rendered uncomfortable by his sticky face, had moved.
"With _me_, sir?" I murmured, vaguely.
"Yes, sir, with you. Come out, whoever it is!" roared Omega, without
further parley.
But Boston remained still as a mouse.
Struck dumb with anger and astonishment, that a boy should have the
impudence to stop in when _he_ ordered him to come out, the doctor
strode round to Charley's side, and laid hands on the miscreant to have
him out by force; but, no sooner had he felt the viscous state of our
hero, than he withdrew them precipitately, with the pious ejaculation,--
"Good heavens! What is the matter with him!"
"Necessitas non habet legem."
I, being senior boy, had to report. I did so, tremblingly, and imitated
the doctor in my brevity.
"Matter, sir--treacle, sir."
"Treacle!" in a voice of concentrated thunder, if you know what that is
like.
"His mother sent him a pot of treacle, sir, and he--and he thought it
was pomatum, sir, and--and----" my imaginative powers fell before the
lightning of the doctor's glance.
"_Whose_ mother?"
"Boston's, sir."
"Boston, come out!"
And Boston, after some little delay caused in having to detach himself
from surroundings, came forth like a lamb--I mean, like a black sheep.
"What the dev----!"
But I draw a curtain over the rest; the doctor was profane, and he hurt
my feelings _very much_.
Poor old Treacle! The name stuck to him ever after.
Well, I went to his wedding, and with the exception that at the critical
part of the ceremony he dropped the ring, which, after we had all
scrambled on our knees for, was found in the bride's veil, he went
through the "happiest day of his life" without a mistake.
As for myself, in searching for that ring, I knocked my head against
Treacle's sister's, and it upset me. A thrill went through me, which was
most painfully pleasant. At the breakfast-table I became sentimental; in
making my speech for the ladies, I caught her--Treacle's sister's--eye,
she smiled, and I lost the thread of my discourse. It was a very slender
thread, and I never found it again until, one day, I was wandering round
somebody's garden with my arm round Treacle's sister's waist, and,--but
that doesn't matter! She is a jolly little thing, though--Treacle's
sister is.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD.
ANONYMOUS.
Have you brought my boots, Jemima? Leave them at my chamber door.
Does the water boil, Jemima? Place it also on the floor.
Eight o'clock already, is it? How's the weather--pretty fine?
Eight is tolerably early; I can get away by nine.
Still I feel a little sleepy, though I came to bed at one.
Put the bacon on, Jemima; see the eggs are nicely done!
I'll be down in twenty minutes--or, if possible, in less;
I shall not be long, Jemima, when I once begin to dress.
She is gone, the brisk Jemima; she is gone, and little thinks
How the sluggard yearns to capture yet another forty winks,
Since the bard is human only--not an early village cock--
Why should he salute the morning at the hour of eight o'clock?
Stifled be the voice of Duty; Prudence, prythee, cease to chide,
While I turn me softly, gently, round upon my other side.
Sleep, resume thy downy empire; reassert thy sable reign!
Morpheus, why desert a fellow? Bring those poppies here again!
What's the matter, now, Jemima? Nine o'clock? It cannot be!
Hast prepared the eggs, the bacon, and the matutinal tea?
Take away the jug, Jemima, go, replenish it anon;
Since the charm of its caloric must be very nearly gone.
She has left me. Let me linger till she reappears again,
Let my lazy thoughts meander in a free and easy vein.
After Sleep's profoundest solace, nought refreshes like the doze.
Should I tumble off, no matter; she will wake me, I suppose.
Bless me, is it you, Jemima? Mercy on us, what a knock?
Can it be--I can't believe it--actually ten o'clock?
I will out of bed and shave me. Fetch me warmer water up!
Let the tea be strong, Jemima, I shall only want a cup!
Stop a minute! I remember some appointment by the way,
'Twould have brought me mints of money; 'twas for ten o'clock to-day.
Let me drown my disappointment, Slumber, in thy seventh heaven!
You may go away, Jemima. Come and call me at eleven!
(_From the "Leeds Mercury."_)
ARTEMUS WARD'S VISIT TO THE TOWER OF LONDON.
