Hercules would fain have joined the truant set, and, at the first commotion, up went his great back, and down went his ears, with a single lash out behind that meant mischief, but Mr. Sponge was on the alert, and just gave him such a dig with his spurs as restored order, without exposing anything that anybody could take exception to. The sudden storm was quickly lulled. The spilt ones scrambled up; the loose riders got tighter hold of their horses; the screaming fair ones sunk languidly in their carriages; and the late troubled ocean of equestrians fell into irregular line en route for the cover. Bump, bump, bump; trot, trot, trot; jolt, jolt, jolt; shake, shake, shake; and carriages and cavalry got to Ribston Wood somehow or other. It is a large long cover on a hill-side, which parties, placing themselves in the green valley below, can see hounds "draw," that is to say, run through with their noses to the ground, if there are any men foolish enough to believe there are women who care for seeing such things. However, there they were. "Eu leu, in!" cries old Tom, with a waive of his arm, finding he can no longer restrain the ardour of the pack as they approach, and thinking to save his credit by appearing to direct. "Eu leu, in!" repeats he, with a heartier cheer, as the pack charge the rotten fence with a crash that echoes through the wood. The whips scuttle off to their respective points, gentlemen feel their horses' girths, hats are thrust firmly on the head, and the sherry and brandy flasks begin to be drained. "Tally ho!" cries a countryman at the top of the wood, hoisting his hat on a stick. At the magic sound, fear comes over some, joy over others, intense anxiety over all. What commotion! What indecision! What confusion! "Which way?-Which way?" is the cry. "Twang, twang, twang," goes old Tom's horn at the top of the wood, whither he seems to have flown, so quick has he got there. A dark-coated gentleman on a good family horse solves the important question"Which way?"-by diving at once into the wood, crashing along till he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, when the scene opening to " open fresh fields and pastures new," discloses divers other sections struggling up in long drawn files, following other leaders, all puffing, and wheezing, and holding on by the manes, many feeling as if they had had enough already-"Quick!" is the word, for the last of the tail-hounds are flying the fence out of the first field after the body of the pack, which are running almost mute at best pace beyond, looking a good deal less than is agreeable to the eyes of a sportsman. “F—0—0—r—rard!" screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy, some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing to know if there was any thing on the far side. Now Tom tops another fence rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird; still "F-o-o-r-rard!" is the cry-away they go at racing pace. The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the end, and many-the fair and fat ones in particular-seeing the hopelessness of the case, pull to their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a view. Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward, though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go the smaller the point of the telescope becomes. The pace is awful; many would give in but for the ladies. At the end of a mile or so, the determined ones show to the front, and the spirters and "make believes" gladly avail themselves of their pioneering propensities. Mr. Soapey Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, the great striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, and taking his leaps safely and well. He now shows to the front, and old Tom, who is still "F-o-o-r-rard-ing" to his hounds, either rather falls back to the field or the field draw upon him. At all events they get together somehow. A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on each side, tries their mettle and the stoutness of their hats; crash they get through it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten branches resembling the outburst of a fire. Several gentlemen here decline under cover of the trees. “F—0—0—r—rard!" screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fence and lands in the field outside the plantation. He might have saved his breath, for the hounds were beating him as it was. Mr. Sponge bores through the same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done to clear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake. The field is now reduced to six, and two of the number, Mr. Spareneck and Caingey Thornton, become marked in their attention to our hero. Thornton is riding Mr. Waffles' crack steeple-chaser "Dare-Devil," and Mr. Spareneck is on a first-rate hunter belonging to the same gentleman, but they have not been able to get our friend Soapey into grief. On the contrary, his horse, though lathered, goes as strong as ever, and Mr. Sponge, seeing their design, is as careful of him as possible, so as not to lose ground. His fine, strong, steady seat and quiet handling, contrasts well with Thornton's rolling, bucketing style, who has already begun to ply a heavy cutting whip, in aid of his spurs at his fences, accompanied with half frantic "g-u-r-r-r along!" and inquiries at the horse of, "Damn you, do you think I stole you?" The three soon get in front; fast as they go, the hounds go faster, and fence after fence is thrown behind them as easily as a girl throws her skipping-rope. Tom and the whips follow, grinning, with their tongues in their cheeks, Tom still screeching "F-0-0-0-rard!