Part 24 (1/2)
”You're a bitter fellow, Mr. Bunting: and pray, what do you think of the Ladies--'are they as bad as the men?'”
”Ladies--augh! when they're married--yes! but of all them ere creturs, I respects the kept Ladies, the most--on the faith of a man, I do! Gad!
how well they knows the world--one quite invies the she rogues; they beats the wives hollow! Augh! and your honour should see how they fawns and flatters, and b.u.t.ters up a man, and makes him think they loves him like winkey, all the time they ruins him. They kisses money out of the miser, and sits in their satins, while the wife, 'drot her, sulks in a gingham. Oh, they be cliver creturs, and they'll do what they likes with old Nick, when they gets there, for 'tis the old gentlemen they cozens the best; and then,” continued the Corporal, waxing more and more loquacious, for his appet.i.te in talking grew with that it fed on,--”then there be another set o' queer folks you'll see in Lunnon, Sir, that is, if you falls in with 'em,--hang all together, quite in a clink. I seed lots on 'em when lived with the Colonel--Colonel Dysart, you knows--augh?”
”And what are they?”
”Rum ones, your honour; what they calls Authors.”
”Authors! what the deuce had you or the Colonel to do with Authors?”
”Augh! then, the Colonel was a very fine gentleman, what the larned calls a my-seen-a.s.s, wrote little songs himself, 'crossticks, you knows, your honour: once he made a play--'cause why, he lived with an actress!”
”A very good reason, indeed, for emulating Shakespear; and did the play succeed?”
”Fancy it did, your honour; for the Colonel was a dab with the scissors.”
”Scissors! the pen, you mean?”
”No! that's what the dirty Authors make plays with; a Lord and a Colonel, my-seen-a.s.ses, always takes the scissors.”
”How?”
”Why the Colonel's Lady--had lots of plays--and she marked a scene here--a jest there--a line in one place--a sentiment in t' other--and the Colonel sate by with a great paper book--cut 'em out, pasted them in book. Augh! but the Colonel pleased the town mightily.”
”Well, so he saw a great many authors; and did not they please you?”
”Why they be so d.a.m.ned quarrelsome,” said the Corporal, ”wringle, wrangle, wrongle, snap, growl, scratch; that's not what a man of the world does; man of the world niver quarrels; then, too, these creturs always fancy you forgets that their father was a clargyman; they always thinks more of their family, like, than their writings; and if they does not get money when they wants it, they bristles up and cries, 'not treated like a gentleman, by G.o.d!' Yet, after all, they've a deal of kindness in 'em, if you knows how to manage 'em--augh! but, cat-kindness, paw today, claw to-morrow. And then they always marries young, the poor things, and have a power of children, and live on the fame and forten they are to get one of these days; for, my eye! they be the most sanguinest folks alive!”
”Why, Bunting, what an observer you have been! who could ever have imagined that you had made yourself master of so many varieties in men!”
”Augh! your honour, I had nothing to do when I was the Colonel's valley, but to take notes to ladies and make use of my eyes. Always a 'flective man.”
”It is odd that, with all your abilities, you did not provide better for yourself.”
”'Twas not my fault,” said the Corporal, quickly; ”but somehow, do what will--'tis not always the cliverest as foresees the best. But I be young yet, your honour!”
Walter stared at the Corporal and laughed outright: the Corporal was exceedingly piqued.
”Augh! mayhap you thinks, Sir, that 'cause not so young as you, not young at all; but, what's forty, or fifty, or fifty-five, in public life? never hear much of men afore then. 'Tis the autumn that reaps, spring sows, augh!--bother!”
”Very true and very poetical. I see you did not live among authors for nothing.”
”I knows summut of language, your honour,” quoth the Corporal pedantically.
”It is evident.”
”For, to be a man of the world, Sir, must know all the ins and outs of speechifying; 'tis words, Sir, that makes another man's mare go your road. Augh! that must have been a cliver man as invented language; wonders who 'twas--mayhap Moses, your honour?”
”Never mind who it was,” said Walter gravely; ”use the gift discreetly.”