what begun as "supes," an' see where they've got to? _Why don't I get
there?_ Cause I ain't never had the chance. You just let me get a
"speaking part" as suits me, that's all! Oh--it "_would be all_," eh?
Why--but there! you're a baby in the purfession! you are! When you've
been Capting of the Guard, and Third Noble, and a Bandit Keerousin, and
First Hancient Bard, and Fourth in the Council of Ten what listens to
Otheller, and the Mob in the Capitol, and a Harcher of Merry England,
and a Peer of France, what doesn't speak, but has to look as if he could
say a lot; when you've been all this you may talk! _I needn't be
offended?_ All right, old pal; I ain't. Though I was 'urt when that
utilerty cove said as I was only a banner-bearer. "Only!" Why I should
like to know where they'd be without us--all them old spoutin' tragedy
merchants! They'd have no armies, consequently they couldn't rave at
'em, and lead 'em on to victory and things. They wouldn't 'ave no
sennits, so they'd 'ave to cut out their potent, grave, and reverent
seniors--an' that 'ud worry em. They wouldn't 'ave no hexited citizens,
and so they couldn't bury old Ceser nor praise him neither. They
couldn't strew no fields with no dead soldiers. They'd 'ave nobody to
chivy 'em when they come to the throne, or returned from the wars. They
couldn't 'ave no percessions; as for balls, and parties, and
torneymongs, why, they couldn't give 'em. And where 'ud they often be
without the "distant ollerings" behind the scenes, allus a-comin' nerer
and louder. Why, I remember a 'eavy lead one night, as had insulted his
army fearful, at rehearsal; he stops sudden, and thumps his breastplate,
and says, "'Ark, that toomult!" when there warn't no more toomult than
two flies 'ud make in a milk-jug. We jest cut off his toomult, and
quered his pitch, in a minnit, for the laugh come in 'ot. We're just as
much wanted as they are, make no error.
Only a banner-bearer! "Only," be blow'd! Oh, don't you bother, I ain't
getting waxy. I'm only a standin' up for my purfession. What do you say?
_They could do without me in the modden drarmer?_ The modden drarmer, my
boy, ain't actin'! It's nothing but "cuff-shootin'." You just has to
stand against a mankel-shelf, with your hands in Poole's pockets, and
say nothing elegantly. You don't want no chest-notes; you don't want no
action; you don't want no exsitement; you don't want no lungs, no heart,
and no brain; only lungs an' soda, heart an' potash, brain an' selzer.
Everything's dilooted, my boy, for the modden drarmer; and the old
school, an' the old kostumes 'ud bust the sides and roof too of the
swell band-boxes, where they does the new school and the new kostumes.
_P'r'aps I'm right?_ Of course I'm right; and I'm in earnest, too! Why,
my boy, if they was to offer me an engagement as a "guest" in one of
them cuff-shootin' plays, and ask me to go on in evening-dress, I'm
blest if I wouldn't throw up the part. Trousers and white ties cramps
me. I wants a suit o' mail an' a 'alberd; a toonic, and my legs free; a
dagger in my teeth--not a tooth-pick; a battle-axe in my 'and--not a
crutch. I likes to be led to victory, I does. I likes to storm castles,
and trampel on the foe! I does. I likes to hang our banners on the
outward walls, I does. I'm a born banner-bearer, I am, and I glories in
it. No, my boy! none of your milk-and-water "guests," and such, for the
likes of me! An' if I was the Lord Chamberlain, I'd perhibit the modden
drarmer altogether. Them's my sentiments. If he don't perhibit it,
actin' 'ull soon be modden'd out of existence; an' we shall 'ave Macbeth
in a two guinea tourist suit, and Looy the Eleventh in nickerbockers, on
a bisykel. It's the old banner-bearing school as got us all our big
actors, an' it stands to reason, my boy; for a cove can't spred hisself
in a frock coat and droring-room langwidge. They're both on 'em too tame
for what I calls real actin'. What! you _have heard say as us
banner-bearers don't act--was only machines_? Well, some on us don't,
p'r'aps, but some on us does, and no mistake.
You can't, as a rule, expect much feeling, much dignerty, much
patriertism, or much simperthy for a shillin' a night. If they was all
the real articles, they'd fetch a lot more than that; but there is
gentlemen in my line as goes in for all four--reg'lar comes nateral to
'em. Why, I've been that work'd on when I've seen Joan o'Hark goin' in a
perisher at the stake, an' makin' that last dyin' speech and confession
of hers, that I've felt a real 'art beat against my property
breast-plate, and felt real tears a tricklin' down to my false beard.
