Sketches by Seymour — Complete

MOST luckily for poor Peter was it, that he fell into the hands, or rather the arms, of the Indian maid; for she not only preserved his crop, but his life. When he recovered from his swoon, he found himself seated beside his preserver, who, with one arm round his waist, was holding a cocoa-nut, filled with a refreshing beverage, to his parched and pallid lips. A large fire blazed in the middle of the wide space occupied by the Indians, and he beheld the well-known coats and jackets of the brave crew of the Firefly scattered on the greensward.

His heart palpitated-he thought at first that the villainous Indians had stripped them, and left them to wander in a state of nature through the tangled and briery woods. He was, however, soon—too soon—convinced that the savages had dressed them! Yes, that merry crew—who had so often roasted him—had been roasted by the Indians!

From this awful fate the lovely Ootanga had preserved him. She had suddenly conceived a violent affection for the young white-face; and, after a long harangue to the chief, her father, his consent was obtained, and the nuptials were celebrated.

“I smell a rat,” said Peter—“I'm booked; but better booked than cooked, at any rate;” and forthwith returned thanks to the company for the honour they had conferred upon him, in the fashion of an after-dinner speech, accompanied with as much pantomime as he could manage.

A dance and a feast followed, of which Peter partook; but whether rabbit, squirrel, or monkey, formed the basis of his wedding-supper, he was not naturalist enough to determine.

Ootanga's affection, however, was sufficient to make amends for anything; she was, in truth, a most killing beauty, for she brought him tigers slain by her own hands, and made a couch for him of the skins.

She caught rattlesnakes for him, and spitch-cooked them for his breakfast. In fact, there was nothing she left undone to convince him of her unbounded love.

Peter's heart, however, was untouched by all this show of tenderness; for the fact is, he had already given his heart to a white-face in his own country.

The only consolation he had in his forlorn situation was to talk of her continually; and, as Ootanga understood not a syllable of what he uttered, she naturally applied all his tender effusions to herself, and laughed and grinned, and showed her white teeth, as if she would devour her little husband.

Seated on a tiger skin, with his lawful spouse beside him, arrayed in shells, bows, feathers, and all the adornments of a savage bride, he still sighed for home, and plaintively exclaimed:—

“Here I am, married to the only daughter of the great chief, who would have roasted me with the rest of our crew, had I not given a joyful consent. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall get home, and be married to Miss Wiggins!!!”

The lovely wide-mouthed Ootanga patted him fondly on the chin, and dreamed in her ignorance that he was paying her a compliment in his native language.

DOBBS'S “DUCK.”

A LEGEND OF HORSELYDOWN.

IT may be accepted as an indubitable truth, that when the tenderest epithets are bandied between a married couple, that the domestic affairs do not go particularly straight.

Dobbs and his rib were perhaps the most divided pair that ever were yoked by Hymen. D. was a good-humored fellow, a jovial blade, full of high spirits—while his wife was one of the most cross-grained and cantankerous bodies that ever man was blessed with—and yet, to hear the sweet diminutives which they both employed in their dialogues, the world would have concluded that they were upon the best terms conceivable.

“My love,” quoth Mrs. D., “I really now should like to take a boat and row down the river as far as Battersea; the weather is so very fine, and you know, my dear love, how fond I am of the water.”

D. could have added (and indeed it was upon the very tip of his tongue)—“mixed with spirits”—but he wisely restrained the impertinent allusion.

“Well, my duck,” said he, “you have only to name the day, you know, I am always ready to please,”—and then, as was his habit, concluded his gracious speech by singing— “'Tis woman vot seduces all mankind—
Their mother's teach them the wheedling art.”

“Hold your nonsense, do,” replied Mrs. D____, scarcely able to restrain her snappish humour, but, fearful of losing the jaunt, politically added, “Suppose, love, we go to-day—no time like the present, dear.”

“Thine am I—thine am I,” sang the indulgent husband.

And Mrs. D____ hereupon ordered the boy to carry down to the stairs a cargo of brandy, porter, and sandwiches, for the intended voyage, and taking her dear love in the humour, presently appeared duly decked out for the trip.

Two watermen and a wherry were soon obtained, and Dobbs, lighting his cigar, alternately smoked and sang, while his duck employed herself most agreeably upon the sandwiches.

The day was bright and sunny, and exceedingly hot; and they had scarcely rowed as far as the Red-House, when Mrs. D____became rather misty, from the imbibation of the copious draughts she had swallowed to quench her thirst.

