BENTLEY'S
MISCELLANY.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1837.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
ADDRESS.
Twelve months have elapsed since we first took the field, and every
successive number of our Miscellany has experienced a warmer reception,
and a more extensive circulation, than its predecessor.
In the opening of the new year, and the commencement of our new volume,
we hope to make many changes for the better, and none for the worse;
and, to show that, while we have one grateful eye to past patronage,
we have another wary one to future favours; in short, that, like the
heroine of the sweet poem descriptive of the faithlessness and perjury
of Mr. John Oakhum, of the Royal Navy, we look two ways at once.
It is our intention to usher in the new year with a very merry
greeting, towards the accomplishment of which end we have prevailed
upon a long procession of distinguished friends to mount their hobbies
on the occasion, in humble imitation of those adventurous and
aldermanic spirits who gallantly bestrode their foaming chargers on the
memorable ninth of this present month, while
"The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad."
These, and a hundred other great designs, preparations, and surprises,
are in contemplation, for the fulfilment of all of which we are already
bound in two volumes cloth, and have no objection, if it be any
additional security to the public, to stand bound in twenty more.
BOZ.
30th November, 1837.
CONTENTS
OF THE
SECOND VOLUME.
SONGS of the Month--July, by "Father Prout;" August; September, by
"Father Prout;" October, by J.M.; November, by C.D.; December, by
Punch Pages 1, 109, 213, 321, 429, 533
Papers by Boz:
Oliver Twist, or the Parish Boy's Progress, 2, 110, 215, 430, 534
The Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything 397
Poetry by Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson:
Elegiac Stanzas 16
Lady Blue's Ball 380
My Father's Old Hall 453
Fictions of the Middle Ages: The Butterfly Bishop, by Delta 17
A New Song to the Old Tune of Kate Kearney 25
What Tom Binks did when he didn't know what to do with himself 26
A Gentleman Quite 36
The Foster-Child 37
The White Man's Devil-house, by F.H. Rankin 46
A Lyric for Lovers 50
The Remains of Hajji Baba, by the Author of "Zohrab" 51,166
Shakspeare Papers, by Dr. Maginn:
No. III. Romeo 57
IV. Midsummer Night's Dream--Bottom the Weaver 370
V. His Ladies--Lady Macbeth 550
The Piper's Progress, by Father Prout 67
Papers by J.A. Wade:
No. II. Darby the Swift 68
III. The Darbiad 464
Song of the Old Bell 196
Serenade to Francesca 239
Phelim O'Toole's Nine Muse-ings on his Native County 319
Papers by Captain Medwin:
The Duel 76
Mascalbruni 254
The Last of the Bandits 585
The Monk of Ravenne 81
A Marine's Courtship, by M. Burke Honan 82
Family Stories, by Thomas Ingoldsby:
No. VI. Mrs. Botherby's Story--The Leech of Folkestone 91
VII. Patty Morgan the Milkmaid's Story--Look at the Clock 207
What though we were Rivals of yore, by T. Haynes Bayly 124
Papers by the Author of "Stories of Waterloo:"
Love in the City 125
The Regatta, No. I.: Run Across Channel 299
Legends--of Ballar; the Church of the Seven; and the Tory
Islanders 527
Three Notches from the Devil's Tail, or the Man in the Spanish
Cloak, by the Author of "Reminiscences of a Monthly Nurse" 135
The Serenade 149
The Portrait Gallery, by the Author of "The Bee Hive"
No. III. The Cannon Family 150
IV. Journey to Boulogne 454
A Chapter on Laughing 163
A Muster-chaunt for the Members of the Temperance Societies 165
My Uncle: a Fragment 175
Why the Wind blows round St. Paul's, by Joyce Jocund 176
Papers by C. Whitehead:
Rather Hard to Take 181
The Narrative of John Ward Gibson 240
Nights at Sea, by the Old Sailor:
No. IV. The French Captain's Story 183
V. The French Captain's Story 471
VI. Jack among the Mummies 610
Midnight Mishaps, by Edward Mayhew 197
The Dream 206
Genius, or the Dog's-meat Dog, by Egerton Webbe 214
The Poisoners of the Seventeenth Century, by George Hogarth:
No. I. The Marchioness de Brinvilliers 229
II. Sir Thomas Overbury 322
Smoke 268
Some Passages in the Life of a Disappointed Man 270
The Professor, by Goliah Gahagan 277
Biddy Tibbs, who cared for Nobody, by H. Holl 288
The Key of Granada 303
Glorvina, the Maid of Meath, by J. Sheridan Knowles 304
An Excellent Offer, by Marmaduke Blake 340
The Autobiography of a Good Joke 354
The Secret, by M. Paul de Kock 360
The Man with the Club-foot 381
A Remonstratory Ode to Mr. Cross on the Eruption of Mount Vesuvius,
by Joyce Jocund 413
Memoirs of Beau Nash 414
Grub-street News 425
The Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman 445
The Relics of St. Pius 462
A few Inquiries 470
Lines occasioned by the Death of Count Borowlaski 484
A Chapter on Widows 485
Petrarch in London 494
Adventures in Paris, by Toby Allspy:
The Five Floors No. I. 495; No. II. 575
Martial in Town 507
Astronomical Agitation--Reform of the Solar System 508
The Adventures of a Tale, by Mrs. Erskine Norton 511
When and Why the Devil Invented Brandy 518
The Wit in spite of Himself, by Richard Johns 521
The Apportionment of the World, from Schiller 549
Ode to the Queen 568
Suicide 569
The Glories of Good Humour 591
Song of the Modern Time 594
Capital Punishments in London Eighty Years ago--Earl Ferrers 595
A Peter Pindaric to and of a Fog, by Punch 606
The Castle by the Sea 623
Legislative Nomenclature 624
Nobility in Disguise, by Dudley Costello 626
Another Original of "Not a Drum was heard," 632
Index 633
ILLUSTRATIONS.
BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
Page
Oliver Twist--The Dodger's way of going to work 2
A Marine's Courtship 82
Oliver Twist recovering from the fever 110
Midnight Mishaps 197
Oliver Twist and his affectionate Friends 215
A Disappointed Man 270
The Autobiography of a Good Joke 354
The Secret 360
Oliver Twist returns to the Jew's den 430
The Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman 445
Oliver Twist instructed by the Dodger 533
Jack among the Mummies 610
Portrait of Beau Nash, by W. Greatbach 414
BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.
SONG OF THE MONTH. No. VII.
July, 1837.
BEING A BAPTISMAL CHAUNT FOR THE BIRTH OF OUR SECOND VOLUME, AS SUNG
(IN CHARACTER) BY FATHER PROUT.
(Tune "_The groves of Blarney_.")
"Ille ego qui quondam," &c. &c.--_Æneid._
I.
In the month of Janus,
When Boz to gain us,
Quite "miscellaneous,"
Flashed his wit so keen,
One, (Prout they call him,)
In style most solemn,
Led off the volume
Of his magazine.
II.
Though MAGA, 'mongst her
Bright set of youngsters,
Had many songsters
For her opening tome;
Yet she would rather
Invite "the Father,"
And an indulgence gather
From the Pope of Rome.
III.
And, such a beauty
From head to shoe-tie,
Without dispute we
Found her first boy,
That she det_a_rmined,
There's such a charm in 't,
The Father's _sarmint_
She'd again employ.
IV.
While other children
Are quite bewilderin',
'Tis joy that fill'd her in
This bantling; 'cause
What eye but glistens,
And what ear but listens,
When the clargy christens
A babe of Boz?
V.
I've got a scruple
That this young pupil
Surprised its parent
Ere her time was sped;
Else I'm unwary,
Or, 'tis she's a fairy,
For in January
She was brought to bed.
VI.
This infant may be
A six months' baby,
But may his cradle
Be blest! say I;
And luck defend him!
And joy attend him!
Since we can't mend him,
Born in July.
VII.
He's no abortion,
But born to fortune,
And most opportune,
Though before his time;
Him, Muse, O! nourish,
And make him flourish
Quite Tommy-Moorish
Both in prose and rhyme!
VIII.
I remember, also,
That this month they call so,
From Roman JULIUS
The "_Cæsarian_" styled;
Who was no gosling,
But, like this Boz-ling,
From birth a dazzling
And precocious child!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!
OLIVER TWIST;
OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
BY BOZ.
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,
AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS.
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke from a sound, long sleep.
There was nobody in the room beside, but the old Jew, who was boiling
some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to
himself as he stirred it round and round with an iron spoon. He would
stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below;
and, when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and
stirring again, as before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly
awake. There is a drowsy, heavy state, between sleeping and waking,
when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and
yourself half conscious of everything that is passing around you, than
you would in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses
wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such times, a mortal knows just
enough of what his mind is doing to form some glimmering conception of
its mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space,
when freed from the irksome restraint of its corporeal associate.
Oliver was precisely in the condition I have described. He saw the Jew
with his half-closed eyes, heard his low whistling, and recognised the
sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan's sides; and yet the
self-same senses were mentally engaged at the same time, in busy action
with almost everybody he had ever known.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob, and,
standing in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes as if he did not
well know how to employ himself, turned round and looked at Oliver, and
called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearance
asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the
door, which he fastened; he then drew forth, as it seemed to Oliver,
from some trap in the floor, a small box, which he placed carefully
on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid and looked in.
Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down, and took from it a
magnificent gold watch, sparkling with diamonds.
[Illustration: Oliver amazed at the Dodger's Mode of 'going to work']
"Aha!" said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every
feature with a hideous grin. "Clever dogs! clever dogs! Staunch to the
last! Never told the old parson where they were; never peached upon old
Fagin. And why should they? It wouldn't have loosened the knot, or kept
the drop up a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! fine fellows!"
With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the
Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least
half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and
surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and
other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials and costly
workmanship that Oliver had no idea even of their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another, so small
that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very
minute inscription on it, for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and,
shading it with his hand, pored over it long and earnestly. At length
he set it down as if despairing of success, and, leaning back in his
chair, muttered,
"What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead
men never bring awkward stories to light. The prospect of the gallows,
too, makes them hardy and bold. Ah, it's a fine thing for the trade!
Five of them strung up in a row, and none left to play booty or turn
white-livered!"
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes which had been
staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes
were fixed on his in mute curiosity, and, although the recognition was
only for an instant--for the briefest space of time that can possibly
be conceived,--it was enough to show the old man that he had been
observed. He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash, and, laying
his hand on a bread-knife which was on the table, started furiously up.
He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see
that the knife quivered in the air.
"What's that?" said the Jew. "What do you watch me for? Why are you
awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick--quick! for your life!"
"I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir," replied Oliver, meekly. "I am
very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir."
"You were not awake an hour ago?" said the Jew, scowling fiercely on
the boy.
"No--no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver.
"Are you sure?" cried the Jew, with a still fiercer look than before,
and a threatening attitude.
"Upon my word I was not, sir," replied Oliver, earnestly. "I was not,
indeed, sir."
"Tush, tush, my dear!" said the Jew, suddenly resuming his old manner,
and playing with the knife a little before he laid it down, as if to
induce the belief that he had caught it up in mere sport. "Of course I
know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You're a brave boy.
Ha! ha! you're a brave boy, Oliver!" and the Jew rubbed his hands with
a chuckle, but looked uneasily at the box notwithstanding.
"Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?" said the Jew, laying
his hand upon it after a short pause.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver.
"Ah!" said the Jew, turning rather pale. "They--they're mine, Oliver;
my little property. All I have to live upon in my old age. The folks
call me a miser, my dear,--only a miser; that's all."
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in
such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps
his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys cost him a good deal
of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he
might get up.
"Certainly, my dear,--certainly," replied the old gentleman. "Stay.
There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here,
and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear."
Oliver got up, walked across the room, and stooped for one instant to
raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself and made everything tidy by emptying
the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, than
the Dodger returned, accompanied by a very sprightly young friend whom
Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally
introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four then sat down to breakfast
off the coffee and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought
home in the crown of his hat.
"Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself
to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears."
"Hard," replied the Dodger.
"As nails," added Charley Bates.
"Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have _you_ got, Dodger?"
"A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentleman.
"Lined?" inquired the Jew with trembling eagerness.
"Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books, one
green and the other red.
"Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the
insides carefully; "but very neat, and nicely made. Ingenious workman,
ain't he, Oliver?"
"Very, indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed
uproariously, very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to
laugh at, in anything that had passed.
"And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates.
"Wipes," replied Master Bates: at the same time producing four
pocket-handkerchiefs.
"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good
ones,--very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the
marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to
do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh?--Ha! ha! ha!"
"If you please, sir," said Oliver.
"You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley
Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew.
"Very much indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver.
Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply
that he burst into another laugh; which laugh meeting the coffee he
was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly
terminated in his premature suffocation.
"He is so jolly green," said Charley when he recovered, as an apology
to the company for his unpolite behaviour.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair down over
his eyes, and said he'd know better by-and-by; upon which the old
gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by
asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that
morning. This made him wonder more and more, for it was plain from
the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver
naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so
very industrious.
When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman and
the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was
performed in this way:--The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in
one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in
his waistcoat-pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking
a mock diamond pin in his shirt, buttoned his coat tight round him,
and, putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in the pockets,
trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner
in which old gentlemen walk about the streets every hour in the day.
Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door,
making belief that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows.
At such times he would look constantly round him for fear of thieves,
and keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost
anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed
till the tears ran down his face. All this time the two boys followed
him closely about, getting out of his sight so nimbly every time he
turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last
the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidentally, while
Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment
they took from him with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box,
note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief,--even
the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his
pockets, he cried out where it was, and then the game began all over
again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young
ladies came to see the young gentlemen, one of whom was called Bet and
the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned
up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They
were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour
in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably
free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice
girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.
These visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in
consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her
inside, and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn.
At length Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad
the hoof, which it occurred to Oliver must be French for going out; for
directly afterwards the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies
went away together, having been kindly furnished with money to spend,
by the amiable old Jew.
"There, my dear," said Fagin, "that's a pleasant life, isn't it? They
have gone out for the day."
"Have they done work, sir?" inquired Oliver.
"Yes," said the Jew; "that is, unless they should unexpectedly come
across any when they are out; and they won't neglect it if they do, my
dear, depend upon it."
"Make 'em your models, my dear, make 'em your models," said the Jew,
tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words;
"do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters,
especially the Dodger's, my dear. He'll be a great man himself, and
make you one too, if you take pattern by him. Is my handkerchief
hanging out of my pocket, my dear?" said the Jew, stopping short.
"Yes, sir," said Oliver.
"See if you can take it out, without my feeling it, as you saw them do
when we were at play this morning."
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand as he had seen
the Dodger do, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the
other.
"Is it gone?" cried the Jew.
"Here it is, sir," said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
"You're a clever boy, my dear," said the playful old gentleman, patting
Oliver on the head approvingly; "I never saw a sharper lad. Here's a
shilling for you. If you go on in this way, you'll be the greatest man
of the time. And now come here, and I'll show you how to take the marks
out of the handkerchiefs."
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman's pocket in play had to
do with his chances of being a great man; but thinking that the Jew,
being so much his senior, must know best, followed him quietly to the
table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW
ASSOCIATES, AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT BUT
VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER IN THIS HISTORY.
For eight or ten days Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the
marks out of the pocket-handkerchiefs, (of which a great number were
brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described,
which the two boys and the Jew played regularly every day. At length
he began to languish for the fresh air, and took many occasions of
earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work
with his two companions.
Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed by what
he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman's character.
Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night empty-handed,
he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and
lazy habits, and enforce upon them the necessity of an active life by
sending them supperless to bed: upon one occasion he even went so far
as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying
out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.
At length one morning Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly
sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three
days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were
reasons for the old gentleman's giving his assent; but, whether they
were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint
guardianship of Charley Bates and his friend the Dodger.
The three boys sallied out, the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up
and his hat cocked as usual, Master Bates sauntering along with his
hands in his pockets, and Oliver between them, wondering where they
were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in
first.
The pace at which they went was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,
that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive
the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a
vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small
boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some
very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering
divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and
thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that
they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.
These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring
his intention of seeking his way back in the best way he could, when
his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel by a very
mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open
square in Clerkenwell, which is called, by some strange perversion of
terms, "The Green," when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying his
finger on his lip, drew his companions back again with the greatest
caution and circumspection.
"What's the matter?" demanded Oliver.
"Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at the
book-stall?"
"The old gentleman over the way?" said Oliver. "Yes, I see him."
"He'll do," said the Dodger.
"A prime plant," observed Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other with the greatest surprise, but was
not permitted to make any inquiries, for the two boys walked stealthily
across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom
his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them,
and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in
silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a
powdered head and gold spectacles; dressed in a bottle-green coat with
a black velvet collar, and white trousers: with a smart bamboo cane
under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he
stood, reading away as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair in his
own study. It was very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed;
for it was plain, from his utter abstraction, that he saw not the
book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but
the book itself, which he was reading straight through, turning over
the leaves when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top
line of the next one, and going regularly on with the greatest interest
and eagerness.
What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking
on with his eye-lids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the
Dodger plunge his hand into this old gentleman's pocket, and draw from
thence a handkerchief, which he handed to Charley Bates, and with which
they both ran away round the corner at full speed!
In one instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches,
and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind. He stood for
a moment with the blood tingling so through all his veins from terror,
that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and
frightened, he took to his heels, and, not knowing what he did, made
off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute's space, and the very instant that Oliver
began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and
missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding
away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the
depredator, and, shouting "Stop thief!" with all his might, made off
after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue and
cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention
by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first
doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver
running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth
with great promptitude, and, shouting "Stop thief!" too, joined in the
pursuit like good citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was
not theoretically acquainted with their beautiful axiom that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps
he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however,
it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old
gentlemen and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
"Stop thief! stop thief!" There is a magic in the sound. The
tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his waggon; the butcher
throws down his tray, the baker his basket, the milkman his pail,
the errand-boy his parcels, the schoolboy his marbles, the paviour
his pick-axe, the child his battledore: away they run, pell-mell,
helter-skelter, slap-dash, tearing, yelling, and screaming, knocking
down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and
astonishing the fowls; and streets, squares, and courts re-echo with
the sound.
"Stop thief! stop thief!" The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and
the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through
the mud, and rattling along the pavements; up go the windows, out run
the people, onward bear the mob: a whole audience desert Punch in the
very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the
shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, "Stop thief! stop thief!"
"Stop thief! stop thief!" There is a passion _for hunting something_
deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched, breathless child,
panting with exhaustion, terror in his looks, agony in his eye, large
drops of perspiration streaming down his face, strains every nerve to
make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain
upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with still
louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy "Stop thief!"--Ay, stop
him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last. A clever blow that. He's down upon the pavement,
and the crowd eagerly gather round him; each new comer jostling and
struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. "Stand aside!"--"Give
him a little air!"--"Nonsense! he don't deserve it."--"Where's the
gentleman?"--"Here he is, coming down the street."--"Make room there
for the gentleman!"--"Is this the boy, sir?"--"Yes."
Oliver lay covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,
looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when
the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle
by the foremost of the pursuers, and made this reply to their anxious
inquiries.
"Yes," said the gentleman in a benevolent voice, "I am afraid it is."
"Afraid!" murmured the crowd. "That's a good un."
"Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "he has hurt himself."
"I did that, sir," said a great lubberly fellow stepping forward; "and
preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth. _I_ stopped him, sir."
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for
his pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of
disgust, looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away
himself; which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and
thus afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is always
the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way
through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar. "Come, get up,"
said the man roughly.
"It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys," said
Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round: "they are
here somewhere."
"Oh no, they ain't," said the officer. He meant this to be ironical;
but it was true besides, for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off
down the first convenient court they came to. "Come, get up."
"Don't hurt him," said the old gentleman compassionately.
"Oh no, I won't hurt him," replied the officer, tearing his jacket half
off his back in proof thereof. "Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you
stand upon your legs, you young devil?"
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself upon his
feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar at
a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side;
and as many of the crowd as could, got a little a-head, and stared back
at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph, and on they
went.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE, AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT
SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE.
The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the
immediate neighbourhood of a very notorious metropolitan police-office.
The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two
or three streets, and down a place called Mutton-hill, when he was led
beneath a low archway and up a dirty court into this dispensary of
summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which
they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of
whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
"What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly.
"A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
"Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the
keys.
"Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this
boy actually took the handkerchief. I--I'd rather not press the case."
"Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship
will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows."
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he
unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a small stone cell. Here he
was searched, and, nothing been found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not
so light. It was most intolerably dirty, for it was Monday morning, and
it had been tenanted since Saturday night by six drunken people. But
this is nothing. In our station-houses, men and women are every night
confined on the most trivial _charges_--the word is worth noting--in
dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most
atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are
palaces! Let any man who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated
in the lock; and turned with a sigh to the book which had been the
innocent cause of all this disturbance.
"There is something in that boy's face," said the old gentleman to
himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of
the book in a thoughtful manner, "something that touches and interests
me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like--By the bye," exclaimed the
old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, "God
bless my soul! where have I seen something like that look before?"
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked with the same
meditative face into a back ante-room opening from the yard; and
there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast
amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many
years. "No," said the old gentleman, shaking his head; "it must be
imagination."
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was
not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There
were the faces of friends and foes, and of many that had been almost
strangers, peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of
young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were others
that the grave had changed to ghastly trophies of death, but which the
mind, superior to his power, still dressed in their old freshness and
beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the
smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering
of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from
earth only to be set up as a light to shed a soft and gentle glow upon
the path to Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's
features bore a trace; so he heaved a sigh over the recollections he
had awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman,
buried them again in the pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the
man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book
hastily, and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the
renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panneled wall. Mr. Fang sat
behind a bar at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of
wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited, trembling
very much at the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair; and
what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was
stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking
rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an
action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy
damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully, and, advancing to the
magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my
name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with
another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be
questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading
article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent
decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth
time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State
for the Home Department. He was out of temper, and he looked up with an
angry scowl.
"Who are you?" said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed with some surprise to his card.
"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the
newspaper, "who is this fellow?"
"My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman,
and consequently in strong contrast to Mr. Fang,--"my name, sir, is
Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers
a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable man, under the
protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the
office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required
information.
"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this
fellow charged with?"
"He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He
appears against the boy, your worship."
His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and
a safe one.
"Appears against the boy, does he?" said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow
contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him."
"Before I am sworn I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow;
"and that is, that I never, without actual experience, could have
believed----"
"Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang peremptorily.
"I will not, sir!" replied the spirited old gentleman.
"Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the
office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How
dare you bully a magistrate!"
"What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
"Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another
word. Swear him!"
Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but, reflecting that
he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his
feelings, and submitted to be sworn at once.
"Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you
got to say, sir?"
"I was standing at a book-stall--" Mr. Brownlow began.
"Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang. "Policeman!--where's the
policeman? Here, swear this man. Now, policeman, what is this?"
The policeman with becoming humility related how he had taken the
charge, how he had searched Oliver and found nothing on his person; and
how that was all he knew about it.
"Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang.
"None, your worship," replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the
prosecutor, said, in a towering passion,
"Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, fellow,
or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing
to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will,
by ----"
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed
very loud just at the right moment, and the former dropped a heavy book
on the floor; thus preventing the word from being heard--accidentally,
of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived
to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he
had run after the boy because he saw him running away, and expressing
his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not
actually the thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as
leniently with him as justice would allow.
"He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And
I fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar,--"I
really fear that he is very ill."
"Oh! yes; I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come; none of your
tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?"
Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale,
and the whole place seemed turning round and round.
"What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" thundered Mr. Fang.
"Officer, what's his name?"
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow in a striped waistcoat, who
was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;
but finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and
knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the
more, and add to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.
"He says his name's Tom White, your worship," said this kind-hearted
thief-taker.
"Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well.
Where does he live?"
"Where he can, your worship," replied the officer, again pretending to
receive Oliver's answer.
"Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang.
"He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer,
hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry Oliver raised his head, and, looking round
with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."
"I think he really is ill, your worship," remonstrated the officer.
"I know better," said Mr. Fang.
"Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands
instinctively; "he'll fall down."
"Stand away, officer," cried Fang savagely; "let him if he likes."
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily to the
floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other,
but no one dared to stir.
"I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were incontestable
proof of the fact. "Let him lie; he'll soon be tired of that."
"How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk in
a low voice.
"Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three
months,--hard labour of course. Clear the office."
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were
preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man
of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed
hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.
"Stop, stop,--don't take him away,--for Heaven's sake stop a moment,"
cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise
a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the
character, almost the lives of his Majesty's subjects, especially of
the poorer class, and although within such walls enough fantastic
tricks are daily played to make the angels weep thick tears of blood,
they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily
press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an
unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
"What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office," cried
Mr. Fang.
"I will speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out,--I saw it
all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put
down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You dare not refuse, sir."
The man was right. His manner was bold and determined, and the matter
was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.
"Swear the fellow," growled Fang with a very ill grace. "Now, man, what
have you got to say?"
"This," said the man: "I saw three boys--two others and the prisoner
here--loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman
was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done,
and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it."
Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall
keeper proceeded to relate in a more coherent manner the exact
circumstances of the robbery.
"Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang after a pause.
"I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man; "everybody that
could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till
five minutes ago, and I've run here all the way."
"The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another
pause.
"Yes," replied the man, "the very book he has got in his hand."
"Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?"
"No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile.
"Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absent old gentleman,
innocently.
"A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang,
with a comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have
obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable
circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner
of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my
man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the
office!"
"D--me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had
kept down so long, "d--me! I'll----"
"Clear the office!" roared the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear?
Clear the office!"
The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed
out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other, in a
perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.
He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist
lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his
temples bathed with water: his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble
convulsing his whole frame.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow bending over him. "Call a
coach, somebody, pray, directly!"
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one
seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
"May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper looking in.
"Bless me, yes, my dear friend," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot
you. Dear, dear! I've got this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor
fellow! there's no time to lose."
The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON.
Why mourn we for her, who in Spring's tender bloom,
And the sweet blush of womanhood, quitted life's sphere?
Why weep we for her? Thro' the gates of the tomb
She has pass'd to the regions undimm'd by a tear!
To the spirits' far land in the mansions above,
Unsullied, thus early her soul wing'd its flight;
While she bask'd in the beams of affection and love,
And knew not the clouds that oft shadow their light!
Fate's hand pluck'd the bud ere it blossom'd to fame,
No withering canker its leaflets had known;
The ministering angels her fellowship claim,
And rejoice o'er a spirit as pure as their own!
While she knew but life's purer and tenderer ties,
The guardian who watches life's path from our birth
Call'd home the bright being Heav'n form'd for the skies
Ere its bloom had been ting'd by the follies of earth!
Alas! while the light of her young spirit's flame
Shone a day-star of Hope to illumine us here,
The messenger-seraph too suddenly came,
And bore his bright charge to her own native sphere!
Yet mourn not for her, who, in Spring's tender bloom,
Has made life a desert to those left behind;
Like the rose-leaf, tho' wither'd, still yielding perfume,
In our hearts, ever fragrant, her memory is shrin'd!
FICTIONS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
BY DELTA.
THE BUTTERFLY BISHOP.
Amongst the numerous grievances complained of, during the reigns of the
Anglo-Norman sovereigns, none gave more uneasiness than the inhuman
severity of the forest-laws; they disgusted those nobles not in the
confidence of the monarch, oppressed the people, and impoverished the
country.
The privilege of hunting in the royal forests was confined to the king
and his favourites, who spent the greater portion of their time, not
engaged in active warfare, in that diversion; many of them pursued wild
beasts with greater fury than they did enemies of their country, and
became as savage as the very brutes they hunted.
The punishment for hunting or destroying game in royal forests, or
other property belonging to the crown, was very severe: the offender
was generally put to death; but, if he could afford to pay an enormous
mulct to the king, the sentence was commuted either to dismemberment or
tedious imprisonment.
The propensity of the dignified clergy to follow secular pastimes,
especially that of hunting, is well known: they were ambitious to
surpass the laity in the number and splendid livery of their huntsmen,
and to excel in making the woods resound with the echo of their bugles;
many of them are recorded for their skill in the aristocratic and manly
amusement of the chase. Few persons, however, either ecclesiastic
or secular, equalled Peter de Roches, Bishop of Winchester, in his
fondness for, and prowess in, the chase.
Peter had spent the prime of his life as a soldier,[1] and having
rendered King John essential service in such capacity, that monarch
conferred upon him the lucrative office of Bishop of Winchester, and he
thenceforth became a curer of souls instead of a destroyer of bodies.
Peter's appointment as a bishop afforded him ample time to devote to
the fascinating employment of chasing the "full-acorned boar" and
stealthy fox: he thought the hunter's shout, the winding notes of the
clanging horn, and the joyous bark of the hounds, much sweeter music
than the nasal chaunt of the drowsy monks.
It happened one day that Peter, (who was, according to the Chronicle of
Lanercost,[2] a proud and worldly man,--as was too often the case with
bishops of that period,) with a bugle dangling at his belt, and mounted
upon a fiery steed, attended by a vast retinue of men, horses, and
hounds, was in hot pursuit of a wary old fox; his courser,--more fleet
than the mountain roe, scarce bruising the grass with his iron-shod
hoofs,--like Bucephalus of Macedon, took fright at his own shadow, and
became unmanageable; nor were all the skill and spur of the rider able
to check his impetuous speed: the harder the bishop pulled, the more
unruly became his steed; the bridle now suddenly snapped in twain,
and the bishop was left to the fate that awaited him. Velocipede,
for so the horse was called, now seemed exultingly to bound over the
deepest ditches, and to clear the highest thorny-twining hedge with the
greatest ease: nothing could moderate his foaming rage; he resembled
more the far-famed Pegasus of Medusan blood, than the palfrey of a
gentle bishop. The retinue, and eager hounds, notwithstanding their
utmost endeavour to keep pace with their master, were left far behind.
Peter, having no control over his flying barbary, awaited with truly
apostolic calmness and gravity the issue of his wondrous ride,
seriously expecting every minute a broken neck or leg; or, perchance,
to have his preaching spoilt by the dislocation of a jaw-bone.--Such
thoughts will frequently obtrude themselves into the minds of men
encompassed with similar difficulties, let their presence of mind be
never so great.
After half an hour's ride in such unepiscopal speed, which can only
be compared to that of a steam-engine upon the Manchester railroad,
Velocipede suddenly stopped before a magnificent castle with frowning
battlements and a gloomy moat. The bishop, wondering at what he saw,
was struck dumb with astonishment; for he well knew that so extensive a
castle had not hitherto existed in his diocese, nor did he know of any
such in England. Velocipede seemed also at his wits' end, and commenced
frisking and gamboling about; and, in making a devotional curvet to
the castle, threw the gallant, but unprepared bishop, over his head.
Peter was either stunned or entranced by the fall,--whether his senses
ever returned the reader must determine for himself when he has perused
what follows: the bishop, however, always declared that he was never
senseless, and that he could preach as well after, as before his fall.
No sooner was the bishop safely located upon the verdant down by the
reverential feelings of the awe-struck Velocipede, than the castle's
drawbridge fell, and an aged seneschal, of rubicund-tinted face, with
at least fifty liveried lackeys in fanciful suits, ran to assist the
bishop, and help him to regain his legs.
By the aid of a restorative cordial the bishop was resuscitated, and,
upon coming to himself, was welcomed by the seneschal to the castle of
Utopia.
The bishop looked aghast.
"My lord bishop," said the seneschal, "the king, our master, has
been long expecting you; he is all impatient to embrace you: hasten,
my lord, hasten your steps into the castle; the wines are cooled,
the supper is ready; oh, such a supper! my mouth waters at the very
smell thereof! Four wild turkeys smoke upon the spit, seven bitterns,
six-and-twenty grey partridges, two-and-thirty red-legged ones, sixteen
pheasants, nine woodcocks, nineteen herons, two-and-thirty rooks,
twenty ring-doves, sixty leverets, twelve hares, twenty rabbits, and an
ocean of Welsh ones, (enough to surfeit all the mice, and kill every
apoplectic person in the world,) twenty kids, six roebucks, eight
he-goats, fifteen sucking wild-boars, a flock of wild-ducks, to say
nothing of the sturgeons, pikes, jacks, and other fish, both fresh and
saltwater, besides ten tons of the most exquisite native oysters: and
then there are flagons, goblets, and mead-cups overflowing with frothy
ale, exhilarating wine, and goodly mead, all longing to empty their
contents into our parched and ready stomachs, which are unquenchable
asbestos; for we drink lustily, my lord, and eat powdered beef salted
at Shrovetide, to season our mouths, and render them rabid for liquid
in the same proportion as a rabid dog avoids it."
The seneschal here paused to take breath, for his description of the
supper exhausted the wind-trunk of his organ; and the bishop, seizing
the opportunity of its being replenished, said,
"Peace, hoary dotard! thou hast mistaken thy man; I am Peter de Roches,
Bishop of Winchester, and Protector of England during the king's
sojourn abroad."
"You need not tell _me_ what I already know," replied the seneschal;
"though, it seems, I must again remind _you_ that my lord the king
awaits your coming within the castle walls, and has prepared a
sumptuous supper, with all manner of good cheer, to greet you."
"Supper!" said the bishop in astonishment, "I have not yet dined;
besides I never eat supper."
"The devil take your inhuman fashion, then!" replied the seneschal:
"in extreme necessity I might forego a dinner, provided I had eaten
an overwhelming breakfast; but I would as soon die as go without my
supper. To go to bed without supper is a base and aristocratic custom;
I say it is an error offensive to nature, and nature's dictates; all
fasting is bad save breakfasting. That wicked pope who first invented
fasting ought to have been baked alive in the papal kitchen."
To the latter part of the seneschal's speech the bishop mentally
assented; but he merely said,
"Go to, thou gorged dullard, and tell thy master to gormandize without
me."
"Well, go I suppose I must, if you will not come," returned the
seneschal, "for I cannot longer tarry here. Ah, Sir Bishop, did you
feel the gnawings of my stomach, you would be glad to throw some food
to the hungry mastiff that seems feeding upon my very vitals!"
"Hold thy balderdash!" said the bishop, who had become very irritated,
and would have sworn, had it been etiquette to do so in those days,
at the effusive and edacious harangue of the seneschal. "Verily, thy
hunger and thirst have gotten the better of thy wits! Whence comest
thou?"
"From within the pincernary of that castle, where I have been
indefatigably filling the goblets," answered the seneschal, smacking
his lips. "_Sitio! sitio!_ my parched mouth moistens at the thought!
Oh! the lachryma Christi, the nectar, the ambrosia, and the true
Falernian! Ah! Sir Bishop, some persons drink to quench their thirst,
but I drink to prevent it."
"Pshaw!" said the bishop, "the wine that thou hast already drunken hath
fuddled thy brains."
"By a gammon of the saltest bacon!" returned the seneschal, "I have
more sense of what is good in my little finger than your reverence has
in your whole pate, or you would not stand shilly-shambling here whilst
so goodly a supper waits within."
The bishop was highly incensed at the seneschal's reflection upon his
pate, and would have followed, had he dared, the slashing example of
his namesake, and have smitten off the ear of this high-priest of
the pantry; (for he always wore a sword, even in the pulpit, firmly
believing in the efficacy of cold steel, knowing from experience that
it would make a deeper and more lasting impression upon human obduracy
than the most eloquent preaching;) but the bishop was deterred by
prudential reflections from such sanguinary vengeance.
How long the confabulation between the bishop and the loquacious
seneschal would have lasted, and to what extent the patience of the
former might have been tried, it would at this remote period be
difficult to determine, especially as the Lanercost Chronicle does not
inform us. At any rate, it was cut shorter than it would have been, by
the approach of twenty youthful knights, clad in superb armour, and
riding upon horses caparisoned in most costly and gorgeous trappings;
they dismounted, and made a low obeisance. The bishop returned it as
lowly as bishops generally do, unless they are bowing to the premier
during the vacancy of an archbishoprick. The knights advanced; but
Peter remained as firm and majestic as the rock of Gibraltar.
"Sir Bishop," said the chief of the knights, a youth with a most
beautiful and smiling face, "we are come to request your speedy
attendance upon our lord the king, who with any other than yourself
would have been much displeased at your perverse absence, after you
have been bidden by the steward of the household."
The bishop rubbed, shut, and opened his eyes.--"Am I bewitched,"
thought he to himself, "or do I dream?"
"Neither the one nor the other," said the knight, who perfectly
understood the bishop's cogitations.
"No? What, then, does all this mean?" inquired the bishop. "When did my
lord the king return from Picardy?"
"Proceed into the castle," replied the knight, "and let him answer for
himself."
"If these people consider this a joke," thought the bishop, "I by no
means think it one. At all events, come what come may, I will follow up
this strange adventure, and be even with these gentlemen. I have not a
bishop's garment," said he, addressing the seneschal; "how can I appear
before the king, accoutred as I am?"
"Knowing how much you are addicted to hunting," returned the seneschal,
"the king will assuredly receive you in your usual costume."
"Tut, fool!" said the bishop sneeringly; "do you forget, or has your
time been so engrossed with epicurean pursuits, that you have not
learnt how a guest, though bidden, was punished because he attended a
supper-party without a proper garment? Find me a becoming dress, and I
will instantly attend his highness' pleasure."
"If you will condescend to follow me," said the youthful knight, "a
sacerdotal dress shall be procured for you."
