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Read Ebook: Sketches by Seymour — Volume 02 by Seymour Robert
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SKETCHES BY SEYMOUR
Part 2.
"Shoot away, Bill! never mind the old woman--she can't get over the wall to us."
One day two urchins got A pistol, powder, horn, and shot, And proudly forth they went On sport intent. "Oh, Tom! if we should shoot a hare," Cried one, The elder son, "How father, sure, would stare!" Look there! what's that?" "Why, as I live, a cat," Cried Bill, "'tis mother Tibbs' tabby; Oh! what a lark She loves it like a babby! And ain't a cat's eye, Tom, as good a mark As any bull's eyes?" And straight "Puss! puss!" he cries, When, lo! as Puss approaches, They hear a squall, And see a head and fist above the wall. 'Tis tabby's mistress Who in great distress Loads both the urchins with her loud reproaches, "You little villains! will ye shoot my cat? Here, Tink! Tink! Tink! O! lor' a' mercy! I shall surely sink, Tink! Tink!" Tink hears her voice--and hearing that, Trots nearer with a pit-a-pat! "Now, Bill, present and fire, There's a bold 'un, And send the tabby to the old 'un." Bang! went the pistol, and in the mire Rolled Tink without a mew-- Flop! fell his mistress in a stew! While Bill and Tom both fled, Leaving the accomplish'd Tink quite finish'd, For Bill had actually diminish'd The feline favorite by a head! Leaving his undone mistress to bewail, In deepest woe, And to her gossips to relate Her tabby's fate. This was her only consolation--for altho' She could not tell the head--she could the tail!
SEPTEMBER 1ST,--AN ONLY OPPORTUNITY.
"I begin to think I may as well go back."
MY vig! vat a pelter this is-- Enough all my hardour to tame; In veather like this there's no sport, It's too much in earnest for game!
A ladle, I might as well be, Chain'd fast to a hold parish pump, For, by goles! it comes tumbling down, Like vinking,--and all of a lump.
The birds to their nestes is gone, I can't see no woodcock, nor snipe; My dog he looks dogged and dull, My leggins is flabby as tripe!
The moors is all slipp'ry slush, I'm up to the neck in the mire; I don't see no chance of a shot, And I long-how I long for a fire!
For my clothes is all soak'd, and they stick As close as a bailiff to me Oh! I wish I was out o' this here, And at home with my mother at tea!
This is the fust, as I've got Permission from uncle to shoot; He hadn't no peace till he give This piece, and the powder to boot!
And vat's it all come to at last?-- There isn't no chance of a hit, I feel the rain's all down my back, In my mouth though I hav'n't a bit!
O! it's werry wezaatious indeed! For I shan't have another day soon; But I'm blow'd, if I don't have a pop-- My eye! I've shot Dash! vot a spoon!
O! here's a partic'lar mess, Vot vill mother say to me now? For he vas her lap-dog and pet, Oh! I've slaughtered her darling bow-wow!
"Mother says fishes comes from hard roes, so I chuck'd in the roe of a red-herring last week, but I doesn't catch any fish yet."
How beautiful is the simplicity of unsophisticated youth! Behold with what patience this innocent awaits a bite, trusting with perfect faith in the truth of his affectionate mother's ichthyological knowledge. Wishing to behold a live fish dangling at the end of his line, he has, with admirable foresight, drawn up the bucket, that in the ascent the finny prey may not kick it! It must be a hard roe indeed, that is not softened by his attentions; but, alas! he is doomed never to draw up a vulgar herring, or a well-bred fish!
But after all, is not such ignorance bliss?--for he enjoys the anticipated pleasure; and if anticipation be really greater than reality --what an interminable length will that pleasure be to him! Ever and anon he draws up his line, like a militia captain for a review;--puts fresh bait on the crooked pin, and lets it slowly down, and peeps in, wondering what the fish can be at!--and is quite as much in the dark as his float. But he may at last, perhaps, discover that he is not so deep as a well--and wisely resolve to let well--alone; two points which may probably be of infinite importance to him through life, and enable him to turn the laugh against those who now mock his ignorance and simplicity.
Ambition.
"He was ambitious, and I slew him."
What carried Captain Ross to the North Pole? "A ship to be sure!" exclaims some matter-of-fact gentleman. Reader! It was AMBITION!
What made barber Ross survey the poll, make wigs, and puff away even when powder was exploded? What caused him to seek the applause of the 'nobs' among the cockneys, and struggle to obtain the paradoxical triplicate dictum that he was a werry first-rate cutter!' What made him a practical Tory?
