The Sketches of Seymour, Robert Seymour [reading books for 7 year olds .txt] 📗

/> 'Farewell to the mountain!'"

and, striking up, they played the proposed song, marching on well pleased with the unexpected appreciation of their musical talent by the kind, and munificent Molly Scraggs!


THE EATING HOUSE.


From twelve o'clock until four, the eating houses of the City are crammed with hungry clerks.

Bills of fare have not yet been introduced, - the more's the pity; but, in lieu thereof, you are no sooner seated in one of the snug inviting little settles, with a table laid for four or six, spread with a snowy cloth, still bearing the fresh quadrangular marks impressed by the mangle, and rather damp, than the dapper, ubiquitous waiter, napkin in hand, stands before you, and rapidly runs over a detailed account of the tempting viands all smoking hot, and ready to be served up.

"Beef, boiled and roast; veal and ham; line of pork, roast; leg boiled, with pease pudding; cutlets, chops and steaks, greens, taters, and pease," etc. etc.

Some are fastidious, and hesitate; the waiter, whose eyes are 'all about him,' leaves you to meditate and decide, while he hastens to inform a new arrival, and mechanically repeats his catalogue of dainties; and, bawling out at the top of his voice, "One roast beaf and one taters," you echo his words, and he straightway reports your wishes in the same voice and manner to the invisible purveyors below, and ten to one but you get a piece of boiled fat to eke out your roast meat.

In some houses, new and stale bread, at discretion, are provided; and many a stripling, lean and hungry as a greyhound, with a large appetite and a small purse, calls for a small plate, without vegetables, and fills up the craving crannies with an immoderate proportion of the staff of life, while the reckoning simply stands, "one small plate 6d., one bread 1d., one waiter 1d.;" and at this economical price satisfies the demands of his young appetite.

But still, cheap as this appears, he pays it the aggregate, for there are frequently 500 or 600 diners daily at these Establishments; and the waiter, who generally purchases his place, and provides glass, cloths, etc. not only makes a 'good thing of it,' but frequently accumulates sufficient to set up on his own account, in which case, he is almost sure of being followed by the regular customers.

For he is universally so obliging, and possesses such a memory, and an aptness in discovering the various tastes of his visitors, that he seldom fails in making most of the every-day feeders his fast friends.

"Tom, bring me a small plate of boiled beef and potatoes," cries one of his regulars. Placing his hand upon the table-cloth; and knocking off the crumbs with his napkin, he bends to the gentleman, and in a small. confidential voice informs him,

"The beef won't do for you, Sir, - it's too low, it's bin in cut a hour. Fine ribs o' lamb, jist up."

"That will do, Tom," says the gratified customer.

"Grass or spinach, Sir? fine 'grass,' - first this season."

"Bring it, and quick, Tom," replies the gentleman, pleased with the assiduous care he takes in not permitting him to have an indifferent cut of a half cold joint.

The most extraordinary part of the business is, the ready manner in which he 'casts up' all you have eaten, takes the reckoning, and then is off again in a twinkling.

A stranger, and one unaccustomed to feed in public, is recognised in a moment by his uneasy movements. He generally slinks into the nearest vacant seat, and is evidently taken aback by the apparently abrupt and rapid annunciation of the voluble and active waiter, and, in the hurry and confusion, very frequently decides upon the dish least pleasant to his palate.

A respectable gentleman of the old school, of a mild and reverend appearance, and a lean and hungry figure, once dropped into a settle where we were discussing a rump steak and a shallot, tender as an infant, and fragrant as a flower garden! Tom pounced upon him in a moment, and uttered the mystic roll. The worthy senior was evidently confused and startled, but necessity so far overcame his diffidence that he softly said,

"A small portion of veal and ham, well done."

Tom, whirled round, continuing the application of his eternal napkin to a tumbler which he was polishing, bawled out in a stentorian voice,

"Plate o' weal, an' dam well done!"

We shall never sponge from the slate of our memory the utter astonishment expressed in the bland countenance of the startled old gentleman at this peculiar echo of his wishes.


SCENE X.(b)

"This is a werry lonely spot, Sir; I wonder you ar'n't afeard of being robbed."


Job Timmins was a tailor bold, And well he knew his trade, And though he was no fighting man Had often dress'd a blade!

Quoth he, one day - "I have not had A holiday for years, So I'm resolv'd to go and fish, And cut for once the shears."

So donning quick his Sunday's suit, He took both rod and line, And bait for fish - and prog for one, And eke a flask of wine.

For he was one who loved to live, And said - "Where'er I roam I like to feed - and though abroad, To make myself at home."

Beneath a shady grove of trees He sat him down to fish, And having got a cover, he Long'd much to get a dish.

He cast his line, and watch'd his float, Slow gliding down the tide; He saw it sink! he drew it up, And lo! a fish he spied.

He took the struggling gudgeon off, And cried - "I likes his looks, I wish he'd live - but fishes die Soon as they're - off the hooks!"

