CHAPTER VI.

The agitation and distress of Mrs. Heartwell at finding that Frank did

not return on the day of the ship-launch may readily be conceived--he

was the only stay and hope of her heart. Suspecting the cause of his

absence, she set out for the tender at the Tower; but as it was dark

night, the sentries would neither allow her to come on board nor render

any information, so that she was forced to return unsatisfied. But on the

following morning she was again alongside, and learned the fate of her

son and the negro, who were then at some distance down the river. This,

though it removed her fears for his safety, did not diminish her anxiety

for his welfare, nor was it till she received the letter announcing

his being placed on the quarter-deck of the Thunderbolt, seventy-four,

that she felt relieved from the sickening apprehensions that had almost

overwhelmed her.

It was about this time that Richard Brothers, the supposed prophet,

became extremely popular; and as he had declared that he was commanded

by divine authority to proclaim the destruction of the city of London by

earthquake and fire, many of his believers who resided within the doomed

precincts quitted their habitations, and found temporary abodes outside

the proscribed districts: amongst these was a Mr. Baurie, a tradesman of

the Strand, who, terrified at the denunciation, at a very considerable

sacrifice of business and property, left his house and occupied Mrs.

Heartwell's apartments. Brothers resided in Paddington-street, where he

was almost worshipped as the Prince of the Hebrews, and the Deliverer

and King of the Jews, who was to restore them to New Jerusalem, and

become their ruler; and as there had been some remarkable coincidences

connected with his prophecies, thousands of all ranks--even bishops and

clergy--visited him, and not a few gave full credence to his absurdities.

He frequently called upon Baurie, and, being a lieutenant in the navy,

Mrs. Heartwell had more than once or twice conversed with him about her

husband. His answers were invariably the same--"Though he be dead, yet

shall he live again--though he is lost, yet shall he be found." Ambiguous

as this reply may be considered, it encouraged the cherished hope that

her husband would be restored to her. Strong as her mind usually was,

the mild and gentlemanly manners of the prophet, combined with his

upright conduct and undeviating integrity, won upon her feelings; and

though she pitied the weakness of his believers, there were times when

his observations made a deeper impression upon herself than she liked to

acknowledge.

Meetings were held in Baurie's apartment, which were attended by numbers

of the select--the principal of whom were Brassey Allhead, an intelligent

oriental scholar, who had resided many years in India, and now sat as

member of Parliament for ----, William Bryan, George Turner, and others,

who pretended to see visions, claimed the gift of prophecy, and bore

testimony to the authenticity of Brothers's mission--that he was the

descendant of King David--the rod that was to come out of the stem of

Jesse, &c., &c.: in fact, there only wanted the "unknown tongues," which

has since been discovered by the disciples of fanaticism, to render the

whole farce perfect in all its parts.

The twilight of a summer evening was gradually deepening its shade,

when a hackney-coach stopped at Mrs. Heartwell's door, and the servant

announced that a strange-looking woman who came in it had endeavoured

to force her way into the house, and still remained clamorous to be

admitted. Without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Heartwell went to the

hall--the door was re-opened, but the lady could not help retiring

back with amazement, when she beheld a stout female, in short Dutch

petticoats, wooden shoes, and a peaked-crown hat, who, in spite of the

resistance of the servant, immediately and hurriedly advanced towards her.

"Who, and what are you?" demanded Mrs. Heartwell. "Keep the woman back,

Mary!"

The girl caught hold of the intruder's petticoats, but, observing a thick

club queue hanging down the female's back, she shouted, "Oh, my! ma'am,

she's got a pig-tail!" and let them go again.

"What is all this?--who do you want?" demanded the lady, retreating. "Why

don't you stop her, Mary?"

"Lor', ma'am, I carnt," replied the girl, again catching hold of the

petticoats, whilst a well-remembered voice laughingly exclaimed,--

"Bless you, my lady--why, dont you know me? Howsomever I hope I arnt

frightened you; but what's the odds so as you're happy?"

"Can it indeed be Ben!" said Mrs. Heartwell, in surprise. "But why are

you dressed thus?"

"Oh, it's a long story, my lady!" replied the seaman; "and I've kept the

duds on to circumwent the pressgangs. But I am so happy to see you again."

Mrs. Heartwell extended her hand to the worthy tar, and as her child was

the first object of her thoughts, she eagerly inquired whether he "had

seen or heard anything of Frank." From the answers she elicited, she very

soon came to the conclusion that Frank was not far off. "He is here,

Ben--I am sure of it. Open the door, Mary--the coach is still waiting--my

son!--my son! Merciful Father, I thank thee!" The next minute the youth

was in her arms; and Sambo, full of joy at his return, sprang in and

caught the servant-girl round the neck, so as to excite something like

jealousy in the mind of Ben, who however, in the fulness of delight, cut

a few capers of the college hornpipe, exclaiming, "What's the odds, so as

you're happy!" and making the hall echo again to the sounds of his wooden

shoes.

There was pleasure that night at Mrs. Heartwell's, both in the parlour

and in the kitchen. In the former Mr. Baurie and family and Mr. Unity

Peach, who had called in, witnessed the gratification and anxiety of the

mother as Frank recounted his adventures from first to last, not omitting

his interview with Brady in the character of a traitorous spy, and

stating that the merchant, with his wife and daughter, who had escaped in

their company, had gone to an hotel in the neighbourhood.

Sambo and Ben in the kitchen enjoyed themselves to their heart's

content--the grog was abroach--the pipes sent forth their wreaths of

curling smoke--the servants were delighted, and the hour was late before

they all departed to their rest.

The next morning Frank and his two humble companions were supplied with

suitable apparel, and Mrs. Heartwell looked with pride upon the handsome

appearance of her son in his uniform, though a sigh would now and then

escape as she contemplated the strong resemblance which he bore to his

father, and when she thought how soon they must part again.

The young midshipman, accompanied by the seaman and the negro, went to

the Admiralty and reported their escape to the secretary, who questioned

Frank pretty closely relative to what he had witnessed in Paris. During

the inquiry a tall, upright, stately gentleman entered the room, and not

only remained to listen to the conversation, but put several questions

to the youth, and seemed satisfied with the ready and pleasing manner in

which they were answered. He was then directed to call the next day, and

instructions would be given to him for their future proceedings.

Frank was quitting the Admiralty gates, when a government messenger

tapped him on the shoulder and an officer took him into custody. Ben and

the black would have resisted; but the youth desired them to desist,

and, conscious of innocence of any crime, cheerfully accompanied the

messenger, followed at a little distance by Sambo and the seaman. The

whole had been done so quietly that no bustle was excited, and they

were soon in the Home-office at Downing Street, and Frank was summoned

into the presence of Mr. Dundas, the Secretary of State, and questioned

relative to his having seen lawyer Brady at the house of Polverel, and

what transpired there.

The youth explicitly answered every interrogatory, and was requested

to accompany Mr. Dundas to the Privy Council, which was then about to

sit. The carriage was waiting; and when Ben saw the smiling face of his

young master as he nodded at him on ascending the steps of the vehicle,

he became assured that nothing was wrong, though he determined to watch

where he went to; and both the seaman and the black had a smart run

for it till they saw the equipage enter the archway of a prison-like

building, and Ben became fearful that the young officer was "going to be

clapped in limbo." He went up to the sentry and, offering him a bite of

pigtail, inquired "What place that was," His mind became more appeased,

though his wonder was not lessened, on being told that it was "the King's

Palace."

The Privy Council had met, and lawyer Brady was a prisoner before them

on a charge of treasonable practices. Several witnesses were examined,

who gave evidence against him; but as nothing very conclusive could be

drawn from it, he remained cool and firm till Frank was introduced, when

that peculiar rolling of the eye for which he was remarkable under sudden

excitement plainly indicated strong internal emotion.

[Illustration: _Richard Brothers the Prophet at Mrs. Heartwells._

London: Tilt & Bogue. 86. Fleet Street.]

Frank was at first somewhat confused, but he was encouraged by the tall

gentleman he had seen at the Admiralty, and who was, in fact, the Earl

of Chatham, at that time the head of the navy. The youth narrated every

particular that had transpired in connexion with Brady at Paris, and

at the close of his examination he was requested to withdraw. He was

shown into a room where the other witnesses were assembled, and here

Frank learned that Brady had been engaged by the government as a spy

amongst certain of the higher classes of society, whom he first betrayed,

and then, having obtained all the intelligence he could of national

affairs, it was supposed had secretly gone over to communicate his

information to the enemy. This last supposition Frank had confirmed; and

the lawyer was committed to prison on a charge of high treason.

On the following day Frank had another interview with the secretary of

the Admiralty, and was desired to leave his address and remain at home

till further orders, and the seaman and the negro had leave of absence

extended to them.

Mrs. Heartwell was much pleased at retaining her son with her for some

time, especially as she received another handsome donation from her

unknown friend, which enabled her to procure him a complete outfit. Mr.

Wendover, the merchant, had called, and behaved with great kindness

and attention to both the mother and son, and the latter was invited

to pass a few days at a handsome mansion which had just been purchased

near Finchley common, and which gave a right to the owner as lord of the

manor. Frank was delighted--he had never ceased to treasure the most

pleasing remembrances of the interesting girl who had clung to him for

protection on the beach at Blankenburg, and she, with all the tenderness

and devotion of youthful affection, secretly cherished a warm regard for

the young midshipman, and she most earnestly longed to see him again.

On the evening previous to the intended visit, Brothers, the prophet,

held a "meeting" in the drawing-room of Mr. Baurie's lodgings, and as

on these occasions--which were looked upon in the light of devotional

exercises--none were excluded, Mrs. Heartwell, Frank, Mr. Unity Peach,

Ben and Sambo, and two or three of his leading disciples, as well as the

servants, were present. There was nothing in the illusionist's general

manner that could be construed into aberration of intellect. He was

perfectly intelligible and sane when his monomania was not called into

operation. He was a strong-limbed man; his hair was cropped close--his

full eyes bent upon a book that he held in his right hand, and from

which he commenced his address by reading passages from the prophecies

of Daniel. His dress was remarkably plain, approaching to that usually

worn by the Society of Friends, and his cravat was tied in the most exact

manner, so that the bow in front resembled the cross of St. John of

Jerusalem. At first, his voice was mild and gentle; but as he proceeded

and became warmed with his subject, his countenance assumed an expression

of wild energy, his utterance became deep and sepulchral, till at length,

throwing down the book, he stood erect, with his arms crossed upon his

breast, as the spirit of prophecy seemed to come upon him.

"Woe unto ye of the earth who seeing will not believe; who hear and

yet despise. I am he of whom it is said, that a man will be revealed

to the Hebrews as their prince, and to all nations as their governor,

according to the covenant entered into with king David. Haste then and

flee from the wrath to come, for have I not prophesied, and it hath come

to pass?--Have I not foretold, and the fulfilment is at hand? Did I not

predict the downfal of monarchy in France? and lo! it hath fallen. Did

I not foretel the death of Louis? and he is no more. Did I not say the

king of Sweden was given over to destruction? The great Gustavus is laid

in the tomb by the hand of an assassin. Have I not declared that England

would be deserted by her allies? many of them are already gone, and the

others will quickly follow.--The king of Prussia will acknowledge the

republic of France;--the government of Poland will be changed, and the

monarch driven from his throne;--the stadtholdership of Holland shall

be cut off close to the ground! Hear and understand, ye men who are

in authority! The prisons are crowded with captives charged with high

treason, but the powers shall not prevail against them;--yet a little

while and the prison doors shall be opened and the whole shall walk forth

free. Hearken, oh! ye Hebrews, and listen, oh! ye people--London, with

its Armageddon[9], shall be utterly destroyed.--Lo! I saw in a vision,

and Satan clothed in white and scarlet, and breathing desecration and

fire, was entering the condemned city, and suddenly there was strife and

confusion among the citizens, and every man's hand was armed against

his brother, till a river ran through London of the colour of blood,

and there was a voice of fury and the noise of an earthquake, and there

were groans of woe--woe--woe! And I prayed and wrestled with the spirit

that the city might be spared, and HE, the Mighty One, was angered, and

his wrath frightened away the angel from my side, and all became dark

and oblivious; yet I saw in my vision that London had sunk into the

bowels of the ground, and between the Downs and Windsor there was but

one vast sheet of water, so that no trace of the city could be found.

