TOLL-GATES AND THEIR KEEPERS.
Few persons can have passed through life, or London, without having experienced more or less insult from the authoritative manner and coarse language of the fellows who keep the different toll-bars round the metropolis; but even were those persons uniformly civil and well-behaved, the innumerable demands which they are authorised to make, and the necessary frequency of their conversation and appeals to the traveller, are of themselves enough to provoke the impatience of the most placid passenger in Christendom.
AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Hook, in his letter to Broderip (facsimile given elsewhere) suggests that as they are going to Ascot races tête-à-tête, it might be as well to speak of it as neck-and-neck. A rough sketch is enclosed of the Zoological Gardens, Hook pointing with pride to the necks of the giraffes.
We will select one line of about three or four miles, which will answer by way of an example of what we mean: A man, driving himself (without a servant), starts from Bishopsgate-street for Kilburn. The day is cold and rainy—his fingers are benumbed; his two coats buttoned up; his money in tight pantaloon-pockets; his horse restive, apt to kick if the reins touch his tail; his gloves soaked with wet; and himself half-an-hour too late for dinner. He has to pull up in the middle of the street in Shoreditch, and pay a toll;—he means to return, therefore he takes a ticket, letter A. On reaching Shoreditch Church, he turns into the Curtain Road, pulls up again, drags off his wet glove with his teeth, his other hand being fully occupied in holding up the reins and the whip; pays again; gets another ticket, number 482; drags on his glove; buttons up his coats, and rattles away into Old Street Road; another gate; more pulling and poking, and unbuttoning and squeezing. He pays, and takes another ticket, letter L. The operation of getting all to rights takes place once more, nor is it repeated until he reaches Goswell Street Road; here he performs all the ceremonies we have already described, for a fourth time, and gets a fourth ticket, 732, which is to clear him through the gates in the New Road, as far as the bottom of Pentonville;—arrived there, he performs once more all the same evolutions, and procures a fifth ticket, letter X, which, unless some sinister accident occur, is to carry him clear to the Paddington Road; but opening the fine space of the Regent's Park, at the top of Portland Street, the north breeze blowing fresh from Hampstead, bursts upon his buggy, and all the tickets which he had received from all the gates which he has paid, and which he had stuffed seriatim between the cushion and lining of his dennet, suddenly rise, like a covey of partridges, from the corner, and he sees the dingy vouchers for his expenditure proceeding down Portland Street at full speed. They are rescued, however, muddy and filthy as they are, by the sweeper of the crossing, who is, of course, rewarded by the driver for his attention with a larger sum than he had originally disbursed for all the gates; and when deposited again in the vehicle, not in their former order of arrangement, the unfortunate traveller spends at least ten minutes at the next gate in selecting the particular ticket which is there required to insure his free passage.
Conquering all these difficulties, he reaches Paddington Gate, where he pays afresh, and obtains a ticket, 691, with which he proceeds swimmingly until stopped again at Kilburn, to pay a toll, which would clear him all the way to Stanmore, if he were not going to dine at a house three doors beyond the very turnpike, where he pays for the seventh time, and where he obtains a seventh ticket, letter G.
