|Methinks, Benjamin,” said Uncle Timothy to the lauréat of Little
Britain, as they sat _tête-à-tête_ at breakfast on the morning after the
adventure of the old harper,--“methinks I have conceded quite enough by
consenting to play Esquire Bedel to the Fubsys, Muffs, and Flumgartens.
A couple of lean barn-door fowls and a loin--or, as Mrs. Flumgarten
classically spells it, a lion of fat country pork at Christmas, even
were I a more farinaceous feeder than I am, are hardly equivalent to
my approaching purgatory. You bargained, among other sights, for
Westminster Abbey. Now what possible charm can the _Poet's Corner_ have
for the Fubsy family, who detest poets and poetry quite as much as
ever did the second George 'boedry and bainding!' Then came the British
Museum. I will now take leave to have my own way. Your eloquence,
persuasive though it be, shall never talk me into a new blue coat and
brass buttons.”
“Depend upon it, Uncle Timothy, Mrs Flurngarten will--”
“I know it, Benjamin. That full-blown hollyhock of the aristocracy of
Mammon, who has a happy knack of picking a hole in everybody's coat,
will not spare mine. Let her then, for economy's sake, pick a hole in an
old coat rather than a new one.”
“The honour of our family is at stake,” urged the lauréat. “Respect,
too, for Mrs. Flumgar-ten.”
Uncle Timothy whistled
“Sic a wife as Willie had,
I would na gie a button for her.
“But suppose, Benjamin, I should be so insane so stark, staring,
ridiculously mad.” Here
Uncle Timothy paused to see what effect his budget of suppositions had
upon Mr Bosky's nerves.
But Mr. Bosky kept his nerves well strung and his countenance steady,
and let Uncle Timothy go on supposing.
“Suppose I should all at once depart from the sober gravity that belongs
to my years, and exhibit myself in a blue coat and brass buttons--”
Uncle Timothy again paused; but he might as well have whistled jigs to a
milestone. The lauréat continued immoveable and mute.
“Benjamin--Benjamin _Bosky!_” cried Uncle Timothy, nettled at his
provoking imperturbability, “if, out of a mistaken civility to your
country cousins, and to rid myself of these annoying importunities, I
should invite the caricaturist to pillory me in the print-shops--a blue
coat and brass buttons are not the journey-work of twenty minutes--for
by that time I must be equipped to start: And, to swaddle myself in a
ready-made fit, too long at the top, and too short at the bottom--like
the Irishman's blanket! No, Benjamin Bosky! For, though of figure I have
nothing to boast--” here Uncle Timothy unconsciously (?) glanced at
his comely person in a mirror--“I do not intend to qualify myself for a
chair on the fifth of November.”
Mr Bosky still maintained a respectful silence.
“Therefore, Benjamin, were I inclined to forego my scruples, and oblige
you for this once”--as Uncle Timothy saw the apparent impossibility of
obliging, he spoke more freely of his possible compliance--“the thing,
you see, is absolutely impracticable.”
Mr. Bosky looked anxiously at the clock, and Uncle Tim quite
exulted that, while starting an insurmountable obstacle, he had
dexterously--handsomely slipped out of a scrape.
At this moment a tap was heard at the door, and the old-fashioned
housekeeper--a sort of animated dumb-waiter--brought in a blue bag for
Uncle Timothy.
A carpet-bag is generally significant of its contents. Though now
and then things not legitimately belonging to it will creep into a
carpet-bag. But in a blue bag there is more room for conjecture. A very
equivocal thing is a blue bag.
Uncle Timothy, after reading the direction thrice over, untied the blue
bag, dived his hand in for its contents, and the first thing he fished
up was a bran new blue coat, with brilliant brass buttons.
After turning the garment round and round and examining it attentively,
he laid it aside, dived again and captured a rich black satin waistcoat.
The waistcoat underwent a similar scrutiny, and then took its station
beside the blue coat.
