ending me a letter, I don't hardly know where to tell you o direct it. You might hear of me at the Three Pigeons, Stonycross, Brummagem, if I happened to be out of work, which ain't often. Last time I was wrote to, was Provilence Terrace, Banktop Cutting, Killarney, Ireland, and he postman broke his leg trying to get it to me. So perhaps you'd better not write; but if you should want to send ne any money just you hand it over to Mr. Tracey's office n Great Parliament Street, and tell 'em it's for Peg-legged 3ob. I shall get it all right some time or other. As to how I got the name, why that's pretty obvious, I should hink, looking at these timber toes of mine. It wasn't gave ne by my godfathers and godmother, but you may say that was christened by four hundred tons of rock and rubbidge is tumbled right atop of me.

Not

This was how it happened. Me and a mate of mine was working in a butty gang on one of Mr. Tracey's lines. It was in the old man's time. Yes, he was a very decent ellow, old Tracey. There was a kind of a go about him, as nade you like to work for him, even if so be as you didn't nake much out of it. And he was precious near. himself, you know, so much, as the men that was under aim; but bless you, he picked 'em out just for that, else he was a free-handed sort, if you took him on the right side, and he'd never see you ruinated through any of his jobs, if you stuck to 'em plucky. Not but what perhaps there was a bit of policy about that, too, for you see you'd cut things a bit closer, knowing as if they turned out unkimmon cross, old Tracey 'ud ease you off some trille.

I was a able-bodied young chap when it happened, and could do a day's work with anybody. I was butty of the gang, and we'd took about a thousand yards of rock and rubbidge to drive a cutting through, and was getting on very well with it, too. We was making three pound a week, every man in the gang, for it had turned out a very plummy piece; only perhaps we was in too much of a hurry, and used our powder a little too free. It was in Staffordshire county, a sort of red sand and rock, we had to cut through, a soft kind of stone as come away in great chunks like slices of pudding. We'd cut away at both ends of our piece and had left a big lump sticking up in the middle, and we'd made up cur minds to give him a jolly good shaking, with twenty pounds of powder droved twenty feet into the rock. Me and my chum, carrotty Sam we called him then, had agreed to tamp the hole and fire the shot. We'd just rammed in the charge, and Sam had got a lump of clay in his hand to slap into th' hole, when of a sudden I heard a sort of fizzling noise under my feet, and lo and behold, I'd struck out a spark with my hob-nailed boots, and the powder as we'd scattered here and there had took the spark, and the flame was running along all about like wildfire. "Run, Sam," says I; and we started off for our lives. There was a chance you see that the charge wouldn't catch, or that if it catched it would "blow" without bringing the rock down upon us. But there was no such luck. I heard a gruff sort of a bang behind me, the ground wobbled about under my feet, and down I went, tumbling over my mate, all in darkness like. There was just a minute when I felt as if I was fireworks, and turning into all kinds of lights, and then I felt one twist of dreadful pain. After that I don't remember aught till I come to myself in a sort of a dream, as it might be the nightmare. Not that I could make out where I was or nothing, only I was feeling badder than I've got words to tell you.

When I did come to myself sufficient to know where I were, I didn't feel any better. I was buried alive, sure enough, and I felt bad all over, I can tell you. Then I moved a bit with my arm and felt something soft alongside me, that groaned as I touched it.

"Sam," says I, in a gruff kind of way. "Hullo, Bob," says he. Good-by, old man," says I. "Good-by, Bob," says he. And after that we lay quite still without speaking. How time passed I didn't know, but I felt getting colder and colder, and the feeling went out of me, so as I didn't feel no more pain, and my head was clear; and I thought, aye, I thought a deal o' things. Then I spoke to Sam again, and he never answered; and I spoke again, but not a sound

from him. So, thinks I, he's dead, and I'll have my groan out. And I cried out; ah, you wouldn't have thought there was strength enou' in me to have sung out as I did.

And when I'd had my cry out, now, thinks I, it's all over, and I may give up the ghost. Then I heard another cry, as seemed as if it came out of the bowels of the earth, and after that there was a sound of picks and spade. Next thing I hears a voice, "Bob!" quite faint like. "Hallo," says I, "what, Sam, are ye alive yet?" "Aye," says he, "was that you as shrieked just now?" "Aye," says I, a

"But

little bit nettled as Sam should have heard me. keep up, mate," says I, "here's help a-coming." And presently there came a shine of light and somebody sings out, "Here they are!"

