THE DRAYMAN.
For the Table Book.
Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.
Epig. 23, Christmas Treat.
The drayman is a being distinct from other men, as the brewer’s horse is distinct from other horses—each seems adapted to the other’s use: the one eats abundantly of grains, and prospers in its traces—the other drinks porter by the canful, and is hardly able to button his jerkin. Much of a drayman’s life is spent with his master’s team and barrels. Early rising is his indispensable duty; and, long ere the window-shutters of London shopkeepers are taken down, he, with his fellow stavesmen, are seen half way through the streets to the vender of what is vulgarly called “heavy wet.” Woe to the patience of a crowd, waiting to cross the roadway, when the long line, in clattering gear, are passing review, like a troop of unyielding soldiers. The driver, with his whip, looks as important as a sergeant-major; equipped in his coat of mail, the very pavement trembles with his gigantic tread.[91] Sometimes his comrades ride on the shaft and sleep, to the imminent risk of their lives. Arrived at their destination, they move a slow and sure pace, which indicates that “all things should be taken easy,” for “the world was not made in a day.”
The cellar being the centre of gravity, the empty vessels are drawn out, and the full ones drawn in; but with as much science as would require Hercules himself to exercise, and Bacchus to improve. After these operations are performed, what a sight it is to behold the drayman at work over his breakfast, in the taproom if the weather is cold, or on a bench in view of a prospect, if the sunshine appears: the hunch of bread and meat, or a piece of cheese deposited in the hollow of his hand, which he divides into no small portions, are enough to pall the appetite. The manner in which he clenches the frothy pot, and conducts it to his mouth, and the long draft he takes, in gurgles down his unshorn, summer-like throat, almost warrant apprehensions of supply not being equal to demand, and consequent advance of price. He is an entire proof of the lusty quality of his master’s porter, for he is the largest opium-pill in the brewhouse dispensary. While feeding on the fat of the publican’s larder, his horses are shaking up the corn, so unfeelingly crammed in hair-bags, to their reeking nostrils. The drayman is a sort of rough give and take fellow; he uses the whip in a brangle, and his sayings are sometimes, like himself, rather dry. When he returns to the brewhouse, he is to be found in the stable, at the vat, and in the lower apartments. To guard against cold, he prefers a red nightcap to a Welsh wig, and takes great care of the grains, without making scruples. He is a good preparer, well versed in the art of refinement—knows when his articles work well, and is an excellent judge of brown stout. At evening, as his turn relieves him, he takes his next day’s orders at the counting-house, and with clean apron and face, goes to his club; and sometimes even ventures to make a benefit speech in behalf of the sick members, or a disconsolate widow. Now and then, in his best white “foul weather,” he treats his wife and nieces to “the Wells,” or “the Royalty,” taking something better than beer in his pocket, made to hold his “bunch of fives,” or any other esteemed commodity. At a “free and easy,” he sometimes “rubs up,” and enjoys a “bit of ’bacco” out of the tin box, wherein he drops his halfpenny before he fills; and then, like a true Spectator, smokes the company in a genteel way. If called upon for a song, he either complains of hoarseness, or of a bad memory; but should he indulge the call of his Vice on his right hand, he may be heard fifty yards in the wind, after which he is “knocked down” with thund’rous applause. He shakes his collops at a good joke about the “tap,” and agrees with Joe Miller, that
“Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt,
But every grin of laughter draws one out.”
An old dog’s-eared song-book is the companion to a bung-plug, a slate memoranda, and sundry utensils, which are his pocket residents. He is proud to wear a pair of fancy garters below knee, and on Mondays his neckcloth and stockings show that he was “clean as a new pin yesterday.” Like an undertaker, he smells of the beer to which he is attached, and rarely loses sight of “Dodd’s Sermon on Malt.” He ventures to play sly tricks with his favourite horse, and will give kick for kick when irritated. His language to his team is pure low Dutch, untranslatable, but perfectly understood when illustrated by a cut. It may be said that he moves in his own sphere; for, though he drives through the porter world, he spends much of his time out of the public-house, and is rarely te-ipse. What nature denies to others, custom sanctions in him, for “he eats, drinks, and is merry.” If a rough specimen of an unsophisticated John Bull were required, I would present the drayman.
J. R. P.
[91] I am here reminded of an old epigram on a “Fat Doctor,” in the Christmas Treat, xxxiii.
“When Tadloe treads the streets, the paviers cry
‘God bless you, sir!’ and lay their rammers by.”
SONNET.
From the Spanish of Quevedo.
For the Table Book.
“En el mundo naciste, no a emmendarle.”
In this wide world, beware to think, my friend,
Thy lot is cast to change it, or amend;
But to perform thy part, and give thy share
Of pitying aid; not to subdue, but bear.
If prudent, thou may’st know the world; if wise,
In virtue strong, thou may’st the world despise;
For good, be grateful—be to ill resign’d,
And to the better world exalt thy mind.
The peril of thy soul in this world fear,
But yet th’ Almighty’s wondrous work revere;
See all things good but man; and chiefly see,
With eye severe, the faults that dwell in thee.
On them exert thine energies, and try
Thyself to mend, ere judge the earth and sky.
ACQUAINTANCE TABLE. | |||
| 2 | Glances make | 1 | Bow. |
| 2 | Bows | 1 | How d’ye do. |
| 6 | How d’ye do’s | 1 | Conversation. |
| 4 | Conversations | 1 | Acquaintance. |