_=NOSEBAG= comes in; at intervals, other customers._
_Nosebag._ Servant, Mrs Nutts. Where’s the master?
_Mrs Nutts._ If you mean Mr Nutts, he’s jest run with the pie to the
bakehouse. I don’t know how it is, but the older he grows, the more
partic’lar he gets with his dinners. I am sorry to say it of my own
husband, but I don’t think an angel could make a crust to suit him
now--for I try, I’m sure.
_Nosebag._ Well, nor I don’t know how it is; but as we lose, as I heard
a player say the other night--as we lose “the finer feelings of the
’art,” we seem to think more and more of wittles. Twenty years ago,
when I was first married, I could have dined three days in the week on
periwinkles; but I own it--I couldn’t be happy on periwinkles now.
_Mrs Nutts._ Oh, in course not. I’m sure I don’t know who’d be a poor
woman, put upon as we are! Not a bit of power in our own hands--not so
much as pie-crust left us.
_Tickle._ (_With newspaper._) Well, really, Mrs Nutts--axing your
pardon--I do sometimes think you have a little the whip-hand of us.
_Mrs Nutts._ I don’t see how--I wish we had. We should know how to use
it--_we_ should.
_Tickle._ Why, see here now. Haven’t you heard all about the Spanish
dancer Donna Lola Montes and the old King of Bavaria?
_Mrs Nutts._ I don’t want to hear anything about such creturs. What is
it?
_Tickle._ Why, she’s doin’ wonders. Taking the whole kingdom and
whippin’ it round like a top.
_Nosebag._ A most charmin’ woman. She was here at the opera--don’t I
remember the bills? When the other lady dancers wouldn’t dance with
her--and screamed when they come nigh her--and when she went away,
insisted upon having the house whitewashed, and vinegar and brown paper
burnt in every corner. And then she went to Poland, where she stabbed
the Emperor’s own policeman; for she wears a dagger for a busk in her
stays--don’t you call ’em busks, Mrs Nutts?--in----
_Mrs Nutts._ There, go along; how should I know? Stabbed him with a
dagger, eh? Poor soul! and I daresay served him right. Well?
_Tickle._ Now she’s got to Bavaria; and she makes no more of the King’s
crown than a thimble. And they do say that the old gen’l’man--that
is, the King--though he’s got a snow-white beard a foot long, is gone
so raving mad about her that the unfortunate old man doesn’t know the
Queen, his own lawful wife.
_Mrs Nutts._ Nothing more likely.
_Tickle._ And more than that, Mrs Nutts; she’s kicked over the Cabinet
like a tea-table, and smashed the Ministry as if they was so many cups
and sarcers. Besides which, the paper here says, she walks about Munich
with a bulldog to pertect her innocence.
_Mrs Nutts._ Innocence! I’m not cruel--no, I should hope not; but, as
I’m a living woman, if I was the Queen, I’d gullyteen her!
_=NUTTS= comes in._
_Nutts._ Hallo! Mrs Nutts! Talking about bloodshed in that horrible
manner?
_Mrs Nutts._ Oh, of course; you’ll take her part. It’s such creturs
that are most cared for; but I only wish I was Queen, that’s all. I’m
not cruel, as I said afore; but as sure as I’d a palace gate, her head
should be a-top of it; yes, if she’d a thousand bayonets for busks,
that it should. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Nutts--you,
the father of a family--to stand there taking the cretur’s part.
Dormalolez, indeed!
_Nutts._ Oh, that’s what it is, eh? Now, Mr Nosebag, will you take the
chair? I’ve read all about that.
_Mrs Nutts._ Of course you have; I saw you laughing and enjoying
yourself, and I knew by the way of you there could be no good in it. Go
on, Mr Tickle; of course the cretur has turned the poor Queen out of
her palace, and is at this moment walking about the town with her crown
upon her head--a minx--jest like ’em.
_Tickle._ Not at all. For here’s a letter from Munich of the 22d ult.
that says (_reads_): “The exasperation of the populace of our city
against Mlle. Lola Montes has become so great that the authorities, in
order to prevent disturbances, have required the young lady to quit the
town.”
_Mrs Nutts._ “Young lady!” Such creturs! Well--if pisoning can ever be
lawful--but go on.
_Tickle._ (_Reads._) “This she did last night, going to the village of
Sturemberg, situated at about five leagues from Munich. Her carriage
was escorted by a strong detachment of dragoons from the garrison.”
_Nutts._ At the village of Sturemberg? Ha! like a letter at the
post-office, I s’pose--“to be left till called for.”
_Mrs Nutts._ Well, Nutts, I wonder how you can joke at such a matter.
As a husband and father of a family, it ought to make your blood run
cold. It does _me_.
_Peabody._ Well, I’ve heard of Venus drawn by doves----
_Mrs Nutts._ I have it in a valentine; and then, like a foolish girl,
believed in it.
_Peabody._ But I don’t fancy Venus with her bulldog. However, they say
the King’s mad--don’t they?
_Slowgoe._ No doubt on it. For isn’t he the same King that’s writ poems
and started a newspaper? If I was on a jury, that would be enough for
me. I’d send him to a lunatic asylum for life.
_Mrs Nutts._ Very right, Mr Slowgoe; any man who can serve his Queen as
he’s done, I’d put him in a straight jacket for the rest of his days,
with only one arm out on Sundays.
_Limpy._ Never mind them foreigners; let’s think of the wirtues of our
own homes. You’ve a vote for Vestminster, haven’t you, Mr Nutts?
_Nutts._ I have, sir. A vote--though I say it--as pure as drifted snow.
_Mrs Nutts._ And quite as uncomfortable. Often when the children want
things, Nutts will have the money for the taxes to preserve what he
calls his independent vote. And for years and years--no matter how
I’ve been pinched--he has preserved it. And what’s the good on it?
Independence! I don’t blame anybody for being independent when they can
afford it; then it’s right and respectable. Otherwise it’s a piece of
extravagance beyond poor people.
_Nutts._ Now, my dear, if you’ll let alone my politics, I’ll promise
not to interfere with your turnip-tops; and I’m sure, if turnip-tops
can speak, I heard ’em just now crying out for you to come and pick
’em in the kitchen. A cleverer woman at greens never lived; but for
all that, my dear, you are not quite up in the House of Commons. (_Mrs
Nutts looks an unspoken repartee, and whisks out._) Yes, gentlemen, as
I said, I _have_ a vote.
_Peabody._ Well, is it promised?
_Nutts._ Why, I’m taken a little aback. I rayther like the address
of Mr Cochrane; but, as I once heerd a feller say at the play--“His
highness is discovered.”
_Slowgoe._ Well, I’m not surprised--not at all. When a man promises
liberty by the bushel--universal suffrage and all that--I know what to
expect. I haven’t read the partic’lars; but it’s true, isn’t it, that
he went about the country as a wandering minstrel?
_Peabody._ Why, I understand that, blushing like a gentleman, he has
owned as much.
_Slowgoe._ As I say, I haven’t heard the partic’lars; but he went
about, didn’t he, with a hurdy-gurdy and white mice?
_Nutts._ Oh dear, no; went with guitar, and twangled the wires. But
I don’t care so much about that--no, and I could have forgiven the
mice, for mice out of Parliament aren’t so bad as rats in; but the
unfortunate young youth--I mean Don Juan de Vega Cochrane--writ a book
that, though it was all about soft-hearted ladies, wasn’t quite a book
of beauty. Now, the worst of black used in all this blackening world is
the black that’s put upon the name of a kind, unsuspecting woman. It’s
a hard job for a man to get his hands clean after using it--it will
stick worse than the real “Tyrian dye.”
_Slowgoe._ And so this patriot--this hurdy-gurdy politician--this
minstrel boy of Westminster--won’t stand, eh, for Parl’ment?
_Nosebag._ P’r’aps he may sing, then. Shouldn’t wonder if he was to
canvass the voters’ wives with his guitar, with pink ribbons about ’is
neck, dust like Mr James Wallack, for the Brigand, with a new sort of
song--“Gentle Electors;” or, “The Minstrel Boy to the Poll is gone.”
If he was only to try that dodge, and the women had votes, I’m blest
if, in my opinion, he wouldn’t chant plumpers out of all of ’em. I’m
certain on it, a man with one of them twangling guitars is a more
dangerous cretur about a house than with a double-loaded blunderbuss.
_Nutts._ And so I’ve been reading Mr Charles Lushington’s speech, and
my mind’s made up; if he sticks to what he says, I shall prime him with
my vote for Parl’ment.