—F—0—0—0—rard!" at intervals. A big stone wall, built with mortar, and coped with heavy blocks of stone, is taken by the three abreast, for which they are rewarded by a gallop up Stretchfurrow pasture, from the summit of which they see the hounds streaming away to a fine grass country below, with pollard willows dotted here and there in the bottom. "Water!" says our friend Sponge to himself, wondering whether Hercules would face it. A desperate black bullfinch, so thick that they could hardly see through it, is shirked by consent, for a gate which a countryman opens, and another fence or two being passed, the splashing of some hounds in the water, and the shaking of others on the opposite bank, show that, as usual, the willows are pretty true prophets. Caingey, grinning his coarse red face nearly double, and getting his horse well by the head, rams in the spurs, and flourishes his cutting whip high in air, with a "g-u-u-ur along! damn you, do you think I"-the "stole you" being lost by their disappearing under water just as Soapey Sponge clears it a little lower down. Spareneck then pulls up. WHETHER beggars have more love for each other than lawyers, actors, politicians, or any other class of people who live by their wits, may admit of a question; but all agree that the race is a thriving one, and to thrive as this world goes-is to be happy. The poet, however, in the celebrated song quoted above, makes their happiness consist in their actual poverty. He says Oui, le bonheur est facile Au sein de la pauvreté; and, with a noble scorn, rejects the creature-comforts on which too many rely D'un palais l'éclat vous frappe, Mais l'ennui vient y gémir. On peut bien manger sans nappe; This is all very well for the Miltons, the Andrew Marvells, and the De Bérangers, but professional beggars entertain very different notions. As much seeming poverty, but as little of the reality as you please, is their motto. They are careless about table-cloths and indifferent to the luxury of eider-down, but they look for substantial meals, and when they do sleep on straw take care there is always plenty of it. Still the bonâ-fide beggars are satisfied, if not with poverty, at all events with the position which they create for themselves. Brome, a dramatic writer who seems to have entered fully into their sentiments, makes the hero in his comedy of the "Jovial Crew," exclaim, "Beggars! they are the only people can boast the benefit of a free state, in the full enjoyment of liberty, mirth, and ease; having all things in common, and nothing wanting of nature's whole provision within the reach of their desires." The "Criado," who wrote the life of Gusman d'Alfarache, and had his own experience to guide him, offers the following testimony: "La vie d'un gueux est un morceau sans os, un enchaînement de plaisirs, un emploi exempt de chagrins." And Dekker, who seems to have constituted himself the master of the ceremonies to the whole confraternity, declares that "To be a beggar is to be a brave man, because 'tis now in fashion for very brave men to beg. The whole kingdom is but his walke, a whole city is but his parish, in every man's kitchen is his meat drest, in every man's celler is his beere" (a good deal of this is true also of the modern policeman), "and the best men's purses keep a penny for him to shew." It may be objected that this view of the beggar's condition is merely a poetical one, and that men become beggars only from necessity; but I apprehend, if one of the tribe were able enough to write their history, and willing enough to do so conscientiously, it would be found that the poetical view of the question is not very far from the truth. If for the love of liberty we substitute the dislike of all restraint; for labour idleness; for moderate enjoyment license; for industry its fruits without its toil, we have the whole aim of the beggar's life; and there are not a few to whom this state of things presents a very poetical and pleasing aspect. It may not, perhaps, be every one who makes it his summum bonum to swagger And be drunk like a beggar, but to be happy after his own fashion is what scarcely anybody objects to. And this no doubt is the reason why the ranks of the mendicant army are so well filled. The pay may be precarious, but it is earned without compulsion, and your genuine beggar detests compulsion as heartily as Falstaff himself. A system of begging, more or less organised, has prevailed in all countries and at all times. In modern Europe it originated doubtless in the wars of the fifteenth century, when the disbanded or unemployed soldier, unwilling to work, begged what he durst not steal. The progress of civilisation, and the consequent increase of wealth, eventually made that a profession which at first was the effect of accident, and the scheme offered too many attractions to admit of its being neglected. In our