The bishop, nodding assent, was then conducted in solemn silence into
the wardrobe of the castle, where the obsequious attendants soon
arrayed him in a dress fit for a bishop to sit with the king at supper
in. It was not such unpretending costume as that in which bishops are
at present apparelled; but robes of the tinctured colours of the East,
which were more apt to remind both the wearer and the beholders of
mundane pomps and vanities, than of the humility and simplicity of
Christianity. The alb was of most dazzling white, the dalmatica of
gold tissue, the stole was embroidered with precious stones, and the
chasuble, of purple velvet wrought with orfraise, was also studded with
costly orient gems.
The bishop thus splendidly accoutred was conducted with great state
and solemnity into the banqueting-room, one of the most magnificent
and spacious of the kind. It excelled everything he had ever before
seen: odoriferous and fragrant perfumes, fit for a Peri[3] to feed
on, saluted his nose; his sight was dazzled by splendid and radiant
illuminations, the most exquisite music stole upon his ear, and
laughter and mirth seemed to be universal; every face (there were many
hundreds in the room) was decked with a smile; there wanted but one
thing to complete the enchantment of the scene,--the light of woman's
laughing eye.
As the bishop entered the hall, five hundred harpers in an instant
twanged their harps; and the air resounded with trumpets, clarions,
fifes, and other musical instruments, not omitting the hollow drum.
The bishop, being tainted with the superstitious feelings of the
age, easily persuaded himself that he was in an enchanted palace; he
therefore determined to conform to every custom that prevailed in the
assembled company, and by that means he hoped to ingratiate himself
with the presiding spirit. When he had reached the centre of the hall,
the king (he wore a robe of rich crimson velvet, furred with ermine,
over a dalmatica flowered with gold, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and
diamonds, and on his head was a splendid crown beyond estimation,)
descended from a throne of the purest crystal, and advanced to meet the
bishop. As he passed the obsequious nobles, he received their servile
adulation with a smile, and, extending his arms, folded the bishop in a
royal embrace. The latter surveyed with some awe the brawny shoulders
of the king, and regarded with much respect the amber-coloured locks
hanging in great profusion down his musculous back. The bishop thought
that the aquiline nose, the expansive brow, the large clear azure eye,
and the ruddy complexion of his host, about as much resembled those of
his own monarch as a terrible-looking bull-dog does a snarling mongrel.
But he kept his complimentary thoughts of his host to himself, as he
was not at any time of a communicative spirit,--he was a proud, not a
vain man,--and he moreover did not know how his compliment might be
received.
The king handed the bishop to the upper end of the hall, and placed him
at his right hand. No sooner were they seated than twenty trumpeters,
in a gallery at the lower end of the room, blew, as the signal for
supper to be served up, three such electrifying blasts, that, had the
building not been as substantial as beautiful, it must have been shaken.
As the loquacious seneschal, in tempting the bishop to quicken his
steps to supper, has put us in possession of many of the various
articles provided for this festive entertainment, we shall not weary
our reader by recapitulating them; but content ourselves with stating
that, in addition to the solid fare, there were exquisite and delicate
fruits and viands, with wines and liqueurs of the choicest quality and
flavour. The supper-service was of the most superb description, frosted
silver and burnished gold; the goblets, vases, and wine-cups were of
crystal, mounted in gold richly carved. Such a feast the bishop had
never seen or tasted; and yet he was, like many of his predecessors
and successors too, perfectly familiar with the charms of eating and
drinking.
Nothing produces good-fellowship, intimacy, and conviviality more than
a good supper. We do not mean the cold, formal, and pompous supper
given to a fashionable party of the present day; but such as were
peculiar to by-gone days, when the table groaned under hot and solid
joints, and the company, with good appetites as provocatives, ate
and drank right heartily,--when glee and joy sat merrily upon every
face, and the glass went briskly round. Even misanthropes or proud men
could not be insensible to such festive scenes; their hearts would
necessarily warm as the exhilarating wine washed away their gloomy and
proud thoughts.
The bishop soon became familiar with his host, ate, drank, laughed,
and was merry; (we will not so scandalise the Bench as to presume that
he was drunk, although the Chronicle of Lanercost insinuates as much;)
the conversation was brilliant, the wit bright and poignant, and the
repartees flashed, and often rebounded upon the discharger.
To put a direct or pointed question at any time is, to say the least
of it, ungentlemanly; it very often gives dire offence, is seldom
admired or tolerated even by your most intimate acquaintance; and men
are seldom guilty of it, unless in their cups, or with a desire of
insulting:--how unpalatable must it be to royalty! As we know it was
the bishop's desire to keep upon good terms with his host, it is but
natural to infer that he would not intentionally insult him by any
rude question. If, therefore, any rudeness occurred on the part of the
bishop, it is charitable to set it down to inebriation, or perhaps to
the bishop's habit of putting questions in the confessional.
To the ineffable surprise of the king, the bishop was so injudicious as
to ask his host, in the most direct and pointed manner, who he was, and
whence he came there.
No sooner had the bishop attempted to satisfy his prying curiosity by
what appeared to him a very natural question, than the hall shook as if
Nature were indignant at his presumptuous inquiry; the whole place was
filled with an effulgent lambent light so brilliant, that it entirely
eclipsed the blaze of the variegated lamps that burned in the hall; a
low murmuring wind followed. The king's eyes seemed to flash liquid
fire as he answered, "Know me for what I am,--Arthur, formerly lord of
the whole monarchy of Britain, son of the mighty Pendragon, and the
illustrious founder of the Order of the Round Table."
The bishop, having a firm heart and buxom valour, was far from being
daunted, as most men in a similar situation would have been, and he
inquired whether the story then current was true, that King Arthur
was not dead, but had been carried away by fairies into some pleasant
place, where he was to remain for a time, and then return again
and reign in as great authority as ever; or whether he died by the
sword-wounds he received from the sons of the king of the Picts;
and if so, whether his soul was saved, and come to revisit this
sublunary world. The bishop, meditating authorship, asked a thousand
other questions relative to the immortality of the soul; and so
subtle were they, that, had they been put in these days of sciolism
and charlatanry, his fame would have been as brilliant, lasting, and
deserved as that of the noble editor of Paley's Theology.
Whether King Arthur did not choose to satisfy the bishop's curiosity,
or whether, judging from the usual depth of the human mind, he thought
the immortality of the soul a subject too deep and mystic for such
moonshine treatises as have been written concerning it, the Chronicle
of Lanercost does not inform us. It merely states, that to all the
bishop's searching questions Arthur only replied, "_Verè expecto
misericordiam Dei magnam_." He had no sooner uttered those words than
a roar, like the falling of mighty waters such as Niagara's was heard,
and from the incense-altar another blaze of transcendent light issued:
the whole assembly, excepting the bishop, prostrated themselves and
chaunted a hymn, which he, mistaking for a bacchanal-venatical chorus,
heartily joined in. Upon this outrage of public decency, the chaunt
instantly terminated with a crash resembling what is ignorantly called
the falling of a thunderbolt; the altar again smoked, and horrible and
clamorous noises issued therefrom, like the bellowing of buffaloes, the
howling of wolves, the snarling and barking of hounds, the neighing of
horses, the halloo of huntsmen, and the blasts of brazen trumpets, all
in heterogeneous mingle. The smoke gradually assumed the appearance
of a host of hunters; one of them, evidently their chief, fixed his
glaring eyes upon the bishop, and frowned awfully. The bishop did not
admire the looks of the hunter-chief, and even winced a little when he
raised his ghastly arm, (as a self-satisfied orator does when about
to enforce some appalling clap-trap sentiment,) and said in a gruff
growl, "I am Nimrod, of hunting fame, and such a hunter was I as the
world had not before, or since, or will ever have again. Yet was I
no monopolizer of game, or murderer of men to preserve it, as some
have unjustly charged me. I loved the chase, and taught my subjects
to love it too; but thou, oh Bishop Peter, hast been a cruel hunter,
and strict preserver of game. The tongues thou hast dilacerated, the
ears and noses thou hast cut off, and the wretches thou hast slain,
form an awful catalogue of cruelty, and one that will require tears of
blood to wash out. Hearken to the lamentations of thy victims, and the
bewailings of the widows and orphans thy cruelty hath made! Hadst thou
not been so peerless and bold a hunter, I should not have condescended
to warn you of the terrible fate you will experience in the world to
come, unless you mend your ways. Lover and encourager that I was, and
interested as I still am in that manly sport, I would sooner that it
were entirely lost to the world than it should be disgraced by human
bloodshed. List, I say, to the cries of the victims whom thou hast
sacrificed at the altar of Diana, thy divinity!" Loud lamentations were
now heard, and a hideous group of dismembered menacing ghosts flitted
rapidly before the bishop's wondering sight. He closed his eyes to
avoid their angry looks; one writer insinuates that he swooned, but we
think that unlikely. Be it, however, as it may, upon his opening his
eyes he neither saw Nimrod, his crew, nor any of the victims of the
forest-laws. They had every one of them disappeared!
King Arthur, like a brave and magnanimous prince, soon forgot and
forgave the bishop's want of good breeding in asking impertinent
questions; though he severely chid him for having split so many human
noses, and dismembered Christians without the slightest remorse, for so
trifling an offence as infraction of the forest-laws: and that, too,
within the very precinct of Winchester Castle, where the Round Table
was preserved. The bishop thought those offences anything but trifling,
and that the souls as well as bodies of the offenders merited the
severest punishment, instead of commiseration.
King Arthur then denounced the concupiscence of the dignitaries of the
church, and their appetite for, and easy digestion of, the good things
of the world; and he declared that they regarded nothing but sensual
gratification, and wasted their precious lives in banqueting, hawking,
and hunting. He entreated the bishop to leave off his hunting habits,
and to take unto those that were more episcopal and less sanguinary. He
told him that it would add considerably to his mundane happiness, and
tend more to his salvation than ten thousand thoughtless repetitions of
the "pater noster" and twelve thousand of the "ave Maria." So much did
King Arthur say, needless here to be repeated, that the bishop mentally
resolved to profit by the king's advice. But it occurred to him that
he could not suddenly leave off hunting without assigning a sufficient
reason for his determination; and that if he related what had befallen
him, his being a bishop would not entitle him to credit, nor protect
him from the derision of his sovereign and his courtiers; for who would
believe his most solemn asseveration that he had seen Nimrod, and
conversed and supped with King Arthur?
King Arthur, perceiving what was agitating the bishop's ideas,
determined to assist in fulfilling so righteous a resolve as the bishop
was meditating.
"Extend your right hand," said Arthur; the bishop complied. "Shut it,"
said Arthur; the bishop did as he was told. "Now open it," continued
Arthur. The bishop opened his hand, and there flew therefrom an
exquisitely beautiful butterfly.
The bishop, notwithstanding all that he had just before seen and heard,
now in real good earnest believed himself bewitched, and heartily
wished that he had never forsaken the profession of a soldier for that
of a bishop, to be subject to miracles; for in those days miracles and
visions only occurred to the dignified clergy.
King Arthur, compassionating the bishop's perturbation, said, "Whenever
in relating your adventure any one doubts it, you shall afford him
sufficient autopsy of its verity by sending, at all seasons of the
year, a butterfly from your hand, in memorial of me and of your
virtuous resolution."
The bishop cordially thanked King Arthur for his kindness and
consideration, and swore by the face at Lucca, (his favourite oath,)
that as long as he lived, he would never again sound the bugle, follow
hounds, nor punish man, woman, or child for infringing the game-laws;
and that he would moreover exert all his influence with King John to
relax the inhuman severity of the forest-laws.
No sooner had the bishop made a solemn adjuration to that effect than
he felt a stunning blow upon his head, which deprived him of all
sensation. When he recovered, he found himself lying where Velocipede
had thrown him, and the brute quietly grazing by his side.
The bishop vaulted upon his saddle, spurred his steed, and galloped off
as fast as the creature could go. After a ride of about five miles,
he found his attendants anxiously seeking him. He related all that
had occurred, to their great awe and astonishment; but when they had
autoptical evidence of the truth of his narration, by his letting loose
a mealy-winged butterfly from his hand, their fear and wonder exceeded
all bounds.
The bishop's adventure was soon bruited abroad, and thousands flocked
from all parts of England, Scotland, Ireland, and even the Continent,
to see the man who had supped with King Arthur, and seen the hunter
Nimrod. Many more came to witness a miracle performed: a circumstance
of rare occurrence to the vulgar in those days, miracles, as we have
above observed, being reserved for the private view of bishops and
monks. Those pilgrimaging to Winchester always sought and received
a blessing from the butterfly hand of the bishop as soon as he was
satisfied that a liberal oblation had been made at the high altar of
his cathedral.
The frequent repetition of the miracle obtained for Peter the
appellation of the BUTTERFLY BISHOP; and the offerings at the high
altar so greatly augmented his revenue, that he never once repented of
his promise to King Arthur. His time was so occupied in performing the
miracle and blessing the people, that he had no time, whatever was his
inclination, for hunting.
The Chronicler ends this strange story in the following words "_Quid in
hoc anima Arthuri mortalis adhuc docere voluerit, perpendat qui meliùs
conjicere poterit_:"--which, for the benefit of our female readers,
may be rendered thus,--"What the still mortal soul of Arthur wished to
teach by this, let him consider who can best interpret."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Matthew Paris describes him as "_Vir equestris ordinis, et
in rebus bellicis eruditus_."]
[Footnote 2: The original words are, "_Idem vir vanus et mundanus, ut
nimis inolevit nostris pontificibus_."]
[Footnote 3: The Peris of Persian romance are supposed to feed upon the
choicest odours; by which food they overcome their bitterest enemies
the Deevs, (with whom they wage incessant war,) whose malignant nature
is impatient of fragrance.]
A NEW SONG TO THE OLD TUNE OF "KATE KEARNEY."
O, say have you heard of Duvernay?
They tell me she's able to earn a
Hundred pounds in a night,
Such crowds she'll delight--
What _danseuse_ is like to Duvernay?
If you e'er go to see this Duvernay,
Just notice her when she shall turn a
Most sweet pirouette,
And you'll never regret
Forking out to behold this Duvernay.
Would you know where you may see Duvernay?
You must go to Pall-mall, and just turn a
Little up a wide street,
When the Opera you'll meet,
And there you'll behold this Duvernay.
Tell me not of Leroux or Taglioni;
One's too stout, and the other's too bony:
If you see them all three,
You'll be thinking with me,
Of all dancers the flow'r is Duvernay.
F.G.
_City of London Institution,
Aldersgate-street._
WHAT TOM BINKS DID WHEN HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF.
Is it creditable to that very respectable academical abstraction,
that indefatigable pioneer to the march of intellect, (which some
imagine to be the rogues' march,) the _schoolmaster_, notwithstanding
his ubiquity, and his being lately abroad on his travels, that the
medical faculty, with all their appliances of pill and book, have not
up to this hour been able to devise a remedy for a very common-place
disorder, so feelingly enunciated in that touching and eloquent
exclamation, "I really don't know what to do with myself!" or to
ascertain in what category of diseases incident to humanity it is
to be placed? Like hydrophobia, it has baffled the ingenuity of the
faculty, who summarily disposed of the evil between two feather-beds;
and, though no effectual remedy has been devised for this pet malady, a
feather-bed, or an easy-chair, has been found to operate as a sedative.
One thing is clear; that, of all the ills that flesh or spirit is heir
to, this interesting disorder possesses as respectable a degree of
obstinacy and virulency as ever humanity had to cope with.
Talk of being dunned for your own or anybody else's debt; talk of a
favourite horse or dog falling sick just as you are ready to mount,
and the scent reeking hot on the stubble; of being bored, no matter
with what; talk--even if one is put to that--of the devil; and what
are all these petty annoyances to that sublime of _blue-devilism_ to
which a poor devil is reduced, when, in his extremity, he reposes his
hands on his "fair round belly," or thrusts them to the very bottom of
his breeches' pockets, with not a cross there to keep the devil out,
and feelingly exclaims, "I really don't know what to do with myself!"
One may double the corner on a dun, or stop his mouth for three months
together with a promissory note, though at the end of that period it
may be as fructifying as any note of admiration; or, at worst, pay him
and be d--d to him, and there's an end. That biped Shank's mare is a
very respectable animal, which you may borrow; or any body else's who
may be disposed to lend. In case of a _bore_, you may retaliate, and
_perforate_ in your turn. You may defy the devil, though backed with
this world, and his own, and the flesh to boot. But when that _ne
plus ultra_ of blue-devilism attacks you, what's the remedy? I don't
know--do you? but this I know; that it is the most rascally, &c. &c.
&c. kind of malady, will be generally admitted.
Your poor devil at the East-end, and your devil-may-care fellow of
the West-end, are equally honoured by its visitation; while your
happy, active middle-man, who stands aloof from either end, sturdily
bids it defiance, and slams the door in its face. Under the influence
of this visitor it is that sundry pious pilgrimages are made to
the foot of Waterloo or Blackfriars' bridges, to steal out of life
through an archway, unless the dear enthusiast is interrupted by a
meddling officious waterman, and his senses gently wooed back by the
resuscitating apparatus and warm blankets of the Humane Society. Will
Sprightly, with four thousand a-year unincumbered, doesn't know what
to do with himself, and straightway falls to the agreeable occupation
of encumbering it, and, when it will bear no more, he finds he cannot
bear himself, and incontinently flies from one state of suspense to
another, and hangs himself; or, should the ruling passion be strong
in death, and he is desirous even then to cut a figure, why, he cuts
his throat; or, the report of a pistol will give you a pretty correct
intimation of his whereabouts, and his probable occupation. "Temporary
insanity" is uniformly the verdict of your "crowner's 'quest" on such
occasions; even a physician of any repute will honestly state on
ordinary occasions, particularly when the patient has the benefit of
his skill and experience in helping him to leave this wicked world,
that he died of such and such a disorder, and will manfully state the
name of the disorder, and the world gives him credit for his skill and
integrity. Would gentlemen serving upon "crowners' 'quests" imitate
this heroic example, instead of recording the foolish verdict of
"temporary insanity," they would say, "The deceased _didn't know what
to do with himself_!" This would be intelligible, and the faculty might
stumble upon a remedy; but "temporary insanity" is too transitory,
too fugitive to be grappled with, too vague and indefinite in its
very name ever to do any good, and the patient is generally "past all
surgery" before one suspects he is attacked with insanity, be it ever
so temporary or evanescent: but in honestly recording that "he didn't
know what to do with himself, _and thereby came by his death_," it
would be but doing justice to that interesting malady. Thus it could be
easily observed in all its stages, from its incipient symptoms at the
gaming or any other well-garnished table, where it sometimes takes its
rise, through all its phases and evolutions, till the malady comes to
a _head_, and a man blows out his brains. The disease, through each of
these changes, might be stayed in its progress, and society might be
benefited by the honesty of the verdict.
Shade of the "mild Abernethy!" how many thousands of thy patients
laboured under this disorder! and how often did thy sagacious and
provident spirit turn the halter into a skipping-rope, and, in order
that thy patients should live, insist upon a few mouthfuls the less!
To a feeling very near akin to this, Tom Binks found himself reduced,
as, about twelve at noon, he flung himself into an easy-chair, and
sought, from the appliances of its downy cushions, a lenitive for
his wounded spirit. His feet on the fender, the fire gently stirred,
the curtains still undrawn and shutting out the garish sun, his eye
fixed on the glowing landscape formed by the fantastic combination
of the embers in the grate, the corners of his fine mouth drawn down
in hopeless despondency, as if nothing on earth could elevate them,
his hands clasped over his knees, he sat, not knowing what to do with
himself.
The room in which Binks sat was small, but elegant; pictures of the
most costly description covered the walls,--the most exquisite that
owned him or anybody else as _master_; gold and silver had done their
work. On the polished surface of the tables were thrown the most
amusing works of the day, the last new novel, the lively magazine,
the gay album, the serious review, all exhibiting on the same board
like so many brethren of the _Ravel family_, in the most alluring
and seductive shapes; but they exhibited in vain. With all these
elements of happiness around him, what _could_ Binks sigh for? With
easy possessions, he was the most uneasy of human beings. Did he play,
fortune was always in the best humour with him: in the billiard-room
the ball bounded from his cue to its destination; in the field his shot
was unerring, and the papers regularly chronicled the murder, or the
music, of his gun: no man stood better with _ins_ and outs; his maiden
speech was said to be _shy_, simply because it _was_ maiden, but full
of promise. With the ladies he was whatever he or they pleased; but
now you could "brain him with my lady's fan" as he sits vegetating, or
cogitating, on a pile of cushions, his breakfast scarcely touched, and
hardly sensible of his shaggy friend that lay couched at his feet, with
his snout buried in the hearth-rug, and his bloodshot eye occasionally
wandering in search of a regard from his listless master.
At an early age Binks had contrived to run through half the Continent
and his fortune together; he had travelled from "Dan to Beersheba,"
and all was barren; and, at twenty-three, the gay Binks had serious
notions that _this_ was not the best of all possible worlds, and that
_that_ world, commonly known as the other, to distinguish it from
this, might hold out a store of enjoyment of higher zest and relish
than the common-place realities of this. Whether he should wait for
his turn when the passage to it might become quite natural, or force
his way _vi et armis_, that is, with a pistol in hand, (for some
folks _will_ be impatient, and enter in at a breach,) was a matter
that sorely perplexed him. Tired of this hum-drum life, which a man
of common activity can exhaust of its most stimulating excitements in
a few years, was it surprising that he wished for _another_? But the
doubt that it was a better, would sometimes intrude itself, and agitate
the very powder in the pan of the pistol that lay before him on the
breakfast table. Now that the murder is out, it must be confessed that
Binks had a notion of shooting himself.
What heroic resolves he then made! What a noble contempt for this
world he then exhibited as he resolutely eyed the pistol, curiously
scanned its silver mounting, saw that the powder was in the pan,
looked anxiously around to see that none intruded, or should deprive
him of the honour of falling by his own hand: still he hesitated; he
lifted the deadly weapon with one hand, and with the other a volume of
Shakspeare, which opened at the play of _Hamlet_, and, by the hasty
glance which he threw on it, he perceived that "the Eternal had set his
canon 'gainst self-slaughter," and Binks was perplexed. It became now
a matter not so much of life and death as of simple calculation; on
one side there was a pistol _for_, and on the other a _canon 'gainst_
self-slaughter. In this state of indecision, thus sorely beset with
adverse arguments, what did Binks do? Why, he acted somewhat like a
sensible man; he yielded to the heavier weight of metal,--the great-gun
of Shakspeare carried it; and he consented to live, drew the charge,
lest he should return to it, (for he knew his man,) and made up his
mind that Shakspeare was a sensible fellow. Have you ever felt as
if your very heart-strings were tugged at by wild horses, when the
infernal host of _blues_, marshalled by the devil himself, have taken
the field against your peace, and that you don't know what to do with
yourself?
"Throw but a stone, the giant dies."
Very good; but a pebble of such potency is not always at hand,
particularly in a drawing-room. Do something, no matter what: go into
the open air; there's your window invitingly open, and, provided it is
not too far from the ground, 'tis but a step in advance to the shock
that may rouse you. Turn financier,--chancellor of your own exchequer;
there's your tailor's bill lying on the table, wooing you to analyze
its soft items; give it a first reading, and pass it. What a relief,
on such occasions, is the presence of any living creature!--your sleek
tabby,--no,--that fellow doesn't know what to do with himself neither.
Your playful little Italian grey-hound, whose playfulness is the very
poetry of motion. And Binks found no relief in these gentle appliances.
There he lies, flung upon his ottoman, and dallying with its downy
cushions, with his foot of almost feminine symmetry coquetting with
his morocco slipper, jerking it off and on according to the intensity
of the fit. Ponto stands before him. Noble dog, Ponto! He, too, has
his turn at the slipper, and seizes it in his huge mouth, and gambols
round the room with it, and now crouches with it before his master,
and earnestly looks at him, and those two eyes of his suggest a
double-barrelled gun, and this puts a pistol into his head, and there
it was at hand, lying on the table, just ready for a charge.
"Mr. Cently," said a servant, half-opening the door; and Binks
indolently extended the forefinger of his jewelled hand to his visitor.
"Very glad to see you, Cently; this mortgage, I suppose--"
"Is over due, Mr. Binks,--must redeem, though. I shan't let it out
of the family. The sum is large--hard to get--bad times. Fine dog
that--bulls and bears are very sulky to-day on 'Change.--Dear me, a
murderous-looking pistol that, sir--muzzle to muzzle--then brains
against the wall."
"Provided he has them," said Binks.
"Every man has a little--quality's the thing. I have to meet Scrip
in the City at two--no time to lose, sir;" and Binks, who was made
aware of the necessity of a visit to the City, to arrange the terms
of a loan, put himself under the plastic hands of Bedo, and in a few
minutes the pair were rolling towards the City in Cently's carriage,
which thundered along, scarcely waiting to take the necessary turns,
and narrowly escaped running down several old women of both sexes, till
they came to Charing-Cross.
"Money is scarce in these times," said Cently, as a sprinkling of cabs
and omnibuses impeded their course; "broad acres are fine things. I
mustn't let them go. The sum is large--ten per cent."
All this, and a few other equally interesting particulars, were lost
upon the abstract Binks, who was quietly lolling back in the carriage,
and exercising his optics and calculating powers on the size, number,
and colours of the tom-cats as they sunned themselves on the gutters,
or held attic intercourse with one another, between May-fair and
Temple-bar.
"You understand me," continued Cently; "let me see; how many thousands?
I think it cannot be under fourscore,--great amount that!"
"Not quite so many," said Binks; "I only counted sixty, and I'm correct
to a tail; bet you a rump and dozen on it."
"On what, sir?"
"On the cats, Cently."
"Ha! ha! Very facetious, Mr. Binks; but I'm not joking.
"You bore me, Cently. Set me down here. Go, and do the needful;
and when all's ready to sign and seal, you'll find me here;" and
Binks alighted from the carriage, and ascended the stairs of the
Mansion-house, which was then alive with sounds and sights of gladness:
a kind of fancy-fair was being held there for the benefit of some
charitable institution, and the _élite_ of the North, and wealth of
the East and West ends were combined in the holy cause of charity. He
entered, and mingled with the gay groups that promenaded the hall,
which was converted into a bazaar, where beauty and _bijouterie_ lured
the careless purchaser,--where a thousand soft things were said and
handled, and the angel of charity spread her wings over a scene where
streamed and flaunted many a silken banner, and pointed to every little
stand. "Happy country!" thought Binks, "that, amid all the anxieties
and contentions of commerce and politics, remembers in these noble
institutions the cause of the widow and the orphan. This must be the
surest mart for beauty when she's found at a stand in the sacred cause
of charity. Here the thoughtless forget themselves, and think of
others; here the merchant is generous, and forgets his change."
"I ain't a-going to be done out of my half-crown that way neither,
ma'am," said a burly little personage in top-boots and perspiration
to a lovely girl who presided at a stand, and who was trying to lure
a supplementary half-crown, the balance of a half-sovereign, which,
after much grumbling, he consented to pay for a shaking mandarin. The
thorough-bass in which this was uttered roused Binks from his reverie,
and, on looking round, he beheld the lovely girl in playful yet earnest
contention for the half-crown, which the fat little man finally
surrendered to a few persuasive looks, and good-humouredly pocketed his
shaking mandarin and his chagrin together, and marched off.
Binks approached, and as she raised her eyes from the gay assortment
before her, still animated with the pious contention in which she was
engaged, they encountered those of Binks, who was riveted to the spot
gazing at the beautiful creature that stood before him. He turned over
a few articles, and became at once deeply immersed in the gay little
miscellany before him. She would show everything.--Yes,--the articles
were of the best description; and Binks felt those taper fingers, as
they tossed them about, as if they were busy with his heart-strings;
and the perverse Binks asked twenty different questions, and got as
many answers eloquent and sweet: and then there were looks lustrous and
shy, and blushes deep and enchanting; and she would go on expatiating
on the beauty of her _bijouterie_, and he would stand absorbed and
drinking in the sweet sound of a voice that was modulated with the
sweetest harmony,--and she would help him to a pair of gloves. Binks
took several pairs. The first he tried on were very perverse,--too
tight; and the fairest hands in the City would distend them, and she
would help to draw them on; and then their palms would meet, and their
fingers seek one another, and the taper finger of the sweet girl and
the jewelled hand of Binks would be imprisoned unconsciously for a few
seconds in the same glove.
"I shall take the whole," said he, and Julia (for that was her name)
was delighted; and Binks was asking for more, and pulled out,--not his
purse, but the disappointed hand that was seeking for it.--The purse
was not there.
No doubt it was that very civil gentleman that rubbed against him as
he was stepping out of the carriage, and apologised. Here was a grab
at heart-strings and purse-strings together. He drew out a box set
with brilliants,--it would stand him at a pinch,--and took a small one
from the stand, and he would exchange boxes. And this was love,--love
at first sight,--which we would match all the world over with any at
second sight.
"Oh, love! no habitant of earth art thou."
Henceforth shalt thou take thy _stand_ at a bazaar, and we shall bare
our bosom to thy shafts, provided they be tipped with a little charity,
and drawn in the holy cause of a benevolent institution! The hours
lingered on as if they too had come to a stand, the evening stole
on apace, group after group vanished from the bazaar, and Binks and
Julia were still in sweet and endearing communion with each other. The
evening was chilly, and he would help on her splendid cachmere; and the
loveliest arm in the City leant on Binks as he led her down the steps
of the Mansion-house. The evening was fine, and he would see her home;
and both wondered to find themselves at her father's door. And then
there was a sweet good-night, and kind looks, and gentle pressings of
the hand, and promises to meet again.
"Want a coach, sir?" said a heavy-coated, slouched-hat brother of the
cab to Binks, as he stood wondering at himself, his adventure, and the
fairy figure that a smart servant in livery had just closed the door
upon.
"Yes--no,--I--I'll walk, friend,--the night's fine;" which healthy
resolution he was induced to take from certain reminiscences, and his
purse, though absent, was thought of with regret.
And Binks trod his perilous way through the "palpable obscure" of
the City with buoyant spirits, as if a pinion lifted every limb,
notwithstanding a little plebeian pressure from without through
Cheapside, as often as he forgot his own side of the way; and he
entered his club the happiest dog that ever moonlight, or its rival
luminary gas-light, shone upon, and surrendered himself to the
intoxicating influence of the only draught of pure pleasure he ever
quaffed.
Julia Deering was the only daughter of a rather comfortable trader, a
man well to do in the world,--that is, in the City. Business--business
was at once his solace and his pride, and any pursuit or avocation in
life of which that bustling noun-substantive was not the principal
element, was an abomination in his sight. The West-end, he thought,
had no business where it stood. He looked upon it as a huge fungus,
the denizens thereof good for nothing; and lords--no matter of what
creation--he looked upon with the most supreme contempt. Julia was his
only child, and, next his business, the sole object of his solicitude.
She grew into loveliness and womanhood amid the smoke and seclusion of
her father's premises; and, though turned of "quick seventeen," yet he
thought that her settlement in the world, like the settlement of an
account with an old house in the City, might take place at any time.
Any hint to the contrary, whether through the eloquent and suggestive
looks of the maiden herself, or the unequivocal assiduity of City
beaux, was sure to make the old man peevish.
Julia, with a world of sense, had a spice of romance about her. She
loved the West-end, or anything pertaining to it, as much as her father
hated it. A noble mirror in her little boudoir, as she toyed and
coquetted with her budding beauties before it, frequently hinted that
she might be a fine lady; which could only come to pass by her becoming
the wife of something like a lord. City beaux were her aversion. They
looked at her through _stocks_, and she often wished their necks in
them.
Many were the stolen visits to the City which Binks made to see his
young betrothed. His suit prospered,--Julia was everything he could
wish; but as fathers _will_ be in the way on such occasions,--how can
they be so hard-hearted?--and as something like his consent was deemed
necessary, Binks, through the medium of a friend, had the old man's
sentiments sounded on the subject; and a decided refusal, couched in
no very flattering terms, was the result. "I cannot disguise from
you," said Julia one evening to Binks, after he had communicated to
her the disastrous intelligence, "that there is much to encounter in
my father's disposition. He is old and wealthy, with only myself to
inherit it; and--would you believe it?--he has the greatest aversion
to a man of rank, and thinks superior manners and accomplishments only
a cover to heartlessness and deceit; and, what is strange, he has
repeatedly said he will never consent to my union with anybody as long
as he is in anything like health,--in short, till he is no longer able
to protect me himself."
"That is strange indeed!" said Binks, as he hung with the tenderest
rapture on the confiding frankness and simplicity of his fair
companion; "your father's objections are no less serious than strange."
"Can nothing," inquired Julia despondingly, "be done to get over them?"
Had Echo been present, she would have said, "Get over them."
"There can, there can," said Binks with transport; "I have it. So long
as your father is in good health, he will never give his consent to
your marriage. Now he is old: and suppose he can be persuaded that
he _looks_ ill,--such things, you know, are done,--and contrive that
he shall keep his bed for a few days; and then,--and then, my dear
girl, let the affair be again pressed upon him." And Binks met the
ingenuous blush and smile of his young betrothed as she acquiesced
with an embrace, in which was blended more heartfelt rapture than ever
he experienced in the dissipated round of tumultuous and exciting
pleasures.
"The times are certainly very bad, Julia," said old Deering to his
daughter, as they were at breakfast one morning together; "I never
recollect them so bad;" and he helped himself to a large slice of ham.
"They may be bad, pa," said the daughter; "but you mustn't take it so
much to heart. Everybody notices how ill you look since the firm of
Dobody and Sons went."
The old man suspended a piece of ham, that he had impaled on a fork,
midway between his mouth and plate; and, planting his right hand on his
thigh, he looked earnestly at the girl.
"What connexion, hussey, has that failure with my looks or my books
either? As long as I can keep both free from blotches, I don't care a
fig for what the world says. But I do believe, girl, that I am not
as well as either of us could wish,--I am fallen off in my appetite.
I _could_ finish my ham,--three slices,--and a few eggs; but I am a
little changed, Julia. Hussey, you've a sharp eye; and to notice it!"
"Lord! pa," said the insidious Julia, "all your acquaintance notice it.
Mr. Coserly was the first to notice it."
"And what did the rascal say?"
"Why, pa, he said nothing; but there was a great deal in _that_. When
certain people say little or nothing, they mean a great deal; and when
there is a great deal of meaning in what one does not say, why, it's a
very dangerous thing; isn't it, pa?"
"Very true, child, very true. But what can we have for dinner to-day,
Julia? I expect an old friend of mine, Mr. Tibbs over the way; a very
proper, industrious, well-to-do-in-the-world kind of man is honest Dick
Tibbs. He owes me a trifle,--but that is nothing between us. He is none
of your West-end chaps,--no lack-silver spendthrift,--no hair-lipped,
hair-brained scamp, with all his fortune on his back, like a pedlar
and his wallet.--Another cup of tea, Julia.--As I was saying, honest
Dick Tibbs is----' But what's the matter with the girl? Why, there's
the tea running out of the urn these last two minutes about the floor.
Why, Julia, what _is_ the matter? Ah! I see how it is--I thought as
much. Ye're a cunning pair. But not yet a while, Julia; time enough,
girl,--time enough. When your dear mother was----"
"I--I--wo-o-on't be Mrs. Ti-i-bbs for all that, pa," hysterically
sobbed Julia; "I won't be married----"
"That's a dear love!" whimpered the old man; "don't think of marrying
him yet until I'm----. But I'm pretty strong yet. I'll live, so I will,
till--ugh!--ugh!--these rheumatics--as long as--Deuce take this old
cough!"
"As long as God pleases, pa; as long as God pleases," said Julia; and
she slid her arm coaxingly round her father's neck, and wiped away the
perspiration that stood like whip-cord upon his brow; and he fell to
musing on the girl's words, and left his breakfast unfinished.
In the course of that week, through the industry of his daughter,
the old man was plagued wherever he went with condolence and
inquiries about his health, which he heard with all the petulance and
irritability of a miser upon whose hoards an unexpected demand is to be
made. He accordingly dosed himself with physic, gorged himself at his
meals, and took such peculiar pains to preserve his health after this
fashion as would have deprived any other person of it.
A circumstance at length occurred that bade fair to supersede the
necessity of Julia's pious artifice, and to produce ill looks in
abundance in the old man. A house with which he was connected failed,
and involved him in its ruin. This was a blow that smote the old man
to the heart, and he sank under it. Everything was surrendered to the
creditors; and his house, with its splendid furniture, was submitted to
the hammer of the auctioneer.
On the morning of that day a note was put into Binks' hands; it
was from Julia, and to the effect "that as her father's ruin left
her no alternative but to share his lot, she could not, under such
circumstances, think of involving him in their ruin, and begged he
would think no further of the matter."
"Poor girl!" said Binks, as he gazed on the note that told so briefly
of so much calamity. What a real _bonâ-fide_ misfortune was, crushing
and accumulating, and, as it were, breaking the man's heart within him,
he had no idea of, except what the pathetic in a novel, or the chapter
of accidents in a newspaper, furnished. These things were well enough
to read, and to talk about, at a clear fire-side; but for a substantial
display of energetic and effective sympathy, by succouring the
distressed, it was what he did not think himself capable of. A second
time, however, he mastered his indolence, and drove to Julia's house.
