From the moment of her son's departure, Mrs. Heartwell suffered intensely
from anxiety and suspense, which Helen, who had come to stay with her,
endeavoured to relieve. It was about noon when the party returned,
and there was upon the countenances of all a glow of satisfaction and
pleasure that could not be concealed from the keen penetration of her who
sought to gather facts from looks.
"What--what is it?" uttered she, as she strove to nerve herself to bear
whatever intelligence they might bring; "tell me--tell me all."
"My dear mother," said Frank embracing her, "keep your mind calm--strange
things have been revealed--my father's fate has been ascertained,--come,
come, sit down and compose yourself. You shall know all."
"A hidden mystery has been brought to light, my dear madam," said Mr.
Wendover, quietly. "Mr. Heartwell has been heard of; but are you really
able to endure whatever of joy or sorrow may betide--"
"Joy?--joy?" repeated she with eagerness, "is there then hope, that
you use that term? Do not keep me longer in suspense--it is becoming
terrible, your countenances show no grief. Tell me, Ben, if I can learn
it from no one else."
The seaman looked at his mistress--his smile of exultation could not be
mistaken; but dashing the rising spray from his eyes, he uttered, "Lord
love you, my lady, my heart's too full to overhaul it now; but what's the
odds so as you're happy?"
"Can you bear an introduction to one who is able to explain every
particular?" inquired Mr. Wendover; "exert yourself, you will stand in
need of energy and strength."
"It is--it must be," said the gasping lady, "there is something
whispering it to my heart--a thought I have clung to through all my
trials--a presage of his existence--he lives--say that he lives--I
know it, and am firm!" She arose from her seat, and the next instant
was pressed to the throbbing heart of her restored and tenderly loved
husband. Years of past pain enhanced the felicitous enjoyment of that
moment, and it was long before composure was regained.
The absent lieutenant's history may be briefly told. His first
remembrance on recovering from stupor, was of a dark and dreary room,--in
fact, the very one in which Brady had expired,--here shut in from the
world, and concealed from every eye but that of his keeper, he had
dragged on his days a lengthened chain of galling misery, till days
dwindled into nothing, and the links were extended to years. But happily
for him much of it had been passed in delusion--his intellect had become
impaired--and when he recovered consciousness, it was like the sudden
awakening from a long and fearful dream. He remonstrated--insisted upon
being set at liberty, but expressions of remonstrance, and attempts at
resistance, were alike punished with severity. Books he was allowed; but
he had no one to converse with, except his keeper.
When Brothers was removed from Fisher's, "the prophet" was considered
so harmless, that very little restraint was laid upon him, and one of
the keepers telling him, that a brother seaman was confined within the
walls, he earnestly requested to be allowed an interview. After repeated
solicitations, the keeper secretly complied, and it may be well supposed
that the meeting was anything but sorrowful, for it afforded Heartwell
a hope that through the medium of his old acquaintance, he might yet
escape. As the keeper was present during this, and several subsequent
interviews, they could only converse on general topics, and when the fit
was on him, Brothers would prophesy. It was on one of these occasions
that he gave Heartwell an intimation of his designs, by saying, "What is
man that he should be cared for--here to-day, and gone to-morrow--like
the light that shineth out of darkness that quickly passeth away!"
This was accompanied by significations that were readily understood,
and hope revived the lieutenant's energies; but although Unity Peach,
or more properly speaking, Acteon Shaft, had visited Brothers more than
once, yet the latter with cunning peculiar to himself had said nothing
about Heartwell, preferring to keep his intentions secret, so that they
might not be frustrated, and fearing that if the slightest suspicion was
excited, he should be subjected to greater restrictions.
On the evening of Brady's return with a fractured skull from the blow
given him by Frank (for such was the fact, and it is worthy of remark
that both villains met their doom from the much-injured young man)
Brothers, who was roaming about, overheard directions and commands given
by the lawyer to one of the keepers, to administer poison to Heartwell,
so that he might be entirely removed, and as he hoped the secret would
perish with him. Brothers, who had free access to all parts of the house,
occasionally officiating as an assistant--now determined to put his
scheme in practice, nor was a moment to be lost. Amidst the confusion
which prevailed through Brady's mishap, Brothers contrived to get the
keys, and having by an artful message removed the porter, Heartwell's
cell was opened, and he passed through the passages unobserved to the
outer gate. This was locked, and they had no key; there were however some
planks on the ground, and by inclining one against the wall to a certain
height, and then placing another on it, he contrived to get into the
open fields, and in the darkness eluded the vigilance of the constables
who had been set to watch. The glare of the atmosphere pointed out to
him the direction of the metropolis, and thither he hastened, taking a
straight direction for Ormond-street, where he inquired for his family,
but no one could give him intelligence respecting them. Dispirited and
disheartened, he went to the nearest watch-house, and informed the chief
constable of the night who he was. This functionary happened to be a
clever intelligent man, related to Townsend the Bow-Street officer, and
to his residence he was advised to go; Heartwell went, engaged Townsend's
assistance, a warrant was promptly obtained, and they hurried back to
Hoxton. In the mean time, Brady became more and more outrageous, and
insisted on going to Heartwell's cell to ascertain whether his orders
had been executed: he found it empty; and judging from this that the
lieutenant was no more, his reason became overpowered, delirium and
violence ensued, and they were compelled to secure him where he then
was. Townsend and Heartwell found no difficulty in gaining admission,
and Brothers conducted them to the cell, which was entered as already
described.