_Slowgoe._ I’m very happy--very proud to see--that his Royal Highness
Prince Albert consents to be the Chancellor for Cambridge. Here it
is from the _Post_. The deputation went to the palace on Tuesday.
(_Reads._) “His Royal Highness expressed himself in the warmest terms
for the distinguished honour conferred upon him by the University of
Cambridge, and the sincere gratification he felt in accepting it. His
Royal Highness conversed with the deputation on the subject of English
university discipline, _and evinced considerable knowledge_ of the
Oxford and Cambridge systems.” What do you think of that, eh?
_Nutts._ Why, nothing; princes always do “evince considerable
knowledge” on the very shortest notice upon anything.
_Peabody._ Quite true, Mr Nutts. If they’d made the Prince the King of
M. Leverrier’s new planet just discovered, his Royal Highness would
have evinced “considerable knowledge” of all its plains and mountains,
besides a very intimate acquaintance with some of the principal
inhabitants.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE HEDGEHOG LETTERS._
_Containing the opinions and adventures of =JUNIPER HEDGEHOG=,
cabman, London; and written to his relatives and acquaintance
in various parts of the world._
LETTER I.--_To Peter Hedgehog, at Sydney._
DEAR PETER,--at last I’m settled at my heart’s content. For fifteen
years and more, I’ve been fighting, and punching, and screwing,
and doing--the Lord forgive me!--all sorts of mean tricks to be
respectable; and now I’m happy, for I’ve given the thing up. I’ve got
rid of every bit of the gentleman, and drive a cab. Ha! you don’t
know--you can’t think--what a blessing it is to get rid of all cares
about what’s genteel. It’s like taking off fine tight boots, and
stretching yourself in comfortable old slippers. How respectability
did pinch, and gall, and rub the skin off me, to be sure; but I’ve
done with it. I’ve given up the trumpery, for the good, stout,
weather-proof character of cabman.
Respectability is all very well for folks who can have it for ready
money; but to be obliged to run in debt for it--oh, it’s enough to
break the heart of an angel. Well, I’ve gone a good round, and it’s
nothing but right that I should be comfortable at last. Wasn’t all
the sweetness of my little boyhood lost in an attorney’s office? At a
time of life when I ought to have been bird’s-nesting, shoeing cats
with walnut-shells, spinning cock-chafers on pins, and enjoying myself
like any other child of my age--there I was half the day wearing out
a wooden desk with my young breast-bone, and the other half running
about, like a young cannibal, to serve writs: sneaking and shuffling,
and lying worse than any playbill, and feeling as happy as a devil’s
imp on a holiday whenever I “served” my man. Yes, Peter, that I’ve any
more heart than an oyster left me, is a special favour of Providence;
for what a varmint I was! If it hadn’t been for the playhouse, I should
have been ruined. Yes, Peter, but for the Coburg Theatre, I have no
doubt that at this time I should have been a sharp attorney, not able
to smell as much as a lucifer-match without the horrors. ’Tis a great
place for morals, the playhouse, Peter. As I say, it quite drew me back
into the paths of virtue. Old Simcox, my master, to keep me active,
used to give me a shilling for every writ I served. He used to say
there was nothing like rubbing a young dog’s nose in the blood, to make
him sharp after the game.
Well, with these shillings I used to go to the Coburg gallery. That
gallery was my salvation. When I used to see the villain, who’d been
so lucky all through the piece, chopped down like chopped wood at the
last, my conscience used to stir worse than the stomach-ache. And so
by degrees I liked the playhouse more, and the writs less. And one day
when Simcox told me to go and serve a writ upon the very actor who
used to do me so much good--for he was always the cock of the walk as
far as virtue went--I gave him such a speech about “tremble, villain,
for there is an eye,” that the old fellow gasped again. When he had
recovered himself enough to fling a ruler at my head, I put on my cap
and turned my back upon the law. After this, I sold playbills at the
Coburg doors, and that ’s how I picked up the deal I know about the
stage.
And so I went scrambling on till twenty, and how I lived I don’t know.
Indeed, when I look back, I often think money’s of no use at all; folks
do quite as well, or better, without it. Money’s a habit--nothing more.
At twenty--how it happened I can’t tell--I found myself a tradesman.
Yes; I sold baked ’tatoes, and--on nipping winter days--used to feel
myself a sort of benefactor to what is called our species. I had read
a little at book-stalls and so on; and many a time have I, with a
sort of pride, asked myself if many of the Roman emperors ever sold
’tatoes, salt, and a bit of butter for a penny? I should think not.
Well, at three-and-twenty down came that bit of money on me! Whether
it was really a relation who left it or not, or whether it was all a
mistake, I never asked--I took the money. And that bit of money made
me swell not a little. Yes; I swelled like a toad--full of poison with
it. Then I went to make no end of a fortune. I thought luck had fallen
deep in love with me, and I couldn’t go too far. There was a gentleman
who always came with an order to the Coburg. A few years ago I should
have said he was a Jew; but now I know manners, and so call him a
gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion. Well; if he couldn’t talk melted
butter! We were both to make our fortunes, but I was to find the money
for the couple. We went upon ’Change; and, as he said, both of us were
ruined. Ruin, however, could have been nothing strange to him, for he
never seemed the worse for it. From that time, Peter, I was flung upon
the hard stones of London. I had too much pride to go to the ’tatoes
again, and so took to billiards. Ha! Peter, it’s dirty bread; it’s
bread with the headache and the heartache in it. That wouldn’t do long;
though how I did shuffle, and hedge, and make the most of the innocent,
and all to try and keep myself respectable.
I tell you, for fifteen years I fought it out like a man. I didn’t
care what came of it, what folks said of me--I would be respectable.
A superfine coat and a prime dinner I would have; but ha, Peter! it’s
all been taken out of me. I’ve given it up, I tell you, and I’m a happy
cabman. Bless your soul! you can’t think what a happy life it is.
Always seeing something new, and always riding with somebody. For you
must know my cab isn’t one of the new concerns that divide the drive
and his fare. That wouldn’t suit me nohow. No; I like to ride upon what
I call an equality, and talk and learn life as I go; you can’t believe
the sort of people that I sometimes drive about, and the things I get
out of ’em. But I intend to write it all down, and to save the bother
of posting, and all that, to print my letters at once. Then if my dear
relations and acquaintance that are scattered in all the corners of the
world don’t know anything about me, ’twill be their fault, not mine.
I couldn’t have thought that a cabman’s life could have so improved
the mind. But when we meet at the Spotted Lion--that’s our
watering-house--there’s something to be heard, I can tell you. I never
troubled my head with politics before I drove a cab: no, I was little
better than an animal; but I should think that now I know something of
the Bill of Rights, and all that, and all from the newspapers. When the
nosebag’s on the old mare, don’t I read the debates in Parliament!
I was going to write you a bit upon the Sugar Question, but old
Lumpy--he’s our waterman--has called me for a job. So at present no
more from your cousin and wellwisher,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER II.--_To Mrs Hedgehog of New York._
MY DEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER,--Thank all your stars and two garters that
you’re out of England! We’re all going to be made Catholics. It’s a
settled thing. You ought henceforth never to cook a supper of sprats
without looking at the gridiron, thinking of Smithfield, and being
special grateful for your deliverance. Nobody can tell what’s come to
half the bishops, and three parts of the clergy. Such a noise about
surplices and gowns! The old story again. The old fight--as far as I
can tell--about white and black: one party vowing that the real thing’s
white, whilst the other will have it that the true white’s black. Yes,
grandmother, it’s the old battle of black and white that, as far as my
learning goes, has for hundreds of years filled this nice sort of world
of ours with all kinds of trouble. Nobody can tell what’s set these
ministers of peace--as they call themselves--all of a sudden in such a
pucker; but I think I’ve hit upon the cause, and here it is.