Ah, but we'd a precious bad time of it too, after they found us. A great stone had rumbled on our legs and smashed 'em dreadful, one of mine and one of Sam's, his left leg and my right. The stones had collapsed together like, so as we warn't killed outright; but they'd been digging for us the wrong way, and would never have got us out alive, if it hadn't been for that shout I give, as I thought was my last. The doctors whipped our legs off fast enou' after they got us out, and then I lay on my back, in a bt of a bothie alongside the cutting, for months and months. And there it was I made acquaintance with Sal, who was Sam's sister, and come to nurse him, and she looked after me, too, first-rate. Only I never thought about getting wedded then, being, as I was, very down in the mouth, wondering what was to become of me through having lost my leg.

Howsoever, Mr. Tracey, he came down one day to see how his chaps was getting on, and he comed into the hut to have a look at me and Sam. "Well, lads," he says, "how are you by this time?" "All right, governor," I says, "what there's left of us," says I; "the doctor's took so much of us away, they'd ought to have joined me and Sam together, as might make a man between us." And Tracey, he laughed, and said, "Well, Bob," says he, " you allus had a wooden head, and now you'll be head and foot all alike," says he. Well, I knowed by the old gent being so cheerful as there was something more behind, and, says he to a man outside, "Tom, bring in them timbers!" and lo and behold there was a pair of wooden legs he'd brought from London; very neat-looking things they was, too, with brass rims round the hoofs of 'em, and varnished beautiful. It seemed as the man as made them was proud of them, for there was burnt into the wood, right in the middle of each of the legs, the 'nitials of his name, P. L. B., meaning Philip Lee, Bow, Mr. Tracey told me. But one of my mates, as was a bit of a scholard, coming in by 'n' by, he takes up my leg, and says he, "P. L. B., what does that mean? Why, Peg-legged Bob," says he, and that name stuck to me ever since.

But I was telling you about Mr. Tracey; well, that, wasn't the last visit he paid me, and next time he came' he says, "Bob, you won't be much use for a navvy now,' says he, "but you're a knowledgeable man, and has got your wits about you; take a contrack under me," says he. "'Ain't got the brass, Mr. Tracey," says I. "I'll lend you some," he says, "enough to start you; no interest to pay; but, mark you, I shall look for my money back some day." And with that he wrote me out a check for a hundred. Now Sam had a great fancy for a public-house, and Tracey helped him too, so he and I parted. But afore then Sal and I was wedded, and with Sal I took to Bos, the curlyhaired dog as had been her father's, a valyble animal, sir, as hunted silent, and brought me in many a hare and rabbit in days gone by.

I did pretty well as a sub on the whole ups and downs, and sometimes only bread and cheese for my pains, with a pound or two to the good now and then to pay back Mr. Tracey. Sam didn't do as well in the public line

- made a break of it, in fact, and then came back among his old pals, and kept a sort of a sly grog shop.

Well, I'd been working a good piece with Mr. Tracey in Ireland, a starvation sort of a job, as melancholy a business as ever I knowed. When we'd got through that, I heard

as Mr. Tracey was making a line in Wales. Thinks I, that's working home like: so I takes the steamer to Holyhead and jogs along to the wars. Tracey was working this job at both ends, with one set at this end in Blamarginshire and another at the t'other end in Magonyshire. Well, I saw there wasn't a likely job for me in Blamarginshire, and so I worked on through the country. I may tell you I heard of Sam, as was doing a bit of business among the lads, but I didn't trouble to look him up, not being over friendly with him just then.