The candidate for the county cringes, and flatters the greasy unwashed ten-pounders, in order to get at the head of the poll--so likewise the bumpkin rubs his hand in the dirt to enable him to cling fast, and reach the top of the soap'd poll, whereon the tempting prize is displayed. And, what prompts them both to the contest?--AMBITION!
What is the 'primum mobile,' of the adventurous Aeronaut, Mr. Green, one of the most rising men of the day, who aspires even unto the very clouds, and in his elevation looks upon all men of woman born as far beneath him?--AMBITION!
What prompts the soldier who spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day to thrust his head into the cannon's mouth, to convince the world that he is desirous of obtaining a good report and that he is fearless of the charge?--AMBITION!
What makes the beardless school-boy leap ditches and over posts at the risk of his neck, and boast that he'll do another's dags'--or the sporting man turn good horses into filthy dog's meat, in riding so many miles in so many minutes?--AMBITION!
What magic influence operates upon the senses of the barrister to exert his winning eloquence and ingenuity in the cause of a client, who, in his conscience, he knows to be both morally and legally unworthy of the luminous defence put forth to prove the trembling culprit more sinned against than sinning?--AMBITION!
What urges the vulgar costermonger to bestride his long-ear'd Arabian, and belabor his panting sides with merciless stick and iron-shod heels to impel him to the goal in the mimic race--or the sleek and polish'd courtier to lick the dust of his superiors' feet to obtain a paltry riband or a star?--AMBITION!
Better luck next time.
The lamentation of Joe Grishin.
"O! Molly! Molly! ven I popp'd my chops through the arey railings, and seed you smile, I thought you vos mine for ever! I wentur'd all for you --all--. It war'n't no great stake p'r'aps, but it was a tender vun! I offer'd you a heart verbally, and you said 'No!' I writ this ere wollentine, and you returns it vith a big 'No!'
"O! Molly your 'No's,' is more piercinger and crueller than your heyes. Me! to be used so:--Me! as refused the vidder at the Coal Shed! Me!--but it's o' no use talking; von may as vell make love to a lamp-post, and expect to feed von's flame vith lights! But adoo to life; this 'ere rope, fix'd round the 'best end o' the neck' will soon scrap me, and ven I'm as dead as mutton, p'r'aps you may be werry sorry.
"It'll be too late then, Molly, ven you've led me to the halter, to vish as you'd married me."
After this bitter burst of wounded feeling, and, urged by the rejection of his addresses, the love-lorn Butcher mounted a joint-stool, and stepping on a fence, twisted the awful rope round the branch of a tree, and then, coiling it about his neck, determined that this day should be a killing day; vainly supposing, in the disordered state of his mind, that the flinty-hearted Molly would probably esteem her 'dear' the better for being hung! Mystically muttering 'adoo!' three times, in the most pathetic tone, he swung off and in an instant came to his latter end--for the rope snapp'd in twain, and he found himself seated on the turf below, when he vainly imagined he was preparing himself for being placed below the turf!
"Nothin' but disappointments in this world;" exclaimed he, really feeling hurt by the unexpected fall, for he had grazed his calves in the meadow, and was wofully vexed at finding himself a lover 'turned off' and yet 'unhung.'
Cast down and melancholy, he retraced his steps, and seizing a cleaver vented his suicidal humour in chopping, with malignant fury, at his own block!
Don't you be saucy, Boys
"What are you grinning at, boys?" angrily demanded an old gentleman seated beside a meandering stream, of two schoolboys, who were watching him from behind a high paling at his rear.--"Don't you know a little makes fools laugh."
"Yes, sir! that's quite true, for we were laughing at what you've caught!"
"Umph! I tell you what, my lads, if I knew your master, I'd pull you up, and have you well dressed."
"Tell that to the fishes," replied the elder, "when you do get a bite!"
"You saucy jackanapes! how dare you speak to me in this manner?"
"Pray, sir, are you lord of the manor? I'm sure you spoke to us first," said the younger.
"More than that," continued his companion. "We are above speaking to you, for you are beneath us!"
The old gentleman, rather nettled at the glibness of the lads, stuck a hook vengefully into an inoffensive worm, and threw his line.
The boys still retained their post, and after many whispered remarks and tittering, the younger thrust his handkerchief into his mouth to smother a burst of irrepressible laughter, while the other, assuming a modest and penitent air, said:
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"What?" demanded the old gentleman sharply.
"Hope you are not offended, sir?"
"Get along with you," replied the unfortunate angler, irritated at his want of success.
"I can tell you something, sir," continued the lad;--"there's no fish to be had where you are. I know the river well. Father's very fond o' fish; he always brings home plenty. If you like, sir, I can show you the place."
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