own country, to which I purpose chiefly to confine my remarks, the early history of the beggars is stated with sufficient precision. The writer who, under the name of Martin Mark-all, published "The Beadle of Bridewell's Apology," in 1610, details the regular course of succession of the monarchs of this newly-erected kingdom. The first who attained the dignity in England was, he says, Jack Cade, to whom he gives the alias of Jack Mendal, meaning probably Mend-all, his alleged mission being to mend all the rents in the state. As Shakspeare says, "Jack Cade, the clothier, means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it." This well-remembered worthy was succeeded by Hugh Roberts, surnamed "Blue-beard," of whom we learn nothing more remarkable than that his immediate followers were called " Roberdsmen," a distinction which afterwards denoted a particular order of beggars. He disappeared about the year 1462, in the early part of the reign of Edward IV. Jenkin Cowdiddle was the next King of the Beggars, and his reign lasted ten years-a very legitimate span; it was put an end to, together with himself, at the famous battle of Tewkesbury in 1471. Jenkin Cowdiddle appears to have been one of the earliest legislators of his people. Here is one of his laws: "Hee commanded that all beggars should spend all their gettings in the day past in good beere or ale at night, or at the fardest by Saturday night; and if any were found or known to have above twopence halfpenny in his purse on Monday morning, he should forfeit a dousen of beere to any whatsoever of the company should challenge it." Spising, who succeeded Cowdiddle, had in his character some points of resemblance to that of the reigning monarch. He was "a man given to voluptuousness, pleasure, and delight, in bowsing, &c.," but knew how to temper the delights of royalty with its graver duties. He it was who made the rules and regulations for "stauling to the order of rogues,” an order which, for antiquity if not for exclusiveness, may safely compare with the Order of the Garter. It had one advantage, however, the ceremony was somewhat cheaper: a dozen of beer being the price paid for "freedom of instalment." According to Martin Mark-all, "hee domineered," as kings will do," about eleven yeares," passing away, in all likelihood beneath the Caudine Forks, in the year 1482. The next sovereign was " a notable, swaggering rogue, called Puffing Dicke." He appears, like Henry VII., his contemporary, to have studied his own personal advantage, and have filled his coffers almost as reputably as the protector of Empson and Dudley, for we find it recorded of him that "he used first the cousenage at dice, and invented for that purpose false dice, whereby he got much money." He closed his career in 1490. The royal wallet and staff devolved then upon Laurence Crosbiter, who bequeathed nothing to his successors, but an invention called, after his name, " cros-biting," a trade whose nature I am unwilling to describe. In 1496, Skelton, one of Perkin Warbeck's followers, a tailor of Taunton, was "stauled as rogue, and became their general." His reign lasted five years. Though originally a man of war, he cultivated the arts of peace, as the following extract from his ordinances will show: "If any one using the necessary help of his crutches" (for show) "shall at any time forsake them for a tyme, either to runne for a wager with another, or to play at nine holes, loggets, or bowles, or any other game, so that he be seene and marked by some that have seene him elsewhere with his crooches halting, he shall forfeit for every such offence two dousen of beere as a fine for disgracing so ancient a trade as peregrination." Either the archives have been destroyed, or for the next ten years a disputed claim divided the amiable Peregrines, for no mention of a king is made till the year 1511, when a famous man appeared, by name Cocke Lorell. He divides our admiration with Henry VIII., and with reason, being described by the historian as "the most notorious knave that ever lived." Unlike most of his predecessors, whose propensities were of a warlike nature, Cocke Lorell was by trade, or rather by calling, a tinker, for his trade, we are sorry to say, was in most cases a mere pretence. "He carried a panne and hammer for a show; but when he came to a good booty, he would cast away his profession in a ditch and play the padder, and then would away, and as he past through the town would cry, 'Ha' you any worke for a tinker?' This was he," continues the historian, "that reduced and brought in forme the Catalogue of Vagabonds or Quarterne of knaves, called the twenty-five orders of knaves.' Amongst his laws was this: "Whosoever he be that being born and bred up in the trade of maunding, nipping, and foisting for the space of tenne yeares, and hath not the right dexterity in his fingers to picke a pocket, but is fayne to clog his fellowes and cowarly to demand scrappage: such a one is to be knowne and brought hither to be fined for his faint-heartednesse; and if such a one after venter, and be taken upon the first fault, let him know that he is going the highway to perdition without pitty, as a just punishment for his folly that he betooke himself so soon to the occupation." |