I've been so struck with admirashun for some Othellos, that when they've
been a addressin' of me as the sennit, I've felt as dignerfied as if I'd
been the Doag of Venice hisself, and I bet he looked it.
As for patriertism, there isn't a man living as has died for his
country--willing, mind you--as often as I have; and I've strewed many a
bloody field of batel with a ernest corpse, I have. An' as far as
regards simperthy, it's stood in my way, for I've been that upset by
Queen Katherines and Prince Arthurs, and even old Shylock (for Grashyano
does giv' 'im a doin'), and Ophelias, and other sufferin' parties, as
I've often forgot my hexits and been fined a tanner; and if that ain't
actin', I should like to know what is.
It's all very well for them noospaper crickets to harry us, and say as
we're a set o' this and a set o' the other, and that we ain't got no
hideas. They wouldn't 'ave many hideas if they wasn't paid more than a
shilling a night (with often twopence off to the hagent) for the use of
'em; the article's as good as the price, an' no mistake. Some on us gets
a bit more, and accordin' some on us gives a bit more; for there's first
heavy lead, and setterer, among the supes, just as there is among the
principles, don't make no error! _Have to do as the "stars" tell us?_
Well, of course, we does, only if the stars don't treat us like gents,
we knows how to queer their pitches: rather! Why, it ain't so very long
since as I was a-playing a Roman Licktor in "Virginius," and when we was
a rehearsin' of it, 'im as played Happyus Clordyus called me a "pig."
"All right," says I, "aside" like, "I'll pig yer." Accordin', when night
comes, and he makes an exit in the third act, and says--didn't he enjoy
hisself with it--"And I shall surely see that they reseve it!" he chucks
his toger over his right shoulder, and turns round as magestick as a
beedle to walk off--well, some'ow, just then I drops my bundle of sticks
("fusses," they call 'em), all accidentle like, and Happyus Clordyus,
with his heyes in the hair, comes to grief, slap over 'em. He was the
un-happyest Clordyus all through that play as ever you see. What did he
call me a "pig" for, the idiot?
"_Seem to be important, after all?_" Important! I should think we was!
There couldn't be no big drarmers without us, no gallant warryers, no
'owling mobs, no "Down with the tirants!" no briggands reposin', no
'appy pezzants, and no stage picturs of any account, if it warn't for
the supes and banner-bearers, as ought to be made more on and seen to a
bit better than they is; for what says the old Shyley, in the play, 'im
what old Phellups us'd to warm 'em up in? "What?" says he, "what! Hath
not a supe eyes, 'ands, horgans, somethin' else, and passions? fed with
the same food?--(no! Shakey, old man, he ain't!) Well, if you prick us,
don't us bleed? if we larf, don't you tickle us? and if you wrong us,
ain't we goin' to take it out of you, like I took it out o' Happyus
Clordyus?" _How I do wag?_ Well, ain't it enough to make me? Don't let
that 'ere utilerty cuff-shooter allood to me as "only a banner-bearer,"
then! Let 'im, and all the others, treat us more respectful, and he and
them too 'ull find a feeling 'art and good manners too, at even a
shilling a night, though we could throw 'em in a lot; more of both for
an extra bob.--Good night, old man.
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. ROUTLEDGE & SONS.)
THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE.
ARTHUR SHIRLEY.
'Twas in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp,
And four and twenty work'us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp,
Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp;
And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin's pan
They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can.
But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man--
His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze:
He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze,
So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease.
Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied,
It tortured him to see them eat, he couldn't though he tried!
Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle-eyed;
At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took,
Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look,
And lo! he saw a work'us boy, who read a penny book--
"You beastly brat! What is't you're at? I warrant 'tis no good!
What's this? 'The life of Turpin Bold!' or 'Death of Robin Hood'?"
"It's '_Hessays on the Crumpet_,' sir, as a harticle of food!"
He started from that boy as tho' in's ear he'd blown a trumpet,
His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it,
And down he sat beside the brat and talked about The Crumpet.
How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells,
By pastry trade, fortunes had made, and come out awful swells,
While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in "The Bells!"
"And well, I know," said he, "forsooth, for plenty have I bought,
The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.