He dines and "wines;" and the bee's-wing from the citizen's port gives new velocity to Time. The dennet was ordered at eleven; and, although neither tides nor the old gentleman just mentioned, wait for any man, except Tom Hill, horses and dennets will. It is nearer midnight than eleven when the visitor departs, even better buttoned up than in the morning, his lamps giving cheerfulness to the equipage, and light to the road; and his horse whisking along (his nostrils pouring forth breath like smoke from safety-valves), and the whole affair actually in motion at the rate of ten miles per hour. Stopped at Paddington. "Pay here?"—"L."—"Won't do."—"G?"—(The horse fidgety all this time, and the driver trying to read the dirty tickets by the little light which is emitted through the tops of his lamps,)—"X?"—"It's no letter, I tell you?"—"482,"—"No." At this juncture the clock strikes twelve—the driver is told that his reading and rummaging are alike useless, for that a new day has begun. The coats are, therefore, unbuttoned—the gloves pulled off—the money to be fished out—the driver discovers that his last shilling was paid to the ostler at the inn where his horse was fed and that he must change a sovereign to pay the gate. This operation the toll-keeper performs; nor does the driver discover, until the morning, that one of the half-crowns and four of the shillings which he has received, are bad. Satisfied, however, with what has occurred, he determines at all hazards to drive home over the stones, and avoid all further importunities from the turnpike-keepers. Accordingly, away he goes along Oxford Street, over the pavement, working into one hole and tumbling into another, like a ball on a trou madame table, until, at the end of George Street, St. Giles's, snap goes his axle-tree; away goes his horse, dashing the dennet against a post at the corner of Plumtree Street, leaving the driver, with his collar-bone and left arm broken, on the pavement, at the mercy of two or three popish bricklayers and a couple of women of the town, who humanely lift him to the coach-stand, and deposit him in a hackney-chariot, having previously cut off the skirts of both his coats, and relieved him, not only of his loose change, but of a gold repeater, a snuff-box, and a pocket-book full of notes and memoranda, of no use but to the owner.
The unhappy victim at length reaches home, in agonies from the continued roughness of the pre-adamite pavement, is put to bed—doctors are sent for, the fractures are reduced, and in seven weeks he is able to crawl into his counting-house to write a cheque for a new dennet, and give his people orders to shoot his valuable horse, who has so dreadfully injured himself on the fatal night as to be past recovery.
TOM SHERIDAN'S ADVENTURE.[66]
Tom Sheridan was staying at Lord Craven's at Benham (or rather Hampstead), and one day proceeded on a shooting excursion, like Hawthorn, with only "his dog and his gun," on foot, and unattended by companion or keeper; the sport was bad—the birds few and shy—and he walked and walked in search of game, until, unconsciously, he entered the domain of some neighbouring squire.
A very short time after, he perceived advancing towards him, at the top of his speed, a jolly, comfortable-looking gentleman, followed by a servant, armed, as it appeared, for conflict. Tom took up a position, and waited the approach of the enemy.
"Hallo! you sir," said the squire, when within half-earshot, "what are you doing here, sir, eh?"
"I'm shooting, sir," said Tom.
"Do you know where you are, sir?" said the squire.
"I'm here, sir," said Tom.
"Here, sir," said the squire, growing angry; "and do you know where here is, sir? These, sir, are my manors; what d'ye think of that, sir, eh?"
"Why, sir, as to your manners," said Tom, "I can't say they seem over agreeable."
"I don't want any jokes, sir," said the squire, "I hate jokes. Who are you, sir?—what are you?"
"Why, sir," said Tom, "my name is Sheridan—I am staying at Lord Craven's—I have come out for some sport—I have not had any, and I am not aware that I am trespassing."
"Sheridan!" said the squire, cooling a little; "oh, from Lord Craven's, eh? Well, sir, I could not know that, sir—I——'
"No, sir," said Tom, "but you need not have been in a passion."
"Not in a passion! Mr. Sheridan," said the squire, "you don't know, sir, what these preserves have cost me, and the pains and trouble I have been at with them; it's all very well for you to talk, but if you were in my place I should like to know what you would say upon such an occasion."
"Why, sir," said Tom, "if I were in your place, under all the circumstances, I should say—'I am convinced, Mr. Sheridan, you did not mean to annoy me; and, as you look a good deal tired, perhaps you'll come up to my house and take some refreshment?'"
The squire was hit hard by this nonchalance, and (as the newspapers say), "it is needless to add," acted upon Sheridan's suggestion.
"So far," said poor Tom, "the story tells for me,—now you shall hear the sequel."
After having regaled himself at the squire's house, and having said five hundred more good things than he swallowed; having delighted his host, and more than half won the hearts of his wife and daughters, the sportsman proceeded on his return homewards.
In the course of his walk he passed through a farm-yard; in the front of the farm-house was a green, in the centre of which was a pond, in the pond were ducks innumerable swimming and diving; on its verdant banks a motley group of gallant cocks and pert partlets, picking and feeding—the farmer was leaning over the hatch of the barn, which stood near two cottages on the side of the green.