All this noise in the Church has begun in the playhouse. I’m sure of
it. Foolish people say and write that we English folks don’t care about
plays. There never was such a mistake. In our hearts, all of us, and
especially many of the bishops and clergy, dote upon the playhouse; but
then, you see, it isn’t thought quite the thing for the clergy to go
there. The Bishop of Exeter--I’m cocksure of it--has a consuming love
for a pantomime; but then he wouldn’t like to be seen in the boxes of
Drury Lane, giving his countenance to the clown, that takes his tithe
of all sorts of things that come under his nose. The Bishop of London
too--he, I’ve heard it said, got made a bishop of by some intimate
acquaintance of his that wrote plays in Greek. Well, he can’t go and
enjoy his laugh at the Haymarket, or have his feelings warmed, till
they boil over at his eyes, at the Victoria (that was once the Coburg);
so you see, as the bishops can’t decently stir from the Church to the
playhouse, they’ve set their heads together to bring the playhouse to
the Church. And this accounts for all their fuss in the Church about
what the playhouse people call the “dresses and decorations.” They seem
to think that religion isn’t enough of itself, unless it’s “splendidly
got up.” Whereupon they want to go back to the old properties of
crosses and candlesticks, and so forth, to fill the pews. Well, when
the bishops--the grey, sober men, the fathers of the Church--have
this hankering after a bit of show, it isn’t to be expected that the
young fellows will refuse the finery. Certainly not. Whereupon they’re
bringing in all sorts of fashions, it seems. They don’t think it
enough to belong to the Army of Martyrs, unless they’ve very handsome
regimentals.
In some of the churches they’ve revived what they call the offertory.
It’s this. At a certain part of the service, they send round a bag
or a pocket at the end of a stick to all the people, to put money
in. I have seen the same sort of thing used in the streets to reach
to the first-floors, when the tumblers go about. Well, this money is
gathered for a-many things; but John Bull doesn’t like it. They say
the crocodile has his tender part somewhere about his belly--John’s
vital part is his breeches-pocket. Nevertheless, there’s no doubt that
the Bishop of Exeter--for he’s very strong upon the offertory--has
introduced it to make religion, what is so very much liked in England,
select and respectable. You see the people who can’t afford to drop
their Sunday shillings and sixpences, won’t have the face to go to
worship at all--or they may turn Dissenters, and so the Established
Church, like the Opera-house, will be made a place for what the
_Standard_ (I can tell you _that_ is a religious paper, though you may
never hear of it) calls the “better classes.” Poor people may turn
Anabaptists, or anything of that sort that’s very cheap. Purple and
fine linen a’n’t for everybody; no, isn’t there good stout sound cloth,
and striped cotton?
The Bishop of London has been in very hot water with the folks at
Tottenham about the Sunday silver, which they won’t pay at all. Well,
he says they needn’t pay it for a twelvemonth. So it seems that a truth
isn’t a truth all at once, it takes a year to grow. According to the
Bishop, it would seem that truth was born like a tadpole, that wanted
time afore it came to be a perfect frog.
Well, then, there’s another notion about. It’s said that the wants
of the people are so many that it’s quite out of the power of the
labouring clergy to attend to ’em. It would be worse than drayman’s
work. And so it has been recommended that there should be a sort of
Church militia raised in addition to the regulars. It was only last
night that I drove down to Fulham a very chatty sort of man--I think
the under-butler of the Bishop of London. Well, he talked a good deal
about this militia; they’re to be called Deacons, I think, and are to
be considered a sort of a parson; like young ravens not yet come to
their full black.
Well, it was quite plain that he hoped to be one of ’em, for he said
the places would be open to anybody, really pious, of the humblest
parts. He was very talkative, and said these deacons would have all the
comforts of the monks, without any of their vows; going to people’s
houses; worming themselves into their families, and learning all their
business carnal--yes, I think carnal was his word--and spiritual. When
I asked him if, like the monks, they were to wear gowns and hoods
(as I’d seen ’em at the Coburg), he winked very knowingly, and said,
with the blessing of Providence, that might come. At all events, they
might begin with letters and numbers worked in gold or silver in their
collars; and, something after the new police, have a pink or purple
strap about their cuffs when upon spiritual duty.
Folks are in a mighty stir about the matter; but I think Exeter and
London might bring all the people of their own minds, if they only knew
how to go about the business. I’ve just been reading Miss Martineau
about mesmerism, and she says this: “It is almost an established
opinion among some of the wisest students of mesmerism, that the mind
of the somnambule [you must ask somebody about these words] mirrors
that of the mesmerist.” And then she goes on to say, “It certainly is
true to a considerable extent, as is pretty clearly proved when an
ignorant child--ignorant, especially, of the Bible--_discourses of the
Scriptures and divinity when mesmerised by a clergyman_.”
Now the bishops have nothing to do but to mesmerise the people--I’m
sure I’ve known parsons who’ve done wonders with sleepy
congregations--have only to get ’em “to mirror _their_ minds,” and
they may do as they please with crosses, and surplices, and saints,
and offertory, and all that. In a word, the Bishops of Exeter and
London have only to send all their flocks well to sleep, to shear ’em
after what fashion they like. As yet, my dear grandmother, I haven’t
given nothing to the offertory, and I won’t agree to the move about
the surplice. But flesh is weak. I can’t tell how long I may hold out.
Fashion’s a strong thing, and always strongest when it sets towards
the Church. The day may come when I may take my grey mare--as I’m told
they take all the animals in Italy--to be blessed and sprinkled on the
feast of St Anthony, and the Bishop of London may do the job for her.
But I’ll hold out as long as I can. In the mean time, let me have your
prayers, and believe me your affectionate grandson,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
_P.S._--I did intend to write to cousin Bridget, but Lumpy’s called me
away for a long job.
LETTER III.--_To Mrs Hedgehog of New York._
MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,--We’re all safe for a time; the Pope hasn’t quite
got hold of us yet. You recollect when I was a boy, how I would fling
stones, and call names, and go among other boys pelting ’em right and
left, and swearing I didn’t mean to hurt ’em, but played off my pranks
only for their good? And then, when I used to get into a terrible
fight, you remember how you used to come in at the last minute, and
carry me off home just as I was nearly giving in? And then, how
afterwards I used to brag that if grandmother hadn’t taken me away,
I’d have licked twenty boys; one down, another come on! Well, well; the
more I see of life, the more I’m sure men only play over their boys’
tricks; only they do it with graver faces and worse words.
What you did for me, the Archbishop of Canterbury has done for the
Bishop of Exeter. Almost at the last minute he has wrapped his apron
about the Bishop and carried him out of the squabble. And now the
Bishop writes a letter as long as a church bell-rope, in which he
says he only gives up fighting to show that he’s obedient--more than
hinting, that if he’d been allowed to go on, he’d have beaten all
comers, with one hand tied behind him. At all events, he’s very glad
there’s been a rumpus, as it proves there’s pluck on both sides.
Yes; he says, “Whatever may have been the temporary results, _I do not
and cannot regret_ that I deemed it necessary publicly to assert those
principles of Church authority, which it is alike the duty of all of
us to recognise and to inculcate. The very vehemence with which the
assertion of them has been resisted _proves_, if proof were necessary,
_the necessity of their being asserted_, and of our never suffering
them to fall into oblivion.” If this isn’t talking in the dark, I don’t
know what a rushlight is. You might as well say that the “vehemence”
with which a man resists a kicking, “proves the necessity” of kicking
him. Because folks wouldn’t at any price have surplices forced down
their throats, and offertory-bags poked into their pews, why, that’s
the very reason you should try to push both surplice and bag upon ’em.
As I say, it shows there’s blood on both sides; and it’s a comfort to
know that both parties are ready for a tussle. Well, I’ve heard this
sort of preaching from a Tipperary cabman, and never wondered; but it
_does_ sound droll from a bishop. I’ve read something somewhere about
the thunder of the Church, and have now no doubt that it must be very
serviceable; it must so clear the air after a certain time. Here, for
months, has Exeter been thundering in the newspapers--crack, crack,
crack! it’s gone almost every morning, till people wondered if the
steeple of their own parish church was safe; and now, at last, he sits
himself down, and smiling as if his face was smeared with honey, folds
his hands and softly says, “Thank heaven! we’ve had a lovely storm.”
Talking about thunder, I once read a poem--one of those strange, odd
things that give your brain a twist--called “Festus.” There was a
passage in it that certainly did bother me; but now I can perfectly
understand it. Somebody says to another--
“Why, how now!
You look as though you fed on _buttered thunder_.”
Now, the Bishop of Exeter--I say it with all respect, grandmother,
for you know you always taught me to love the bishops--is this very
man. You’ve only to read his letters, really so noisy, and yet, as he
declares, meaning to be so soft--to be sure that what he lives and
thrives upon is _buttered thunder_. The Bishop, of course, isn’t alone
in his happiness at the row. One of his best friends, the _Morning
Post_, believes it will do a deal of good. True piety, like physic,
wants shaking to have its proper effect. The _Post_ talked a little
while ago about “the means which have made the Church arise from its
slumbers _like a giant refreshed_;” that is, getting up in a white
surplice, to be refreshed with ready money from the pews. I don’t know
how it is, but I don’t think the Church ought to be compared to a
giant. All the giants I know are people of very queer character. The
best of ’em gluttonous, swaggering, overbearing chaps, with nothing too
hot or too heavy for ’em to carry off: now, these are not at all the
sort of creatures that we are likely to think of when we’re reading the
Bishop of Exeter’s letters. No; they rather remind us of a shepherd
playing on his pipe--I’ve only read of these things--to his sheep and
lambkins. The _Morning Post_ further says:--
“We are not among those who feel alarm at the present state of
the Church. _The fermentation_ will throw off the scum, and
what is good will remain.”
