
And the bird's fall like snow,
And he bags all he kills in a trice.

II.
If he puts up a partridge or pheasant or duck,
He marks him, and wings him, and brings him to earth;
He let's nothing fly—but his piece—and good luck
His bag fills with game and his bosom with mirth.

Bang! bang! goes his Joe,
And the bird's fall like snow,
And good sport fills his bosom with mirth.

CHORUS.
Bang! bang! et. etc.

III.
When at night he unbends and encounters his pals,
How delighted he boasts of the sport he has had;
While a kind of round game's on the board, and gals
Are toasted in bumpers by every lad.
And Jack, Jim, and Joe
Give the maid chaste as snow
That is true as a shot to her lad!

CHORUS.
And Jack, Jim and Joe
Give the maid chaste as snow
That is true as a shot to her lad!

The customary applause having followed this vocal attempt of Sniggs, he was asked for a toast or a sentiment.

“Here's—'May the charitable man never know the want of—'shot.'” said Sniggs.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Saggers, approvingly; “By Jupiter Tonans, Sniggs, you're a true son of—a gun!”

THE “CRACK-SHOTS.”—No. III.

“Sich a lark!” said Bill Sorrel, breaking abruptly in upon the noisy chorus, miscalled a general conversation; “sich a lark!”

“Where?” demanded Saggers.

“You've jist hit it,” replied Sorrel, “for it vere worry near 'Vare vhere it happened. I'd gone hout hearly, you know, and had jist cotched sight of a bird a-vistling on a twig, and puttered the vords, 'I'll spile your singin', my tight 'un,' and levelled of my gun, ven a helderly gentleman, on t'other side of the bank vich vos atween me and the bird, pops up his powdered noddle in a jiffy, and goggling at me vith all his eyes, bawls pout in a tantivy of a fright, 'You need'nt be afear'd, sir,' says I, 'I aint a-haiming at you,' and vith that I pulls my trigger-bang! Vell, I lost my dicky! and ven I looks for the old 'un, by Jingo! I'd lost him too. So I mounts the bank vere he sot, but he vas'nt there; so I looks about, and hobserves a dry ditch at the foot, and cocking my eye along it, vhy, I'm blessed, if I did'nt see the old fellow a-scampering along as fast as his legs could carry him. Did'nt I laugh, ready to split—that's all!”

“I tell you what, Sorrel,” said the president, with mock gravity, “I consider the whole affair, however ridiculous, most immoral and reprehensible. What, shall a crack-shot make a target of an elder? Never! Let us seek more appropriate butts for our barrels! You may perhaps look upon the whole as a piece of pleasantry but let me tell you that you ran a narrow chance of being indicted for a breach of the peace! And remember, that even shooting a deer may not prove so dear a shot as bringing down an old buck!”

This humorous reproof was applauded by a “bravo!” from the whole club.

Sorrel sang—small, and Sniggs sang another sporting ditty.

“Our next meeting,” resumed Saggers, “is on Thursday next when the pigeon-match takes place for a silver-cup—the 'Crack Shots' against the 'Oriental Club.' I think we shall give them I taste of our quality,' although we do not intend that they shall lick us. The silver-cup is their own proposal. The contest being a pigeon-match, I humbly proposed, as an amendment, that the prize should be a tumbler—which I lost by a minority of three. In returning thanks, I took occasion to allude to their rejection of my proposition, and ironically thanked them for having cut my tumbler.”

“Werry good!” shouted Sorrel.

“Admirable!” exclaimed Sniggs; and, rising with due solemnity, he proposed the health of the “worthy president,” prefacing his speech with the modest avowal of his inability to do what he still persisted in doing and did.

