Page:Punch vol 1.djvu/12



A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HACKNEY-COACH HORSES.

KINDLY COMMUNICATED BY OUR DOG "TOBY.”

,—I was a-sitting the other evening at the door of my kennel, thinking of the dog-days and smoking my pipe (blessings on you, master, for teaching me that art!), when one of your prospectuses was put into my paw by a spaniel that lives as pet-dog in a nobleman’s family. Lawk, sir! what misfortunes can have befallen you, that you are obleeged to turn author?

I remember the poor devil as used to supply us with dialect—what a face he had! It was like a mouth-organ turned edgeways; and he looked as hollow as the big drum, but warn’t half so round and noisy. You can’t have dwindled down to that, surely! I couldn’t bear to see your hump and pars pendula (that’s dog Latin) shrunk up like dried almonds, and titivated out in rusty-fusty toggery—I’m sure I couldn’t! The very thought of it is like a pound weight at the end of my tail.

I whined like any thing, calling to my missus–for you must know that I’ve married as handsome a Scotch terrier as you ever see. "Vixen,” says I, "here’s the poor old governor up at last—I knew that Police Act would drive him to something desperate.”

"Why he hasn’t hung himself in earnest, and summoned you on his inquest!” exclaimed Mrs. T.

"Worse nor that,” says I; ”he’s turned author, and in course is stewed up in some wery elevated apartment during this blessed season of the year, when all nature is wagging with delight, and the fairs is on, and the police don’t want nothing to do to warm ’em, and consequentially sees no harm in a muster of infantry in bye-streets. It’s very hawful.”

Vixen sighed and scratched her ear with her right leg, so I know’d she’d something in her head, for she always does that when anything tickles her.

"Toby,” says she, ”go and see the old gentleman; perhaps it might comfort him to larrup you a little.”

"Very well,” says I, I’ll be off at once; so put me by a bone or two for supper, should any come out while I’m gone; and if you can get the puppies to sleep before I return, I shall be so much obleeged to you.” Saying which, I toddled off for Wellington-street. I had just got to the coach-stand at Hyde Park Corner, when who should I see labelled as a waterman but the one-eyed chap we once had as a orchestra—he as could only play "Jim Crow” and the "Soldier Tired.” Thinks I, I may as well pass the compliment of the day with him; so I creeps under the hackney-coach he was standing alongside on, intending to surprise him; but just as I was about to pop out he ran off the stand to un-nosebag a cab-horse. Whilst I was waiting for him to come back, I hears the off-side horse in the wehicle make the following remark:–

–(twisting his tail about like anything).–Curse the flies!

—You may say that. I’ve had one fellow tickling me this half-hour.

–Ours is a horrid profession! Phew! the sun actually penetrates my vertebrae.

—Werterbee! What’s that?

—(impatiently),—The spine, my friend (whish! whish!)

—Ah! it is a shameful thing to dock us as they does. If the marrow in one’s backbone should melt, it would be sartin to run out at the tip of one’s tail. I say, how’s your feed?

.—Very indifferent—the chaff predominates—(munch) not bene by any means.

.—Beany! Lord bless your ignorance! I should be satisfied if they’d only make it oaty now and then. How long have you been in the hackney line?

.—I have occupied my present degraded position about two years. Little thought my poor mama, when I was foaled, that I should ever come to this.

.—Ah! it ain’t very respectable, is it?—especially since the cabs and busses have druv over our heads. What was you put to?—you look as if you had been well brought up.

.—My mama was own sister to Lottery, but unfortunately married a horse much below her in pedigree. I was the produce of that union. At five years old I entered the army under Ensign Dashard.

—Bless me, how odd! I was bought at Horncastle, to serve in the dragoons; but the wetternary man found out I’d a splint, and wouldn’t have me. I say, ain’t that stout woman with a fat family looking at us?

.—I’m afraid she is. People of her grade in society are always partial to a dilatory shillingworth.

.—Ay, and always lives up Snow-hill, or Ludgate-hill, or Mutton-hill, or a hill somewhere.

.—Coach!