CH. FARRAR BROWNE.
I skurcely need inform you that the Tower is very pop'lar with pe'ple
from the agricultooral districks, and it was chiefly them class which I
found waitin' at the gates the other mornin'.
I saw at once that the Tower was established on a firm basis. In the
entire history of firm basises, I don't find a basis more firmer than
this one.
"You have no Tower in America?" said a man in the crowd, who had somehow
detected my denomination.
"Alars! no," I ansered; "we boste of our enterprise and improovements,
and yit we are devoid of a Tower. America, oh my onhappy country! thou
hast not got no Tower! It's a sweet Boon."
The gates were opened after a while, and we all purchist tickets, and
went into a waitin' room.
"My frens," said a pale-faced little man, in black close, "that is a sad
day."
"Inasmuch as to how?" I said.
"I mean it is sad to think that so many peple have been killed within
these gloomy walls. My frens, let us drop a tear."
"No!" I said, "you must excuse me. Others may drop one if they feel like
it; but as for me, I decline. The early managers of this institootion
were a bad lot, and their crimes were trooly orful; but I can't sob for
those who died four or five hundred years ago. If they was my own
relations I couldn't. It's absurd to shed sobs over things which occurd
during the rain of Henry the Three. Let us be cheerful," I continnered.
"Look at the festiv Warders, in their red flannel jackets. They are
cheerful, and why should it not be thusly with us?"
A Warder now took us in charge, and showed us the Trater's Gate, the
armers, and things. The Trater's Gate is wide enuff to admit about
twenty traters abrest, I should jedge; but beyond this, I couldn't see
that it was superior to gates in gen'ral.
Traters, I will here remark, are an onforchunit class of pe'ple. If they
wasn't, they wouldn't be traters. They conspire to bust up a
country--they fail, and they're traters. They bust her, and they become
statesmen and heroes.
Take the case of Gloster, afterwards Old Dick the Three, who may be seen
at the Tower on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat--take Mr. Gloster's
case. Mr. G. was a conspirator of the basist dye, and if he'd failed, he
would have been hung on a sour apple tree. But Mr. G. succeeded and
became great. He was slewed by Col. Richmond, but he lives in history,
and his equestrian figger may be seen daily for a sixpence, in
conjunction with other em'nent persons, and no extra charge for the
Warder's able and bootiful lectur.
There's one King in this room who is mounted onto a foaming steed, his
right hand graspin a barber's pole. I didn't learn his name.
The room where the daggers and pistils and other weppins is kept is
interestin. Among this collection of choice cutlery I notist the bow and
arrer which those hot-heded old chaps used to conduct battles with. It
is quite like the bow and arrer used at this date by certain tribes of
American Injuns, and they shoot 'em off with such an excellent precision
that I almost sigh'd to be an Injun when I was in the Rocky Mountain
regin. They are a pleasant lot, them Injuns. Mr. Cooper and Dr. Catlin
have told us of the red man's wonderful eloquence, and I found it so.
Our party was stopt on the plains of Utah by a band of Shoshones, whose
chief said:--
"Brothers! the pale-face is welcome. Brothers! the sun is sinking in the
west, and Wa-na-bucky-she will soon cease speakin. Brothers! the poor
red man belongs to a race which is fast becomin extink."
He then whooped in a shrill manner, stole our blankets, and whisky, and
fled to the primeval forest to conceal his emotions.
I will remark here, while on the subjeck of Injuns, that they are in the
main a very shaky set, with even less sense than the Fenians; and when I
hear philanthropists bewailin the fack that every year "carries the
noble red man nearer the settin sun," I simply have to say I'm glad of
it, tho' it is rough on the settin sun. They call you by the sweet name
of Brother one minit, and the next they scalp you with their
Thomas-hawks. But I wander. Let us return to the Tower.
