It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge,
Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler’s son,

Andrew Mullins.

A RIGMAROLE.—­PART I.

“De omnibus rebus.”

The evening is calm—­the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house, which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public—­all nature, etc.—­the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree—­the sweet-voiced pot-boy has commenced his rounds with “early beer,” and with leathern lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act —­greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood—­“Baked sheeps’ heads, hot!”—­O! savoury morsel!—­May no legislative measure ever silence this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling—­may the tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep’s head!

“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.”