Only see how she throws out her chancy!
Her basins, and teapots, and all
The most brittle of her goods—or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall:
Such things are not surely the best
From a two-story window to throw—
She might save a good iron bound chest,
For there’s plenty of people below!
O dear! what a beautiful flash!
How it shone thro’ the window and door;
We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,
When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!
There! there! what a volley of flame,
And then suddenly all is obscur’d!—
Well—I’m glad in my heart that I came;—
But I hope the poor man is insur’d!
There are ballads in the “New Series” that rival “Sally Brown and Ben the Carpenter” in the former volume. Of this class are “Mary’s Ghost;” the story of “Tim Turpin,” mentioned before; and another of “Jack Hall,” showing, how Jack was an undertaker’s mute—how Jack sometimes drove the hearse—how Jack was in league with resurrection-men, and stole the bodies he buried—how Death met Jack in St. Pancras burying-ground, and shook hands with him—how Death invited Jack home to supper—how Jack preferred going to the Cheshire Cheese, and Death didn’t—how Jack was brought to Death’s door, and what he saw there—how Jack was obliged to go in, and Death introduced him to his friends as “Mr. Hall the body-snatcher”—how Jack got off without bidding them good night—how Jack was indisposed—how twelve doctors came to visit Jack without taking fees—how Jack got worse, and how he confessed he had sold his own body twelve different times to the twelve doctors—how the twelve doctors did not know Jack was so bad—how the twelve doctors disputed in Jack’s room which should have his body till twelve o’clock—how Jack then departed, the twelve doctors couldn’t tell how—and how, as Jack’s body could not be found, the twelve doctors departed, and not one of them was satisfied.
In the forementioned ballads there are many “verbal misdemeanours,” at which the author cautiously hints in his preface with some tokens of deprecation:—“Let me suggest,” he says, “that a pun is somewhat like a cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition—of duplicity of meaning—yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I have refrained from putting the majority in italics.” He is equally sinful and considerate in his prose: as, for instance, in the following character, which fairly claims a place with those of bishop Earle, sir Thomas Overbury, and even Butler.
“A Ballad Singer
Is a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger hath made him a wind instrument; his want is vocal, and not he. His voice had gone a-begging before he took it up and applied it to the same trade it was too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair. His business is to make popular songs unpopular,—he gives the air, like a weathercock, with many variations. As for a key, he has but one—a latch-key—for all manner of tunes; and as they are to pass current amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his notes like a country banker’s, as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound, for he sounds for copper; and for the musical divisions he hath no regard, but sings on, like a kettle, without taking any heed of the bars. Before beginning he clears his pipe with gin; and he is always hoarse from the thorough draft in his throat. He hath but one shake, and that is in winter. His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches breath, like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Notwithstanding all this his music gains ground, for it walks with him from end to end of the street.
“He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties for a song; for he will chant, without asking, to a street cur or a parish post. His only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing that he never dines; for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings very commonly in vain. As for his country, he is an Englishman, that by his birthright may sing whether he can or not. To conclude, he is reckoned passable in the city, but is not so good off the stones.”
An incurable joker subjects himself to the inconvenience of not being believed, though he speak the truth; and therefore the following declaration of the author of “Whims and Oddities” is questionable. He says:—
“A Mad Dog
Is none of my bugbears. Of the bite of dogs, large ones especially, I have a reasonable dread; but as to any participation in the canine frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. The notion savours of the same fanciful superstition that invested the subjects of Dr. Jenner with a pair of horns. Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine matter—and I shall believe what I have heard of the canine virus, when I see a rabid gentleman, or gentlewoman, with flap ears, dew-claws, and a brushtail!——