|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 2
These Dear Jacks soap the people shameful, but we Cheap Jacks don't. We
tell 'em the truth about themselves to their faces, and scorn to court
'em. As to wenturesomeness in the way of puffing up the lots, the Dear
Jacks beat us hollow. It is considered in the Cheap Jack calling, that
better patter can be made out of a gun than any article we put up from
the cart, except a pair of spectacles. I often hold forth about a gun
for a quarter of an hour, and feel as if I need never leave off. But
when I tell 'em what the gun can do, and what the gun has brought down, I
never go half so far as the Dear Jacks do when they make speeches in
praise of _their_ guns--their great guns that set 'em on to do it.
Besides, I'm in business for myself: I ain't sent down into the market-
place to order, as they are. Besides, again, my guns don't know what I
say in their laudation, and their guns do, and the whole concern of 'em
have reason to be sick and ashamed all round. These are some of my
arguments for declaring that the Cheap Jack calling is treated ill in
Great Britain, and for turning warm when I think of the other Jacks in
question setting themselves up to pretend to look down upon it.
I courted my wife from the footboard of the cart. I did indeed. She was
a Suffolk young woman, and it was in Ipswich market-place right opposite
the corn-chandler's shop. I had noticed her up at a window last Saturday
that was, appreciating highly. I had took to her, and I had said to
myself, "If not already disposed of, I'll have that lot." Next Saturday
that come, I pitched the cart on the same pitch, and I was in very high
feather indeed, keeping 'em laughing the whole of the time, and getting
off the goods briskly. At last I took out of my waistcoat-pocket a small
lot wrapped in soft paper, and I put it this way (looking up at the
window where she was). "Now here, my blooming English maidens, is an
article, the last article of the present evening's sale, which I offer to
only you, the lovely Suffolk Dumplings biling over with beauty, and I
won't take a bid of a thousand pounds for from any man alive. Now what
is it? Why, I'll tell you what it is. It's made of fine gold, and it's
not broke, though there's a hole in the middle of it, and it's stronger
than any fetter that ever was forged, though it's smaller than any finger
in my set of ten. Why ten? Because, when my parents made over my
property to me, I tell you true, there was twelve sheets, twelve towels,
twelve table-cloths, twelve knives, twelve forks, twelve tablespoons, and
twelve teaspoons, but my set of fingers was two short of a dozen, and
could never since be matched. Now what else is it? Come, I'll tell you.
It's a hoop of solid gold, wrapped in a silver curl-paper, that I myself
took off the shining locks of the ever beautiful old lady in Threadneedle
Street, London city; I wouldn't tell you so if I hadn't the paper to
show, or you mightn't believe it even of me. Now what else is it? It's
a man-trap and a handcuff, the parish stocks and a leg-lock, all in gold
and all in one. Now what else is it? It's a wedding-ring. Now I'll
tell you what I'm a going to do with it. I'm not a going to offer this
lot for money; but I mean to give it to the next of you beauties that
laughs, and I'll pay her a visit to-morrow morning at exactly half after
nine o'clock as the chimes go, and I'll take her out for a walk to put up
the banns." She laughed, and got the ring handed up to her. When I
called in the morning, she says, "O dear! It's never you, and you never
mean it?" "It's ever me," says I, "and I am ever yours, and I ever mean
it." So we got married, after being put up three times--which, by the
bye, is quite in the Cheap Jack way again, and shows once more how the
Cheap Jack customs pervade society.
She wasn't a bad wife, but she had a temper. If she could have parted
with that one article at a sacrifice, I wouldn't have swopped her away in
exchange for any other woman in England. Not that I ever did swop her
away, for we lived together till she died, and that was thirteen year.
Now, my lords and ladies and gentlefolks all, I'll let you into a secret,
though you won't believe it. Thirteen year of temper in a Palace would
try the worst of you, but thirteen year of temper in a Cart would try the
best of you. You are kept so very close to it in a cart, you see.
There's thousands of couples among you getting on like sweet ile upon a
whetstone in houses five and six pairs of stairs high, that would go to
the Divorce Court in a cart. Whether the jolting makes it worse, I don't
undertake to decide; but in a cart it does come home to you, and stick to
you. Wiolence in a cart is _so_ wiolent, and aggrawation in a cart is
_so_ aggrawating.
We might have had such a pleasant life! A roomy cart, with the large
goods hung outside, and the bed slung underneath it when on the road, an
iron pot and a kettle, a fireplace for the cold weather, a chimney for
the smoke, a hanging-shelf and a cupboard, a dog and a horse. What more
do you want? You draw off upon a bit of turf in a green lane or by the
roadside, you hobble your old horse and turn him grazing, you light your
fire upon the ashes of the last visitors, you cook your stew, and you
wouldn't call the Emperor of France your father. But have a temper in
the cart, flinging language and the hardest goods in stock at you, and
where are you then? Put a name to your feelings.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|