Why will ye die, oh! house of Israel?--hear and believe! And a storm

shall arise--there will be consternation amongst our rulers--the English

Admiralty shall be shaken as a man would shake bread in a basket."

(Frank looked at Ben, and his countenance evinced displeasure.) "The

prop and stay of the nation shall be knocked away--her armies will be

destroyed, and her navy will be annihilated--the carcases of her soldiers

shall strew the earth--the bodies of her seamen in an ocean-grave lie

buried--for the enemy shall prevail, and the proud ships shall be sunk or

grace the triumph of the foe."

Here the prophet was interrupted by Ben, who, rising up and biting

through his quid, as he hitched up his trowsers, ejaculated with

vehemence the word "Gammon," seemingly to the great delight of Mr. Unity

Peach, who screwed his face into all manner of shapes to conceal his

mirth, and uttered, "Sit down, man--saucy sailor--go to sea." The prophet

prepared to renew his subject; but Frank, seconding Ben's motion by

rising also, boldly said, that "being a British naval officer he could

not sit to hear the service he loved denounced--it would be treason to

his country. The English ensign had been victorious on the seas, and its

gallant defenders would never allow it to be dishonoured."

"Hurrah, Master Frank," shouted Ben, "who cares for a bit of a breeze!

Nillyhate our navy indeed!--bury all hands in the ocean!--strike to the

enemy too!--Gammon, all gammon; but there, what's the odds so as you're

happy."

"Neber see de day, boy," chimed in Sambo, as he imitated the example of

his master, "Golly-make me tink ob em gullemtine."

The three withdrew, and Mr. Unity Peach soon afterwards left the party,

"in order," as he said, "to scold the unmanly interruption given to Mr.

Brothers," but in reality to vent his spleen against everybody; and the

prophet very speedily took his departure.

The stately and elegant mansion purchased by Mr. Wendover was indeed

delightfully situated, and the grounds had been laid out with

considerable taste and skill. Joyous were the hours that Frank passed

there in the society of friends, who esteemed him as their deliverer from

death, and particularly with Helen, who not only admired the handsome

young officer's improved appearance, but also very naturally evinced

gratitude towards him for saving the life of her father.

Never were pair more truly happy; the present was to them all bright,

and clear, and shining; they had no thought of the coming future; not a

cloud intervened to cast a gloom upon their innocent enjoyments; and no

pain was experienced till the time of separation approached, and then

they felt how truly estimable and dear they were to each other. Frank

was on the verge of his seventeenth birth-day; Helen had just passed her

fifteenth; and both were experiencing those delightful sensations of

affection, which in early life are so exquisitely delicious, because they

are untainted by unhallowed thoughts or worldly desires.

On the estate was a beautiful little rural cottage, over which the vine

grew in rich luxuriance, and its garden shone bright with the varied

hues of many flowers. Often when passing it Frank had wished it was the

home of his mother, whose health had become impaired by lodging-house

keeping, and she earnestly desired to retire from it. The place had been

unoccupied for several years, and Helen, without saying anything to

Frank, had urged the suit with her parents to offer it to Mrs. Heartwell

as a residence. Mrs. Wendover and Helen called upon that lady; and the

former was so much gratified with the deportment and conversation of Mrs.

Heartwell, that she at once made the proposition and invited her down to

visit the place.

The invitation was accepted, but before the day arrived Frank was

accosted in the street by Shipkins, who had acted as Brady's assistant,

and he delivered a message from his employer, earnestly entreating

that the youth would come to him, as he had affairs of importance to

communicate. Shipkins also added his own persuasions to go immediately;

but Frank peremptorily declined, until he had consulted with his

mother, who, on his return home, not only advised the interview, but

also resolved to accompany him as vague thoughts rose in her mind that

possibly she might learn something respecting her husband. On the

succeeding forenoon they went to the prison, and were informed that Brady

had contrived to make his escape during the night, and the officers were

then out in search of him.

Protected from impressment by leave from the admiralty, both Ben

and the negro could go where they pleased; and as the merchant had

presented them with a liberal sum, they did not fail to avail themselves

of the enjoyment of freedom. The Royal Circus (as the Surrey Theatre

was then called) was a place of great celebrity for its melo-dramatic

performances, and the "unrivalled" feats of horsemanship, enlivened

as they always were by the quaint humour of a clever clown. Ben and

Sambo had gone to visit a relation of the former somewhere in the

neighbourhood of Walworth, and Frank had engaged to meet them at the

notorious tea-gardens known by the sign of the Dog and Duck, in St.

George's Fields, to accompany them to the Circus. The morning and evening

promenades at the Dog and Duck were frequented by all the dashing bucks

of the time, with their ladies; and amongst the company might often be

seen _gentlemen_ riders, whose _modesty_ on the highway induced them

to put crape over their faces as they uttered "Stand, and deliver"--in

short, the place became the assemblage of the worst characters of

society. Frank, habited in plain clothes (as his uniform would not have

corresponded with the dress of his companions), was crossing the open

fields to the place of appointment, when Shipkins again addressed him,

and by assurances that he could inform him of the fate of his father,

induced the young man to enter a respectable-looking house in the

neighbourhood; but no sooner had they advanced into a room at the back of

the premises, than Frank was seized by two stout men, a wet cloth bound

over his mouth, and he was conveyed to a sort of dungeon in the rear of

the building, where his clothes were stripped off, and a canvas shirt and

trousers substituted in their stead; an iron band was then clasped round

his body, and he found himself chained to the floor.

The intentions of Shipkins were now evident; and Frank conjectured that

his death was determined upon. Thinking more of his mother than himself,

the young man suffered great distress, which was not relieved by a

confused noise that suddenly commenced; and by placing his ear against

the ground, he thought he could distinguish the strife of many human

voices. What it meant he could not tell, but he was not long kept in

ignorance, for in another half hour the door of his dungeon was thrown

open, and Ben and Sambo, with a crowd of people, entered to his rescue.

"He is not here," said the seaman mournfully, and not knowing the youth

in his change of attire; "but this is another victim, anyhow--the

man-trapping vagabones!"

The black, however, with keener eye, had recognised his master, and he

exclaimed, "Golly, you blind, Misser Ben, for no see me young massa,"

and he bounded forward to release him; but the chain and band defied his

strength--the key was not to be found; but the enraged populace applied

crow-bars to the stone in which the staple was fixed, and, after much

exertion, it was forced away, and Frank was carried to the open air,

where other unfortunate captives had been previously conveyed.

It appeared that Ben and the black were passing the house, which was

notoriously known as one of the numerous crimping establishments of the

neighbourhood, when their progress was arrested by a crowd that had

gathered in front of it, and two or three declared that they had seen a

young gentleman decoyed into it, and so many crimes had been perpetrated

there, that they were determined to put a stop to them. Ben required

a description of the young gentleman, which was given, and suspicion

crossed his mind that induced him to join the assailants; in fact, he

became their leader--the doors were beat in--the windows smashed, and a

forcible entrance made by the mob, whose numbers increased every minute.

Several poor creatures were discovered almost in a state of exhaustion,

but the principals of the establishment had escaped. In one room Ben

found a part of Frank's dress, and the sight almost maddened him. The

search was continued, and resulted as has already been told; and now a

wild but characteristic scene of lawless justice ensued. The mob dragged

the furniture out into the fields, and piling it up fire was applied,

and the whole was soon in a blaze. They next proceeded to demolish the

building itself, nor did they cease till the whole was razed to the

ground. But Frank did not wait to witness the termination--a locksmith

had succeeded in forcing the clasp of the band, and releasing him from

the encumbrance, which Sambo carried home with him as a trophy. Mrs.

Heartwell was informed of what had taken place, and a probability was

suggested that her husband might have been carried off in a similar way.

The visit to Finchley was made, and Mrs. Heartwell was persuaded by Frank

to accept the tenancy of the cottage, hoping that Fortune would favour

him with prize-money to render her life independent and comfortable. He

had now twelve months' pay due, which, with what she would receive by

disposing of part of her furniture, would serve for present exigencies;

and a distant relation had bequeathed her an annuity of thirty pounds a

year--so that prospects brightened before her.

Brady could not be found, and Frank was ordered down to join his ship,

that was then refitting at Portsmouth, and to take Sambo with him,

whilst Ben was directed to accompany them and procure a passage round to

Plymouth to the Windsor Castle.

Frank received a letter to his captain from the secretary, and set out

for Portsmouth, where he delivered his letter, and ascertained that

it contained a strong recommendation of himself to the captain. Being

somewhat of a favourite with the first lieutenant, the young midshipman

earnestly solicited him to use his influence in getting Ben transferred

to the same ship with him. The request prevailed; and Ben, by the

admiral's directions, was entered on the books of the "Thunderbolt"

seventy-four. Nor was he disappointed in his expectations of prize-money,

for in the course of a few months several valuable captures were made,

and the young midshipman enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that his

mother was comfortably settled at the cottage with a competence, and that

Helen when at Finchley visited her daily.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 9: By this name he called the Houses of Parliament.]

A WARM RECEPTION.

Harry paid twenty pounds of sterling metal,

To risk his life in a balloon, which burst;

Tom and his friends, pic-nicking, boil'd a kettle,

Which Harry (tumbling) fell into head first;

But long ere what it was they well could settle,

Arose unhurt from where he'd been immersed--

And, "Ah! why, Tom," said he, "how do, my buck?--

"You see I've just _dropp'd in_ to take--_pot-luck_!"

[Illustration]

TEA-TABLE TATTLE.

"Is your tea agreeable, my dear Miss Dibsley?"

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Hipson; quite pleasant; very much as I like it; all

green with some black in it; a bit more sugar if you please."

"Glad you like the flavour; I've just changed my tea-dealer, and--"

"And new _brooms_ sweep clean, as the saying is," tittered Miss Dibsley;

"a trifle more cream,--thank you."

"Brooms!" ejaculated Mrs. Hipson gravely; "um! I hope you don't mean--by

your mention of brooms--I assure you I ordered the very best seven

shilling--"

"Oh dear, quite the reverse," returned Miss Dibsley, helping herself to

another tea-cake.

"With some very superior green," proceeded Mrs. Hipson, "at

eight-and-six, which I do think quite a catch; but really it's extremely

difficult to find good teas now-a-days, for since this curious business

with China--"

"Oh! pray do tell me something about that," said Miss Dibsley; "for I

never yet found anybody who knew, and never had patience to listen if

they did. What has this Emperor of Delf been doing? The cream--thank you."

"Why, my dear, I've luckily had it all explained to me by a gentleman

deeply concerned in the Potteries, who consequently understands

everything connected with China--it's his business--and he informs me on

the best authority that the disturbance originally broke out thus:--You

see there happens to be a place in America called the Boundary-line, the

natives of which employed a gentleman named McLeod to seize upon one of

our East India ships and destroy its cargo of tea--these Boundary-line

people being jealous, as I'm told, of the spread of temperance in this

country. Whereupon our merchants in India naturally became incensed;

and they applied, it seems, to the Emperor of China for a considerable

quantity of opium--of opium, don't you see?--with the view of selling

it to America at a very reduced price, so that the Boundary-line

people might be tempted to buy the injurious drug, and thus become the

instruments of their own punishment."

"Now I begin to understand," said Miss Dibsley. "Euphemius Hipson, my

dear, you can assist me to another lump of sugar?"