Now, grandmother, you know enough of boiling to know that “the scum”
always floats on the top. Now, is anything on the top to be thrown
off? Don’t flurry yourself; the _Post_ doesn’t mean that. What it
means is, that a whole lot of the vulgar members of the Established
Church will be so fermented by the surplice, the offertory, and
other Popish ingredients--grains of Paradise, as they tell us--that
they’ll be thrown clean out of it. You know how Bill Wiggins once
poisoned the pond, so that the fish was floated dead ashore. In the
same way the Church may get rid of its small fry, and “what is good
will remain.” Then the Church will be something like. Now, it’s old
and weather-stained, with time blotches and cracks about it. But how
fine it will look with crucifixes and pictures of the Virgin inside--a
clean white surplice always in the upper pulpit--and the whole building
beautifully and thickly faced with _Roman_ cement!
But at this present writing, it isn’t all over in the city of Exeter.
The Bishop, having had his fling, one of his journeymen, the Rev.
Mr Courtenay, minister of St Sidwell’s, comes in for a little more
than his share of the performance. Don’t think I’m profane, dear
grandmother--no, quite the reverse. But you _have_ in your time been to
Astley’s, and seen the riding in the ring. Well, the principal rider
comes, and does all manner of wonders whilst cantering and galloping,
and going all kind of paces. When he’s done, he makes his bow and goes
off. And then after him comes the clown. Well, he’s determined to outdo
all that’s been done before him, and for this purpose goes on with all
sorts of manœuvres. Now the Bishop of Exeter has made his bow, and
the Rev. Mr Courtenay is, at the time I write, before the public. He
_will_ preach in a surplice; and that he may do so with safety--for
all the folks in Exeter are in a pretty pucker about it--he goes to
and from church, as I may say, in the bosom of the police. Oh dear!
isn’t it sad work, grandmother? this noise about black and white gowns,
when Churchmen ought to think of nothing but black and white souls?
Black and white! as if there was a pattern-book of colours for heaven!
However, how it will end nobody knows; but if the matter goes on as it
promises, it is thought the Rev. Mr Courtenay will call to his aid the
yeomanry, and be escorted to St Sidwell’s by a body-guard armed with
ball-cartridge. It is said he has bespoken two howitzers to keep off
the mob from the church doors.
I’ve hardly time to save the packet; so remain, your affectionate
grandson,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
_P.S._--They do say that Mr Courtenay wants to be made a martyr of. But
the days for burning are all gone by. Besides, other folks declare that
the parson of St Sidwell’s would have been too green to burn at any
time.
LETTER IV.--_To Michael Hedgehog, at Hong-Kong._
DEAR MICHAEL,--When you quitted England, in the Hong-Kong division of
police, I promised to write you all the news I could; at least, such
news as I knew you’d like. The crimes and evils of population were, I
know, always a favourite matter with you. I’m sorry to say the evil’s
getting worse every day; and no wonder. You’ll hardly believe it,
Michael, seeing what a surplus of pauper flesh and blood respectable
people have upon their hands, that there’s a set of ignoramuses who
absolutely offer a premium for babies; for all the world, as they give
away gold and silver medals for prize pigs. I take the bit of news I
send you from the _Times_.
You must know that a few weeks ago a “Mrs Clements of 21 Hunt Street,
Mile-end, Newtown,” had at once “three children, two girls and a boy,”
all, too, impudent enough to live. Well, the _Times_ published an
account of the misdemeanour, and--would you believe it?--some “generous
individuals,” as they are stupidly called, sent, among ’em, £38 for the
mother and little ones.
Now, what is this, as you’d say, but fostering a superabundance of
population? It’s no other than offering bribes to bring people into the
country, already as full as a cask of herrings; and when every trade is
eating part of its members up, for all the world as melancholy monkeys
eat their own tails! Isn’t it shocking to encourage the lower classes
to add to themselves? There’s nothing that money won’t do; and I’ve no
doubt whatever that, for some years to come, all children at Mile-end
will be born by threes and fours. A shrewd fellow like you must have
remarked how people imitate one another. You never yet heard of an odd
act of suicide, or any kind of horror with originality in it, that
it didn’t for a little time become the fashion, as if it was a new
bonnet or a new boot. And so, among the lower orders, it will be in the
matter of babies. Now, if Mrs Clements had been sent to prison for the
offence, then the evil might have been nipped in the bud; but to reward
her for her three babies, who could show no honest means of providing
for themselves, why, it’s flying in the face of all political economy.
Three babies at once at Mile-end is monstrous. Even twins should be
confined to the higher ranks.
You’ll be glad to hear that we’ve been giving a round of dinners to
your Chinese hero, Sir Henry Pottinger. At Manchester he was hailed
as the very hero of cotton prints. They dined him very handsomely,
and you may be sure there was a good deal of after-dinner speaking.
A Rev. Canon Wray answered the toast for the Clergy. I once read of
a melancholy man, who thought all his body was turned into a glass
bottle, and so wouldn’t move for fear of going to pieces. Now, I’m
certain of it, that there’s a sort of clergyman who, after some such
humour, thinks himself a forty-two pounder; for he is never heard at a
public meeting that he doesn’t fire away shot and gunpowder. The Rev.
Canon said (or rather fired) his thanks, that Sir H. Pottinger “had
opened a way for the march of the gospel.” Now, Michael, I never heard
of any artillery in the New Testament. And he further said:--
“British arms seem scarcely ever to know a defeat. In the east,
west, north, and south, our soldiers and sailors are, in the
end, ever victorious. I cannot but think that, as great Britain
holds the tenets of the gospel in greater purity than any
other nation, so she is intended by the Divine will to carry
inestimable blessings to all distant benighted climes.”
Well, Michael, I’ve heard of a settler in mistake sowing gunpowder
for onions; but the Rev. Canon Wray, with his best knowledge about
him, thinks there’s nothing like sowing gunpowder for the “scriptural
mustard-seed.” I suppose he’s right, because he’s a canon; and
therefore not to be disputed with by your ignorant, but affectionate
brother,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER V.--_To Mrs Barbara Wilcox, at Philadelphia._
DEAR SISTER,--It gave me much pleasure to learn from your letter that
yourself, husband, and baby got safe and sound to your present home.
You ask me to send you my portrait. It isn’t in my power to do so at
present; but if I should be unfortunate enough to kill anybody, or set
a dockyard a-fire, or bamboozle the Bank--or, in short, do anything
splashy to get a front place in the dock at the Old Bailey--you may
then have my portrait at next to nothing. Then, I can tell you, it
will be drawn in capital style--at full length, three quarters, half
length, and I know not what.
I’ve read somewhere, that in what people call the good old times--as
times always get worse, what a pretty state the world will be in a
thousand years hence!--when there were dead men’s heads on the top of
Temple Bar, grinning down, what people call an example, on the folks
below, that there used to be fellows with spyglasses; and, at a penny a
peep, they showed to the curious all the horror of the aforesaid heads,
not to be discovered by the naked eye. Well, the heads are gone, and
the spyglass traders too; but for all that, there’s the same sort of
show going on, and a good scramble to turn the penny by it, only after
a different fashion. Murderers are now shown in newspapers. They are
no longer gibbeted in irons; no, that was found to be shocking, and of
no use: they are now nicely cut in wood, and so insinuated into the
bosoms of families. The more dreadful the murder, the greater value the
portrait; which, for a time, is made a sort of personal acquaintance
to thousands of respectable folks who pay the newspaper owner--the
spyglass-man of our time--so much to stare at it as long as they like.
I am certain that the shortest cut to popularity of some sort is to cut
somebody’s throat. A dull, stupid fellow, that pays his way and does
harm to nobody, why, he may die off like a fly in November and be no
more thought of. But only let him do some devil’s deed--do a bit of
murder as coolly as he’d pare a turnip--and what he says, whether he
takes coffee, or brandy-and-water “cold without;” when he sleeps, and
when he wakes; and when he smiles, and when he grinds his teeth,--all
of this is put down as if all the world went upon his movements, and
couldn’t go on without knowing ’em. To a man who wants to make a noise,
he doesn’t care how, all this is very tempting. I hope I mayn’t come
to be cut in wood, but still one would like to make a rumpus some way
before one died.