Mr. Wendover's full consent being obtained, Frank's nuptials followed
soon after this joyous re-union. Youth, beauty, rank, and fashion graced
the festival in the parlours and drawing-room of the hall, whilst Ben
and Sambo, who had come up on purpose to the wedding, kept the kitchen
guests in one continued round of merriment, till overpowered by respect
for his master, veneration for his mistress, and attachment to Frank,
Ben's brains began to whirl, his steps became exceedingly erratic as if
his feet were mocking each other, and he was carried off to bed by Sambo,
where he was snugly deposited under the lee of his nightcap.
"You for drinkee too much, massa Ben," said Sambo. "Nem mind dis time,
boy, young masser young missy, all golious and sing God shabe de king."
"Hur-rah, hurrah," hiccuped Ben, as he strove to raise his head from the
pillow. "Hurrah, you beautiful--beauti--piece of ebony--hurrah I say--"
down dropped his head. "Wha-wats the odds so as you're happy!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 24: It is a strange anomaly in the present law, that, where
two or more insane persons are confined, a license is required for the
asylum; but if only one person is so confined, the keeper does not need
a license. This might be remedied without touching private houses.]
THE POSTILION.
"Wo-ho-ho-ho-up--wo-ho!"--Sweet public, you are now in the yard of
the Crown and Cauliflower Hotel, famous for posting, roasting, and
accommodating the lieges with very lean bills of fare, and very fat
bills of figures;--and you have listened to the lover-like tones,
half-soliciting, half-imperative, with which our postboy brought his
horses at once to a halt, at the hall-door of the Crown and Cauliflower.
There he stands at your chaise-door, hand to hat, and whip couchant,
soliciting your favourable notice. There stands the postboy, an important
individual of the great family of the riders. He is much given to a white
silk hat, with the silk worn off the rim in front, a white neckerchief,
a white vest, a canary jacket, a small plaited shirt, and white corded
unfit-for-finical-ladies-to-conceive-the-proper-ogatives of. The postboy
is a jumble of contradictions; he is always rising in the world, yet he
is as constantly finding his level; he has had more ups and downs than
any other being; he is, at least, fifty-seven, but he has not yet arrived
at manhood; should he complete the century, he will be as far off from
it then as he is now; he is always a post_boy_; a boy post dated; he
never reaches man's estate; he never knows its declension; he never sinks
into second childishness; he lives and dies a postboy. We have heard of
one, two, or three instances "down the road," where he saved one or two
thousand pounds, and became a landlord. We think they are apocryphal.
Perhaps they occurred in the days of the highwaymen, by whom postboys
have been known to profit. But whenever they occurred, or however, they
are exceptions in the great chapter of postboys, proving that the will of
fate has given to the postboy
"A local habitation and a name"--
if, indeed, there can be said to be anything local about his changing and
yet monotonous existence--else he had walked about the world an embodied
nonentity. He is a totally different being to the cantering gemini, the
letter postboy and his horse; nor does he ever become "a postman." Like
Tom Moody, he radiates
"Through a country well known to him fifty miles round,"
yet little knoweth he besides the change-houses, and they, in his
imagination, stand out in glorious array:--the Pig and Lapstone, the
Three Leathern Corkscrews, the Manuscript and Hatchet, the Stork and
Ruffles, the Waggon and Shirtpin, the Syllabub and Pump, all of which, in
motley succession, dance before his dozing eyes as so many havens from
his peril;--the sole green spots that ornament the desert of his life.
The postilion is a veritable centaur--a human quadruped partaking of
the two natures, the stable and the bed and bolster, "three-pennorth
o' brandy," and the nose-bag. He is a poet, superior to that genuine
pastoral, the haymaker, if familiarity with Apollo (and _if_ Apollo be
the sun) constitutes a poet. The sickle-wielder of Autumn burns not
with such fervid inspiration. Look on his countenance--"that index to
the soul"--and imagine how full of fire that soul must be, when the
proverbial brevity of an index contains so much--"to overflowing full."