"Oh! yes Miss Dibsley," said the young gentleman, jumping up nervously

and spilling his tea over his new pepper-and-salt habiliments; "and if

you'd like a bit more of this cake, here's such a nice--"

"Euphemius, my darling," cried Mrs. Hipson, "Silence! Would you like to

take some more cake, Miss Dibsley? Euphemius, go and sit down. Well, my

dear, as I was saying, the Emperor of China, secretly instigated by his

political crony, old Mehemet Ali--a very clever man, I need not tell

you--positively refused to supply any opium to our merchants; and he

seems to have acted with great obstinacy, for the French king and the

Sultan together vainly endeavoured to counteract the policy of the Pacha,

who had succeeded in persuading the Emperor that we wanted all this opium

for _home-consumption_--in fact (only think!) that the British were going

to destroy themselves with _opium_, and that thus he should lose his best

customers for _tea_."

"I see it all," remarked Miss Dibsley; "Euphemius, take my cup; and I

think I'll try the bread and butter."

"Well, the opium _we could not get_, though the applications that Lord

Palmerston made were unknown; however we could punish Mehemet Ali for

his part in the transaction, and _you_ know as well as _I_ how matters

ended in Syria. I must tell you that his Celestial Majesty never once

interposed to protect the Pacha, but left him to his fate--this I know

to be the case. Well, our quarrel with China still remained open--"

"Cream, Euphemius," said Miss Dibsley.

"We refused to take tea----"

"There's a good lad: a little bit more sugar."

"We refused to take their tea without the supply of opium;--the Emperor

grew more and more incensed--told all manner of falsehoods, and asserted

that our merchants had been administering opium to the Chinese, (where

should they get it, I should like to know!) with the view of producing

sleep and plundering the tea-factories. He then, it is said--though I

don't understand this part of the story--flung his chops in the faces

of the British, and at length provoked our sailors to make an attack on

everything in the shape of junk that they could find. And so to war we

went--all, as you perceive, through the people of the Boundary-line, and

the meddling of Mehemet Ali."

[Illustration]

"I never clearly understood the matter before," observed Miss Dibsley,

stirring her fourth cup: "but what has the Emperor been doing lately?"

"Lately, why haven't you heard? My dear, to prevent the British from

being supplied, he has been ordering all his people to destroy their

stocks of teas--hyson, souchong, bohea, congou--all they have, and

promising to indemnify them every sixpence."

"Well to be sure!" exclaimed Miss Dibsley; (a little more _gunpowder_

in the pot would improve the next cup, my dear madam;) "only think! But

isn't this a good deal like cutting his own nose off?"

"Of course it is, and what his Celestial Majesty will be doing next, I

can't guess--I must ask my friend in the Potteries _his_ opinion."

"I shouldn't at all wonder," returned Miss Dibsley, "if he were to hang

himself up on one of his own tea-trees by his own pigtail, as a scarecrow

to frighten away the barbarians."

"But if this destruction of tea is to go on, what are _we_ to do? What is

to become of the tee-totallers, Miss Dibsley?'

"Can't say, my dear Mrs. Hipson, unless they turn coffee-totallers."

"It's a melancholy affair, love."

"It is indeed, dear. That last crisp little biscuit there is positively

tempting,--and now I think of it, I'll just venture on _half_ a cup

more tea; that sprinkling of gunpowder holds out deliciously. That'll

do--thank you--charming!--These Chinese, I believe, have nothing of a

navy?"

"I'm credibly informed," responded Mrs. Hipson, "that their ships are all

made of earthenware--in the shape of milk-pots."

[Illustration]

"Yes, and their cavalry are all mounted on tea-kettles, and go by steam."

"By the way--Oh! Miss Dibsley, I had almost forgot--you have never seen

the sweet copy of verses that our dear Euphemius has been inditing on

this curious Chinese business. Euphemius, my darling, show them to

Miss Dibsley. He actually pictures the Celestial Emperor sitting on a

teapot!--a teapot for a throne; how imaginative! I assure _you_--but I

shouldn't like it to go farther--that our friend in the Potteries thinks

them quite remarkable, and says that the youth's knowledge of _facts_

is surprising: Euphemius is hardly seventeen yet--quite a child! What

an age of genius this is! Euphemius, my dear, will you read?--Martha,

you can take away.--Beg pardon, any more tea, Miss Dibsley? No!--not

half a cup?--Take away, Martha. Euphemius, dear, proceed with your

poetry."--"Hadn't I better read it for myself?" said Miss Dibsley. "No, I

thank you," returned Euphemius; "you won't find out the jokes so well as

I shall, 'cause I haven't put 'em all in italics." (_Euphemius reads._)

The world rests on a tortoise,

And a teapot rests on that,

And on the teapot sitteth

Earth's Emperor fierce and fat.

He's brother to ten Comets,

And a dozen Suns and Moons;

The ocean is his slop-basin,

And his subjects are all spoons.

Forty cups of tea he taketh

Every minute of the day,

And he's owner of a milk-walk,

Called by men the milky way.

But for all his mighty emperorship,

I wouldn't be in _his_ shoes,

For there's steam enough about him

To stew the chops he issues.

If stronger he his tea makes,

'Twill blow out half his teeth;

For hot's the water under him,

And there's gunpowder beneath.

Yet danger can't convince him,

Though it grow more strong and hot;

Of "green" he's proved a sample;

He's "a spoonful for the pot."

"_Tu doces_" means "thou tea-chest,"

But to teach old China's tribe,

We must read it thus, "Two doses,"

Such as Nelson would prescribe.

As sure as that's a teapot,

He'll go upward with a whiz,

And be, though more Celestial,

Less Majestic than he is.

As sure as that same crockery

Community are crackt,

Their spouts, and lids, and handles,

Will go smash, and that's a fact.

Though _t_ be first and last of it,

In them there'll be no _trust_,

Till "with your leaf, or by your leaf,"

Death turns them to "fine dust."

How puzzled be their crania

Beneath our cannon's roar!

They never tasted anything

But "cannister" before.

They'll wonder what it's all about,

When shot yet more abounds;

They look into their teacups,

And can't understand the grounds.

While they fancy that there's nothing

With their own tea on a par,

I wonder what they think of

The British T-a-r.

This fact, Celestial Emperor,

From experience we may know,

If amongst the _quick_ we leave you,

You will leave us--to the _sloe_.

"Very good indeed, Euphemius;" cried Miss Dibsley, with a slight yawn;

"capital; if you live long enough I haven't a doubt that you'll cut a

very pretty figure as a poet in the pages of the _Stoke Poges Gazette_,

_or Wormwood Scrubbs and Bullock-Smithey Register_."

[Illustration]

OMNIBUS CHAT.

Meditating luxuriantly in our Omnibus the other day upon the elegant

forms of the fair as they flitted in the sunshine through the streets of

the west end, it occurred to us that we had neglected

THE FASHIONS

of late, and that the public might be expecting from us some report

on the costumes of 1841. In a vehicle like the "Omnibus" it would be

unpardonable not to _notice_ the Fashions. It is a subject to which we

intend to pay especial attention.

While thus resolving, a lady _swept_ across the road, and Blackie, the

crossing-sweeper, attracted our attention by these observations upon the

fair pedestrian:--

"Wot berry obliging an kin' hearted tings dem white lady is!--dey

not ony gib poor nigger de coppers, but dey so kin' as help

him sweepa de crossing.--Me suppose 'em not berry strong, poor

tings, cos dey ony carry dem little doll umbrella, and dem little

picanini bonnet; but dem berry nice lady, and look berry pretty

for all dat. Bless 'em little heart, me neber wear out-a my broom,

if dey go on a-wear dem nice long train."

[Illustration]

"Blackie's right," cried our old acquaintance, Mr. Cavil, who now jumped

in. Not quite (thought we); for we could not find it in our hearts to

complain _very_ seriously of the pretty dresses of the present day.

Perhaps the train _may_ be just a thought too long. But we left Mr. Cavil

full room to denounce the pinafores turned hind part before, in which

young gentlemen between sixteen and thirty-five perambulate on Sundays;

the best pinafore is but a poor apology for the "Sunday coat," though

they do try to carry it off with a grand air, and a cigar.

The subject of

PLAYBILLS AND PLAYGOING

now took the lead; for at this moment stepped into the vehicle, for the

first time, a passenger, whose name it will be unnecessary to mention, if

we introduce him under the designation of the Playgoer. Not old in years,

he is not young in memory, and still less so in observation. By hearsay,

or by optical note, he will tell you the colour of the small-clothes

in which Munden took his farewell of the stage, and describe the exact

pattern of Woodward's shoe-buckles. He hits off Keeley to the life, and

gives you a very lively imitation of Stephens's pathetic execution of

"Auld Robin Gray." Garrick he seems to have known from a boy, and he

enlarges upon the grateful duty of subscribing to the fund now being

raised for erecting a monument to Siddons, as though he had seen that

incomparable actress (so every great authority proclaims her) make her

first and last appearance. We ought to have been born earlier; we ought

to have seen Mrs. Siddons. "You go to the theatre, I suppose, Mr. Cavil?"

inquired the Playgoer of our old acquaintance beside him.

"No I don't," was the response of Mr. Cavil, "but I read the playbills.

The playbill is the _veluti in speculum_ for me. There I see human nature

as in a mirror. There I read of envy, jealousy, and hatred--personal

pique, private friendship--self-interest, sycophancy, adulation--in the

varying forms of announcement, in the varying periods of omission--in the

different sizes of type, in the significant conjunction of names--that

may happen to compose the playbill. I see why this actor is to be run

down now, and why the other is to be cried up then. I detect a reason for

the implied insult, a motive for the palpable puff. Your playbill is a

wonderfully accurate expositor of the mysteries of your human being. I

don't want to go _into_ the theatre, while I can read what I find at the

doors. The bill's better than the play. If you want an example, look at

that placard there (pointing as we passed to one that bore her Majesty's

name at the head of it), I should like to see a comedy coming up to that!

There you read of a piece--

"'Which, from its strongly affecting scenes, and powerfully

harrowing situations, has nightly drawn tears of pity and

commiseration from the sterner heart of man, from all who have one

_spark_ of the _milk of human kindness_, whilst woman's softer

nature has swollen with bitterest indignation at the unmerited

suffering and patient endurance of the hapless foundling.'

"Such a bill as that is payable at sight. I can't read it without tears.

Its bold metaphorical originality is unequalled in our literature. We

have heard of the 'fountain of our daily bread,' and of the 'fire of

patriotism flowing into other channels;' but who ever before heard of a

'spark of the milk of human kindness!' Shakspeare never ventured to make

the daring combination."

"Mr. Cavil," said the Playgoer, "I admire your literary acumen. As

you have shown how the theatre furnishes amusement to those who never

go into it, let me show in turn that, within, the field of amusement

is not exclusively the stage. We need not travel just now 'behind the

scenes;' there we may find ourselves another time; for the present we are

satisfied with

"A ROMANCE OF THE ORCHESTRA."

I once witnessed a scene (say six or seven years ago) in the orchestra

of Covent Garden, which for ludicrousness of effect, and the mysterious

manner in which it arose, surpassed anything that ever came under my

notice. A friend, considerably my senior, and a playgoer of the time

of the Kembles, was one of my companions; the other was his wife, to

accommodate whom, being shortsighted, we had established ourselves in the

front row of the pit, on the prompter's side. At the commencement of the

overture, we found that the scroll-end of one of the large double basses

intercepted the lady's view of the stage, and a request was preferred

by my friend to the performer (a most eccentric-looking genius, with

only one eye, and that apparently turning on what mechanics call 'an

universal centre'), to alter his position, but he very uncourteously

refused to move; and still worse, on the rising of the curtain, he

left the instrument secured in a perpendicular position, so as to

completely obstruct our lady's view. Thus he left it, in spite of all

our remonstrances. I, with the desperate indignation of youth, was for

cutting the string and letting it fall down, but was restrained by my

elder and more wily friend, who whispered me 'Never mind, I'll serve him

out.'