What a situation was it in, and what a sight did it present! If there
is in this world a scene more harrowing to human feeling than another,
'tis that presented by one's house on the eve of an auction,--a scene
of "confusion worse confounded." The tossing about and displacing,
by strange hands, of articles that from time and association have
become part and parcel of ourselves, linked with a thousand sweet
recollections, and the innocent display of which was a source of
dearest household pleasure, now parcelled and ticketed out, and
catalogued, for the curious and malevolent hands and eyes of strangers!
Our dearest and holiest places of privacy intruded upon; our sweet
little nooks and haunts, which are, as it were, set apart for the
most favoured of our household gods, and where only the footsteps of
tenderest love should be heard, now echoing and teeming with strange
sounds and sights!
What a sad volume, and in boards too, is a piece of carpeting piled in
a corner of a room, revealing the unsightly seams of the naked floor;
and "the decent clock," with its hands either broken or pointed to the
wrong hour! The bleak and cheerless hearth, every brick of which was
an object for the vacant and listless gaze of a pensive abstraction,
the scene of sweet gambols and merry gossipings, all are sad mementos
of the "base uses" to which the iron hand of necessity will convert
objects dear to us from the sweetest household associations.
Elevated in his pulpit, the eloquent Mr. Touchem, the auctioneer,
presided; and, seated beside him, the very picture of
broken-heartedness, was old Deering, bent, and leaning forward on his
gold-headed cane, his eye vacant and listless, looking at every article
with the curiosity of a child, speaking not a word, and only betraying
his interest in the scene by a sympathetic stamp of his cane on the
floor whenever the nervous and grating click of the auctioneer's hammer
on his desk announced the sale of some favourite article. There was
one lot only which he showed any anxiety to possess, and as the porter
handed it round, the old man's countenance gleamed with pleasure as
his eye wistfully followed it: it was the representation of a little
spaniel worked in worsted, and the joint work of Julia and his deceased
wife.
"Rascal!" exclaimed the old man, as the porter somewhat roughly rubbed
the dust off it, "be tender of the poor thing. That's Julia's. I--I bid
for that; I bid five pounds for that," said the old man, in a voice
scarcely articulate with emotion.
"Six pounds," said a voice in the crowd.
"Who bids against me?" muttered old Deering, as he ran his eye over
the group whence the voice issued. "It was the work of my poor child's
hands, and of her dear departed mother. Another pound for it, Mr.
Auctioneer."
The same voice bid against him.
The old man raised himself in his chair, gazed wistfully and
imploringly in the direction of the voice, and sank back in sullen
resignation in his chair.
"Going for eight pounds--once--twice--the last time!" and the sharp and
sudden click of the auctioneer's hammer, as it fell, came with a harsh
grating sound on the ear of the old man, as he groaned, and muttered
something between a curse and an entreaty.
Old Deering, notwithstanding the utter ruin of his fortune, still
continued, from sheer force of habit, to frequent his old haunts;
and his drooped and wasted figure, with his well-known _tops_ and
gold-headed cane, might be seen loitering about the purlieus of the
Exchange, inquiring the price of stocks with as much anxiety as ever,
and wondering at the ill-manners of some persons who, from his rambling
and incoherent expressions, looked upon him as somewhat crazed. He was
in truth so.
This was the time for the active benevolence of Binks to show itself;
for, except when his indolence stood in the way, he had a heart. He
saw Julia, and gave her the most decided assurances of his unaltered
attachment, as the old man's malady threatened to become serious. He
privately purchased a neat little cottage outside town, and had all
the furniture (for he attended the auction, and arranged that every
article of it should be bought in,) conveyed to it. He took particular
care--for he consulted Julia on the details--that the disposition of
the furniture in the new house should, as nearly as circumstances would
permit, be exactly the same as in the house in town. Her father's
easy-chair, pictures, books, the pianoforte,--for almost every article
had been preserved by the management of Binks,--were put into something
like their accustomed places; and little Fidelio, the object of
contention at the auction, looked quite as brisk as ever, enshrined in
his glass-case over the mantelpiece, not a whit the worse for having
his jacket dusted. Change of air, and absence from the scene of his
former activity, was suggested as the best remedy for the malady of the
old man.
To this little cottage Julia and her father drove one day, on pretence
of looking for a suitable residence, such as became their altered
circumstances. This little cottage struck his fancy, and he expressed a
wish to see it. A very agreeable young man showed them over the house.
The more he examined it, the more he liked it; every thing in it was so
like what he once had.
"Why, Julia, this is your pianoforte! let me hear you play; I'll know
it among a thousand;" and Julia played "sweet home" for him,--an air
her father always liked. His eye glistened as she played; it reminded
him of better days and his old house in the City, and he dropped into
his easy-chair. "And Fidelio, the little spaniel! Why, how is this,
Julia?--And this gentleman?" and he looked alternately at Binks and
Julia. "Ah, hussey! I see how it is; but it's an odd way of coming
together."
* * * * *
And Binks was happy--happy as the day was long. Julia and he were
married. The gay Binks, like another Hercules, gave up his _club_ when
he married, and was content with his love in a cottage, with no other
interruption to his happiness than the occasional pettishness of the
old man, who could never well forgive Binks for outbidding him for
Fidelio at the auction. And the malady of _not knowing what to do with
himself_ never afterwards attacked him, now that the odds were two to
one against it.
S.Y.
A GENTLEMAN QUITE.
In Bentley's May number I read of a goose,
Whose aim in this life was to be of some use;
Now _I_ always act on the opposite plan,
And endeavour to take the least trouble I can:
I sing at no concert, I dance at no ball,--
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
When invited to dinner, I'd much rather starve,
Than attempt for some hungry half-dozen to carve;
And folks do exist, who, when dishes are nice,
Won't scruple to send their plates up to you twice:
All vainly for sauces on me do they call,--
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
If ask'd for some verses an album to fill,
I don't plead want of time, but admit want of skill;
There's nothing ungentlemanlike in a dunce,
So I state the plain fact, and save trouble at once;
For, rather than write, I'd mend shoes in a stall,--
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
When doom'd to the Opera with ladies to go,
I'm not quite so green as to play the old beau;
The fiddlers and dancers are paid to amuse,
And, to stand on their level, is what I don't choose.
When over, for footman or coach I don't bawl,--
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
Of my club in Pall Mall I was very soon cured,
They wanted to make me a sort of a steward;
Those persons must surely have owed me a grudge,
To wish me to work as an amateur drudge.
A suggestion so horrible made my flesh crawl;
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
I've an uncle, or nephew, or kin of some kind,
Who, to sit in St. Stephen's, once felt much inclin'd;
To his vulgar committee he added my name;
When my poor valet read it, he redden'd with shame.
With no mob from the hustings will I ever brawl,--
I'm a gentleman quite, and of no use at all!
But Death's the great leveller: every one knows
Gentility's essence is graceful repose,
And the grave yields repose that must charm e'en a Turk;
No labour or toil there, the worm does the work.
When shrouded, and coffin'd, and under a pall,
Man's a gentleman quite, he's of no use at all!
May, 1837.
J.S.
THE FOSTER-CHILD.
"Ten years to-day! Mercy on us, time does fly indeed! it seems but
yesterday. And here she sat, her beautiful fair face all reddened by
the heat, as in her childish romps she puffed with might and main the
fire in this very grate. Dear heart, how sweet a child it was surely!
Well, David, say what folks will, I'm convinced there was a fate about
it."
Before I relate how far David coincided in this opinion of his "gude
wife," I will mention to whom and to what she alluded, and how I had
an opportunity of declaring a similar conviction. Seated, after a kind
reception by the master and matron, in their best room in the workhouse
of L----, at my request they were proceeding to gratify my curiosity,
raised by a picture which hung between the windows. The subject and
execution were striking: it had been hit off at one of those luckiest
moments for the artist, when, unconsciously, the study presented that
inspiration to the task which so rarely occurs in what is termed "a
sitting for a likeness." On a three-legged stool, with one foot raised
upon the fender, and an old pair of bellows resting on her lap, in
the act of blowing the fire,--long clustering locks, the brightest
yellow that ever rivalled sunbeams, flowing from a head turned towards
her right shoulder, from which a coarse holland pinafore had slipt by
the breaking of one of the fastenings,--sat a child, apparently eight
or nine years of age, in whose face beamed more beauty, spirit, and
intelligence than surely ever were portrayed on canvass. Well might the
good dame cry, "Dear heart, how sweet a child it was!" Never before or
since have I beheld its equal; and the vivid recollection of the wonder
I then felt, will never cease to throw its light upon the page of
memory till time turns over the new leaf of existence. What admirable
grace! how exquisitely free! she seemed indeed to inhale the breath
that panting look bespoke a lack of. What joyous fire in her large blue
eyes! and then the parted laughing lips, and small pearl teeth! the
attitude how careless, and most natural! all appeared as much to live
as if all actual. But, little do I hope, gentle reader, to excite in
you as lively an interest for the original, by my weak tints of simple
black and white, as the glowing colours of the picture roused in me. I
will not attempt it; but at once proceed with the story appertaining
to the object of my inquiry, as narrated by the worthy matron of "the
house."
"Do you tell the tale, Bessum," said honest David, addressing his
spouse, whose name, from Elizabeth and Betsy, had undergone this
farther proof of the liberties married folks take with one another.
"Do you tell the tale, and, if needs be, I can help you on, where you
forget any part of it."
"Ah! you're a 'cute fellow, David," said Elizabeth; "you know how to
set an easy task as well as any one, 'specially when it's for yourself
to go about; but, never mind, I wun't rate 'e for 't, for I know 'tis a
sad subject for you to deal with."
Bessum was evidently right, for the tear that stood trembling for a
moment in the corner of David's eye as she spoke, rolled unheeded down
his cheek; while the handkerchief that seemed to have been taken from
across his knees for the purpose of concealing the simplicity of the
tribute his honest heart was paying, was employed, for at least the
tenth time that day, to brush the irreverent dust from the picture of
his "poor dear child."
I was affected to a degree for which I was unable to account, by the
touching sigh poor David heaved as he replaced the handkerchief on his
knees, and resigned himself to the pangs my curiosity was about to
inflict on him. There was a tender melancholy in the kind creature's
face that seemed to mark the lacerated feelings of intense affection.
I could have pressed him to my breast in sympathy of his sufferings,
for I was already a sharer of his grief before I knew the cause of it.
It was at this moment that the dame began her story in the words of my
commencement.
"Ten years to-day," said she, "since that picture was painted, sir."
"Ah, my poor dear child!" sighed David; from which ejaculation I
inferred that I was about to hear a tale, of which his own daughter
was the heroine: but I was soon undeceived by his wife, who thus
proceeded:--
"It ben't necessary to go farther back into the dear child's life than
to the day on which she was first placed with me to nurse. Who she is
has nought to do with what she is, or the story of her life; certain
sure it is she was the loveliest babe I ever saw, and I and David were
as proud of her as if she were our own, bless her dear heart! How
everybody talked about her! and how all the folks did love her too,
surely! I can't tell ye, sir, how beautiful she was; and, as she grew,
her beauty kept good pace with her years, I promise you. She was nine
years old the day the painter came to make a likeness of her for her
father. Here she sat in this very room, just as you see her in the
picture, sir: she had run in from the garden where she had been at
romps with poor George, and was puffing away at the fire with an old
pair of bellows which she found among the lumber in the tool-house,
when the gentleman, whom she did not notice at first, was arranging his
matters for the painting of the picture. It was at the moment that she
turned round to see who was in the room, that, as he said, he was so
struck with her lovely face he could have taken her likeness if he had
not seen her a moment longer; and, sure enough, he was not out much in
his reckoning, for scarcely had he taken his pencil in his hand before
the little mad-cap bounded out of the room, and ran off to her playmate
in the garden. That is a copy of the picture, sir; and if the poor dear
child were sitting here as she was on that day, she couldn't look more
like herself than that painting does to me."
David was in the very act of again converting his handkerchief into a
duster; but, after a momentary struggle, for once in a way he pressed a
corner of it to his eyes, and kept his seat.
"Of all those, barring myself and David," continued the dame, "who
loved the sweet child,--as, to be sure, everybody did more or
less,--none seemed to dote on her so much as the young gentleman who
was then our village doctor's assistant, and poor George."
"And, pray, who was poor George?" said I.
"Ah! sir, his is a sorry story too; but of that anon. He was a
gentleman born, sir, bless his dear soul! but, before he was barely out
of his teens, study and such like turned his wits, and poor George was
placed in our care, an idiot. Oh! how he would watch and wait upon his
"young mistress," as he used to call the dear child! and Harri--for
so we nicknamed our little Harriet--seemed to look up to him for all
her amusements and happiness. Good heart! to see him racing round the
garden till he was fairly tired and beat for breath, trundling her
in the wheelbarrow, and fancying himself her coachman; and then how
he'd follow her wherever she went, as if to protect her; always at
a distance when he fancied she didn't wish him with her, but never
out of sight. She appeared to be his only care; his poor head seemed
filled with nothing but thoughts of her. His friends used to send
him trinkets, and money, and baubles, to amuse him; and his greatest
pride was to take little Harri into his room, and show her his stores,
hang his gilt chains and beads about her neck, seat her in his large
arm-chair, and stand behind it as if he were her footman, and play
all kinds of pranks to make her laugh; for he seemed pleased when she
laughed at him, though he wouldn't bear a smile from anybody else at
the same cause. His senses served him at times, and then he would fall
into fits of the bitterest melancholy as he sat looking in our sweet
child's face, as if reflecting how much he loved her, and how little
his wandering mind was able to prove his affection! Ah, poor dear
fellow! it's well his sufferings ended when they did, for they would
have been terrible indeed if he had lived till now; but all who loved
her best, fell off from her either by death or desertion when her day
of trouble came."
David's resolution was plainly wavering as to the application of his
handkerchief, when Bessum gave it the turn in favour of the picture on
perceiving her husband's emotion, by adding,
"As for David and myself, you know, sir, we are nobody; it would be
strange indeed if we could ever have turned our backs upon the dear
child."
"God forbid!" said David; and little Harri's portrait received the
extra polish breathed upon it by a deep sigh, previous to the ordinary
one emanating solely from the handkerchief. "God forbid!" repeated
David, and Bessum added a hearty amen as she resumed her story.
"As the sweet child grew up," continued she, "she was the talk of all
tongues far and near; and, before she was fifteen, sir, gentlefolks
came from all parts to see her. A fine time we had of it surely;
first one pretence, and then another, kept us answering questions
and inquiries about her all day long. As for Dame Beetle, who kept a
little shop, and sold gloves, over the way, just facing this window,
she made a pretty penny by the beauty of our sweet child, although the
old simpleton thought it was the goodness of her gloves that brought
her so many gentlemen customers. Why, I have known no fewer than five
or six of the neighbouring squires,--ay, and lords too,--so difficult
to fit, that they've been standing over the little counter by the hour
together; but I warrant not to much purpose, as far as the real object
of their visit was concerned. No sooner did horse, or gig, or carriage
stop in the village, than dear Mr. George,--that is him that was with
the doctor, you know, sir."
"Oh, his name was George too?"
"Yes, that it was, sir; and down here he would run as fast as legs
could carry him, and his first question was always, 'David, where is
little Harri? Take her into the garden.' And here he would sit till
the gentlefolks opposite were gone away. If ever one creature did dote
upon another, Mr. George loved that sweet child. Ah! would to Heaven
he had lived to make her his wife! but it's all fate, and so I suppose
it's for the best as it is; though I would have died sooner than things
should have fallen out as they have, if that could have prevented it!"
"A thousand times over," responded David, with a fond glance at the
picture. "I'd rather never have been born than have lived to weep over
the ruin of such heavenly beauty and goodness."
A chill of horror struck upon my heart as I repeated with inquiring
emphasis the word that had produced it.
"The ruin!" said I; "impossible!" and as I raised my eyes towards
heaven at the thought of such a sacrifice, they caught those of the
victim in the picture. I could have wept aloud, so powerful was the
influence of the gaze that I encountered. There sat the loveliest
creature that the world e'er saw,--an artless, careless child, health,
hope, and happiness beaming in her sweet fair face; her lips, although
the choicest target for his aim, the foil of Cupid's darts, so pure, so
modest was the smile that parted them; her eyes, the beacon-lights of
virgin chastity; her joyous look, the Lethe where pale Care could come
but to be lost,--it scared off Woe! And were these made for Ruin to
write shame upon! Oh, man!--monster!--ingrate fiend!--I was roused from
my reverie by the perseverance of the good dame, who thus took up the
thread of her discourse, that my exclamation had broken:
"Ah, poor Mr. George! if he had lived, all would have been well. I
make bold to say, for certain sure, they would have been man and wife
by this time; for though she used to go on finely at 'that doctor,'
as the darling girl used to call him, because he was the cause of her
being taken into the garden so often, without knowing why,--for all
that, she loved him in her heart, poor dear! as well she might; for,
as I said before, he fairly doted upon her. And yet, so delicate was
his noble mind, he could never as it were talk seriously to her,--that
is to say, not to make any kind of love to her, you know, sir. He had
known her from a precious babe; and although his whole heart and soul,
I do believe, were set upon one day making her his wife, if so be as
she should not refuse him of her own free will, still he felt so almost
like a father to her, though he was not more than eight or nine years
older than she, that he never could bring himself to fairly pay court
to her as a lover, you see."
"God bless his noble heart!" said David, as he rested his elbow on his
knee, and his chin on the palm of his hand; "he always said he should
be drowned: there's fate again, Bessum, sure enough."
"And did he die by drowning?" said I.
"Ay, sir," replied the dame; "and scarce was he dead, as if they only
waited for that, than our sweet child's misfortunes began."
"Destiny, indeed!" thought I, as a superstitious feeling seemed to
prepare me for the proofs of it.
"She was just sixteen, and that's nearly five years ago, when she lost
him who would have been more than all the world to her, as a body may
say, and when Lieutenant H---- brought permission from a certain
quarter to court her for his wife. Heavy was my poor heart at the
thought of parting with the dear child; but more so ten times over,
though I couldn't tell why, at the idea of who I was going to part with
her to. She, poor darling, was proud of the conceit of being married,
and pleased with the gold lace and cocked-hat of the young sailor. I
don't believe the thought of love for him ever once entered her head:
but that was nothing, for she would have loved any one who behaved
kindly to her; and then to be a wife, and her own mistress, and the
mistress of a house! Alack-a-day! she little knew what she was doing
when she promised her hand where her heart had not gone before, and
where none was beating for her. But it was well she made no objection,
for it was to be, whether or no; so she was spared at least the pain
of being forced against her will. Well, sir, the wedding-day came,
and never do I remember such a day as it was. In vain did the bells
ring and the sun shine; folks, spite of all, and of themselves too,
couldn't be merry: they smiled, and talked, and tried to appear gay;
but, to my plain, honest thinking, there was not a light heart in the
village. Poor George, to be sure, was dancing with delight, for he saw
the preparations, and the fine clothes, and he heard the bells ringing
and the neighbours talking, and he understood that all was for and
about his lady, as he then called his old playmate; and the idea of
so much fuss and bustle on her account made him as proud and happy as
if he were to be the sharer of it. Little did he imagine that it was
to end in robbing him of the only comfort of his hapless life, poor
fellow; and as the bride and bridegroom came from church, where to the
very altar he had followed like a guardian saint, his watchful eye
faithful in its duty to the last, he picked up here and there a flower
that the villagers had strewn, on which she trod, and stuck them in a
row in the button-holes of his waistcoat. But when the time came that
our dear sweet child was to be torn from our arms, then was a scene
I never shall forget. She bade us one by one good-b'ye, as if she
didn't dream of being gone from us a day. It fairly seemed as though
Providence had deprived her of all thought. But when she came to take
her leave of George, she appeared to shrink from bidding him farewell.
She took his hand, and with a fluttering smile said, 'George, I am
going for a ride,' and she was gone! For full three hours after, George
was missing; and when the twilight made us stir to find where he could
be, there by the garden-gate he stood, with the old wheelbarrow at his
side, his handkerchief spread out upon it, as he was wont to do when
he used to wheel his little playmate in it years agone,--there was he
waiting till she should come 'to ride.' Poor, poor creature! he had no
idea of the journey that she meant, when she told him she was going for
a ride. He knew that he had been her coachman many a time and oft, and
he thought of no other carriage than that which he had driven. I burst
out a-crying at the very sight of him. There he stood, as confident
that she was coming as if he had seen her on the threshold of the door
with her gypsy hat on her head. Three hours he had waited; and when I
saw him, it would have melted a heart of stone to watch his look, and
think upon the misery in store for him. The sun had gone down, and
there was not a sound to hear, but now and then the melancholy pipe
of a robin, or the distant tinkle of a sheep-bell. Everything seemed
sorrowing in silence at our loss; and he that would pine most, alone
was ignorant of it. I hadn't courage to call him away and tell him his
misfortune; but when David brought him in, and told him that his lady
had gone for a ride with the 'new footman,' as the poor fellow called
the lieutenant, the anguish in his face was more woeful than you can
think of, sir. Every day at the same hour he brought the wheelbarrow
to the garden-gate, and kept it there till sunset; then, till he went
to bed, he'd sit arranging the withered flowers in his waistcoat. He
was never obstinate in refusing to do as he was desired; but, unless
he had been bidden to eat and drink, no morsel would have passed his
lips: he never thought of hunger or of thirst; his little mistress, his
old playmate, and, as he thought her, his only friend, alone occupied
his mind, that never wandered now. It was fixed upon one object, and on
that it dwelt. Ten months he pined and lingered for his loss; and then,
more sensible than he had ever been before, poor George, sir, died!"
"And happy for him that he is no more," said I, anticipating the sequel
of little Harri's story. "He has gone down to the cold bed, it is true;
but his pillow is far smoother than the down that is pressed in vain
for quiet and repose by the heartless and unfeeling."
"True, very true, sir," said David, and I was half in doubt whether the
handkerchief would be put in requisition again; but it kept its place
across the knees of my host, and Bessum continued. "From the day she
left us, sir, we saw no more of our dear child for two years; but sad
was the tale that reached us in the mean while. Think of her wrongs,
sir;--the man who had taken her, to be parted but by death, left her
the very next day, after he had robbed scores of honest hearts of the
chance of proving the sincerity of their love by a life of cherishing
and devotion."
"God forgive him!" said David, "for I never can."
"The gallows pardon him! for I never would," cried I.--"And what became
of the deserted wife?"
Bessum, who had for nearly an hour stifled the feelings to which
she was all that time hankering to give vent, finding this either
too seasonable or powerful an occasion to resist, burst into tears;
while David, as a counterpoise to the grief which he had heretofore
monopolised, evinced a well-timed symptom of stoicism, by folding up
his handkerchief at least three times as small as the usual dimensions
which laundresses or common consent have established time out of mind
as its proper limit, and then thrusting it into the salt-box pocket of
his coat, as being the last place, at that particular crisis, to which,
under the influence of his senses, he certainly must have intended its
destination.
"I shall make short work of the rest on't, I promise ye, sir," sobbed
the tender-hearted foster-mother; "it ben't much use to dwell upon the
finish."
"End it at once," said I, impatient of farther melancholy detail.
"Twenty-four hours had not passed, sir, after the heartless fellow
had become a husband, before he was aboard ship, and on his way to
the Indies. He had completed his bargain; he had married our blessed
child, and received his wages for the job. He took her to the house
of one of her relations near London, and without telling her whither
he was going, or when, if ever, he should return, left her as I have
described. Fancy the sweet soul's sufferings, sir!--think what she
felt when she found herself a widow before she was fairly a wife! Oh!
my heart bleeds when I recollect her wrongs! Well, sir, she pined and
fretted till those with whom she lived would fain to have got rid of
her, I promise you; and it was not long before they had their wish."
"And did the poor child die of her distress?" said I. "Alas! so young!"
"Not just then, sir. You'll scarcely think that the worst of her
troubles had yet to come; but so it was, poor dear! As fate would have
it, she was one day met and followed home by a gentleman, who, she
could not help observing, appeared so struck with her, that, though he
did not offer to speak to her, he seemed determined upon finding where
she lived. Every day for more than a week did he watch the house nearly
all day long; and when at last she went out of doors, he made the best
of the opportunity, and began in the most woeful manner to tell her
how much he loved her, and what he was suffering on her account, and
to beg and pray of her not to be angry with him for what he could not
help. Well, sir, he spoke so mild and respectful, and seemed so truly
miserable, that the wretched widow couldn't find it in her heart to
speak harshly to him, and so at first she made no answer at all. He
told her that he saw she had something on her mind that distressed
her, and said he felt certain sure he could make her happy, and that
not even her displeasure should make him cease from the attempt. And,
sure enough, to her, poor thing! he seemed to be as good as his word;
for, though she forbade him to approach her in any way again, still
he hovered about the house as much as ever, and wrote such letters,
telling of his misery and anxiety on her account, that, tired out by
the ill-treatment of those to whose tender mercies she was abandoned,
sinking under the pangs of her desertion, and beset by the arts and
entreaties of a fine young man, who seemed to speak so fairly for her
comfort and good, in an evil hour the poor distracted and deluded
creature flew to his arms for that protection which in vain was pledged
her by a husband. I have already told you that, in my opinion, she
never had a thought of any love for the man she had married. It is not
to be wondered at, then, that one, who at least professed himself to
be all that a husband should be, found no great difficulty or delay
in gaining her affections and confidence in return. In short, her
young heart, that had never before known the feeling, was now fixed
upon this man with all the fondness and devotion of a first love. It
was no hard matter, therefore, for him to persuade her to whatever
he liked; and the first advice he gave her for her good, was to take
a house in the neighbourhood of one of the parks, which he made his
home, eating, drinking, and riding about at her expense. Well, sir, for
several months this was a life of uninterrupted happiness for our poor
Harri. She had quiet or company as she liked, and the society of him
that she loved to madness. The first sign of interruption to the joys
that, alas! are always too dearly bought at the sacrifice she had made,
was the news of the arrival in England of her husband, and, within
two days after that, his appearance at her house. Here was a fine to
do, indeed! She was alone in her drawing-room, and no one else in the
house but the two maid-servants. In vain did she entreat and resist
him; by main force he carried her out of the house; put her into a
hackney-coach, without bonnet or shawl; and drove away with her to the
house of his mother. That man was born to be her torment and ruin, sir.
He had left her when he ought most to have been in her company, and
he returned when his desertion had driven her in misery and despair
to seek for happiness, in the expectation of which with him he had
deceived her,--to disturb the comfort his heartlessness had neglected
to afford her. Don't fancy that he loved her, sir. 'Twas no such thing,
as I shall soon make clear to you. However, not six hours after she
had been taken away, the dear child was home again, and in the arms of
the man she would have risked her life for. Here was devotion, sir!
She got out of a one-pair of stairs window, by letting herself down
with the bed-clothes as far as they would reach, and by jumping the
rest; and just as she had been taken from her home, without a bit of
outdoor covering, off she set, in the cold and wet of a December night,
and had to walk for full a mile and a half before she got the coach
that carried her home. Did her husband love her, sir? Day after day he
rode or walked past the house, and sent letters to her; but never once
offered to seek out the man that kept his wife from him. _Can_ he have
loved her, sir? To leave her in the quiet possession of another, and
take himself off again to the Indies! So much for the husband:--and now
for the lover, as he called himself. Matters, I don't know what, took
him to France, and he was to return to her who was weary of her life in
his absence, within a month. He had not been gone a fortnight before
she received a letter from him, written in a French prison, where he
was confined for debt. That hour she started post for Dover, and in
three days they were on their road home together. Little Harri had
released the man she adored, and brought him away from his troubles in
triumph and joy."
David's handkerchief, notwithstanding the depth into which it had been
plunged, and the compactness with which it had been doubled up, was out
of his pocket, unfolded, and across his knees in an instant; evincing
a conviction in the mind of its proprietor that that part of Bessum's
story was approaching to narration which would certainly call for its
application in the united capacities to which David was in the habit of
appropriating it.
The dame resumed; for I should mention that she had made a preparatory
pause, in the interval of which she took occasion to fortify herself
for the coming trial with a considerable pinch of Scotch snuff.
"They didn't reach home, sir," said she, "for more than a fortnight;
for they stayed a day here, and a day there, to see the sights, and
such like; and because she, poor dear! was in no condition for much
hurry, though she had forgotten that, when she started, as she did
every thing but her devoted love for him she went to rescue. But,
when they did arrive, dearly did our sweet child pay for the fault
a husband's cruelty had driven her to commit, and bitter was the
punishment of Providence: but it was all fate, I'm sure it was; it
must have been; for surely her crime did not call for such a dreadful
judgment as befell her. Oh, good heart, sir! think of the poor dear
after all she had undergone in a journey to a foreign land, where she
had never been before, and all alone, too, sir, without a friend to
help or to advise her! She had left a house fitted and furnished like
a little palace, as a body may say; the homestead of her high-priced,
fatal happiness. Think of her reaching what she thought a home, and
finding none! She was soon to be a mother, and she had not a bed to lay
her down upon! In the short time that she had been away, the servant in
whose charge she left her house, by the help and advice of a villain
she kept company with, had carried off every thing, under the pretence
that she was moving for her mistress! Ah! you may look surprised, sir,
and with reason, _but 'tis just as true as you and I sit here_."
"God's will be done!" sobbed David, as he buried his face in his
handkerchief with both his hands. "She's out of harm's way now, Bessum.
God's will be done!" and the simple-hearted man wept like a boy. The
tears ran so fast down the sorrowful face of the poor dame, that the
relief they afforded her enabled her to proceed to the climax of little
Harri's misfortunes.
"She didn't rave and take on, sir," said Bessum. "The hand of destiny
was on her, and she felt it. As calmly as though nothing had occurred,
she bade the coachman drive to a certain hotel; she seemed to reckon
but for a moment between what she had lost and what she had regained,
and she was satisfied with the account as it stood. All in the world
for which she cared was still spared to her,--she had herself preserved
him, the author of her dishonour, the cause of her loss, and, the
only compensation for it, the father of her child! These were all she
prized; and he who was one and all, now sat beside her. With a smile of
resignation, confidence, and content, she looked in his face, and said,
"What's to be done?"
The eyes upon the canvass seemed to ask _me_ for an answer: I felt that
I could beg subsistence for such a woman; become a drudge, a slave, or
yield my life up for her sake.
"And what was his reply?" cried I.
"Good advice--good advice, sir," sobbed Bessum. "_He asked her if she
did not think she had better go to her old nurse!_"
Mute with amazement and disgust, I sank back in my chair.
"What!" cried I, when the power of articulation returned; "was that the
good advice?"
"Ay, sir,--ay! that was all the comfort our poor dear got from her
_lover_; she asked him for no more. She didn't upbraid him. He had
dealt her death-blow, and she followed his advice; she came to her old
nurse, sir,--God be praised!--and I and David closed her precious eyes
for ever, after they had lingered, in their last dim sight, on the
lifeless image of him, whose name, with her forgiveness, and prayer to
Heaven for his happiness, were the last words upon her sweet, sweet
lips!"
"And if a special hand is not upraised to strew his path of life with
tenfold the sharp pangs that he employed to drive his victim to an
early grave," cried I, "it can only be that it has already crushed the
monster into death."
My heart was faint and sick at the recital I had heard. I returned to
my inn; and all that night--for it was in vain that I attempted to
sleep--I mused upon this awful dispensation of the wrath of Heaven, and
the dread severity with which the wisdom of vindictive Providence had
stricken the transgression of poor little Harri!
EUGENIUS.
THE WHITE MAN'S DEVIL-HOUSE.
A FRAGMENT.
BY F. HARRISON RANKIN.
"There is a magic in the craft."
Exoterics surmise it to consist in "winks and nods," proverbially
of equal inspiration to steeds labouring under the dispensation of
_gutta serena_. Mesmer's Animal Magnetism was nothing to the invisible
"tractors." Ticklings of the palm have been surmised; talismanic
numbers have been hinted at; sounds inaudible have been suggested;
together with certain "melodious twangs," awakening pineal sympathy.
Mrs. Veal's ghost, from De Foe's autopsy of the apparition, evidently
held no less a grade in the scale of shadowy society than that of
Master Mason.
John Locke, the philosopher, subsequently one of the fraternity, opined
that the art embraced sorcery, alchemy, the transmutation of essences
and of metals, together with similar common-place desiderata.
Whatever the nature of the spell, its sway is wide. Affinity of feeling
generated by it runs round the world. It may be found in the land of
the Chinese, of the Arab, the Red Indian, and the wild Tartar; in the
frozen circle, habitat of all seals excepting Solomon's, and in the
burning desert,
"Terra domibus negata."
Our story relates to the last pleasant locality.
Upon the windward coast of Africa, in a situation calculated to warm
the coolest temperament, stands a European settlement,--a pimple of
civilization upon the fiery face of a barbarous continent.
"Once upon a time" a lodge had existed there. Its members had ceased to
melt, having gradually melted away; for the constant flux and reflux
of white residents, the brief sojourn of many, and the death of an
appropriate portion, rapidly vary the population of the little colony.
After a lapse of years, however, it was not long since determined that
the lodge should be re-opened.
The house formerly used had become ineligible; and, in the true spirit
of a mason-soldier, a gallant captain offered to receive his brothers
in his own wing of the barracks.
This building was advantageously situated. It crowned the summit of a
high conical hill; so that, although the deluges of the rainy season
were fast approaching, it could with much facility be closely and
effectually tiled. But here, art was still in her swaddling bands; and
although, in our accomplished country, bricklayers and plasterers are
as "plenty as blackberries," in her colony no tiler could be found.
The name of Solyma,--that prince of architects, and prototype of modern
Wrens and Barrys,--his glory, and his power over things seen and
unseen, were familiar, especially to the black Mahometan population, to
the sojourning Foulah, and the travelled Mandingo; but they possessed
neither his skill nor his secret, being as mournfully ignorant of his
workmanlike perfections as they are of the name of the mother of Moses.
A tiler, however, was indispensable; and here arose a difficulty.
What black man, Mahometan or pagan, could be induced to receive
instruction; and, regardless of the prophet Mahmoud on the one hand,
and, on the other, of Satan,--the principal object of fervid worship
amongst the infidels of those hot parts,--to hazard his well-being in
this world, and his sombre soul in the next, by tiling the edifice?
Various were the negro gentlemen invited; but few possessed "hearts
big enough." No wonder that in the gold-dust country they should prove
deficient in the "_æs triplex!_" One refused upon the very admissible
ground that the masons had been accustomed to attend service in the
colonial church once annually; and that, claiming to himself the same
liberty of conscience which he allowed to others,--being by birth, and
subsequently by conviction, of that extensive religious "persuasion"
called Pagans, and of the particular sect of the said popular church
which worships the devil and reverences dead men's teeth,--he must
decline compromising his religious principles, and sanctioning by his
presence the heterodox tenets of the English colonial chaplain.
A second, however, had forsaken the Heathen modes of his ancestors,
and had waxed into a fervent proselyte, under missionary auspices, in
all respects save a tough hereditary prejudice in favour of a genteel
establishment of eight or ten wives
"To grind his corn,"
as Mungo Park poetically saith, but
"To pound his rice,"
as it doubtless ran in the original and vernacular glote, whether
Fantee, Mandingo, Cosso, Bullum, or Soosoo. This strange conjugal whim,
be it remarked, generally is as unalienable, tenaciously tenable, and
adhesive to the negro taste, as "roast pig" was to the palate of the
mortal Charles Lamb and the immortal "Elia."
This reclaimed pagan, however, professed that he would rather dine
on fried soles, that unclean piscatorial; masticate dog's flesh
before it had become putrid; disbelieve in witchcraft; or put away a
spouse, however freckled, than adjoin himself unto a society whose
nominal master indeed might be the Honourable Colonial Secretary, but
whose real spiritual president, he well knew, could be no other than
Beelzebub the _Bugaboog_, whose ways he had renounced.[4]
The remaining mass of the negro "ton" declined their services on
reasons no less satisfactory. They appealed to the yet living
reputation of the deceased lodge, which they characterized as
_prononcée_ to a degree; for the spirit of the building, once redolent
of mysteries and fraternity, prolongs a posthumous existence in their
imaginings, awful and evitabund. It is desolate, for none will enter
it; it is crumbling, for none will repair it; it is shunned as the
favourite triclinium of Sathana, Beelzeboub, and Ashtaroth; it is known
as
"THE WHITE MAN'S DEVIL-HOUSE."
As incredulous a negress as ever succumbed to Obeah asserted that, from
its vague interior, bells were heard to toll, and chains to clank, at
the lone hour of midnight, twelve,--when the "sun lived in the bush;"
and that many a rash eye had been scared away by goblin apparitions
and rank sights. With her own orbs, whilst stealthily prying through a
window, had she beheld no less a potentate than Satan himself, sucking
the blood of a white cock, and feeding a dead man with palaver sauce.
The idea of secret and mysterious associations is not new to the
negroes; they have not borrowed it from the white man. A short
reference to the nature of such as are familiar to them will throw
light upon the awe with which they regarded the old Devil-House of the
white man, and declined the privilege of _entrée_ at the new one.
Their own hidden fraternities existed in gigantic organisation,
and with withering power, long before the diseased and "craw-craw"
complexion of European discoverers was known to the natural inheritors
of Warren's jet blacking. Evil rites attend them; and bodily
mutilation, and the chance of slavery, are united to supernatural
horrors. Well aware of this, they naturally imagine similar diabolic
mysteries to constitute the "working" of white man's freemasonry: nay,
more; recognising the superiority, the mastery of the whites in all
things that come under their observation, they take for granted that
the same exists in matters which they do not witness, and, if their own
orgies are terrific, they suppose that those of the white man must be
intensely more so.