There’s commonly an Old Bailey fashion, the same as a St James’s
fashion. Just now--as you want to know all the domestic news--poison’s
carrying everything before it. ’Twould seem as if people suddenly
thought their relations rats, and treated ’em accordingly. I never
yet tried my hand upon a book, but I do think that I could throw off
a nice little story with lots of arsenic in it--a sort of genteel
guide to Newgate. I’ve been reading about a lady, one Tofana, who
made a great stir some years ago. She could give arsenic in such a
manner that she set people for death as you’d set an alarum. She got
a good many pupils, young married ladies, about her, who all of ’em
put their husbands aside like an old-fashioned gown. Now, I do think
that a novel called “The Ladies’ Poisoning Club,” or “Widowhood at
Will,” would just now make a bit of a stir. I don’t mean to say that
I could write a book, that is, what folks call _write_; but I’ve a
knack: I know I could imitate writing, just as an ape imitates a man.
The subject grows upon me. I certainly think I shall make a beginning.
However, of this you shall hear more by the next packet. I do think
I could make a hit in what I call arsenicated literature. There’s
arsenicated candles, why shouldn’t there be arsenicated books?--In
haste, your affectionate brother,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
_P.S._--If I do the book, I shall follow it up with a sort of moral
continuation, to be called “The Stomach-Pump.”
LETTER VI.--_To Mr Jonas Wilcox, Philadelphia._
DEAR BROTHER-IN-LAW,--As my last letter was to sister, it is but
fair that you should have the next dose of ink. Well, Parliament’s
opened; and Sir Robert’s made a clean breast of it--that is, if a
Prime Minister can do such a thing. There never was such harmony in
the House of Commons! After Sir Robert had spoken out, you might have
thought all the House was holding nothing but a love-feast. I was in
the gallery--I won’t tell you how I got in--and never saw such a sight
in all my life. All the papers, I can’t tell why, have oddly suppressed
an account of the matter; therefore, what you get from me will be
exclusive--from your “own” correspondent. Treasure it accordingly.
When Sir Robert said he should keep on the income-tax for three years
longer, almost the whole House fell into fits of delight at his
goodness. You might have seen Whig embracing Tory, Radical throwing
his arms about the neck of Conservative, and Young England with tears
of gratitude rolling like butter-milk down upon his white waistcoat.
When Sir Robert had quite finished his speech, there was a shower of
nosegays flung upon him from the Treasury benches, just in the same
way as now and then you pelt the actors at the playhouses! Sir Robert
picked ’em all up, and pressed ’em to his heart, and from the corners
of his mouth smiled the thousand thanks. Then sitting down, he very
handsomely gave a flower apiece to what he calls his colleagues. He
insisted--amidst the cheers of the House--on putting a forget-me-not
in the button-hole of Mr Gladstone (who sobbed audibly at the touch
of friendship); and then he handed a lily--as an emblem of the Home
Secretary’s reputation--to Sir James Graham. At this, I needn’t tell
you, there were “roars of laughter.” To be sure, at this season of the
year these flowers were artificial; but for which reason, it was said
by somebody, they were more in keeping with Sir Robert’s measures.
Two or three members--for form’s sake--abused the income-tax, but
nevertheless said they would vote for it. Lord John Russell called it a
shameful, infamous, ignominious, tyrannical, prying impost: he would,
however, support it. This is as if a man should denounce another as a
coward, a ruffian, and a thief, and then--fold him to his bosom! But
they do odd things in Parliament. Sir Robert says we are to have the
income-tax for only three years longer. Nonsense! He intends that we
should grow with it upon us. He’ll no more take it off than a Chinese
mother will take off the little shoe that, for the beauty of the
full-grown woman, she puts upon the foot of her baby girl. The child
may twist, and wriggle, and squall; and the mother may now and then say
pretty things--make pretty promises to it to keep it quiet--but the
shoe’s there for the sufferer’s life. Now John Bull--thinks Sir Robert
Peel--will move all the better with his foot in the income-tax: all the
better too, because it most galls and crushes a lower member. However,
we are to have the duty off glass; which, says Sir Robert, is much
better than if the duty were taken off light. It is not for such as me
to dispute with a minister, but I can’t see how, if I’m to get my house
glazed duty free, it’s quite as good as if there was no window-tax. To
be sure, if a man, as a householder, were to new glaze himself from
top to bottom once a quarter, it might be another thing; he might save
upon the glass what he now pays for the sun that, in London, tries to
come through it. He may certainly afford to have more windows, but
will, I say, the saving on the glass pay for the light? Besides, not
light alone, but air is paid for. There is at the present time a secret
agitation going on among the cats of England. The grievance is this: A
man can’t make a hole in his house for the cat to pass in and out to
mouse or visit, without the said hole being surcharged as a window.
This is a wrong done upon the cats of the country; but whether done out
of sympathy with the rats or not, let Sir James Graham answer. However,
one comfort will come of cheap glass: folks who choose to visit museums
and such public places, may break what they like of the material at a
decreased cost, for the pleasure. Before it was bad enough, nothing,
according to the law, being worth more than five pounds; so any
malicious or morbid scoundrel (or both) might smash any rare piece of
antiquity, and handing to the magistrate any sum over five pounds,
bid him take the change out of that. I think a club might be formed
for certain young chaps about town, to be called “The Independent
Smashers.” They might subscribe to a common fund to pay fines; and each
in turn draw for the pleasure of a bit of destruction. With the duty
taken off the article, it would be remarkably cheap sport. However,
there is no doubt of it, that Peel has got great glory by taking off
this tax. A good deal of his reputation as a minister will be looked
upon as glass; such side of his reputation in the eyes of an admiring
country to be always “kept upwards.”
We are to have sugar, too, at about three-halfpence a pound cheaper;
which Mrs Hedgehog tells me will allow us to save at least sixpence a
week: however, what we shall have to pay to protect the West Indians,
she, poor soul, never dreams of, and I should be a brute to tell her.
Therefore--poor thing!--she may now and then toast Sir Robert in her
Twankay, without thinking of the £140,000 we lose in the other way.
Then again, what we shall save in cotton is wonderful!
The auctioneers, too, are all right. They are to knock down at so much
for life, instead of taking out a yearly licence. It is thought that
this enlarged piece of statesmanship came about out of compliment to
George Robins, who, in one of his familiar letters to the Premier, said
he’d rather have it so.
However, everybody says Sir Robert Peel’s in for life. He’s married
Downing Street, and nothing but death can them part. One thing’s
certain, he’s got a thumping surplus. And when any man in England gets
that, folks are not very particular how he’s come by it.
So no more at present from your affectionate brother-in-law,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER VII.--_To John Squalid, Weaver, Stockton._
DEAR JOHN,--I’m afraid you don’t go the right way to make both ends
meet. Your letter is full of complaints of poverty, and all that sort
of disagreeable thing. I very much fear that you’ve got into expensive
habits, or your sixteen shillings a week would be sure to go further.
Why don’t you be economical? why don’t you copy the prudence shown
you by high people? Look here, now. Just read this from Sir Robert
Peel’s speech. He is speaking of the marriage (and economy) of Queen
Victoria:--
“It has pleased God to bless that union with the birth of four
children, and this, of course, caused a considerable additional
demand upon the civil list. In the course of the last year
three sovereigns have visited this country; amongst them were
the sovereigns of two of the most powerful countries in the
habitable globe--the Emperor of Russia and the King of the
French.”
I hope you blush now. Four children: and when--if you will only
consider upon it--you come to think how much it costs for babies--how
much in tops-and-bottoms alone--how much in short coating, worsted
shoes, and all that,--can you, as a loyal subject, forbear to cast up
your eyes and close your hands in wonderment at Sir Robert’s picture
of royal economy? There have been four children and three kings come
to Windsor Castle, and yet John Bull has never been asked for an extra
shilling. If you owe anything anywhere, you are, after this, lost to
all sense of self-respect. I give you up. Consider the expense borne
by royalty for royal visitors! The extra night-candles--the extra
clean sheets and pillow-cases,--and yet not a farthing more, _as yet_,
demanded! To be sure, it wouldn’t have been very gracious towards
the three sovereigns, if the bill for their entertainment had been
immediately sent down to Parliament: they might, as gentlemen, have
felt inclined to send over their cheques for the amount: but--no matter
for that.