His _genus_ stands out like a finger-post before him, introducing him to
every circle. His soul is concentrated in the Mews. Talk of Shakspere and
Owen Glendower, they never carried such lights before them; even Bardolph
himself possessed not such a nasal flambeau. No! his is an inspired nose,
and his nose knows it! And it loveth not, neither doth it abide, the
familiarities of the aqueous element, but hisses in its ablutions, as a
stable-boy hisses when he is cleaning a horse, thereby publishing its
heat and its nosology. Again, mark you his freckles--whoever saw such in
the face of beauty? He is a character "alone in his glory," so far as his
outward indications go. Let us gauge the calibre of his understanding.
We were in the tap of the Sun and Cabbage-stump when he called to "wet
his whistle." A "boy" was there before him from the Hand and Placquet,
drinking with "a return," said return being a runaway apprentice, and our
postboy stopped with _his_ in the shape of a clandestine marriage. Upon
meeting, the following colloquy took place:--
"Well, Tom, how goes it at the Placquet, eh? I see ye up the road pretty
often lately. I 'spose the old man an' her don't agree no better? Ah! he
shouldn't a married her."
"That's nither here nor there with us, you know, Bob, as long as there's
plenty o' gemmen as wants our assistance; and, somehow, there's all'ays
plenty on em' at the Placquet--good payers too. Th' old feller's terrible
crabby, but she cocks her cap 'nation high, to be sure, an' she don't
care--it suits _her_ better to look arter _her_ customers, eh?"
"Mum about them things, Tom. I got a han'some young couple here going to
be made one, an' we shouldn't put canker'd snaffles into young colts'
chaps. There's nothin' very pleasant in rising blisters in the mouth--is
there, sir?" (to our worthy self.)
"You're the rummiest feller I ever come near, Bob, to talk to the gemman
a that way--you'd make a gallows good parson. But I s'pose you're comin'
it feelin' like, an' Mary Scrabbles 'll soon be Mrs. Trotter?"
At this repartee there was a general "He! he! he!" the runaway apprentice
taking the alto part.
"That young gemman's in a very good humour, ain't he, Tom? I s'pose his
mother know _he's_ out? A regular young lord in disguise, come out to
'stonish us gulpins; but if we had him on a flinty road, o' th' off side,
at one or two o'clock of a winter's mornin', we could mek him drop his
cock-tail, eh, Tom? an' laugh o' th' other side o' his mouth."
"Order, order," as them parliament chaps say--"'tacking my constitent
ain't nothin' about Mary, you know, Bob."
"O, stow your chaff, an' I must be off. Here's to your health, Miss,
wishin' ye much happiness; and your'n, sir, all the same; an' to the
young gentleman there with the mint o' goold in his pocket, an' the kiddy
side locks, an' th' pertikler purty count'nance when he laughs"--(he had
a mouth like a park, and teeth like its palings)--"'oping he may never
have the prison crop, nor th' lock jaw, nor the Vituses dance to spile
him, Tom!" and a concurrent nod and wink at Tom scarcely preceded the
emptying of the glass of "brandy with," ere he departed.
"Mind ye don't break down at the Horns, there," shouted the remaining
"boy," having a sly fling at both parties as they rattled away, and
dexterously conciliating his own.
Such is a specimen of his snap-dragon conversation, which partakes
strongly of Christmas nonsense--short and caustic, touch and go--the
blazing gin and raisins of confabulation.
The postilion seldom marries, but, in general, he does the insinuating to
the cook at the inn where he tarries. The postboy has a tooth and a taste
for a gastronomical relish; and though his strong stomach and long rides
furnish his appetite with the best of all condiments, he can pout out his
lips, and depress his eyebrows, at the plain and substantial fare which
is allowed and provided for him, while his mouth waters for a portion
of the luxuries preparing about him; therefore, whatever Molly can pare
and make, as convenience and opportunity offer, never comes either too
late or too early for him. He imagines himself to be one of those who are
reputed to be "awake to the world," and sooth to say, he distinguishes at
a glance the character of his fare of either gender, and deports himself
accordingly. He never takes more than his legitimate fare--if he cannot
get it: nor will he ever annoy you with impertinence at his departure--if
you have purchased his civility. He may, and frequently does, practise a
little collusion with toll-gate keepers: thus, just as you are leaving
the town where you hire your post-chaise, there is invariably a toll-bar;
you pay there, and the postboy receives "a ticket," which frees you from
payment at other bars on your line of route, set up to intercept the
cross-roads, and so on, till you must pay again, on entering another
"line of trust." A lucky dog are you, if you escape so; ten to one your
postboy has "an understanding" with the keeper of one of the bars,
whereat arriving, he bawls out, "_Pay here!_"; or, if you have been very
liberal "at mine inn," or to the last "boy," it varies to "Pay here, your
_honour_!" in notes as dulcet as his glottis will permit him, and draws
up. "Free to Flatbit!" cries the tollman, as you comply with his demand,
dash goes the rowel into the left flank of the near horse, and you are
pursuing your course in blissful ignorance. As the postboy returns, he
receives from his "friend," his share of your mulet, and enjoys his laugh
literally at your expense.
