Six o'clock came, and with it came a fine barouche, as I live! Captain Waters was on the box (it was his coach); that old thief, Bates, jumped out, entered my house, and before I could say Jack Robinson, whipped off mamma to the carriage, the girls followed, just giving me a hasty shake of the hand, and as mamma was helped in, Mary Waters, who was sitting inside, flung her arms round her, and then round the girls, and the Doctor, who acted footman, jumped on the box, and off they went; taking no more notice of _me_ than if I'd been a nonentity.
There's the picture of the whole business: That's mamma and Miss Waters sitting kissing each other in the carriage, with the two girls in the back seat; Waters driving (a precious bad driver he is, too); and that's me, standing at the garden door, and whistling. You can't see Mary Malowney; the old fool is crying behind the garden gate: she went off next day along with the furniture; and I got into that precious scrape which I shall mention next.
HARVEY _versus_ JARVEY. A MOLONCHOLY CASE.
Well, here's a fine beginning all along of these here Harveys; Sure-ly they're getting the whip-hand of all us honest jarvies; To rob us of our fare is like depriving us of vittle, And giving us no meat to cut, but leaving us a Whittle. The watermen are all in tears,—it's fitting you should know, That the stopping of our going is to them a tale of "Wo;" And the 'osses stands, quite sad to see, besides the crib in vain, And wonders whether they shall ever taste a bit again. Now they're gettin' out of natur, for their raws is all a healing, And soon they'll be onsenseless brutes, without a bit of feeling. Or else they'll pine away so fast, the knackers scarce will skin 'em, For they miss the bits of thrashing just to keep the life within 'em, And the cuts that makes 'em lively, arter waiting in the street, For 'tis but being on the stand that keeps 'em on their feet. Now, blow'd if I can understand this here licensious day. Unless it means the taking all our licence quite away. And then, again, for characters, how very hard they use 'em, Both them as vainly strive to find, and those who'd gladly lose 'em. The cads look quite cadaverous, to think there's such a fuss At their stepping from the treadmill, to the step behind a 'bus. But here's the greatest grief, and sure it makes one choke to put on A libel to one's neck, just like cheap cag-mag-scrag of mutton; There's nothing stares us in the face but rueful ruination, So there's my ticket, and I'll seek some more genteel vocation.