George Cruikshank's Omnibus

by George Cruikshank

Sarah—our Sally—was born on the same day as the Duke of Wellington, but she could not help that. It seemed a little curious, and somewhat presumptuous; and her mother, had she anticipated such a result, would no doubt have avoided giving any offence, by forwarding or retarding the business, but she had no friend at court. And, after all, it is doubtful which is most honoured by the fact, his Grace or Sarah Toddles.

But such is the course of things. Mrs. Gunn was soon off the stocks; she was up and stirring; and Sarah, with unheard of rapidity, got out of the nurse's arms, and from pap to pudding, and pudding to pork; and soon found out the use of her eyes and feet, and "toddled" into the shop, and tip-toed to the top of the counter, and fingered the "Banburys," and licked the "parliament," and dabbled in the treacle, and painted her face with it, and was shaken and smacked, and all that sort of thing. She became at last "quite a girl," and would run over the bridge, and round the church-yard, and up "Mile-end," and down Old Ford, and through Bow fields, and Stepney church-yard, and all about, till Mrs. Gunn was "frightened out of her wits," and determined to send her to school. Now Bow church was not then as it is at present. In the olden times, or when Sarah was young, there was a market held close in front of it, and over this market was a school, and a Mr. Brown was the master; and here Sarah was first led into the mystery of letters, and got through "Vyse's New London Spelling Book," and that's all (for her progress, like her genius and her stature, was small); so after spoiling many copy-books and green bags, and wearing out many pattens in trotting from the shop to the school, she was ultimately relieved from her studies and her troubles by being taken away. This was good news for Sarah, "for now she should do as she liked, and have such bits of fun at Bow fair, without being bothered to get her lessons in the morning before she went, when half the day was gone; and wouldn't she though have some rare games in Stepney church-yard, and look at the tombstones and the fish in the ring! and wouldn't she often go to the World's-end tea-gardens, and to Fairlop fair, and Epping forest to get blackberries! She just would then." And she just did then; and this was the sunny spot of her life.

Now her sun may be said to have gradually declined; she was no longer a free agent. She was told to "think and mind what she was about," and was kept at home, and enlisted in domestic services (for her parents had no other housemaid), and also assisted in baking and minding the shop. Thus days rolled on; and Sarah at last became a woman—not a very tall one it is true, but still a woman—little and good, "short and sweet."

Sarah was thrice married. Her first husband was a Mr. Lightfoot, her second a Mr. Heavisides, and her third, and last, Mr. Toddles—Thomas Toddles. With the first two we have nothing to do, they were dead and buried before we were thought of, and we never make a point of enlarging about parties where we are not asked to the funeral, but we may merely remark for the benefit of the curious, that Sarah Toddles chose them for no particular virtue or accomplishment, but merely for their size; they all stood four feet three in their shoes, all were timid men, and all died childless. There was nothing at all wonderful about either of these courtships or weddings, all was "fair and above-board;" no rope ladders, no moonlight madness, no Gretna Green trips, no bribings, no hole-and-corner works, no skulking behind kitchen doors or tombstones, or winkings or blinkings in church, no lies, no sighs, no dyings for love and that trumpery, nothing of the sort. Mr. Gunn consented, Mrs. Gunn consented, Sarah consented, and they all consented; could anything be fairer? and what's the use of writing a volume upon it, as many of our contemporaries might? But, perhaps, we may be allowed to say a word or two on Mrs. Toddles' last engagement, since at his death we were asked to the funeral. As a baker, and doing a great deal of business for the fairs, Mr. Gunn required assistance, and he found a faithful and honest servant in Thomas Toddles. Mrs. Heavisides—our Sally—would often be found in the bakehouse helping her father and Thomas in "setting sponge," as it is termed, and in moulding and shaping buns and Banburys. Could anything be more natural than that words and looks should be exchanged on these occasions between her and Thomas, bordering upon the weather and the heat of the oven, and that this warmth should produce congenial thoughts and sentiments? It did so; for Thomas, though naturally timid, had all the arts or nature of an experienced lover. He would run from Buns to Banburys, and from Banburys to Bachelors, and from Bachelors to Bow Bells, and from Bow Bells to Bow Church, and from the Church to the Altar; he would then not forget to talk about rings, "and thought he knew of one just about her size"—here the oven would burn—"and would she allow him to try one." He would then steal a little nearer, and adopt a few innocent liberties, such as flirting a little flour in her face with his thumb and finger, then wipe it off afterwards with the corner of his apron, and, as a climax, "kiss the place to make it well," my Toddles!

It is not to be wondered at, that these things were a "decided hit," as the managers have it, and that they should have their full effect, by causing Bow Bells very soon to ring to the honour and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Toddles. But all that lives must fade, and Mrs. Toddles' troubles now came thick upon her. First, her mother died, soon after, her father, who bequeathed all his "Banburys," goods, and chattels to her and her husband; and within a very few months Thomas died also. He was unusually busy one night in preparing for Bow fair, where he kept a stall, and over-exerting himself, caught a cold, was taken to bed, slept sweetly, but over-slept himself, and saw Sarah Toddles no more.

Soon after, Mrs. T. wound up the business, sold off her stock and interest, and purchased a small annuity. In order to fill up her time, and in some measure to obliterate the past, she volunteered her services in one or two tract and Dorcas societies, where she assists in the making up of those very small articles which she was once in her longings led to suppose might fill her own baskets. A great deal of absurdity has gone forth at her expense amongst cads and omnibus drivers, who would not wait even five or ten minutes for her, when at the furthest she was never more than a quarter of an hour behind time, and how few know the cause of all this! Some have attributed it to an over-solicitude in her toilet, some to this thing and some to that, some to the putting on of those little black stockings, and some to the tying of the velvet shoes; when, if the truth must be known, it is—Mrs. Sarah Toddles has corns.

Some little reminiscence of Mr. Toddles may be required. In height he was about four feet three. His clothes were much too large for him, coming over his knuckles, and over his shoes, with a skirt nearly touching the ground. Moreover he had a monstrous hat, swelling at the crown, very much boated before and behind, a large mouth, and large eyes. It was curious to see this little couple trotting up Mile-end road towards Whitechapel on a Saturday night, he first, and she after, for a cheap market—he carrying a basket and she a bag, which they would fill either from the shops or from the stalls by the roadside; but before returning, take care to call in at the Blind Beggar for a drop of "summat short," "but strictly medicinally."

That very shawl at the back of Mrs. Toddles, and the large parasol, or small umbrella, were presents from Mr. T. one Bow-fair day; she keeps them and wears them in respect to his memory, and will continue to do so through all the changes of fashion. Those stockings were knitted by Miss Toddles, and those velvet shoes made by Timothy Toddles, her dear husband's brother and sister; in short, she is enveloped and surrounded with gifts from top to toe. The arm-chair was a relic of her mother's, the footstool was her father's, the bottle Lightfoot's, and the glass Heavisides', and the table Toddles', her last dear Toddles; the carpet was her cousin's, and the urn her uncle's.

But time, like Sarah, is toddling on; let us hope that she may meet with more civility, and that her end may be peaceful. If we are invited to the funeral, we shall look after her epitaph.

⁂ We beg to state, that though assured of the great respectability of our correspondent, we do not personalty vouch for the authenticity of this Memoir.-Ed.