Merrie England in the Olden Time. George Daniel

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СКАЧАТЬ of lamb's-wool within!

      This liquor was brew'd by my grandam,

      In a snug quiet still of her own;

      'Tis fit for my Lord in his tandem,

      And royal King Will on his throne.

      In the glass, see it sparkles and ripples,

      And how it runs merrily down!

      The absolute monarch of tipples,

      And richly deserving a crown!

      Of mirth 'tis the spring and the fountain,

      And Helicon's stream to the Muse;

      The pleasantest dew of the mountain—

      So give it, good fellows, its dues.

      It opens the heart of the miser,

      And conjures up truth from the knave;

      It makes my Lord Bishop look wiser—

      More frisky the curate, his slave.

      It makes the glad spirit still gladder,

      And moistens the splenetic vein;

      When I can't see a hole through a ladder,

      It mounts on the sly to my brain.

      Then push round the glasses, be cosey,

      Fill bumpers to whiskey and whim;

      Good luck to each man, while his nose he

      Hangs pleasantly over the brim!

      There's nothing remarkably odd in

      A gent who to nap is inclined;

      He can't want a blanket while noddin',

      When he's two or three sheets in the wind.

      “Sirs,” exclaimed the satirical-nosed gentleman, “I alone am to blame for this audacious vivacity of my sister's son. I turned it on, and lo! it hath inundated us with buffoonery. Sirrah!” shaking the identical plant that Dr. Johnson travelled with through the Hebrides, Tom Davies's shilling's worth for the broad shoulders of Macpherson, “thou shalt find in future that I joke with my cudgel!” *

      * “Hombre burlo yo con mi escopeta!” was the characteristic

       saying of the celebrated Spanish bandit Josse Maria.

      But it was labour in vain; the “laughing devil,” so peculiar to the eye of the middle-aged gentleman, leered ludicrous defiance to his half-smiling half-sulky mouth. As a last determined effort, he shook his head at Mr. Bosky, whereupon Mr. Bosky shook his hand. The mutual grasp was electrical, and thus ended the brief farce of Uncle Timothy's furor.

      “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bosky, in a subdued tone, “if I could believe that Uncle Timothy had been really in earnest, my penitential punch should be turned into bitter aloes, sweetened with assafoetida, to expiate an offence against the earliest, best, and dearest friend I ever knew! But I owed Uncle Timothy a revenge. Of late he has worn a serious brow, a mournful smile. There has been melancholy in his mirth, and sadness in his song; this, he well knows, cuts me to the quick; and it is not until he is angry—or, rather” (smiling affectionately at Uncle Tim) “until he thinks himself so,”—(here Uncle Tim gave Mr. Bosky one of his blandest looks) “that he is 'cockered and spirited up,' and the cloud passes away. What do I not owe to my more than father?”

      Uncle Timothy got enormously fidgety; he beat Lucifer's tattoo with his right leg, and began fumbling in both waistcoat pockets for his snuffbox.

      “A precocious young urchin, gentlemen, in every sort of mischief!” interrupted Uncle Timothy with nervous impetuosity, “on whose birch-provoking little body as many besoms were bestowed as would set up the best chandler in Christendom!”

      “An orphan too—”

      “Benjamin Bosky! Benjamin Bosky! don't—don't be a blockhead!”

      “He reared, educated, and made me what I am. And, though sometimes I may too far presume upon his good-nature, and foolishly, fondly fancy myself a boy again—”

      “Putting hot parched peas and cherry-stones into my boots, as being good for chilblains, * and strewing the inside of my bed with horse-hair to send me to sleep, after a fortnight's dancing round my room with the toothache!”

      “Three strokes from the club of Caliban would not so effectually break my head, as the reflection would break my heart that I had done aught to displease him! Now, gentlemen, the murder's out; and if for blabbing family secrets Uncle Timothy in his wrath will insist upon fining me—an extra glass of punch! in truth I must submit and sip.”

      “You see, my good friends,” said Uncle Timothy, after a short pause, “that the rogue is incorrigible! But Benjamin Bosky”—(here Uncle Tim tried to look sententious, and adopted the bowwow style)—“I cannot but blush, deeply blush for thy morals, or rather, Benjamin Bosky, for thy no-morals, when thou canst thus blurt thy flattery in my face, because I simply did a duty that kindred imposed upon me, and the sweet consciousness of performing made light and pleasant.

      * When the dreadful earthquake at Lisbon had frightened the

       English people into an apprehension of the like calamity at

       home, a quack advertised his pills as “being good for

       earthquakes.”

      What I have done was at the whisper of a higher monitor than man; and from Him alone—even if I could suppose myself worthy, which I do not—I hope for reward. He who is capable of ingratitude is incapable of any virtue. But gratitude, the most dignified return we can lavish on our benefactor, is the silent aspiration of the heart, and must not, good Benjamin, be placarded on every wall, like a play-bill, a lottery puff, or thy rigmarole ballads, three yards for a penny! There is not a being, however humble his station, but may find some deserving object to awake his friendship and share his benevolence. And be assured, dear Benjamin, that a judicious and timely distribution of fortune's good gifts is the best preparation for that final moment when we must resign them altogether.

      And when life's sweet fable ends,

      May soul and body part like friends;

      No quarrels, murmurs, no delay—

      A kiss, a sigh, and so away.”

      “As Cicero said of Plato, I say of Uncle Timothy—I would rather be wrong with him than right with anybody else. One more volunteer from the Laureate's 'three yards for a penny,' and then my nest of nightingales—”

      “Tom-tits! Benjamin Bosky, tom-tits!”

      “Well, then, tom-tits! dear Uncle Timothy—shall go to roost for the night.”

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