IX. The Passage to Burlington
The morning was fair, and the wind was at west,
The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest;
At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet,
And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street;
He strutted along with a mighty brisk air,
While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear.
Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and "cutting a shine"
The captain came next, with his loaded carbine;
Then handed on board the milliner's maid:
The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd
For one had his ballads to sing and to play,
And the other some beards to take off by the way:
At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along,
(But he was besotted—his dram had been strong—)
The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear,
With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear.
But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark,
The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark:
So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails
And trimming close aft' to encounter the gales,
Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef
As the vessel was light—but the skipper was deaf:
"His boat was his own"—and he knew to a hair
The "worth of her freight," and the "sail she could bear."
Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug,
Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug:
Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep,
And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep.
O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls,
And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls,
And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song
The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong.
Arriving, at length at the end of this stage,
We quitted our cabbin (or rather our cage)
To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed,
Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected;
And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog,
And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog:
Without it (said Bryan) I never can dine,
'Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine,
It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain,
A world—and no grog—is a prison of pain,
And Man, the most wretched of all that are found
To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground!
It is, of all physic, the best I have seen
To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen—
Here, madam—miss Cynthia—'tis good—you'll confess—
Now taste—and you'll wish you had been in my mess—
With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne;
The worst of all countries is—where there is none,
New Holland, New Zealand—those islands accurs'd—
Here's health to the man that invented it first.
X. Vexations and Disasters
Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down,
At three in the morning we drove out of town:
A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life,
And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife,
It was a fit season for murders and rapes,
For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:—
So, with something to think of, but little to say,
The driver drove on, looking out for the way,
'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill,
Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still—
"Are you sure you have took the right road?"—queried Snip;
"I am"—said the driver—and crack'd with his whip.
Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road,
And away went the waggon, with all its full load;
Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over,
Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover,
Where shatter'd and shiver'd—no glimpse yet of day,
A mass of destruction, together we lay!
Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone,
And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan,
The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins,
Contrition of heart, and confession of sins.
First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef,
And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J]
A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day,
And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay?
Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane,
And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain.
As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled,
And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head;
The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep
Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap:
There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt,
For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport:
His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese;
And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?—
Then, rolling away on the side of the hill,
With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still:
At last he bawl'd out—"I'm sick at my heart!
Come hither, companions, and see me depart!
Snipinda, Snipinda!—alas, I must leave her—
And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver,
Who never would give me a moment of rest
'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest!
But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss)
When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this—
May his breeches, be always too big for his wear,
Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear;
May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short,
And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;—
And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return,
Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn:
Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going
Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing,
Where white linen stockings will ever be clean,
And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen;
Where with old Continental our debts we can pay,
And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day;
Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,
And a remnant—if not a whole piece—shall be sav'd,
Where cloth may be cabbag'd—and that without fear—
And journeymen work—thirteen months to the year!"
Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell,
And groping about to find where he fell,
Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip,
But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip."
"Yes, yes"—answer'd Snip—"I'm preparing to go—
Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!"
Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head,
And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!"
(For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle,
That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.)
"Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill;
And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will?
Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words;
If I am his widow, I must have my thirds!
But can you"—and here she reclin'd on his breast—
"And can you resolve to forsake me distrest,
Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love,
And leave me alone for the shop-boards above:
Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?—
When you are departed, ah! where shall I go?
I shall then be a widow—forsaken and sad—
And where shall I find such another sweet lad?
Who then will afford me a mint-water dram,
Gallant me to meeting—and who will flog Sam?"
By this time the story was currently spread,
And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,—
"The taylor is dead beyond all relief!
The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef:
"To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim,
Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!"
"The taylor is dead"—(the lawyer exclaim'd)
God speed him!—'tis better to die than be maim'd:
If life is a race, as the learned pretend,
God help him! his racing is soon at an end:
His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd;
A creature he was, so attach'd to the world,
So eager for money—(I say it with grief)
He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.'
He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether
Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.—
For the place where he's gone may we also prepare,
Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care,
And fiddles—the finest that ever were seen,
Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean.
"The taylor is dead" (said the company round)
"The taylor is dead"—the dark forests resound.—
"He is dead!"—blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh—
When the sailor bawl'd out—"By my soul it's a lie!
The fellow has only a mind for some fun,
His blood is not cold, and his race is not run.
His head, it is true, may have had a small shock:
I'll bind it—'twill only be strapping a block:
Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout!
Now—heave up his noddle, and strap it about!
Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk—
They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work."
The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,
And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.
[J] A Lawyer's compend, in which he notes down the heads of arguments in Law-suits.—Freneau's note, 1795 edition.
XI. Conclusion of the Journey
When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell
What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel:
A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there;
The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair,
The horses were feeding about on the hill,
And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still,
The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse,
The night had been dark—and "he lost both his shoes"—
Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find
That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind,
We still might proceed—for the body was sound,
And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round.
But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along,
Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong:
The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace,
And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace;
While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd,
Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board,
And often declar'd, in his moments of glee,
"He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea."
At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall,
And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall:
Honest David has always a dish of the best,
But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest—
"And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat,
But I know that he never could relish roast-meat:
I think it were better to get him some Tea,
He always was fond of slop dinners, like me,
But then he could never endure your Bohea—
La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep?
By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap!
No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger!
Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger!
"No doctor like Neptune for people like him,
(Quoth O'Bluster)—his illness is merely a whim:
If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew,
He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!"
"From all that appears (said captain O'Keef)
I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef,
Nay—I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye,
He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!"
"Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner?
If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!"
At length to the Ferry we safely arrive,
Each thanking his genius he still was alive:
Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms,
The black on her face and the blue on her arms:
Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch,
For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch:
The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck,
And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck,
He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh;
And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye,
Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart
That no one regarded the song-singing art:
Yet the town was in love with his music (he said)
But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade;
That affronts and neglect were forever his lot,
And the lovers of music respected him—not;
He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains,
But they were unwilling to purchase his strains,
When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay,
The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away."