“Brother Shots!” said Saggers, after the usual honours had been duly performed, “I am so unaccustomed to speaking (a laugh), that I rise with a feeling of timidity to thank you for the distinguished honour you have conferred on me. Praise, like wine, elevates a man, but it likewise thickens and obstructs his speech; therefore, without attempting any rhetorical flourish, I will simply say, I sincerely thank you all for the very handsome manner in which you have responded to the friendly wishes of Brother Sniggs; and, now as the hour of midnight is at hand, I bid you farewell. It is indeed difficult to part from such good company; but, although it is morally impossible there ever can be a division among such cordial friends, both drunk and sober may at least separate—in spirits,—and I trust we shall all meet again in health—Farewell!”

DOCTOR SPRAGGS.

Old Doctor Spraggs! famed Doctor Spraggs!
Was both well fee'd and fed,
And, tho' no soldier, Doctor Spraggs
Had for his country-bled.

His patients living far and wide
He was compell'd to buy
A horse; and found no trouble, for
He'd got one in his eye!

He was a tall and bony steed
And warranted to trot,
And so he bought the trotter, and
Of course four trotters got.

Quoth he: “In sunshine quick he bounds
"Across the verdant plain,
"And, e'en when showers fall, he proves
"He—doesn't mind the rain!”

But, oh! one morn, when Doctor Spraggs
Was trotting on his way,
A field of sportsmen came in view,
And made his courser neigh.

"Nay! you may neigh,” quoth Doctor Spraggs,
"But run not, I declare
"I did not come to chase the fox,
"I came to take the—air!

But all in vain he tugg'd the rein,
The steed would not be stay'd;
The “Doctor's stuff” was shaken, and
A tune the vials play'd.

For in his pockets he had stow'd
Some physic for the sick;
Anon, “crack” went the bottles all,
And forma a “mixture” quick.

His hat and wig flew off, but still
The reins he hugg'd and haul'd;
And, tho' no cry the huntsmen heard,
They saw the Doctor—bald!

They loudly laugh'd and cheer'd him on,
While Spraggs, quite out of breath,
Still gallopp'd on against his will,
And came in at the death.

To see the Doctor riding thus
To sportsmen was a treat,
And loudly they applauded him—
(Tho' mounted) on his feat!

MORAL.
Ye Doctors bold, of this proud land
Of liberty and—fogs,
No hunters ride, or you will go
Like poor Spraggs—to the dogs!

SCENE IX. (b)

“Well, Bill, d'ye get any bites over there?” “No, but I'm afeard I shall, soon have one.”

Two youths, by favour of their sponsors, bearing the aristocratic names of William and Joseph, started early one morning duly equipped, on piscatorial sport intent. They trudged gaily forward towards a neighbouring river, looking right and left, and around them, as sharp as two crows that have scented afar off the carcase of a defunct nag.

At length they arrived at a lofty wall, on the wrong side of which, musically meandered the stream they sought. After a deliberate consultation, the valiant William resolved to scale the impediment, and cast the line. Joseph prudently remained on the other side ready to catch the fish—his companion should throw to him! Presently an exclamation of “Oh! my!” attracted his attention.

“Have you got a bite?” eagerly demanded Joe.

“No! by gosh! but I think I shall soon!” cried Bill. Hereupon the expectant Joseph mounted, and seating himself upon the wall, beheld to his horror, Master Bill keeping a fierce bull-dog at bay with the butt end of his fishing-rod.

“Go it, Bill!” exclaimed Joe, “pitch into him and scramble up.”

The dog ran at him.—Joe in his agitation fell from his position, while Bill threw his rod at the beast, made a desperate leap, and clutched the top of the wall with his hands.

“Egad! I've lost my seat,” cried Joe, rolling upon the grass.

“And so have I!” roared Bill, scrambling in affright over the wall.

And true it was, that he who had not got a bite before, had got a bite—behind!

Bill anathematised the dog, but the ludicrous bereavement he had sustained made him laugh, in spite of his teeth!

Joe joined in his merriment.

“What a burning shame it is?” said he; “truly there ought to be breaches ready made in these walls, Bill, that one might escape, if not repair these damages.”

“No matter,” replied Bill, shaking his head, “I know the owner—he's a Member of Parliament. Stop till the next election, that's all.”