The postboy has been a person of importance--we say, has been; for,
firstly, the flying stages, with their excellent accommodation, civil
functionaries, and eleven miles an hour, more than decimated his "order;"
then that northern leveller, Macadam, exacted a triple tithe; and lastly,
the iron-ribbed troughs and viaducts, everywhere throwing out arteries
from the main trunks, and every individual inch growing, like a chopped
centipede, into a perfect monster,--have almost annihilated him, so much
so, that the next generation will set him down as an extinct animal,
and, like the present with the Dodo, will be able to find only his
bill and his boots! Still doth he retain some dignity, for, at a late
general election, he headed the poll gallantly for the independent and
patriotic borough of Bullybribe; where the Right Honourable Florian
Augustus Finglefangle offered golden reasons for the suffrages of his
father's tenantry, and those real bulwarks of the British empire--the
potwallopers. Notwithstanding, his glory has departed; those incorrigible
dogs who rule the roast in the courts of law--cold, unyielding,
unromantic civilians--have long decided not to recognise the mysteries of
the Gretna smithy; they have openly denounced the votaries of Venus and
Vulcan; and one great part of the postboy's occupation is no more.
_Our_ postboy is not about to lead you, gentle reader, the tour of the
Continent; he is not about to familiarise you with banditti; he has no
forests nor horrible gorges to lead you through; you must expect little
from him beside what we have prepared you for; and, as we have exposed
his trifling peccadilloes, we entreat you not to let your virtuous
indignation overcome your liberality nor your gentlemanly bearing.
Probably, sir, you are fresh from the perpetration of rascalities
which he would shrink from as being heinous crimes, but which you very
complacently assure yourself were cleverly done to take in Messrs.
Adderfeed and Co. You are a shrewd fellow, doubtless, and "are not to be
done," as you believe in your self-sufficiency;--let him try to impose
payment of a toll on you, which you have no business to pay, and you wish
they may get it, that's all! Now, put it to your conscience--you have
a conscience?--and compare your rascalities with his venialities: your
"means and appliances" with his; and if conscience give the balance in
your favour, why you are a worthy fellow, and ought not to be imposed
on; but be careful; do not insist upon your bond; your memory may
play truant, and, if it does not, you are certainly benevolent, nay,
munificent, and will not stoop to such a paltry cavil. Remember he
is ever at your beck and command, hail, rain, or shine; high-road or
bye-road; at hazy morn, or fervid noon, or dreary night; you have but to
intimate your pleasure, and he is your humble servitor. In the stifling
heat and dust of midsummer, and in the dreary sleet and howling winds
of Christmas, he is glad to administer to your business or pleasure. He
never tires nor complains of his vocation. Thrice has he been out in this
day's heavy rain--the whole of his wardrobe is soaked--a month ago he
rose from a bed of fever, induced by the same cause--yet are you waiting,
the moment you hear his wheels, to order him off for another sixteen
miles, and not a murmur will escape him, although it is now six at eve,
the sun setting, and the wind "turning very cold." Still will he lift his
hat to you as deferentially as he did to his first fare, and comply with
the same alacrity.
The thousands who pass him in his progress think not of his cares nor
his sorrows, his abundance or his want. He toils and moils like the
rest, unconscious that the eyes and the mind of the philosopher--bright
scintillations of heaven and eternity--may rest upon him at the same
moment with those of the humble individual who hath here noted his
characteristics and sketched his profile.
JAO.
"THE HORSE BY THE HEAD."
Mr. and Mrs. Q. were discussing their financial resources--"I
cannot make out," said the lady, "how it is that Mr. X. contrives
to keep such a large house and so many servants, and to live
in such style. You are quite as clever, my dear, in your
profession--ay, that you are--cleverer too, for that matter; and
yet, with all your skill and perseverance, we are living, as it
were, from hand to mouth. How is it?" "Why, my love," said Mr. Q.,
"you see that X. has got the start: in fact, you see, my dear, he
has got 'the horse by the head,' and I have only got him by the
_tail_."
[Illustration]
A FLOATING RECOLLECTION.
In the year 1806, when the Asia East Indiaman was conveying a detachment
of dragoons to Madras, the ship encountered very severe weather. Amongst
the troops was a blithe "boy" named Pat Murphy, and he had also a pretty
wife on board, who, instead of taking the roughs with the smooths, was
continually upbraiding her husband. "Arrah, Pat, why did yez bring me
here into this dark hole now? Oh! whirrasthrue and it's smashed and kilt
entirely I'll be in regard o' the say-sickness and the kicking of the
ship." "Och, cooshla-machree," returned Pat, trying to soften her, "rest
aisy, darling. Shure an it was yerself as wanted to come and wouldn't
stay behind. Small blame to you for that anyhow, seeing that Pat Murphy's
the man as owns you. But rest aisy awhile, an it's the bright sun and the
smooth wather we'll get, and go sailing away like a duck over a pond."
