“I never sees a sheep’s head, but I thinks on you,” said Mrs. Spriggins, whose physiognomy was as yellow and as wrinkled as a duck’s foot.  Spriggins whipped his horse, for they were driving in a one-horse chaise, with two boys, and an infant in arms—­Spriggins whipped his horse spitefully, for Mrs. S.’s sarcasm inspired him with a splenetic feeling; and as he durst not chastise her, the animal received the benefit of her impetus.  Spriggins was a fool by nature, and selfish by disposition.  Mrs. S. was a shrivelled shrew, with a “bit o’ money;”—­that was the bait at which he, like a hungry gudgeon, had seized, and he was hooked!  The “spousals” had astonished the vulgar—­the little nightingale of Twickenham would have only smiled; for has he not sweetly sung—­

“There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late
She finds some honest gander for her mate;”

and her union was a verification of this flowing couplet.

At different times, what different meanings the self-same words obtain.  According to the reading of the new poor-law guardians, “Union,” as far as regards man and wife, is explained “Separation;” or, like a ship when in distress, the “Union” is reversed!  In respect of his union, Spriggins would have most relished the reading of the former!  But there are paradoxes—­a species of verbal puzzle—­which, in the course of this ride, our amiable family of the Spriggins’s experienced to their great discomfort.

Drawing up a turnpike-gate, Mrs. S. handed a ticket to the white-aproned official of the trust.

“You should have gone home the way you came out—­that ticket won’t do here,” said the man; “so out with your coppers—­three-pence.”

“I don’t think I’ve got any half-pence!” said Mr. S., fumbling in his pennyless pocket.

“Well, then, I must give you change.”

“But I’m afraid I hav’nt got any silver,” replied Mr. S., with a long face.—­“I say, mister, cou’dn’t you trust me?—­I’d be wery sure to bring it to you.”

But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.

“Vell, I’m blessed,” exclaimed Mr. S.—­and so he was—­with a scolding wife and a squalling infant; “and they calls this here a trust, the fools! and there ain’t no trust at all!”

And the poor animal got another vindictive cut.  Oh!  Mr. Martin!—­thou friend of quadrupeds!—­would that thou had’st been there.  “It’s all my eye and Betty Martin!” muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded beast he drove, and retraced the road.

A RIMAROLE—­PART II.

“Acti labores sunt jucundi”

The horse is really a noble animal—­I hate all rail-roads, for putting his nose out of joint—­puffing, blowing, smoking, jotting—­always going in a straight line:  if this mania should continue, we shall soon have the whole island ruled over like a copy-book—­nothing but straight lines—­and sloping lines through every county in the kingdom!