Of all men they are most horribly superstitious, and, in consequence,
are victims also to superstitious horrors of the first magnitude. The
forest, or bush, the air, the streams, the ground, swarm with a surplus
population of Satan's imps and witches. Each moment and each step
expose the wayfarer to the gripe of some malicious fiend. To evade the
unwholesome clutch, the limbs are ornamented with charms and talismans,
with dead men's hair and leopards' teeth. To deprecate and conciliate
these animavorous specimens of African zoology no pains are spared, and
temples named "Devil-Houses" witness the placatory sacrifices to the
spirit of evil.
But this will not suffice. It is not enough simply to protect the
person. Associations are formed which recognise the necessity of
watching over Satan's interests, by visiting with direful vengeance
such members of the tribe at large as may have treated his majesty
with less respect than his station entitles him to expect. There are
liberalists and spiritual republicans even in Africa.
Some writers, in noticing these associations as similar to freemasonry,
have fallen into the same error with the black colonists aforesaid, who
refused their aid to tile the lodge because they confounded it with
their own tremendous and execrable fraternities.
The secret sisterhoods of Africa have their own peculiar charms
and peculiar annoyances. The initiated maidens enjoy much respect,
and a singular liability to be sold to the slave-factory; and many
inducements are held out to the grand-mistress of the order to dispose
of her gentle sisters in this manner, since a well-built maiden,
warranted of clever action, of unblemished points, and sound lungs,
will find bidders at a hundred hard dollars at any respectable bazaar
between Senegal and Guinea. "Inshallah!" (God be praised!) as the
Mahometan slave-merchant thankfully observed.
The honour, however, compensates for the danger, and they love to
entwine the privileged emblem of their order, the ivory circlets, in
the hair; an ornament that glads the heart of the simple ebony maid, as
feathers and brilliants rejoice that of the blonde or the nut-brown.
The initiations, alas! are attended with ungentle mutilation of the
person; and the trembling and weeping girl is blindfolded, that she
may never know the woman who lacerated her. Gashes, however, on the
face, arms, breast, and back, are favourite ornaments; they are the
unpretending substitutes for rouge and cosmetics. The society is in a
flourishing state, and the worshipful mistress derives a considerable
revenue by the sale of refractory maidens. The guilt generally arises
in the practice of witchcraft and sorcery;--accomplishments assiduously
cultivated by the young ladies of Nigritia.
But, to return to our story. Enough has been said to explain how it
happened that ideas of awe rested amongst the black colonists upon "The
White Man's Devil-House."
The night was of that deep-toned glory unimagined save by those who
have watched the firmament of a tropical sky. No moon was up; but the
moon-like planets threw upon the sultry ground shadows of man and horse
as they slowly wound round the long mountain path that led from the
sea-washed capital at its foot, to the summit of the Barrack Hill. As a
higher elevation was gained, the suffocating breath of the low grounds
became tempered by the land breeze, that floated down by the channel
of the wide river, and flung itself rudely upon the hill side. Yet
the still, close atmosphere, and the distant flickering of purple and
golden lightning far away to the east over the lands of savage nations,
warned against loitering for the chance of a tornado. By ones and
twos the little straggling brotherhood alighted at the barrack gates;
and there, thousands of miles from Old England and the fire-side of
home, men unconnected by birth, by interests, or by office, met, and
cordially felt that they were related. Just before entering the chamber
whose secrets are bound as by adamant, the eye fell upon a figure
sitting in the verandah in the very dignity of overmastering terror.
His aspect told that he was following the poet's advice,
"Nimium ne crede colori!"
He was a black man awaiting the ceremony of initiation with much the
same intensity of interest that enlivens the criminal at execution.
He appeared the living representative of that fear-stricken island
tree whose trembling leaves distil a sympathetic dew. He was an
old serjeant of the Royal African Corps. Years of discipline had
taught him reverence for the tastes of his superiors; and when
invited by his officer to tile the lodge, overcome on the one hand
by the condescension of the captain, and overwhelmed on the other by
misgivings of latent Satanic cajolery, he had plunged into the Rubicon.
If his commander had deemed it expedient to form an alliance with so
powerful a prince as the prince of darkness, what business had he to do
with it? He had fought at Waterloo, and would fight at any time against
the devil himself if ordered to the charge; but he had never expected
to serve in the same company. However, he sturdily denied flinching
from the approaching trial of his courage.
The negro's burnished face smartened up when all was over. Rumour,
whose numerous tongues, if well pickled, would pair off with all the
boiled turkeys cooked in Christendom on a Christmas-day, and leave
plenty to spare, told the tale of wonder in "quarter less no time," how
Serjeant B. had become a member of white man's purrah; how he had sat
down to supper with Captain ---- on one side, the devil on the other,
and the chief judge opposite; how the serjeant thought he recognised
the "old gentleman" as a comrade in the Peninsula; and how the "old
gentleman" politely acknowledged similar remembrances, and took wine
with him; and how they had parted, with mutual hopes and promises of
meeting again at some future day, in the hot season, not in "the rains."
The more the woolly-headed men and maidens of his inquisitive
acquaintance interrogated the serjeant himself concerning his adventure
on that fearful night, the more he would not tell them a word about
the matter; and, to this moment, no mysteries are more mysterious, no
secrets more arcane, than those which trouble the black population of
the little colony respecting "The White Man's Devil-House."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 4: It is curious that whilst the Hebrew word Beelzebub means
"prince of flies," Bugaboo, in negro language, signifies "the white
ant," which is deemed the devil's familiar.]
A LYRIC FOR LOVERS.
Love launch'd a gallant little craft,
Complete with every rope;
In golden words was painted aft--
"The Cupid, Captain Hope."
Pleasure was rated second-mate,
And Passion made to steer;
The guns were handed o'er to Fate,
To Impulse sailing-gear.
Merrily roved the thoughtless crew
Amidst the billows' strife;
But soon a sail bore down,--all knew
'Twas Captain Reason's "Life."
And Pleasure left, though Passion said
He'd guard her safe from all harms.
'Twas vain; for Fate ramm'd home the lead,
While Love prepared the small-arms.
A storm arose! The canvass now
Escaped from Impulse' hand,
While headstrong Passion dash'd the prow
Swift on a rocky strand.
"All's lost!" each trembling sailor cried;
"Bid Captain Hope adieu!"
But in his life-boat Reason hied
To save the silly crew.
Impulse the torrents overwhelm,
But Pleasure 'scaped from wreck;
Love, making Reason take the helm,
Chain'd Passion to the deck.
"I thought you were my foe; but now,"
Said Love, "we'll sail together;
Reason, henceforth through life shalt thou
My pilot be for ever!"
REMAINS OF HAJJI BABA.
CHAPTER VII.
My great anxiety now was to reach the foot of the English throne as
soon as possible; and I consulted my infidel friend upon the safest,
easiest, and least public manner of putting my project into execution.
I had thought it right to place sufficient confidence in him to inform
him that I was an agent of the King of Persia, commissioned to make
certain proposals to the King of England; but that it was not my
intention to insist upon an _istakbal_, or deputation, upon my entry
into the principal city, or to demand either maintenance or lodging at
the expense of the nation: in short, I wished to be as little known as
possible. He assured me that the most private manner of travelling was
a public coach. This rather appeared paradoxical, for how could I be
private and public at the same time? but, after certain explanations, I
found that he was right; particularly when he assured me that in point
of expense the private mode of conveyance cost about seven times more
than the public.
Accordingly, the next morning, having, through the interference of my
friend, paid what was due to the owner of the caravanserai, I seated
myself in the corner of a handsome coach, drawn by four fine horses,
which appeared at the door on purpose for my convenience. My friend
seated himself by my side, Mahboob was placed on the outside, and we
drove off at such a rate, that I neither had time to find out whether
the hour was fortunate, or indeed to ascertain which was the direction
of Mecca, much less to say my prayers.
We had not proceeded far, when we stopped, and a third person
ascended, and took possession of the corner opposite to me. He was a
coarse-looking infidel, with a sallow face covered with hair: bushy
eyebrows, dirty in appearance, and, as far as I could discover, wishing
to look like one of the people, although he might be of the race of the
_omrah_. He said nothing upon entrance,--not even the English _Selam
alekum_, which I had long learned to be expressed by the words "Good
morning, and fine day;" but there he sat, as if the orifice of his
mouth had been closed by a stroke of fate. The cast of his eye as it
glanced upon me was not that of hospitality; and I was certain that,
had he been an Arab, I should not have heard the sound of his pestle
and mortar braying the coffee for me in token of welcome.
I discovered that my friend's name, who had hitherto thrown his shadow
over me, was Jān Pûl, words which surprised me, because they are
pure Persian, and might be interpreted, "Soul, Money!" Although the
new-comer eyed me with little kindness of aspect, yet, when he looked
at my friend Jān, there was a slight indication of respect; but
still he said nothing.
We had scarcely cleared the town, when the coach again stopped, and we
discovered stepping out of a handsome equipage, with servants and men
in _kalaats_ to help him, an infidel, who, after some delay taken up
in providing for his comfort and accommodation, was helped into our
conveyance, and he occupied the fourth and last place in it. He was
a handsome man, cleanly and handsomely dressed, full of fair forms
and politeness; a perfect contrast to his predecessor, and upon whose
whole bearing and manners was inscribed, in legible characters, _sahib
najib_, or gentleman.
He was as civil to me as his predecessor had been the contrary. Having
ascertained that I was a Persian, he welcomed me to his country in a
form of words different from those used in Persia; but in so doing,
he not only made my heart glad, but made his own face white. He then
complimented me upon belonging to a nation whose people willingly
obeyed and upheld the authority of their king, and who were satisfied
to live under the laws of their ancient monarchy. I had so long been
unaccustomed to receive compliments, that, upon hearing this from the
sahib najib, I almost thought myself in Persia again, and was about
preparing a suitable answer,--one in which I intended at once to uphold
the dignity of my sovereign and to exhibit my own individual readiness
of wit,--when an uncouth sound proceeded from the unclean infidel,
almost the first sign of life which he had given, that made me start,
stopped my eloquence, and threw all the sugared words which I had
prepared, back into my throat again. As far as I could understand, the
purport of this inauspicious noise was to announce to the sahib najib
that he had said something in the words he had addressed to me to
which he did not agree, for I perceived anger and disgust arise in his
countenance, while the looks of "Soul Money," though not much given to
change, also became lowering.
"Surely, sir," said the sahib najib, addressing the unclean infidel
still with courtesy in his manner,--"surely you will allow, in
these unsettled times, that loyalty to one's king, and obedience to
established laws, is a subject worthy of compliment."
"I allow nothing," replied the other, looking straight forward, "but
what is for the good of the people."
Upon this there arose a discussion so long and so animated, that it
lasted almost all the way to the foot of the English throne, and of
which I could with difficulty catch the meaning, so new were most of
the words used to my ears.
The sahib najib's argument was full of words such as these;
the constitution--vested rights--ancient privileges--funded
property--established church--landed interest; and although we were
driving through a country more prosperous to my eye than even the
regions of Mahomet's paradise could be, surrounded by every luxury, and
he apparently the lord of wealth and luxury, still he seemed to persist
that he was ruined and reduced to beggary, that his country was on the
brink of perdition, and that nothing remained for him to do but to sit
down for the rest of his days upon the nummud of despair, and to eat
the bitter rind of grief.
The rough infidel, on the contrary, argued that constitutional rights,
funded property, land, church, laws, and a great many more things, of
the import of which I was ignorant, but of which I promised to acquire
knowledge, all, he argued, were alone to be turned to the use of the
people; and thus I began to have some little idea of what was meant by
that People Shah of whom we had heard so much in Persia.
"What!" said the sahib najib, "when you see the constitution in danger,
do not you perceive that it will endanger the happiness of the people
whose cause you advocate?"
"I do not see that it is in danger," said the other. "If my boat is
sinking because we carry too much sail, shall I not trim my sails and
inspect my ballast?"
"But by trimming your boat you would throw all your cargo overboard,
and thus lose all you have," answered the other.
This part of the conversation I understood, and then I said, "I now
understand: when a camel is overladen, and cannot proceed, on account
of the weight of his burthen, either the camel will die, or I must
lighten his burthen."
"Very good," said the rough man, who now for the first time cast
the shadow of his condescension over me. "You are the lord of quick
understanding, and see things."
"But," said his well-dressed antagonist, "I neither agree that the boat
is badly trimmed, or that the camel is overladen:" then, turning to me,
he said, "Surely, sir, you, who have been bred and born a Mussulman,
who have let your beard grow according to old-established custom, who
have washed your hands and feet in accordance to the precepts of your
law,--you would not change all at once, because some new sect in your
country were to arise and say, 'Cut off your beard, cease to wash, pray
in a new manner, and say to Mahomet, You are a false prophet;' you
could not in your conscience do so."
"_Astafarallah!_" said I, blowing over my shoulders at the same time,
"am I mad to eat such a profusion of abomination!"
"You are a man of perfection," said he. "I am sure the more you see of
my country and get acquainted with its present condition, the more you
will agree with me."
I looked towards my friend Jān Pûl, who hitherto had not uttered a
word, and said, "This sahib says nothing. Perhaps owing to his saying
less than we do, he may be the lord of more wisdom than all our heads
put together."
"What can I say," said Jān calmly, "when there is much to be said
on both sides? The highest wisdom is to gather experience from the
past, and apply it to the necessities of the future."
"Agreed," said the rough man: "we must therefore reform."
"Agreed," said the smooth man: "reform is useless."
I immediately perceived how the matter stood, and, with that
penetration for which all Persians are famous, I discovered the true
state of the whole country. I saw that the people were divided into two
sects, as much opposed to each other as Jews are to true believers;
that plain sense had as little chance in the controversy as a sober man
may have in the brawls of two drunkards; and that, before things get
straight, each of the drunkards must be sobered by breaking their shins
in stumbling over a stone, or their heads by carrying them too high.
CHAPTER VIII.
We continued to drive onwards: the faster we went, the more the
infidels argued. I sat in my corner guessing my way through their
words, and already making up in my mind the sort of letter which I
should write to the Asylum of the Universe upon the state of this
extraordinary country, whilst my silent friend, with his hook-stick and
close-buttoned coat, shut his eyes and slumbered; only occasionally
giving signs of life. At length we arrived at a house which I
supposed might be a caravanserai, after the Franc fashion, open to
true believers, for, on looking up I saw painted upon a board an
elephant with a castle upon its back. I began to think this might be
in compliment to me, seeing that elephants are part of the state of
Persian monarchs: but I was mistaken, because, instead of taking any
notice of me, the sahib najib, on the contrary, did not show his usual
civility; but, putting his head out of the window, he asked one of the
bystanders, "Is there any news astir?"
"Nothing particular," said an unconcerned infidel; "nothing. The papers
say, 'A man threw a stone and has broken the king's head!'"
"There," said the smooth man to the rough, "there, that comes of your
reform!"
"I deny that," said the other: "on the contrary, it comes of your
no-reform."
"Why, surely," answered the sahib najib, "if you had not taught the
people not to respect their king, to despise his nobles, and to laugh
at the laws, such an atrocity never would have happened."
"No, indeed, it never would," retorted the other, "if you had made such
changes that the people would love their king, respect his nobles, and
be satisfied with the laws."
"Then you think stoning your king a right thing to do?" said one.
"Then you allow making him odious," answered the other, "is what ought
to be done?"
"Will a stone get up and throw itself?"
"Will a man complain unless he be aggrieved?"
"Hallo! my friend," said the sahib najib to the bystander, "what is
said about this atrocious act, eh?"
"Why, some say, 'Poor king!' others say, 'Poor stone!'" answered the
bystander in the coolest manner possible.
At this I began truly to have an insight into things, and could not
help exclaiming in the bottom of my gullet, "_Allah Allah, il Allah!_
There is but one Allah!"
"You understood what that man said?" said Jān Pûl to me, with a
sigh, and in a low voice.
"_Belli_, yes," said I, "wonderful! The men of this country are lions
without saints. Allah! Allah! to throw a stone at the king, and no
executioner by, to cut the wretch's head off."
"No, no," said he, "that must be proved; first, whether it was a stone;
second, whether it was a man who threw it; and, third, whether it hit
the king's head, or some other head."
"_Aman, aman!_ Mercy, mercy!" I exclaimed; "let me return to Persia. If
so little is said about breaking the king's head, where shall I turn
for justice if some one cuts off my ears? Well may the people want
reform!"
"I will just prove to you, sir," said the soft infidel, "that this case
just proves that we want no reform."
"How!" said I, "break your king's head, and nobody to mend it!"
"That is not the case," said he. "If a people have so much security
from the laws, that not even the poorest wretch, even for a crime
of such magnitude, can be condemned without proof against him and a
full trial, surely they cannot complain: they are all equal in the
eye of the law, and more they cannot want." He said this in great
exultation, having obtained, as he conceived, a complete triumph over
his adversary, and eyed him with appropriate scorn.
The rough man looked as if his head went round and round, and as if he
were come to a full stop; but, pulling up the two ends of his shirt,--I
suppose to show that he had one,--he said, "If the people have one good
law, is that a reason why they should not have more? The great man may
get his head broke,--he is rich and mighty, a little salve cures him,
and he is as rich and happy as ever; but the poor man who has broken
it, save the satisfaction of making a good throw, he remains as poor
and miserable as ever."
"Then, sir," said the sahib najib, "you would have what can never
be,--you would have perfect equality amongst mankind?"
"Yes, truly," exclaimed the other; "because, if all were equal, there
would be no heads broken, and no stones thrown."
This, too, I understood, and said, "What words are these? All men
cannot be kings, nor can they all be viziers, nor all khans. I, who
know nothing of your extraordinary customs, I can understand that. Were
I to think of being anything but what I am, might not my neighbour
think so too; and if I wished to be him, and he me, why, then the
world would soon be upside down, and from one end of the universe to
the other there would be nothing but clutching of beards, and cries of
justice, and no justice!"
"Whatever you may say," said the rough infidel, "we must have more
equality in our country than we have at present, or else the world will
turn upside down. The rich must be poorer, and the poor richer."
During this conversation we were in rapid motion, driving through
streets lighted up as magnificently as if the Shah himself had ordered
a feast of fire-works, and ornamented by shops exhibiting such riches,
that not all the wealth brought from Hind by Nadir Shah, or amassed by
the Sofi, could compare to it.
"Strange," thought I to myself, "that this people are not satisfied
with their lot!" Passing by a splendid shop, resplendent with cutlery,
part of my instructions came into my head, and I said to the rough
man, "In the name of the Prophet, do you still make penknives and
broad-cloth?"
At this question my companion stared, and said, "Penknives and
broad-cloth, did you say? Why, we have more penknives and broad-cloth
than we know what to do with. We have made so much and so many, that
the whole world has more of them than it wants; and the poor creatures,
the manufacturers, are starving for want of work. Surely this wants
reform."
This was delightful news for me, and I longed to send an immediate
courier to the Shah to inform him of the important fact.
"Whose fault is it?" said the soft man, determined not to be beaten on
any ground. "If manufacturers will do too much, whose fault is it but
their own? Unless you make a reform in common sense, surely no other
reform is needful."
By this time the coach had stopped, and I found that we had reached our
last menzil. The rough man got out first; but just as he was stepping
down, in order to ensure the last word, he exclaimed, "We want reform
not only in that, but in everything else,--more particularly in rotten
boroughs."
At these two last words, the soft man became evidently angered, his
liver turning into blood, whilst his face became red. "Rotten boroughs,
indeed! the country is lost for ever if one borough is disfranchised."
These words were totally new to my ears, and what they meant I knew
not; but I became quite certain that the rough man had hit the smooth
man in a sore place. But I was in the seventh heaven at the end of
their controversy. I had never heard such warmth of argument, not since
that famous dispute at the Medressah, in Ispahan, between two famous
Mollahs, the one a suni, the other a shiah, whether the children of the
true faith, in washing according to the prescribed law, were to let the
water run from the hand to the elbow, or whether from the elbow to the
hand. They argued for three whole moons, and neither were convinced;
and so they remain to this day, each in his own persuasion.
"How will it be possible," thought I, "to unravel this intricate
question? It is plain these English are a nation of madmen. Oh! could
they but take one look at my country, where the will of one man is
all in all,--where no man's head is safe on his shoulders for one
moment,--where, if he heaps up riches in the course of many years,
they may be taken from him in an hour,--where he does not even think
for himself, much less speak,--where man is as withering grass of
the field, and life as the wind blowing over it; could they but know
this, short would be their controversies. They would praise Allah with
gratitude for their condition, be content with their fate, and drive
all wish of change from their thoughts, as threatening the overthrow of
their happiness."
SHAKSPEARE PAPERS.--No. III.
ROMEO.
"Of this unlucky sort our Romeus is one,
For all his hap turns to mishap, and all his mirth to mone."
_The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet._
"Never," says Prince Escalus, in the concluding distich of Romeo and
Juliet,
"--was there story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."
It is a story which, in the inartificial shape of a black-letter
ballad, powerfully affected the imagination, and awakened the
sensibilities, of our ancestors, and in the hands of Shakspeare has
become the love-story of the whole world. Who cares for the loves of
Petrarch and Laura, or of Eloisa and Abelard, compared with those of
Romeo and Juliet? The gallantries of Petrarch are conveyed in models
of polished and ornate verse; but, in spite of their elegance, we feel
that they are frosty as the Alps beneath which they were written. They
are only the exercises of genius, not the ebullitions of feeling; and
we can easily credit the story that Petrarch refused a dispensation
to marry Laura, lest marriage might spoil his poetry. The muse, and
not the lady, was his mistress. In the case of Abelard there are many
associations which are not agreeable; and, after all, we can hardly
help looking upon him as a fitter hero for Bayle's Dictionary than a
romance. In Romeo and Juliet we have the poetry of Petrarch without its
iciness, and the passion of Eloisa free from its coarse exhibition. We
have, too, philosophy far more profound than ever was scattered over
the syllogistic pages of Abelard, full of knowledge and acuteness as
they undoubtedly are.
But I am not about to consider Romeo merely as a lover, or to use him
as an illustration of Lysander's often-quoted line,
"The course of true love never did run smooth."
In that course the current has been as rough to others as to Romeo;
who, in spite of all his misfortunes, has wooed and won the lady of his
affections. That Lysander's line is often true, cannot be questioned;
though it is no more than the exaggeration of an annoyed suitor to
say that love has _never_ run smoothly. The reason why it should be
so generally true, is given in "Peveril of the Peak" by Sir Walter
Scott; a man who closely approached to the genius of Shakspeare in
depicting character, and who, above all writers of imagination, most
nearly resembled him in the possession of keen, shrewd, every-day
common-sense, rendered more remarkable by the contrast of the romantic,
pathetic, and picturesque by which it is in all directions surrounded.
"This celebrated passage
['Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,' &c.]
which we have prefixed to this chapter, [chap. xii. vol. i. Peveril
of the Peak,] has, like most observations of the same author, its
foundation in real experience. The period at which love is felt most
strongly is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its being
brought to a happy issue. In fine, there are few men who do not look
back in secret to some period of their youth at which a sincere and
early affection was repulsed or betrayed, or became abortive under
opposing circumstances. It is these little passages of secret history,
which leave a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting us,
even in the most busy or the most advanced period of life, to listen
with total indifference to a tale of true love."[5]
These remarks, the justice of which cannot be questioned, scarcely
apply to the case of Romeo. In no respect, save that the families
were at variance, was the match between him and Juliet such as not
to afford a prospect of happy issue; and everything indicated the
possibility of making their marriage a ground of reconciliation between
their respective houses. Both are tired of the quarrel. Lady Capulet
and Lady Montague are introduced in the very first scene of the play,
endeavouring to pacify their husbands; and, when the brawl is over,
Paris laments to Juliet's father that it is a pity persons of such
honourable reckoning should have lived so long at variance. For Romeo
himself old Capulet expresses the highest respect, as being one of the
ornaments of the city; and, after the death of Juliet, old Montague,
touched by her truth and constancy, proposes to raise to her a statue
of gold. With such sentiments and predispositions, the early passion of
the Veronese lovers does not come within the canon of Sir Walter Scott;
and, as I have said, I do not think that Romeo is designed merely as an
exhibition of a man unfortunate in love.
I consider him to be meant as the character of an _unlucky_ man,--a
man who, with the best views and fairest intentions, is perpetually so
unfortunate as to fail in every aspiration, and, while exerting himself
to the utmost in their behalf, to involve all whom he holds dearest
in misery and ruin. At the commencement of the play an idle quarrel
among some low retainers of the rival families produces a general riot,
with which he has nothing to do. He is not present from beginning to
end; the tumult has been so sudden and unexpected, that his father is
obliged to ask
"What set this ancient quarrel new abroach?"
And yet it is this very quarrel which lays him prostrate in death
by his own hand, outside Capulet's monument, before the tragedy
concludes. While the fray was going on, he was nursing love-fancies,
and endeavouring to persuade himself that his heart was breaking for
Rosaline. How afflicting his passion must have been, we see by the
conundrums he makes upon it:
"Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears.[6]
What is it else?--a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet."--
And so forth. The sorrows which we can balance in such trim antitheses
do not lie very deep. The time is rapidly advancing when his sentences
will be less sounding.
"It is my lady; oh, it is my love!
O that she knew she were!"--
speaks more touchingly the state of his engrossed soul than all the
fine metaphors ever vented. The supercilious Spartans in the days of
their success prided themselves upon the laconic brevity of their
despatches to states in hostility or alliance with them. When they were
sinking before the Macedonians, another style was adopted; and Philip
observed that he had taught them to lengthen their monosyllables. Real
love has had a contrary effect upon Romeo. It has abridged his swelling
passages, and brought him to the language of prose. The reason of the
alteration is the same in both cases. The brevity of the Spartans
was the result of studied affectation. They sought, by the insolence
of threats obscurely insinuated in a sort of demi-oracular language,
to impose upon others,--perhaps they imposed upon themselves,--an
extravagant opinion of their mysterious power. The secret was found
out at last, and their anger bubbled over in big words and lengthened
sentences. The love of Rosaline is as much affected on the part of
Romeo, and it explodes in wire-drawn conceits.
"When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;
And those who often drown'd could never die,
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars.
One fairer than my love!--the all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun."
It is no wonder that a gentleman who is so clever as to be able to say
such extremely fine things, forgets, in the next scene, the devout
religion of his eye, without any apprehension of the transparent
heretic being burnt for a liar by the transmutation of tears into the
flames of an _auto da fe_. He is doomed to discover that love in his
case is not a madness most discreet when he defies the stars; there are
then no lines of magnificent declamation.
"Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!
Thou knowest my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night."
Nothing can be plainer prose than these verses. But how were they
delivered? Balthazar will tell us.
"Pardon me, sir; I dare not leave you thus:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure."
Again, nothing can be more quiet than his final determination:
"Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night."
It is plain Juliet,--unattended by any romantic epithet of love. There
is nothing about "Cupid's arrow," or "Dian's wit;" no honeyed word
escapes his lips,--nor again does any accent of despair. His mind is
so made up,--the whole course of the short remainder of his life so
unalterably fixed, that it is perfectly useless to think more about it
He has full leisure to reflect without disturbance upon the details of
the squalid penury which made him set down the poor apothecary as a
fit instrument for what now had become his "need;" and he offers his
proposition of purchasing that soon-speeding gear which is to hurry him
out of life, with the same business-like tone as if he were purchasing
a pennyworth of sugar-candy. When the apothecary suggests the danger
of selling such drugs, Romeo can reflect on the folly of scrupling
to sacrifice life when the holder of it is so poor and unfortunate.
Gallant and gay of appearance himself, he tells his new-found
acquaintance that bareness, famine, oppression, ragged misery, the
hollow cheek and the hungry eye, are fitting reasons why death should
be desired, not avoided; and with a cool philosophy assures him that
gold is worse poison than the compound which hurries the life-weary
taker out of the world. The language of desperation cannot be more
dismally determined. What did the apothecary think of his customer as
he pocketed the forty ducats? There you go, lad,--there you go, he
might have said,--there you go with that in your girdle that, if you
had the strength of twenty men, would straight despatch you. Well do
I know the use for which you intend it. To-morrow's sun sees not you
alive. And you philosophise to me on the necessity of buying food and
getting into flesh. You taunt my poverty,--you laugh at my rags,--you
bid me defy the law,--you tell me the world is my enemy. It may be
so, lad,--it may be so; but less tattered is my garment than your
heart,--less harassed by law of one kind or another my pursuit than
yours. What ails that lad? I know not, neither do I care. But that
he should moralise to me on the hard lot which I experience,--that
he, with those looks and those accents, should fancy that I, amid
my beggarly account of empty boxes, am less happy than he,--ha! ha!
ha!--it is something to make one laugh. Ride your way, boy: I have your
forty ducats in my purse, and you my drug in your pocket. And the law!
Well! What can the executioner do worse to me in my penury and my age
than you have doomed for yourself in your youth and splendour. I carry
not my hangman in my saddle as I ride along. And the curses which the
rabble may pour upon my dying moments,--what are they to the howling
gurgle which, now rising from your heart, is deafening your ears?
Adieu, boy,--adieu!--and keep your philosophy for yourself. Ho! ho! ho!
But had any other passion or pursuit occupied Romeo, he would have been
equally unlucky as in his love. Ill fortune has marked him for her own.
From beginning to end he intends the best; but his interfering is ever
for the worst. It is evident that he has not taken any part in the
family feud which divides Verona, and his first attachment is to a lady
of the antagonist house.[7] To see that lady,--perhaps to mark that
he has had no share in the tumult of the morning,--he goes to a ball
given by Capulet, at which the suitor accepted by the family is to be
introduced to Juliet as her intended husband. Paris is in every way an
eligible match.
"Verona's summer hath not such a flower."
He who has slain him addresses his corse as that of the "noble County
Paris," with a kindly remembrance that he was kinsman of a friend slain
in Romeo's own cause. Nothing can be more fervent, more honourable,
or more delicate than his devoted and considerate wooing. His grief
at the loss of Juliet is expressed in few words; but its sincerity is
told by his midnight and secret visit to the tomb of her whom living he
had honoured, and on whom, when dead, he could not restrain himself
from lavishing funereal homage. Secure of the favour of her father, no
serious objection could be anticipated from herself. When questioned
by her mother, she readily promises obedience to parental wishes, and
goes to the ball determined to "look to like, if looking liking move."
Everything glides on in smooth current till the appearance of him
whose presence is deadly. Romeo himself is a most reluctant visitor.
He apprehends that the consequences of the night's revels will be the
vile forfeit of a despised life by an untimely death, but submits to
his destiny. He foresees that it is no wit to go, but consoles himself
with the reflection that he "means well in going to this mask." His
intentions, as usual, are good; and, as usual, their consequences are
ruinous.
He yields to his passion, and marries Juliet. For this hasty act he has
the excuse that the match may put an end to the discord between the
families. Friar Lawrence hopes that
"this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancour into love."
It certainly has that effect in the end of the play, but it is by the
suicidal deaths of the flower and hope of both families. Capulet and
Montague tender, in a gloomy peace the hands of friendship, over the
untimely grave of the poor sacrifices to their enmity. Had he met
her elsewhere than in her father's house, he might have succeeded in
a more prosperous love. But there his visit is looked upon by the
professed duellist Tybalt, hot from the encounter of the morning,
and enraged that he was baulked of a victim, as an intrusion and an
insult. The fiery partisan is curbed with much difficulty by his uncle;
and withdraws, his flesh trembling with wilful choler, determined to
wreak vengeance at the first opportunity on the intruder. It is not
long before the opportunity offers. Vainly does Romeo endeavour to
pacify the bullying swordsman,--vainly does he protest that he loves
the name of Capulet,--vainly does he decline the proffered duel. His
good intentions are again doomed to be frustrated. There stands by
his side as mad-blooded a spirit as Tybalt himself, and Mercutio,
all unconscious of the reasons why Romeo refuses to fight, takes up
the abandoned quarrel. The star of the unlucky man is ever in the
ascendant. His ill-omened interference slays his friend. Had he kept
quiet, the issue might have been different; but the power that had
the steerage of his course had destined that the uplifting of his
sword was to be the signal of death to his very friend. And when
the dying Mercutio says, "Why the devil came you between us? I was
hurt under your arm;" he can only offer the excuse, which is always
true, and always unavailing, "I thought all for the best." All his
visions of reconciliation between the houses are dissipated. How can
he now avoid fighting with Tybalt? His best friend lies dead, slain
in his own quarrel, through his own accursed intermeddling; and the
swaggering victor, still hot from the slaughter, comes back to triumph
over the dead. Who with the heart and spirit of a man could under such
circumstances refrain from exclaiming,
"Away to heaven, respective lenity!
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now."
Vanish gentle breath, calm words, knees humbly bowed!--his weapon
in an instant glitters in the blazing sun; and as with a lightning
flash,--as rapidly and resistlessly,--before Benvolio can pull his
sword from the scabbard, Tybalt, whom his kindred deemed a match for
twenty men, is laid by the side of him who but a moment before had
been the victim of his blade. What avails the practised science of
the duellist, the gentleman of the very first house, of the first and
second cause!--how weak is the immortal passado, or the punto reverso,
the hay, or all the other learned devices of Vincent Saviola, against
the whirlwind rage of a man driven to desperation by all that can rouse
fury or stimulate hatred! He sees the blood of his friend red upon the
ground; the accents of gross and unprovoked outrage ring in his ears;
the perverse and obstinate insolence of a bravo confident in his skill,
and depending upon it to insure him impunity, has marred his hopes; and
the butcher of the silk button has no chance against the demon which he
has evoked. "A la stoccata" carries it not away in this encounter; but
Romeo exults not in his death. He stands amazed, and is with difficulty
hurried off, exclaiming against the constant fate which perpetually
throws him in the way of misfortune. Well, indeed, may Friar Lawrence
address him by the title of "thou fearful man!"--as a man whose career
through life is calculated to inspire terror. Well may he say to him
that
"Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity."
And slight is the attention which Romeo pays to the eloquent arguments
by which it is proved that he had every reason to consider himself
happy. When the friar assures him that
"A pack of blessings lights upon thy back,
Happiness courts thee in her best array,"
the nurse may think it a discourse of learning and good counsel, fit to
detain an enraptured auditor all the night. Romeo feels it in his case
to be an idle declamation, unworthy of an answer.
The events which occur during his enforced absence, the haste
of Paris to be wedded, the zeal of old Capulet in promoting the
wishes of his expected son-in-law, the desperate expedient of the
sleeping-draught,[8] the accident which prevented the delivery of the
friar's letter, the officious haste of Balthazar to communicate the
tidings of Juliet's burial, are all matters out of his control. But the
mode of his death is chosen by himself; and in that he is as unlucky as
in everything else. Utterly loathing life, the manner of his leaving it
must be instantaneous. He stipulates that the poison by which he is to
die shall not be slow of effect. He calls for
"such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may fall dead."
He leaves himself no chance of escape. Instant death is in his hand;
and, thanking the true apothecary for the quickness of his drugs, he
scarcely leaves himself a moment with a kiss to die. If he had been
less in a hurry,--if he had not felt it impossible to delay posting off
to Verona for a single night,--if his riding had been less rapid, or
his medicine less sudden in its effect, he might have lived. The friar
was at hand to release Juliet from her tomb the very instant after the
fatal phial had been emptied. That instant was enough: the unlucky man
had effected his purpose just when there was still a chance that things
might be amended. Those who wrote the scene between Romeo and Juliet
which is intended to be pathetic, after her awakening and before his
death, quite mistake the character of the hero of the play. I do not
blame them for their poetry, which is as good as that of second-rate
writers of tragedy in general; and think them, on the whole, deserving
of our commendation for giving us an additional proof how unable clever
men upon town are to follow the conceptions of genius. Shakspeare, if
he thought it consistent with the character which he had with so much
deliberation framed, could have written a parting scene at least as
good as that with which his tragedy has been supplied; but he saw the
inconsistency, though his unasked assistants did not. They tell us they
did it to consult popular taste. I do not believe them. I am sure that
popular taste would approve of a recurrence to the old play in all its
parts; but a harlotry play-actor might think it hard upon him to be
deprived of a "point," pointless as that point may be.
Haste is made a remarkable characteristic of Romeo,--because it is at
once the parent and the child of uniform misfortune. As from the acorn
springs the oak, and from the oak the acorn, so does the temperament
that inclines to haste predispose to misadventure, and a continuance
of misadventure confirms the habit of haste. A man whom his rashness
has made continually unlucky, is strengthened in the determination to
persevere in his rapid movements by the very feeling that the "run"
is against him, and that it is of no use to think. In the case of
Romeo, he leaves it all to the steerage of Heaven, _i. e._ to the heady
current of his own passions; and he succeeds accordingly. All through
the play care is taken to show his impatience. The very first word he
speaks indicates that he is anxious for the quick passage of time.
"_Ben._ Good morrow, cousin.
_Rom._ Is the day so young?
_Ben._ But new struck nine.
_Rom._ Ay me, sad hours seem long."
The same impatience marks his speech in the moment of death:
"O true apothecary,
Thy drugs are quick!"
From his first words to his last the feeling is the same. The lady of
his love, even in the full swell of her awakened affections, cannot
avoid remarking that his contract is
"Too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which does cease to be
Ere one can say, It lightens."
When he urges his marriage on the friar,
"_Rom._ O let us home: I stand on sudden haste.
_Friar._ Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast."