Howsoever I took a stiffish cutting at the other side of the country, Magonyshire end you know, and soon repented of my job, I can tell you. I never see such a mixed sort of a place as that Wales. Everything higgledy piggledy, gravel and rock, slate and rubbidge all twisted up anyhow. There was no lodgings to be had near our cutting, so we made a sort of a camp, a row of huts, as we christened Prospect Villas. And with there being no town near, Sal set up a shop to sell groceries and pork and so on. It was a thing Mr. Tracey set his face against in a general way, any of us subs setting up shop. ""Tain't right for the men," he'd say, "and it's the beginning of truck work as I can't abide." But in this case he'd nothing to say against it. Only," says he, "Bob, don't you go selling drink." Which I didn't, except as it might be to a friend, you know. We hadn't been there long when who should turn up, one day, but Sam, my wife's brother. He was a big lump of a chap, just like myself, and about the same height. "I'm in a bit of trouble, Bob," says he; "lend us a pound or two, and get us run on to Brummagem." And he stayed a night with me, and I took him off afore daylight, and got him on to the ballast engine as was working on the line, and then he was all right. I never axed him what the trouble was as he'd got into; it wouldn't 'a' been polite, you know; and Sam never told me, only that it was in Blamarginshire, where he'd been doing a bit of business among the navvies as was working at the other end of Mr. Tracey's line.

I was standing atop of the bank, one day, looking over the men as was filling a set of wagons for the tip. The road ran close by, and a gig was coming along, and I thought for a minute it was Grinwell, our gaffer, coming to have a look at us; and I stumped off to the road to meet him. But it wasn't him, but a rather solemn-looking chap, with a frill of black whiskers round his face. And he stops and passes the time of the day with me. "Been in the army? says he, pointing to my leg. "No," says I; "fall of rock." And he seemed to prick up his ears at that, and asked me a lot of questions as to how it happened, and so And then he begins admiring my leg the wooden

on.

see.

'un and would I mind putting it upon the step for him to "Ah," says he, 66 a nice bit of timber that; and them letters, why, you've got your 'nitials on it, I see: P. L. B. Thank'ee; good day," says he, and drives off sharp, as if to make up for lost time.

Well, me and Sal was having our tea that night atop of the counter we was a bit squeezed for room, there being only the shop and a back parlor and a little cook-house, and four or five lodgers, and the children and Bos - and a knock came at the door, and Bos he sets a-barking, like mad. "Come in," says I, with my mouth full of bread and cheese; and in walks two policemen and the gent I'd seen in the gig in the morning. "There's your prisoner," says he to the police; "take him off." "Why; what have I done?" says I, my heart sinking into my boot. Oh," he says, "selling liquor without a license." "But," I saysfor my mind wasn't quite clear as I mightn't have transfixed the law, through being too careful to go as near to it as might be without breaking it - says I, "Ain't I to have my trial?" "Trial! nonsense!" says he. "Who are you?" I says. "Are you kings, lords, and commons, and judge and jury, too?" says I. Says he, "I'm the supervisor of the excise, my boy; and here's the warrant to take you to prison. You know all about it; so it's no use pretending you don't." Well, Sal cried, and Bos howled, and the children screamed, and some of my men began to get wind of what was up, and gathered about the door. "Look

sharp," says the exciseman; "they'll be trying next." And with that they hurried me out, and a line to where a dog-cart was waiting, and away And presently we came to a town called Lanpi some such name as that. Now, it so happened a a man there, a lawyer-a regular hearty sort of as was doing a bit of work for Mr. Tracey; and up, and said, "You must let me see my lawyer." lawyer," sneered the police; " who's your lawyer?" Mr. David Evans," I said. And with that ther whispering going on; and presently they said a stop for half an hour at the Goat, and bait the ho I might send for the lawyer, if I pleased. And David came to see me, as I was sitting in the tapglum as you please, between two policemen.

66

"Why, policemen," says he, as soon as he "what's all this about?"" Revenue case," s "Let's look at your warrant," says he; and he over in his hands. "All right," says he. "Now, you want me to do?" turning to me. "Well, si to have my trial like an Englishman," says I. said, "it tells me there, in that paper, as you h convicted already before the magistrates of the Blamarginshire." Never," says I; "no such never had my trial." "Well, that doesn't matter." "if you get out of the way, and don't appear, you yourself to thank." "But I was never summoned ing." "That's difficult to prove," he says, dryly, swear you was, unless you can make out an ali don't deny being in Blamarginshire when this took Well, I thought it over, and I couldn't deny but wh been there, having stopped there a week or so on to see if I could get a job to suit me. "Well, the he, "I'm sorry to say, if you can't pay the pena costs, two hundred and seventy-five pounds, you m prison." "And even that wouldn't do," says th man; "for there's another warrant out agains "And what's that for?" "For assaulting the Says I, "You're a parcel of lying scoundrels: a legged as I am, I'll fight you, to prove the truth words." "Oh, hush!" says the lawyer, laying on my arms. "Why," says I, "is it feasible, as a p chap like me should go and assault the excise?”ˆ days he, laughing, "it's within the bounds of ima But," he says, "if you really say you ain't the go and see Mr. Gauger, and ask him if he's quite c he's got the right end of the stick."