“Why, what has that to do with it?” demanded Joe.

“Do with it,” said Bill emphatically, “why, I'll canvass for the opposite party, to be sure.”

“And what then?”

“Then I shall have the pleasure of serving him as his dog has served me. Yes! Joe, the M. P. will lose his seat to a dead certainty!”

THE POUTER AND THE DRAGON.

“Another pigeon! egad, I'm in luck's way this morning.”

Round and red, through the morning fog
The sun's bright face
Shone, like some jolly toping dog
Of Bacchus' race.

When Jenkins, with his gun and cur
On sport intent,
Through fields, and meadows, many fur—
—longs gaily went.

He popp'd at birds both great and small,
But nothing hit;
Or if he hit, they wouldn't fall—
No, not a bit!

"It's wery strange, I do declare;
I never see!
I go at sky-larks in the hair
Or on a tree.”

"It's all the same, they fly away
Has I let fly—
The birds is frightened, I dare say,
And vill not die.”

"Vhy, here's a go! I hav'nt ramm'd
In any shot;
The birds must think I only shamm'd,
And none have got.”

"I'll undeceive 'em quickly now,
I bet a crown;
And whether fieldfare, tit, or crow,
Vill bring 'em down.”

And as he spake a pigeon flew
Across his way—
Bang went his piece—and Jenkins slew
The flutt'ring prey.

He bagg'd his game, and onward went,
When to his view
Another rose, by fortune sent
To make up two.

He fired, and beheld it fall
With inward glee,
And for a minute 'neath a wall
Stood gazing he.

When from behind, fierce, heavy blows
Fell on his hat,
And knock'd his beaver o'er his nose,
And laid him flat.

"What for,” cried Jenkins, “am I mill'd,
Sir, like this ere?”
"You villain, you, why you have kill'd
My pouter rare.”

The sturdy knave who struck him down
With frown replied:—
"For which I'll make you pay a crown
Nor be denied.”

Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain
To bandy words;
So paid the cash and vow'd, again
He'd not shoot birds—

At least of that same feather, lest
For Pouter shot
Some Dragon fierce should him molest—
And fled the spot.

THE PIC-NIC. No. I.

A merry holiday party, forming a tolerable boat-load, and well provided with baskets of provisions, were rowing along the beautiful and picturesque banks that fringe the river's side near Twickenham, eagerly looking out for a spot where they might enjoy their “pic-nic” to perfection.

“O! uncle, there's a romantic glade;—do let us land there!” exclaimed a beautiful girl of eighteen summers, to a respectable old gentleman in a broad brimmed beaver and spectacles.

“Just the thing, I declare,” replied he—“the very spot—pull away, my lads—but dear me” continued he, as they neared the intended landing-place, “What have we here? What says the board?”

“PARTIES ARE NOT, ALLOWED TO
LAND AND DINE HERE”

Oh! oh! very well; then we'll only land here, and dine a little further on.”

“What a repulsive board”—cried the young lady—“I declare now I'm quite vex'd”—

“Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board”—said the jocose old gentleman.

“I'm sure, uncle”—said one of the youths—“we don't require any board, for we provide ourselves.”

“You're quite right, Master Dickey,” said his uncle; “for we only came out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land.”

“Oh! but suppose,” said the timid Julia, “the surly owner should pounce upon us, just as we are taking our wine?”

“Why then, my love,” replied he, “we have only to abandon our wine, and, like sober members of the Temperance Society—take water.”

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

“How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here,” said the romantic Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; “Does not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?” said Emma: “I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?”

“Certainly not,” replied Master Dickey, winking at his uncle; “for the blades of the Turf he describes, are neither so fresh nor so green as these; and the 'stakes' he mentions are rather different from those contained in our pigeon-pie.”

“But I doubt, Dickey,” said his uncle, “if his pen ever described a better race than the present company. The Jenkins's, let me tell you, come of a good stock, and sport some of the best blood in the country.”

