Paul Clifford. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

quiet of the Jolly Angler shall be turned out neck and crop—sha' n't he, Attie?”

      “Right about, march!” said the hero.

      “Ay, that's the word, Attie,” said Gentleman George. “And now, Mr. Pepper, if there be any ill blood 'twixt you and the lad there, wash it away in a bumper of bingo, and let's hear no more whatsomever about it.”

      “I'm willing,” cried Long Ned, with the deferential air of a courtier, and holding out his hand to Paul. Our hero, being somewhat abashed by the novelty of his situation and the rebuke of Gentleman George, accepted, though with some reluctance, the proffered courtesy.

      Order being thus restored, the conversation of the convivialists began to assume a most fascinating bias. They talked with infinite gout of the sums they had levied on the public, and the peculations they had committed for what one called the good of the community, and another, the established order—meaning themselves. It was easy to see in what school the discerning Augustus Tomlinson had learned the value of words.

      There was something edifying in hearing the rascals! So nice was their language, and so honest their enthusiasm for their own interests, you might have imagined you were listening to a coterie of cabinet ministers conferring on taxes or debating on perquisites.

      “Long may the Commons flourish!” cried punning Georgie, filling his glass; “it is by the commons we're fed, and may they never know cultivation!”

      “Three times three!” shouted Long Ned; and the toast was drunk as Mr. Pepper proposed.

      “A little moderate cultivation of the commons, to speak frankly,” said Augustus Tomlinson, modestly, “might not be amiss; for it would decoy people into the belief that they might travel safely; and, after all, a hedge or a barley-field is as good for us as a barren heath, where we have no shelter if once pursued!”

      “You talks nonsense, you spooney!” cried a robber of note, called Bagshot; who, being aged and having been a lawyer's footboy, was sometimes denominated “Old Bags.” “You talks nonsense; these innowating ploughs are the ruin of us. Every blade of corn in a common is an encroachment on the constitution and rights of the gemmen highwaymen. I'm old, and may n't live to see these things; but, mark my words, a time will come when a man may go from Lunnun to Johnny Groat's without losing a penny by one of us; when Hounslow will be safe, and Finchley secure. My eyes, what a sad thing for us that'll be!”

      The venerable old man became suddenly silent, and the tears started to his eyes. Gentleman George had a great horror of blue devils, and particularly disliked all disagreeable subjects.

      “Thunder and oons, Old Bags!” quoth mine host of the Jolly Angler, “this will never do; we're all met here to be merry, and not to listen to your mullancolly taratarantarums. I says, Ned Pepper, s'pose you tips us a song, and I'll beat time with my knuckles.”

      Long Ned, taking the pipe from his mouth, attempted, like Walter Scott's Lady Heron, one or two pretty excuses; these being drowned by a universal shout, the handsome purloiner gave the following song, to the tune of “Time has not thinned my flowing hair.”

      LONG NED'S SONG.

       Oh, if my hands adhere to cash,

       My gloves at least are clean,

       And rarely have the gentry flash

       In sprucer clothes been seen.

       Sweet Public, since your coffers must

       Afford our wants relief,

       Oh! soothes it not to yield the dust

       To such a charming thief?

      “'And John may laugh at mine,'—excellent!” cried Gentleman George, lighting his pipe, and winking at Attie; “I hears as how you be a famous fellow with the lasses.”

      Ned smiled and answered, “No man should boast; but—” Pepper paused significantly, and then glancing at Attie, said, “Talking of lasses, it is my turn to knock down a gentleman for a song, and I knock down Fighting Attie.”

      “I never sing,” said the warrior.

      “Treason, treason!” cried Pepper. “It is the law, and you must obey the law; so begin.”

      “It is true, Attie,” said Gentleman George.

      There was no appeal from the honest publican's fiat; so, in a quick and laconic manner, it being Attie's favourite dogma that the least said is the soonest mended, the warrior sung as follows:—

      FIGHTING ATTIE'S SONG.

       Air: “He was famed for deeds of arms.”

       I never robbed a single coach

       But with a lover's air;

       And though you might my course reproach,

       You never could my hair.

       Rise at six, dine at two,

       Rob your man without ado,

       Such my maxims; if you doubt

       Their wisdom, to the right-about!

      ( Signing to a sallow gentleman on the same side of the table to send up the brandy bowl.)

      Pass round the bingo—of a gun,

       You musty, dusky, husky son!

       John Bull, who loves a harmless joke,

       Is apt at me to grin;

       But why be cross with laughing folk,

       Unless they laugh and win?

       John Bull has money in his box;

       And though his wit's divine,

       Yet let me laugh at Johnny's locks,

       And John may laugh at mine

       [Much of whatever amusement might be occasioned by the not (we

       trust) ill-natured travesties of certain eminent characters in this

       part of our work when first published, like all political allusions,

       loses point and becomes obscure as the applications cease to be

       familiar. It is already necessary, perhaps, to say that Fighting

       Attie herein typifies or illustrates the Duke of Wellington's abrupt

       dismissal of Mr. Huskisson.]

       THE SALLOW GENTLEMAN (in a hoarse voice).

       Attie, the bingo's now with me;

       I can't resign it yet, d' ye see!

       ATTIE (seizing the bowl).

       Resign, resign it—cease your dust!

       (Wresting it away and fiercely regarding the sallow gentleman.)

       You have resigned it, and you must.

       CHORUS.

       You have resigned it, and you must.

      While the chorus, laughing at the discomfited tippler, yelled forth the emphatic words of the heroic Attie, that personage emptied the brandy at a draught, resumed his pipe, and in as few words as possible called on Bagshot for a song. The excellent old highwayman, with great diffidence, obeyed the request, cleared his throat, and struck off with a ditty somewhat to the tune of “The Old Woman.”

      OLD BAGS'S SONG.

       Are the days then gone, when on Hounslow Heath

       We flashed our nags,

       When the stoutest bosoms quailed beneath

       The voice of Bags?

       Ne'er was my work half undone, lest I should be nabbed

       Slow was old Bags, but he never ceased

       Till the whole was grabbed.

       CHORUS. Till the whole was grabbed.