"Oh, thin, Pat, but it's little feeling you've got for my misfortunate
state," uttered Judy, as she burst into tears. "Never again shall I see
the green-hill tops tinged with the goulden glory of the sun--never again
shall I thravail free-footed through the bogs and over the moors. Oh!
it's a dessolute woman I am this very day--och hone--och hone."
This sort of complaining was continually repeated, till the temper of
the warm-hearted Irishman began to give way; but he struggled hard to
bear up against her petulance and peevishness. One day, however, the gale
increased to a downright hurricane--the ship had sprung a leak, the water
was gaining on the pumps, the sea ran fearfully high, and it was evident,
unless the storm abated, that the "Asia must yield to the war of elements
and go down."
Pat, who had been relieved from the pumps, contrived to get below to
see Judy, and was greeted with the usual reception. "Haven't I been
a faithful and thrue wife to yez? and here I am smothered with the
say-sickness, an' the noise and the bother!" "An' how can I help it,
Judy?" remonstrated Pat. "Shure an I've done my best, and been a dootiful
husband. I carn't conthrol the say or the ship as I would a horse upon
the turf--long life to it--what would you have?" Judy, however, still
continued her clamour, till Pat's patience was at length worn completely
out, and he voiciferated in no very gentle voice, "Och, thin, howld your
peace, woman; is it meself as you'd be breaking the heart of afore I'm
dead? Arrah, rest aisy with yer tongue!"
At this moment, a heavy sea struck the ship on the bows, ranged fore and
aft, and rushed down every cavity, causing considerable confusion. Judy
shrieked and cried out, "Oh! Pat, an why did yez bring me here?" Pat, who
really thought the ship was sinking, turned round, and exclaimed with
vehemence, "Arrah, howld yer bodther, woman--you'll be a widdaw to-night."
This terrible announcement of her becoming a widow silenced poor Judy;
and before Pat was summoned to renew his labour at the pumps, she
had thrown her arms about his neck, and in loving accents implored
him to avert so dreadful a calamity. The storm abated--fine weather
returned--Judy grew more accustomed to the ship, but ever afterwards went
by the name of "Pat Murphy's widow;" and it was nothing uncommon to hear
both soldiers and sailors calling out, "Pat, Pat Murphy, your widow wants
you."
THE OLD SAILOR.
[Illustration: SHEER TYRANNY.
Cropping a poor wanderer, who has slept one night in the Croydon
workhouse, before he is liberated in the morning.]
[Illustration: SHEER TENDERNESS.
Cropping a long-haired bacchanal, convicted at the Mansion-house of
drunkenness, instead of fining him.]
THE PAUPERS' CHAUNT[25].
Air:--"_Oh the Roast-Beef of Old England!_"
O we're very well fed,
So we must not repine,
Though turkey we've _cut_,
And likewise the chine;
But, oh! once a-year
We should just like to dine
On the roast-beef of Old England,
OH the old English roast-beef!
O, the gruel's delicious,
The taters divine--
And our very small beer
Is uncommonly _fine_;
But with us we think
You would not like to dine,
Without the roast-beef of Old England,
OH the old English roast-beef!
Our soup's very good,
We really must own,
But of what it is made
Arn't very well known;
So, without any soup
We would much rather dine
On the roast-beef of Old England,
OH the old English roast-beef!
Mince-pies they are nice,
And plum-pudding is fine.
But we'd give up them both
For "ribs" or "Sir Line,"
If for once in the year
We could but just dine
On the roast-beef of Old England,
OH the old English roast-beef!
"Roast beef and plum-pudding"
Is true Christmas fare,
But they think that our _morals_
Such dainties won't bear.
Oh! oh! it is plain
Ne'er more shall we share
In the roast-beef of Old England,
OH the old English roast-beef.
Still long life to the Queen
Is the toast we'd be at;
With a health to the Prince,
May he live and grow fat!
And may all under him
Have abundance of _that_--
What?--Why the roast-beef of England,
OH the old English roast-beef!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 25: Suggested by the refusal of the Poor-law Commissioners
to allow any charitable person to send in supplies of roast-beef and
plum-pudding upon Christmas day to the inmates of the Union workhouses.]
SKETCHES HERE, THERE, AND EVERYWHERE.
BY A. BIRD.
A CONTESTED ELECTION AT ROME.
There are, I doubt not, thousands and thousands subject to our most
gracious and protesting Queen--"Gentlemen of England"--ay, and Ladies
too--"who live at home at ease," and fancy, poor simpletons! that the age
of miracles is past. No such thing. Once in every hundred years there is
in the Everlasting City a regular contested election in honour of the
dead, each member being returned, as it were, to earth, in the character
of saint, not as with the elect of this world, for words and promises of
things to be, but for miracles done and recorded.