"With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught,
Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, 'tis best shun
All such tempting tasty things, tho' nice beyond all question,
Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion!
One, who had ever made me long--a muffin man and old--
I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold,
And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled.
I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I'd got,
I gloated o'er them lying there elastic and all hot;
I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot!
"I took them home, I toasted them, p'raps upwards of a score,
And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before,
'And now,' I said, 'I'll go to bed, and dream of eating more.'
All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side,
At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried;
And then I dreamt I was a 'bus, and gurgled 'Full inside!'
I was a 'bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest,
Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop'd and now
compressed;
I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest!
"I heard their bells--their horrid bells--in sound as loud as trumpets,
Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets!
I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets!
Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam;
I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream!
You pauper brat, remember that all this was but a dream!"
The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were oozing,
And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing,
Made this remark, "Well, blow me tight, our Beadle's been a-boozing!"
That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly;
He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly,
And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly!
(_By permission of the Author._)
MY FRIEND TREACLE.
WATKIN-ELLIOTT.
"So Charley is going to marry 'the most charming girl in the world'!" I
ejaculated, after a hearty laugh over the following epistle from my old
friend:--
"DEAR BOB,--
"I am going to do for myself in earnest; no humbug this time. 'For
better or for worse,' and if it turns out the latter it will be a
scrape no one can get me out of. Of course, you understand I am about
to marry, and I need not add _she_ is the most charming girl in the
world: fair, sky-blue eyes, silk-worm--I mean spun silk hair, lovely
in fact! Come and be my best man: do, old fellow! You have backed me
up lots of times before, and although we have lost sight of one
another since 'we were boys together,' that goes for nothing between
us--does it? Write by return, and say you will support me: I have a
dread that I shall marry the wrong girl, or allow some one else to
marry Lucy--that's _her_ name!--or do something unlucky, unless you
look after me.
"Yours, as ever,
"CHARLEY BOSTON.
"P.S.--It comes off in a fortnight."
"'It,'--well that is vague enough, but I suppose he means the happy
event. Ye gods and little fishes!--to call a marriage 'it'! but that is
like Boston. And 'sure to do something unlucky,' are you? Well, I guess
you are not the 'Treacle' of old unless you get into some quandary over
it," I muttered; and then I threw myself back in my chair and laughed
again as some of our adventures, when we were at Dr. Omega's school--I
mean college--presented themselves to my mind.
Glorious times those! looking back upon them now, although we did not
value them, in our careless youth, at their full worth.
Treacle's--_i.e._, Boston's--daring always led him to some adventure,
and I always backed him up--in a feeble way, perhaps,--and we always got
found out somehow, and got our deserts in a manner more satisfactory to
lovers of justice than to ourselves. Stunning times!
The very fact of our being punished for the same crime, and at the same
time, was a bond of union between Treacle and myself.
"One touch of sympathy," or one touch of the rod, made us kin in a
manner very peculiar;--a fellow feeling made us wondrous kind and
sympathetic.
You talk of little dinners and little suppers in these days, and think
them epicurean feasts!--but, be really hungry--hungry as a school-boy,
and enjoy a little supper off kippered herring _on the sly_--that _is_ a
feast, if you like. Such feasts as these we enjoyed at Mother Kemp's,
down the village, when the Doctor, tutors, and monitors imagined us
safely tucked in our little beds.
Looking upon Mother Kemp, in those days, I thought her a good fairy
disguised as a witch. Looking back upon her, with manhood's enlightened
judgment, I think she was an unprincipled old woman, who traded on our
weaknesses. I confess myself to have been a hungry boy,--Boston, with a
penitence which did him credit, used to confess the same: we both had a
propensity to come through our trouser-legs and sleeve-jackets, and,
what was worse, could not help ourselves doing so.
Boston was of an ingenious turn of mind, and it was he who suggested
that those boys, who could afford to be hungry with any satisfaction to
themselves, should club together for a supper at Mother Kemp's once
a-week; and it was through one of these suppers, or the search for one,
that he got his sweet sobriquet of "Treacle."
He having made the suggestion, we elected him chief of our expeditions,
and thus to a certain extent he held the fate of our appetites in his
hands.
One night we had escaped, as usual, by means of a rope-ladder made by
Boston, from the window of the room of which I was senior boy, to Mother
Kemp's in the village.
