sternly contemptuous finger to the _Pierrot_. “And take _her_ away,” he
adds, designating the cavalier. “And you, sir,” he continues, to the
postilion, “sign your name and address there, and take care to be at the
court at ten in the morning. And I should advise you to go straight home,
or you’ll be here again shortly, with somebody to take care of you. I
wonder whether we shall have any more,” he says wearily, to his sergeant,
as the captives are removed, and the room is cleared.
* * * * *
It does not so much matter, for the third hour is gone and past, and
as we emerge into the street, the clock of St. Paul’s strikes FOUR.
There! the twenty-four hours are accomplished, and we have progressed,
however lamely and imperfectly, “Twice Round the Clock.” Good-bye, dear
readers—pleasant companions of my labours. Goodbye, troops of shadowy
friends and shadowy enemies, whose handwriting—in praise, in reproach,
in condolence, in sympathy, in jest, and in earnest—is visible enough
to me on many pages laying open before me at this moment, but whose
faces I shall never see on this side the grave. Your smiles and frowns
henceforward belong to the past, for my humble task is achieved, and the
Clock is Stopped.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES
[1] A post-prandial paper, called the “Evening Mail,” rarely seen in the
metropolis, but extensively circulated in the provinces, and especially
in the colonies, and in the United States, is published as a species of
vesper thunderer at the “Times” office.
[2] “The Chimes.”
[3] This old man’s name was “Corney,” at least I never knew him by any
other appellation. He had been a collegian for years; and being a Briton
who “stood upon his rights,” and was for “freedom of opinion,” gave
the governor an immense amount of trouble. I think one of the happiest
days of Captain Hudson’s life must have been the one on which “Corney”
(who, it turned out, ought never to have been imprisoned at all) got his
discharge. He took lodgings immediately, I have heard, at a neighbouring
coal shed, and brought an action (_in formâ pauperis_) against the
governor for false imprisonment, and wrongful detention of property,
about once a fortnight.
[4] Free-grown sugar in the first two: slave-grown sugar in boxes.
[5] See page 30.
[6] I am afraid that this legend must be regarded as what the “Times”
newspaper called, in reference to old Peter Thellusson’s delicate sense
of honour, in providing for a possible restitution of property left
in his charge by the ancient noblesse of France—a “modern myth.” An
analogous story, relative to the appearance of a _real_ demon on the
stage, in addition to those forming part of the _dramatis personæ_, is
related in connection with Edward Alleyn, the actor; and the supernatural
visitation, it is said, caused him to quit the stage as a profession, and
found Dulwich College.
[7] The ladies appear in the gallery before dinner, quit it after grace
has been said, and are regaled in ante-chambers with ices, coffee,
and champagne. They return when the speech-making, wine-bibbing, and
song-singing commence.
[8] This absurd remnant of a candle-snuffing age, and which is about as
consistent with dramatic proprieties as the performance of the character
of Macbeth by Garrick in the costume of a Captain in the Guards, was
abolished—so far as his admirable Shakspearian revivals were concerned—by
Mr. Charles Kean.
[9] Who married again, and extinguished herself. So did Maria Louisa, so
did Mrs. Shelley. They _will_ marry again, those unconscionable feminines.
[10] This pretty little theatre has succeeded, thanks to the genius and
perseverance of Miss Swanborough, aided by an admirable company.
[11] There is a curious story anent this “Green Dragon” tavern, a dim
record, embosomed in the musty records of the “State Trials.” In a note
to one of those chronicles of crimes and suffering, it is hinted at that
the daughter of the executioner of Charles the First was a barmaid at the
Green Dragon in the reign of Queen Anne.
[12] “He made the giants first, and then he killed them.”—_Fielding’s
“Tom Thumb.”_