I clearly see what lies before you--it’s the union, and nothing less.
And you don’t know what _that_--under the benevolence of Sir James
Graham--is to be yet. He has just brought in a bill for another
experiment upon the poor. Indeed Graham, in his bills for the treatment
of the poor, may be likened to one Dr Majendie, a French surgeon, in
his treatment of rabbits. He would take a live rabbit and cut its
nerves here and there to make some great discovery--to learn what
point of agony the rabbit could bear--and still keep a sort of life
within it, eat and drink. Graham is the Poor-Law Majendie! He’s brought
in something like a Settlement Bill; a bill which is to take the
poor--to cut their nerves and heart-strings from their parishes--and
settle them, when they need, what he in his droll manner calls relief,
into unions, melting three-and-twenty parishes into one union! Old
feelings--old affections for old places are to be nothing--ties of
kindred nothing, nothing. Sir James will sever all these, and will then
triumphantly show the world how well the human rabbit can exist with
them cut through and through.
When in the fulness of years and reputation it may please Providence
to remove Sir James from this vale of tears--and certainly it’s no
fault of _his_ measures if the vale is very dry--there ought to be a
monument raised to his memory, made of paupers’ bones.
However, history will be sure to do this for him. As the poor are to
cease to have what is called any associations of place--why should
they have any associations of particular names? Why should they not
be lettered and numbered like the police? Such a plan would go far to
take the conceit out of them, by reminding them most forcibly of the
difference between themselves and the luckier people who bear Christian
and surnames. More, that there should be no mistake, no shuffling in
the matter, the pauper babe, instead of being christened, might be
indelibly tattooed both with letter and number. If at any time of its
future life it should by some strange accident realise sufficient money
to make it respectable, it might then be allowed to be baptized; in the
same way that now a man, on coming to immense wealth, is allowed by the
_Gazette_ to slough the vulgarity of Wiggins into the aristocracy of
Mosmancourt of Godolphin. I hope Sir James will think of this.
But the poor man was always a culprit. You heard I was once a lawyer’s
clerk, and so, John, respect my Latin. The poor were _adscripti
glebæ_--that is, bound to the soil, a bit of the earth, a lump of the
clay, with no more power to remove themselves than a bramble-bush; if
they did, see what came to ’em. I’ve only just picked up the matter,
but here it is--let it be a warning to you. In the time of Richard the
Second--what a very pauper he’d been if born one!--if any poor man left
his home without a justice’s leave, and was taken in the crime, why, he
was put in the stocks for his rascality. Henry the Eighth--a real tiger
of the royal menagerie--made a law that whipped any beggar begging from
his native place. Another of his laws--some of ’em were written in
the best blood of the country--only whipped the beggar for his first
offence, but cut off his right ear for the second, and blackened him
from head to heel a felon for the third. Well, Edward the Sixth, or
his ministers, branded the vagabond on the shoulder, and gave him as a
slave to anybody who’d be troubled with him, to be beaten, chained, and
otherwise remonstrated with for being poor. He might also, for further
ill-manners of running away, be branded in the cheek, and made a slave
for life. Another running away, and--here really came a bit of summary
humanity--he might be hanged! Queen Elizabeth punished the beggar by
ordering his ear to be “burned through the gristle with a hot iron, of
a compass of an inch about”--that is, not much thicker.
Now, John, I hope you lay these things to your heart: I hope you will
at once acknowledge the wickedness that has very properly been put upon
poverty for hundreds of years, and don’t disgrace yourself and your
relations by becoming a pauper. I have a great regard for you--a very
great regard; nevertheless, if you come to want, I give you up for
ever, and renounce you. I hope, therefore, you will take this warning
in good part, and believe me, your affectionate cousin,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER VIII.--_To ---- ----, Naples._
Thank heaven and the printer that there are such things as ---- ----!
You, my dear friend, will know to whom they apply, and may therefore
receive this letter without its bringing down upon you the Government
of Naples. However, don’t venture to write me any answer, for I’m in
Sir James Graham’s books; I’m down--a marked man. Unhappily for me, a
Polish refugee lives in our garret, and the eye of Russia is upon me.
Nevertheless, there has been, I find, some good-luck in this. I’ve
now discovered that the two gentlemen with beards, who used to hire
me when the Emperor Nicholas was here, to drive them from one end of
the town to the other, did so to come at the plot which was hatching
in our attic. However, they got nothing out of me but, as old Lumpy
says, _wicey-warsy_. Still I’m not comfortable. As a cabman, I’ve been
boxed up with Spaniards, Italians, Sardinians, Austrians--men of all
countries and colours. Well, I don’t know at this moment that every
letter to Juniper Hedgehog--that is, every copy--isn’t in the office of
Sir James Graham. A nice thing this to go to bed and sleep upon! When I
think of the sort of letters--full of delicate and tender matters--that
has come to me, I own it does make me burn and fluster to think that I
may not have a single secret to myself: no, Sir James--the Post-Office
burglar--has broken into my affairs, and at this moment he knows all
my poverty, all my little strugglings with little debts--in fact, all
my inner man. I seem to myself to walk about the world turned inside
out! And this evil, be it remembered, may be the fate of thousands,
although, poor wretches, they may not know it. Who shall tell how many
men’s souls are at the Home Office, under the Graham lock and key?
Still, says Sir James, the whole security, not only of _this_ country,
but, in truth, of the whole world, depends upon wax and wafers.
There is no doubt that last summer a few Italians were denounced to
the Government of Naples, and duly shot, in consequence of seals broken
at Downing Street. This is comfortable to reflect upon. Though if Sir
James was a squeamish man--which he is not, for no man ever braved the
pillory with all its unsavoury accidents with a stronger stomach--then
would he never again behold the Queen’s head upon the red post-stamp
without thinking of human blood!
Sir James, however, has two natures, or rather two parts. Like the
picture of Death and the Lady, Sir James is only corrupt on one side.
Thus spoke Tom Duncombe to the foolscap burglar--the sealing-wax Jack
Sheppard: “He has had the meanness, ay, and the baseness, to conceal
his act and has not had the courage to avow it.”
Upon this, the Speaker, in one of his conciliatory moods, observed that
“such observations were very personal. Would the honourable gentleman
withdraw them?” Whereupon Mr Duncombe answered: “Sir, I applied those
observations to the right honourable gentleman in his ministerial
capacity: to those observations and to those topics I adhere; so they
_must and shall remain_.”
And they _do_ remain. And Sir James remains “as a minister,” a “mean,”
“base,” cowardly agent! How strange is the distinction between the
minister and the man!--they’re quite two different things, like the
calipee and calipash of a turtle.
Sir James Graham rose to answer, with a confidence that would have
honoured the Old Bailey. He said, “Mr Duncombe was a person quite
indifferent to him.” This reminds me of the chap who, after he’d been
flogged half a mile and more at the cart’s tail, with all the world
looking on, said to the man that had flayed him, “Sir, you’re beneath
my notice.” I could write more, but Lumpy’s called me for a fare. The
fun, however, is not yet over; and you may hear more of Sir James in my
next. Meantime, if you write, don’t either use wax or wafers; it’s only
wasting property. Send your letters open, and believe me, your faithful
friend,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER IX.--_To Mrs Hedgehog of New York._
DEAR GRANDMOTHER,--It was very kind of you, though away from Old
England, to have prayers put up for the Bishops of Exeter and London,
and Mr Courtenay and Mr Ward, with all the unfortunate young clergymen
who’ve been frightening their good Mother Church, for all the world
like young ducklings that, hatched by a hen, would take water. The
bishops, you will be glad to learn, are much better; and now, Sunday
after Sunday, the young parsons are taking off their white surplices
and putting on their old gowns, just like idle, flashy, young dogs,
who’ve been making a noise at a masquerade, but are once more prepared
to go back to their serious counters. Mr Courtenay and two or three of
his kidney did think of putting on chain-armour under their surplices,
like the Templars that you once saw in the play of Ivanhoe; but whether
the Bishop of Exeter has interfered or not, I can’t say: the thing’s
given up.
Mr Ward, who has been turned out of Oxford for his ideal of a Christian
Church--which means a Church with censers and candlesticks, and
pictures of the Virgin, and martyrs’ bones, and other properties--is
going to be married, if the business isn’t done already. I shouldn’t
have written upon the matter, only Mr W. has printed a letter in all
the papers, giving _his_ notions of the holy state. They certainly are
very sweet and complimentary to the lady chosen by Mr Ward, for he
says--
“First, I hold it most firmly as a truth even of _natural
religion_ that celibacy _is a higher condition of life_ than
marriage.”