Well, it was no manner of use, the exciseman wa he was right as if he'd been omniscious. "I've got he, "he's giv' me a deal of trouble; they're a bad railway chaps, and I'll make an example of him. his not being the man, why that's what they all say as many aliases as thieves," says he, "but we've man tight, anyhow, and we'll keep him." There w ing more to be done, and they took me right off to gin Castle, and locked me up in prison. And M stuck to me like a brick, and drove all the way at a hired car, and stopped the night at Blamargi ready for the court next day.

For you see they was obliged to bring me before t istrates through the warrant for the assault, els have had me in limbo up to now, I dare say.

Well, I spent a bad night, I can tell ye. You s right in the middle of my work, everything hangi me, all my money in the mud as you may say, and as could pick it out. And Mr. Tracey depending work being finished too, and would have no merc now, through having been deceived in me, as he'd was almost as bad a night as I'd had under the roo though I knowed I was innocent, I knowed too as would believe as I was.

to th Next morning, at eleven, I was walked up house, and there was the magistrates sitting all of little man with a big nose being the principal of the a white-haired gent with a pleasant rosy face comis And alongside the magistrates, who should be sit Mr. Tracey. And I felt reg'lar ashamed of mysel

"Letters Five' do form his name:

His, who millions doth teach and tame.
If I could not be in that Sacred Band,
I'd be the affable Amperzand.
Yes, my nice little Amperzand,

And when P.U.N.C.H. is driving five-in-hand,
I'll have a velocipede, neatly planned,

In the shape of a fly-away Amperzand."

The lines are not unworthy of "Alice in Wonderland," book which elicited the warmest admiration of Mr. Shirley Brooks, who made frequent references to it in Punch. He had no jealousies. There was no man readier to acknowledge and applaud talent whenever he met it. Many an author, actor, and artist can testify to this, in encouraging letters written to them by one of the most genial and charming of correspondents."

A few years ago, during a post-prandial conversation with Mr. Shirley Brooks, I found that he possessed an intimate knowledge of the old dramatists. I suggested to him that he should write a series of Tales from the Old Dramatists," upon the model of the Shakespearian tales of Charles Lamb, and after some persuasion he consented to contribute a series to an old magazine, which I was then striving to revive and modernize. He wrote three articles which may be fairly mentioned as models of this kind of dramatic story-telling. But among his most charming contributions to serial literature was a dialogue which he wrote for me in this same periodical, called "Two of our old Subscribers," and concerning which I had a chat with him walking down from Kent Terrace to Cavendish Square, only comparatively a few days before his death. He said, that although he regarded the essay as a mere trifle, the writing of it had given him a peculiar pleasure. He loved the Johnsonian period of literature, and his appreciation of it frequently showed itself, not only in Punch, but in his general work. Here is an extract from a dialogue which he wrote for me six years ago. It is part of an im. aginary conversation between Dr. Johnson and Mr. Boswell at the Mitre Tavern in June, 1763:

Dr. Johnson. Sir, converse like a man of the world. Of what does an officer's talk consist if you take away his oaths, bis intrigues, his gambling, and his grudges against his superiors?

Mr. Boswell. - 'Tis too true, sir.

Dr. Johnson. - What is too true, sir? I have affirmed nothing. I have simply asked a question.

Mr. Boswell. Are you not too hard upon me, Dr. Johnson? The answer was surely implied in the question. Dr. Johnson. · Neatly retorted, sir, and I was wrong. Mr. Boswell. - Nay, sir, I am more humbled that you should say so much. Might I add, that if for a moment I seemed to express myself lightly, it is not my habit, and I come from a country which, though as yet it has failed to secure the honor of Dr. Johnson's admiration, is at least famous for its love of religion.

