THE ENGLISH SPY
Antiquarians seek Arch of Cornhill;
Joe Butterworth furnishes law;
And Major his pockets will fill
By giving to Walton éclat.
Where, with old Parson Ambrose, the legs
Once in Gothic Hall pigeons could fleece,
There, Hurst and Co. now hang on pegs
The fine arts of Rome and of Greece.
John Ebers with Opera dancers
Is too much engaged for to look
How the bookselling business answers,
And publishes only "Ude's Cook."
Hookham and Carpenter both are
As cautious as caution can be;
While Andrews, nor Chapple, a sloth are
In trade, both as lib'ral as free.
Billy Sams is a loyal believer,
And publishes prints by the score;
But his likeness, I will not deceive her,
Of Chester is not con amore.
If the world you are ganging to see,
Its manners and customs to note,
In the Strand, you must call upon Leigh,
Where you'll find a directory wrote.
Cincinnatus like, guiding the plough,
On Harding each farmer still looks;
Clerc Smith is the man for a bow,
And his shop is as famous for books.
Facetiæ collectors, give ear,
Who with Mack letter spirits would deal;
If rich in old lore you'd appear,
Pay a visit to Priestley and Weale.
There's Ogle, and Westley, and Black,
With Mawman, and Kirby, and Cole,
And Souter, and Wilson—alack!
I cannot distinguish the whole.
For Robins, and Hunter, and Poole,
And Evans, and Scholey, and Co.
Would fill out my verse beyond rule,
And my Pegasus halts in the Bow.
The radicals all are done up;
Sedition is gone to the dogs;
And Benbow and Cobbett may sup
With their worthy relations the Hogs.
So here I will wind up my list
With Underwood, Callow, and Highley;
Who bring to the medicals grist,
By books on diseases wrote dryly.
Just one word at parting I crave—
If Italian, French, German, or Dutch,
To bother your noddle you'd have,
Send to Berthoud, or Treuttel and Wurtz,
Or Zotti, or Dulau, or Bohn,
But they're all very good in their way;
Bossange, Bothe, Boosey and Son,
All expect Monsieur Jean Bull to pay.
"A right merrie conceit it is," said Blackstrap, "and an excellent memoranda of the eminent book-sellers of the present time." "Ay, sir," continued the veteran; "all our old ballads had the merit of being useful, as well as amusing. There was 'Chevy Chase, and 'King John and his Barons,' and 'Merry Sherwood,' all of them exquisite chants; conveying information to the mind, and relating some grand historical fact, while they charmed the ear. But your modern kickshaws are all about 'No, my love, no,' or 'Sigh no more, lady,' or some such silly stuff that nobody cares to learn the words of, or can understand if they did. I remember composing a ballad in this town myself, some few years since, on a very strange adventure that happened to one of our commercial brethren. He had bought an old hunter at Bristol to finish his journey homeward with, on account of his former horse proving lame, and just as he was entering Cheltenham by the turnpike-gate at the end of the town, the whole of the Berkeley Hunt were turning out for a day's run, and having found, shot across the road in full cry. Away went the dogs, and away went the huntsmen, and plague of any other way would the old hunter go: so, despite of the two hundred weight of perfumery samples contained in his saddle-bags, away went Delcroix's deputy over hedge and ditch, and straight forward for a steeple chase up the Cleigh Hills; but in coming down rather briskly, the courage of the old horse gave way, and down he came as groggy before as a Chelsea pensioner, smashing all the appendages of trade, and spilling their contents upon the ground, besides raising such an odoriferous effluvia on the field, that every one present smelt the joke.—But you shall have the song."
THE KNIGHT OF THE SADDLE-BAGS;
A TRUE RELATION OF A TRAVELLER'S
ADVENTURE AT CHELTENHAM.
Tune—The Priest of Kajaga.
A knight of the saddle-bags, jolly and gay,
Rode near to blithe Cheltenham's town;
His coat was a drab, and his wig iron-gray,
And the hue of his nag was a brown.
From Bristol, through Glo'ster, the merry man came;
And jogging along in a trot,
On the road happ'd to pass him, in pursuit of game,
Of Berkeley's huntsmen a lot.