The number of seats devoted to the saints is generally supposed to be
three hundred and sixty-five, that is to say, one for every day in the
year. And if we refer to the earliest period when first
"The Romans had a happy knack,
Of cooking up an almanack,"
we shall find that every seat was occupied. Where then, it may be asked,
are the addenda to be placed at the end of each century? The question is
by no means easy of solution.
There is, to be sure, leap-year, with its odd day in February; yet this
would only do for a bit of a saint, and coming like a comet at stated
intervals, I incline to think that when "the Devil a saint would be," he
takes that odd day to himself, and walks the earth with all the glories
of his tail, an appendage which no true saint would acknowledge. But,
as the French found room for "St. Napoleon," even while alive, I can
only suppose that the longest day will hold more than the shortest, and
any day hold more than one saint. When St. Nap was elected, it is clear
some smaller saint must have been put in the background, and thus he
remained--as we should say of an ex-minister--"out of place and out of
favour," until the Bourbons returned, and included the ex-saint in their
own restoration.
Leaving, however, this knotty point to the Pope and his cardinals, I
come at once to St. Peter's and the fact. It was in the merry month
of May 1839 that I last entered that temple, alike unrivalled for its
majesty and beauty--would that I had never seen it as I saw it then! The
election was over, the chosen of one hundred years were decided upon,
four new saints had been returned to earth; a fifth had been nominated,
but after his claims had been duly canvassed, the votes were against him.
An overwhelming majority declared that he had not performed sufficient
miracles to be canonised, and his bones were doomed to rest in peace. Not
so the successful candidates; their names were entered in the day-book
of the Pope's elect, each saint and his miracle were put upon canvass,
the likenesses were warranted, and the limner's art had done its best to
show how saints in heaven were made by man on earth. There they were,
only awaiting the ceremonies which were to confirm the intended honours,
the chairing of themselves and deeds in effigy--(if thus we may speak
of hanging those huge pictures on high)--the celebration of mass, the
roaring of cannon from the Castle of St. Angelo--psalmody, such as Rome
alone can boast--processions wherein grandeur, littleness, gorgeous
wealth, torches, and tinsel, struggle for mastery, yet form in the whole
a most striking and impressive inconsistency.
Be our creed what it may, whether we approve or whether we condemn, our
feelings are carried away by the feelings of the many, the thousands
upon thousands who, with one accord, bare the head and bend the knee,
when their Prince of the whole Christian world, their Pope, "_Nostra
Papa_," appears! Jews, Turks, and Infidels must "off with their hat"--if
they have one--but with the most rigid there is also an involuntary
inclination to bend the knee.
Who, unmoved, can watch a Roman procession wending its way towards the
high altar, till it pauses beneath their Holy of Holies, the wondrous
dome of St. Peter's! a strange anomaly, I grant--venerable priests of
Christ, tottering beneath the weight of gold embroidered on their backs;
cardinals, proud and stately, wearing their scarlet hats as knights who
bore the helmet of the church; beautiful boys, with angel wings upon
their shoulders; censers, waving clouds of incense, lending its perfume
to the air, and, like a spirit loath to quit this lower world, wheeling,
hovering, slowly rising in graceful circles of fantastic flight till it
mingles with the sky, and is seen no more.
"'Tis gone!" and as it passed I caught the costume of the warlike Swiss;
the guards of him, the Pope who preaches peace on earth. I saw their
nodding plumes of raven black, with scarlet tuft--their glittering
halberts of an age gone by--their ruffs, rosettes, their belts of buff
(the perfection of a painter's picturesque), armed and covered in the
House of God!--Yes, this, and much untold, of that which forms a Romish
procession at Rome, strange and anomalous though it be, is most striking
and impressive as a whole.
[Illustration]
The mere recollection has carried me with it, and turned aside for the
moment the malediction I contemplated on the dressing up of St. Peter's.
Would, I repeat, that I had never seen it! to gild the virgin gold were a
venial blunder in comparison--it would still be gold, and look like gold;
but to veil the majesty, the stern uncompromising beauty of St. Peter's
columns with flaunting silk, to ornament perfection with tinsel hangings
and festoons, this was indeed a profanation in honour of the saints elect.
St. Peter's, with me, had been a passion from the moment I first looked
upon its wondrous beauty: it was love, love at first sight, but growing
with my growth--a passion, holy and enduring, such as can be only felt
when we stand in the presence of fancied perfection. Judge, then, of
my horror when I saw this desecration!--but there is no blank so dark
that we may not find a ray of light. I bless the saints for one thing--
they taught me how to build a brace of angels, and in so doing they
taught me the stupendous proportions of that temple, which, though
built by human hands, has in it a sublimity which awes and humbles the
proud heart of little man. Nay, the very portraits of their very saints
diverted my angry thoughts by teaching the self-same lesson. There was
one--a monstrous ugly fellow--who, preparatory to his chairing, was left
to lean against a column. The proportions of this miracle-worker were
so gigantic, that I deemed it some mighty caricature, painted on the
main-sail of a man-of-war, till, looking at his fellows raised to their
proper elevation, they seemed in their oval frames but medallions stuck
upon the walls!