Mother Kemp kept a general shop--that is to say, she retailed tallow,
treacle, rope, bacon, herrings, soap, cottons, tops, balls, butter,
sweets, and so forth; and she not only, as a rule, sold us a supper out
of her heterogeneous store, but cooked it, if needs were, and served it
for us in her back parlour--that is, _if we could_ pay ready cash down.
This night of which I speak we could not. We had appealed to Madame
Kemp's motherly heart for "trust," in vain, and we were returning home
in a state of double the hunger to that in which we had started, on
account of our hopes being unfulfilled, when Charlie Boston made a
remark in a melancholy tone: it was--
"I wonder if the pantry window is open."
We eyed him askance and in silence.
"And if," with a frown of determination on his brow, "there is
_anything_ inside!"
Then we knew we were "in" for something, be it to eat or feel, and
followed him half in hope, half in fear.
The window was open. Looking upon that casement from my point of view
now, I decide it was an architectural folly, being no more than seven
feet from the ground, and innocent of bars or protection of any kind,
and moreover large enough for any one of moderate size to creep through.
From our point of view, then, we thought it a very jolly contrivance.
"Hurrah!" shouted Boston, _sotto voce_--in fact, very much _sotto
voce_--"we will indeed sup at the doctor's expense to-night, bless
him!--eh, boys?"
Either to the supper or blessing we assented, joyfully; but when our
chief asked who was for reconnoitring, the question was received in
silence.
"Suppose it is missed in the morning--I mean, _what we eat_," suggested
some one, timidly.
"Cats!" settled Boston with laconic contempt.
"But cats don't eat cheese, and--"
"Bah! cats eat _anything_, from mice to stewed-eels' feet. Who will
follow if I lead?"
"Couldn't you get in and hand something out?" asked another, coolly.
"Wish you may get it. Travers, _you_ will follow, will you not?"
"Yes," I replied, with a little inward shudder. "'Lead on, Macduff,
and'--and, what you may call it, be him that first cries 'Hold,
enough!'"
"Old enough for what?" queried the wit of the party.
"Look here, Jenkins, don't you be a fool; this is not the time for vile
puns, or Shakspeare either," with a frown at me.
"It will take a jolly long time for us all to get in one after the
other," I ruminated upon this snub.
"And a jollier long time to get out, if we want to, in a hurry,"
suggested the timid one.
"That is true," agreed the chief. "We will toss up, and 'odd man' goes
in and hands out--eh?"
Faint applause.
But the idea was not carried out, because, upon reflection, we
remembered Mother Kemp had our last coin.
"Never mind," cried Boston, in his happy dare-all way. "I'll do it! Lend
me a back, somebody, and keep a sharp look out, mind!"
We lent him a back with alacrity, it being a cheap and easy loan, and he
drew himself up.
"I see a pie!" he cried, and the words revived us. "Supposing it is
steak!"
We supposed, and felt more hungry than ever.
Then we watched him with increased interest, as he squeezed his body
through the casement, paused a moment to recover breath, descended
gradually and carefully, and--Heavens, what was that? There was a
scuffle and a gasp. Was it the doctor?
I think at this juncture my knees began to tremble; so I cannot describe
what the other sounds in the pantry were--at least, not with any
accuracy.
"I say," began some one of our party--he was always doing that, saying
"I say," and stopping short; a nasty habit, you know, for when one's
nerves are unstrung it makes you anxious, not to say alarmed.
"Old Omega!" whispered another in an awed tone.
"Can't be; there's no talking."
"No, because he's such an artful old fox; he thinks he'll catch us
all!--Eh?"
The "eh" was to one who thought he had "_better go and see if the ladder
was there all right_."
It ended in their all going for the same commendable purpose, and
leaving me behind to look after Boston. I was very much inclined to
follow them, I confess, but I liked my friend too much to leave him, so,
having a regard for my own personal safety, I got behind a laurel and
waited.
"Silence there, and nothing more."
_Could_ it be the doctor! Could the doctor keep his anger so long
bottled up--even to catch the rest of us--without bursting?
I thought not: he would have had a fit by this time.
In those days I remember revolving in my mind the advantage I would gain
if Dr. Omega did have a fit and died. It was very horrible of me, of
course, but then I was a boy, and as I looked at the doctor's purple
visage--_was_ it coloured by the liquid et cetera?--I decided that if he
were removed, no matter how, I might have a jolly holiday until another
authority was placed over me, or I placed under another authority.