Now, if celibacy is the highest condition of life, how is it that Adam
and Eve came together while they were yet in Paradise? Their union,
according to Mr Ward, ought to have taken place after they both fell.
Matrimony should have followed as a punishment for the apple. And then,
when it was commanded, “Increase and multiply,” was it supposed that
those who obeyed the command would not be in so “high a condition”
as those who neglected it? But men read their Bibles through strange
spectacles!
However, grandmother, as you like to hear all the chat about the
Church, you must know that last week I took up a fare near the
oyster-shop in Covent Garden--a very respectable sort of person--in
fact, I’m sure one of the Established Church. When he had left the cab,
I found that the _Ecclesiastical Gazette_ (No. 18) had dropt from his
pocket. I’ve gone through it, and found parts of it--I mean the Church
advertisements--very odd indeed. You can’t think how strange they read
after the New Testament. If you wouldn’t think the pulpit-cushion was a
counter, after reading ’em. Look here, now:--
“A curate wanted in a large market-town forty miles from
London, near a railroad, population _five thousand_, where the
incumbent resides and takes his full share of the duty. He
must be in Priest’s Orders, have a voice sufficiently _loud_
for a very large church, and whilst holding _moderately High
Church views_, be chiefly anxious to _seek and save the lost_
by preaching Christ and Him crucified. Stipend _one hundred
pounds_ a year. The advertiser does not pledge himself to
answer every letter.”
All of ’em bargain for a loud “voice:” you’d think, grandmother,
the advertisements were for chorus-singers and not clergymen. And,
grandmother, can you tell me what “a _moderate_ High Church view”
is? Is it moderate virtue--moderate honesty--moderate _truth_? Pray,
tell me. Another advertiser wants “a pious and active curate,” who
will double his duty with “the tuition of the incumbent’s sons.” That
incumbent has a good eye for a good pennyworth, depend upon it. At
Bishops Lydeard a curate is tempted with “a neat little cottage,” and
“_almost_ certainly the chaplaincy of an adjoining union,” with “other
considerations” (what can _they_ be, grandmother?) which will make the
salary “equivalent to £100 per annum.” And for this he must be orthodox
and married. Another curate is wanted in a “small parish in Berks,”
where “the duty is very light.” What would the apostles have said to
such an offer? A beneficed clergyman advertising from Camberwell,
wishes for duty “in some agricultural and _picturesque part_ of the
north of England.” A picturesque part! You see, it isn’t every one
who would like to preach in the wilderness. Another curate required
in Nottinghamshire: salary, £100 per annum. He must have the highest
references for “gentlemanly manners,” _as_ “the vicar is resident.” I
suppose if the vicar was away, a second or third rate style would do
well enough for the parishioners.
However, you’ll be glad to learn that several of the advertisers
profess to be “void of Tractarianism and _other_ novelties.” Just in
the same way as they write up somewhere in Piccadilly, “The original
brown bear.”
Another clergyman “is desirous of meeting with an early appointment in
town;” and, grandmother, you may judge of the lengths this gentleman
will go to preach Christianity and save human souls, when he adds, “No
objection to the Surrey side.” Isn’t this good of him? Because, you
know, grandmother, the opera, and the clubhouses, and the divans, and
so forth, are none of ’em on the Surrey side. To be sure, there’s the
Victoria and Astley’s--but they’re low.
Now, grandmother, don’t all these advertisements smell a little too
much of trade--don’t they, for your notions of the right thing, jingle
a little too much with gold and silver? As I’m an honest cabman, though
I knew I was reading all about the Church and her pious sons, yet
somehow the advertisements did put me in mind of “Rowland’s Macassar,”
“Mechi’s Magic Strops,” and “Good stout Cobs to be disposed of.”
I am, dear grandmother, your affectionate grandson,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
_P.S._--I open my letter to tell you that the Bishop of Exeter has
broken out again. A Mr Blunt of Helston _will_ wear the surplice; and
the Bishop, like a bottle-holder at a fight, backs him in his doings.
Do have more prayers put up for the Bishop.
LETTER X.--_To Samuel Hedgehog, Galantee Showman, Ratcliffe Highway._
DEAR SAM,--I’m just come home from Hampstead, and so, while the
matter’s fresh in my mind, I sit down to write you a few lines. You
have heard of the awful murder, of course. Well, I don’t know: murder’s
a shocking thing, to be sure; nobody can say it isn’t; and yet, after
what I’ve seen to-day--Sunday, mind--it does almost seem to me as if
people took a sort of pleasure in it. Bless you! if you’d only seen the
hundreds and hundreds of folks figged out in their very best to enjoy
a sight of the place where a man had been butchered, you’d have thought
Haverstock Field--stained and cursed as it is with blood--a second
Vauxhall at the least. I’m sure I’ve seen people going to Greenwich
Fair with not half the pleasure in their faces. However, I’ll tell you
all about it.
I was called off the stand about eight this morning by a gentleman
and lady, dressed, as I thought, for church. They’re a little early,
thought I, but that’s their business. “Take us to Hampstead,” said
the gentleman; “and mind, as near to the murder as possible.” “Do, my
good man,” said the lady. Bless you! to have looked at her you’d have
thought she’d have fainted at the sound of murder. “Do, my good man,”
said she; “and make haste, for I wouldn’t be too late for anything.
Take care of these,” said she to the gentleman, giving him a basket,
“and mind you don’t break it.” Well, it’s my business to drive a cab;
so I said nothing, but started for Hampstead. Bless you! before I’d got
half up Tottenham Court Road, it was no easy driving, I can tell you.
The road swarmed! Up and down the New Road, through Camden Town, and
right to Haverstock Hill--I never saw anything like it, except perhaps
on the day they run for the Derby. Everybody seemed turned out to enjoy
themselves--determined to have a holiday and no mistake.
Well, I drove as near as I could to the place, and then I got a boy
to hold the horse, and got down and went along with my fare. If
it didn’t make me quite savage and sick, Sam, to see hundreds of
fellows--well-dressed gentry, mind you--gaping and lounging about, and
now poking the grass with their sticks, as if it was something precious
because blood had been shed upon it, and now breaking bits of the trees
about the place, I suppose to make toothpicks and cribbage-pegs of.
And then there were fathers--precious fools!--bringing their children
with them, boys and girls, as though they’d brought ’em to a stall of
gingerbread nuts, where they might fill their bellies and be happy!
But the worst of all, Sam, was to see the women. Lots of ’em nice,
young, fair creatures, tender as if they were made of best wax--there
they were running along and looking at the bushes and the grass, and
talking of the blood and the death-struggle, just as if they were
looking at and talking of the monkeys at the ’Logical Gardens. Well,
the handsomest of ’em after a time looked to me no better than young
witches--and that’s the truth. Every minute I expected some of ’em to
do a polka, they did after a time seem to enjoy themselves.
Well, all of a sudden I missed my fare. Looking about, I saw my
gentleman go up to the brick wall. Then he took a heavy hammer out
of his pocket, and knocking away, split a brick, and then knocked it
out of the wall. “This is something like,” said he to me, twinkling
his eye; “something to remember the murder by.” And then he carefully
wrapt the pieces of brick in a silk handkerchief, and put ’em in his
breast-pocket, as if they’d been lumps of diamonds. I said nothing--but
I could have kicked him. However, he hadn’t done yet, for going to a
part of the field, he said to his wife--for so she proved to be--“This
is the place, Arabella; the very place: where’s the pots?” Then the
lady took three garden-pots from a basket, and then her husband,
dropping upon his knees, turned up the earth with a large clasp-knife,
and when he’d filled the pots, he dug up two or three daisy roots,
and set ’em; his wife smiling and looking as happy all the while as
if she’d got a new gown, or a new bonnet, or both. “Come,” said the
gentleman, squinting at the daisy roots, and twisting one of the pots
in his hand, “this is what I call worth coming for. As I say, this
is something to recollect a murder by. Humph!” and then he paused a
bit, and looked very wishfully at the stile--“Humph! I should like
a walking-stick out of that; but the police are so particular, I
suppose they wouldn’t suffer it. Come along, Arabella;” and securing
the broken brick and the daisy roots in the pots, my gentleman went
back to the cab. “Now drive as fast as you can to the church,” he
said; “I wouldn’t but be there for any money.” Well, I never did drive
through such a crowd, but at last I managed it; and at last--but
no; I haven’t patience enough to write any more upon this part of
it. There was nothing wanted in and about the churchyard to make it
a fair, except a few stalls and suchlike. It made me sick, Sam, to
look upon this murder’s holiday. I wish you’d have seen the Yorkshire
Grey public-house! No sooner did they open the doors than there was
as much scrambling as at any playhouse on boxing-night. Well, the
landlord didn’t make a little by his gin that day! Murder proved a good
customer to him! And then to see the hundreds and hundreds struggling
and pushing to get to the bar--to hear ’em laughing and shouting--and
seeing ’em tossing off their liquor,--upon my life, Sam, there was a
mob of well-dressed, well-to-do Englishmen, that, considering what had
brought them there, wasn’t half so decent as a crowd of Zealand savages.