He then changed places with his lady, and all went on quietly till the

fall of the curtain, when I suddenly missed him. He returned, however,

in a few minutes, with a large piece of--yes, of _candle_; and he gave

me a look which indicated that I was not to see anything. Yet I _did_

see, that while the rest of the audience were looking round the house,

he leant over, and, unobserved by any one else, applied the grease with

dexterity and effect to the strings of the offending instrument. He then

took his seat, apparently as unconcerned as any spectator in the pit.

In due time the bell rang for the music to the afterpiece, and we saw our

musical adversary enter, release his instrument, and seat himself. He

then tried the strings at his ear, and finding all right indulged himself

with a pinch of snuff, and quietly awaited his time. The second bell

rang-the leader gave the preliminary tap-tap, and off they went in the

overture to Tancredi. After a few bars, it was our enemy's turn to chime

in: he sawed away with right good will, but, to his utter amazement,

without producing the desired effect. He looked down inquisitively

with his single optic, but without comprehending the mystery. Again he

tried, and of course with the same result; another downward look, and

the truth seemed to flash across him. His one eye glared most horribly;

but not on us did his anger fall. In front of him, perched on a high

stool, with a step half way up for his feet, sat a little wee _homo_,

working most industriously at a violoncello, as big as himself, and in

a sweet unconsciousness of the storm gathering in his rear. On this

unoffending victim did he of the double bass vent his rage--for after

the second brief look at his useless instrument he darted one piercing

glance at the violoncello player, deliberately deposited his bow on the

desk before him, and dealt the little man so sound a cuff on the head,

that musician, stool, violoncello, and desk, went down 'in one astounding

ruin,' damaging the shins and toes of immediate neighbours, literally

putting their pipes out, and producing discord dire throughout the realm

of harmony.

In vain did the leader rap his desk and try to keep his flock together.

On looking round he found his first flute and fourth violin busily

rubbing their legs; the second trombone gentleman dreadfully irate at

having a favourite corn hurt by the stool falling on it; the small

violoncello player awfully pugnacious; while the grand cause of all was

looking on, with a diabolical smile on what passed for his face, and

muttering _sotto voce_, 'I'll teach you to play me tricks again.'

We looked quietly on, and my friend gave it as his opinion, that it

was a great pity that the gentlemen could not settle their quarrels in

private, instead of bringing them before the public in such a disgraceful

way. How it ended I know not, for the curtain rose before it could be

adjusted, and the 'harmonists' retired; but we subsequently learnt, that

our hero of the double bass was, from a boorish temper, much disliked in

the orchestra, and that to his great annoyance tricks had been frequently

played off upon him; hence his sudden and violent retaliation on his

supposed tormentor.

* * * * *

Our friend the Playgoer having thus introduced us to one of the

curiosities of music--a practiser of sweet sounds, who was anything but

the harmonist he seemed--his story suggested the image of an equally

contradictory humorist, whom we had recently encountered; and we

therefore without ceremony presented

ONE OF THE CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

'Twas evening, and loud raged the autumn blast,

As in an Author's darken'd room I stood.

It was a sight to stir the pitying blood;

His soul seemed struggling with some trouble vast;

His thin hand held a pen--his eye, downcast,

Traced its slow movement o'er the blotted sheet;

His air was wild--his heart, I heard it beat!

Lone, pale, he sat, a spectre of the past,

Like Werner when the waters round him throng,

Or like the Banish'd Lord. His heavy task

Weighs on his brain--ah! when may it be done!

"What write you, troubled spirit?" then I ask;

In thrilling tones he said--"A Comic Song,

'Tis for the _Jolly Sandboy_, No. 1."

Here we stopped to take up another passenger, "his first appearance

in our stage," though evidently an experienced literary traveller.

We all welcomed the new arrival; and Mr. Quickly (for this was his

name) pretty soon began to convince us of his qualifications for a

pleasant companionship along the road of life. We pass by what he said

of ourselves, with the bare remark, that like Falstaff's story, "it

was worth the listening;" but still worthier of it was this, which he

recounted to us under the title of

AN INCIDENT OF TRAVEL.

"Will you put that window down, Sir?"

"Certainly not, Sir, I have a bad cold!"

Such was the request addressed to his vis-à-vis in the Royal Mail by a

small gentleman in a suit of black and a profuse perspiration; and such

was the answer returned thereto by the person addressed, a highly nervous

individual rejoicing apparently in about fifteen stone, certainly in a

blue coat with gilt buttons, a sealskin cap, a red face, and nose to

correspond.--

"Will you put down the window, Sir?" again demanded, after a few

minutes, our friend of the sable garments, in a tone half angry, half

speculative.--

"Really, Sir," was the answer, "I am sorry, Sir--but must decline to do

so."

"Do you intend to open the window?" a third time exclaimed the

pertinacious votary of freedom--in accents wherein scorn and wrath were

blended, with a quivering lip and pallid cheek. The lusty man shrunk back

in his place--An assault with violence seemed impending. But though a

large--he was a brave man, and he said "No!" * * *

Again there was a pause--a decidedly unpleasant and embarrassing silence.

The little querist turned pale, and gave a deep sigh--At last, in a voice

of thunder, he roared out. "Will you, Sir, or will you not put down that

window?" and at the same moment his hand with nervous rapidity sought his

coat pocket.

The red faced man trembled--he turned pale, and cast a supplicating

glance at the other two inmates of the carriage, as who should say--"Pray

help me--I may be murdered--I really think the wretched imp must

have a stiletto or loaded pistol in his pocket." The glance seemed

satisfactory--for the great gentleman after a short pause mildly said--"I

will not, Sir!"

In a second--a large silk pocket handkerchief was suddenly jerked

from its place of repose by the diminutive tormentor of his gigantic

victim. With a face of ashy hue he held out the Indian kerchief with one

hand--the other reclined gracefully on the region of his heart. Anger had

passed away from his brow--slowly and deliberately he cast an unearthly

look on his trembling victim, and said--

"Then--Sir--you--must--take the consequences, (here he gave symptoms of

spasmodic affection,) for--I am--going to be--sick!" * * *

When the Royal Mail entered the town of S----, it was observed by the

loiterers round the King's Head yard, where it changed horses, that,

though a chilly day--_both_ windows _were down_. A tall fat man too

was observed reclining in the extreme corner of the vehicle, with a

handkerchief tied round his face--evidently suffering from cold. His

opposite neighbour--a little man in black--had his head out of the

window--and there was a smile on his countenance.

* * * * *

Sympathy for our fat friend, writhing and shivering in the corner of the

mail, at the mercy of that little black imp with a smiling countenance,

naturally enough suggested "FATNESS" as a topic of conversation;

everybody, as everybody does in these cases, giving his opinion upon the

moral and physical tendencies of obesity; some regarding that condition

as rather civic than courtly, and others speculating as to its effects

upon the temper and disposition; this person holding a proper degree of

it to be indispensable to a fine woman; and that asserting a plentiful

supply to be essential to the weight of every person in authority. One

contended that nobody could have good humour or generous wit without

fat, and another, that genius and fat have from the very beginning of

the world been divided. It was easy to gather, however, that fat, in the

social code, was associated with a certain amount of respectability,

and had always the invaluable property of redeeming its possessor from

insignificance. We could observe too that those who had it were neither

proud of it nor pleased with it, while those who had it not would give

the world for a good slice of the blessing. We also noticed that every

speaker in turn, apparently unconscious that his neighbour had just done

the same thing, quoted the line--"Who drives fat oxen must himself be

fat."

At this instant all heads were attracted to the windows by a spectacle

presented at the back of a carriage just then passing; behind it, in

all the pride and pomp of white silk hose, appeared a splendid pair of

calves, accompanied by a livery-coat, cocked hat, and cane. A little

boy had presumptuously mounted the "step behind," and the proprietor of

the calves, instead of ordering him off, thrust him brutally down by

an application of his foot to the face of the unfortunate urchin. Boys

are little men, especially in their passions; and resentment of injury

is a sharp and subtle suggester. The youthful proselyte of vengeance,

after an instant's consideration, darted forwards, caught hold of the

rail of the carriage, ran behind it a few feet, and then thrust a pin

into one of the broad, round, _shaking_ calves of the footman. With

uplifted leg he stood, while the carriage rapidly bore him away from his

retreating tormentor. He had a stick, but he could not use it; he was in

a free country, yet he dared not stop the carriage. He was hopelessly,

ridiculously helpless. How he envied all those of his fraternity who wore

padded calves. A cork leg would have been a real blessing!

[Illustration]

"HERE'S A BIT OF FAT FOR YOU!"

cried a learned Professor of Obesity, at the same time tossing over to

us an accurate account of the dimensions of one Thomas Hardy Kirman,

whose case Mr. Pettigrew submitted to the Royal Society in 1833. This

boy, before he was quite twelve years of age, measured five feet one, and

weighed 198 lbs. He was 45 1/2 inches round the waist, 18 1/2 round the

calf, and 19 across the shoulders. His obesity commenced at six years of

age, at which time he fractured his thigh and was confined six weeks.

[Illustration]

"Why didn't they _let_ him out to hire," said Mr. Cavil, "to the

Expositors of Mesmerism; he must have been made to stick pins into. Think

of a human creature being turned into a pincushion! It fills all my flesh

with a sense of glass splinters and Whitechapel blunts."

Here our young acquaintance, Charles Hookeywalker, with delicate

tenderness, proposed a relief to the feelings of the speaker by

volunteering a sonnet.

"Another sonnet!" cried Mr. Cavil, "worse and worse, I hate sonnets."

But the subject in this especial instance was voted to contain a saving

grace, for it was addressed to the Princess Royal, while yet she is

HEIRESS PRESUMPTIVE.

O Royal Cherub! first-born of the queen!

Sweet babe! bright creature! light of all our eyes!

Young heavenly visitant! from the blue skies,

And from the Guelphs, descended! thou hast been

As a new moon to Britain--not a _son_;

But half a loaf is better far than none--

And so we welcomed thee; but oh! I ween,

(Not thee--I leave thy nurses to wean thee,)

Towards the next our expectations lean

Upon Hope's anchor, wishing for a "He;"

Who shall sometime rule Britons and the sea;

And till he rules our land and ocean green,

The princedom of its _Wales_ his own will be,

That he may learn the trick of sovranty!

MRS. TODDLES.

TO THE PROPRIETOR OF GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

SIR.--I write to complain of the conduct of some of your people, more

specially of that impertinent fellow who is always holding his finger up

at me (I suppose in derision); I wish I only knew his number. How dare

he, Sir, make his impudent remarks about me or my bonnet! If I chuse

to wear a large bonnet, I suppose it's no business of his, or anybody

else's; the fact is, that that bonnet is quite a new one, I bought it

just before this ridiculous fashion set in of wearing no bonnet at

all--a fashion, let me tell you, that I am determined never to follow;

besides, I found that altering would only spoil it, and I was not a going

to do that to please no one. Besides, you will allow that it was very

hard after paying for a large full-sized bonnet, to throw, as it were,

so much of it away to waste, and to make a small one of it; and then I

beg to tell the "govener," as those fellows call him, whoever he may

be, that it is a very rude thing to stick one's picture up in the shop

windows for every body to stare at, and make their rude remarks upon. I

suppose I am not obliged to spoil all my dresses in order to follow this

_draggletail_ fashion; and as to my being too late "agen," as that vulgar

creature says, why, I am quite sure that I have never been behind time

more than ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at the outside. Besides,

do not you invite ladies in particular to patronise your omnibus, and

promise to accommodate them? Let me tell you, Sir, it's no accommodation

to ladies, unless you can wait a few minutes for them. Now, when a

gentleman is going out, he has nothing to do but to put his hat on; but

consider, Sir, the number of things we have to look for when we are going

out--bracelets, gloves, handkerchiefs, reticules, smelling-bottles, watch

and chains, lockets, rings, parasols, and perhaps clogs--not to mention

the difficulty of tying on one's bonnet sometimes to please one; and

then again, there is the pinning of one's shawl or scarf, particularly

if you've got a stupid bit of a girl to worry your life out, all of

which you gentlemen know nothing about, and can't understand. And there

are other reasons if I chose to mention them. I can tell you that my

hairdresser was very near losing my custom for ever; and I dare say my

milliner will learn the necessity of sending a dress cap home in time to

try it on before one goes out another time.

