"By butchers born, by bishops bred,
How high his honour holds his haughty head."
Notwithstanding which, however, and other similar allusions, there have arisen many disputes touching the veracity of the assertion; yet, doubtless, those who first promulgated the idea, were keen observers of men and manners; and, probably, in the critical examination of the Cardinal's character, discovered a particular trait which indubitably satisfied them of his origin.
Be this as it may, I am inclined to think there is certainly something peculiarly characteristic in the butcher.
The pursuit of his calling appears to have an influence upon his manners, speech, and dress. Of all the days in the week, Saturday is the choicest for seeing him to the best advantage. His hatless head, shining with grease, his cheeks as ruddy as his mutton-chops, his sky-blue frock and dark-blue apron, his dangling steel and sharp-set knife, which ever and anon play an accompaniment to his quick, short—"Buy! buy!" are all in good keeping with the surrounding objects. And although this be not killing day with him, he is particularly winning and gracious with the serving-maids; who (whirling the large street-door key about their right thumb, and swinging their marketing basket in their left hand) view the well-displayed joints, undecided which to select, until Mr. Butcher recommends a leg or a loin; and then he so very politely cuts off the fat, in which his skilful hand is guided by the high or low price of mutton fat in the market. He is the very antipode of a fop, yet no man knows how to show a handsome leg off to better advantage, or is prouder of his calves.
In his noviciate, when he shoulders the shallow tray, and whistles cavalierly on his way in his sausage-meat-complexioned-jacket, there is something marked as well in his character as his habits, he is never moved to stay, except by a brother butcher, or a fight of dogs or boys, for such scenes fit his singular fancy. Then, in the discussion of his bull-dog's beauties, he becomes extraordinarily eloquent. Hatiz, the Persian, could not more warmly, or with choicer figure, describe his mistress' charms, than he does Lion's, or Fowler's, or whatever the brute's Christian name may be; and yet the surly, cynical, dogged expression of the bepraised beast, would almost make one imagine he understood the meaning of his master's words, and that his honest nature despised the flattering encomiums he passes upon his pink belly and legs, his broad chest, his ring-tail, and his tulip ears!—Absurdities, in Prose and Verse.
CONFIDENCE AND CREDIT.
(For the Mirror.)
The day was dark, the markets dull,
The Change was thin, Gazettes were full,
And half the town was breaking;
The counter-sign of Cash was "Stop!"
Bankers and bankrupts shut up shop,
And honest hearts were aching.
When near the Bench my fancy spied
A faded form, with hasty stride,
Beneath Grief's burden stooping:
Her name was CREDIT, and she said
Her father, TRADE, was lately dead,
Her mother, COMMERCE, drooping.
The smile that she was wont to wear
Was wither'd by the hand of care,
Her eyes had lost their lustre:
Her character was gone, she said,
For she had basely been betray'd,
And nobody would trust her.
For honest INDUSTRY had tried
To gain fair CREDIT for his bride,
And found the damsel willing,
But, ah! a fortune-hunter came,
And SPECULATION was his name,
A rake not worth a shilling.
The villain came, on mischief bent,
And soon gain'd dad and mam's consent—
Ah! then poor CREDIT smarted;—
He filch'd her fortune and her fame,
He fix'd a blot upon her name,
And left her broken-hearted.
While thus poor CREDIT seem'd to sigh,
Her cousin, CONFIDENCE, came by—
(Methinks he must be clever)—
For, when he whisper'd in her ear,
She check'd the sigh, she dried the tear.
And smiled as sweet as ever!
JESSE HAMMOND.