A lighter being a-head, the boatmen turned round, while Dobbs, casting up his eyes to the blue heavens, was singing, in the hilarity of his heart, “Hearts as warm as those above, lie under the waters cold,” when the boat heeled, and his duck, who unfortunately could not swim, slipped gently over the gunwhale, and, unnoticed, sank to rise no more.

“Ah!” said Dobbs, when, some months afterwards, he was speaking of the sad bereavement, “She was a wife! I shall never get such another, and, what's more, I would not if I could.”

STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM.

Among all the extraordinary and fantastic dishes compounded for the palate of Heliogabalus, the Prince of Epicures, that delicious admixture of the animal and the vegetable—Strawberries and Cream—is never mentioned in the pages of the veracious chronicler of his gastronomic feats!

Yes! 'tis a lamentable truth, this smooth, oleaginous, and delicately odorous employment for the silver spoon, was unknown. Should the knowledge of his loss reach him in the fields of Elysium, will not his steps be incontinently turned towards the borders of the Styx—his plaintive voice hail the grim ferryman, while in his most persuasive tones he cries—

“Row me back—row me back,”

that he may enjoy, for a brief space, this untasted pleasure? Ye gods! in our mind's eye we behold the heartless and unfeeling Charon refuse his earnest prayer, and see his languid spirit—diluted by disappointment to insipidity—wandering over the enamelled meads, as flat and shallow as an overflow in the dank fens of Lincoln.

His imagination gloats upon the fragrant invention, and he gulps at the cheating shadow until Elysium becomes a perfect Hades to his tortured spirit.

Mellow, rich, and toothsome compound! Toothsome did we say? Nay, even those who have lost their 'molares, incisores,' canine teeth, 'dentes sapientiae,' and all can masticate and inwardly digest thee!

Racy and recherche relish!

Thou art—
As delicate as first love—
As white and red as a maiden's cheek—
As palateable as well-timed flattery—
As light and filling as the gas of a balloon—
As smooth as a courtier—
As odorous as the flowers of Jasmin—
As soft as flos silk—
As encouraging, without being so illusory, as Hope—
As tempting as green herbage to lean kine—
—————— a Chancery suit to the Bill of a cormorant-lawyer—
—————— a pump to a thirsty paviour—
—————— a sun-flower to a bee—
—————— a ripe melon to a fruit-knife—
—————— a rose to a nightingale—or
—————— a pot of treacle to a blue-bottle—
As beautiful to the eye as a page of virgin-vellum richly illuminated
And
As satisfactory as a fat legacy!

Talk of nectar! if Jupiter should really wish to give a bonne-bouche to Juno, Leda, or Venus, or any one of his thousand and one flames, let him skim the milky-way—transform the instrumental part of the music of the spheres into 'hautboys,' and compound the only dish worth the roseate lips of the gentle dames 'in nubibus,' and depend on it, the cups of Ganymede and Hebe will be rejected for a bowl of—Strawberries and Cream.

A DAY'S PLEASURE.—No. I.

THE JOURNEY OUT.

“It's werry hot, but werry pleasant.”

SAYS Mrs. Sibson to her spouse
"The days is hot and fair;
I think 'twould do the children good
To get a little hair!

"For ve've been moping here at home
And nothin' seen o' life;
Vhile neighbor Jones he takes his jaunts
O' Sundays vith his vife!”

"Vell! vell! my dear,” quoth Mr. S____
"Let's hear vot you purpose;
I'm al'ays ready to comply,
As you, my love, vell knows.

"I'll make no bones about the cost;
You knows I never stick
About a trifle to amuse,
So, dearest Pol, be quick.”

"Vhy, this is it:—I think ve might
To Hornsey have a day;
Maria, Peg, and Sal, and Bet
Ve'd pack into a 'chay.'

"Our Jim and Harry both could valk,
(God bless their little feet!)
The babby in my arms I'd take—
I'm sure 'twould be a treat;”

Quoth he: “I am unanimous!”
And so the day was fix'd;
And forth they started in good trim,
Tho' not with toil umnix'd.

Across his shoulders Sibson bore
A basket with the “grub,”
And to the “chay” perform'd the “horse,”
Lest Mrs. S____ should snub.

Apollo smiled!—that is, the sun
Blazed in a cloudless sky,
And Sibson soon was in a “broil”
By dragging of his “fry.”

