On entering the room they were nearly made fitting inmates of the deaf
and dumb institution, by the most portentous sounds that ever
endangered a human ear. A large party was assembled, ranged solemnly
on chairs and sofas all round the wall, every eye turned with intense
interest to the upper end of the apartment, where stood a tall stout
man, blowing with incredible effect into a twisted horn, which, to all
outward appearance, had not long ceased to ornament the forehead of a
Highland bull. A common horn it was--and the skill of the
strong-winded performer consisted in extracting a succession of roars
and bellowings from its upper end, which would have done honour to the
vocal powers of its late possessor. A tune it certainly was, for
immense outbreaks of sound came at regular intervals, and the
performer kept thumping his foot on the floor as if he were keeping
time; but as the intermediate notes were of such a very soft nature as
to be altogether inaudible, the company were left to fill up the
blanks at their own discretion; and Mr Pitskiver, who was somewhat
warlike, perceived at once it was Rule Britannia, while Mr Whalley
shook his head in a state of profound loyalty, and thought it was God
save the Queen. When the ingenious musician withdrew the bull's horn
from his mouth, and paused after his labours in a state of extreme
calefaction, murmurs of applause ran all round the room.
"Mr Slingo," said Mr Bristles, "Mr Slingo, you have immortalized
yourself, by evoking the soul of Handel from so common an instrument
as an ox's horn. I have studied music as a science--I have reviewed an
opera--and once met Sir Henry Bishop at the Chinese exhibition; and I
will make bold to say, that more genius was never shown by Rossini or
Cherubini, than you have displayed on this stupendous and interesting
occasion. Allow me, Mr Slingo, to shake your hand."
Mr Bristles gave a warm squeeze to the delighted musician's enormous
fingers--and all the company were enchanted with the liberality and
condescension of the celebrated author, and the humility and gratitude
of the musical phenomenon, who could not find words to express his
gratification. Miss Hendy was also profuse in her praises. "Pray, Mr
Slingo," she said taking the horn, and examining it very closely, "do
you know what animal we are indebted to for this delicious
instrument?"
"I took it from the head of a brown cow."
"A cow!--ha!"--exclaimed the lady--"but I could have told you so
before. There is a sweetness, a softness, and femininization of tone,
in the slower passages, that it struck me at once could only proceed
from the milder sex. We shall not have to wait long for the answer to
a question which has stirred the heart of mankind to its
foundations--can Women etherealize society? I say she can--I say she
will--I say she shall!"
Miss Hendy said this with considerable vehemence, and darted a look of
the same extraordinary nature as had puzzled Mr Pitskiver at dinner,
full in the face of that enraptured gentleman.
"Oh, 'pon my soul, she's a very fine woman!" he said almost audibly;
and again the commendations of Mr Bristles recurred to his
thoughts--"and has such a fund of eloquence. I wish to heaven somebody
would take a fancy to my girls! I will ask a lot of young men to
dinner."
In the midst of these cogitations he drew near Miss Hendy--and if you
were to judge by the number of elbows which young ladies, in all parts
of the room, nudged into other young ladies' sides, and the strange
smiles and winks that were exchanged by the more distant members of
the society--you might easily perceive that there was something very
impressive in the manner of his address. He bowed at every word, while
the gold chains across his waistcoat glistened and jingled at every
motion. Miss Hendy's head also was bent till the white spangles on her
turban seemed affected with St Vitus's dance; and their voices
gradually sank lower and lower, till they descended at last to an
actual whisper. There were seven female hearts in that assemblage
bursting with spite, and one with triumph. Mr Pitskiver had never been
known to whisper it any body's ear before.
In the mean time Mr Bristles, as literary master of the ceremonies,
had made a call on Mr Sidsby to proceed with his reading of the first
act of his play. A tall young gentleman, very good-looking, and very
shy, was with difficulty persuaded to seat himself in the middle of
the room; and with trembling hands he drew from his pocket a roll of
manuscript, though, to judge from his manner, he did not seem quite
master of his subject.
"Modesty, always the accompaniment of true genius," observed Mr
Bristles, apologetically to the expectant audience. "Go on, my good
sir; you will gain courage as you proceed."
All was then silent. Mr Pitskiver at Miss Hendy's side, near the door;
Mr Whalley straining his long neck to catch the faintest echo of their
conversation; the others casting from time to time enquiring glances
towards the illustrious pair; but all endeavouring to appear intensely
interested in the drama. Mr Sidsby began:--
It was a play of the passions. A black lady fell in love with a white
general. Her language was fit for a dragon. She breathed nothing but
fire. It seemed, by a strange coincidence of ideas between Sidsby and
Shakspeare, to bear no small resemblance to Othello, with the
distinction already stated of the colour of the Desdemona. But
breathless attention rewarded the reader's toil; and though he
occasionally missed a word, in which he was always set right by Mr
Bristles, and did not enter very warmly into the more vigorous parts
of the declamation, his efforts were received with overwhelming
approbation, and Bristles as usual led the chorus of admiration.
"A wonderful play! an astonishing effort! Certainly up to the finest
things in Otway, if not of Shakspeare himself--a power, a life, an
impetus. I have never met with such a magnificent opening act."
"I wish you would bring him to taste my mutting, Mr Bristles," said Mr
Whalley; "as he's a poet he most likely don't touch butcher meat every
day, and a good tuck-out of a Sunday won't do him no harm. But I say,
Mr Bristles, I must railly make a point of seeing Stickleback's donkey
first. Say you'll do it--there's a good fellow."
Mr Pitskiver also extended his hospitable invitation to the successful
dramatist; and urged no less warmly his right to the first inspection
of the masterpiece of the modern chisel.
"I have had a very particular conversation with Miss Hendy," he said,
laying his hand confidentially on the great critic's shoulder.
"An extraordinary woman!" chimed in Bristles, "the glory of the
present times."
"I must have an additional treasure to boast of in my house," resumed
Mr Pitskiver, whose heart seemed more than ever set on cutting out Mr
Whalley in priority of inspection of the unequaled statue. "You'll
help me, I know--I may depend on you, Mr Bristles."
"You may indeed, sir--a house such as yours needed only such an
addition to make it perfect."
"You'll procure me the pride, the gratification--you'll manage it for
me."
"I will indeed," said Mr Bristles, seizing the offered hand of the
overjoyed Pitskiver; "since your happiness depends on it, you may
trust to me for every exertion."
"And you'll plead my cause--you'll speak in the proper quarter?"
"Certainly, you may consider it all arranged."
"But secretly, quietly, no blabbing--these matters are always best
done without noise. I would even keep it from my daughters' knowledge,
till we are quite prepared to reveal it in all its charms."
"It is indeed a masterpiece--a chef-d'oeuvre--beauty and expression
unequaled."
"I flatter myself I am a bit of a judge; and when I have had it in my
possession for a short time, I will let you know the result."
The party were now about to break up.
"Them's uncomming pleasant little meetings, arn't them?" said Mr
Whalley to one of the middle-aged spinsters who had been present at
dinner; "and I thinks this one is like to have a very favourable
conclusion."
"Miss Hendy?" enquired the spinster in breathless anticipation.
"Jist so," responded the other--"there can't be no mystery no longer,
and they'll be off for France in a few days."
"For France?--gracious! how do you know?"
"I hear'd Mr Bristles, which is their confidant, say something about a
chay and Dover. In cooss they will go that way to Boulogne."
Oh, Mæcenas! is there no difference between the chef-d'oeuvre of the
great Stickleback, and the town of Dover and a post-chaise.