Meanwhile that old man standing by,
Subducted his long coat-tails on high,
With his back to the fire, as if to dry
A part of his dress which the watery sky
Had visited rather inclemently.—
Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly,
And something sinister lurk'd in his eye,
Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in,
You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing;
He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots,
With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes,
His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose,
And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose,
So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose
That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.
Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present,
And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.
The old woman, too,
Made a mighty ado,
Helping her guest to a deal of the stew;
She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that,
She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat.
And it look'd like Hare—but it might have been Cat.
The little garcons too strove to express
Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress"
With a great deal of juvenile French politesse;
But the Bagman bluff
Continued to "stuff"
Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough,
Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!"
And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable,
Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!
I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,
That says,
"Good Eatynge
Deserveth good Drynkynge."
You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn,
And a very good proverb it is to my thinking.
Blogg thought so too;—
As he finish'd his stew,
His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!"
Pronounced by the old woman under her breath.
Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!"
He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing
Which is almost synonymous,—namely, "Blue Ruin."
So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee,
In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!"
Which made her understand he
Was asking for brandy;
So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy,
Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it,
An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it;
In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his,
Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"—
—And here by the way
Allow me to say,
Kind Reader—you sometimes permit me to stray—
'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing,
So inferior to us in the science of cursing:
Kick a Frenchman down stairs,
How absurdly he swears!
And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly,
Roar out in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"
"To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:—
Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression
As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one;
Too little he heeded,
How fast they succeeded.
Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did;
For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps
It's amazing to think
How one "cottons" to Drink!
At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps,
There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.
Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry,
Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy,
—"Did not like to deny"—
"Felt obliged to comply"
Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;"
For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup,
Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup,
At length the fumes rose
To his brain; and his nose
Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze,
And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."—
His queer-looking host,
Who, firm at his post,
During all the long meal had continued to toast
That garment 't were rude to
Do more than allude to,
Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views
Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:"
So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw,
With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!"
And "marshal'd" him so
"The way he should go,"
Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low,
Without table or chair.
Or a movable there,
Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair,
That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.—
With a grin and a shrug
The host points to the rug,
Just as much as to say, "There!—I think you'll be snug!"
Puts the light on the floor,
Walks to the door,
Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more;
When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread,
To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread,
The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!—
—It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright,
And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right;
As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night
Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white.
Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite,
To find that the Ghost
Is merely a post.
Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most;
Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin
To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in,"
And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze
Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze,
Inducing a dread
Of a knock on the head,
Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead
Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men,
It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"—
Then the blood flows again
Through artery and vein;
You're delighted with what just before gave you pain;
You laugh at your fears—and your friend in the fog
Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg
Now bestow'd on HIS friend—the great curly-tail'd Dog.
For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place
On each side his neck in a canine embrace,
And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face,
And he waggled his tail as much as to say,
"Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!"
And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up,
What, beyond all doubt,
He might have found out
Before, had he not been so eager to sup,
'T was Sancho!—the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!—
The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair—
The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there—
The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!
It's passing sweet,
An absolute treat,
When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet—
With what warmth and affection each other they greet!
Especially too, as we very well know,
If there seems any chance of a little cadeau,
A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show,
In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so,
That our friends don't forget us, although they may go
To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.
If some little advantage seems likely to start,
From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,
It's surprising to see how it softens the heart,
And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest,
Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest
But, it was not so here;
For although it is clear,
When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,
E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,
And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog
Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,
Yet he, first of all, ceased
To encourage the beast,
Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;"
And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,
He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!"
So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown,
And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"
But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing,
Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing,
Using paws, tail, and head,
As if he had said,
"Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed;
You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!"
Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose,
Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,
Spite of all he could do,
The Dog jump'd up too,
And kept him awake with his very cold nose;
Scratching and whining,
And moaning and pining,
Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in
Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length
The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.