In conclusion, Sir, I have only just to say, that all this hurry-skurry,

and flying about after your omnibus, and being stuck up in the shop

windows, has made me extremely ill; and I have only to add, that I

have written to my friend, Colonel Walker, to acquaint him with the

whole business, and if he advises me to enter an action for damage and

libellous treatment, I shall certainly do so.--I am, Sir, your humble

Servant,

(although insulted,)

SARAH TODDLES.

_Neat Cottage, Smallwood's Rents,

Little Chelsea, July 26th, 1841._

P. S. I am quite sure that this _punctuality_, as gentlemen are so

particular about, will lead to serious mischief to the public; see what

it has done in my case, in consequence of your omnibus not waiting for

me. My dress cap (which my _fool_ of a girl had done up in _coloured_

paper that _run_) was entirely spoiled by the rain, so that I shall never

be able to wear it; and two respectable tradespeople, you see, were

nearly losing a good customer.

P. P. S. I open this letter to say I have just discovered that I have

lost a very nice cambric pocket-handkerchief, and a bracelet is gone that

I would not have lost for _any money_; besides which I got my feet wet,

through going without my clogs.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

*** We readily give insertion to the above letter, and while we regret

the lady's disappointments, beg to assure her that no impertinence was

intended by anybody connected with the Omnibus. We shall be proud to

number her among our passengers if she can contrive, at some future

period, _to be in time_. We lament her indisposition; but of course a

lady of her good sense will not fail immediately to consult Dr. Buchan,

or the erudite Culpepper; if we _might_ suggest, we should respectfully

advise the lady to put her feet in hot water, and to take a glass of nice

warm rum and water, with a bit of butter in it.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: GHOSTS.

_Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank--Oct^r. 1^st 1841_]

FRIGHTS!--No. III.

It may be doubted whether malignity itself occasions greater mischief in

the world than _fun_. If society may count up its thousands of victims to

the venomous propensities of the envious and the revengeful, so may it

also reckon its thousands of martyrs to propensities the very opposite to

theirs--victims to passions the most joyous and guileless--to feelings

the most sportive and child-like; in short, to a taste for frolic--to a

love of _fun_.

The malice of an enemy is sometimes not more dangerous than the

gamesomeness of a friend; the slanderous tongues of the envious and

the vile often prove far less sharp and fatal, far less productive of

permanent misery to the innocent, than the jocularity of a prankish

old fool of a nurse, or the light-hearted sally of an affectionate but

deplorably stupid parent. There is plenty of tragedy in this life, acted

in earnest; but there is a good deal of real poisoning done "in jest."

People _will_ sport jokes that are no jokes.

To every domestic circle into which this page may penetrate, the subject

will perhaps suggest some recollection of disasters more or less serious

that have arisen from silly and unthinking frolics, prompted more

especially by that for which human nature has so intense, so enlightened,

and so philanthropic a relish--the fun of frightening people. We hope

it may be from no bitter or melancholy experience that the reader

concurs with us in seeing "no fun in it." The merry laughing face of

this species of "fun," has proved a death's-head ere now; the figure of

"fun" has turned out to be a hideous hobgoblin with outstretched arms--a

finger-post pointing to the next lunatic asylum.

If the fatal consequences that frequently ensue from these practical

jests admitted of any feeling in the mind, associated however remotely

with ridicule, how exquisitely ludicrous would the position of that man

appear, who having enjoyed his funny trick, and played out successfully

his game of fright, beholds his triumph in the pallid visage, the wild

glance, the trembling limbs, the hurried pulse, the panting heart of the

object of his cruel sport; and becoming alarmed in turn at the effect

which he had taken such pains to produce, is obliged to make some attempt

to palliate his error and to chase away the spectres he has conjured

up, by exclaiming in the most deprecating and apologetic tone--"I never

thought it would have frightened you so, it was only my fun!"

We almost wish that the legislature would--just for the "fun" of the

thing--pass some law that might reach these reckless and desperate

experimentalists, and punish the humorous players upon people's nerves,

with a severity proportioned to the whimsicality of the hoax. The law

recognises the criminality of those who carelessly or wilfully sport with

the safety of people's legs, arms, or necks; and it is peculiarly severe

upon all who heedlessly venture to trifle with the sacredness of our

goods and chattels; but it has no eye to the playful freaks of practical

jokers, to whose insatiable thirst for fun the credulous child, the timid

girl, the weak-nerved woman, fall victims; it has no ear for the short

sudden shriek that bursts involuntarily from white and quivering lips,

sounding not unfrequently the knell of sanity in those who utter it, or

proclaiming the approach of vacant, hopeless, miserable idiocy.

The disciples of this school of fun are sure to find plenty of nerves

admirably suited for them to work upon. Children are prepared for the

sport almost in their cradles. Nine out of ten are trained up in terror.

They are taught the destructive lesson of fear, before they can even

spell the word. Before they can speak plainly, they become practised in

the instinctive expression of their feelings, by shuddering, screaming,

and crying their little hearts out, at the idea of "bogie," and the

horror of being left alone in the dark. The very moment this idea

is engrafted upon the sensitive mind, the instant this horror takes

possession of the child's imagination, it loses something of the health

and happiness to which it was born. The dread of being in the dark--of

being alone, and in the dark--clouds perhaps all its after life. It

sees nothing that really is, in its true light, from the fear of seeing

something which is not. The influence of the first horror of "bogie,"

remains for years and years after the particular species of "bogie" that

had excited the agony of alarm has become an absurdity too childish to

be even laughed at. Unconsciously, the mind is sensibly affected, in

ten thousand different forms, by the very image which it despises and

ridicules. The silly bugbear of the nursery has an abundant and most

appalling progeny. In this, more perhaps than in any other respect, may

it be said that "the child is father of the man."

The idea of darkness as something terrible would in few instances be

fixed in the mind, were it not for the cruel and senseless practices, by

which servants of all grades--we may add, teachers of some--work upon the

imagination of children. They are taught to see in darkness a natural

enemy, as they are sometimes taught to regard school as a punishment.

"If you are not good, you shall be shut in the dark closet,"--or "If you

don't behave better, you shall be sent to school immediately." These are

family phrases not yet quite out of fashion. The consequences now and

then take an unexpected turn. A little damsel of our acquaintance was

shut up in a dark room; she cried bitterly, violently, for the first five

minutes; then all was suddenly still--quite still; ten minutes went on,

and yet there was a dead silence within. The family at length began to be

uneasy--then frightened--too frightened to go and ascertain the cause of

the phenomenon. At length they rush forth and burst open the door, when

they discover that the little victim had--alone and in the dark--found

her way to a plate of cheesecakes left accidentally in the apartment, and

was making herself extremely ill for want of other amusement.

* * * * *

How many wits have been set wandering by roadside horrors, raised up from

the elements of the ridiculous! The simplest objects become the means of

deadly mischief. A donkey in the deep shadow, a cow in the dim moonlight,

a stump of an old tree, a white finger-post at the corner of a by-path,

have produced in myriads an agony of agitation; but what are these to

the good old English country ghost, the elements that compose which we

here set in their uncombined, and therefore unterrifying forms, before

the spectator. Why, here are agents by which even the most unskilful may

succeed in frightening a whole parish--nay, a county. Look upon these the

simple means, and then behold the easily manufactured ghost!

[Illustration]

But of all fields for frights the church-yard is the most productive

of terrors! Yet why? Whosoever wanders over one in the daytime will

find, be he in town or country, that he is surrounded by none but the

most amiable and affectionate people in the world--by the kindest of

relations--the faithfullest of friends. Such people are little likely to

start from behind their tombstones, in the dark, for the mere pleasure

of frightening benighted wanderers. In a churchyard, if the inhabitants

be rightly described, there should be no terror! But what shall we say

for a church, the sanctuary of the disturbed passions, a temple dedicated

to sacredness and love. Yet where is the pious individual who would feel

no tremor, if left to pass the night within the gothic aisles of such an

edifice?

In the vulgar superstition all churches are haunted, so also is

every house that happens to be "in chancery." There are two classes

of haunted tenements--one celebrated for mysterious Sights, and the

other for mysterious Sounds. The old Cock-lane Ghost, and the various

modern editions of that personage at Cambridge and elsewhere, are

specimens of the Visible; the recent mysteries at Windsor and Dublin

are examples of the Audible. Opinions differ as to which is the truly

Terrible. For ourselves, though shadows without substances are eminently

agitating--noises without the slightest possible cause--noises, sudden,

strange, and above all self-existent--noises of this kind at midnight--in

the wainscot, in the next apartment which is empty, in the room below

where the gentleman took the dose of poison by mistake--are not, we make

bold to confess, a sort of sound that we should like to go out of our way

to listen to.

[Illustration]

Of the Audible Ghost, Addison's comedy of the "Haunted House" contains

the noisiest representative on record; and perhaps Defoe's account of the

apparition of Mrs. Veal appearing to her friend, presents the Visible

Ghost in most extraordinary reality to our all but believing eyes.

But talk of believing--we shall put the reader's faith to the test, by

inviting him to take a peep into a "haunted house" which we have fitted

up for his reception. Hark!

* * * * *

We remember two of papa's friends who were "regular story tellers." Mr.

O'Brien had a store of Irish legends (of these hereafter); Mr. T. Smith

had a variety of ghost stories. Of one of these a haunted house was the

scene--a whole family of ghosts the dramatis personæ. We must premise,

that at the time referred to, it was the fashion to wear "pigtails," and

Mr. Smith, who had eschewed "pig-tail" and patronised "short cut," or

crop, used to say when asked what he had done with his pig-tail, that

"thereby hangs a tale," which joke he retailed at every opportunity. We

may also intimate that a good "ghost story" was in those days a valuable

little property. Mr. Smith seldom dined at home, and always passed his

evenings at other people's firesides. In truth, for more than three parts

of the year, his "ghost story" procured him "bed, board, and lodging,"

gratis, including "coals and candles." Now then, let the reader imagine

a small family party seated round the fire, on a winter's evening, and

let Mr. Smith tell his own story in his own way.----

I was staying (he began) some years back at Squire Calf's, at

Danglewitch-Hall, near Nantwich, in Cheshire: my friend, O'Brien here,

was also a visitor. ("Sure I was," says Mr. O'B. with a grin--he was

a merry fellow that O'B.) One evening the conversation turned upon

Clay-hall, an old deserted mansion, that was reported to be haunted.

Strange sights, strange sounds, and strange stories, filled the

neighbourhood with alarm; and what surprised me at that time was, that

all the Danglewitch people seemed firmly to believe in them. Being a

little elevated, I bantered the family upon their ridiculous fears--I

have since learned to pay more attention to other people's opinions--and

so enraged the squire, that he offered to bet fifty guineas to one,

that I would not dare to sleep in that house for one night. No sooner

said than "Done," cried I, and proposed to go immediately. The squire

instantly ordered the servant to get the key from the old women at

Clay-park lodge, to light a fire in the blue-room, and to provide,

besides a pipe and tobacco, a good bottle of brandy. The whole party,

in a merry mood, sallied forth to conduct me to my quarters. Soon after

I wished them all good night, and fastened the door. I had a brace of

pistols and a good sword-stick. I drew my sword and went over the house

at once, to see that the fastenings were secure--for though not afraid of

ghosts, I objected to being surprised by robbers.

Everything was in a dilapidated state, but I ascertained that the

locks and bolts, although rusty, were sufficiently strong to resist an

intruder. I was also certain, that no one was concealed. I then proceeded

to my apartment, which was on the first floor at the back of the house.

