  "Easy travelling this, sir; smooth roads, no turnpikes; no dirt thrown about, no splashing. Pleasant for me, who have just arrived from Van Diemen's Land," (we all looked up at our new visitor V. D. L.)—"yes, sir, where they are 'mending their ways,' as you are here, only not quite so fast; haven't got to Indian-rubber roads yet, though advanced beyond the point at which the traveller in my legend was obliged to stop." This allusion being evidently preparatory to the production of a story, V. D. L. was invited to explain, which he instantly did by chanting the following Long time ago, when public roads In far Van Diemen's Land, Were only fit for frogs and toads, Composed of pools and sand; (For folks had not tried newest modes Of making wood-ways grand); And narrow wheels, and heavy loads, Made ups and downs on every hand: Long time ago, When things were so, By some arch wag it was averr'd The following incident occurr'd.— It chanced, on one of old October's days, A traveller was travelling along, And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise, "Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song: When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees, That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze," But in the middle kept its place! As if it had resolved, with honest pride, Not to be driven down upon the side, When it might hold the central space. The traveller got out, and took it up,— Most strange!—a head beneath the hat appears, Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup, And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:— "How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this? You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud; How did you 'come to go' so much amiss, As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?— Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead, So deep into this puddle to have gone." "If I'm so deep," the other gruffly said, "Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?" "Accidents of that sort will happen in the best regulated countries," remarked a modern Traveller, who had now, with an air of subdued jollity, taken his place amongst us, and who was distinguished among his familiars as Illustrious Tom, "though I can't say I ever witnessed such an adventure in Cheapside. But you call to mind a home-adventure, a scene at Bolton. Most towns, you must know, in almost every county, can boast of their little evening coterie, in which the affairs of the nation are more or less learnedly discussed, and where the wags of the place play off their jokes, practical, comical, or serious. It generally happens, too, that these congregated sons of smoke (for smokers they all are) take up some district name; as the 'Bolton Trotters,' the 'Wigan Badgers,' the 'Item Dolls,' the 'Corporation of the King's Arms Kitchen,' the 'Quarter of Hundred Bricks,' or a hundred other names that might be mentioned; and all these coteries are composed of about the same materials, the doctors, lawyers, retired tradesmen, country squires, and budding wags. It may be my province by and by to detail a few of the farcicalities which I have either taken part in, or heard related by some old Brick-Badger, Trotter, or Doll. For the present, here is a tale, related to me with many a deep sigh by an old one, whose trot is now reduced to a most miserable shamble. "It had been a stormy November day, when a commercial traveller alighted at the door of the Swan Inn. It was almost dark. He was a gentleman from Leeds, in the cloth trade, and had ridden over the moors—not as the young ones do now who drive—but on a strong Cleveland bay cob, wrapped in a good Devon kersey coat, that would defy all weathers, much better than your nasty Mackintoshes. Well, sir, there was a good deal o' guessing, among us who were having a bit o' trot, at who he was. The waiter was called in, and 'thowt he was a new chap,'—he didn't know him. In about an hour he made his appearance, and begged to be allowed to join us. He was a strapping Leeds win'er, and no toy to play with, I assure you. The trotting was very slow for a time, when the bold wag, Jem Brown, went in to win, and filled his pipe. Mr. A., the lawyer, sat on one side the fire; the traveller, in what was called Travellers' Chair, on the other. Up got Jem to ring the bell, and then, as he passed by him—'You must "But a Yorkshireman may be a philosopher," observed C.E.W., who now interposed a remark, "and philosophy can stand every description of hot water, save that which love brings us into. Practical jokes are of many kinds; a kiss is very often but a practical joke; and as an appropriate successor to your tale of the silk stocking and the boot, let me give you the story of As Kate went tripping up the town (No lassie e'er looked prettier), An "unco chiel" in cap and gown (No mortal e'er looked grittier) Accosted Kitty in the street, As she was going to cross over, And robb'd her of a kiss—the cheat, Saying, "I'm a philosopher!" "A what?" said Kitty, blushing red, And gave his cap a toss over; "Are you? Oh, phi!" and off she sped, Whilst he bewail'd the "los-oph-er!" "The learned lover, sir, who bewailed the 'los-oph-er'(said a visitor, who now favoured us with his company) was the last man in the world to die of love. No man ever died of love, who did not kill himself; and no man ever killed himself, who knew what philosophy was. True philosophy may buy prussic-acid, but, like Tantalus, taste not a drop; true philosophy saunters to the Serpentine, and then saunters back to supper and a cigar. This," said Dr. Bulgardo, L.S.D., "I shall endeavour to illustrate in a poetical tribute to My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster, And soon would my death in the Times have rejoiced her; So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister, I hurried to drown both myself and my woes. Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floated Till pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted; So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quoted Where the pale, sentimental asparagus grows. Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup, The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up; My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup, Without any sugar to take off the taste. But sorrows are often inflicted to try us; Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us; And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie house The blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed. She kindly assured me my views were mistaken, That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken; So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenham coach, to return to my Betty again. Four lovers already had tried to divert her Attentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her; She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her, And now is the suicide gayest of men!" At one of our sea-port towns there stood (and, we believe, doth stand there still) a fort, on the outside of which is a spacious field, overlooking a delightful prospect of land and water. At the time we are speaking of, a Major Brown was the commandant; and his family being fond of a milk diet, the veteran had several cows that pastured in the land aforesaid; a sentry was placed near the entrance, part of whose duty it was to prevent strangers and stray cattle from trespassing therein. Upon one occasion, an Irish marine, a stranger to the place, was on guard at this post, and having received the regular orders not to allow any one to go upon the grass but the major's cows, determined to adhere to them strictly. He had not been long at his post, when three elegant young ladies presented "Oh! but we may," uttered the ladies with one voice, "we have the privilege to do so." "Privilege," repeated the sentry; "fait an' I don't care what ye have, but you mustn't go there, I tell ye; it's Major Brown's positive orders to the conthrary." "Oh—ay—yes—we know that," said the eldest of the ladies with dignity, "but we are Major Brown's daughters." "Ah, well, you don't go in there then anyhow," exclaimed Pat, bringing his firelock to the post, "you may be Major Brown's daughters, but you're not Major Brown's cows." The answer to Mr. Sly's Enigma (in last No.) is a liquid "Are there two 'S's' in St. Asaph?" asked Lord Dunce of a popular humourist, as he was directing a letter to a learned Bishop who bore that title. "Unless you wish to make an 'ass' of his Lordship, decidedly not," was the answer; and Lord Dunce finished the address without further inquiry. Driver (calling out). Tom, is that 'ere elderly lady come, as ve vaited for last trip? Cad. Vel, I do think I sees her a coming. Driver. But are you sure it's the same? Cad. Oh yes—Vy I was in the office ven the Governor booked her, by the name o' Mrs. Toddles, and eh?—hang me if she arn't a toddling off the wrong vay arter all. Vel, drive on, ve can't wait for nobody. Some people alvers aire too late, and alvers vill be. Driver. Vy, yes, Tom; but I reckon it must take her a couple o' hours to put on that bonnet afore she comes out. She must git up a little earlier, or else I should reckimend her to put it on the night afore. Oh my goodness there is a mouse!!! Oh! my good gracious! here is a great Flying Beadles. |
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