Says S____, “My love, I'm dry as dust!”
When she replied, quite gay,
"Then, drink; for see I've bottled up
My spirits for the day.”

And from the basket drew a flask,
And eke a footless glass;
He quaff'd the drink, and cried, “Now, dear,
I'm strong as ____” let that pass!

At last they reach'd the destined spot
And prop and babes unpacked;
They ran about, and stuff'd, and cramm'd,
And really nothing lack'd.

And Sibson, as he “blew a cloud,”
Declared, “It vos a day!”
And vow'd that he would come again—
Then call'd for “Vot's to pay?”

A DAY'S PLEASURE.—No. II.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

“Vot a soaking ve shall get.”

ACROSS the fields they homeward trudged, when, lo! a heavy rain
Came pouring from the sky;
Poor Sibson haul'd, the children squall'd; alas! it was too plain
They would not reach home dry.

With clay-clogg'd wheels, and muddy heels, and Jim upon his back,
He grumbled on his way;
"Vell, blow my vig! this is a rig!” cried Sibson, “Vell! alack!
I shan't forget this day!

"My shoes is sop, my head's a mop; I'm vet as any think;
Oh! shan't ve cotch a cold!”
"Your tongue is glib enough!” his rib exclaim'd, and made him shrink,
—For she was such a scold—

And in her eye he could descry a spark that well he knew
Into a flame would rise;
So he was dumb, silent and glum, as the small “chay” he drew,
And ventured no replies.

Slip, slop, and slush! past hedge and bush, the dripping mortals go
(Tho' 'twas “no go” S____ thought);
"If this 'ere's fun, vy I for vuu,” cried he, with face of woe,
"Von't soon again be caught.

"Vet to the skin, thro' thick and thin, to trapes ain't to my mind;
So the next holiday
I vill not roam, but stick at home, for there at least I'll find
The means to soak my clay.

"Tis quite a fag, this 'chay' to drag—the babbies too is cross,
And Mrs. S____ is riled.
'Tis quite a bore; the task is more—more fitt'rer for an horse;
And vith the heat I'm briled!

"No, jaunts adoo! I'll none o' you!”—and soon they reach'd their home,
Wet through and discontent—
"Sure sich a day, I needs must say,” exclaim'd his loving spouse,
"Afore I never spent!”

HAMMERING

“Beside a meandering stream
There sat an old gentleman fat;
On the top of his head was his wig,
On the top of his wig was his hat.”

I ONCE followed a venerable gentleman along the banks of a mill-stream, armed at all points with piscatorial paraphernalia, looking out for some appropriate spot, with all the coolness of a Spanish inquisitor, displaying his various instruments of refined torture. He at last perched himself near the troubled waters, close to the huge revolving wheel, and threw in his float, which danced upon the mimic waves, and bobbed up and down, as if preparing for a reel. Patiently he sat; as motionless and unfeeling as a block. I placed myself under cover of an adjoining hedge, and watched him for the space of half an hour; but he pulled up nothing but his baited hook;—what his bait was, I know not; but I suppose, from the vicinity, he was fishing for a “miller's thumb.” Presently, two mealy-mouthed men, from the mill, made their appearance, cautiously creeping behind him.

I drew myself up in the shadow of the luxuriant quickset to observe their notions.

A paling in the rear offered the rogues an effectual concealment in case the angler should turn.

Close to his seat ran some wood-work, upon which they quietly drew the broad tails of his coat, and driving in a couple of tenpenny nails, left the unconscious old gentleman a perfect fixture; to be taken at a valuation, I suppose, part of his personal property being already “brought to the hammer!” the clattering clamour of the wheel precluding him from hearing the careful, but no less effectual taps. I certainly enjoyed the trick, and longed to see the ridiculous issue; but he was so intent upon his sport—so fixed that he did not discover the nature of his real attachment while I remained.

Doubtless if he were of a quick and sudden temperament, a snatch of his humour rent his broad cloth, and he returned home with a woful tail, and slept not—for his nap was irreparably destroyed!

I hate all twaddle; but when I see an old fool, with rod and line,

“Sitting like patience on a monument,”

and selling the remnant of his life below cost price in the pursuit of angling,—that “art of ingeniously tormenting,”—a feeling,

“More in sorrow than in anger,”

is excited at his profitless inhumanity.