I slowly ascended the large staircase. The sound of my footsteps echoed

through the empty mansion. As I approached the landing I was startled

by a sudden noise, like the slamming of a door, and recollected that

one of the upper rooms was without a fastening. All was silent again. I

could hear myself breathe. I then held up the light, and looked first up,

and then down, the well staircase, and began to feel that I had done a

rather foolish thing--there might be after all a secret inlet--I might be

robbed, murdered. But it was too late to recede; and the fear of being

laughed at overcame every other fear.

I now entered my chamber and secured the door. The bright fire and the

candles gave a cheering look to a room otherwise dreary enough; for

it was of large dimensions, and its colour was a deep dingy blue. At

one end stood a huge four-post bedstead, hung with dark blue tattered

damask curtains, edged with black; the head of each post was ornamented

with a ragged plume of dark-blue feathers, which gave to it rather a

funereal appearance. I examined every part, and beneath the bed perceived

a large chest, which I found to be firmly locked. Pushing it aside, I

proceeded to explore the two closets that flanked the fire-place. Amongst

a quantity of loose lumber, wig boxes, hat boxes, and odd slippers, I

discovered an old black letter volume (a good deal nibbled), but, as

Sir Walter Scott says, "worth its weight in gold for all that;" it was

"God's Revenge against Murther." I just gave it a bang upon the table to

knock out the dust. The blow produced a most tremendous noise that nearly

stunned me, and was echoed apparently from every corner of the building,

followed by the rattling of falling mortar behind the wainscot, and a

scampering as if ten thousand rats were flying in all directions. The

cloud of dust almost stifled me; but not quite overcome, I applied myself

to my brandy, and filled my pipe, stirred the fire, snuffed the candles,

opened my book, and began to read. I read on in silence, broken only by

the regular puffing of smoke, the ticking of my watch, and the singing,

or rather sighing, of the kettle. The book absorbed my whole attention. I

was insensibly moved by its revelations. I was so worked upon by it that

I felt a kind of lifting of the chair beneath me, and a peeping shadow

appeared evermore between the candle and the page. Suddenly, at a most

exciting point, I heard a gentle rustling of the bed-curtains. On looking

round--horror! never to be forgotten!----

I distinctly saw a tall figure enveloped in a long night-dress, which

touched the ground. It was standing sideways towards me, so that the

face was hidden by a large feminine cap, which, however, it removed and

threw upon the bed, discovering a most fearful and ghastly profile.

It went through the operation of making its toilet before a small

glass, then looked towards the trunk, and then to the bed. After a

moment's hesitation, the trunk was opened, and it proceeded to put

on an old-fashioned brocade dress. The figure then, after surveying

itself in the mirror, slowly turned round, and moved towards me. I felt

my blood curdle, my flesh crawl. It passed the foot of the bed, and

advanced towards the door. The eyes were cast down; the hand was upon

the fastenings. At this instant the village clock struck, or rather

tolled out twelve--and as the last stroke of the bell floated on the

breeze, the figure gradually raised its head, and fixed upon me a pair

of horrible glaring eyes that turned my heart to ice. A sharp sliding

noise on the wall opposite made me turn to look, and the two portraits,

a lady, and an officer in a blue uniform, appeared to be leaning out of

their frames, and watching me intently. The figure then hastily passed

out of the room, uttering a screaming note, wilder than the moaning

wind. This was answered seemingly from the cellars by a most hideous

long-drawn howl, followed by the rattling of locks, bolts, and chains,

and a confusion of strange unearthly sounds. I sprang up and seized my

pistols. There was a dead silence. I could distinctly hear a whispering,

not only on the stairs, but in the closets, the doors of which were

slowly pushed open, and more than one pair of eyes flashed upon me from

the dark; in an instant the door of the room creaked slowly, and I beheld

two or three parchment faces, with fiery eyes, gazing at me. I made now

a desperate effort, and levelling a pistol either way, uttered a fierce

menace, threatening to fire, if they advanced. This threat was answered

by a queer sort of tittering and snuffling; in desperation I pulled the

triggers; the result was a double flash in the pan, which overspread the

room like a sheet of blue lightning. Then broke forth--a laugh--ten times

more horrible than the laughter of a herd of hyenas--I could endure no

longer, and sank into the chair, the pistols dropping from my hands.

There was a dead pause, and I heard something like the mewing of a cat,

yet seemed it like the voice of a child in distress; and my attention was

attracted by the appearance of a black skeleton of a cat, who was setting

up its back, growling and spitting. It then slowly advanced and prowled

round the fire-place, and sitting down opposite to the fire with its back

towards me, turned its head, and its fearful green eyes met mine. I next

heard the whelping of a cur, and the distant, hollow, wolf-like baying of

a watch-dog. The sounds approached; the dog-chain rattled up the stairs.

I tried to seize my sword, but was paralysed. I could just glance towards

the door, whence came a strange, shuffling sound, and the next moment

I saw an extraordinary figure enter, with a large carving-knife in his

hand. He was dressed in blue livery, with tags--a round paunch--high

bony shoulders, and spindle-shanks--he wore a blue Welsh wig--and his

nose, which was of enormous size and hooked, was of a deep blue also: it

was like burning brimstone. He was followed by a skeleton-like figure;

also in livery, and armed like his fellow. These stood and stared at me.

They were followed by a figure, marching into the room with an air of

consequence. He was not prepossessing: dimly-glaring saucer-eyes, with

a decided cast in them; a small, pinched bit of blue nose; a spacious

mouth, with a tooth or two exposed; the look of age diffused over all. He

was wrapped in a blue dressing-gown, and wore a large curled blue wig.

As _he_ entered, all appeared blue--the candles, and the fire, whose

flames curled themselves into the likeness of some ghastly thing. The

whole company, for there were now many intruders, seemed covered with

blue mould; they were the children of Mildew and Decay; they looked damp

and slippery. The veteran in the dressing-gown advanced to the fireside

with dignity, and looked at me with a withering scowl. I guessed at once

that he was, or _had been_, the master of the mansion, and politeness

prompted me to rise. He motioned me to be seated, and then took a chair.

A little boy was at his side, and the stately figure of a lady also stood

near him--other faces peered over his chair. My venerable host then bent

forwards, and placing his hands upon his knees, looked sternly in my

face and said, in sepulchral tones,--"_Pray, sir, did you ever hear that

this house is haunted?_" * * * *

I was thunderstruck! What answer could I make? Not a moment was allowed

me for reflection, for I instantly felt a violent tug at my pigtail

behind, and the brimstoned-nose butler, leering in my upturned face,

exclaimed, "And you don't believe in ghosts!" My terror was at its

height. I heard no more; but I _saw_--I saw the knife flashing, and felt

that, though my head was not off, my pigtail was gone! Shouts of exulting

malice rent the air----

But here Mr. Smith was interrupted by a shout of exulting laughter

from one of his listeners. It was Mr. O'Brien. "O, ho!" screamed that

gentleman; "I'll be kilt intirely. A mighty ingenious tale you've made of

it, Mr. Smith. And sure I must tell the thruth, if you bate me for it.

Sure and wasn't it the day after we had the stag-hunt, and didn't you get

so over head and ears in liquor that you went sleep-walking about the

house all night, disturbing the people that were fast asleep: and the

night after, sure didn't we tie your pigtail to the bell-rope at the head

of the bed, to keep you still, or give us notice of your rambles--and a

pretty good notice we got, by the powers! for what wid the bell ringing

and your bawling, we thought the house was on fire. I'll never forget

seeing you pulling one way and the bell pull pulling the other--and all

we could do, we could not keep you aisy, till we undid your tail; so

faith it was Betty, the cook, I remember, who whipt out her scissors,

and cut the knot. Oh! oh! och!--and that's the _thrue_ way you lost your

pigtail, Mr. Smith."

[Illustration]

IRISH SIMPLICITY.

A military officer, living in barracks, ordered his Irish servant to boil

him an egg for breakfast, adding an injunction to "boil it soft." The

officer took up the newspaper and read for ten minutes, then wondered

why his egg did not arrive, and rang the bell.--"My egg?"--"I'm seeing

about it, sir." Another five minutes elapsed. "Where's this egg?" "Not

done, sir." "Not done! do you mean to keep me waiting all day?" "Bring it

directly, sir." Still no egg came; the bell rang once more: "Where _is_

the egg?" thundered the officer. "Yer honor," cried Thomas, in alarm,

"didn't you tell me to bile it soft, sir! and haven't I biled it this

quarter of an hour, and it isn't soft yet."

[Illustration]

LITTLE SPITZ.

A LENTEN ANECDOTE, FROM THE GERMAN OF PROFESSOR SPASS.

BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.

"I think," said Rebecca, flinging down her beautiful eyes to the ground,

and heaving a great sigh--"I think, Signor Lorenzo, I could eat a bit

of--sausage."

"Of _what_?" said Lorenzo, bouncing up and forgetting all sense of

politeness in the strange demand. "My dearest madam, _you_ eat a sausage?"

"Ha, ha, I'm blesht," shouted Abednego, the banker, Rebecca's papa, "I'm

blesht, if Signor Lorenz does not think you want to eat the unclean

animal, Rebecca, my soul's darling. These shtudents are dull fellows,

look you, and only know what's in their books. Why, there are in dis

vicked vorld no less than four hundred kindsh of shausages, Signor

Lorenz, of which Herr Bürcke, the court-butcher, will show you the

resheipts.--Confess now, you thought my darling wanted to eat pig--faugh!"

Rebecca's countenance, at the very idea, assumed an expression of the

most intolerable disgust, and she gazed reproachfully at Lorenzo. That

young man blushed, and looked particularly foolish, as he said: "Pardon

me, dearest madam, for entertaining a thought so unworthy. _I did_, I

confess, think of pork-sausages, when you spoke, and although pretty

learned on most subjects, am indeed quite ignorant upon the matter of

which Herr Abednego has just been speaking."

"I told you so," says Abednego. "Why, my goot sir, dere is

mutton-sausages, and veal-sausages, and beef-sausages, and--"

"Silence, papa," said Rebecca, sharply: "for what has Signor Lorenz to do

with such things? I'm very sorry that I--that I offended him by asking

for any dish of the kind, and pray let him serve us with what he has."

Rebecca sunk down in a chair looking very faint; but Lorenzo started

up, and swore that he would have himself cut up into little pieces,

stuffed into a bladder, and made sausage-meat of, rather than that the

lovely Israelite should go without the meat that she loved. And, indeed,

such was the infatuated passion which this young man entertained for the

Jewess, that I have not the least doubt but that he would have been ready

to do as he said. "I will send down immediately into the town," continued

he, "and in ten minutes, my messenger will be back again."

"He must run very fast," said the lady, appeased, "but I thought you

said, Signor Lorenz, that you kept but one servant, and that your old

housekeeper was too ill to move?"

"Madam, make your mind quite easy.--I have the best little messenger in

the world."

"Is it a fairy," said the Jewess, "or a household demon? They say that

you great students have many such at your orders, and I should like to

see one of all things."

"You shall see him, dearest lady," replied the student, who took from

a shelf a basket and a napkin, put a piece of money into the basket (I

believe the poor devil had not many of them), and wrote a few words on a

paper which he set by the side of the coin. "Mr. Bürcke," wrote he, "Herr

Hofmetzler, (that is, Mr. Court-butcher,) have the goodness to send, per

bearer, a rixdollar's worth of the best sausages--_not_ pork." And then

Lorenz opened his window, looked into his little garden, whistled, and

shouted out, "Hallo! _Spitz!_"

"Now," said he, "you shall see my familiar;" and a great scratching and

whining was presently heard at the door, which made Rebecca wonder, and

poor old fat Abednego turn as yellow as a parsnip. I warrant the old

wretch thought that a demon with horns and a tail was coming into the

room.