Tom hated to go back with an empty bag; and having failed in his attempts at higher game, it struck him as a good joke to ridicule the exploits of the day himself, in order to prevent any one else from doing it for him, and he thought to carry home a certain number of the domestic inhabitants of the pond and its vicinity would serve the purpose admirably. Accordingly, up he goes to the farmer and accosts him very civilly—
"My good friend," says Tom, "I'll make you an offer."
"Of what, sur?" says the farmer.
"Why," replies Tom, "I've been out all day fagging after birds, and haven't had a shot—now, both my barrels are loaded—I should like to take home something; what shall I give you to let me have a shot with each barrel at those ducks and fowls—I standing here—and to have whatever I kill?"
"What sort of a shot are you?" said the farmer.
"Fairish," said Tom, "fairish."
"And to have all you kill?" said the farmer, "eh?"
"Exactly so," said Tom.
"Half a guinea," said the farmer.
"That's too much," said Tom. "I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll give you a seven-shilling piece, which happens to be all the money I have in my pocket."
"Well," said the man, "hand it over."
The payment was made—Tom, true to his bargain, took his post by the barn-door, and let fly with one barrel and then with the other; and such quacking and splashing, and screaming and fluttering, had never been seen in that place before.
Away ran Tom, and, delighted at his success, picked up first a hen, then a chicken, then fished out a dying duck or two, and so on, until he numbered eight head of domestic game, with which his bag was nobly distended.
"Those were right good shots, sir," said the farmer.
"Yes," said Tom, "eight ducks and fowls were more than you bargained for, old fellow—worth rather more, I suspect, than seven shillings—eh?"
"Why, yes," said the man, scratching his head—"I think they be; but what do I care for that—they are none of them mine!"
"Here," said Tom, "I was for once in my life beaten, and made off as fast as I could, for fear the right owner of my game might make his appearance—not but that I could have given the fellow that took me in seven times as much as I did for his cunning and coolness."
POLLY HIGGINBOTTOM.[67]
In Chester's town a man there dwelt,
Not rich as Crœsus, but a buck;
The pangs of love he clearly felt—
His name was Thomas Clutterbuck.
The lady he did most approve
Most guineas gold had got 'em;
And Clutterbuck fell deep in love
With Polly Higginbottom.
O Thomas Clutterbuck!
And O Polly Higginbottom!
I sing the loves—the smiling lives—
Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.
A little trip he did propose:—
Upon the Dee they got 'em;
The wind blew high—he blew his nose,
And sung to Polly Higginbottom.
The strain was sweet—the stream was deep—
He thought his notes had caught her;
But she, alas! first fell—asleep;
And then fell—in the water.
O Polly Higginbottom!
She went to the bottom—
I sing the death—the doleful death!—
Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!
Yet still he strain'd his little throat;
To love he did invite her;
And never miss'd her—till his boat,
He thought, went rather lighter.
But when he found that she was lost,
The summum of his wishes—
He boldly paid the waterman,
And jump'd among the fishes.
O Polly Higginbottom,
He comes to the bottom!
I sing the death—the double death—
Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.
Round Chester stalk the river ghosts
Of this young man and fair maid:
His head looks like a salmon-trout;
Her tail is like a mermaid.
Moral.
Learn this, ye constant lovers all,
Who live on England's island—
The way to shun a watery death
Is making love on dry land!
O Polly Higginbottom,
Who lies at the bottom!
So sing the ghosts—the water-ghosts—
Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.
SONG.[68]
Mary once had lovers two—
Whining—pining—sighing:
"Ah!" cries one, "what shall I do?
Mary dear, I'm dying!"
T' other vow'd him just the same—
Dead in grief's vagary;
But sighs could never raise a flame
In the heart of Mary.
A youth there came, all blithe and gay—
Merry—laughing—singing—
Sporting—courting, all the day—
And set the bells a-ringing.
Soon he tripp'd it off to church,
Lightly, gay, and airy;
Leaving t' others in the lurch,
Sighing—after Mary.