Vainly do all the disciples of honest Izaak Walton discourse, in eulogistic strains, of the pleasure of the sport. I can imagine neither pleasure nor sport derivable from the infliction of pain upon the meanest thing endowed with life.

This may be deemed Brahminical, but I doubt that man's humanity who can indulge in the cruel recreation and murder while he smiles.

“What, heretical sentiments,” exclaims some brother of the angle, (now I am an angle, but no angler.) “This fellow hath never trudged at early dawn along the verdant banks of the 'sedgy lea,' and drunk in the dewy freshness of the morning air. His lines have never fallen in pleasant places. He has never performed a pilgrimage to Waltham Cross. He is, in truth, one of those vulgar minds who take more delight in the simple than the—gentle!—and every line of his deserves a rod!”

PRACTICE.

“Sweet is the breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds.”—-MILTON.

“WELL, this is a morning!” emphatically exclaimed a stripling, with a mouth and eyes formed by Nature of that peculiar width and power of distension, so admirably calculated for the expression of stupid wonder or surprise; while his companion, elevating his nasal organ and projecting his chin, sniffed the fresh morning breeze, as they trudged through the dewy meadows, and declared that it was exactly for all the world similar-like to reading Thomson's Seasons! In which apt and appropriate simile the other concurred.

“Tom's a good fellow to lend us his gun,” continued he—“I only hope it ain't given to tricking, that's all. I say, Sugarlips, keep your powder dry.”

“Leave me alone for that,” replied Sugarlips; “I know a thing or two, although this is the first time that ever I have been out. What a scuffling the birds do make”—added he, peeping into the cage which they had, as a precautionary measure, stocked with sparrows, in order that they might not be disappointed in their sport—“How they long to be on the wing!”

“I'll wing 'em, presently!” cried his comrade, with a vaunting air— “and look if here ain't the very identical spot for a display of my skill. Pick out one of the best and biggest, and tie up a-top of yonder stile, and you shall soon have a specimen of my execution.” Sugarlips quickly did his bidding.

“Now—come forward and stand back! What do ye think o' that, ey?” said the sportsman—levelling his gun, throwing back his head, closing his sinister ocular, and stretching out his legs after the manner of the Colossus of Rhodes—“Don't you admire my style?”

“Excellent!” said Sugarlips—“But I think I could hit it.”

“What?”

“Why, the stile to be sure.”

“Keep quiet, can't you—Now for it—” and, trembling with eagerness, his hand pulled the trigger, but no report followed. “The deuce is in the gun,” cried he, lowering it, and examining the lock; “What can ail it?”

“Why, I'll be shot if that ain't prime,” exclaimed Sugarlips, laughing outright.

“What do you mean?”

“I've only forgot the priming—that's all.”

“There's a pretty fellow, you are, for a sportsman.”

“Well, it's no matter as it happens; for, though 'Time and tide wait for no man,' a sparrow tied must, you know. There! that will do.”

“Sure you put the shot in now?”

“If you put the shot into Dicky as surely, he'll never peck groundsel again, depend on it.”

Again the “murderous tube” was levelled; Sugarlips backed against an adjoining wall, with a nervous adhesiveness that evidently proved him less fearful of a little mortar than a great gun!

“That's right; out of the way, Sugarlips; I am sure I shall hit him this time.” And no sooner had he uttered this self-congratulatory assurance (alas! not life-assurance!) than a report (most injurious to the innocent cock-sparrow) was heard in the neighbourhood!

“Murder!—mur-der!” roared a stentorian voice, which made the criniferous coverings of their craniums stand on end

“Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”

In an instant the sportsman let fall his gun, and Sugarlips ran affrighted towards the stile. He found it really “vox et preterea nihil;” for a few feathers of the bird alone were visible: he had been blown to nothing; and, peeping cautiously round the angle of the wall, he beheld a portly gentleman in black running along with the unwieldy gait of a chased elephant.

“Old Flank'em, of the Finishing Academy, by jingo!” exclaimed Sugarlips. “It's a mercy we didn't finish him! Why, he must actually have been on the point of turning the corner. I think we had better be off; for, if the old dominie catches us, he will certainly liberate our sparrows, and—put us in the cage!”

But, where's the spoil?”

“Spoil, indeed!” cried Sugarlips; “you've spoiled him nicely. I've an idea, Tom, you were too near, as the spendthrift nephew said of his miserly uncle. If you can't get an aim at a greater distance, you'd never get a name as a long shot—that's my mind.”