The metaphors put into his mouth are remarkable for their allusions to
abrupt and violent haste. He wishes that he may die
"As violently as hasty powder fired
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb."
When he thinks that Juliet mentions his name in anger, it is
"as if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her."
When Lawrence remonstrates with him on his violence, he compares the
use to which he puts his wit to
"Powder in a skilless soldier's flask;"
and tells him that
"Violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die; like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume."
Lightning, flame, shot, explosion, are the favourite parallels to the
conduct and career of Romeo. Swift are his loves; as swift to enter his
thought, the mischief which ends them for ever. Rapid have been all the
pulsations of his life; as rapid, the determination which decides that
they shall beat no more.
A gentleman he was in heart and soul. All his habitual companions
love him: Benvolio and Mercutio, who represent the young gentlemen of
his house, are ready to peril their lives, and to strain all their
energies, serious or gay, in his service. His father is filled with
an anxiety on his account so delicate, that he will not venture to
interfere with his son's private sorrows, while he desires to discover
their source, and if possible to relieve them. The heart of his mother
bursts in his calamity; the head of the rival house bestows upon him
the warmest panegyrics; the tutor of his youth sacrifices everything to
gratify his wishes; his servant, though no man is a hero to his _valet
de chambre_, dares not remonstrate with him on his intentions, even
when they are avowed to be savage-wild,
"More fierce, and more inexorable far,
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea,"--
but with an eager solicitude he breaks his commands by remaining as
close as he can venture, to watch over his safety. Kind is he to all.
He wins the heart of the romantic Juliet by his tender gallantry: the
worldly-minded nurse praises him for being as gentle as a lamb. When
it is necessary or natural that the Prince or Lady Montague should
speak harshly of him, it is done in his absence. No words of anger or
reproach are addressed to his ears save by Tybalt; and from him they
are in some sort a compliment, as signifying that the self-chosen
prize-fighter of the opposing party deems Romeo the worthiest
antagonist of his blade. We find that he fights two blood-stained
duels, but both are forced upon him; the first under circumstances
impossible of avoidance, the last after the humblest supplications to
be excused.
"O begone!
By Heaven, I love thee better than myself,
For I came hither armed against myself.
Stay not; begone!--live, and hereafter say
A madman's mercy bade thee run away."
With all the qualities and emotions which can inspire affection and
esteem,--with all the advantages that birth, heaven, and earth could
at once confer,--with the most honourable feelings and the kindliest
intentions,--he is eminently an unlucky man. The record of his actions
in the play before us does not extend to the period of a week; but
we feel that there is no dramatic straining to shorten their course.
Everything occurs naturally and probably. It was his concluding week;
but it tells us all his life. Fortune was against him; and would have
been against him, no matter what might have been his pursuit. He was
born to win battles, but to lose campaigns. If we desired to moralize
with the harsh-minded satirist, who never can be suspected of romance,
we should join with him in extracting as a moral from the play
"Nullum habes numen, si sit prudentia; sed te
Nos facimus, Fortuna, deam, cœloquê locamus;"
and attribute the mishaps of Romeo, not to want of fortune, but of
prudence. Philosophy and poetry differ not in essentials, and the stern
censure of Juvenal is just. But still, when looking on the timeless
tomb of Romeo, and contemplating the short and sad career through which
he ran, we cannot help recollecting his mourning words over his dying
friend, and suggest as an inscription over the monument of the luckless
gentleman,
"I THOUGHT ALL FOR THE BEST."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Was Sir Walter thinking of his own case when he wrote this
passage? See his Life by Lockhart, vol. i. p. 242. His family used to
call Sir Walter _Old Peveril_, from some fancied resemblance of the
character.]
[Footnote 6: Is there not a line missing?]
[Footnote 7: Rosaline was niece of Capulet. The list of persons invited
to the ball is
"Signior Martino, and his wife and daughters;
County Anselm[o], and his beauteous sisters;
The lady widow of Vetruvio;
Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces;
Mercutio, and his brother Valentine;
Mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters;
_My fair niece Rosaline_; [and] Livia;
Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt;
Lucio, and the lively Helena."
I have altered _Anselme_ to the Italian form _Anselmo_, and in the
seventh line inserted _and_. I think I may fairly claim this list as
being in verse. It is always printed as prose.]
[Footnote 8: Is there not some mistake in the length of time that this
sleeping-draught is to occupy, if we consider the text as it now stands
to be correct? Friar Lawrence says to Juliet, when he is recommending
the expedient,
"Take thou this phial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour, which shall seize
Each vital spirit, &c.
And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt remain _full two and forty hours_,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep."
Juliet retires to bed on Tuesday night, at a somewhat early hour. Her
mother says after she departs, "'Tis now near night." Say it is eleven
o'clock: forty-two hours from that hour bring us to five o'clock in the
evening of Thursday; and yet we find the time of her awakening fixed
in profound darkness, and not long before the dawn. We should allow at
least ten hours more, and read,
"Thou shalt remain full _two and fifty_ hours,"--
which would fix her awakening at three o'clock in the morning, a time
which has been marked in a former scene as the approach of day.
"_Cap._ Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock has crow'd,--
The curfew bell hath rung,--'tis three o'clock."
Immediately after he says, "Good faith, 'tis day." This observation may
appear superfluously minute; but those who take the pains of reading
the play critically will find that it is dated throughout with a most
exact attention to hours. We can time almost every event. Ex. gr.
Juliet dismisses the nurse on her errand to Romeo when the clock struck
nine, and complains that she has not returned at twelve. At twelve
she does return, and Juliet immediately proceeds to Friar Lawrence's
cell, where she is married without delay. Romeo parts with his bride
at once, and meets his friends while "the day is hot." Juliet at the
same hour addresses her prayer to the fiery-footed steeds of Phœbus,
too slowly for her feelings progressing towards the west. The same
exactness is observed in every part of the play.
I may remark, as another instance of Romeo's ill luck, the change of
the original wedding-day. When pressed by Paris, old Capulet says that
"Wednesday is too soon,--on Thursday let it be;" but afterwards, when
he imagines that his daughter is inclined to consult his wishes, he
fixes it for Wednesday, even though his wife observes that Thursday is
time enough. Had this day not been lost, the letter of Friar Lawrence
might still have been forwarded to Mantua to explain what had occurred.]
THE PIPER'S PROGRESS.
BY FATHER PROUT.
1.
When I was a boy
In my father's mud edifice,
Tender and bare
As a pig in a sty;
Out of the door as I
Looked with a steady phiz,
Who but Thade Murphy,
The piper, went by;
Says Thady, "But few play
This music--can _you_ play?"
Says I, "I can't tell,
For I never did try."
So he told me that _he_ had a charm
To make the pipes purtily speak;
Then squeezed a bag under his arm,
When sweetly they set up a squeak!
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
_Och hone!
How he handled the drone!
And then the sweet music he blew
Would have melted the heart of a stone!_
I.
Pater me clauserat
Domi homunculum;
Grunniens sus erat
Comes, ut mos:
Transibat tibicen
Juxta domunculam,
Quando per januam
Protuli os;
Ille ait impromptu,
"Hâc tibiâ num tu,
Ut te sine sumptu
Edoceam, vis?"
Tum pressit amiculam
Sub ulnâ vesiculam
Quæ sonum reddidit
Vocibus his:
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
Φευ, ϕευ!
_Modo flens, modo flans,
Magico_ ελελευ
_Cor et aurem vel lapidi dans!_
2.
"Your pipe," says I, "Thady,
So neatly comes over me,
Naked I'll wander
Wherever it blows;
And, if my poor parents
Should try to recover me,
Sure it won't be
By describing my clothes.
The music I hear now
Takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over
The world by the nose."
So I follow'd his bagpipe so sweet,
And I sung, as I leapt like a frog,
"Adieu to my family seat,
So pleasantly placed in a bog!"
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
_Och hone!
How we handled the drone!
And then the sweet music we blew
Would have melted the heart of a stone!_
II.
Cui ego tum: "Tu sic, ah!
Me rapis musicâ,
Ut sequar nudulus
Tibicen, te!
Et si pater, testibus,
Quærat me, vestibus,
Redibit, ædepol!
Vacuâ re.
Sic melos quod audio
Me replet gaudio
Ut trahor campos et
Flumina trans;"
Jam linquo rudibus
Hic in paludibus,
"Patris tigurium
Splendidè stans."
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
_Dum tibicen, tu,
Modo flens, modo flans,
Iteras_ ελελευ,
_Cor et aurem vel lapidi dans._
3.
Full five years I follow'd him,
Nothing could sunder us;
Till he one morning
Had taken a sup,
And slipt from a bridge
In a river just under us,
Souse to the bottom
Just like a blind pup.
He roar'd, and he bawl'd out;
And I also call'd out,
"Now, Thady, my friend,
Don't you mean to come up?" ...
He was dead as a nail in a door;
Poor Thady was laid on the shelf.
So I took up his pipes on the shore,
And now I've set up for myself.
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
_Och hone!
Don't I handle the drone,
And play such sweet music? I too,
Can't I soften the heart of a stone?_
III.
Ut arte sic magicâ
Egi quinquennium,
Magistro tragica
Accidit res;
Bacchi nam numine,
Pontis cacumine
Dum staret, flumine
Labitur pes!
"E sinu fluctuum,
O puer, duc tuum
(Clamat) didascalum,
Fer opem nans!" ...
Ast ego renuo;
Et sumens denuò
Littore tibias
Sustuli, fans,
_Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo!_
Φευ, ϕευ!
_Modo flens, modo flans,
Magico_ ελελευ
_Cor et aurem vel lapidi dans!_
DARBY THE SWIFT;
OR,
THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME.
CHAPTER II.
"Aspettar' e non venire!"
The Sunday after Darby _lingeringly_ started, I began to think it
would be just as well to make "assurance doubly sure;" so I despatched
a letter by post to my friend at Bally----, conveying similar
instructions and advice to those contained in that entrusted to "_the
running footman_" of my establishment. In three days I received a
satisfactory answer, so I was at rest upon that point; but, as to
Darby, I was quite at a loss. I turned over and over in my mind the
various mishaps that might have befallen him by the way; but all to
no purpose. I called up Eileen, and asked her what she thought about
it. Her replies, mixed up, as they were, with her wild immoderate
laughter, afforded me nothing beyond a sympathy with her mirth, which
certainly was most infective. Reader, I am not a portrait-painter;
but, nevertheless, I will attempt to give you an outline of Eileen. In
the first place, she was a poor girl, (else she would not have been
_my_ servant,) born of honest parents; but, if fate had placed her
in a higher sphere, she had natural accomplishments enough to have
graced it,--namely, youth, beauty, and health,--and, beyond these,
an intellectual, though uneducated, refinement of thought, when, _by
chance_, she was serious; for gaiety seemed to be an indispensable
element of her being. She was eighteen years of age,--well, what do
I say?--beautifully formed, had eyes like violets, cheeks like roses,
hair, when it was dishevelled (despite Goldsmith's satire), like a
weeping willow in a sunset, and--but, hold! I must not go further, lest
I be suspected of being enamoured of the original; so I will give up
the remaining parts of the picture, and leave them to your imagination!
The Friday after Darby's setting out I was sitting in my room,
very quietly poring over something or other of no importance,--I
forget exactly what, but I think it was some speech in the House
of Lords,--when a knock at the door agreeably disturbed me from an
incipient somnolency, occasioned by a new and unprofitable line of
reading.
"Come in!" said I. "Who is it? and what do you want?"
"It's only _me_, sir," said Eileen, laughing, as usual. "There's a
cr_a_ther below that wants to speak to you, sir."
"Who is it?" said I.
"I don't well know, sir," replied she; "but I think he's some relation
to poor Darby, that ye sent to Bally---- last Friday afternoon."
"Oh! then send him up; he may account in some way for the extraordinary
absence of his relative, said I.
"Sure, an' it's myself, an' no relation at all," shouted Darby from
below, indignantly.
"_Oh! widdy-eelish!_" cried Eileen, breaking out into her hearty wild
laugh, that was sure to set at defiance anything like gravity!
"Come up, Darby," said I. "I thought we should never have seen you
again."
"Troth, an' the same thing came into my head more than oncet, masther.
What the divil are ye laughin' at, honey?" said he (entering the room)
to Eileen, who still continued her most boisterous mirth.
"Go down stairs, Evelina," said I, "and leave Darby and me alone!"
She did so; but whispered something in his ear as she passed, which
made him so furious that I thought he would have knocked her down,
had she not adroitly escaped him by shutting the door after her, and
holding the handle on the outside so tightly that his efforts to open
it and follow her were abandoned in a moment as fruitless.
"What is the meaning of all this?" said I, severely. "Did you mean to
strike the girl?"
"Strike the _caileen_, yir honour? Oh, the Lord forbid! but, if I cotch
her upon the stairs out o' yir honor's sight, maybe I wudn't give her
cherry-lips a _pogue_ (yir honor knows what a _pogue_ is) that wud
drive her sweetheart crazy for a month o' Sundays!"
"Where have you been all this while?" inquired I, not willing to notice
his speech.
"Oh then, sure!" said he, in a most mournful tone, "masther,
I've had the divil's own time of it, sir, since you were so
unfortunate as to part with me, yir honor, on that same journey to
Bally--Bally--Bally--bad luck to it! what do they call it?"
"What has happened?" inquired I, anxiously, thinking he might have
later news than my post-letter of three days before had conveyed.
"Happened, yir honour! to who?" said Darby, with a wild look of
concern. "I hope the family, Christians, bastes, and all, not barrin'
the pig that had the measles, are in good health, and well to do as
when I left them. Has the bracket hin taken to standin' upon one leg
yit, sir, since she lost the other through that baste of a bull-dog
belongin' to the parson? I'd lay three of her eggs she'll never forget
the affront he put upon her then!"
"We are all well here," said I; "but give me some account of what has
befallen you on your journey, that delayed you so long."
"Troth, an' I'll tell ye, masther," replied Darby, "in no time. Have ye
five minutes to spare, sir?"
"Yes," said I; "let me hear."
"Well then, sir," commenced he, "you may remimber that it was on a
Friday you took l_a_ve of me--last Friday of all--Friday was never a
_looky_ day by _say_ or by land: ye see, I didn't go far afore I met
with a disappointment, for I met a berrin' comin' right _fornenst_
me--what _coud_ I do but turn back, in dacency, with it?--and, after
I'd _keen'd_ about a mile with the mourners, I made bould to ax who was
the body that was makin' a blackberry _ov_ himself."
"A blackberry!" interrupted I.
"Yes, yir honor, a blackberry," replied Darby: "do ye know that, let
it shoot never so far, it's sure to come back as near as it can to the
root of it where it first started; and so arn't we all blackberries? As
the priest says on Ash-_Wendsday_, "Remember, man, you are but dust,
and into dust you must return." Now, I've known bigger _dusts_ in their
lifetime than they were turned out of afterward, when they took to
studyin' astron_a_my with
'The tops of their toes,
And the tip of their nose,
Turn'd up to the roots of the daisies!'
But, whose berrin' should it be, after all, but ould Jemmy Cullen,
the piper's! Ye know Jemmy Cullen, yir honour? him that used to play
the organ on the pipes at high-mass durin' Christmas an' Easter. Oh!
he was the boy to lilt at a weddin' or a wake! but, p_a_ce be width
'im--God rest his sowl! as I said when I saw the _scragh_ put over him
for the first time. Well, ye know, yir honor, that oncet upon the same
road width them I coudn't do more nor less than wet our clay together;
so, after walkin' the corpse three times round the churchyard of
Glassin-oge--Were ye ever berried there, sir?--I mane, wud ye like to
be berried there, sir?"
"Not just yet," said I.
"Oh, the Lord forbid, sir!" cried Darby. "I didn't mane that, by
no manes. God send ye many days, and _prosprous_ ones too! But
there's a taste in chusin' a berrin'-ground as well as there is in a
drawin'-room," said he, looking around him.
"So there may be," said I; "but that is only the whim or notion of a
living man. When he dies, all churchyards are the same to him; he then
can have no considerations about the matter."
"That's all very true, sir," replied Darby; "but would ye like to be
burnt after the breath was out o' ye?"
"I could have neither liking nor disliking," answered I; "for I should
be an insensible mass of matter."
"But mightn't yir ghost, sir, like to see ye were comfortably provided
for? I mane yir honor's dead body that's alive an' in good health now,
an' long may it continue so!"
"Oh! never mind," said I; "neither you nor I, Darby, know much about
those things; so go on with your story."
"Thank ye, sir!" said Darby, and resumed. "I was sayin', sir, as how
we went to wet our clay together at the '_Three Jolly Pigeons_.' Yir
honor knows the 'Three Jolly Pigeons,' facing the ould hawthorn o'
Goldsmith, in the village of AUBURN hard by here, eh? Sure, an' I've
heer'd as much as how they want to take the merits of the whole place
to themselves over in England somewhere, as if it couldn't spake
plainly for itself that it was bred and born here in ould Ireland ages
ago! Isn't the '_Desarted Village_' a b_u_tiful histhory, masther? Lame
Kelly, the poet, says, it bates the world for makin' the heart soft.
It's myself that never passes the spot without a tear in my eye, like a
widow's pig, as the sayin' is. There's the ruins of the d_a_cent church
on the hill all in b_u_tiful repair to this hour, and the parson's
house, and the schoolmaster Tom Allen's, and the common, and the pond,
width the geese upon it still, as if it was only yistherday, an' the
ould hawthorn--bad _look_ to their taste that built a stone wall round
about it like a _jail_! What did the blessed tree ever do that it
should be put in pound in that manner o' way?"
Gentle shade of GOLDSMITH! amongst the many tributes to thy immortal
genius, receive kindly the simple but honest homage of poor Darby.
He may not be able to appreciate thee in all thy varied splendour of
moral and intellectual worth; but he has a heart full of benevolence
like thine own, and, although a poor Irish serf, has feeling and
fancy enough to reverence the spots thou hast consecrated by the
thousand-spelled wand of thy muse!
"Darby," said I, "I promised you something on your return (though you
did not come back as soon as I expected); there's a guinea for you."
"Augh, thin, may the light of Heaven break yir last sleep!" said Darby;
"but isn't it too much, masther?"
"You are welcome to it," said I; "go on with your story."
"Thank ye, sir!" replied he. "Whereabouts was I when I left off?"
"Just where you are now," said I.
"Beggin' yir honor's pardon, I think I was at the 'Three Jolly
Pigeons.'"
"Be it so," said I, "go on."
"Well, as I was sayin', when we damp'd the grief a trifle at the
_sheebeen_ width a drop of the rale _stone turf_, I takes up the kish
again; but first I put my hand in the straw to see if the _dog-een_ was
comfortable, and there he was to be sure, warm an' nice as a new-laid
egg: so, wishin' the rest of the company every amusement in life, I
set out on my travels agen. Just as I was in the doorway, Ned Coffey,
the _whisperer_,--ye know Ned Coffey, yir honor, that brakes in the
wild _coults_ width a charm he's got? Well, anyhow, if he didn't laugh
so as if his mother was a horse; but I never minded him, only went on
wonderin' to myself what cud av' made him so humoursome at a berrin'.
Well, never mind that, I went on beautifully for a time, as good as an
hour an' a half, when, all of a suddent, leppin' a ditch, the hayband
I had acrass my breast bruk, and let the _clieve_ fall _clane_ in the
dirty puddle. 'Oh, _hannamandhioul_!' says I, 'what'll the masther say
to this?' The words were scarce past my lips when a _squake_ that 'ud
av' split the ears of a pitcher came out o' the _clieve_, an' after
that a gruntin', such as I never _heer'd_ come from mortal man afore,
barrin' it was a pig under a gate!"
"What could it have been?" inquired I, affecting a grave concern; "it
was not my dog Squib, surely?"
"Who the _nagers_ else could it be?" said Darby. "Only, after crassing
myself three times, and turnin' up the basket wid' my _horse_, I found
he was bewitched into the shape of a porker, as purty a young pig sure
enough, about seven weeks ould, as I'd wish to clap eyes on."
"A pig!" exclaimed I. "Why, he returned home that very night in his own
shape."
"Well then, see that, now," said Darby, "thuv', for my own part, I
think it was all Ned Coffey's doin; but, be that as it may, I was never
so frightened in all my born days, for I tuk to my heels, an' was out
o' sight in no time, like a _haro_! tho' I hadn't far to go to be that
same, for it was pitch-dark; so, to keep myself company, I began singin'
'The first o' my pranks was in little Rathshane,
Where love, just like whiskey, popp'd into my brain;
For Ally Magoolagh, a n_a_te little sowl,
As tall and as _strate_ as a shaverman's pole!'
'Augh! thin, _was_ she?' says a voice that I cudn't see, tho' 'twas
close to my left ear! 'Who's there?' says I. 'Where?' says it, on th'
other side. 'Anywhere,' says I, 'to plaze ye;' and wid that I fell into
a could sweat, for I began to think it was Mihilmas Eve, an' divil a
grain of salt I had about me to keep me from harm! 'Crass o' Christ on
us!' says I, 'an' God bless ye!' for I thought it was one of the good
people, yir honor! so I made up my mind to get in-_doors_ as soon as I
could. But that wasn't so aisy as wishin', for there wasn't a village
nearer than five miles, nor a cabin by the way-side. At last I spies
a light at a distance in the fields aff the road, and away we set, I
and my _horse_, full gallup. Oh! many's the ditch we cleared without
seein'; but still, never a bit did we come nearer to the light! 'Is it
a _Will_,' says I to myself, 'or a _Jack_?' an' wid that out it goes on
a suddent, and l_a_ves me up to my chin in a bog. Augh! then, hadn't I
a cruel time of it there? I was, for all the world, like a _flay_ on
Father Fogarty's pock-mark'd nose, or a blind horse in a tan-yard,--no
sooner out o' one hole than into another! At last I got upon dry land,
and wasn't I thankful for that same? for I got hoult ov a stone wall
that directed me straight on to a gate that was only hasp'd; so I
opened it, an' let myself out upon a _rodeiene_, that I knew by the
tracks o' the wheels; so, turnin' myself round three times for _look_,
(and bad _look_ it was,) I steps out into a ditch that was handy by the
way-side,--for it was acrass the _rodeiene_ I went 'stead of lengthways
either up or down; but how could I do betther in the dark? Well, afther
a while floundherin' about like a litther of pups in a bag, I got on
my feet agen clane out o' the mud, shiverin' an' shakin' as if I had
Jack Nulty's ague 'pon me! 'Well,' says I to myself, 'it was _looky_ I
stopp'd to have a drop at the berrin', or I'd av' nothin' to keep the
could out o' me now! It was Providence as well as dacency that put it
into my head!"
"If you had not stopped," said I, "you would not have been overtaken by
the night, and exposed to such a disagreeable accident!"
"Well, sure, yir honor," replied Darby, "somethin' else might av'
happened, an' who knows but it might 'a been worse?--there's no sayin'
or accountin' for such things. Well, be that as it may, I began to
walk on, feelin' afore me width my _horse_ (that never forsook me
all the time) whether I was in the right road or not, till at last I
comes all ov a suddent into the middle o' the town o' Lanesbro', with
_raal_ candles (none ov yir _wisps_ or _lantherns_) burnin' in every
window. Maybe I didn't know where I was then! So, mountin' my horse,
sir, strad-legs, away I _canther'd_, blessin' my stars that I got on
my journey so well and so far, width only a wettin' in the bog-holes
an' ditches, and a scratch or two on my hands an' cheeks, that I made
nothin' ov. 'Where will we put up for the night,' says I to my horse;
but yir honor knows the _crathur_ cudn't answer me: so I tuk my own
advice, an' went sthraight to 'The Cat and Bagpipes.' 'Will I get a
lodgin' here the night?' says I to the lan'lady.--'Who are ye?' says
she.--'Who am I!' I says; 'I'm yir honor's servant, on a mission,'
says I, mentionin' yir name, masther.--'Can ye pay for a bed?' says
she.--'Can money do it?' says I.--'To be sure,' says she.--'Then, look
here,' says I; an' wid that I show'd her four and sixpence--for I only
spent sixpence at the berrin'.--'Go into the kitchen,' says she, 'an'
I'll see what I can do for ye.'--'Thank ye, ma'am,' says I. So I goes
my ways into the kitchen, and sits down by the hob. That was very
agreeable for a time; but, when I dried myself, an' wanted to go to
bed after a drop or two, how d'ye think they sarved me? only sure, yir
honor, by putting me in bed with a _furrener_,--nothin' more nor less
than a _black_, savin' yir presence,--for it was the _fair_ night o'
the town, and beds were scarce, an' not to be had for love or money; so
I was _oblidged_ to sleep double, plaze ye, sir, in a two-bedded room.
They tould me he was only a _sweep_; but he turned out to be a _raal_
black, to my sorrow!"
"In what way?" inquired I.
"Oh! in many ways, sir," replied Darby. "First and forenenst, he
prevented me takin' my natural rest afore midnight; for I took a Bible
oath on a child's catechism that I wouldn't enther the room where he
was afore the _good people_ were gone to roost; for who knows what they
might have made of me? Lord bless ye! they'd av' turn'd every hair o'
my head into pump-handles, if they liked, afore morn! so I thought it
best to sit up a while, an' kick up a bit ov a dance in the kitchen
width Katheen the maid, an' two or three other _spreesans_ that were
inclined for the fun; an' fine sport we had, to be sure, to the tune of
'_The Hare in the Corn_,' and '_Roger de Cuvverly_,'--did ye ever trip
it to 'Roger de Cuvverly,' yir honor? Oh! it's an illigant cure for the
gout!"
"I never dance," said I.
"An' more's the sorrow!" said Darby, "for ye've a fine pair o' legs o'
yir own, an' it's a pity that a lame piper shudn't be the better o'
them some night or other!"
"We'll see about that," said I; "holiday-time is coming."
"Thank ye, and long life to yir honor! Will ye give us the barn, sir,
for a hop width the girls a-comin' Christmas?"
"Yes," said I, "and a barrel of ale into the bargain."
"Oh! then won't that be illigant?" said Darby, cutting an anticipatory
caper on the carpet. "An' won't yir honor dance yirself, sir?"
"I have said already that I never dance," replied I. "Go on."
"Yes, sir, imm_a_diately," said he, and continued. "Well, after a
bit we had a game o' blindman's buff, an', to be sure, _raal_ fun it
was while it lasted, and that was till we got into the little hours;
an' many's the trick we play'd one another, till myself felt the
miller throwin' dust in my eyes; so, givin' Katheen the wink that I
was goin' aff slily, I tould her to call me early in the morn, an'
left the party to themselves. I soon tuk aff me, an' was asleep in no
time; but in less than half an hour I had a most wonderful _drame_.
I thought I was the first paycock that ever wore a tail in Paradise;
an' maybe I wasn't proud o' myself, s_a_ted in the tree of knowledge,
width Adam an' Eve, _ketchin'_ flies width their mouth open, lookin'
at me for wonder. 'Arrah! _cushlah!_' says Adam to his wife; 'isn't
it a b_u_tiful sight?'--'Troth, an' it is,' says she; 'avick! I hope
he won't fly away, for I'd like to make a pet ov 'im. I'll just step
in_doors_ for the blundherbuss!' When I came to this part o' my
_drame_, the blood o' me ran could, an' I couldn't think what was
the matther width me, barrin' it was the night-_mare_; but it was no
such thing, for I turned on th' other side, and thought then I was a
race-_horse_ on the Curragh of Kildare, an' yir honor clappin' spurs
into me within twenty yards of the winnin' post! Well, that was better
than t'other; but, as I was dr_a_ming in this fashion, I began to think
they'd never call me at all, when Katheen, yir honor,--the purty little
girl, sir, that kept me up so late the night afore, dancin' with her
in the back-kitchen,--gave a _puck_ at the door with her fist, that
sent in one of the panels, and dumb-foundered quite an ould clock on
the back of it, that was pointin' width its two hands to some hour last
year. 'Who the divil's that?' says I.--'It's only me,' says she, with
a voice like a sp_a_king-trumpet, or a chorus of ganders. (I think the
crather had a could upon her.) 'Arrah! d'ye never mane to l_a_ve off
sleepin'?'--'What o'clock is it, alanna!' says I.--'Oh! the same hour
it was this time yisterday, I suppose,' says she, 'for the clock is
_down_.'--'Faith! it is,' says I, nate and cl_a_ne upon the _flooer_;
'but never mind that, the sun's _up_!'--'Ay,' says Katheen, 'this two
hours or more.'--'And so wud I,' says I, 'if I had as far to travel in
the day as he has!'--'Augh!' said Katheen, 'you lazy _puckaun_, did
ye never hear that the early bird _ketches_ the worm?'--'Troth, an' I
did,' says I, 'putting on my shirt; 'but what an _ummadhaun_ the worm
must be to get up afore him.'--'An' over an' above,' says Katheen, 'the
man that was on the road betimes in the mornin' found a purse.'--'Ay!'
says I, 'but the poor divil that lost it was there first.'--'Oh, the
_divil_ be width ye! stop there till ye're stiff av ye like,' said
Katheen, and run down stairs afore I could say Jack Robison. Well,
then, yir honor, I was soon drest an' up; so, as I'd _ped_ my way _the
night_, I had _nawthin'_ to do but pass clane through the kitchen in
the mornin', an' take to the road agen, when I saw Katheen a-lightin'
the fire. I just stepped towards her for a kiss _a-dhurrus_, when she
cried murther in Irish, loud enough to waken the whole house; so I
thought I'd have nothin' more to do width her this time, and went my
ways p_a_ceably. It was a fine mornin', barrin' the mist, that wudn't
let ye see a yard afore ye at a time, an', to be sure, I _kep_ it up
at a fine rate 'till I r_a_ched the town of Kilcronan. But, what d'ye
think happened me there, yir honor?"
"I'm sure I cannot say," said I.
"Well, then, I'll tell ye, sir. As I was passin' by a pawnbroker's that
was settin' out his goods for sale, what did I see but a lookin'-glass
starin' me in the face, an' a blackamoor's head in the middle of it.
Well, I look'd, and look'd, and look'd agen, but divil a bit was it
like me; so, turnin' 'pon my heel, 'Bad look to them!' says I, 'they've
woke the _wrong man_;' for yir honor remimbers that I slept width a
_furrener_ the night afore, and left orders to be called early; so I
had nothin' for it but run back agen as hard as I could lay foot to
ground for twelve honest miles; and lucky sure it was that the fog was
so thick as ye could cut it with a knife, or I'd av' 'ad the divil's
own time of it on the way. But, as it happened, I met nobody that knew
me, 'cept blind M'Diarmot the sign-painther."
"Sign-painter!" exclaimed I. "I thought you said he was blind."
"Augh! sure it was afore he lost his eye-sight," said Darby, "that he
was the most illigant sign-painther in the county. Didn't he paint
_The Pig and Thrush_ for Mat Sleven; an' _The Three Blacks_, that ye'd
take for two twins, they're so like one anuther; and _The Red Herrin'_
for Pat Gaveny in the market, that look'd so _salt_ it made yir mouth
wather to that degree, that ye cudn't help, passin' by, goin' in to
have a drop. Oh! it brought powers of custom anyhow!"
"How did he lose his eyes?" inquired I.
"He didn't lose them at all, sir," replied Darby, "only the sight o'
_one_ o' them, (for he never had th' other,) an' that was all through
Molly, _the Lump_, that advised him, (bad win' to her!) to use cr_a_me
when he had a could upon his intellects after the _typus_; so he mistuk
a pot o' white lead for the same, one evenin' that he had a drop too
much, and fairly painted himself blind; for from that hour to this he
can't see a hole in a forty-fut laddher. And more's the pity, for he
had plenty o' _drawin'_ about the counthry to do; an' now his dog has
got into the _line_ ov it for him, the crathur! Well, anyhow, knowin'
he was a jidge o' colours, I ax'd him to feel my face, an' tell me what
was the matther width it; so he puts his hand upon me, an' may I never
die, masther, if it didn't turn as black as a crow as soon as he drew
it acrass my cheek! 'Well,' says I, 'this b_a_tes cock-fightin'!' But I
soon found out the trick they played me; for M'Diarmot, when he smelt
his hand, said there was s_u_t and goose-gr_a_se upon it. So ye see,
yir honor, the truth was, they blackened my face in the kitchen afore
they put me to sleep with the black, that I mightn't know which was
myself in the mornin'. May they live till the ind o' the world, that
the divil may have a race after them, say I, for that same!"
THE DUEL.
I was educated, said a French gentleman whom I met in quarantine, at
Poitiers, though Lusignan is my native town.
Poitiers is well known to the antiquary as having possessed a Roman
amphitheatre, of which, however, when I was at that university, only
a vault, supposed to have been a cage for the wild beasts, remained.
This cage, from the solidity of the masonry, and the enormous size of
the blocks, seemed indestructible, but was not so; for when I last
visited Poitiers, and asked for the key of the cavern, I found that it
no longer existed, and that on the site had been constructed the inn of
the "Trois Pelerins."
It is a stone's throw from the Salle d'Armes, a place with which I had
been better acquainted than with the schools. To revive my ancient
recollection, I entered the _salle_, and found there an inhabitant of
the town whom I had known at college. He proposed that we should dine
together at the "Trois Pelerins;" and, after drinking as good a bottle
of wine as it afforded, he related to me what a few days before, in
the very room where we were sitting, had happened at a dinner of the
collegians. It was ordered for twelve; but, one of the party having
invited a friend, the number swelled to thirteen.
It is said that superstition supplies the place of religion; I
have observed this to be the case with the most sceptical of my
acquaintance: and thus this number thirteen occasioned some remarks,
and the stranger was looked upon with no very favourable eye, and
considered as a supernumerary, who brought with him ill luck.
One of the set at last summoned resolution enough to say,
"I do not dine thirteen."
"Nor I," said another.
"Nor I," was repeated on all sides.
The guest, naturally embarrassed at this rudeness, got up, and was
about to retire, when Alfonse, to whom he came as an _umbra_, proposed
an ingenious expedient for doing away with the evil augury, and said,
"There is one way of annulling the proverb that threatens death in
the course of the year to one of a party of thirteen; that way is,
to decide which of us shall fight a duel this evening, or to-morrow
morning."
"Done!" cried all the students at a breath.
"Shall it be among ourselves?" said one of them.
"No," replied the author of the proposition; "for then two of us would
have to fight, whereas it ought to be the thirteenth."
"Right," said all the young men.
"Then let it be with one of the officers of the garrison."
"Be it so," said Alfonse; "we will make a pool, as usual, at the
_café_, all thirteen of us; and----"
"The first out," said the student.
"No," interrupted Alfonse, "that would be a bad omen; it shall be the
winner."
"Agreed!" replied all, and they sate down to table with as much gaiety
and _insouciance_ as if nothing had been said.
The stranger, just as the soup was being put on the table, got up, and
with a magisterial tone of voice addressed the assembly. "Gentlemen,"
said he, "I feel suddenly inspired with a sublime idea. We are about
to eat and drink in the ruins of Roman greatness (alluding to the
amphitheatre). Let us imitate that people in every thing that is
great. Nothing could be more splendid than the games of the gladiators
which were celebrated over the tombs of the mighty dead,--nothing more
sumptuous than the festivals held at their funerals. This is probably
also a funereal fête; with this difference, that it is held before, and
not after death. Let Poitiers therefore rival Rome in her magnificence;
let this _cena_ be in honour of the mighty remains over which we are
sitting; let it be _morituro_,--sacred to him who is about to perish."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the guests one and all; "a splendid idea, by
Jove!--a splendid _cena_ be it!"
"Open the windows!" cried Alfonse. The windows were opened. As soon
as the soup was served, smash went all the plates into the yard, and
shivered against the pavement. So, during the rest of dinner, every
plate as fast as it was cleared, every bottle as soon as emptied,
followed their fellows. One might perceive, by the practised dexterity
of this feat, that it was not the first time they had played the same
game.
During the first course nothing particular occurred to disturb their
harmony; but it so happened that the _rôti_, which is, as you know, in
France always served last, was burnt. Then there arose a general burst
of indignation.
"Send the cook!" exclaimed they all to the waiters.
"Order up the cook! Here, cook! cook!" was the universal cry.
But the _chef_ was not forthcoming.
Alfonse, the president, then said, "Must I go myself and fetch him?"
This menace had its effect: the _pauvre chef_, pale as death, and
all cotton cap in hand, crawled into the room. He was greeted with
deafening shouts.
"Come here!" said Alfonse. "Do you take us for the officers? What do
you mean by serving us in this manner,--eh?"
The man of the spit stammered out an apology. Alfonse looked at him
askance.
"If I served you right," said he, "I should make you eat this
detestable _rôti_ of yours; but, as it is the first time of happening,
my chastisement shall be a paternal one. Hold out your cotton cap."
The _chef_ obeyed, and Alfonse turned out of a dish into it an enormous
clouted cream (_omelet soufflé_), and said,
"Come, now, on with the cap, and see you don't first spill a drop."
He was forced to comply; and the unhappy Ude (_udus_), his face and
white jacket streaming with the contents of the _plat_, was followed
out of the room with hisses and bursts of laughter.
Thus went on the dinner, and with it a concert of broken plates,
dishes, glasses, and bottles, accompanied by noises of all sorts, which
rose to _fortissimo_ as the wine, of which they drank to excess, got
into their heads.
