“No, Sir!” repeated he. “Those who sow should reap. I've no children—I'm an idle fellow—a drone, sir—and won't consent to consume all the honey. Don't speak, sir—read that!” and he pulled a parchment from his pocket.
It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge, Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler's son,
ANDREW MULLINS.
A RIGMAROLE.—PART I.
“De omnibus rebus.”
THE evening is calm—the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house, which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public—all nature, etc.—the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree—the sweet-voiced pot-boy has commenced his rounds with “early beer,” and with leathern lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act—greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood—“Baked sheeps' heads, hot!”—O! savoury morsel!—May no legislative measure ever silence this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling—may the tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep's head!
“I never sees a sheep's head, but I thinks on you,” said Mrs. Spriggins, whose physiognomy was as yellow and as wrinkled as a duck's foot. Spriggins whipped his horse, for they were driving in a one-horse chaise, with two boys, and an infant in arms—Spriggins whipped his horse spitefully, for Mrs. S.'s sarcasm inspired him with a splenetic feeling; and as he durst not chastise her, the animal received the benefit of her impetus. Spriggins was a fool by nature, and selfish by disposition. Mrs. S. was a shrivelled shrew, with a “bit o' money;”—that was the bait at which he, like a hungry gudgeon, had seized, and he was hooked! The “spousals” had astonished the vulgar—the little nightingale of Twickenham would have only smiled; for has he not sweetly sung—
“There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late
She finds some honest gander for her mate;”