“Beautiful branches of a noble tree,” exclaimed Master Dicky, “but, uncle, a hard row has made me rather peckish; let us spread the provender. I think there's an honest hand of pork yonder that is right worthy of a friendly grasp;—only see if, by a single touch of that magical hand, I'm not speedily transformed into a boat.”

“What sort of a boat?” cried Julia. “A cutter, to be sure,” replied Master Dicky, and laughing he ran off with his male companions to bring the provisions ashore.

Meanwhile the uncle and his niece selected a level spot beneath the umbrageous trees, and prepared for the unpacking of the edibles.

THE PIC-NIC. No. II

Notwithstanding the proverbial variety of the climate, there is no nation under the sun so fond of Pic-Nic parties as the English; and yet how seldom are their pleasant dreams of rural repasts in the open air fated to be realized!

However snugly they may pack the materials for the feast, the pack generally gets shuffled in the carriage, and consequently their promised pleasure proves anything but “without mixture without measure.”

The jam-tarts are brought to light, and are found to have got a little jam too much. The bottles are cracked before their time, and the liberal supplies of pale sherry and old port are turned into a—little current.

They turn out their jar of ghirkins, and find them mixed, and all their store in a sad pickle.

The leg of mutton is the only thing that has stood in the general melee.

The plates are all dished, and the dishes only fit for a lunatic asylum, being all literally cracked.

Even the knives and forks are found to ride rusty on the occasion. The bread is become sop; and they have not even the satisfaction of getting salt to their porridge, for that is dissolved into briny tears.

Like the provisions, they find themselves uncomfortably hamper'd; for they generally chuse such a very retired spot, that there is nothing to be had for love or money in the neighbourhood, for all the shops are as distant as—ninety-ninth cousins!

However delightful the scenery may be, it is counterbalanced by the prospect of starvation.

Although on the borders of a stream abounding in fish, they have neither hook nor line; and even the young gentlemen who sing fail in a catch for want of the necessary bait. Their spirits are naturally damped by their disappointment, and their holiday garments by a summer shower; and though the ducks of the gentlemen take the water as favourably as possible, every white muslin presently assumes the appearance of a drab, and, becoming a little limp and dirty, looks as miserable as a lame beggar!

In fine, it is only a donkey or a goose that can reasonably expect to obtain a comfortable feed in a field. It may be very poetical to talk of “Nature's table-cloth of emerald verdure;” but depend on it, a damask one, spread over that full-grown vegetable—a mahogany table—is far preferable.

THE BUMPKIN.

GILES was the eldest son and heir of Jeremiah Styles—a cultivator of the soil—who, losing his first wife, took unto himself, at the mature age of fifty, a second, called by the neighbours, by reason of the narrowness of her economy, and the slenderness of her body, Jeremiah's Spare-rib.

Giles was a “'cute” lad, and his appetite soon became, under his step-mother's management, as sharp as his wit; and although he continually complained of getting nothing but fat, when pork chanced to form a portion of her dietary, it was evident to all his acquaintance that he really got lean! His legs, indeed, became so slight, that many of his jocose companions amused themselves with striking at them with straws as he passed through the farmyard of a morning.

“Whoy, Giles!” remarked one of them, “thee calves ha' gone to grass, lad.”

“Thee may say that, Jeames,” replied Giles; “or d'ye see they did'nt find I green enough.”

“I do think now, Giles,” said James, “that Mother Styles do feed thee on nothing, and keeps her cat on the leavings.”

“Noa, she don't,” said Giles, “for we boath do get what we can catch, and nothing more. Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if the old 'ooman did'nt sarve me out a dish o' biled horse-beans—”

“Horse-beans?” cried James; “lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?”

“Whoy, just what a horse would ha' done, to be sure—”

“Eat 'em?”