The dessert, which succeeded the second course, was ended by what
they called a salad. This salad was thus mixed. They turned up the
four corners of the table-cloth, and rolled therein all the fragments
that were left. At this juncture the waiters disappeared, conjecturing
shrewdly that, if they stayed any longer, the feast might be too grand
for them. In short, when all that remained of the dessert was bundled
well up, the collegians got on the table, and, at the risk of cutting
their feet with the fragments of the crockery, and the splinters of
the glass, danced thereon, till everything was pounded, smashed, and
broken. Then the table-cloth, with all it contained, (the salad,) was
thrown out of the window; after it the table, then the chairs, then the
rest of the furniture, and, when there was nothing more to destroy, the
frenzied youths thought they could do no better than throw themselves
out; and all the thirteen "followed the leader," Alfonse, and jumped
from the first floor into the court.
There is a saying, that over drunkards watches an especial Providence.
But there are, it seems, two; for the students, on this occasion, found
one of their own, which doubtless befriended them in this mad leap.
Certain it is that none of the party met with the slightest accident,
and, gloriously drunk, they rushed out into the street, after the most
remarkable orgie that had taken place for some time at Poitiers.
They made a brilliant _entrée_ into the _café_,--a general place of
rendezvous for the students and officers when they were not at daggers
drawn.
Two of the latter were playing at billiards when they entered. But
Alfonse, without waiting till the game was ended, asked, or rather
demanded, in an authoritative tone, that the table should be given up
for a single pool to the thirteen.
Thinking that the object was, as usual, to decide who should pay for
the dinner, or the _demi-tasse et chasse_, the players did not seem
inclined to comply with this requisition; but when they learnt that a
more momentous affair, a duel, was on foot, they hastened to lay down
their cues. A duel! everything must yield to that!
There were but few military men present, for that very day there was
a _soirée_ at the general-commandant's of the garrison; and those
few consisted of veterans, who preferred passing the evening at the
_café_ to putting on silk-stockings and shoes, or of _chenapans_,
who in the regiment went by the name of _crans_, or _bourreaux des
cranes_. The old _grognards_, however, did not quit the room. The
_chenapans_ interchanged glances with each other; and one or two of the
sub-lieutenants, who had come to take their _demi-tasse_ before they
went to the ball, also remained. They had all more or less formed a
shrewd guess of what was to happen; and, for the honour of the service,
waited for the quarrel to break out.
In our schools and garrisons at Paris we are totally unacquainted with
that _esprit de corps_ which engages a whole regiment, and an entire
body of young men, in a duel, when two only are concerned; nor can we
form a notion how slight a thing a duel is considered, when it is the
custom to decide all questions sword in hand. Habit is all in all; and
people soon learn to think no more of fighting than going to breakfast.
It becomes a general endemic; and a person who, lost in the world of
Paris, where he is unknown, might hesitate about demanding satisfaction
for an insult however gross, would, in that atmosphere, be ready any
day, or hour of the day, to call a man out for merely looking at him.
The pool was begun. Never did a party, when a large sum of money
depended on the issue of the game, play with more care and caution
than those thirteen to decide which of them was to fight. By degrees
the players lost their three lives, and the number was at last reduced
to two; these two were the stranger guest and Alfonse. The lookers-on
watched anxiously every stroke. Those balls, that as they rolled
carried with them the fate of a man, were followed by earnest looks.
The officers came nearer and nearer, and ranged themselves round the
billiard. They were not a little interested to know whether they, or
rather one of them,--which they knew not,--was to enter the lists with
a freshman, no doubt unpractised in fencing, or with the most adroit
and terrible duellist of the university.
The chances were against them. The stranger lost.
A singular excitement was occasioned by the disappearance of the last
ball in the pocket. Some faces grew pale; but no one stirred from the
spot where he had been standing as a spectator. Alfonse looked steadily
round him, and made two or three times the circuit of the room, as
though he were in search, but in vain, of some one worth quarrelling
with. At last he perceived a sort of sub-lieutenant, originally
drum-major and _maître-d'armes_, and who boasted of having killed his
thirty pequins, sitting quietly in a corner. Alfonse walked straight
up to him, and, saluting him with a politeness that electrified the
company, said, in his cool way,
"Monsieur, I am exceedingly distressed at the situation in which I find
myself placed; but my honour is concerned, and you will allow me to
engage yours."
Without further preliminaries, he gave him a severe hit in the face.
The officer, who little expected so abrupt and unanswerable a mode of
provocation, sprang like a madman from his chair; and had not Alfonse,
with the activity and nimbleness of a cat, leaped with one bound on the
table, the ex-drum-major would probably have strangled him on the spot.
He was quickly at the aggressor's heels, when his own comrades stopped
him of their own accord, saying,
"Come, come! no child's play or boxing! the thing is too serious!
_C'est un combat à la mort!_"
"Where shall I find you to-morrow?" said one of the officers,
addressing Alfonse.
"Fix your ground," was the reply.
"No to-morrows!" said the officer who had received the blow; "this
instant!"
"This instant be it, if you please," replied Alfonso with the utmost
indifference.
"I shall not sleep to-night till that blow is avenged!" said the other,
foaming with rage.
"I, too, want to unnumb my hand. I have hurt my knuckles against your
cheek-bones," said Alfonse.
"Where would they fight at such a time of night as this?" observed some
of the officers.
"In the garden behind the _café_," cried the ancient _maître d'armes_;
"a sword in one hand, and a billiard-lamp in the other."
"But," said Alfonse, "I am tired. I know your style of fighting men,
_Crane_; you want to make me break ground, and drive me step by step
round the garden. Don't think it, my lad. Besides, the lamp may go out.
But, if you have no objection, the billiard-table will be a good arena.
We shall be well lighted, and there will be no means of drawing back a
foot.
"Be it so," said the other.
The doors were closed, and they laid hands on the waiters and the
proprietor of the _café_, who were going to the police. The swords were
then brought. The two adversaries cast lots for them, and then pulled
off their coats and waistcoats, and unbuttoned their shirts, to show
that they had nothing under.
Both then took their swords.
The officer wrapt round his hand a handkerchief, leaving both ends
dangling. Alfonse neglected this practice, the object of which was to
distract the attention of the adversary by the perpetual flutter of
their two white points, thus to turn away his attention from the sword.
But Alfonse had a manner of fighting of his own, and cared little for
these petty proceedings. He never looked at the steel; but, fixing his
eye on that of his antagonist, anticipated every motion that he made.
The two wrestlers, or gladiators I might say, got on the table
together, and, according to the terms or conditions agreed on between
the students and the officers, rested their swords on the toes of their
boots. A traveller from a commercial house who happened to be present,
and could have no interest in the scene other than what its novelty
excited, was fixed on to clap his hands three times, and at the third
the swords were upraised in the air, and the two combatants came to
guard.
A terrible silence reigned through the room, and for some seconds it
was only broken by the clashing of the steel; for both parties, as they
skirmished, were well aware that a single _faux pas_ was death. The
slightest stepping back, shrinking of the body, or leaping on one side,
must inevitably prove fatal.
The officer was a head and shoulders taller than Alfonse, and looked
as though he could crush him; but he little heeded this advantage, if
advantage it was, for he by degrees lowered his body till he was right
under the sword of his foe, and almost bent himself down upon the bed
of the table. No other change in his attitude then took place.
All at once the officer, taking this posture for the effect of fear,
made a furious lunge, which was parried with the greatest _sang froid_
and skill, and Alfonse allowed the officer to return to his ground
without attempting to return it. His adversary was deceived by this
sort of timid defence, and, become more adventurous, attacked him again
with increased fury,--so much so, that, thrown off his guard, his left
foot quitted the cushion of the table, against which it had been fixed.
Then it was that Alfonse made a rapid lunge at the officer's face. He
endeavoured to regain the ground he had lost, to resume his position.
The student would not give him time, and charged with impetuosity his
disconcerted enemy, who could only avoid his thrusts by keeping his
body bent backwards. Alfonse forced him to the edge of the table, when
his foot tripped, and at that moment drove the sword up to the hilt in
his heart.
The unhappy officer cried out "Hit! hit!" Then he raised himself to his
full height, and fell backwards from the top of the table to the floor.
Awful was the sound that the weight of that body made upon the boards
of the room! There was mixed up with it a feeling--a dread lest the
dead man should hurt himself in falling. Never did I see, for I was
present, so dreadful a contest! Never did I experience anything so
frightful as the silence of those two men,--as the flashing of their
swords by the light of the lamps,--as the fall of the vanquished, who,
disappearing behind the table, seemed at once to have been engulfed in
a tomb that opened from behind to receive him!
THE MONK OF RAVENNE.
The Monk of Ravenne was daring and great,
He had risk'd his life for the Church's estate;
He was loved by all who the Virgin love,
And the Pope and he were hand and glove;
Not a deed was done by friars or men,
But _that_ deed was known to the Monk of Ravenne.
The Monk of Ravenne on his death-bed lay,
His eyes were closed to the light of day,
His ears drank in the fathers' prayers,
And his soul shook off its earthly cares;
Many a tongue and many a pen
Moved in praise of the Monk of Ravenne.
The Monk of Ravenne in the tomb was placed,
With noble and fair the chapel was graced,
The requiem rose with the organ's swell,
And an hundred voices peal'd his knell;
The lightning flash'd, and up started agen[9]
The ghastly form of the Monk of Ravenne.
"Fools!" cried the monk, "do you pray for _me_,
Who have plunder'd you all, of every degree?
I have blasted your fame, I have mock'd at your shrine,
And now do I suffer this doom of mine,
'Deserted of heaven, detested of men,
Lost, body and soul, is the Monk of Ravenne!'"
CLEIAUBUID.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 9: _Vide_ Chaucer, &c.]
A MARINE'S COURTSHIP.
BY MICHAEL BURKE HONAN.
WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
I have the honour to be one of that class of amphibious animals called
in his Majesty's service _sea-soldiers_; that is to say, I have the
honour to hold a commission in the noble, ancient, and most jolly body
of the Royal Marines. I am by profession, therefore, as well as by
nature, a miscellaneous individual; and circumstances have more than
once thrown me into situations where the desire to support the credit
of the cloth, added to my own stock of cheerful impudence, have carried
me through, in spite of difficulties which would have appalled another
man. I had the misfortune to be employed on board one of the ships
of the inner squadron in the Douro during the siege of Oporto. I do
not say misfortune out of any disrespect to the commodore, or to the
captain under whose command I was immediately placed, or to my brother
officers, for a more generous, convivial set of fellows could not be
got together; but I speak of the place, and of the people, and of the
few opportunities which were afforded me of showing off a handsome
uniform, and, I must say, rather a well-made person, which it inclosed.
Besides, I was kept on hard duty; and though there were some pretty
women who appeared on Sunday during the cessations of the usual shower
of shells from the Miguelite camp, yet there were so many competitors
for their smiles, that I really could not take the trouble of making
myself as amiable as I otherwise should, and, as I flatter myself, I
could. Don Pedro the emperor, who now sleeps with his fathers, and
whose heart is deposited in the cathedral of Oporto, was then without
the society of his imperial and beautiful wife; and, whether it was to
set a good example to his court, or to prevent his mind from dwelling
on the absence of his true love, he was one of the most active of my
rivals, and I protest there was not a pretty face in the whole town
that he had not the pleasure of paying his addresses to. The Marquis
of Loule, his brother-in-law, also separated from that most lovely
and most generous of Portuguese princesses who now sits nightly at
Lisbon, smiling on all the world from her box at the French theatre in
the _Rua dos Condes_, was regularly employed in the same operations;
and I never took a sly peep at a pair of dark and bewitching eyes
that I did not find the emperor or the marquis also reconnoitring.
The marquis is one of the handsomest men in Europe, but with the most
vacant expression possible. He wins every heart at first sight, but
he loses his conquests as fast as he makes them. Women may be caught
by glare; and a man of high rank, an Adonis in face and person, must
tell: but I'll be hanged if the dear creatures are such fools as we
think them; and the marquis's wife first, and every other flame of his
after, have dismissed him, on finding that his good looks and brains
were not measured by the same scale. Then there was the Count Villa
Flor, and several other martial grandees; not to speak of the generals
and colonels of regiments, and the well-built and well-whiskered
officers of the British and French Legion, and the captains and first
lieutenants of our squadron. I run over this list just to show what
difficulties I had to contend with; and that, if I did not turn
the head of the whole town, there was a numerous list of operative
love-makers who shared the market with me.
[Illustration: A Marine's Courtship]
About this time the senior captain of the squadron determined to
establish a signal-station to communicate with the ships of his
Britannic Majesty outside the bar; and, no fitting place being found
on the Pedroite side of the river, an application was made to General
San Martha, who commanded for the Miguelites, for permission to erect
a post on the left bank, which permission was most liberally granted.
A party was instantly set to work, and in the course of a few days a
flag-staff was hoisted; and a large house and court-yard given for
the accommodation of the officer and men who were to work it. As luck
would have it, I was selected for this service, in company with a
wild lieutenant of the fleet, and we soon established ourselves in a
comfortable quarter, having the permission to rove about among the
Miguelite grounds where we pleased, and to cross as usual to Oporto,
when leave of absence was to be procured.
We had not been long established at this fort, when the batteries
which the Miguelites had established at the mouth of the river began
to do their work in good earnest, and so effectually to close the
bar, that not only was the usual supply of provisions cut off, but
strong fears were entertained that the city would be reduced by famine
to capitulate. There was an abundance of salt fish, or _bacalhao_,
and a superfluity of port wine; but even the best fare will tire on
repetition, and you may be assured that salt fish for breakfast,
dinner, and supper was not very acceptable to the officers or the men.
Our commodore, with the foresight that distinguishes a British officer,
had provided for the coming difficulty; and had arranged with the
Miguelite general for an abundant supply of fresh provisions, meat,
poultry, and vegetables, for all the ships' crews, on the distinct
understanding that no part of it was to be passed over to the besieged
city. The squadron therefore lived in abundance, while the garrison was
half starved; and as we passed through the streets with our shining
red faces and sleek sides, puffed out by the good cheer our commodore
had provided, we formed a strong contrast to the lean and shrivelled
soldiers of glory, who were starving in honour of the charter. The
private families of the town also began to suffer, and the beauty of
many of the most admired, sensibly to diminish; salt fish and port wine
did not in combination make a healthy chyle: and I could observe that
the Oporto ladies, more carefully than before, wrapped their long dark
cloaks about them, to hide the ravages which short commons was making
in the plumpness of their persons.
It was at this moment that I conceived and executed the bold plan which
forms the subject of this paper, and from which all learned communities
may be informed that, for originality of thought and ability in the
execution, no adventurer can compare to a British marine.
The most beautiful maiden at Oporto was a Spanish girl called Carolina.
She was the daughter of the alcade of Ponte Vedra in Galicia, who had
fled some time before, from the retributive justice of the law, which
he himself had so long administered; he had died months before the
present period, leaving Carolina exposed to all the privations of a
besieged town, and to the temptations of a profligate and military
court. I never saw a more lovely creature: her eyes were as dark
as night, and her cheeks glowed with a warmth unknown in the cold
complexions of the north. Her person was faultless; her feet and her
hands were small: one could span her waist; and she walked with that
combination of majesty and grace which a Spanish woman can alone
assume. Poor Carolina was as good as she was beautiful; and though the
emperor, and his hopeful brother-in-law, and all the gay cavaliers
of the camp, were ready to throw themselves at her feet, she behaved
with a discretion which won her the good opinion of the whole army,
not to speak of the fleet, where such remarkable virtue could be fully
estimated. I among the rest of the inflammable multitude had been
struck with the magic charms of the angelic Carolina, and devoted
every moment of the occasional leave of absence which I procured, to
promenading up and down before her window, in the hope of catching a
glance of her beautiful eyes, and of attracting her regard to my own
beloved person. I was as much in love with her as a marine could be,
and my hopeless passion became so well known that it was a standing
joke at the mess-table, and our wicked wag of a commodore, who I
fancied was a little caught himself, never failed to inquire if I had
taken my usual walk, and met with the same good fortune.
You can easily imagine my delight when I heard that a scarcity was
making such rapid progress in the city, and when I found that even the
emperor's table was limited to the ordinary rations of _bacalhao_,
black bread, and port wine. I will own that my heart leaped for joy
when I ascertained from an emissary employed to watch the house of
Carolina that she too was experiencing the pangs of want, and that with
her scanty means she was unable to procure the common necessaries for
her sustenance. Our ships were abundantly supplied, as I have before
informed you; and the little signal-station which I occupied was the
abode of plenty. The Miguelites faithfully performed their engagement;
and day after day the regular supplies of beef, poultry, vegetables,
and fruit came in. The commodore of course respected the contract that
he had entered into; and though the emperor made several advances
to his favour, and though he was openly solicited on his behalf by
various officers of the staff, he refused to allow a pound of meat to
be passed into the city. Several of the British residents represented
their claims in a formal manner for his protection; but he did his duty
like a man, and he resolutely determined not to break the engagement
he had entered into with the general of Don Miguel, or compromise the
safety of his own crews by giving way to his good-nature. The value of
a leg of fowl may therefore be estimated; and it immediately occurred
to me that I could soften the obdurate heart of the beautiful Spaniard
by secretly conveying to her some portion of the stock which was
appropriated to our own table.
I therefore set about purloining a capital _gallina_; and when I had
secured it, in defiance of the jealous watch of the steward, I crammed
it into my pocket, and, asking leave to go on shore, started about the
close of day to try whether hunger, which breaks through stone walls,
would open the oak door of the charming Carolina. I soon found myself
in the well-known quarter, and before the house that contained my love;
and, after reconnoitring for an instant to see that the emperor or
his staff were not in the way, ran up to the first landing, where she
lived, and pulled the little bell-string which hung at the door. In
an instant I heard the pretty feet tapping along the passage, and the
soft voice of Carolina herself exclaiming "_Quien es?_" Who is there?
"It is I, a British officer, and a friend of yours," I replied; "I want
particularly to speak to you."
"Sir," said Carolina, "I have not the honour of your acquaintance."
"It is true, señorita; but I come to serve you, and my good intentions
will excuse the absence of ceremony."
"Sir, I must wish you a good day: I cannot accept a service from
strangers; I have not asked you for any."
"Stay, beautiful Carolina," I exclaimed; "I adore you."
"Sir, I have the honour to wish you good evening."
"Stay, angelic vision: I am an officer of Marines."
"What have I to do with the Marines?"
"I come to devote myself to you."
"Sir,--really sir, you carry the joke too far; I must dispense with
your unseasonable visit. I have again the honour to wish you good
evening."
Carolina was about to close the little slide of the door through which
this brief conversation had been carried on, when, growing desperate
with vexation, I held the slide open with one hand, while with the
other I pulled the fowl from my pocket, and held it dangling before her
face. Oh! if you had seen her look!--her eyes were fixed as Hamlet's
when he sees his father's ghost, her mouth opened, and two little
rivulets of water ran down at each side as when an alderman gets the
first odour of a well-kept haunch.
"Señorita," said I, eager to take advantage of the favourable
impression the vision of the fowl had made on my beloved; "this bird
is a proof of the warm interest which I take in your welfare. I have
heard that you were suffering from the severe affliction that has
fallen on this city; and, though I risk my character and the safety of
his Britannic Majesty's fleet by bringing into Oporto any part of the
provision allotted for the crews, I could not resist the impulse of
stealing this bird, which I now have the honour to lay at your feet."
The señorita answered not: pride on the one hand, and hunger on the
other, were struggling. The physical want prevailed over the moral
feeling. "Señor," said she, "I will accept the fowl, and cannot but
feel obliged by the interest you have taken in my welfare. Good night,
señor; it is getting late: I am certain you are anxious to return to
your ship." With these words she shut the little slide of the door,
and I remained in the passage, gaping with astonishment, confounded
with delight, and wondering at the new recipe I had invented for making
love. I waited for some time, hoping that the little wicket would be
again opened; but Carolina, I presume, was too much occupied with
the present I had made her to think of returning to bid me a second
farewell; and I descended the staircase, charmed beyond expression with
the result of my stratagem.
I kept, of course, my recipe for making love a profound secret; but
I did not venture to put it again into operation for two or three
days. I made, however, the accustomed regular survey of the street
in which Carolina resided, and watched with much interest for the
reception given to my rivals. I cannot express the delight with which
I witnessed them all, one after the other, refused admittance to her
house. "She is picking the bones of the fowl," thought I; "that is a
much better employment than listening to their stupid declarations. I
must take care to keep my mistress in good humour, and to improve the
favourable opinion she has already formed of me." I therefore watched
my opportunity; secured a duck out of the next basket of poultry, and
hastened on the wings of love to lay my treasure at her feet. No sooner
did my trembling hand pull the bell-cord, and my eager voice announce
my name, than I heard her gentle step in the passage, and soon the
little slide of the door was opened, and I felt my heart leap to my
mouth as I beheld her beautiful eye beaming on me with undisguised
satisfaction. To ensure my welcome, and to save the dear creature from
the pangs of expectation, I produced the duck, swinging it to and fro
before the wicket, as a nurse does a pretty toy that she offers to the
longing wishes of the child. Carolina smiled her sweetest smile; and,
when I pushed in the prize, she returned me thanks in so endearing a
manner that I lost all command of my reason, and poured out upon the
staircase a volume of protestations of eternal love which might have
served for the whole ship's company. From that hour my affair was done.
Carolina could not resist the voice of truth, and the tender proofs of
esteem which I alone had the power to offer. She refused to admit me
then, but promised to consult her aunt on the propriety of receiving
my visits; and that, if the discreet matron permitted it, she would be
too happy in my acquaintance. I entreated the dear girl not to delay
my happiness, and I fixed the following Thursday for the formidable
interview with the aunt.
I lay the whole of the next night awake, thinking over the present
which would be most acceptable to the old lady. I finally resolved to
purloin a small leg of lamb, which I observed hung up in the steward's
pantry; and, in order to make room for it in my pocket, I cut a great
hole in the bottom, so that the handle of the leg would hang down,
while the thicker part prevented it from slipping through. _Armed_
with my leg, I asked leave to go to Oporto, and received with joy the
accustomed friendly nod. I soon landed at the arsenal, and mounted
the long hill which led into the town, holding myself as straight as
possible, so that the exuberance of my pocket should not be perceived.
Unfortunately for me, a score of hungry dogs, which infest all
Portuguese towns, were holding a council of war at the quay when I
stept on shore; and one of them, getting scent of the end of the leg
of mutton which hung through the hole in my pocket, gave a hint to the
rest of the contraband which was going on, and I soon had the whole
train after me, sniffing at my tail, and making snaps at the tempting
morsel. I would have stooped to pick up a stone, which is the only way
of frightening a Portuguese street dog; but I was afraid to disarrange
the perpendicular, recollecting that, as I bent down, the end of the
leg of lamb would be visible. I therefore bore the annoyance as well as
I could, kicking out behind from time to time when my friends were most
troublesome.
Carolina and her aunt were at the window, probably expecting my
arrival, and enduring the grumbling recollections of an ill-digested
dinner of _bacalhao_, in the hope of a more wholesome supper being
provided for them through my care; but when they saw me turn the
corner of the street, and at least two dozen dogs smelling and sniffing
at my skirts, they both burst out into an uncontrollable fit of
laughter, and roared and roared again in a paroxysm of mirth. A crowd
of dandies were passing at the moment, watching the window of Carolina,
each hoping to be the favoured man; but when they heard the sudden
burst of merriment which proceeded from her window, they looked round
naturally for the cause, and they soon joined in the same chorus at my
expense, on seeing me parade, with all the gravity of a drum-major, at
the head of a legion of filthy curs.
To make my situation worse, I dared not enter the house of Carolina;
her character would be compromised by a visit in presence of so many
admirers: and I had the additional mortification of being obliged to
pass her door, and to walk a considerable distance until I escaped the
impertinence of the sneering puppies, though I could not shake off the
annoyance of those that followed at my heels. How gladly would I have
drawn my sword, and challenged the whole party! how cheerfully would I
have drawn the leg of lamb from my pocket, and stuffed it in the mouth
of each impertinent dandy! but not only was my own honour at stake, but
that of the British fleet, and I bore all in the king's name, and for
the credit of the service. I have been in many a hot engagement, but
I never suffered more than I did that day. At length, after doubling
through two or three by-streets, I got rid of my impudent macaroni, and
traced my way back again to the house of my beloved. She, with the old
lady, were watching me from the window; but, grown wiser by experience,
and probably afraid of losing a good supper, they did not laugh again
with the same violence. I observed, however, the wicked smile with
which my fair one retired to receive me at the door, and the suppressed
titter with which the maiden aunt pulled her head from the window.
The cursed dogs followed me up stairs, and it was with considerable
difficulty I could prevent the most insolent from forcing their way
with me into the presence of my mistress; but, after I got in, I heard
them growling and barking on the stairs. The neighbours wondered what
the deuce was the matter with the curs, or why they had come from their
usual haunts to that unfrequented quarter.
The señorita presented me in due form to her aunt.
"Allow me," said she, "to introduce to you, dear aunt, this gallant
English cavalier, Señor _Gallina_,--I beg pardon, Señor Marinero,--and
permit me to present to you, señor, my respected aunt, Donna Francisca
Azanares."
I made a low bow, but said nothing, seeing that my mistress thought
more of the fowl than of me; such is the way of the world, and those
who will win women must endure to have their pride occasionally
mortified. The old lady, however, covered me with compliments; she
was delighted to make my acquaintance; her niece had told her what an
amiable and gentlemanlike young man I was. I could observe, while the
aunt was hard at work overloading me with compliments, that Carolina
was taking a sly peep at the bulk of my pockets, and wondering what
kind of commodity it was that produced so misplaced a swelling on so
well-formed a young man as I flatter myself no one can deny I am; but,
just at this moment, the bevy of hungry curs at the door set up such a
howl in concert, that my angel was fain to cram her handkerchief into
her mouth to conceal her laughing, and I thought the old dame would go
into a fit, so violent was her merriment. Finding the case going thus
hard against me, I determined to strike a bold stroke for conquest; so,
slipping out my penknife, I slit up the pocket where the treasure lay,
and down fell the leg of lamb in all its natural beauty on the floor.
I thought the aunt would have fainted with delight, such an unexpected
vision of glory dazzled her understanding and her sight. The _bouquet_
of the meat was, I suppose, conveyed through the keyhole to the canine
multitude that still lined the stairs, and another universal howl
proclaimed their despair that it was beyond their reach.
I soon took my leave, to the delight of Carolina and her aunt. I think
I showed considerable tact in so doing; well knowing that a slice
off the leg of lamb would be more acceptable to both than all the
professions of admiration which I was prepared to make. I ventured on
two or three civil things, but I could see my beloved's eyes fixed upon
the handle of the leg; and it was evident the aunt was carrying on
an internal debate whether it should be boiled, broiled, roasted, or
stewed, or served up, according to the fashion of the province, with a
mass of garlic. The dogs were waiting for me in the passage, and they
eagerly followed me as I went down stairs; even the smell of my pocket
had its attraction for them, but they dropped off one by one when they
found the reality was gone. One old savoury rogue alone persecuted me
to the river side; and though I pelted him with stones, and kicked him
when I could, he still hung on my rear with his tongue out, licking the
shreds which dangled from my torn pocket.
The next day, when I went on board ship to make the usual report
to the captain, I found that a court of inquiry was going on into
the disappearance of the very leg of lamb which I had feloniously
purloined. The steward had reported the accident to the purveyor of
the mess, and he had called a council of war, who thought fit to make
an official report to the skipper; so that the readers will readily
imagine the agony of my feelings when I was asked to join the board,
and to assist in the investigation. Fortunately for me, one of the
aides-de-camp of the emperor had that morning come on board to request
of the captain some provision for the imperial table, protesting
that Don Pedro and his staff had nothing better than salt fish for
rations; which request the captain was compelled, by a strict sense
of duty, to refuse; and everybody set it down as certain, the instant
the circumstance was brought to mind, that it was the aide-de-camp
who stole the lamb. He had come wrapped up in his cloak, which was a
circumstance fatal to his character; and it was agreed by the whole
conclave that the gentleman with the gold-laced hat and large cloak
had been the thief. I blushed up to the eyes at the consciousness of
my guilt, and the dishonourable part I was playing in allowing an
innocent person to be wronged for my misdeed; but I recollected that
the young man was one of the party who ridiculed me the day before in
the presence of Carolina, and wounded vanity made me disregard the
twitchings of conscience.
In order to avoid suspicion, I lay quiet for a day or two, and allowed
Carolina and her aunt to feel the value of such an acquaintance as I
was, under existing circumstances. While engaged with the captain
on some official duty, the following morning, in his cabin, a young
officer was introduced who solicited an immediate audience. The
young man appeared buried in grief, and every now and then applied a
handkerchief to his eyes, to wipe off the unbidden tears which mocked
the sword which hung at his side. His profound sorrow and gentlemanlike
appearance interested the good heart of our excellent captain; he
begged him to be seated, and wished to know what service he could
render him. The young man could with difficulty master his emotion, and
the only words that were heard from him were, "My aunt!--my aunt!"
"Pray, sir, be composed;" said the captain, a little tired of the
display.
"I will, sir," replied the young man, giving a great gulp, as if to
swallow his misery, and applying his handkerchief to wipe off the tears
from both his swimming eyes. "Oh! sir," he continued, "my poor aunt,
she who reared me from a child, when I was left an unprotected orphan,
and has placed me in the station which I now hold, is at the point of
death, and the doctors all agree that nothing but _caldo di gallina_
(fowl broth) can save her life. You know the state which we are in at
Oporto, and that not a fowl is to be had if one offered a thousand
milreas for it; I come to you, as a man and a Christian, to beg you
will give me one single chicken from your larder."
"It is impossible," said the captain; "you know the convention we have
made with Santa Martha."
"I know all that," resumed the young man; "but you must admit, my dear
captain, that the convention is directed against the troops of Don
Pedro, and the inhabitants at large who support him; but surely an old
woman at the point of death was not contemplated by the treaty, and
I entreat you to save the life of this most deserving and venerable
of aunts." With these words the young officer again took out his
handkerchief, and gave way to a flood of tears that would have moved
the strictest disciplinarian that ever commanded a ship.
It was not to be wondered at that the soft heart of our benevolent
skipper was affected. He took the young man by the hand, and said, "My
dear fellow, I can do nothing for you; I have signed a convention, and
I cannot break it, were it to save the emperor's life: but go you to
my steward, and if you can manage to extract a fowl from what he has
prepared for my table, you may do so; but take care, I am not to know
anything about it."
I fancied the young fellow smiled in the midst of his grief at the
mention of the emperor; but he dried up his tears in double quick
time, and soon made his way to the steward's room, where I suppose he
contrived to settle his affair to his satisfaction. He called on the
following day to return his grateful thanks; but the captain would not
hear a word. I observed, however, that he went down to the steward's
cabin, and took a hasty leave as he went over the ship's side on his
return. He scarcely failed to pay us a daily visit, and made us all
take a strong interest in him and the recovery of this favourite aunt
to whom he was so devotedly attached.
This aunt, we found out afterwards, was the emperor; and so reduced was
the imperial table for a short time, that Don Pedro must have starved,
or lived on _bacalhao_, if this stratagem had not been adopted. The
young fellow acted his part in a consummate manner, and I am told he
boasts to this day of the trick he played the British squadron in the
Douro. The captain, I am also told, gave him a little of his mind,
having met him last year near the Admiralty, dressed out in fine
feathers, and swelling with the importance of new-born greatness. "How
is your aunt, you d---- lying Portuguese?" said the skipper. "If I ever
catch you on board my ship, I'll give you a rope's end, you dog!"
The more you beat one of the class of which this hero was a specimen,
the more he likes it. So our Pedroite friend shrugged up his shoulders,
and vanished in double quick time, the captain vociferating after him,
"How is your aunt, you lubber?"
Afraid of the consequences in case a discovery should take place, I
kept quiet for nearly a week together, until a little note, written in
a cramped hand, was brought for me to the signal-station, from which I
found by the confession of the aunt that Carolina was in despair at not
seeing me again, and that she was very ill from a salt-fish diet. I was
conscience-stricken at the consequences of my neglect, and determined
not to lose a moment in carrying provisions to my starving beauty; so,
running to a basket that had just been brought in from the Miguelite
market to be passed on board the commodore, I seized a turkey-poult,
feathers and all, and thrust it into the same coat-pocket which had
been enlarged to hold the leg of lamb. I asked and received leave to
go on shore, and pushed as fast as four oars could impel me to the
usual landing-place near the old nunnery. I saw some of the idle dogs
basking in the sun, but did not heed their presence, so filled was I
with the idea of my Carolina; and, jumping out of the boat, I ran along
the quay, totally unconscious of the sneers that my presence excited.
At last, when I got to the open rope-walk where the market is usually
held, the number of my canine assailants became increased; and one of
them, bolder than the rest, making a sudden snap at the head of the
young turkey, which hung down through the fatal hole in my pocket,
dragged its long neck to view, and exposed my shame to the assembled
multitude. A crowd immediately gathered round me, and a score of other
dogs began to contest the prize with him that held the head of the
turkey in his mouth. I was in despair, and drew my sword to rid me of
the cursed assailants; when, on the instant, as if to overwhelm me with
disgrace, the captain of the ship to which I belonged forced his way
through the crowd, and, laying his hand on my arm, told me to consider
myself under arrest.
The turkey-poult had by this time been torn from my pocket by the
perseverance of my tormentors. It was pulled from one to the other on
the ground; while the hungry citizens endeavoured to save its mangled
remains, and a running fight was kept up between them and the dogs,
which under other circumstances would have been highly amusing. My
heart was heavy, and I was incapable of enjoying the most palpable
joke. I walked slowly to the quay side, threw myself into the first
boat that offered, went on board my ship, gave up my sword to the
senior officer; was placed under a formal arrest, and told to prepare
myself for a court of inquiry. I must say that I felt more for poor
Carolina than I did for myself; and I could not help expressing
my anxiety on her account to one of the brother officers who came
to condole with me on my situation. The false friend, I was told
afterwards, profited by the hint; and, instead of committing himself as
I did, he hired a little cottage at the Miguelite side of the river,
under cover of the guns of the fleet, where he placed Carolina and her
aunt, and soon taught them to forget me. The worst of the affair was,
that General Santa Martha sent in a formal complaint to the consul
and the commodore of the squadron, and threatened to stop the usual
supply of provisions for the ships' use. A long correspondence took
place on the subject, which may be found now in the records of the
Foreign Office. I am glad to say, for the credit of the service, that
the affair was hushed up in the end, and the Miguelites consented to
give the required number of rations. I was made the victim of that
arrangement, and was glad to retire from the service on half-pay, to
escape being ignominiously dismissed by a court-martial. I now live a
miserable example of the doctrine of expediency. I entertain a horror
of young turkeys and of dogs, and would be gladly informed of some land
where neither of those odious creatures are to be met with.
FAMILY STORIES.--No. VI.--MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
Reader, were you ever bewitched? I do not mean by a "white wench's
black eye," or by love-potions imbibed from a ruby lip; but, were you
ever really and _bonâ fide_ bewitched, in the true Matthew Hopkins
sense of the word? Did you ever, for instance, find yourself from head
to heel one vast complication of cramps? or burst out into sudorific
exudation like a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero? Were your
eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but their whites? Did
you ever vomit a paper of crooked pins? or expectorate Whitechapel
needles? These are genuine and undoubted marks of possession; and if
you never experienced any of them,--why, "happy man be his dole!"
Yet such things have been; yea, we are assured, on no mean authority,
still are.
The world, according to the best geographers, is divided into Europe,
Asia, Africa, America, and Romney Marsh. In this last-named and fifth
quarter of the globe, a witch may still be occasionally discovered in
favourable, _i. e._ stormy, seasons, weathering Dungeness Point in an
egg-shell, or careering on her broomstick over Dymchurch wall. A cow
may yet be sometimes seen galloping like mad, with tail erect, and an
old pair of breeches on her horns, an unerring guide to the door of
the crone whose magic arts have drained her udder. I do not, however,
remember to have heard that any conjuror has, of late, been detected in
the district.
Not many miles removed from the verge of this recondite region, stands
a collection of houses, which its maligners call a fishing-town, and
its well-wishers a Watering-place. A limb of one of the Cinque Ports,
it has (or lately had) a corporation of its own, and has been thought
considerable enough to give a second title to a noble family. Rome
stood on seven hills; Folkestone seems to have been built upon seventy.
Its streets, lanes, and alleys,--fanciful distinctions without much
real difference--are agreeable enough to persons who do not mind
running up and down stairs; and the only inconvenience at all felt by
such of its inhabitants as are not asthmatic, is when some heedless
urchin tumbles down a chimney, or an impertinent passenger peeps
into a garret window. At the eastern extremity of the town, on the
sea-beach, and scarcely above high-water mark, stood, in the good old
times, a row of houses then denominated "Frog-hole;" modern refinement
subsequently euphonized the name into "East-street:" but what's in
a name? the encroachments of Ocean have long since levelled all in
one common ruin. Here, in the early part of the seventeenth century,
flourished, in somewhat doubtful reputation, but comparative opulence,
a compounder of medicines, one Master Erasmus Buckthorne; the effluvia
of whose drugs from within, mingling agreeably with the "ancient and
fish-like smells" from without, wafted a delicious perfume throughout
the neighbourhood. At seven of the clock in the morning when Mrs.