[Illustration]
The angel manufactory, however, was still more striking. To give effect
to the intended ceremonies, the head decorator suggested a brace of
angels, to be placed on each side of the nave of St. Peter's, behind the
altar. The lazy cardinals nodded assent, and the question was carried
_nem. con._ They do all things well at Rome in honour of the church,
even their greatest follies are on a scale of grandeur--their fireworks,
fountains, illuminations, are all unrivalled--so are their angels, when
they make them. First, an able artist is employed to sketch a design,
then able workmen to build, painters to paint, and lastly, robe-makers to
clothe the naked.
The construction is curious: a skeleton figure, after the late fashion
of single-line figures, is prepared with a strong rod of iron, which is
fixed into a large block of wood, and this may be termed the building
foundation. The next step--oh! most anti-angelic notion! is to collect
hay-bands (enough for a hay-market), and therewith to mould the limbs and
body. It were vain to attempt, by words, to describe the ludicrous effect
produced; but, by the aid of the foregoing cut, it may be conceived.
Good-bye to sublimity for that day! _omne ignotum pro magnifico_--it
never answers to go behind the scenes; and if it be true that in some
cases "ignorance is bliss," how much more truly do the Latin words tell
us that "ignorance is ever the key-stone to sublimity."
It is true, that as I looked upon the gigantic saint, as yet unhung,
and compared him with his fellows, the elect on high; as I watched this
monster of miracles, raised by pulleys till he dwindled into a pretty
miniature; as I saw the pigmy workmen wheeling the huge angels to their
places,--it must be confessed that I had found "a sliding scale,"
which, in this case, answered admirably. It enabled me to measure the
proportions of the stupendous pile which towered above me to judge of
its most beautiful symmetry, with greater force and stronger conviction
than I had ever felt whilst gazing on the children which support the holy
water, the sweet babes with arms as thick as the thigh of man!
That knowledge was interesting--the angel-making was amusing, but the
solemn tone of mind suited to St. Peter's was destroyed. In vain I stood
before the lions of Canova; the one which slept could not inspire the
repose which breathed through the sleeping marble; the one which watched,
the sleepless sentinel, guarding the ashes of the dead, even this could
not scare the demon of ridicule that played on hallowed ground. I turned
to the mosaics, those fadeless pictures which seem as painted for
eternity; no, not these--not Guido's Archangel, that wondrous type of
heavenly beauty in the form of man--of power to conquer with the will to
do--not even this could tame the merry sin within me. I stood before that
statue which frenzied with undying passion the priest who gazed upon its
beauties--the emblem of "Justice," but so lovely in its nakedness, that
man, impure and imperfect, became a worshipper, and obliged the Pope to
hide Justice from his children. The ridiculous prevailed; I smiled to
think that the form as well as eyes of "_Justice at Rome_" must be hid
from sight. And I laughed outright at woman's curiosity, when I thought
how Lady See ---- prevailed upon the Pope to lift the veil and show her
the form which made a Pygmalion of a priest!
The demon was in me for the day; it had been raised by--to use a
fashionable word--the desecration of the temple, and nothing could lay
the evil spirit. I turned to my hotel, ordered horses for the morrow, and
fled.
My course was set for Naples. As I traversed the Pontine Marshes, cheek
by jowl with the sluggish stream which the pride of Popes has wedded to
the road and given to the traveller's eye, what a contrast did these
waters, this cold, dark, silent chain of "_Mal-aria_," present to the
stream of life, the roar of cannon, the music, festival, and holiday,
which fancy pictured in the Eternal City! But the comparison was in
favour of the waters; there is, thought I, at least some use in these,
for, as they drag their weary length along, death, the tyrant, fettered
and subdued, is borne on their course from plains where once his rule was
absolute.
Filled with these reflections, and sometimes dreaming that I saw the
captive monarch in a phantom ship, with skeleton crew--sometimes that I
heard the sullen splash of muffled oars; thus dreaming and reflecting,
the journey seemed short to Naples; and there it was I chanced upon "A
Miracle of Modern Days," which, however, must be reserved until the
Omnibus shall start again.
MRS. TODDLES.