PRECEPT.

Uncle Samson was a six-bottle man. His capacity was certainly great, whatever might be said of his intellect; for I have seen him rise without the least appearance of elevation, after having swallowed the customary half dozen. He laughed to scorn all modern potations of wishy-washy French and Rhine wines—deeming them unfit for the palate of a true-born Englishman. Port, Sherry, and Madeira were his only tipple—the rest, he would assert, were only fit for finger-glasses!

—He was of a bulky figure, indeed a perfect Magnum among men, with a very apoplectic brevity of neck, and a logwood complexion,—and though a staunch Church-of-England-man, he might have been mistaken, from his predilection for the Port, to be a true Mussulman. To hear him discourse upon the age of his wines—the 'pinhole,' the 'crust,' the 'bees'-wing,' etc., was perfectly edifying—and every man who could not imbibe the prescribed quantum, became his butt. To temperance and tea-total societies he attributed the rapid growth of radicalism and dissent.

“Water,” he would say, with a sort of hydrophobic shudder, “is only a fit beverage for asses!”—“To say a man could drink like a fish, was once the greatest encomium that a bon-vivant could bestow upon a brother Bacchanalian—but, alas! in this matter-of-fact and degenerate age, men do so literally—washing their gills with unadulterated water!—Dropsy and water on the chest must be the infallible result! If such an order of things continue, all the puppies in the kingdom, who would perhaps have become jolly dogs in their time, will be drowned! Yes, they'll inevitably founder, like a water-logged vessel, in sight of port. These water-drinkers will not have a long reign. They would feign persuade us that 'Truth lies at the bottom of a well,'—lies, indeed! I tell you Horace knew better, and that his assertion of 'There is truth in wine,' was founded on experience—his draughts had no water-mark in 'em, depend on it.”

He was a great buyer of choice “Pieces,” and his cellar contained one of the best stocks in the kingdom, both in the wood and bottle. Poor Uncle!—he has now been some years “in the wood” himself, and snugly stowed in the family vault!

Having been attacked with a severe cold, he was compelled to call in the Doctor, who sent him a sudorific in three Lilliputian bottles; but although he received the advice of his medical friend, he followed Shakspeare's,

“Throw physic to the dogs,”

and prescribed for himself a bowl of wine-whey as a febrifuge. His housekeeper remonstrated, but he would have his 'whey,' and he died! leaving a handsome fortune, and two good-looking nephews to follow him to the grave.

Myself and Cousin (the two nephews aforesaid) were vast favourites with the old gentleman, and strenuously did he endeavour to initiate us in the art of drinking, recounting the feats of his youth, and his drinking-bouts with my father, adding, with a smile, “But you'll never be a par with, your Uncle, Ned, till you can carry the six bottles under your waistcoat.”

My head was certainly stronger than my Cousin's; he went as far as the third bottle—the next drop was on the floor! Now I did once manage the fourth bottle—but then—I must confess I was obliged to give it up!

“Young men,” would my Uncle say, “should practice 'sans intermission,' until they can drink four bottles without being flustered, then they will be sober people; for it won't be easy to make them tipsy—a drunken man I abominate!”

EXAMPLE.

“You see I make no splash!”

THERE are some individuals so inflated with self-sufficiency, and entertain such an overweaning opinion of their skill in all matters, that they must needs have a finger in every pie.

Perhaps a finer specimen than old V____, of this genius of egotistic, meddling mortals, never existed. He was a man well-to-do in the world, and possessed not only a large fortune, but a large family.

He had an idea that no man was better qualified to bring up his children in the way they should go; and eternally plagued the obsequious tutors of his sons with his novel mode of instilling the rudiments of the Latin tongue, although he knew not a word of the language; and the obedient mistresses of his daughters with his short road to attaining a perfection in playing the piano-forte, without knowing a note of the gamut: but what could they say; why, nothing more or less than they were 'astonished;' which was vague enough to be as true as it was flattering.

And then he was so universally clever, that he even interfered in the culinary department of his household, instructing the red-elbowed, greasy, grinning Cook, in the sublime art of drawing, stuffing, and roasting a goose, for which she certainly did not fail to roast the goose (her master) when she escaped to the regions below.