At last a dozen more he drew - (Fine-drawing 'twas to him!) But day past by - and twilight came, All objects soon grew dim.

"One more!" he cried, "and then I'll pack, And homeward trot to sup," - But as he spoke, he heard a tread, Which caused him to look up.

Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed Upon the stranger's face; For cut purse! robber! all too plain, His eye could therein trace.

"Them's werry handsome boots o' yourn," The ruffian smiling cried, "Jist draw your trotters out - my pal - And we'll swop tiles, besides."

"That coat too, is a pretty fit - Don't tremble so - for I Von't rob you of a single fish, I've other fish to fry."

Poor Timmins was obliged to yield Hat, coat, and boots - in short He was completely stripp'd - and paid Most dearly for his "sport."

And as he homeward went, he sigh'd - "Farewell to stream and brook; O! yes, they'll catch me there again A fishing - with a hook!"


GONE!


Along the banks, at early dawn, Trudged Nobbs and Nobbs's son, With rod and line, resolved that day Great fishes should be won.

At last they came unto a bridge, Cried Nobbs, "Oh! this is fine!" And feeling sure 'twould answer well, He dropp'd the stream a line.

"We cannot find a fitter place, If twenty miles we march; Its very look has fix'd my choice, So knowing and - so arch!"

He baited and he cast his line, When soon, to his delight, He saw his float bob up and down, And lo! he had a bite!

"A gudgeon, Tom, I think it is!" Cried Nobbs, "Here, take the prize; It weighs a pound - in its own scales, I'm quite sure by its size."

He cast again his baited hook, And drew another up! And cried, "We are in luck to-day, How glorious we shall sup!"

All in the basket Tommy stow'd The piscatory spoil; Says Nobbs, "We've netted two at least, Albeit we've no toil."

Amazed at his own luck, he threw The tempting bait again, And presently a nibble had - A bite! he pull'd amain!

His rod beneath the fish's weight Now bent just like a bow, "What's this?" cried Nobbs; his son replied, "A salmon, 'tis, I know."

And sure enough a monstrous perch, Of six or seven pounds, He from the water drew, whose bulk Both dad and son confounds.

"O! Gemini!" he said, when he "O! Pisces!" should have cried; And tremblingly the wriggling fish Haul'd to the bridge's side.

When, lo! just as he stretched his hand To grasp the perch's fin, The slender line was snapp'd in twain, The perch went tumbling in!

"Gone! gone! by gosh!" scream'd Nobbs, while Tom Too eager forward bent, And, with a kick, their basket quick Into the river sent.


THE PRACTICAL JOKER. - No. I.


Those wags who are so fond of playing off their jokes upon others, require great skill and foresight to prevent the laugh being turned against themselves.

Jim Smith was an inveterate joker, and his jokes were, for the most part, of the practical kind. He had a valuable tortoiseshell cat, whose beauty was not only the theme of praise with all the old maids in the neighbourhood, but her charms attracted the notice of numerous feline gentlemen dwelling in the vicinity, who were, nocturnally, wont to pay their devoirs by that species of serenades, known under the cacophonous name of caterwauling.

One very ugly Tom, (who, it was whispered abroad, was a great - grandfather, and scandalously notorious for gallantries unbecoming a cat of his age) was particularly obnoxious to our hero; and, in an unlucky moment, he resolved to 'pickle him,' as he facetiously termed it. Now his process of pickling consisted in mixing a portion of prussic acid in milk. Taking the precaution to call in his own pet and favorite, he placed the potion in the accustomed path of her long-whiskered suitor. Tom finding the coast clear slipped his furry body over the wall, and dropped gently as a lady's glove into the garden, and slily smelling the flower-borders, as if he were merely amusing himself in the elegant study of botany, stealthily approached the house, and uttering a low plaintive 'miau,' to attract the attention of his dear Minx, patiently awaited the appearance of his true-love.

Minx heard the voice she loved so well, and hurried to meet her ancient beau. A slight noise, however, alarmed his timidity, and he scaled the wall in a twinkling.

Presently the screams of the maid assured him that 'something had taken place;' and when he heard the words, "Oh! the cat! the cat!" he felt quite certain that the potion had taken effect. He walked deliberately down stairs, and behold! there lay Miss Minx, his own favorite, struggling in the agonies of death, on the parlor rug. The fact is, he had shut the doors, but forgotten that the window was open, and the consequence was, the loss of poor Minx, who had drunk deep of the malignant poison designed for her gallant.

This was only one of a thousand tricks that had miscarried.

Having one day ascertained that his acquaintance, Tom Wilkins, was gone out 'a-shooting,' he determined to way-lay him on his return.

It was a beautiful moonlight night in the latter end of October. Disguising himself in a demoniac mask, a pair of huge wings, and a forked tail, he seated himself on a stile in the sportsman's path.

Anon he espied the weary and