At one end of the room where the weppins is kept, is a wax figger of
Queen Elizabeth, mounted on a fiery stuffed hoss, whose glass eye
flashes with pride, and whose red morocker nostril dilates hawtily, as
if, conscious of the royal burden he bears. I have associated Elizabeth
with the Spanish Armady. She's mixed up with it at the Surrey Theatre,
where _Troo to the Core_ is bein acted, and in which a full bally core
is introjooced on board the Spanish Admiral's ship, givin' the audiens
the idea that he intends openin a moosic-hall in Plymouth the moment he
conkers that town. But a very interestin drammer is _Troo to the Core_,
notwithstandin the eccentric conduct of the Spanish Admiral; and very
nice it is in Queen Elizabeth to make Martin Truegold a baronet.
The Warder shows us some instrooments of tortur, such as thumbscrews,
throat collars, etc., statin' that these was conkered from the Spanish
Armady, and addin what a crooil peple the Spaniards was in them
days--which elissited from a bright-eyed little girl of about twelve
summers the remark that she tho't it was rich to talk about the crooilty
of the Spaniards usin thumbscrews, when he was in a tower where so many
poor peple's heads had been cut off. This made the Warder stammer and
turn red.
I was so pleased with the little girl's brightness that I could have
kissed the dear child, and I would if she'd been six years older.
I think my companions intended makin a day of it, for they all had
sandwiches, sassiges, etc. The sad-lookin man, who had wanted us to drop
a tear afore we started to go round, fling'd such quantities of sassige
into his mouth that I expected to see him choke hisself to death; he
said to me, in the Beauchamp Tower, where the poor prisoners writ their
onhappy names on the cold walls, "This is a sad sight."
"It is indeed," I ansered. "You're black in the face. You shouldn't eat
sassige in public without some rehearsals beforehand. You manage it
orkwardly."
"No," he said, "I mean this sad room."
Indeed, he was quite right. Tho' so long ago all these drefful things
happened, I was very glad to git away from this gloomy room, and go
where the rich and sparklin Crown Jewils is kept. I was so pleased with
the Queen's Crown, that it occurd to me what a agree'ble surprise it
would be to send a sim'lar one home to my wife; and I asked the Warder
what was the vally of a good well-constructed Crown like that. He told
me, but on cypherin up with a pencil the amount of funs I have in the
Jint Stock Bank, I conclooded I'd send her a genteel silver watch
instid.
And so I left the Tower. It is a solid and commandin edifis, but I deny
that it is cheerful. I bid it adoo without a pang.
(_From_ "PUNCH," _by permission of the Proprietors_.)
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA.
DOUGLAS JERROLD.
"That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. _What were you to do?_
Why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was
nothing about _him_ that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look
like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold
than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do
you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't St. Swithin's day! Do
you hear it, against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me.
You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say?
Oh, you _do_ hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for
six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't
think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult _me_. _He_ return the
umbrella! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody
ever _did_ return an umbrella! There--do you hear it? Worse and worse?
Cats and dogs, and for six weeks--always six weeks. And no umbrella!
"I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow?
They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No: they shall
stop at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner
than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to
thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People who
can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.
"But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was
going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; and you did
it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every
mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No,
sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I
won't have a cab, where do you think the money's to come from? You've
got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me
sixteen-pence at least--sixteen pence! two and sixpence, for there's
back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; I
can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do;
throwing away your property, and beggaring your children--buying
umbrellas!
"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't
care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will; and what's more, I'll walk
every step of the way--and you know that will give me my death. Don't
call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. You know I
can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a
cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I
may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty
doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend
your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes; and
that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!
"Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing through weather like this. My
gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. _Needn't I wear 'em, then?_
Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I _shall_ wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a
dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that
I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at
once,--better, I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose
to go like a lady. Oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to break in the
windows.
"Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! How I am to go to
mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. No, sir; I
won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle,
only listen to this; if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it
in the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all.
"Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella.
I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone
without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at
you. Oh, it's all very well for you--you can go to sleep. You've no
thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. You think
of nothing but lending umbrellas.
"Men, indeed!--call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords,
when they can't even take care of an umbrella.
"I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you
want--then you may go to your club, and do as you like--and then, nicely
my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, then you'll be happy.
Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent the
umbrella!
"You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you
can't go. No, indeed, you _don't_ go without the umbrella. You may lose
the debt for what I care--it won't be so much as spoiling your
clothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend
umbrellas!