Cricketing’s an English sport--so is single-stick--so are bowls--and so
are nine-pins--and after what I’ve seen to-day, so, I’m sure of it, is
murder. For my part, it does seem a little hard to hang the murderer
himself, when it appears that he gives by his wickedness so much
enjoyment to his fellow-subjects.
Well, Sam, I’m now come to the marrow of my letter, and it’s this. I
do think, if you will only take pains, and have all the murders of the
year nicely got up, you may make a capital penn’orth of the lot with
your show at Christmas. Well, lords and ladies make a scrimmage for it
at police-courts; and respectable, pious people take in newspapers for
the very best likenesses of prisoners and cut-throats. I’m sure you’d
get custom--if the thing was well done--ay, “of the nobility, gentry,
and public in general.”
Now do, Sam, take my advice. Depend upon it, the pop’lar taste sets in
for blood; and so, instead on winter’s nights a-going about with your
old-fashioned cry of “Gallantee Show!” sing out “Mur-der!” and your
fortune’s made. And so no more from your cousin and wellwisher,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER XI.--_To Chickweed, Widow, Penzance._
DEAR MRS CHICKWEED,--It has given me a vast deal of concern that
you should have been frightened by the ignorant reports in the
newspapers. Don’t believe a word they say on the matter. It isn’t
true that the churchyard where you laid Solomon Chickweed before you
went back to your native place, is to be shut up--the tombstone to
be taken down--and all future burials forbidden. It’s very true that
St Clement’s Churchyard is in the middle of the Strand; but that’s
no reason why folks shouldn’t be buried there, twenty deep, if the
sexton can only as much as sprinkle ’em with a little grave-dust.
Parliament knows better than to interfere in the matter. To be sure,
there’s a great hubbub about public health; but what’s public health in
comparison with church fees? Some meddlesome people have been writing
a report about the burying at St Clement’s, and the report says, “Thus
a diluted poison is given in exchange from the dead to the living in
one of the most frequented thoroughfares in the metropolis.” So, you
see, your late husband--poor fellow! he’d have been sorry to think
it--may at this moment be helping to kill some of his oldest and best
neighbours.
But what of that? Look at what is called the moral good these
churchyards do in the middle of London. What wicked people we cockneys
should be without ’em! Isn’t it plain that they keep a check upon us?
that they make us think of life and death? that they often give us,
so to speak, a pull up when we are about to stumble? Look at the state
of all the tradespeople in the neighbourhood of such churchyards as St
Giles’ and St Clement’s and St Bride’s, and a hundred others, within a
few yards of shop counters. Why, they’re all pattern folks. They have
all so constantly death in their eyes, that it makes ’em honest to
their own disadvantage. Think, too, what it is for folks from the tops
of omnibuses now and then to see funerals going on in the highways of
London. Do you suppose that it doesn’t do them a world of good? To be
sure; and that’s the reason the rectors and so forth of the churches
in London have set their faces against the new-fangled cemeteries,
where people are buried in quiet, with nobody but the mourners to see
the ceremony. Don’t, Mrs Chickweed, think it’s for the fees: certainly
not; it’s all for the sake of the souls of the giddy, sinful people
of London. It’s true enough that what is called the “effluvia” from
these churchyards may poison the bodies of the living, but what of
that when it helps to keep the soul so sweet? I’m called away, and so
for the present can add no more. If, however, at any time they think
of disturbing Solomon, depend upon it, for old acquaintance’ sake, you
will hear from me. Till then, I am your wellwisher,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
LETTER XII.--_To Isaac Moss, Slop-seller, Portsmouth._
DEAR ISAAC,--I don’t know whether Portsmouth has any aldermen, but if
it has, I hope you’ll get into a gown outright. The thing’s as good as
done. What poor George the Third, Lord Eldon, and such folk think of
it, there’s no saying, but in a twinkling a Jew may be an alderman!
Even the Bishop of London swallows the measure, although shuddering at
it, as if it was a black draught. However, Isaac, what I write to you
about is this. Mr Ashurst, in the common council of London, spoke about
the Jews; and after him the Duke of Cambridge in the House of Lords.
Both of ’em gave their reasons for what is called Hebrew emancipation;
and droll it is to consider ’em one with the other. Here they are:--
MR ASHURST.
“No man was consulted as to who should be his parents; what
constitution, organisation, or temperament he should receive;
what should be his climate, his colour, or country; what should
be his language; what literature should influence him; what
education he should receive; nor as to what general external
circumstances should surround him. They saw and knew as a fact
_that religion was geographical_. If a man was born in Turkey,
he was a Mahometan; in Africa, a pagan; in India, he was one of
the multitudinous castes of sects which prevailed there; and in
a Christian country a Christian. Why, then, for a matter _which
was independent to himself_, should man lose in civil rights?
That religion which was true would ultimately prevail, but not
by persecution.”
DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
“I have had occasion for some time to know the good which
persons professing the Jewish religion have done; and
particularly with reference to the different charities to which
I belong; and I can certainly say that it is to them that we
owe a great deal, _and that they contribute_ a very large
portion to _the funds_ of the charities over which I have
the honour of presiding. Two of the individuals whose names
were mentioned in the speech of my noble and learned friend,
on a former occasion, are personally known to myself. One was
formerly the High Sheriff of the county of Kent--Mr Solomons;
and I can bear witness to the good he has done. Also there
Sir Moses Montefiore, ... learning what was the object of the
meeting I was about to attend, _he gave me a very handsome
sum_, which he desired me to present. I will not mention what
the sum was, for it would be a violation of good taste to do
so.”
Observe this, Isaac: Mr Ashurst argues upon what are called broad,
wide, and benevolent principles. He would give liberty to the Jew
because the man was born a Jew; because he couldn’t choose his father
and mother, his creed or colour. It is his fortune to be a Jew, as it
may be the fortune of the Bishop of London to be a Christian. Therefore
the common councilman would give him equal freedom with the rest. Now,
the royal Duke would emancipate the Jew because “he contributes a large
portion” to the funds of Christian charities. With the Duke, the Jew
buys the favour with hard cash! Sir Moses ought to be an alderman,
because he gave the Duke “a very handsome sum” for a charitable meeting!
The Jew touches the common councilman through his reason, his sense
of justice; but the Hebrew moves the royal Duke purely through his
breeches-pocket. “We owe a great deal to the Jews,” says Cambridge;
“and _therefore_ they ought to be freed.” Now suppose, Isaac, that the
Jews had been poor; that they had never subscribed handsome sums; could
the Duke, according to his own logic, have lifted up his voice in their
behalf? I fear not.
Thus, then, it is, Isaac, Mr Ashurst and men of his school give liberty
as a right--the Duke of Cambridge and such reasoners sell it.
There’s a good deal, Isaac, to think of in what Mr Ashurst says; that
no man chose his colour or his country. Only suppose now, if Sir Robert
Peel had been born one of the--what d’ye call ’em?--the spinning
dervishes, whose whole religion is said to be in doing nothing but
going round, and round, and round! Why, one can’t help thinking that
Sir Robert would have gone round with any of ’em.
Just suppose, too, Sir James Graham born a Chinaman. Instead of dining
off Christian beef and mutton, don’t you think he’d have eaten rats
glazed with rice? and now, all the world knows, a rat’s a thing he
can’t abide to think of. Only think, Isaac, how many white-skinned
public folks, if they’d been only born in Africa, would have been
_born_ as black--yes, quite as black--as if they could now be turned
inside out. Is it any merit of Lord Brougham’s that he wasn’t born
to play with knives and balls like Ramo Samee? On the other hand, is
poor Ramo to be despised because he hasn’t the salary of a shelved
chancellor? I should think not.
There’s capital wisdom in what Mr Ashurst says--the best of wisdom.
And let us hope that even lords and bishops will by-and-by come to
understand it.