Tally-ho! tally-ho! from each voice did resound;
Hark forward! now cheer'd the loud pack;
Sir knight found his horse spring along like a hound,'
For the devil could not hold him back.
Away went sly Reynard, away went sir knight,
With the saddle-bags beating the side
Of his horse, as he gallop'd among them in fright;
'Twas in vain that the hunt did deride.
Now up the Cleigh Hills, and adown the steep vale,
Crack, crack, went the girths of his saddle;
Sir knight was dismounted, O piteous tale!
In wasjies the fishes might paddle.
As prostrate he lay, an old hound that way bent
Gave tongue as he pass'd him along;
Which attracted the pack, who thus drawn by the scent,
Would have very soon ended his song.
For O! it was strange, but, though strange, it was true!
With perfumery samples, his bags
With essences, musks, and rich odours a few,
He had joined peradventure the nag's.
The field took the joke in good-humour and jest;
Sir knight was invited to dine
At the Plough the same day, where a fine haunch was dress'd,
And Naylor gave excellent wine.
From that time, 'raong the Chelts, has a knight of the bag
Been look'd on as a man of spirit;
For who but a knight could have hunted a nag
So laden, and come off with merit?
A visit from two of the commercial gentlemen of the Fleece gave Blackstrap another opportunity of showing off, which he did not fail to avail himself of in no very measured paces, by ridiculing the rival house, and extending his remarks to the taste of the frequenters. To which one of them replied, "Mine host of the fleece is no 'wolf in sheep's clothing,' but a right careful good shepherd, who provides well for his flock; and although the fleece hangs over his door, it is not symbolical of any fleecing practices within." "Ay," said the other, defending his hotel; "then, sir, we live like farmers at a harvest-home, and sleep on beds of down beneath coverings of lamb's wool; and our attendant nymphs of the chamber are as beautiful and lively as Arcadian shepherdesses, and chaste as the goddess Diana." "Very good," retorted Blackstrap; "but you know, gentlemen, that the beaux of this house must be better off for the belle. We will allow you of the Fleece your rustic enjoyments, seeing that you are country gentlemen, for your hotel is certainly out of the town." A good-natured sally that quickly restored harmony, and called forth another song from the muse of Blackstrap.
HEALTH, COMPETENCE, AND GOOD-HUMOUR.
Let titles and fame on ambition be shed,
Or history's page of great heroes relate;
The motto I'd choose to encircle my head
Is competence, health, and good-humour elate.
The chaplet of virtue, by friendship entwined,
Sheds a lustre that rarely encircles the great;
While health and good-humour eternally find
A competence smiling on every state.
No luxuries seeking my board to encumber,
Contented receiving what Providence sends;
Age brightens with pleasure, while virtue may number
Competence, health, and good-humour as friends.
Then, neighbours, let's smile at old Chronos and care;
Still shielded with honour, we're fearless of fate:
With the sports of the field and the joys of the fair,
We've competence, health, and good-humour elate.
At the conclusion of this fresh specimen of our chairman's original talent, it was proposed we should adjourn to the theatre, where certain fashionable amateurs were amusing themselves at the expense of the public. "Sir, I dislike these half and half vagabonds," said Blackstrap, with one of his original gestures, "who play with an author before the public, that they may the more easily play with an actress in private. Yon coxcomb, for instance, who buffoons Brutus, with his brothers, are indeed capital brutes by nature, but as deficient of the art histrionic as any biped animals well can be. I remember a very clever artist exhibiting a picture of the colonel and his mother's son, Augustus, with a Captain Austin, in the exhibition of the Royal Academy for the year 1823, in the characters of Brutus, Marc Antony, and Julius Cæsar, which caused more fun than anything else in the collection, and produced more puns among the cognoscenti than any previous work of art ever gave rise to. The Romans were such rum ones—Brutus was a black down-looking biped, with gray whiskers, and a growl upon his lip; Marc Antony, without the remotest mark of the ancient hero about him; and Cassius looked as if he had been cashiered by the commander of some strolling company of itinerants for one, whose placid face could neither move to woe, nor yield grimace; and yet they were all accounted excellent likenesses, perfect originals, like Wombwell's bonassus, only not quite so natural."