A third dive brought to the surface a claret-coloured pair of
continuations of a very quiet and becoming cut, to which was pinned a
respectful note from Mr. Rufus Rumfit of Red Lion Square, stating that
the suit had been made exactly to measure, and hoping that it would meet
with Uncle Timothy's approbation.
“Pray, Benjamin,” inquired the satirical-nosed gentleman, “is this Rufus
Rumfit at all given to drink? He talks of having taken my measure: he
had surely taken more than his own when he hazarded such an assertion.
Some would-be old beau--for the habiliments, I see, are of a mature
fashion--is burning to disguise his person in this harlequin suit. My
life on't, Mr. Rumfit will soon discover his mistake and be back again.”
And' Uncle Timothy began to tumble the blue coat, black satin waistcoat,
and claret-coloured continuations into the blue bag with all speed.
“The clock strikes. I have no time to lose.”
During this exhumation of Mr. Rumfit's handiwork, the Lauréat of Little
Britain had been coaxing a favourite parrot, with whom he generally held
converse at breakfast time, to talk: but the unusual sight of so
much finery had completely absorbed Poll's attention, and he remained
obstinately silent, leaving Mr. Bosky to tax his ingenuity how to
prevent laughing outright in Uncle Timothy's face. But the affair
admitting of no longer delay, he threw himself into a theatrical
posture, and exclaimed,
“'Thou wert not wont to be so dull, good Tyrrel.'”
In an instant the scales fell from the middle-aged gentleman's eyes,
and he exclaimed seriously, and trying to look reproachfully, “This,
Benjamin, is another of your Tomfooleries.”
Mr. Bosky pleaded guilty; but urged, in mitigation, the rusty old black,
and the brilliant bright blue: concluding with a glowing panegyric on
the _tout ensemble_, which he declared to be the masterpiece of Mr.
Rumfit's thimble and shears.
Uncle Timothy was in no humour to put himself out of one: and when,
after a few minutes trying on the suit in his tiring-room, _just to
see_--out of mere curiosity--if it _did_ fit, he returned in full
pontificalibus, a middle-aged Adonis! he seemed moderately reconciled to
his new metamorphosis, and rang for the old-fashioned housekeeper.
Norah Noclack was a woman of few words. On her entrance she started,
stared amazedly, and uttered the interjection, “Ah!” with the further
additions of “Well, I'm sure!”
“--That with a cap and bells, a dark lantern, a pasteboard red nose,
a chair, and half a score of ragged urchins to shout me an ovation, I
should make an undeniable old Guy! Eh, Norah?”
The ancient housekeeper shook her antediluvian high-crowned cap and
streamers in token of dissent, and Mr. Bosky was unutterably shocked at
the impossible idea.
“Well,” added Uncle Timothy, strutting to and fro with mock dignity,
“'Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost!'
“Here, Norah, run and buy me sixpenny-worth of flowers to stick in my
button-hole. No dahlias, or hollyhocks.”
Mr. Bosky suggested a sunflower.
The satirical-nosed gentleman looked a trifle serious, and the lauréat
stood self-reproved.
Norah Noclack soon returned with a modest little bouquet, consisting
of a last rose of summer, a violet or two, and, what was peculiarly
appropriate, heartease.
A contest had very nearly arisen about Doctor Johnson's club, as
Mr. Bosky irreverently called it, which was Uncle Timothy's constant
companion. This valued relic had been _accidentally_ mislaid, and there
being no time to look for it, a handsome black cane, with a gold top and
silk tassel, was its substitute. Mr. Bosky then dutifully tendered him
a smart new beaver, intimating that the old one had that morning been
converted into a nursery by his favourite pepper-and-salt puss. At
this crowning specimen of the laureates ingenuity, Uncle Timothy smiled
graciously, and being now gaily equipped, prepared to sally forth,
when a knock of some pretension announced the presence of the august
brotherin-law of Mrs. Flumgarten, one of the pleasure-taking tormentors
of Uncle Timothy!