It is the cherished wish of our heart, more especially at the moment when
we are entering upon a new-year, and opening a fresh account with Time,
to be at peace with all men; but Col. Talker--(_is_ his name Talker or
Walker?)--has certainly done his utmost to uproot and scatter to the
winds this pacific feeling. His conduct at the office, the day after our
last publication, was extremely violent; and his threats intermingled
with terrible oaths, such as "Dash my buttons," "Burn my wig," &c., were
quite discreditable to him. And all on account of the dozen words we
have said of _him_--for he is now cool enough on the score of Mrs. T.'s
supposed grievance. This is the way with all your gallant champions! We
hope Col. W. has not torn his shirt frill, nor injured his umbrella past
repair. We hope too that he is not a confirmed duellist.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Trusting that we shall yet live to be on amicable terms with Col. W., we
shall now describe his gallant conduct in escorting Mrs. Toddles to Bow,
to spend their Christmas eve in that favoured vicinity, her dear native
place, which, it appears, she has been vainly endeavouring to reach;
these last nine months. Resolved however to have nothing to do with an
"omnibus," they found out one of the old-fashioned stages, but, being too
late (as usual!) to secure inside places, were compelled to go outside.
Mrs. T. and the colonel seated themselves very comfortably in the basket
or dickey. Scarcely however had they advanced on their journey beyond
Aldgate pump, when, lamentable to relate, the dickey, affected by old age
or by a violent jolt, suddenly separated itself from the coach, and down
it came crash with Mrs. T. into the road; the gallant colonel springing
to the roof as nimbly as a lamplighter. The feelings of both, as Hamlet
remarks, may be more easily conceived than described. Happily however no
serious injury was sustained by Mrs. T. beyond a slight fracture of the
bonnet, not likely to prove fatal to its shape; her dress cap too which
she was carrying in paper was also a little crumpled, and there was a
crash of something in her pocket which, she most positively alleged,
was _not_ a bottle. Colonel W., as soon as the coach could be stopped,
descended and returned to the scene of the accident in time to snatch
that lady from the risks to which her delicacy was exposed, which was
shocked only to the extent of proclaiming a fact previously known perhaps
to many, that she wore black stockings. We are truly happy to state that
after a little delay they reached their place of destination together
in perfect safety; and the very best security which we can offer to the
friends of Mrs. Toddles that she suffered nothing from the untoward
occurrence, is, that she was enabled in the course of the delightful
evening which she spent, to take part in a cotillon with her friend the
gallant Colonel; and when they were last seen, they were dancing away
gloriously together.
SONNET TO MRS. SARAH TODDLES.
Though short thou art in stature, Sarah dear,
Thou shalt not be looked over by the world;--
Nor though an antique bonnet thou dost wear
Over, perchance, a wig, where hair once curled!
Thy Lightfoot is beneath the grassy mound,
And thou wilt see thy Heavisides no more,--
Loaded with lead, thy feet, by age, are found,
And thy sides lean to what they were before:--
Child of a Gunn! (that went off long ago)--
Lightfoot's and Heaviside's surviving half!!
Relief of Toddles!!! all thy friends well know
Thy worth, and say, without intent to chaff,
"Sarah will be, and is (though suitors crave)
"A widow still,--and Toddles to the grave!"
V.D.L.
POSTSCRIPT.
MR. GEORGE CRUIKSHANK here concludes the first volume of his "Omnibus,"
by wishing all his friends and readers a "happy new year." An arrangement
entered into, a twelvemonth ago, with MR. HARRISON AINSWORTH, and now
resumed, with a view to its being carried into effect on the 1st of
February, prevents the re-appearance of the "Omnibus" upon the plan
of monthly numbers; but the estimation and success it has obtained,
encourage him to pursue the object with which he started, by presenting
his second volume in the form of an Annual. That object was, to produce
a FIRESIDE MISCELLANY--here it is; and if he and his literary associates
herein should meet the reader as agreeably in an Annual, as in a Monthly
form, he trusts it will be
[Illustration: AS BROAD AS IT'S LONG.]
* * * * *
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| Transcriber notes: |
| |
| P.vi. '372' changed to '272' which is the correct page number. |
| P.v. '144' changed to '124' which is the correct page number. |
| P.16. 'filagree' changed to 'filigree'. |
| P.21. 'naratives' changed to 'narratives'. |
| P.43. 'though' changed to 'thought'. |
| P.49. 'suffiicently' changed to 'sufficiently' |
| P.84. 'defeaning' changed to 'deafening'. |
| P.184. 'waiscoat' changed to 'waistcoat'. |
| P.195. 'pourtrayed' changed to 'portrayed'. |
| P.224. 'duetts' changed to 'duets'. |
| P.226. 'neighbourhoood' changed to 'neighbourhood'. |
| P.250. 'propects' changed to 'prospects'. |
| p.259. 'Jemina' changed to 'Jemima'. |
| P.278. 'riggled' changed to 'wriggled'. |
| P.292. 'your are' changed to 'you are'. |
| Fixed various punctuation. |
| Superscripts are shown as: C^k. |
| Uderscores surround _italic text_ in this file. |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
End of Project Gutenberg's George Cruikshank's Omnibus, by George Cruikshank