The familiar spirit which now made its appearance _had_ a tail certainly,

and a very long one for such a little animal; but there was nothing

terrible about him. The fact is, it was Lorenz's little turnspit-dog,

that used to do many such commissions for the student, who lived half a

mile out of the city of Krähwinkel, where the little dog was perfectly

well known. He was a very sagacious, faithful, ugly little dog, as ever

was seen. He had a long black back and tail, and very little yellow legs;

but he ran excessively fast on those little legs, and regularly fetched

his master's meat and rolls from the city, and brought them to that

lovely cottage which the student, for quiet's sake, occupied at a short

distance from town.

"When I give him white money," said Lorenz, caressing the little faithful

beast, that wagged his tail between the calves of his master's legs,

and looked up fondly in his face, "when I give him white money, he goes

to the butcher's; when I give him copper, he runs to the baker's,--and

was never yet known to fail. Go, my little Spitz, as fast as legs will

carry thee. Go, my dog, and bring with thee the best of sausages for the

breakfast of the peerless Rebecca Abednego." With this gallant speech,

which pleased the lady greatly, and caused her to try to blush as much as

possible, the little dog took the basket in his mouth, and trotted down

stairs, and went off on his errand. While he is on the way to Krähwinkel

and back, I may as well mention briefly who his master was, how he came

to be possessed of this little animal, and how the fair Jewess had found

her way to a Christian student's house.

Lorenz's parents lived at Polkwitz, which everybody knows is a hundred

leagues from Krähwinkel. They were the most pious, orderly, excellent

people ever known, and their son bade fair to equal them in all respects.

He had come to Krähwinkel to study at the famous university there; but

he never frequented the place except for the lectures; never made one at

the noisy students' drinking bouts; and was called, for his piety and

solitary life, the hermit.

The first year of his residence, he was to be seen not only at lectures,

but at church regularly. He never ate meat on a Friday; he fasted all

through Lent; he confessed twice in a month; and was a model for all

young students, not merely at Krähwinkel, Bonn, Jena, Halle, and other

German universities; but those of Salamanca and the rest in Spain,

of Bologna and other places of learning in Italy, nay, of Oxford and

Cambridge in the island of England, would do well to take example by him,

and lead the godly life which he led.

But I am sorry to say that learning oftentimes begets pride, and Lorenzo

Tisch, seeing how superior he was to all his companions, ay, and to most

of the professors of the university, and plunging deeper and deeper daily

into books, began to neglect his religious duties at first a little, then

a great deal, then to take no note of them at all; for though, when the

circumstances of this true history occurred, it was the season of Lent,

Lorenzo Tisch had not the slightest recollection of the fact, not having

been at church, or looked into an almanack or a prayer-book, for many

months before.

Lorenzo was allowed a handsome income of a hundred rixdollars per year

by his parents, and used to draw this at the house of Mr. Abednego, the

banker. One day, when he went to cash a draft for five dollars, the

lovely Miss Rebecca Abednego chanced to be in the room. Ah, Lorenzo,

Lorenzo! better for you to have remained at home studying the Pons

Asinorum; better still for you to have been at church, listening to the

soul-stirring discourses of Father Windbeutel; better for you to have

been less learned and more pious: then you would not have been so likely

to go astray, or allow your fancy to be inflamed by the charms of wicked

Jewesses, that all Christian men should shun like poison.

Here it was Lent season--a holiday in Lent, and Lorenzo Von Tisch knew

nothing about the matter, and Rebecca Abednego, and her father, were

absolutely come to breakfast with him!

But though Lorenzo had forgotten Lent, the citizens of Krähwinkel had

not, and especially one Herr Bürcke, the court butcher, to whom Tisch had

just despatched Spitz for a dollar's worth of sausage-meat.

The visits of Tisch to the Jew's house had indeed caused not a little

scandal. The student's odd, lonely ways, his neglect of church, his queer

little dog that ran of errands for him, had all been talked of by the

town's-people, who had come at last to believe that Lorenzo was no less

than a magician, and his dog, as he himself said in joke, his familiar

spirit. Poor Spitz!--no familiar spirit wert thou; only a little,

faithful, ugly dog--a little dog that Tisch's aunt Konisgunda gave to

him, who was equally fond of it and him.

Those who know Krähwinkel (and who, I should like to know, is not

acquainted with that famous city?) are aware that Mr. Bürcke, the court

butcher, has his handsome shop in the Schnapps-Gasse, only a very few

doors from Abednego's banking-house. Mrs. Bürcke is, or used to be, a

lady that was very fond of knowing the doings of her neighbours, and

passed many hours staring out of her windows, of which the front row gave

her a command of the whole of that beautiful street, the Schnapps-Gasse,

while from the back the eye ranged over the gardens and summer-houses

without the gates of the town, and the great road that goes to Bolkum.

Herr Lorenzo's cottage was on this road; and it was by the Bolkum-gate

that little Spitz the dog entered with his basket, when he went on his

master's errands.

Now, on this day in Lent, it happened that Frau Bürcke was looking out

of her windows instead of listening at church to Father Windbeutel,

and she saw at eleven o'clock Mr. Israel Löwe, Herr Abednego's valet,

porter, coachman, gardener, and cashier, bring round a certain chaise

that the banker had taken for a bad debt, into which he stepped in his

best snuff-coloured coat, and silk stockings, handing in Miss Rachael in

a neat dress of yellow silk, a blue hat and pink feathers, and a pair of

red morocco slippers that set off her beautiful ankle to advantage.

"Odious people!" said Mrs. Bürcke, looking at the pair whom Mr. Löwe

was driving, "odious, vulgar horse!" (Herr Bürcke kept only that one on

which his lad rode;) "Roman-nosed beast! I shouldn't wonder but that the

horse is a Jew too!"--and she saw the party turn down to the left into

Bolkum-Strasse, towards the gate which I have spoken of before.

When Madame Bürcke saw this, she instantly flew from her front window to

her back window, and there had a full view of the Bolkum road, and the

Abednego chaise jingling up the same. Mr. Löwe, when they came to the

hill, got off the box and walked, Mr. Abednego sat inside and smoked his

pipe.

"_Ey du lieber Himmel!_" screamed out Mrs. Bürcke, "they have stopped at

the necromancer's door!"

It was so that she called the worthy Tisch: and she was perfectly right

in saying that the Israelitish cavalcade had stopped at the gate of his

cottage; where also appeared Lorenzo, bowing, in his best coat, and

offering his arm to lead Miss Rebecca in. Mrs. Bürcke could not see how

he trembled as he performed this work of politeness, or what glances Miss

Rebecca shot forth from her great wicked black eyes. Having set down his

load, Mr. Israel again mounted his box, and incontinently drove away.

"Here comes that horrid little dog with the basket," continued Mrs.

Bürcke, after a few minutes' more looking out of the window:--and now is

not everything explained relative to Herr Lorenzo Tisch, Miss Rebecca

Abednego, and the little dog?

Mrs. Bürcke hated Spitz: the fact is, he once bit a hole in one of her

great, round, mottled arms, which had thrust itself into the basket that

Spitz carried for his masters provisions; for Mrs. B. was very anxious to

know what there was under the napkin. In consequence, therefore, of this

misunderstanding between her and the dog, whenever she saw the animal,

it was Mrs. B.'s wicked custom to salute him with many foul words and

curses, and to compass how to do him harm; for the Frau Hofmetzlerinn,

as she was called in Krähwinkel, was a lady of great energy and

perseverance, and nobody could ever accuse her of forgetting an injury.

The little dog, as she sat meditating evil against him, came trotting

down the road, entered as usual by the Bolkum-gate, turned to the right,

and by the time Madame Bürcke had descended to the shop, there he was at

the door, sure enough, and entered it wagging his tail. It was holiday

Lent, and the butcher-boys were absent; Mr. Bürcke himself was abroad;

there was not a single joint of meat in the shop, nor ought there to be

at such a season, when all good men eat fish. But how was poor Spitz to

know what the season was, or tell what his master himself had forgotten?

He looked a little shy when he saw only Madame Bürcke in the shop,

doubtless remembering his former disagreement with her; but a sense of

duty at last prevailed with him, and he jumped up on his usual place on

the counter, laid his basket down, whined, and began flapping the place

on which he sat with his tail.

Mrs. Bürcke advanced, and held out her great mottled arm rather

fearfully; he growled, and made her start a little, but did her no

harm. She took the paper out of the basket, and read what we have

before imparted to the public, viz.:--"_Mr. Court Butcher, have the

goodness to send per bearer a rixdollar's worth of best sausage meat_,

NOT _pork.--Lorenz Tisch._" As she read, the dog wagged his tail more

violently than ever.

A horrible thought entered the bosom of Mrs. Bürcke, as she looked at

the dog, and from the dog glanced at her husband's _cleaver_, that hung

idling on the wall.

"Sausages in Lent!" said Mrs. Bürcke: "sausages to be fetched by a dog

for that heathen necromancer and that accursed Jew! He _shall_ have

sausages with a vengeance." Mrs. Bürcke took down the cleaver, and

* * * * *

About twenty minutes afterwards Herr Lorenzo Tisch opened his garden

gate, whither he had been summoned by the whining and scratching of his

little faithful messenger. Spitz staggered in, laid the basket at his

master's feet, licked his hand, and fell down.

"Blesh us, dere'sh something red all along the road!" cried Mr. Abednego.

"Pshaw! papa, never mind that, let's look at the sausages," said his

daughter Rebecca--a sad gormandizer for so young a woman.

Tisch opened the basket, staggered back, and turned quite sick.--In the

basket which Spitz had carried so faithfully lay the poor little dog's

OWN TAIL!

* * * * *

What took place during the rest of the entertainment, I have never been

able or anxious to learn; but this I know, that there is a single

gentleman now living with Madame Konisgunda Von Speck, in the beautiful

town of Polkwitz, a gentleman, who, if he has one prejudice in the world,

has that of hating the Jewish nation--a gentleman who goes to church

regularly, and, above all, never eats meat in Lent.

He is followed about by a little dog--a little ugly dog--of which he and

Madame Von Speck are outrageously fond; although, between ourselves, the

animal's back is provided with no more tail than a cannon-ball.

"THIS NIGHT VAUXHALL WILL CLOSE FOR EVER!"

(BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.)

[Illustration]

These were the words--or rather, this was the line of heartbreaking

octosyllabic verse--that met the gaze of the living on every dead wall

of the metropolis. They stared at me from the newspapers, they glared on

me from the shoulders of perambulating board-men, they rang in my ears

everywhere--Vauxhall will close _for ever_! Had it been the "Pyramids to

be sold by auction, by George Robins," or "the positively last fall of

the Falls of Niagara;"--had it been the "final extinction of Mount Etna,"

or "the Moon shining for this night only, after which it will be disposed

of to cheesemongers, by sale of candle, or private contract," my spirit

had been comparatively untroubled;--but Vauxhall!

Truly does our great Wordsworth tell us that there are thoughts which lie

too deep for tears. I cannot cry, though this be a crying evil; my pen

must weep its ink-drops over the event.

Had a dozen Union-workhouses been erected on Epsom downs, or a national

school supplanted the grand stand at Doncaster. Had the Bank of England

itself been turned into alms-houses, or the Royal Academy announced the

last day of drawing--these, and millions of such minor evils, I could

well have borne. Some substitute for the departed might yet have been

discovered. Were there no bread, cheap or dear, at home or abroad, and

all the bakers above-ground had burnt themselves to cinders in their own

ovens, still could we have gone to the pastry-cook's for comfort, and

have eaten buns. But the Royal Gardens shut!--closed for ever!--hammered

down!--the light put out, which no Promethean lampman can relume! Where

should Othello go?

"The days of my youth," I exclaimed aloud, as I wandered sorrowfully

through the brilliant avenues of the doomed garden on the last

night--"the days of my youth, where are they?" and an echo answered,

"Here we are!" And there they are indeed, buried for ever in dark

Vauxhall, knocked down as part of the fixtures, swept away with broken

lamps and glasses, with the picked bones of vanished chickens, and the

crumbs of French rolls that are past.