"And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the
umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go--that's nothing to do
with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little
money we were to have, we shan't have at all--because we've no umbrella.
"The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet: for they shan't
stop at home--they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father
will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they _shall_ go to school. Don't tell me I
said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the
temper of an angel. They _shall_ go to school; mark that. And if they
get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--I didn't lend the
umbrella!"
* * * * *
"At length," writes Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky was
turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the whole
world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!"
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO.)
DOMESTIC ASIDES.
TOM HOOD.
"I really take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner,
I have not seen you such an age--
(The wretch has come to dinner!)
"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls--
What heads for painters' easels!
Come here, and kiss the infant, dears--
(And give it, p'raps, the measles!)
"Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas very kind to bring them both--
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
"What! little Clara left at home?
Well now, I call that shabby:
I should have loved to kiss her so--
(A flabby, dabby, babby!)
"And Mr. S., I hope he's well,
Ah! though he lives so handy,
He never drops in now to sup--
(The better for our brandy!)
"Come, take a seat--I long to hear
About Matilda's marriage;
You've come, of course, to spend the day!
(Thank heaven, I hear the carriage!)
"What! must you go? Next time I hope
You'll give me longer measure;
Nay--I shall see you down the stairs--
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,
Next time you'll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I'm not at home
In future to the Skinners!")
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. WARD, LOCK, & CO.)
THE CHARITY DINNER.
LITCHFIELD MOSELEY.
TIME: half-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tavern. Occasion:
Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distribution of
Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.
On entering the room, we find more than two hundred noblemen, and
gentlemen already assembled; and the number is increasing every minute.
There are many well-known city diners here this evening. That very
ordinary looking personage, with the rubicund complexion and pimply
features, is old Moneypenny, senior partner of the great firm of
Moneypenny, Blodgers, and Wobbles, corn factors of Mark Lane. He began
the world as a fellowship porter, and always makes a rule of attending
the principal dinners at the London Tavern, "because," as he says
confidentially, to Wobbles, "don't you see, my boy, it's a very cheap
way of getting into society." He is talking now to Sir Sandy McHaggis, a
Scotch baronet, with a slender purse and a large appetite, with whom he
has scraped an acquaintance, and presented with a spare ticket for the
festival; knowing that the Scotchman is "varra fond o' a gude dinner,
specially when it costs a mon nothing at all." The preparations are now
complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. After a short
pause, a little door at the end of the room opens, and the great man
appears, attended by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies,
carrying white wands, like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on
beating the bounds. He advances smilingly to his post at the principal
table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers.
He is a very popular man, this chairman; for is he not the Earl of
Mount-Stuart, late one of Her Majesty's Cabinet Ministers? and his
wealth and party influence are known to be enormous.
The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the
enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and
grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business
of the evening commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the
noble chairman rises, and, after passing his fingers through his hair,
he places his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short
preparatory cough, accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and
commences as follows:--
"MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN--It is with mingled pleasure and regret that I
appear before you this evening: of pleasure, to find that this
excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a
condition; and, of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier
chairman; in fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with
a subject of such vital importance as this. (Loud cheers). But,
although I may be unworthy of the honour, I am proud to state that I
have been a subscriber to this society from its commencement; feeling
sure that nothing can tend more to the advancement of civilization,
social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic economy among the
cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremendous
cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here, in this England of
ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as I suppose you all
know--or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses
the same fact, 'England bound in by the triumphant sea'--what, down
the long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms,
and arts and song, than blankets? Indeed, I never gaze upon a blanket
without my thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early
childhood. Where should we all have been now but for those warm and
fleecy coverings? My Lords and Gentlemen! Our first and tender
memories are all associated with blankets: blankets when in our
nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets
to our French bedsteads in our schooldays, and blankets to our marital
four-posters now. Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as
men,--and, with feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen--to initiate
the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat uncultivated denizen of
the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets; and to supply
him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable,
luxurious, and useful appendages. At such a moment as this, the lines
of another poet strike familiarly upon the ears. Let me see, they are
something like this--
"Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast,
And to--to, do--a----"