O, it was wicked of me, I know, _terribly_ wicked!--but true. Mais
revenons a Boston. If it is not the doctor in there with him, it may be
the cook, I revolved behind the bushes. The cook ought to be in bed, by
this time--so ought I: I was not, that was a certainty, perhaps the cook
was not; if not--why it was very wrong of her not to be, I concluded
virtuously.
The moments passed, and still no sound from the pantry of voices. _Had_
Charley fallen down in a fit instead of the doctor? I crept from my
hiding place and essayed a faint whistle, recognised by us all as a
call.
No answer.
"Boston!" I ejaculated, feeling sure now that the doctor could not
possibly be there.
Then, as I watched the casement, as anxiously as any lover could that of
his mistress, I saw something appear at it: by the light of the moon it
looked _black_ and _shiny_. If the shock had not deprived me of motion I
should have fled. I could not flee, so I stood bravely to my post and
shook like a jelly.
What was it? I felt like Hamlet when he saw the ghost of his father; but
I did not apostrophize it--I knew better,--at least I had not
sufficient choice Shakespearian language at my tongue's end to do so
becomingly.
"Travers?"
"Angels and ministers"--my name in Boston's voice. In a moment the
roaring in my ears ceased, and my muscles gained strength.
"Is that _you_, Charley?" I asked, sensibly enough.
"Phew!"
"Why--why, hang it, Boston, what's up--eh?"
"'Up!'--all over me--choking me--Treacle!" gasped my friend, creeping
through the window, with difficulty, as he spoke, and losing his
balance, as he reached the ground, he fell against me, stuck to me,
disengaged himself, and finally stood upright.
"Treacle!" I ejaculated with a roar, which even though the doctor might
have heard I could not suppress, as Charley began clearing out his eyes
and mouth with his already sticky fists.
"Yes, _treacle_," crossly. "You needn't laugh like that, Bob, and make
such a confounded fool of yourself," he growled. "I stumbled, somehow,
and fell face forward into a pan of it. Don't make such a row, Travers!"
as I continued my cachination and held my aching sides, "I might have
been smothered for all _you_ would have cared. By Jove! smothered in
treacle! Why a butt of Malmsey would be a natural death in comparison."
"The treacle we have for our puddings and with our brimstone?" I gasped
at last.
"Yes." Here the ludicrous aspect of affairs struck the martyr, and he
joined me in my merriment.
"I didn't know where I was going until I was in it," he continued. "Ugh!
I shall hate treacle like poison for the rest of my life! Where are the
other fellows?"
"Sneaked away; thought Omega had caught you."
"Cowards!"
At this moment a low whistle, a danger signal, from the boys just
denounced, caused us to hurry from the spot, and reaching the rope
ladder, we were up it like cats, gaining our room just in time to find
that, by the light shining under the door, some one was on the alert.
"Get under my bed!" I whispered to Charley, as his escape to his own
room was cut off.
In his hurry and confusion, he got _into_ it. I had no time to demur,
and jumped in after him, just as the doctor, suspicious and austere,
entered, candlestick in hand.
"Noise in number three: senior boy, report."
I, senior boy, reported, and replied by a nasal demonstration which I
flattered myself was a very good imitation of a sound snore.
"Robert Travers!" in a voice which might, almost, have awakened the
dead.
"Sir," replied I--Robert--as sleepily as I could.
"Somebody walking about this room, and talking."
If brevity is the soul of wit, then old Omega was the wittiest fellow I
ever came across,--although he never _looked_ it.
He always spoke sharply and to the point, and gave us our due in the
same manner.
Now, as he jerked his sentence out, he approached nearer. Charley, like
a certain big bird, seemed to fancy that, because his own face was
hidden and he could see no one, it followed that no one could see him;
whereas, half his head was exposed to view.
I sat up in bed, hurriedly giving my companion a vicious kick of
caution, as I explained to the doctor that "little Simpson walked and
talked in his sleep;" at which "little Simpson," in a corner of the
room, groaned audibly.
"Simpson, junior, what do you mean by walking in your sleep, sir?"
Simpson groaned again, and the doctor, thinking he was snoring,
continued,--
"He eats too much; must diet him. A dose of brimstone and treacle (I
felt Boston jump) in the morning will do him good--cooling. Remind me,
Travers. By the way, sir, how comes it you are awake?"
"Please, sir, you woke me--awakened me, sir," I stammered.