“Noa—I kicked, and said 'Nay,' and so the old 'ooman put herself into a woundy passion wi' I. 'Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty dog,' says she; 'I wish you may never have a worse.'—'Noa, mother,' says I, 'I hope I never shall.' And she did put herself into such a tantrum, to be sure—so I bolted; whereby, d'ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old 'ooman her beans. But it won't do. Jeames, I've a notion I shall go a recruit, and them I'm thinking I shall get into a reg'lar mess, and get shut of a reg'lar row.”

“Dang it, it's too bad!” said the sympathising James; “and when do thee go?”

“Next March, to be sure,” replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural to him—indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his lips.

“But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles,” said James; “thee are thin as a weasel.”

“My drumsticks,” answered he, smiling, “may recommend me to the band—mayhap—for I do think they'll beat anything.”

“I don't like sogering neither,” said James, thoughtfully. “Suppose the French make a hole in thee with a bagnet—”

“Whoy, then, I shall be 'sewed up,' thee know.”

“That's mighty foine,” replied James, shaking his head; “but I'd rather not, thank'ye.”

“Oh! Jeames, a mother-in-law's a greater bore than a bagnet, depend on't; and it's my mind, it's better to die in a trench than afore an empty trencher—I'll list.”

And with this unalterable determination, the half-starved, though still merry Giles, quitted his companion; and the following month, in pursuance of the resolve he had made, he enlisted in his Majesty's service. Fortunately for the youth, he received more billets than bullets, and consequently grew out of knowledge, although he obtained a world of information in his travels; and, at the expiration of the war, returned to his native village covered with laurels, and in the Joyment of the half-pay of a corporal, to which rank he had been promoted in consequence of his meritorious conduct in the Peninsula. His father was still living, but his step-nother was lying quietly in the church-yard.

“I hope, father,” said the affectionate Giles, “that thee saw her buried in a deep grave, and laid a stone a-top of her?”

“I did, my son.”

“Then I am happy,” replied Giles.

[WATTY WILLIAMS AND BULL]

“He sat, like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.”

WATTY WILLIAMS was a studious youth, with a long nose and a short pair of trowsers; his delight was in the green fields, for he was one of those philosophers who can find sermons in stones, and good in everything. One day, while wandering in a meadow, lost in the perusal of Zimmerman on Solitude, he was suddenly aroused from his reverie by a loud “Moo!” and, turning about, he descried, to his dismay, a curly-fronted bull making towards him.

Now, Watt., was so good-humoured a fellow, that he could laugh at an Irish bull, and withal, so staunch a Protestant, that a papal bull only excited a feeling of pity and contempt; but a bull of the breed which was careering towards him in such lively bounds, alarmed him beyond all bounds; and he forthwith scampered over the meadow from the pugnaceous animal with the most agile precipitation imaginable; for he was not one of those stout-hearted heroes who could take the bull by the horns—especially as the animal appeared inclined to contest the meadow with him; and though so fond of beef (as he naturally was), he declined a round upon the present occasion.

Seeing no prospect of escape by leaping stile or hedge, he hopped the green turf like an encaged lark, and happily reached a pollard in the midst of the meadow.

Climbing up with the agility of a squirrel, he seated himself on the knobby summit of the stunted willow.

Still retaining his Zimmerman and his senses, he looked down and beheld the corniferous quadruped gamboling playfully round his singular asylum.

“Very pleasant!” exclaimed he; “I suppose, old fellow you want to have a game at toss!—if so, try it on with your equals, for you must see, if you have any gumption, that Watty Williams is above you. Aye, you may roar!—but if I sit here till Aurora appears in the east, you won't catch me winking. What a pity it is you cannot reflect as well as ruminate; you would spare yourself a great deal of trouble, and me a little fright and inconvenience.”

The animal disdainfully tossed his head, and ran at the tree—and

“Away flew the light bark!”

in splinters, but the trunk remained unmoved.

“Shoo! shoo!” cried Watty, contemptuously; but he found that shoo'ing horns was useless; the beast still butted furiously against the harmless pollard.