.—She’s a hailing us! I wonder whether she’s narvous? I’ll let out with my hind leg a bit—(kick)—O Lord! the rheumatiz!

.—Pray don’t. I abjure subterfuges; they are unworthy of a thoroughbred.

.—Thoroughbred? I like that! Haven’t you just acknowledged that you were a cocktail? Thank God! she’s moving on. Hallo! there’s old Readypenny!—a willanous Tory.

.—I beg to remark that my principles are Conservative.

.—And I beg to remark that mine isn’t, I sarved Readypenny out at Westminster ’lection the other day. He got into our coach to go to the poll, and I wouldn’t draw an inch. I warn’t agoing to take up a plumper for Rous.

.—I declare the obese female returns.

.—Coach! Hallo! Coach!

.—Here you is, ma’am. Kuck! kuck! kuck!—Come along!—(Pulling the coach and horses).

.—O heavens! I am too stiff to move, and this brute will pull my head off.

.—Keep it on one side, and you spiles his purchase.

.—Come up, you old brute!

.—Old brute! What evidence of a low mind!—[The stout woman and fat family ascend the steps of the coach].

.—O law! oh, law! Week! week! O law!—O law! Week! week!

.—Do you hear how the poor old thing’s a sufferin’?—She must feel it a good deal to have her squabs sat on by everybody as can pay for her. She was built by Pearce, of Long-acre, for the Duchess of Dorsetshire. I wonder her perch don’t break—she has been crazy a long time.

.—Snow-hill—opposite the Saracen’s Head.

.—I know’d it!

.—Kuck! kuck!

.—Whack! whack!

.—Pull away, my dear fellow; a little extra exertion may save us from flagellation.

.—Well, I’m pulling, ain’t I?

.—I don’t like to dispute your word; but—(whack)—Oh! that was an abrasion on my shoulder.

.—A raw you mean. Who’s not pulling now, I should like to know!

.—I couldn’t help hopping then; you know what a grease I have in my hind leg.

.—Well, haven’t I a splint and a corn, and ain’t one of my fore fetlocks got a formoses, and my hind legs the stringhalt?

.—Stop! stop!

.—Whoo up!—d—n you!

.—There goes my last masticator!

.—And I’m blow’d if he hasn’t jerked my head so that he’s given me a crick in the neck; but never mind; if she does get out here, we shall save the hill.

.—Three doors higher up.

.–Chuck! chuck!

.—Whack! whack!

.—Come up, you varmint!

.—Varmint! and to me! the nephew of the great Lottery! O Pegasus: what shall I come to next!

.—Alamode beef, may be, or perhaps pork sassages!

The old woman was so long in that house where she stopped, that I was obleeged to toddle home, for my wife has a rather unpleasant way of taking me by the scruff of my neck if I ain’t pretty regular in my hours. Yours, werry obediently, TOBY.

COURT CIRCULAR.

exclusively to this Journal by, whose services we have succeeded in retaining, though opposed by the enlightened manager of a metropolitan theatre, whose anxiety to advance the interest of the drama is only equalled by his ignorance of the means.

the dissolution of Parliament, Lord Melbourne has confined himself entirely to stews.

have been fitted up in the Royal nursery for the reception of two Alderney cows, preparatory to the weaning of the infant Princess; which, delicate duty Mrs. Lilly commences on Monday next.

has been seen several times this week in close consultation with the chief cook. Has he been offered the premiership?

, "the amateur turner," has been a frequent visitor at the palace of late. Palmerston, it is whispered, has been receiving lessons in the art. We are surprised to hear this, for we always considered his lordship a Talleyrand in turning.

A QUARTER-DAY COGITATION. By winter’s chill the fragrant flower is nipp’d,
 * To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring;

The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripp’d,
 * A fresher foliage on each branch to bring;

The aerial songster moults his plumerie,
 * To vie in sleekness with each feather’d brother:

A twelvemonth’s wear hath ta’en thy nap from thee,
 * My seedy coat!—When shall I get another?

.—Confiding tailors are entreated to send their addresses, pre-paid, to office.

–None need apply who refuse three years’ acceptances. If the bills be made renewable by agreement, "continuations” will be taken in any quantity.—.