Dr. Johnson. That, sir, I deny. The Scotch hold by a gloomy superstition which has affinity with a narrow and provincial nature, and to this the obstinacy of their race bids them cling with tenacity, when its abandonment is not demanded by considerations of self-interest. Enough of this. There is a place for all things.

Mr. Boswell. Allow me to fill your glass, sir. It is difficult for me to express the happiness which I feel in being thus permitted the enjoyment of your society.

Dr. Johnson. No one has asked you to express it, sir. Yet a cultivated man should be ashamel to own that he is not the master of language in which to convey his sensations to another. I drink to your good health and your worldly fortune.

Mr. Boswell.-My fortune in both worlds, you would say, sir.

Dr. Johnson (sternly). — I would say nothing of the

kind, sir; nor would I be guilty of coupling spiritual affairs with a tavern toast.

Mr. Boswell. -Your rebuke is just, sir; and I feel that I was wrong in venturing to amend a sentiment proposed by yourself.

Dr. Johnson. That is a secondary consideration, sir; and if you don't see where the real offence lay, I am sorry for you. I hear from Davis that you have resigned your intention to enter the Foot Guards, and I hope you will begin to think more seriously on religious matters than an officer is likely to do.

The dialogue in Punch on the opening of Blackfriars Bridge, November 6th, 1869, was from the same graceful pen. I have a printer's proof of it, with the following passage marked for my especial edification:

Dr. Johnson. —Let me but pronounce a moral. One hundred years have passed since I, doing what I had to do in the best way I could, wrote down my mind. My work was sound, and after a hundred years it is remembered for me, and proclaimed. Let all who have work to do, do it with all their might.

While Dr. Johnson's name is quoted with the wellknown request, "Let us take a walk down Fleet Street," Shirley Brooks is credited with the saying, that "A walk from Temple Bar to St. Paul's is a liberal education."

669

Mr. Brooks was a regular attendant at the Punch dinners. His ready wit and humor, his keen observation and journalistic acumen were frequently of great service in settling the subject of the cartoon. It is well known that this matter forms the chief discussion of the weekly meeting which takes place at Whitefriars. When any difficulty arises, the final decision is invariably left in the hands of the editor. While Mr. Shirley Brooks may be credited with suggesting many telling cartoons, Mr. Mark Lemon, the late judicious editor, may as frequently be mentioned for his wise adaptation and development of a good idea. Perhaps one of the happiest of the subjects which Mr. Shirley Brooks suggested was that, during our great dispute with America, depicting Jonathan as a 'possum up a tree," with Mr. John Bull standing at the foot ready to fire, the 'possum expressing its intention, Mr. Bull being in earnest, of coming down. It may be mentioned in passing, that although the Punch men have now and then let fly a shaft at Jonathan, they have on many occasions exhibited an intense and affectionate sympathy for America. To visit America was one of the unrealized dreams of Mark Lemon's life, and at one time Shirley Brooks encouraged a vague hope that he might one day tell our brothers across the Atlantic his story of the British House of Commons. But life is made up of hopes unfulfilled; nothing in it can be counted on as certain but the last sad scene of all.

In addition to his Punch work, Mr. Shirley Brooks was a general and miscellaneous contributor to newspapers and to periodical literature. For many years he wrote the first article in the Illustrated London New, and recently he contributed to that journal a charming chatty column called " Nothing in the Papers." He wrote the introductory verses which heralded the commencement of Once a Week. The poem was illustrated by the author's friend Mr. John Leech.

"The world is too much with us for resistance
To importunities that never cease:

Yet may we bid it keep its distance,

And leave us hours for holier thoughts and peace;
For quiet wanderings where the woodbine flowers,
And for the Altar, with its teachings meck;
Such is the lesson of this page of ours,

Such are the morals of our 'Once a Week.'"

In the palmy days of that excellent periodical, Shirley Brooks was a constant contributor; he wrote occasionally for London Society, and was the author of those poetic lines of encouragement and hope addressed to Edmund Yates, which that gentleman printed on the first page of Tinsley's Magazine. He wrote the Era summary for many years, and for a short time was editor of the Literary Gazelle.