“Hallo!” cried he to a dirty boy peeping at a distance—“Hallo!” but the lad only looked round, and vanished in an instant.

“The little fool's alarmed, I do believe!” said he; “He's only a cow-boy, I dare say!” And with this sapient, but unsatisfactory conclusion, he opened his book, and read aloud, to keep up his courage.

The bull hearing his voice, looked up with a most melancholy leer, the corners of his mouth drawn down with an expression of pathetic gravity.

Luckily for Watty, the little boy had given information of his dilemma, and the farmer to whom the bull belonged came with some of his men, and rescued him from his perilous situation.

“The gentleman will stand something to drink, I hope?” said one of the men.

“Certainly” said Watty.

“That's no more than right,” said the farmer, “for, according to the New Police Act, we could fine you.”

“What for?”

“Why, we could all swear that when we found you, you were so elevated you could not walk!”

Hereupon his deliverers set up a hearty laugh.

Watty gave them half-a-crown; saying, with mock gravity—

“I was on a tree, and you took me off—that was kind! I was in a fright, and you laughed at me; that was uncharitable. Farewell!”

DELICACY!

LOUNGING in Hyde Park with the facetious B____, all on a summer's day, just at that period when it was the fashion to rail against the beautiful statue, erected by the ladies of England, in honour of the Great Captain—

“The hero of a hundred fights,”—

“How proudly must he look from the windows of Apsley House,” said I, “upon this tribute to his military achievements.”

“No doubt,” replied B____;” and with all that enthusiasm with which one man of mettle ever regards another! At the same time, how lightly must he hold the estimation of the gallant sons of Britain, when he reflects that he has been compelled to guard his laurelled brow from the random bullets of a democratic mob, by shot-proof blinds to his noble mansion: this was:

'The unkindest cut of all,'

after all his hair-breadth 'scapes, by flood and field, in the service. of his country, to be compelled to fortify his castle against domestic foes.”

“A mere passing cloud, that can leave no lasting impression on his great mind,” said I; “while this statue will for ever remain, a memorial of his great deeds; and yet the complaint is general that the statue is indelicate—as if, forsooth, this was the first statue exhibited in 'puris naturalibus' in England. I really regard it as the senseless cavilling of envious minds.”

“True,” said B____, laughing; “there is a great deal of railing about the figure, but we can all see through it!” at the same time thrusting his walking-stick through the iron-fence that surrounds the pedestal. As for delicacy, it is a word that is used so indiscriminately, and has so many significations, according to the mode, that few people rightly understand its true meaning. We say, for instance, a delicate child; and pork-butchers recommend a delicate pig! Delicacy and indelicacy depend on the mind of the recipient, and is not so much in the object as the observer, rely on't. Some men have a natural aptitude in discovering the indelicate, both in words and figures they appear, in a manner, to seek for it. I assure you that. I (you may laugh if you will) have often been put to the blush by the repetition of some harmless phrase, dropped innocently from my lips, and warped by one of these 'delicate' gentlemen to a meaning the very reverse of what I intended to convey. Like men with green spectacles, they look upon every object through an artificial medium, and give it a colour that has no existence in itself!

It was only last week, I was loitering about this very spot, when I observed, among the crowd of gazers, a dustman dressed in his best, and his plump doxy, extravagantly bedizened in her holiday clothes, hanging on his arm.

As they turned away, the lady elevated the hem of her rather short garments a shade too high (as the delicate dustman imagined) above her ancle. He turned towards her, and, in an audible whisper, said, 'Delicacy, my love—'delicacy!'—'Lawks, Fred!' replied the damsel, with a loud guffaw,'—'it's not fashionable!—besides, vot's the good o' having a fine leg, if one must'nt show it?'

So much for opinions on delicacy!

“NOW JEM—”

“Now, Jem, let's shew these gals how we can row.”

THE tide is agin us, I know,
But pull away, Jem, like a trump;
Vot's that? O! my vig, it's a barge—
Oh! criky! but that vos a bump!