Botherby's narrative commences, a stout Suffolk punch, about thirteen
hands and a half in height, was slowly led up and down before the door
of the pharmacopolist by a lean and withered lad, whose appearance
warranted an opinion, pretty generally expressed, that his master found
him as useful in experimentalizing as in household drudgery, and that,
for every pound avoirdupoise of solid meat, he swallowed at the least
two pounds troy-weight of chemicals and galenicals. As the town clock
struck the quarter, Master Buckthorne emerged from his laboratory, and,
putting the key carefully into his pocket, mounted the sure-footed cob
aforesaid, and proceeded up and down the acclivities and declivities of
the town with the gravity due to his station and profession. When he
reached the open country, his pace was increased to a sedate canter,
which, in somewhat more than half an hour, brought "the horse and his
rider" in front of a handsome and substantial mansion, the numerous
gable-ends and bayed windows of which bespoke the owner a man of
worship, and one well to do in the world.
"How now, Hodge Gardener?" quoth the leech, scarcely drawing bit; for
Punch seemed to be aware that he had reached his destination, and
paused of his own accord; "how now, man? How fares thine employer,
worthy Master Marsh? How hath he done? How hath he slept? My potion
hath done its office? Ha!"
"Alack! ill at ease, worthy sir,--ill at ease," returned the hind; "his
honour is up and stirring; but he hath rested none, and complaineth
that the same gnawing pain devoureth, as it were, his very vitals: in
sooth he is ill at ease."
"Morrow, doctor!" interrupted a voice from a casement opening on the
lawn. "Good morrow! I have looked for, longed for, thy coming this hour
and more; enter at once; the pasty and tankard are impatient for thine
attack!"
"Marry, Heaven forbid that I should baulk their fancy!" quoth the
leech _sotto voce_, as, abandoning the bridle to honest Hodge, he
dismounted, and followed a buxom-looking handmaiden into the breakfast
parlour.
There, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat Master Thomas
Marsh, of Marshton-Hall, a Yeoman well respected in his degree; one of
that sturdy and sterling class which, taking rank immediately below
the Esquire, (a title in its origin purely military,) occupied, in the
wealthier counties, the position in society now filled by the Country
Gentleman. He was one of those of whom the proverb ran:
"A Knight of Cales,
A Gentleman of Wales,
And a Laird of the North Countree;
A Yeoman of Kent,
With his yearly rent,
Will buy them out all three!"
A cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a Frenchman, filled the place of
honour, counter-checked by a game-pie of no stinted dimensions; while
a silver flagon o£ "humming-bub," _viz._ ale strong enough to blow a
man's beaver off, smiled opposite in treacherous amenity. The sideboard
groaned beneath sundry massive cups and waiters of the purest silver;
while the huge skull of a fallow-deer, with its branching horns,
frowned majestically above. All spoke of affluence, of comfort,--all
save the master, whose restless eye and feverish look hinted but too
plainly the severest mental or bodily disorder. By the side of the
proprietor of the mansion sat his consort, a lady now past the bloom of
youth, yet still retaining many of its charms. The clear olive of her
complexion, and "the darkness of her Andalusian eye," at once betrayed
her foreign origin; in fact, her "lord and master," as husbands were
even then, by a legal fiction, denominated, had taken her to his bosom
in a foreign country. The cadet of his family, Master Thomas Marsh, had
early in life been engaged in commerce. In the pursuit of his vocation
he had visited Antwerp, Hamburg, and most of the Hanse Towns; and had
already formed a tender connexion with the orphan offspring of one
of old Alva's officers, when the unexpected deaths of one immediate
and two presumptive heirs placed him next in succession to the family
acres. He married, and brought home his bride; who, by the decease
of the venerable possessor, heart-broken at the loss of his elder
children, became eventually lady of Marshton-Hall. It has been said
that she was beautiful, yet was her beauty of a character that operates
on the fancy more than the affections; she was one to be admired rather
than loved. The proud curl of her lip, the firmness of her tread,
her arched brow, and stately carriage, showed the decision, not to
say haughtiness of her soul; while her glances, whether lightening
with anger, or melting in extreme softness, betrayed the existence of
passions as intense in kind as opposite in quality. She rose as Erasmus
entered the parlour, and, bestowing on him a look fraught with meaning,
quitted the room, leaving him in unconstrained communication with his
patient.
"'Fore George, Master Buckthorne!" exclaimed the latter, as the leech
drew near, "I will no more of your pharmacy;--burn, burn--gnaw,
gnaw,--I had as lief the foul fiend were in my gizzard as one of your
drugs. Tell me, in the devil's name, what is the matter with me!"
Thus conjured, the practitioner paused, and even turned somewhat
pale. There was a perceptible faltering in his voice as, evading the
question, he asked, "What say your other physicians?"
"Doctor Phiz says it is wind,--Doctor Fuz says it is water,--and Doctor
Buz says it is something between wind and water."
"They are all of them wrong," said Erasmus Buckthorne.
"Truly, I think so," returned the patient. "They are manifest asses;
but you, good leech, you are a horse of another colour. The world talks
loudly of your learning, your skill, and cunning in arts the most
abstruse; nay, sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefore, and
stickle not to aver that you are cater-cousin with Beelzebub himself."
"It is ever the fate of science," murmured the professor, "to be
maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. But a truce with such
folly; let me examine your palate."
Master Marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as beet-root.
"There is nothing wrong there," said the leech. "Your wrist:--no; the
pulse is firm and regular, the skin cool and temperate. Sir, there is
nothing the matter with you!"
"Nothing the matter with me, Sir Potecary?" But I tell you there is
the matter with me,--much the matter with me. Why is it that something
seems ever gnawing at my heart-strings? Whence this pain in the region
of the liver? Why is it that I sleep not o' nights, rest not o' days?
Why----"
"You are fidgety, Master Marsh," said the doctor.
Master Marsh's brow grew dark; he half rose from his seat, supported
himself by both hands on the arms of his elbow-chair, and in accents of
mingled anger and astonishment repeated the word "Fidgety!"
"Ay, fidgety," returned the doctor calmly. "Tut, man, there is nought
ails thee save thine own overweening fancies. Take less of food, more
air, put aside thy flagon, call for thy horse; be boot and saddle the
word! Why,--hast thou not youth?"----
"I have," said the patient.
"Wealth, and a fair domain?"
"Granted," quoth Marsh cheerily.
"And a fair wife?"
"Yea," was the response, but in a tone something less satisfied.
"Then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, betake thyself to thy
lawful occasions, use thy good hap, follow thy pleasures, and think no
more of these fancied ailments."
"But I tell you, master mine, these ailments are not fancied. I lose my
rest, I loathe my food, my doublet sits loosely on me,--these racking
pains. My wife, too,--when I meet her gaze, the cold sweat stands on my
forehead, and I could almost think----" Marsh paused abruptly, mused a
while, then added, looking steadily at his visitor, "These things are
not right; they pass the common, Master Erasmus Buckthorne."
A slight shade crossed the brow of the leech, but its passage was
momentary; his features softened to a smile, in which pity seemed
slightly blended with contempt. "Have done with such follies, Master
Marsh. You are well, an you would but think so. Ride, I say, hunt,
shoot, do anything,--disperse these melancholic humours, and become
yourself again."
"Well, I will do your bidding," said Marsh thoughtfully. "It may be so;
and yet,--but I will do your bidding. Master Cobbe of Brenzet writes me
that he hath a score or two of fat ewes to be sold a pennyworth; I had
thought to have sent Ralph Looker, but I will essay to go myself. Ho,
there!--saddle me the brown mare, and bid Ralph be ready to attend me
on the gelding."
An expression of pain contracted the features of Master Marsh as he
rose and slowly quitted the apartment to prepare for his journey; while
the leech, having bidden him farewell, vanished through an opposite
door, and betook himself to the private boudoir of the fair mistress of
Marshton, muttering as he went a quotation from a then newly-published
play,
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou own'st yesterday."
* * * * *
Of what passed at this interview between the Folkestone doctor and
the fair Spaniard, Mrs. Botherby declares she could never obtain
any satisfactory elucidation. Not that tradition is silent on the
subject,--quite the contrary; it is the abundance, not paucity, of the
materials she supplies, and the consequent embarrassment of selection,
that make the difficulty. Some have averred that the leech, whose
character, as has been before hinted, was more than thread-bare,
employed his time in teaching her the mode of administering certain
noxious compounds, the unconscious partaker whereof would pine and die
so slowly and gradually as to defy suspicion. Others there were who
affirmed that Lucifer himself was then and there raised _in propriâ
personâ_, with all his terrible attributes of horn and hoof. In
support of this assertion, they adduce the testimony of the aforesaid
buxom housemaid, who protested that the Hall smelt that evening
like a manufactory of matches. All, however, seem to agree that the
confabulation, whether human or infernal, was conducted with profound
secrecy, and protracted to a considerable length; that its object, as
far as could be divined, meant anything but good to the head of the
family; that the lady, moreover, was heartily tired of her husband;
and that, in the event of his removal by disease or casualty, Master
Erasmus Buckthorne, albeit a great philosophist, would have had no
violent objection to throw physic to the dogs, and exchange his
laboratory for the estate of Marshton, its live stock included. Some,
too, have inferred that to him did Madam Isabel seriously incline;
while others have thought, induced perhaps by subsequent events, that
she was merely using him for her purposes; that one José, a tall,
bright-eyed, hook-nosed stripling from her native land, was a personage
not unlikely to put a spoke in the doctor's wheel; and that, should
such a chance arise, the Sage, wise as he was, would, after all, run no
slight risk of being "bamboozled."
Master José was a youth well-favoured and comely to look upon. His
office was that of page to the dame; an office which, after long
remaining in abeyance, has been of late years revived, as may well be
seen in the persons of sundry smart hobbledehoys, now constantly to be
met with on staircases and in boudoirs, clad, for the most part, in
garments fitted tightly to the shape, the lower moiety adorned with a
broad strip of crimson or silver lace, and the upper with what the
first Wit of our times describes as "a favourable eruption of buttons."
The precise duties of this employment have never, as far as we have
heard, been accurately defined. The perfuming a handkerchief, the
combing a lap-dog, and the occasional presentation of a sippet-shaped
_billet doux_, are, and always have been, among them; but these a young
gentleman standing five foot ten, and aged nineteen "last grass," might
well be supposed to have outgrown. José, however, kept his place,
perhaps because he was not fit for any other. To the conference between
his mistress and the physician he had not been admitted; his post
was to keep watch and ward in the ante-room; and, when the interview
was concluded, he attended the lady and her visitor as far as the
court-yard, where he held, with all due respect, the stirrup for the
latter, as he once more resumed his position on the back of Punch.
Who is it that says "little pitchers have large ears?" Some deep
metaphysician of the potteries, who might have added that they have
also quick eyes, and sometimes silent tongues. There was a little
metaphorical piece of crockery of this class, who, screened by a huge
elbow-chair, had sat a quiet and unobserved spectator of the whole
proceedings between her mamma and Master Erasmus Buckthorne. This
was Miss Marian Marsh, a rosy-cheeked, laughter-loving imp of some
six years old; but one who could be mute as a mouse when the fit was
on her. A handsome and highly-polished cabinet of the darkest ebony
occupied a recess at one end of the apartment; this had long been a
great subject of speculation to little Miss. Her curiosity, however,
had always been repelled; nor had all her coaxing ever won her an
inspection of the thousand and one pretty things which its recesses no
doubt contained. On this occasion it was unlocked, and Marian was about
to rush forward in eager anticipation of a peep at its interior, when,
child as she was, the reflection struck her that she would stand a
better chance of carrying her point by remaining _perdue_. Fortune for
once favoured her: she crouched closer than before, and saw her mother
take something from one of the drawers, which she handed over to the
leech. Strange mutterings followed, and words whose sound was foreign
to her youthful ears. Had she been older, their import, perhaps, might
have been equally unknown.--After a while there was a pause; and then
the lady, as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman, placed in
his hand a something which she took from her toilette. The transaction,
whatever its nature, seemed now to be complete, and the article was
carefully replaced in the drawer from which it had been taken. A
long and apparently interesting conversation then took place between
the parties, carried on in a low tone. At its termination, Mistress
Marsh and Master Erasmus Buckthorne quitted the boudoir together. But
the cabinet!--ay, that was left unfastened; the folding-doors still
remained invitingly expanded, the bunch of keys dangling from the
lock. In an instant the spoiled child was in a chair; the drawer so
recently closed yielded at once to her hand, and her hurried researches
were rewarded by the prettiest little waxen doll imaginable. It was a
first-rate prize, and Miss lost no time in appropriating it to herself.
Long before Madam Marsh had returned to her _Sanctum_, Marian was
seated under a laurestinus in the garden, nursing her new baby with the
most affectionate solicitude.
* * * * *
"Susan, look here; see what a nasty scratch I have got upon my hand,"
said the young lady, when routed out at length from her hiding-place to
her noontide meal.
"Yes, Miss, this is always the way with you! mend, mend, mend,--nothing
but mend! Scrambling about among the bushes, and tearing your clothes
to rags. What with you, and with madam's farthingales and kirtles, a
poor bower-maiden has a fine time of it!"
"But I have not torn my clothes, Susan, and it was not the bushes; it
was the doll: only see what a great ugly pin I have pulled out of it!
and look, here is another!" As she spoke, Marian drew forth one of
those extended pieces of black pointed wire, with which, in the days
of toupees and pompoons, our foremothers were wont to secure their
fly-caps and head-gear from the impertinent assaults of Zephyrus and
the "Little Breezes."
"And pray, Miss, where did you get this pretty doll, as you call
it?" asked Susan, turning over the puppet, and viewing it with a
scrutinizing eye.
"Mamma gave it me," said the child.--This was a fib!
"Indeed!" quoth the girl thoughtfully; and then, in half soliloquy,
and a lower key, "Well! I wish I may die if it doesn't look like my
master!--But come to your dinner, miss. Hark! the _bell is striking
One_!"
Meanwhile, Master Thomas Marsh, and his man Ralph, were threading the
devious paths, then, as now, most pseudonymously dignified with the
name of roads, that wound between Marshton-Hall and the frontier of
Romney Marsh. Their progress was comparatively slow; for, though the
brown mare was as good a roadster as man might back, and the gelding
no mean nag of his hands, yet the tracks, rarely traversed save by the
rude wains of the day, miry in the "bottoms," and covered with loose
and rolling stones on the higher grounds, rendered barely passable the
perpetual alternation of hill and valley.
The master rode on in pain, and the man in listlessness; although
the intercourse between two individuals so situated was much less
restrained in those days than might suit the refinement of a later age,
little passed approximating to conversation beyond an occasional and
half-stifled groan from the one, or a vacant whistle from the other.
An hour's riding had brought them among the woods of Acryse; and they
were about to descend one of those green and leafy lanes, rendered by
matted and over-arching branches alike impervious to shower or sunbeam,
when a sudden and violent spasm seized on Master Marsh, and nearly
caused him to fall from his horse. With some difficulty he succeeded
in dismounting, and seating himself by the road side. Here he remained
for a full half-hour in great apparent agony; the cold sweat rolled
in large round drops adown his clammy forehead, a universal shivering
palsied every limb, his eye-balls appeared to be starting from their
sockets, and to his attached, though dull and heavy serving-man, he
seemed as one struggling in the pangs of impending dissolution. His
groans rose thick and frequent; and the alarmed Ralph was hesitating
between his disinclination to leave him, and his desire to procure such
assistance as one of the few cottages, rarely sprinkled in that wild
country, might afford, when, after a long-drawn sigh, his master's
features as suddenly relaxed: he declared himself better, the pang had
passed away, and, to use his own expression, he "felt as if a knife had
been drawn from out his very heart." With Ralph's assistance, after a
while, he again reached his saddle; and, though still ill at ease from
a deep-seated and gnawing pain, which ceased not, as he averred, to
torment him, the violence of the paroxysm was spent, and it returned no
more.
Master and man pursued their way with increased speed, as, emerging
from the wooded defiles, they at length neared the coast; then, leaving
the romantic castle of Saltwood, with its neighbouring town of Hithe, a
little on their left, they proceeded along the ancient paved causeway,
and, crossing the old Roman road, or Watling, plunged again into the
woods that stretched between Lympne and Ostenhanger.
The sun rode high in the heavens, and its meridian blaze was powerfully
felt by man and horse, when, again quitting their leafy covert, the
travellers debouched on the open plain of Aldington Frith, a wide tract
of unenclosed country stretching down to the very borders of "the
Marsh" itself. Here it was, in the neighbouring chapelry, the site
of which may yet be traced by the curious antiquary, that Elizabeth
Barton, the "Holy Maid of Kent," had, something less than a hundred
years previous to the period of our narrative, commenced that series of
supernatural pranks which eventually procured for her head an unenvied
elevation upon London Bridge; and, though the parish had since enjoyed
the benefit of the incumbency of Master Erasmus's illustrious and
enlightened Namesake, yet, truth to tell, some of the old leaven was
even yet supposed to be at work. The place had, in fact, an ill name;
and, though Popish miracles had ceased to electrify its denizens,
spells and charms, operating by a no less wondrous agency, were
said to have taken their place. Warlocks, and other unholy subjects
of Satan, were reported to make its wild recesses their favourite
rendezvous, and that to an extent which eventually attracted the notice
of no less a personage than the sagacious Matthew Hopkins himself,
Witchfinder-General to the British government.
A great portion of the Frith, or Fright, as the name was then, and
is still, pronounced, had formerly been a Chace, with rights of
Free-warren, &c. appertaining to the Archbishops of the Province.
Since the Reformation, however, it had been disparked; and when Master
Thomas Marsh, and his man Ralph, entered upon its confines, the open
greensward exhibited a lively scene, sufficiently explanatory of
certain sounds that had already reached their ears while yet within the
sylvan screen which concealed their origin.
It was Fair-day: booths, stalls, and all the rude _paraphernalia_
of an assembly that then met as much for the purposes of traffic
as festivity, were scattered irregularly over the turf; pedlars,
with their packs; horse-croupers, pig-merchants, itinerant vendors
of crockery and cutlery, wandered promiscuously among the mingled
groups, exposing their several wares and commodities, and soliciting
custom. On one side was the gaudy riband, making its mute appeal to
rustic gallantry; on the other the delicious brandy-ball and alluring
lollipop, compounded after the most approved receipt in the "True
Gentlewoman's Garland," and "raising the waters" in the mouth of many
an expectant urchin.
Nor were rural sports wanting to those whom pleasure, rather than
business, had drawn from their humble homes. Here was the tall and
slippery pole, glittering in its grease, and crowned with the ample
cheese, that mocked the hopes of the discomfited climber. There the
fugitive pippin, swimming in water not of the purest, and bobbing
from the expanded lips of the juvenile Tantalus. In this quarter the
ear was pierced by squeaks from some beleaguered porker, whisking his
well-soaped tail from the grasp of one already in fancy his captor. In
that, the eye rested, with undisguised delight, upon the grimaces of
grinning candidates for the honours of the horse-collar. All was fun,
frolic, courtship, junketing, and jollity.
Maid Marian, indeed, with her lieges, Robin Hood, Scarlet, and Little
John, was wanting; Friar Tuck was absent; even the Hobby-horse had
disappeared: but the agile Morrice-dancers yet were there, and jingled
their bells merrily among stalls well stored with gingerbread, tops,
whips, whistles, and all those noisy instruments of domestic torture in
which scenes like these are even now so fertile.--Had I a foe whom I
held at deadliest feud, I would entice his child to a Fair, and buy him
a Whistle and a Penny-trumpet!
In one corner of the green, a little apart from the thickest of the
throng, stood a small square stage, nearly level with the chins of
the spectators, whose repeated bursts of laughter seemed to intimate
the presence of something more than usually amusing. The platform was
divided into two unequal portions; the smaller of which, surrounded
by curtains of a coarse canvass, veiled from the eyes of the profane
the _penetralia_ of this moveable temple of Esculapius, for such
it was. Within its interior, and secure from vulgar curiosity, the
Quack-salver had hitherto kept himself ensconced; occupied, no doubt,
in the preparation and arrangement of that wonderful _panacea_ which
was hereafter to shed the blessings of health among the admiring
crowd. Meanwhile his attendant Jack-pudding was busily employed on
the _proscenium_, doing his best to attract attention by a practical
facetiousness which took wonderfully with the spectators, interspersing
it with the melodious notes of a huge cow's horn. The fellow's costume
varied but little in character from that in which the late--(alas!
that we should have to write the word!)--the late Mr. Joseph Grimaldi
was accustomed to present himself before "a generous and enlightened
public:" the principal difference consisted in this, that the upper
garment was a long white tunic of a coarse linen, surmounted by
a caricature of the ruff then fast falling into disuse, and was
secured from the throat downwards by a single row of broad white
metal buttons. His legs were cased in loose wide trousers of the same
material; while his sleeves, prolonged to a most disproportionate
extent, descended far below the fingers, and acted as flappers in the
summersets and caracoles with which he diversified and enlivened his
antics. Consummate impudence, not altogether unmixed with a certain sly
humour, sparkled in his eye through the chalk and ochre with which his
features were plentifully bedaubed; and especially displayed itself in
a succession of jokes, the coarseness of which did not seem to detract
from their merit in the eyes of his applauding audience.
He was in the midst of a long and animated harangue explanatory of his
master's high pretensions; he had informed his gaping auditors that the
latter was the seventh son of a seventh son, and of course, as they
very well knew, an Unborn Doctor; that to this happy accident of birth
he added the advantage of most extensive travel; that in his search
after science he had not only perambulated the whole of this world,
but had trespassed on the boundaries of the next; that the depths of
Ocean and the bowels of the Earth were alike familiar to him; that
besides salves and cataplasms of sovereign virtue, by combining sundry
mosses, gathered many thousand fathom below the surface of the sea,
with certain unknown drugs found in an undiscovered island, and boiling
the whole in the lava of Vesuvius, he had succeeded in producing his
celebrated balsam of Crackapanoko, the never-failing remedy for all
human disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed, would go near to
reanimate the dead. "Draw near!" continued the worthy, "draw near, my
masters! and you, my good mistresses, draw near, every one of you! Fear
not high and haughty carriage; though greater than King or Kaiser,
yet is the mighty Aldrovando milder than mother's milk; flint to the
proud, to the humble he is as melting wax; he asks not your disorders,
he sees them himself at a glance--nay, without a glance; he tells your
ailments with his eyes shut! Draw near! draw near! the more incurable
the better! List to the illustrious Doctor Aldrovando, first Physician
to Prester John, Leech to the Grand Llama, and Hakim in Ordinary to
Mustapha Muley Bey!"
"Hath your master ever a charm for the toothache, an't please you?"
asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen cheek bespoke his interest
in the question.
"A charm!--a thousand, and every one of them infallible. Toothache,
quotha! I had hoped you had come with every bone in your body fractured
or out of joint. A toothache!--propound a tester, master o' mine,--we
ask not more for such trifles: do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with
the word, shall cease to trouble thee!"
The clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at length
produced a sixpence, which he tendered to the jester. "Now to thy
master, and bring me the charm forthwith."
"Nay, honest man; to disturb the mighty Aldrovando on such slight
occasion were pity of my life: areed my counsel aright, and I will
warrant thee for the nonce. Hie thee home, friend; infuse this powder
in cold spring-water, fill thy mouth with the mixture, and sit upon thy
fire till it boils!"
"Out on thee for a pestilent knave!" cried the cozened countryman;
but the roar of merriment around bespoke the by-standers well pleased
with the jape put upon him. He retired, venting his spleen in audible
murmurs; and the mountebank, finding the feelings of the mob enlisted
on his side, waxed more impudent every instant, filling up the
intervals between his fooleries with sundry capers and contortions, and
discordant notes from the cow's horn.
"Draw near! draw near, my masters! Here have ye a remedy for every evil
under the sun, moral, physical, natural, and supernatural! Hath any man
a termagant wife?--here is that will tame her presently! Hath any one a
smoky chimney?--here is an incontinent cure!"
To the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty, though there
were those standing by who thought their neighbours might have profited
withal. For the last-named recipe started forth at least a dozen
candidates. With the greatest imaginable gravity, Pierrot, having
pocketed their groats, delivered to each a small packet curiously
folded and closely sealed, containing, as he averred, directions
which, if truly observed, would preclude any chimney from smoking for
a whole year. They whose curiosity led them to dive into the mystery,
found that a sprig of mountain ash culled by moonlight was the charm
recommended, coupled, however, with the proviso that no fire should be
lighted on the hearth during the interval.
The frequent bursts of merriment proceeding from this quarter at length
attracted the attention of Master Marsh, whose line of road necessarily
brought him near this end of the fair; he drew bit in front of the
stage just as its noisy occupant, having laid aside his formidable
horn, was drawing still more largely on the amazement of "the public"
by a feat of especial wonder,--he was eating fire! Curiosity mingled
with astonishment was at its height; and feelings not unallied to alarm
were beginning to manifest themselves among the softer sex especially,
as they gazed on the flames that issued from the mouth of the living
volcano. All eyes indeed were fixed upon the fire-eater with an
intentness that left no room for observing another worthy who had now
emerged upon the scene. This was, however, no less a personage than
the _Deus ex machinâ_,--the illustrious Aldrovando himself. Short in
stature and spare in form, the sage had somewhat increased the former
by a steeple-crowned hat adorned with a cock's feather; while the thick
shoulder padding of a quilted doublet, surmounted by a falling band,
added a little to his personal importance in point of breadth. His
habit was composed throughout of black serge, relieved with scarlet
slashes in the sleeves and trunks; red was the feather in his hat,
red were the roses in his shoes, which rejoiced, moreover, in a pair
of red heels. The lining of a short cloak of faded velvet, that hung
transversely over his left shoulder, was also red. Indeed, from all
that we could ever see or hear, this agreeable alternation of red and
black appears to be the mixture of colours most approved at the court
of Beelzebub, and the one most generally adopted by his friends and
favourites. His features were sharp and shrewd, and a fire sparkled in
his keen grey eye much at variance with the wrinkles that ran their
irregular furrows above his prominent and bushy brows. He had advanced
slowly from behind his screen while the attention of the multitude
was absorbed by the pyrotechnics of Mr. Merryman, and, stationing
himself at the extreme corner of the stage, stood quietly leaning on
a crutch-handled walking-staff of blackest ebony, his glance steadily
fixed on the face of Marsh, from whose countenance the amusement he
had insensibly begun to derive had not succeeded in removing all
traces of bodily pain. For a while the latter was unobservant of the
inquisitorial survey with which he was regarded; the eyes of the
parties, however, at length met. The brown mare had a fine shoulder;
she stood pretty near sixteen hands. Marsh himself, though slightly
bowed by ill health and the "coming autumn" of life, was full six feet
in height. His elevation giving him an unobstructed view over the
heads of the pedestrians, he had naturally fallen into the rear of the
assembly, which brought him close to the diminutive Doctor, with whose
face, despite the red heels, his own was about upon a level.
"And what makes Master Marsh here?--what sees he in the mummeries of a
miserable buffoon to divert him when his life is in jeopardy?" said a
shrill cracked voice that sounded as in his very ear. It was the Doctor
who spoke.
"Knowest thou me, friend?" said Marsh, scanning with awakened interest
the figure of his questioner: "I call thee not to mind; and yet--stay,
where have we met?"
"It skills not to declare," was the answer; "suffice it we _have_
met,--in other climes, perchance,--and now meet happily again,--happily
at least for thee."
"Why truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of somewhat I have
seen before, where or when I know not; but what wouldst thou with me?"
"Nay, rather what wouldst thou here, Thomas Marsh? What wouldst thou on
the Frith of Aldington?--is it a score or two of paltry sheep? or is it
something _nearer to thy heart_?"
Marsh started as the last words were pronounced with more than
common significance: a pang shot through him at the moment, and the
vinegar aspect of the _Charlatan_ seemed to relax into a smile half
compassionate, half sardonic.
"Grammercy," quoth Marsh, after a long-drawn breath, "what knowest thou
of me, fellow, or of my concerns? What knowest thou----"
"This know I, Master Thomas Marsh," said the stranger gravely, "that
thy life is even now perilled: evil practices are against thee; but no
matter, thou art quit for the nonce--other hands than mine have saved
thee! Thy pains are over. Hark! _the clock strikes One!_" As he spoke,
a single toll from the bell-tower of Bilsington came, wafted by the
western breeze, over the thick-set and lofty oaks which intervened
between the Frith and what had been once a priory. Dr. Aldrovando
turned as the sound came floating on the wind, and was moving, as
if half in anger, towards the other side of the stage, where the
mountebank, his fires extinct, was now disgorging to the admiring crowd
yard after yard of gaudy-coloured riband.
"Stay! Nay, prithee, stay!" cried Marsh eagerly, "I was wrong; in faith
I was. A change, and that a sudden and most marvellous, hath come over
me; I am free; I breathe again; I feel as though a load of years had
been removed; and--is it possible?--hast thou done this?"
"Thomas Marsh!" said the doctor, pausing, and turning for the moment on
his heel, "I have _not_; I repeat, that other and more innocent hands
than mine have done this deed. Nevertheless, heed my counsel well! Thou
art parlously encompassed; I, and I only, have the means of relieving
thee. Follow thy courses; pursue thy journey; but, as thou valuest
life, and more than life, be at the foot of yonder woody knoll what
time the rising moon throws her first beam upon the bare and blighted
summit that towers above its trees."
He crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the scaffolding, and
was in an instant deeply engaged in listening to those whom the cow's
horn had attracted, and in prescribing for their real or fancied
ailments. Vain were all Marsh's efforts again to attract his notice;
it was evident that he studiously avoided him; and when, after an hour
or more spent in useless endeavour, he saw the object of his anxiety
seclude himself once more within his canvass screen, he rode slowly
and thoughtfully off the field.--What should he do? Was the man a mere
quack? an impostor? His name thus obtained!--that might be easily done.
But then, his secret griefs; the doctor's knowledge of them; their
cure: for he felt that his pains were gone, his healthful feelings
restored! True; Aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed all
co-operation in his recovery: but he knew or, he announced it. Nay,
more; he had hinted that he was yet in jeopardy; that practices--and
the chord sounded strangely in unison with one that had before vibrated
within him--that practices were in operation against his life! It was
enough! He would keep tryst with the Conjuror, if conjuror he were;
and, at least, ascertain who and what he was, and how he had become
acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions.
When the late Mr. Pitt was determined to keep out Buonaparte, and
prevent his gaining a settlement in the county of Kent, among other
ingenious devices adopted for that purpose, he caused to be constructed
what was then, and has ever since been, conventionally termed a
"Military canal." This is a not very practicable ditch, some thirty
feet wide, and nearly nine feet deep--in the middle, extending from the
town and port of Hithe to within a mile of the town and port of Rye, a
distance of about twenty miles; and forming, as it were, the cord of
a bow, the area of which constitutes that remote fifth quarter of the
globe spoken of by travellers. Trivial objections to the plan were made
at the time by cavillers; and an old gentleman of the neighbourhood,
who proposed, as a cheap substitute, to put up his own cocked-hat upon
a pole, was deservedly pooh-pooh'd down; in fact, the job, though
rather an expensive one, was found to answer remarkably well. The
French managed, indeed, to scramble over the Rhine, and the Rhone,
and other insignificant currents; but they never did, or could, pass
Mr. Pitt's "Military canal." At no great distance from the centre of
this cord rises abruptly a sort of woody promontory, in shape almost
conical, its sides covered with thick underwood; above which is seen a
bare and brown summit rising like an Alp in miniature. The "defence of
the nation" not being then in existence, Master Thomas Marsh met with
no obstruction in reaching this place of appointment long before the
time prescribed.
So much, indeed, was his mind occupied by his adventure and
extraordinary cure, that his original design had been abandoned, and
Master Cobbe remained unvisited. A rude hostel in the neighbourhood
furnished entertainment for man and horse; and here, a full hour before
the rising of the moon, he left Ralph and the other beasts, proceeding
to his rendezvous on foot and alone.
"You are punctual, Master Marsh," squeaked the shrill voice of the
Doctor, issuing from the thicket as the first silvery gleam trembled on
the aspens above. "'Tis well; now follow me, and in silence."
The first part of the command Marsh hesitated not to obey; the second
was more difficult of observance.
"Who and what are you? Whither are you leading me?" burst not
unnaturally from his lips; but all question was at once cut short by
the peremptory tones of his guide.
"Hush! I say; your finger on your lip; there be hawks abroad: follow
me, and that silently and quickly." The little man turned as he spoke,
and led the way through a scarcely perceptible path, or track, which
wound among the underwood. The lapse of a few minutes brought them to
the door of a low building so hidden by the surrounding trees that
few would have suspected its existence. It was a cottage of rather
extraordinary dimensions, but consisting of only one floor. No smoke
rose from its solitary chimney; no cheering ray streamed from its
single window, which was, however, secured by a shutter of such
thickness as to preclude the possibility of any stray beam issuing
from within. The exact size of the building it was in that uncertain
light difficult to distinguish, a portion of it seeming buried in the
wood behind. The door gave way on the application of a key, and Marsh
followed his conductor resolutely but cautiously along a narrow passage
feebly lighted by a small taper that winked and twinkled at its farther
extremity. The Doctor, as he approached, raised it from the ground,
and, opening an adjoining door, ushered his guest into the room beyond.
It was a large and oddly-furnished apartment, insufficiently lighted
by an iron lamp that hung from the roof, and scarcely illumined the
walls and angles, which seemed to be composed of some dark-coloured
wood. On one side, however, Master Marsh could discover an article
bearing strong resemblance to a coffin; on the other was a large oval
mirror in an ebony frame, and in the midst of the floor was described
in red chalk a double circle, about six feet in diameter, its inner
verge inscribed with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved at
intervals with an alternation of skulls and cross-bones. In the very
centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size and thickness as
would have filled the soul of a Spurzheim or De Ville with wonderment.
A large book, a naked sword, an hour-glass, a chafing-dish, and a
black cat, completed the list of moveables; with the exception of a
couple of tapers which stood on each side the mirror, and which the
strange gentleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand. As
they flared up with what Marsh thought a most unnatural brilliancy,
he perceived, reflected in the glass behind, a dial suspended over
the coffin-like article already mentioned: the hand was fast verging
towards the hour of nine. The eyes of the little Doctor seemed rivetted
on the horologe.
"Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly: untruss, I say!
discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose, and place thyself
incontinent in yonder bath." The visitor cast his eyes again upon the
formidable-looking article, and perceived that it was nearly filled
with water. A cold bath, at such an hour and under such auspices, was
anything but inviting: he hesitated, and turned his eyes alternately on
the Doctor and the Black Cat.
"Trifle not the time, man, an you be wise," said the former: "Passion
of my heart! let but yon minute-hand reach the hour, and, thou not
immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee!"
The Black Cat gave vent to a single Mew,--a most unnatural sound for a
mouser,--it seemed as it were mewed through a cow's horn!
"Quick, Master Marsh! uncase, or you perish!" repeated his strange
host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some dingy-looking powders
into the brasier. "Behold, the attack is begun!" A thick cloud rose
from the embers; a cold shivering shook the astonished Yeoman: sharp
pricking pains penetrated his ankles and the palms of his hands, and,
as the smoke cleared away, he distinctly saw and recognised in the
mirror the boudoir of Marshton Hall. The doors of the well-known ebony
cabinet were closed; but, fixed against them, and standing out in
strong relief from the contrast afforded by the sable background, was a
waxen image--of himself! It appeared to be secured and sustained in an
upright posture by large black pins driven through the feet and palms,
the latter of which were extended in a cruciform position. To the
right and left stood his wife and José; in the middle, with his back
towards him, was a figure which he had no difficulty in recognising as
that of the Leech of Folkestone. It had just succeeded in fastening the
dexter hand of the image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and
keen-edged sabre from its sheath. The Black Cat mewed again. "Haste,
or you die!" said the Doctor. Marsh looked at the dial; it wanted but
four minutes of nine: he felt that the crisis of his fate was come. Off
went his heavy boots; doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left;
never was man more swiftly disrobed: in two minutes, to use an Indian
expression, "he was all face!" in another, he was on his back, and up
to his chin, in a bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone and garlick.
"Heed well the clock!" cried the Conjuror: "with the first stroke of
Nine plunge thy head beneath the water; suffer not a hair above the
surface: plunge deeply, or you are lost!"
The little man had seated himself in the centre of the circle upon the
large skull, elevating his legs at an angle of forty-five degrees. In
this position he spun round with a velocity to be equalled only by that
of a tee-totum, the red roses on his insteps seeming to describe a
circle of fire. The best buckskins that ever mounted at Melton had soon
yielded to such rotatory friction; but he spun on, the Cat mewed, bats
and obscene birds fluttered over head, Erasmus was seen to raise his
weapon, the clock struck!--and Marsh, who had "ducked" at the instant,
popped up his head again, spitting and sputtering, half choked with
the infernal mixture, which had insinuated itself into his mouth, and
ears, and nose. All disgust at his nauseous dip was, however, at once
removed, when, casting his eyes on the glass, he saw the consternation
of the party whose persons it exhibited. Erasmus had evidently made his
blow and failed; the figure was unmutilated; the hilt remained in the
hand of the striker, while the shivered blade lay in shining fragments
on the floor.
The Conjuror ceased his spinning, and brought himself to an anchor;
the Black Cat purred,--its purring seemed strangely mixed with the
self-satisfied chuckle of a human being. Where had Marsh heard
something like it before?
