THE post of the following morning brought information for Dashall and his friends, and no time was lost in breaking open the seals of letters which excited the most pleasing anticipations. A dead silence prevailed for a few minutes, when, rising almost simultaneously, expressions of satisfaction and delight were interchanged at the intelligence received.

Merry well's success had proved more than commensurate with his most sanguine expectations. He had arrived at the residence of his dying relative, just time enough to witness his departure from this sublunary sphere, and hear him with his expiring breath say,—“All is thine;” and a letter to each of his former friends announced the pleasure and the happiness he should experience by an early visit to his estate, declaring his determination to settle in the country, and no more become a rambler in the labyrinths of London.

This was a moment of unexpected, though hoped for gratification. Sparkle applauded the plan he intended to pursue.

Tallyho confessed himself tired of this world of wonders, and appeared to be actuated by a similar feeling: he conceived he had seen enough of the Life of a Rover, and seemed to sigh for his native plains again.

Dashall's relish for novelty in London was almost subdued; and after comparing notes together for a short time, it was mutually agreed that they would dine quietly at home, and digest a plan for future proceedings.

“Never,” said Tom, “did I feel so strong an inclination to forego the fascinating charms of a London Life as at the present moment; and whether I renounce it altogether or not, we will certainly pay a congratulatory visit to Merry well.”

“Example,” said Sparkle, endeavouring to encourage the feeling with which his friend's last sentiment was expressed, “is at all times better than precept; and retirement to domestic felicity is preferable to revelry in splendid scenes of dissipation, which generally leads to premature dissolution.”

“Agreed,” said Tom; “and happy is the man who, like yourself, has more than self to think for.—Blest with a lovely and amiable wife, and an ample fortune, no man upon earth can have a better chance of gliding down the stream of life, surrounded by all the enjoyments it can afford—while I———”

“Oh, what a lost mutton am I!”

Sparkle could scarcely forbear laughing at his friend, though he was unable to discover whether he was speaking seriously or ironically; he therefore determined to rally him a little.

“How,” said he, “why you are growing serious and sentimental all at once: what can be the cause of this change of opinion so suddenly?”

“My views of life,” replied Dashall, “have been sufficient to convince me that a Like in London is the high road to Death. I have, however, tried its vagaries in all companies, in all quarters; and, as the Song says,

“Having sown my wild oats in my youthful days, I wish to live happily now they are done.”

By this time Sparkle was convinced that Dashall was speaking the real sentiments of his mind, and congratulated him upon them.

Tallyho expressed himself highly delighted with the information he had acquired during his stay in London, but could not help at the same time acknowledging, that he had no wish to continue in the same course much longer: it was therefore agreed, that on that day fortnight they would leave the metropolis for the residence of Merrywell, and trust the future guidance of their pursuits to chance.

“It would argue a want of loyalty,” said Tom, “if we did not witness the royal departure for Scotland before we quit town; and as that is to take place on Saturday next, we will attend the embarkation of his Majesty at Greenwich, and then turn our thoughts towards a country life.”

Sparkle was evidently gratified by this determination, though he could hardly persuade himself it was likely to be of long duration; and Bob inwardly rejoiced at the expression of sentiments in exact accordance with his own. At a moment when they were all absorbed in thoughts of the future, they were suddenly drawn to the present by a man passing the window, bawling aloud—“Buy a Prap—Buy a Prap.”

“What does the fellow mean?” interrupted Tallyho.

“Mean,” said Dashall, “nothing more than to sell his clothes props.”

“Props,” replied Bob, “but he cries praps; I suppose that is a new style adopted in London.”