How lucky 'twas full o' round coals,
Or ve might ha' capsized her—perhaps!
See, the bargemen are grinning, by goles!
I never seed sich wulgar chaps.

Come, pull away, Jem, like a man,
A vherry's a coming along
Vith a couple o' gals all agog—
So let us be first in the throng.

Now put your scull rig'ler in,
Don't go for to make any crabs;
But feather your oar, like a nob,
And show 'em ve're nothink but dabs!

The vaterman's leering at us,
And the gals is a giggling so—
They take us for green'uns, but ve
Vill soon show 'em how ve can row.

Alas! for poor Bobby's “show off”—
He slipp'd in a trice from his seat—
While his beaver fell into the stream,
And the gals laugh'd aloud at his feat.

For his boots were alone to be seen,
As he sprawled like a crab on its back;
While the waterman cried—“Ho! my lads!
I think you'd best try t'other tack!”

Says Bobby—“You fool, it's your fault;
Look—my best Sunday castor is vet:
Pull ashore, then, as fast as you can.
I can't row no more—I'm upset.

"I think that my napper is broke,
Abumpin' agin this wile boat;
You may laugh—but I think it's no joke:
And I shan't soon agin be afloat.

"I'll never take you out agin—
I've had quite enough in this bout!”
Cried Jem—“Don't be angry vith me;
Sit still, and I'll soon—PUT YOU OUT!”

STEAMING IT TO MARGATE.

“Steward, bring me a glass of brandy as quick as you can.”

SINCE the invention of steam, thousands have been tempted to inhale the saline salubrity of the sea, that would never have been induced to try, and be tried, by the experiment of a trip. Like hams for the market, every body is now regularly salted and smoked. The process, too, is so cheap! The accommodations are so elegant, and the sailors so smart! None of the rolling roughness of quid-chewing Jack-tars. Jack-tars! pshaw! they are regular smoke jacks on board a steamer! The Steward (“waiter” by half the cockneys called) is so ready and obliging; and then the provisions is excellent. Who would not take a trip to Margate? There's only one thing that rather adulterates the felicity—a drop of gall in the cup of mead!—and that is the horrid sea-sickness! learnedly called nostalgia; but call it by any name you please, like a stray dog, it is pretty sure to come.

The cold perspiration—the internal commotion—the brain's giddiness—the utter prostration of strength—the Oh! I never shall forget the death-like feel!—Fat men rolling on the deck, like fresh caught porpoises; little children floundering about; and white muslins and parasols vanishing below! The smoking-hot dinner sends up its fumes, and makes the sick more sick. Soda-water corks are popping and flying about in every direction, like a miniature battery pointed against the assaults of the horrid enemy!

“Steward!” faintly cries a fat bilious man, “bring me a glass of brandy as quick as you can.”

But alas! he who can thus readily summon spirits from the vasty deep, has no power over the rolling sea, or its reaches!

“O! my poor pa!” exclaims the interesting Wilhelmina; and is so overcome, that she, sweet sympathizer! is soon below pa in the ladies' cabin. In fact, the greater part of the pleasure-seekers are taken—at full length.

Even young ladies from boarding-school, who are thinking of husbands, declare loudly against maritime delight! while all the single young men appear double.

The pier at last appears—and the cargo of drooping souls hail it with delight, and with as grateful a reverence as if they were received by the greatest peer of the realm!

They hurry from the boat as if 'twere Charon's, and they were about stepping into the fields of Elysium!

A change comes o'er the spirit of their dream—their nerves are braced; and so soon are mortal troubles obliterated from the mind, that in a few days they are ready again to tempt the terrors of sea-sickness in a voyage homewards—notwithstanding many of them, in their extremity, had vowed that they never would return by water, if they outlived the present infliction; considering, naturally enough, that it was “all up” with them!

PETER SIMPLE'S FOREIGN ADVENTURE.

“Loud roared the dreadful thunder.”—Bay of Biscay.