Even his medical attendant was compelled to acknowledge the efficacy of his domestic prescriptions of water-gruel and honey in catarrhs, and roasted onions in ear-aches, and sundry other simple appliances; and, in fine, found himself, on most occasions, rather a 'consulting surgeon,' than an apothecary, for he was compelled to yield to the man who had studied Buchan's and Graham's Domestic Medicine. And the only consolation he derived from his yielding affability, were the long bills occasioned by the mistakes of this domestic quack, who was continually running into errors, which required all his skill to repair. Nay, his wife's mantua-maker did not escape his tormenting and impertinent advice; for he pretended to a profound knowledge in all the modes, from the time of Elizabeth to Victoria, and deemed his judgment in frills, flounces, and corsages, as undeniable and infallible.

Of course the sempstress flattered his taste; for his wife, poor soul! she soon had tact enough to discover, had no voice in the business.

His eldest son, George, had a notion that he could angle. Old V____ immediately read himself up in Walton, and soon convinced—himself, that he was perfect in that line, and quite capable of teaching the whole art and mystery.

“See, George,” said he, when they had arrived at a convenient spot for their first attempt, “this is the way to handle your tackle; drop it gently into the water,—so!” and, twirling the line aloft, he hooked the branches of an overhanging tree!—sagaciously adding, “You see I make no splash! and hold your rod in this manner!”

George was too much afraid of his imperious father, to point out his error, and old V____ consequently stood in the broiling sun for a full quarter of an hour, before he discovered that he had caught a birch instead of a perch!

A MUSICAL FESTIVAL.

Matter-of-fact people read the story of Orpheus, and imagine that his “charming rocks” and “soothing savage beasts,” is a mere fabulous invention. No such thing: it is undoubtedly founded on fact. Nay, we could quote a thousand modern instances of the power of music quite as astonishing.

One most true and extraordinary occurrence will suffice to establish the truth of our proposition beyond a doubt. Molly Scraggs was a cook in a first-rate family, in the most aristocratic quarter of the metropolis.

The master and mistress were abroad, and Molly had nothing to do but to indulge her thoughts; and, buried as she was in the pleasant gloom and quiet of an underground kitchen, nothing could possibly be more favourable to their developement. She was moreover exceedingly plump, tender, and sentimental, and had had a lover, who had proved false to his vows.

In this eligible situation and temper for receiving soft impressions, she sat negligently rocking herself in her chair, and polishing the lid of a copper saucepan! when the sweet, mellifluous strains of an itinerant band struck gently upon the drum of her ear. “Wapping Old Stairs” was distinctly recognized, and she mentally repeated the words so applicable to her bereaved situation.

“Your Molly has never proved false she declares,” 'till the tears literally gushed from her “blue, blue orbs,” and trickled down her plump and ruddy cheeks; but scarcely had she plunged into the very depths of the pathos induced by the moving air, which threatened to throw her into a gentle swoon, or kicking hysterics, when her spirit was aroused by the sudden change of the melancholy ditty, to the rampant and lively tune, with the popular burden of, “Turn about and wheel about, and jump Jim Crow!”

This certainly excited her feelings; but, strange to say, it made her leap from her chair, exasperated, as it were, by the sudden revulsion, and rush into the area.

“Don't, for goodness sake, play that horrid 'chune,'” said Molly, emphatically addressing the minstrels.

The 'fiddle' immediately put his instrument under his arm, and, touching the brim of his napless hat, scraped a sort of bow, and smilingly asked the cook to name any other tune she preferred.

“Play us,” said she, “'Oh! no, we never mention her,' or summat o' that sort; I hate jigs and dances mortally.”

“Yes, marm,” replied the 'fiddle,' obsequiously; and, whispering the 'harp' and 'bass,' they played the air to her heart's content.

In fact, if one might guess by the agility with which she ran into the kitchen, she was quite melted; and, returning with the remnants of a gooseberry pie and the best part of a shoulder of mutton, she handed them to the musicians.

“Thanky'e, marm, I'm sure,” said the 'bass,' sticking his teeth into the pie-crust.

“The mutton 's rayther fat, but it 's sweet, at any rate!”

“Yes, marm,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's too fat for your stomach, I'm sure, marm;” and consigned it to his green-baize fiddle-case.

“Now,” said Molly,—“play us, 'Drink to me only,' and I'll draw you a mug o' table-ale.”

“You're vastly kind,” said the 'fiddle;' “it's a pleasure to play anythink for you, marm, you've sich taste;” and then turning to his comrades, he added, with a smile—“By goles! if she ain't the woppingest cretur as ever I set eyes on—”

The tune required was played, and the promised ale discussed. The 'bass,' with a feeling of gratitude, voted that they should give a parting air unsolicited.