“Not at all,” continued Sparkle; “the alteration of sound only arises from an habitual carelessness, with which many of what are termed the London Cries are given; a sort of tone or jargon which is acquired by continually calling the same thing—and in which you will find he is not singular. The venders of milk, for instance, seldom call the article they carry for sale, as it is generally sounded mieu, or mieu below, though some have recently adopted the practice of crying mieu above. The sort of sing-song style which the wandering vendera of different goods get into as it were by nature, is frequently so unintelligible, that even an old inhabitant of the town and its environs can scarcely ascertain by the ear what is meant; and which I apprehend arises more from the sameness of subject than from any premeditated intention of the parties so calling. Other instances may be given:—the chimney-sweeper, you will find, instead of bawling sweep, frequently contracts it to we-ep or e-ep; the former not altogether incompatible with the situation of the shivering little being who crawls along the streets under a load of soot, to the great annoyance of the well dressed passengers; however, it has the effect of warning them of his approach. The dustman, above curtailment, as if he felt his superiority over the flue-faker, lengthens his sound to dust-ho, or dust-wo; besides, he is dignified by carrying a bell in one hand, by which he almost stuns those around him, and appears determined to kick up a dust, if he can do nothing else. The cries of muffins in the streets it is difficult to understand, as they are in the habit of ringing a tinkling bell, the sound of which can scarcely be heard, and calling mapping ho; and I remember one man whom I have frequently followed, from whom I could never make out more than happy happy happy now. There is a man who frequently passes through the Strand, wheeling a barrow before him, bawling as he moves along, in a deep and sonorous voice, smoaking hot, piping hot, hot Chelsea Buns; and another, in the vicinity of Covent Garden, who attracts considerable notice by the cry of—Come buy my live shrimps and pierriwinkles—buy my wink, wink, wink; these, however, are exceptions to those previously mentioned, as they have good voices, and deliver themselves to some tune; but to the former may be added the itinerant collector of old clothes, who continually annoys you with—Clow; clow sale. The ingenious Ned Shuter, the most luxuriant comedian of his time, frequently entertained his audience on his benefit nights with admirable imitations of the Cries of London, in which he introduced a remarkable little man who sold puffs, and who, from the peculiar manner of his calling them, acquired the name of Golly Molly Puff; by this singularity he became a noted character, and at almost every period some such peculiar itinerant has become remarkable in the streets of London. Some years back, a poor wretched being who dealt in shreds and patches, used to walk about, inviting people by the following lines—

Another, a sleek-headed whimsical old man, appeared, who was commonly called the Wooden Poet, from his carrying wooden ware, which was slung in a basket round his neck, and who chaunted a kind of song in doggerel rhyme, somewhat similar to the following—

“Very well, indeed, for a wooden poet,” exclaimed Bois; “he certainly deserved custom at all events: his rivals, Walter Scott or Lord Byron, would have turned such a poetical effusion to some account—it would have been dramatized—Murray, Longman, &c. would have been all in a bustle, puffing, blowing, and advertising. We should have had piracies, Chancery injunctions, and the d———1 to pay; but alas! it makes all the difference whether a poet is fashionable and popular or not."{1}

“Then,” continued Sparkle, “there was a rustic usually mounted on a white hobby, with a basket on one arm, who used to invade the northern purlieus of London, mumbling Holloway Cheesecakes, which from his mode of utterance, sounded like 'Ho all my teeth ake.'”

“Ha! ha! ha!” vociferated Tallyho, unable to restrain his risibility.

“Numerous other instances might be adduced,” continued Sparkle: “among many there was a noted Pigman, whose pigs were made of what is called standing crust, three or four inches long, baked with currant sauce in the belly, who used to cry, or rather sing,—

There was another singular character, who used to be called Tiddy-doll, a noted vender of gingerbread at Bartholomew, Southwark, and other fairs; who to collect customers round his basket used to chaunt a song, in which scarcely any thing was distinctly articulated but the cant expression Tiddy-doll: he used to wear a high cocked hat and feather, with broad scolloped gold lace on it; and last, though not least, was Sir Jeffery Vunstan, of Garrat fame, who used to walk about the streets in a blue coat with gold lace, his shirt bosom open, and without a hat, accompanied by his daughter, Miss Nancy, crying ould wigs.”

“Old wigs,” reverberated Bob, “an extraordinary article of merchandize!”

“Not more extraordinary than true,” replied Dashall; “but come, I suppose we shall all feel inclined to write a few lines to the country, so let us make the best of our time.”

Upon this signal, each flew to the exercise of the quill, and indulged his own vein of thought in writing to his friend; and the day closed upon them without any further occurrence deserving of particular remark.