He was rising from his unsavoury couch, when a motion from the little
man checked him. "Rest where you are, Thomas Marsh; so far all goes
well, but the danger is not yet over!" He looked again, and perceived
that the shadowy triumvirate were in deep and eager consultation;
the fragments of the shattered weapon appeared to undergo a close
scrutiny. The result was clearly unsatisfactory; the lips of the
parties moved rapidly, and much gesticulation might be observed, but
no sound fell upon the ear. The hand of the dial had nearly reached
the quarter: at once the parties separated; and Buckthorne stood
again before the figure, his hand armed with a long and sharp-pointed
_misericorde_, a dagger little in use of late, but such as, a century
before, often performed the part of a modern oyster-knife, in tickling
the osteology of a dismounted cavalier through the shelly defences of
his plate-armour. Again he raised his arm. "Duck!" roared the Doctor,
spinning away upon his cephalic pivot: the Black Cat cocked his tail,
and seemed to mew the word "Duck!" Down went Master Marsh's head; but
one of his hands had unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath: he
drew it hastily in, but not altogether scathless; the stump of a rusty
nail, projecting from the margin of the bath, had caught and slightly
grazed it. The pain was more acute than is usually produced by such
trivial accident; and Marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the
dagger of the leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure,
which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door.
"By my truly, a scape o' the narrowest!" quoth the Conjuror; "the next
course, dive you not the readier, there is no more life in you than
in a pickled herring. What! courage, Master Marsh; but be heedful: an
they miss again, let them bide the issue!" He drew his hand athwart
his brow as he spoke, and dashed off the perspiration, which the
violence of his exercise had drawn from every pore. Black Tom sprang
upon the edge of the bath, and stared full in the face of the bather:
his sea-green eyes were lambent with unholy fire, but their marvellous
obliquity of vision was not to be mistaken,--the very countenance,
too!--Could it be?--the features were feline, but their expression
that of the Jack-Pudding? Was the Mountebank a Cat, or the Cat a
Mountebank?--it was all a mystery; and Heaven knows how long Marsh
might have continued staring at Grimalkin, had not his attention been
again called by Aldrovando to the magic mirror. Great dissatisfaction,
not to say dismay, seemed to pervade the conspirators; Dame Isabel was
closely inspecting the figure's wounded hand, while José was aiding the
pharmacopolist to charge a huge petronel with powder and bullets. The
load was a heavy one; but Erasmus seemed determined this time to make
sure of his object. Somewhat of trepidation might be observed in his
manner as he rammed down the balls, and his withered cheek appeared
to have acquired an increase of paleness; but amazement rather than
fear was the prevailing symptom, and his countenance betrayed no jot
of irresolution. As the clock was about to chime half-past nine, he
planted himself with a firm foot in front of the image, waved his
unoccupied hand with a cautionary gesture to his companions, and, as
they hastily retired on either side, brought the muzzle of his weapon
within half a foot of his mark. As the shadowy form was about to draw
the trigger, Marsh again plunged his head beneath the surface; and
the sound of an explosion, as of fire-arms, mingled with the rush of
water that poured into his ears. His immersion was but momentary, yet
did he feel as though half suffocated: he sprang from the bath, and,
as his eye fell on the mirror, he saw, or thought he saw, the Leech
of Folkestone lying dead on the floor of his wife's boudoir, his
head shattered to pieces, and his hand still grasping the stock of a
bursten petronel. He saw no more; his head swam, his senses reeled, the
whole room was turning round, and, as he fell to the ground, the last
impressions to which he was conscious were the chucklings of a hoarse
laughter and the mewings of a Tom Cat.
Master Marsh was found the next morning by his bewildered serving-man,
stretched before the door of the humble hostel at which he sojourned.
His clothes were somewhat torn and much bemired; and deeply did honest
Ralph marvel that one so staid and grave as Marsh of Marston should
thus have played the roisterer, missing perchance a profitable bargain
for the drunken orgies of midnight wassail, or the endearments of some
rustic light-o'-love. Tenfold was his astonishment increased when,
after retracing in silence their journey of the preceding day, the
Hall, on their arrival about noon, was found in a state of uttermost
confusion. No wife stood there to greet with the smile of bland
affection her returning spouse; no page to hold his stirrup, or receive
his gloves, his hat, and riding-rod. The doors were open, the rooms in
most admired disorder; men and maidens peeping, hurrying hither and
thither, and popping in and out, like rabbits in a warren. The lady of
the mansion was nowhere to be found.
José, too, had disappeared: the latter had been last seen riding
furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding afternoon; to a
question from Hodge Gardener he had hastily answered, that he bore a
missive of moment from his mistress. The lean apprentice of Erasmus
Buckthorne declared that the page had summoned his master in haste
about six of the clock, and that they had rode forth together, as he
very believed, on their way back to the Hall, where he had supposed
Master Buckthorne's services to be suddenly required on some pressing
emergency. Since that time he had seen nought of either of them: the
grey cob, however, had returned late at night, masterless, with his
girths loose, and the saddle turned upside down.
Nor was Master Erasmus Buckthorne ever seen again. Strict search
was made through the neighbourhood, but without success; and it was
at length presumed that he must, for reasons which nobody could
divine, have absconded with José and his faithless mistress. The
latter had carried off with her the strong box, divers articles of
valuable plate, and jewels of price. Her boudoir appeared to have
been completely ransacked; the cabinet and drawers stood open, and
empty; the very carpet, a luxury then newly introduced into England,
was gone. Marsh, however, could trace no vestige of the visionary
scene which he affirmed to have been last night presented to his eyes.
Much did the neighbours marvel at his story: some thought him mad;
others, that he was merely indulging in that privilege to which, as
a traveller, he had a right indefeasible. Trusty Ralph said nothing,
but shrugged his shoulders; and, falling into the rear, imitated the
action of raising the wine-cup to his lips. An opinion, indeed, soon
prevailed, that Master Thomas Marsh had gotten, in common parlance,
exceedingly drunk on the preceding evening, and dreamt all that he had
so circumstantially related. This belief acquired additional credit
when they whom curiosity induced to visit the woody knoll of Aldington
Mount declared that they could find no building such as that described;
nor any cottage near, save one, indeed, a low-roofed hovel, once a
house of public entertainment, but now half in ruins. The "Old Cat
and Fiddle"--so was the tenement called--had been long uninhabited;
yet still exhibited the remains of a broken sign, on which the keen
observer might decypher something like a rude portrait of the animal
from which it derived its name. It was also supposed still to afford
an occasional asylum to the smugglers of the coast, but no trace of
any visit from sage or mountebank could be detected; nor was the wise
Aldrovando, whom many remembered to have seen at the fair, ever found
again on all that country-side. Of the runaways nothing was ever
certainly known. A boat, the property of an old fisherman who plied
his trade on the outskirts of the town, had been seen to quit the bay
that night; and there were those who declared that she had more hands
on board than Carden and his son, her usual complement; but, as a
gale came on, and the frail bark was eventually found keel upwards on
the Goodwin Sands, it was presumed that she had struck on that fatal
quicksand in the dark, and that all on board had perished.
Little Marian, whom her profligate mother had abandoned, grew up to be
a fine girl, and a handsome. She became, moreover, heiress to Marshton
Hall, and brought the estate into the Ingoldsby family by her marriage
with one of its scions.
It is a little singular that, on pulling down the old Hall in my
grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered among the rubbish,
under what particular part of the building I could never with any
accuracy ascertain; but it was found enveloped in a tattered cloth,
that seemed to have been once a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost
immediately on being exposed to the air. The bones were perfect,
but those of one hand were wanting; and the skull, perhaps from the
labourer's pick-axe, had received considerable injury.
The portrait of the fair Marian hangs yet in the Gallery of Tappington;
and near it is another, of a young man in the prime of life, whom
Mrs. Botherby pronounces her father. It exhibits a mild and rather
melancholy countenance, with a high forehead, and the picked beard and
moustaches of the seventeenth century. The signet-finger of the left
hand is gone, and appears, on close inspection, to have been painted
out by some later artist; possibly in compliment to the tradition,
which, _teste Botherby_, records that of Mr. Marsh to have gangrened,
and to have undergone amputation at the knuckle-joint. If really the
resemblance of the gentleman alluded to, it must have been taken at
some period antecedent to his marriage. There is neither date nor
painter's name; but, a little above the head, on the dexter side of the
picture, is an escutcheon, bearing Quarterly, Gules and Argent; in the
first quarter, a horse's head of the second; beneath it are the words
"_Ætatis suæ_, 26." On the opposite side is the following marks which
Mr. Simpkinson declares to be that of a Merchant of the Staple, and
pretends to discover in the anagram comprised in it all the characters
which compose the name of THOMAS MARSH, of MARSHTON.
[Illustration]
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
SONG OF THE MONTH. No. VIII.
August, 1837.
I.
Of all the months in the twelve that fly
So lightly on, and noiselessly by,
There is not one who can show so fair
As this, with its soft and balmy air.
The light graceful corn waves to and fro,
Tinging the earth with its richest glow;
The forest trees in their state and might
Proclaim that Summer is at his height.
II.
Of all the months in the twelve that speed
So quickly by, with so little heed
From man, of the years that swiftly pass
As an infant's breath from a polished glass,
There is not one whose fading away
Bears such a lesson to mortal clay,
Warning us sternly, when in our prime,
To look for the withering winter time.
III.
I stood by a young girl's grave last night,
Beautiful, innocent, pure, and bright,
Who, in the bloom of her summer's pride,
And all its loveliness, drooped and died.
Since the sweetest flow'rs are soonest dust,
As truest metal is quick to rust,
Look for a change in that time of year,
When Nature's works at their best appear.
OLIVER TWIST;
OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
BY BOZ.
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF, THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. WITH
SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A CERTAIN PICTURE.
The coach rattled away down Mount Pleasant and up Exmouth-street,--over
nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first
entered London in company with the Dodger,--and, turning a different
way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before
a neat house in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here a bed was
prepared without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young
charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here he was tended with
a kindness and solicitude which knew no bounds.
But for many days Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his
new friends; the sun rose and sunk, and rose and sunk again, and many
times after that, and still the boy lay stretched upon his uneasy bed,
dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever,--that heat
which, like the subtle acid that gnaws into the very heart of hardest
iron, burns only to corrode and to destroy. The worm does not his work
more surely on the dead body, than does this slow, creeping fire upon
the living frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have
been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with
his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously round.
"What room is this?--where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This
is not the place I went to sleep in."
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak;
but they were overheard at once, for the curtain at the bed's head was
hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely
dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which
she had been sitting at needle-work.
"Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet,
or you will be ill again, and you have been very bad,--as bad as bad
could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again, there's a dear." With these
words the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow,
and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and
lovingly in his face, that he could not help placing his little
withered hand upon her's and drawing it round his neck.
[Illustration: Oliver recovering from Fever]
"Save us!" said the old lady, with tears in her eyes, "what a grateful
little dear it is. Pretty creetur, what would his mother feel if she
had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!"
"Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands
together; "perhaps she has sat by me, ma'am. I almost feel as if she
had."
"That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly.
"I suppose it was," replied Oliver thoughtfully, "because Heaven is a
long way off, and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside
of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me even
there, for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know
anything about me though," added Oliver after a moment's silence, "for
if she had seen me beat, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face
has always looked sweet and happy when I have dreamt of her."
The old lady made no reply to this, but wiping her eyes first, and her
spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were
part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver
to drink, and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very
quiet, or he would be ill again.
So Oliver kept very still, partly because he was anxious to obey the
kind old lady in all things, and partly, to tell the truth, because
he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon
fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of
a candle, which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman,
with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his
pulse, and said he was a great deal better.
"You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?" said the
gentleman.
"Yes, thank you, sir," replied Oliver.
"Yes, I know you are," said the gentleman: "you're hungry too, an't
you?"
"No, sir," answered Oliver.
"Hem!" said the gentleman. "No, I know you're not. He is not hungry,
Mrs. Bedwin," said the gentleman, looking very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed
to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor
appeared very much of the same opinion himself.
"You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?" said the doctor.
"No, sir," replied Oliver.
"No," said the doctor with a very shrewd and satisfied look. "You're
not sleepy. Nor thirsty, are you?"
"Yes, sir, rather thirsty," answered Oliver.
"Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin," said the doctor. "It's very natural
that he should be thirsty--perfectly natural. You may give him a little
tea, ma'am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don't keep him too
warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't let him be too cold; will
you have the goodness?"
The old lady dropped a curtsey; and the doctor, after tasting the cool
stuff, and expressing a qualified approval thereof, hurried away: his
boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went down
stairs.
Oliver dozed off again soon after this, and when he awoke it was nearly
twelve o'clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly
afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just
come, bringing with her in a little bundle a small Prayer Book and a
large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head, and the former on the
table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up
with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series
of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings
forward and divers moans and chokings, which, however, had no worse
effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep
again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time,
counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the
rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling, or tracing with his languid
eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and
deep stillness of the room were very solemn; and as they brought into
the boy's mind the thought that death had been hovering there for many
days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his
awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow and fervently prayed
to Heaven.
Gradually he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent
suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain
to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the
struggles and turmoils of life,--to all its cares for the present, its
anxieties for the future, and, more than all, its weary recollections
of the past!
It had been bright day for hours when Oliver opened his eyes; and when
he did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was
safely past, and he belonged to the world again.
In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair well propped
up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin
had him carried down stairs into the little housekeeper's room, which
belonged to her, where, having sat him up by the fireside, the good
old lady sat herself down too, and, being in a state of considerable
delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most
violently.
"Never mind me, my dear," said the old lady; "I'm only having a
regular good cry. There, it's all over now, and I'm quite comfortable."
"You're very, very kind to me, ma'am," said Oliver.
"Well, never you mind that, my dear," said the old lady; "that's got
nothing to do with your broth, and it's full time you had it, for the
doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning, and we
must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he'll
be pleased." And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up
in a little saucepan a basin full of broth strong enough to furnish
an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three
hundred and fifty paupers, at the very lowest computation.
"Are you fond of pictures, dear?" inquired the old lady, seeing that
Oliver had fixed his eyes most intently on a portrait which hung
against the wall just opposite his chair.
"I don't quite know, ma'am," said Oliver, without taking his eyes from
the canvass; "I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful
mild face that lady's is!"
"Ah," said the old lady, "painters always make ladies out prettier than
they are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented
the machine for taking likenesses might have known _that_ would never
succeed; it's a deal too honest,--a deal," said the old lady, laughing
very heartily at her own acuteness.
"Is--is that a likeness, ma'am?" said Oliver.
"Yes," said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;
"that's a portrait."
"Whose, ma'am?" asked Oliver eagerly.
"Why, really, my dear, I don't know," answered the old lady in a
good-humoured manner. "It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I
know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear."
"It is so very pretty: so very beautiful," replied Oliver.
"Why, sure you're not afraid of it?" said the old lady, observing
in great surprise the look of awe with which the child regarded the
painting.
"Oh no, no," returned Oliver quickly; "but the eyes look so sorrowful,
and where I sit they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat," added
Oliver in a low voice, "as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me,
but couldn't."
"Lord save us!" exclaimed the old lady, starting; "don't talk in that
way, child. You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel
your chair round to the other side, and then you won't see it. There,"
said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; "you don't see it
now, at all events."
Oliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not
altered his position, but he thought it better not to worry the kind
old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him, and Mrs. Bedwin,
satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of
toasted bread into the broth with all the bustle befitting so solemn a
preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition, and
had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful when there came a soft tap at
the door. "Come in," said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but he had no
sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands
behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at
Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd
contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness,
and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his
benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again;
and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart
being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane
disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes by some hydraulic
process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a
condition to explain.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow clearing his throat. "I'm
rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin; I'm afraid I have caught cold."
"I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had has been
well aired, sir."
"I don't know, Bedwin,--I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather
think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday: but never mind
that. How do you feel, my dear?"
"Very happy, sir," replied Oliver, "and very grateful indeed, sir, for
your goodness to me,"
"Good boy," said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. "Have you given him any
nourishment, Bedwin?--any slops, eh?"
"He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs.
Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis
on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well
compounded, there existed no affinity or connexion whatsoever.
"Ugh!" said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; "a couple of glasses
of port wine would have done him a great deal more good,--wouldn't
they, Tom White,--eh?"
"My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid with a look of
great astonishment.
"Oliver!" said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White,--eh?"
"No, sir, Twist,--Oliver Twist."
"Queer name," said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?"
"I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver in amazement.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him;
there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
"Some mistake," said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking
steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance
between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly
that he could not withdraw his gaze.
"I hope you are not angry with me, sir," said Oliver, raising his eyes
beseechingly.
"No, no," replied the old gentleman.--"Gracious God, what's this!
Bedwin, look, look there!"
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture above Oliver's head,
and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy,--the eyes, the
head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was for the
instant so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with
an accuracy which was perfectly unearthly.
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation, for he was not
strong enough to bear the start it gave him, and he fainted away.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS, THROUGH
WHOM A NEW ACQUAINTANCE IS INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, AND
CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED APPERTAINING
TO THIS HISTORY.
When the Dodger and his accomplished friend Master Bates joined in the
hue and cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their
executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property,
as hath been already described with great perspicuity in a foregoing
chapter, they were actuated, as we therein took occasion to observe,
by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves: and forasmuch
as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are
among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so
I need hardly beg the reader to observe that this action must tend to
exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost
as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own
preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little
code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers
have laid down as the mainsprings of all Madam Nature's deeds and
actions; the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's
proceedings to matters of maxim and theory, and, by a very neat and
pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting
entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse
and feeling, as matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by
universal admission to be so far beyond the numerous little foibles and
weaknesses of her sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature
of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate
predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a
foregoing part of this narrative) of their quitting the pursuit when
the general attention was fixed upon Oliver, and making immediately for
their home by the shortest possible cut; for although I do not mean
to assert that it is the practice of renowned and learned sages at
all to shorten the road to any great conclusion, their course indeed
being rather to lengthen the distance by various circumlocutions and
discursive staggerings, like those in which drunken men under the
pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas are prone to indulge, still
I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable
practice of all mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to
evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible
contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves.
Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong, and you may take
any means which the end to be attained will justify; the amount of the
right or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the
two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned: to be settled
and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his
own particular case.
It was not until the two boys had scoured with great rapidity through a
most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to
halt by common consent beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained
silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates
uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight, and, bursting into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a door-step, and
rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
"What's the matter?" inquired the Dodger.
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Charley Bates.
"Hold your noise," remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round.
"Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?"
"I can't help it," said Charley, "I can't help it. To see him splitting
away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up
against the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as
well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter
him--oh, my eye!" The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented
the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this
apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step and laughed louder than
before.
"What'll Fagin say?" inquired the Dodger, taking advantage of the next
interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the
question.
"What!" repeated Charley Bates.
"Ah, what?" said the Dodger.
"Why, what should he say?" inquired Charley, stopping rather suddenly
in his merriment, for the Dodger's manner was impressive; "what should
he say?"
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes, and then, taking off his
hat, scratched his head and nodded thrice.
"What do you mean?" said Charley.
"Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high
cockolorum," said the Dodger with a slight sneer on his intellectual
countenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Mr. Bates felt it so, and
again said, "What do you mean?"
The Dodger made no reply, but putting his hat on again, and gathering
the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arms, thrust his tongue
into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in
a familiar but expressive manner, and then, turning on his heel, slunk
down the court. Mr. Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs a few minutes after the
occurrence of this conversation roused the merry old gentleman as he
sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his left hand, a
pocket-knife in his right, and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was
a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and, looking
sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the
door and listened intently.
"Why, how's this?" muttered the Jew, changing countenance; "only two of
'em! Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!"
The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing, the door was
slowly opened, and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered and closed it
behind them.
"Where's Oliver, you young hounds?" said the furious Jew, rising with a
menacing look: "where's the boy?"
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his
violence, and looked uneasily at each other, but made no reply.
"What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by
the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out,
or I'll throttle you!"
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who
deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and conceived
it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled
second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained,
and continuous roar, something between an insane bull and a
speaking-trumpet.
"Will you speak?" thundered the Jew, shaking the Dodger so much that
his keeping in the big coat at all seemed perfectly miraculous.
"Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger
sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will yer!" and, swinging himself at one
jerk clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the
Dodger snatched up the toasting-fork and made a pass at the merry old
gentleman's waistcoat, which, if it had taken effect, would have let
a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced in a
month or two.
The Jew stepped back in this emergency with more agility than could
have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude, and,
seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But
Charley Bates at this moment calling his attention by a perfectly
terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full
at that young gentleman.
"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who
pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer and not the pot as
hit me, or I 'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd as nobody
but an infernal rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford
to throw away any drink but water, and not that, unless he done the
River company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin. D---- me if my
neckankecher an't lined with beer. Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot
are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master.
Come in!"
The man who growled out these words was a stoutly-built fellow of about
five-and-forty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches,
lace-up half-boots, and grey cotton stockings, which enclosed a very
bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves,--the kind of legs which
in such costume always look in an unfinished and incomplete state
without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his
head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck, with the long
frayed ends of which, he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke;
disclosing when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard
of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes, one of which displayed
various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a
blow.
"Come in, d'ye hear?" growled this engaging-looking ruffian. A white
shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different
places, skulked into the room.
"Why didn't you come in afore?" said the man. "You're getting too proud
to own me afore company, are you. Lie down!"
This command was accompanied with a kick which sent the animal to the
other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he
coiled himself up in a corner very quietly without uttering a sound,
and, winking his very ill-looking eyes about twenty times in a minute,
appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
"What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,
in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?" said the man, seating himself deliberately.
"I wonder they don't murder you; _I_ would if I was them. If I'd been
your 'prentice I'd have done it long ago; and--no, I couldn't have
sold you arterwards, though; for you're fit for nothing but keeping as
a curiosity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't
blow them large enough."
"Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes," said the Jew, trembling; "don't speak so loud."
"None of your mistering," replied the ruffian; "you always mean
mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it. I shan't
disgrace it when the time comes."
"Well, well, then, Bill Sikes," said the Jew with abject humility. "You
seem out of humour, Bill."
"Perhaps I am," replied Sikes. "I should think _you_ were rather out of
sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots
about, as you do when you blab and----"
"Are you mad?" said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and
pointing towards the boys.
Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left
ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb
show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then in cant
terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled,
but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here,
demanded a glass of liquor.
"And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the
table.
This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer
with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard,
he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish,
at all events, to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far
from the old gentleman's merry heart.
After swallowing two or three glassfuls of spirits, Mr. Sikes
condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious
act led to a conversation in which the cause and manner of Oliver's
capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and
improvements on the truth as to the Dodger appeared most advisable
under the circumstances.
"I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get
us into trouble."
"That's very likely," returned Sikes with a malicious grin. "You're
blowed upon, Fagin."
"And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not
noticed the interruption, and regarding the other closely as he did
so,--"I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with
a good many more; and that it would come out rather worse for you than
it would for me, my dear."
The man started, and turned fiercely round upon the Jew; but the old
gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears, and his eyes were
vacantly staring on the opposite wall.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie
appeared plunged in his own reflections, not excepting the dog, who
by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an
attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter
in the street when he went out.
"Somebody must find out what's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes
in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.
The Jew nodded assent.
"If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes
out again," said Mr. Sikes, "and then he must be taken care on. You
must get hold of him, somehow."
Again the Jew nodded.
The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but
unfortunately there was one very strong objection to its being adopted;
and this was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr.
William Sikes, happened one and all to entertain a most violent and
deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or
pretext whatever.
How long they might have sat and looked at each other in a state of
uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to say.
It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for
the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a
former occasion caused the conversation to flow afresh.
"The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?"
"Wheres?" inquired the young lady.
"Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly.
It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm
that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and
earnest desire to be "jiggered" if she would; a polite and delicate
evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been
possessed of that natural good-breeding that cannot bear to inflict
upon a fellow-creature the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.
The Jew's countenance fell, and he turned to the other young lady, who
was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots,
and yellow curl-papers.
"Nancy, my dear," said the Jew in a soothing manner, "what do _you_
say?"
"That it won't do; so it's no use a trying it on, Fagin," replied Nancy.
"What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly
manner.
"What I say, Bill," replied the lady collectedly.
"Why, you're just the very person for it," reasoned Mr. Sikes: "nobody
about here, knows anything of you."
"And as I don't want 'em to, neither," replied Miss Nancy in the same
composed manner, "it's rayther more no than yes with me, Bill."
"She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes.
"No, she won't, Fagin," bawled Nancy.
"Yes she will, Fagin," said Sikes.
And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and
bribes, the engaging female in question was ultimately prevailed upon
to undertake the commission. She was not indeed withheld by the same
considerations as her agreeable friend, for, having very recently
removed into the neighbourhood of Field-lane from the remote but
genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of
being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintance.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over the red gown, and the
yellow curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,--both articles of
dress being provided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock,--Miss Nancy
prepared to issue forth on her errand.
"Stop a minute, my dear," said the Jew, producing a little covered
basket. "Carry that in one hand; it looks more respectable, my dear."
"Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin," said Sikes;
"it looks real and genivine like."
"Yes, yes, my dear, so it does," said the Jew, hanging a large
street-door key on the fore-finger of the young lady's right hand.
"There; very good,--very good indeed, my dear," said the Jew, rubbing
his hands.
"Oh, my brother! my poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!"
exclaimed Miss Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little
basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. "What has
become of him!--where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and
tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen,
if you please, gentlemen."
Having uttered these words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone,
to the immeasurable delight of her hearers, Miss Nancy paused, winked
to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
"Ah! she's a clever girl, my dears," said the Jew, turning to his young
friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them
to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
"She's a honor to her sex," said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and
smiting the table with his enormous fist. "Here's her health, and
wishing they was all like her!"
While these and many other encomiums were being passed on the
accomplished Miss Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to
the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity
consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she
arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.
Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the
cell-doors and listened. There was no sound within, so she coughed and
listened again. Still there was no reply, so she spoke.
"Nolly, dear?" murmured Nancy in a gentle voice;--"Nolly?"
There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been
taken up for playing the flute, and who--the offence against society
having been clearly proved--had been very properly committed by Mr.
Fang to the House of Correction for one month, with the appropriate and
amusing remark that since he had got so much breath to spare, it would
be much more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical
instrument. He made no answer, being occupied in mentally bewailing
the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the
county; so Miss Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.
"Well," cried a faint and feeble voice.
"Is there a little boy here?" inquired Miss Nancy with a preliminary
sob.
"No," replied the voice; "God forbid!"
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_
playing the flute, or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and
doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man,
who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without a
licence, thereby doing something for his living in defiance of the
Stamp-office.
But as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or
knew anything about him, Miss Nancy made straight up to the bluff
officer in the striped waistcoat, and with the most piteous wailings
and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use
of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear
brother.
"I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man.
"Where is he?" screamed Miss Nancy in a distracted manner.
"Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer.
"What gentleman? Oh, gracious heavins! what gentleman?" exclaimed Miss
Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the
deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office,
and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery
to have been committed by another boy not in custody; and that the
prosecutor had carried him away in an insensible condition to his own
residence, of and concerning which all the informant knew was, that it
was somewhere at Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in
the directions to the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty the agonised young woman
staggered to the gate, and then,--exchanging her faltering gait for
a good swift steady run, returned by the most devious and complicated
route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered,
than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat,
expeditiously departed, without devoting any time to the formality of
wishing the company good-morning.
"We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew,
greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring
home some news of him. Nancy, my dear, I must have him found: I trust
to you, my dear,--to you and the Artful for every thing. Stay, stay,"
added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money,
my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night: you'll know where to find
me. Don't stop here a minute,--not an instant, my dears!"
With these words he pushed them from the room, and carefully
double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of
concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver,
and hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his
clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he
cried in a shrill tone of alarm.
"Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger through the keyhole.
"What now?" cried the Jew impatiently.
"Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the
Dodger cautiously.
"Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find
him out, that's all; and I shall know what to do next, never fear."
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence, and hurried down stairs after
his companions.
"He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation.
"If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his windpipe
yet."
WHAT THOUGH WE WERE RIVALS OF YORE.
A ROMANCE. BY HAYNES BAYLY.
I.
"What though we were rivals of yore,
It seems you the victor have proved,
Henceforth we are rivals no more,
For I must forget I have loved.
You tell me you wed her to-day,
I thank you for telling the worst;
Adieu then! to horse, and away!--
But, hold!--let us drink her health first!
II.
"Alas! I confess I was wrong
To cope with so charming a knight;
Excelling in dance, and in song,
Well-dress'd, _debonnaire_, and polite!
So, putting all envy aside,
I take a new flask from the shelf;
Another full glass to the bride,
And now a full glass to yourself.
III.
"You'll drink a full bumper to me,
So well I have borne my defeat?
To the nymphs who the bridemaids will be,
And to each of the friends you will meet.
You are weary?--one glass to renew;
You are dozing?--one glass to restore;
You are sleeping?--proud rival, adieu!
Excuse me for locking the door."
IV.
There's a fee in the hand of the priest!
There's a kiss on the cheek of the bride!
And the guest she expected the least
Is He who now sits by her side!
Oh, well may the loiterer fail,
_His_ love is the grape of the Rhine;
And the spirit most sure to prevail
Was never the spirit of wine.
LOVE IN THE CITY.
TO THE PUBLIC.
In the prefatory observations I thought advisable to make when placing
"Love in the City" before the world, I stated that my chief aim was
the restoration of the drama to its pristine purity by avoiding
those unnatural and superhuman agencies which modern writers have so
extensively indulged in. Opposing myself thus, to innovation, I have
ventured on one of the boldest changes in dramatic arrangement, by
postponing the performance of the overture until the commencement of
the second act. Having thus admitted my offending, I trust that, when
the reasons which induced it are explained and understood, I shall have
justified this daring step, and obtained a verdict of public acquittal.
Is there a frequenter of our theatres on a first night whose musical
sensibilities have not been lacerated by the noise and tumult
incidental to a crowded house? Let him achieve by desperate exertion a
favourable place in the undress circle,--suppose the theatre crammed
to the pigeon-holes, the orchestra already tuned, and every eye bent
upon the leader, awaiting his premonitory tap;--then, when the nervous
system should be quiescent, the ear open to receive delicious sounds,
the heart ready to expand itself into harmonious ecstacy,--at that
very moment of rapturous expectation has not his tranquillity been
annihilated by
"Some giggling daughter of the queen of love"
pinching him in the ribs to acquaint him that he is "sitting on her
boa!" While, from that "_refugium peccatorum_," the shilling gallery,
infernal cries of "Down in the front!" "Music!" "Curse your pedigree!"
"Hats off!" "How's your mother?" drown even the double-drums, and
render the overture inaudible from the opening crash to the close.
To remedy this nuisance,--to allow the excited feelings of an
overcrowded house to subside sufficiently to enable the audience, by
presenting them with the first act, to judge how far the music of the
overture is adapted to the business of the stage,--these considerations
have induced me thus to postpone its performance, and with what success
the public will best decide.
Another, and a more agreeable duty, now devolves upon me,--to express
my ardent thanks to all and every to whom this drama is in any way
indebted for its brilliant and unparalleled success. To Messrs. Flight
and Robson; the commanding officers of the Foot and Fusileer Guards;
the King of the Two Sicilies; the Hereditary Prince of Coolavin; and
his serene highness the Duke of Darmstadt, I am eternally grateful.
To the performers, male and female, the composers, the orchestra at
large, scene-painters and scene-shifters, prompters and property-men,
box-keepers and check-takers, sentries and police, I present my
heartfelt acknowledgements. And to the most crowded and fashionable
audience that ever graced a metropolitan theatre, I shall only say,
that the rapturous and reiterated plaudits bestowed upon this drama
shall never fade from the recollection of their most devoted, very
humble, too fortunate, and ever grateful servant,
THE AUTHOR.
July 1, 1837.
LOVE IN THE CITY;
OR, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
A MELODRAMATIC EXTRAVAGANZA.
ACT II.
_Grand Overture_,--composed jointly by Spohr, Haynes Bayly, Newkom,
and Rossini, and performed by the largest orchestra ever collected in
a European theatre, assisted by the Duke of Darmstadt's brass band,
and the entire drums of the Foot and Fusileer Guards.
In the course of the overture the following novelties will be
introduced.
_A duet_ upon the _double-drums_ with _one stick only_, by Mons.
TAMBOURETTE, Member of the Legion of Honour, K.T.S., and drum-major to
the _King of the Two Sicilies_.
_Planxty Mac Swain_, and "_What have you got in your jug?_" with
brilliant variations for the _Irish pipes_, by _Kalkbrenner_,--Mr.
PATRICK HALLIGAN, Minstrel in ordinary to the Prince of Coolavin.
_A capriccio_ on the _German flute_, by a _distinguished amateur_, who
has lost four fingers and a thumb.
_A grand fantasia_ (Henry Hertz) on _one piano by eight performers_.
_Director_, Sir GEORGE SMART.
_Conductor_, on _The Apollonicon_,--lent to the lessee for that night
only,--Mr. PURKIS.
_Leader_, Mr. T. COOKE,
_The overture having been twice encored, bell rings, and curtain draws
up._
ACT II.--SCENE I.
A public-house, "Black Horse," in the Borough. A tap-room. _Mags_ and
_Poppleton_ discovered drinking "heavy wet." _Mags_ rather fresh, and
_Poppleton_ evidently the worse of liquor. _Mags_, after a long pull,
deposits the pot upon the table.
_Pop._--Now for your news, Mags.
_Mags._ I told you, worthy Pop,
That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop.
_Pop._--And how's our missus?
_Mags._ Why, hearty, when last seen
With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green.
_Pop._--And honest Snags?
_Mags (with emotion)._ Ah! would that epithet were true,
Or I could keep the sad details from you!
Snags is not _honest_!
(_Poppleton buttons his coat, and puts himself into a boxing
attitude._)
He has robb'd the till,
And lost the money, betting at a mill!
(_Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily._)
_Mr. C._--What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!
AIR--_Mr. Clipclose._--("I've been roaming.")
I've been nabb'd, sirs,--I've been nabb'd, sirs,--
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.
(_Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand._)
_Mr. C._--Is this good stout?
_Mags (feelingly)._ My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.
AIR--_Poppleton._--("Here we go up, up, up.")
Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.
(_Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags._)
_Mr. C._--How's all at home,--I mean on Ludgate-hill,--
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
_Mags (with considerable hesitation)._--We all, alas! for Fortune's
frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.
(_Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the
chimney-piece._)
_Mr. C._--My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
_Pop._ (_aside._)--I'll watch him close. Although his looks are
placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.
(_Enter Pot-boy._)
_Pot-boy._--Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?
_Mr. C._--I am that wretched man! (_Slaps his forehead._)
_Pot-boy._ Who pays the beer?
_Pop._--I.
_Pot-boy._--Here's a note. (_To Mr. C._) Lord, but the man looks
queer!
(_Mr. Clipclose reads it; jumps up, and whistles "Bobbing Joan."_)
QUARTETTO.
_Mags._
Master, are you mad?
_Mr. C._
No; but I'm distracted.
_Pot-boy._
Times are wery bad,
_Pop._
And I in grief abstracted.
_Mags._
Odds! he'll take his life!
_Mr. C._ (_kissing the billet._)
Sweet note! thou'rt balm and manna!
_Mags to Pop._ (_who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder._) Is
it from his wife?
_Pop._ (_slaps his thigh._)
No! from Miss Juliana!"
_Clipclose_, when he reads it, rushes out; _Mags_ after him.
_Poppleton_ attempts to follow, but is detained by pot-boy. He forks
out tanner, and disappears. SOLO--_Apollonicon._ Hurried music
descriptive of three cabs: _Clipclose_ in 793, at a rapid pace;
_Mags_, 1659; _Poppleton_ 1847, pursuing. Scene closes.
SCENE II.
Thompson and Fearon's, Holborn; gin-palace at full work; company less
select than numerous, and ladies and gentlemen taking "some'ut short"
at the counter. Enter, in full uniform. Captain Connor; O'Toole and
Blowhard in shell jackets. They call for a flash of lightning, touch
glasses affectionately, and bolt the ruin. The captain stumps down
for all.
GLEE--_Connor, O'Toole, and Blowhard._
_Capt._
Gin cures love, my boys, and gin cures the colic;
_O'T._
Gin fits a man for fight, or fits him for a frolic;
_Blow._
Come, we'll have another go, then hey for any rollic!
_Trio._
Come, we'll have another go, and hey then for a rollic!
_Blow._--Lass! (_to an attendant, whom he chucks under the chin,_)
some more jacky! Connor, do you still Bend at the shrine of her on
Ludgate-hill?
_OT. (contemptuously)._--Zounds! a cit's helpmate. That would never
do. One of us Guards, and one of taste like you.
_Capt._--Faith, honest Blowhard, and you, my pal, O'Toole, Tho' fond
of flirting, yet your friend's no fool! Think ye that I could live
upon my pay, And keep four wives on three and six a day? No. Let me
have a monied mistress still, My El Dorado be a tradesman's till.
Love fed by flimsies, is the love that thrives, And let the mercers
keep the Guardsman's wives.
_O'T._--I see how matters stand, my trump; enough.
_Blow._ (_to O'T._)--He's wide awake, Tim. (_To the Capt._) Con.
you're up to snuff!
_Capt._--Come, one more round of jacky, and we part,-- I, to the
peerless lady of my heart In Stamford-street;--to Knightsbridge
barrack you; And mind don't split that I was out at Kew.
(_They take each another johnny, shake hands, and separate. The scene
closes._)