“Vot shall it be?” demanded the 'harp.'

“Vy, considering of her size,” replied the 'fiddle,' “I thinks as nothink couldn't be more appropriate than:

'Farewell to the mountain !'”

and, striking up, they played the proposed song, marching on well pleased with the unexpected appreciation of their musical talent by the kind, and munificent Molly Scraggs!

THE EATING HOUSE.

FROM twelve o'clock until four, the eating houses of the City are crammed with hungry clerks.

Bills of fare have not yet been introduced,—the more's the pity; but, in lieu thereof, you are no sooner seated in one of the snug inviting little settles, with a table laid for four or six, spread with a snowy cloth, still bearing the fresh quadrangular marks impressed by the mangle, and rather damp, than the dapper, ubiquitous waiter, napkin in hand, stands before you, and rapidly runs over a detailed account of the tempting viands all smoking hot, and ready to be served up.

“Beef, boiled and roast; veal and ham; line of pork, roast; leg boiled, with pease pudding; cutlets, chops and steaks, greens, taters, and pease,” etc. etc.

Some are fastidious, and hesitate; the waiter, whose eyes are 'all about him,' leaves you to meditate and decide, while he hastens to inform a new arrival, and mechanically repeats his catalogue of dainties; and, bawling out at the top of his voice, “One roast beaf and one taters,” you echo his words, and he straightway reports your wishes in the same voice and manner to the invisible purveyors below, and ten to one but you get a piece of boiled fat to eke out your roast meat.

In some houses, new and stale bread, at discretion, are provided; and many a stripling, lean and hungry as a greyhound, with a large appetite and a small purse, calls for a small plate, without vegetables, and fills up the craving crannies with an immoderate proportion of the staff of life, while the reckoning simply stands, “one small plate 6d., one bread 1d., one waiter 1d.;” and at this economical price satisfies the demands of his young appetite.

But still, cheap as this appears, he pays it the aggregate, for there are frequently 500 or 600 diners daily at these Establishments; and the waiter, who generally purchases his place, and provides glass, cloths, etc. not only makes a 'good thing of it,' but frequently accumulates sufficient to set up on his own account, in which case, he is almost sure of being followed by the regular customers.

For he is universally so obliging, and possesses such a memory, and an aptness in discovering the various tastes of his visitors, that he seldom fails in making most of the every-day feeders his fast friends.

“Tom, bring me a small plate of boiled beef and potatoes,” cries one of his regulars. Placing his hand upon the table-cloth; and knocking off the crumbs with his napkin, he bends to the gentleman, and in a small. confidential voice informs him,

“The beef won't do for you, Sir,—it's too low, it's bin in cut a hour. Fine ribs o' lamb, jist up.”

“That will do, Tom,” says the gratified customer.

“Grass or spinach, Sir? fine 'grass,'—first this season.”

“Bring it, and quick, Tom,” replies the gentleman, pleased with the assiduous care he takes in not permitting him to have an indifferent cut of a half cold joint.

The most extraordinary part of the business is, the ready manner in which he 'casts up' all you have eaten, takes the reckoning, and then is off again in a twinkling.

A stranger, and one unaccustomed to feed in public, is recognised in a moment by his uneasy movements. He generally slinks into the nearest vacant seat, and is evidently taken aback by the apparently abrupt and rapid annunciation of the voluble and active waiter, and, in the hurry and confusion, very frequently decides upon the dish least pleasant to his palate.

A respectable gentleman of the old school, of a mild and reverend appearance, and a lean and hungry figure, once dropped into a settle where we were discussing a rump steak and a shallot, tender as an infant, and fragrant as a flower garden! Tom pounced upon him in a moment, and uttered the mystic roll. The worthy senior was evidently confused and startled, but necessity so far overcame his diffidence that he softly said,

“A small portion of veal and ham, well done.”

Tom, whirled round, continuing the application of his eternal napkin to a tumbler which he was polishing, bawled out in a stentorian voice,

“Plate o' weal, an' dam well done!”

We shall never sponge from the slate of our memory the utter astonishment expressed in the bland countenance of the startled old gentleman at this peculiar echo of his wishes.

SCENE X.(b)

“This is a werry lonely spot, Sir; I wonder you ar'n't afeard of being robbed.”