To have visited Vauxhall, like bricks, for so many years, only to find

bricks and Vauxhall becoming one!

But what a last night was that! There were many visions in one. From

the Vauxhall of Victoria, fancy reverted to the Vauxhall of the first

George, and the walks became immediately peopled with periwigged

beaux, and courtly dames fresh from the frames of Kneller. Never did

living eye behold such a congregation of grotesque beauties, out of a

picture-gallery. The paint was brilliant as the great master's canvas,

the arrangement of the patches was a triumph of art, the flash of the

diamonds made the lamps look dim, the flutter of fans filled the air

with a delicious freshness. All the wits of the last century were there,

from Steele and Addison to Fielding and Goldsmith, and from these to

Sheridan, and the gallant roysterers of a later era. There was Beau

Brummell;--it was the first night the world ever saw the astonishing

spectacle of a starched cravat--the first night the great Discoverer of

Starch ever exhibited to the vulgar gaze his sublime invention. That

morning, a friend who called upon him encountered his servant on the

stairs, descending from the Beau's dressing-room, with a whole armful

of stiffened but rumpled cravats--there were at least seventy of the

curiosities.--"What, in the name of mystery, have you got there?"

inquired the friend,--"what _are_ those _things_?" "These, sir?"

responded the valet,--"O, _these are our failures_!" The beau's cravat

justified that night, by the perfection of its folds, the multiplicity of

experiments. That seventy-first trial was indeed a triumph.

* * * * *

In the twinkle of an eye, what a change!--Beau Brummell had disappeared

for ever! Renown and grace were dead. The stately dames had gone: fans,

feathers, diamonds--all; and in their place appeared a very queer

collection of feminine miscellanies, young and old, some from the

country, some from the outskirts of the metropolis, dodging here and

there, rushing from sight to sight, too eager and excited to see anything

clearly; expressing their wonder in mingled peals of "My eye!" "Well,

raally now!" and "Lauk-a-mercy!"--exclamations which were interrupted by

frequent appeals to a bag of thick, home-manufactured sandwiches, borne

on the arm--or critical observations on the ginger beer. The beaux, too,

had vanished; and instead of the Sir Plumes, revelling in the "nice

conduct of their clouded canes," came a crowd of London lads, with boots

innocent of Warren and hands guiltless of gloves--creatures, at the bare

sight of whom through a telescope, Sir Plume himself would have fainted.

And as for the wits--behold, where they of late perambulated, a troop of

practical jokers, staggering forwards through the walks, or gathered in

twos and threes and half-dozens in the supper-boxes, extinguishing lamps,

smashing crockery, beating in the crowns of hats, and it may be smoking

cigars in a kind of open secrecy.

* * * * *

Short, however, is the duration of this scene. Retreating into another

walk, out of the way of the reeling revellers, I obtained a new view of

the yet famed and once fashionable gardens; and now, methought, their

glory was indeed departed. The place, which before was brighter than the

day, seemed the temple of Twilight. The most brilliant lamp it boasted

shed but a miserable dimness round. The genius of Vauxhall was in the

position of Damocles--only, instead of the sword it was a hammer that

was suspended over her. Nothing flourished there but the universal

enemy--Decay. The gardens seemed to hold a place between Earth and the

Eternal Shades. The words "Darkness Visible," formed the most conspicuous

object,--the letters, of an enormous size, were composed of grey and

black lamps, which the rain, descending in torrents, was fast putting

out. A transparency, representing Melancholy playing the bagpipes,

had a very striking and sombre effect; and another exhibition of a

fountain that had ceased playing, with a pair of black swans floating

in the puddle beneath, proved truly attractive to the few low-spirited

stragglers that remained. A beautiful dioramic view of the Elysian

fields, brilliantly illuminated, drew my attention; but on going to

look, I saw nothing but a few acres of gloomy waste land, with a board,

displaying the notice, "This ground to let on building leases." The farce

performed in the rotunda was "Blue Devils," at some of the scenes in

which the audience were quite broken-hearted, and the actors were called

for amidst general sobs. In the orchestra, the muffled drum was extremely

admired; the violins, reduced to one string, crumbled under the hands of

the players like touchwood, otherwise their notes would have been highly

dispiriting; the larger instruments spoke in hollow murmurs; the flutes

gave forth the parting sighs breathed into them by the asthmatic and

fading musicians. Ramo Samee, reduced to a nonentity, flung the balls up

without even an effort to catch them, and the sword, like Macbeth's amen,

"stuck in his throat." One "swallow" would have been a summer to him. The

waiters went about with umbrellas and lanterns to collect orders. Through

their threadbare, meagre, fleecy habiliments--coats of Scotch mist, and

continuations of London fog--might be traced their thin and fleshless

forms. Something sharper than penury had worn them to the bones--the

sense that their occupation was gone. They shuffled from walk to walk,

from box to box, carrying broken plates with faint impressions of various

delicacies; semi-sandwiches were on some, and on others were exhibited

narrow slices of transparent and shadowy ham. The soda-water they brought

had caught the hue of the bottles, and it trickled forth in showers of

tears. The sparkling champagne was perfectly still; the very punch was

"drowned" in the bowl, spiritless and stagnant. The chicken looked as if

it had been deposited for the last few years in the mummy-room of the

British Museum. The tongue might have belonged to the first fat buck shot

by Robin Hood.

Those weak, wan, dilapidated waiters! Those fossil remains of a forlorn

hope! As the night advanced they grew more attenuated. The "any orders?"

dwindled to a whisper, and the "coming, sir!" lapsed into a scarcely

audible sigh. They had hardly strength enough left to carry away the

fragments of a tart. They glided about like ghosts amidst the expiring

lamps. Another hour elapsed, and everything denoted the End of the

Change. Ruin had seized on all. The arrack dried up in the bowl, ere it

could be carried to the appointed box. Every glass was cracked, every

fork had forfeited a prong; and in the darkness and confusion men carved

with the handles of their knives, macadamising their suppers! The trees

and shrubs lost their natural character, and became yews and cypresses;

and extending from branch to branch were to be seen large cobwebs, having

the hue and substance of slices of boiled beef. Then there was a general

rush through the rain to see the Invisible Fireworks. What a sight was

that! The catherine wheels were stationary; the rockets changed their

minds as they were going up, and the whiz was but a consumptive cough;

the Roman candles had all been accommodated with extinguishers; and

the shells broke their inflammatory hearts in smoke and silence. Three

reluctant and doubtful bangs from a solitary cracker sounded the requiem

of the Pyrotechnic art!

Then methought the company began to "disperse" indeed. Arms put

themselves within other arms, and moved on, while the legs that had

once belonged to them sought the promenade in another direction, and

dragged themselves across it as over a ploughed field. The persevering

and inexhaustible spirit of Vauxhall, however, was yet animate in some;

and my eye caught glimpses of strange groups--parts of people--sometimes

the lower extremities--sometimes the upper--disjointed dancers, all

performing quadrilles in spasmodic movements, under umbrellas, to

inaudible music, supplied by the Apparitions of Fiddlers.

* * * * *

Now came, on a sudden, another change. A light appeared in what had

always been the dark walks of the garden, and as it advanced exhibited

the figure of the celebrated Old Hermit. His head hung on his breast, as

with a consciousness that his hour of oblivion was nigh, and he carried

his closed volume under his arm. Another figure, scarcely less shadowy,

joined him; it was Simpson,--yea, Simpson's self! the unforgotten master

of the ceremonies. They advanced, arm in arm; and as they approached the

spot on which I stood, riveted with awe, who should make his appearance,

as though he descended from the air, but a third great adventurer--one

equally immortal, but happily far more mortal than either--the undaunted

and untiring aeronaut, Mr. Green! On the instant, the ground beneath

opened, and the great Nassau balloon sprung upward, already filled with

gas. I saw that the _finale_ had arrived. Green embraced the ghost of the

departed master, and, surrendering his own place, handed him into the

car, into which he was followed by many of the unfading luminaries of the

"property" in past and present times. In the moment of ascent, Simpson,

my venerable preceptor in the arts of politeness, the acquaintance of my

youth, perceived me in the crowd; he stretched forth a hand, which felt

as cold, damp, and impalpable as fog, and, shaking mine, exclaimed with

his usual urbanity, "One pinch at--parting?" I felt in my pocket for my

snuff-box, eager for a friendly participation, when suddenly--quick as

lightning, in fact--I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder; and on looking

round--

I found myself amidst the old well known blaze of lights, surrounded by

myriads of smart and merry loungers, with police constable 142 X arousing

me as people are aroused from dreams, and saying, for my comfort, "Come

sir, come! Why, you're asleep as you walk. You've been robbed, I tell

you; for your pocket's turned inside out."

* * * * *

I got home about three, and at last fell asleep in reality. I dreamed

that Vauxhall Gardens were entirely built over, covered with finished

and half-finished houses, in streets and terraces; and that I was

actually reposing at that moment in No. 16, Arrack-place, looking upon

Sky-rocket-crescent. Methought there was a universal complaint among the

inhabitants, of supernatural noises in the night. Not a wink was to be

had for the tunings of musical instruments, the calling for waiters, the

shouting of "encore," the mingling of thousands of voices; all crowned

with peals of laughter, and whispers of "How tired I am, sure-ly!" Each

night at twelve, every occupier of a tenement on that famous site was

awakened from his first sleep by a multitudinous exclamation of, "O! Oh!

Oh-h-h!" accompanied by a light, blue, red, green, yellow, et cetera, and

a shower of falling sparks.

[Illustration

"The cloud-capp'd trees, the gorgeous avenues,

The brilliant lamps, the blazing fireworks,

The gilded saloons, the slender sandwiches,

Yea, the great Rotunda itself,

Shall dissolve--

And leave not _arrack_ behind!"

_Simpson and Shakspeare._

]

[Illustration]

A Tale of the Times of Old.

It was a Maiden young and fair,

She sat and watch'd within her bower,

In days of yore when warriors were,

And belted knight, and moated tower;

Long, long ago!

She sat and watch'd one summer's eve--

Why doth she so?

Why will not she her lattice leave?

Ah, those were days when maids were true!

The hour was come,--and well she knew.

It was a Squire, a gentle squire,

Came spurring darkly down below;

His steed was splashed with foam and mire,

Oh, what but love could urge him so?

'Twas even so,

He crept beneath the castle-wall,

Long, long ago,

And on his love began to call;

The damsel o'er her lattice hung,

He touch'd his lute, and thus he sung:

"They told me, love, that thou wert fair,

And very fair thou art, 'tis true;

They said thy cheeks like roses were,

Thy lips, 'two rosebuds wet with dew;'

But is it so?

Could ever flower with thee compare?

Ah no! ah no!

Oh never yet was rose so fair!

Could flowers like thee in gardens grow,

The gardeners all were blithe, I trow.

"They said thine eye was like the star,

The brightest star that beams above,

Which men may gaze on from afar,

Admire and watch, in fear and love;

But is it so?

Was ever star so soft and fair?

Ah no! ah no!

Oh, would such stars in heaven there were

How glad I'd watch till morning's light,

To peep and worship all the night."

It was her Sire, a surly knight,

He slept, and slept, with many a snore;

He heard the song, and woke in spite,

And left his couch, y-grumbling sore.

He look'd below,

Then seized a huge cold-water bath--

Long, long ago--

And flung it o'er, in rage and wrath!--

The squire flew off, the damsel fled,

And then the knight went back to bed.

B. HALL.

AN ANACREONTIC FABLE.

[Illustration]

Cupid, a spoiled and peevish boy,

Is always wanting some new toy;

And what is more, his mother Venus

Never denies--_quodcunque genus_--

Any odd thing the urchin fancies,

From kings and queens to scullery Nancies.

His fondling mother, t' other day,

Gave him some hearts wherewith to play;

No sooner did the rascal take them,

Than he began to bruise and break them!

H. R.

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.