“The devil!” muttered the middle-aged gentleman. “The deuce,” “the
dickens,” “rabbit it,” “drabbit it,” “boddikins,” or when anything
intolerably queer excited him, “od's boddikins!” were the only
expletives that escaped from the lips of Uncle Timothy. But “the
devil!” Even Mr. Bosky looked momentarily aghast, and the old-fashioned
housekeeper, shaking her head and shrugging up her shoulders, attributed
the appalling words to the supernatural influence of the blue coat and
brass buttons.
“Charmin' vether this is! Fine hautum mornin's these are!” grinned Mr.
Muff (his tongue too big for his mouth, and his teeth too many for his
tongue,) with a consequential, self-satisfied air, that seemed to say,
“Beat that if you can.”
Uncle Timothy coolly remarked that the sun was just out; and Mr. Bosky,
that the post was just in.
“Ven I began to dress me the vind was nor'-nor'-east, but it soon
changed to sow-sow-west,” was the next profound remark volunteered by
Mr. Muff.
“Then,” said the lauréat, “you and the wind shifted at much about the
same time.”
The Muffs, Fubsys, and Flumgartens, could not understand a joke, which
they always took the wrong way. The intelligent master mason, nothing
moved, inquired, Anything new in _Lit-tie Britain?_”
“The barber's freshly painted _pole_ * over the way,” replied Mr. Bosky.
“Or in _Great Britain?_” continued Mr. Muff.
“The _moon_,” rejoined Uncle Timothy.
The brother-in-law of Mrs. Flumgarten was at a dead lock.
* The barber's pole, one of the popular relics of Merrie
England, is still to be seen in some of the old streets of
London and in country-towns, painted with its red, blue, and
yellow stripes, and surmounted with a gilt acorn. The lute
and violin were formerly among the furniture of a barber's
shop. He who waited to be trimmed, if of a musical turn,
played to the company. The barber himself was a nimble-
tongued, pleasant-witted fellow. William Rowley, the
dramatist, in “A Search for Money, 1609,” thus describes
him:--“As wee were but asking the question, steps me from
over the way ( over-listning us) a news-searcher, viz. a
barber: he, hoping to at-taine some discourse for his next
patient, left his banner of basons swinging in the ayre, and
closely eave-drops our conference. The saucie treble-tongu'd
knave would insert somewhat of his knowledge (treble-tongu'd
I call him, and thus I prove 't: hee has a reasonable
mother-tongue, his barber-sur-gions tongue; and a tongue
betweene two of his fingers, and from thence proceeds his
wit, and 'tis a snapping wit too). Well, sir, he (before he
was askt the question,) told us that the wandring knight
(Monsier L'Argent) sure was not farre off; for on Saterday-
night he was faine to watch till morning to trim some of his
followers, and its morning they went away from him betimes.
Hee swore hee never clos'd his eyes till hee came to church,
and then he slept all sermon-time; but certainly hee is not
farre afore, and at yonder taverne (showing us the bush) I
doe imagine he has tane a chamber.” In ancient times the
barber and the tailor, as news-mongers, divided the crown.
The barber not only erected his pole as a sign, but hung his
basins upon it by way of ornament.
Sounding the depths of his capacious intellect, his cogitative faculties
were “in cogibundity of cogitation.” He soon rallied with, “How's the
generality of things in general?”
It was now Uncle Timothy's and Mr. Bosky's turn to be posed! But the
interrogator relieved them by suddenly recollecting the object of his
mission--“I'm come, Mister Timviddy-”
“If, sir, you mean to address me,” said the satirical-nosed gentleman,
“my name is not Timwiddy, but-”
“Timkins,” interrupted Mr. Muff.
“Anything you please,” rejoined Uncle Timothy, with the most
contemptuous acquiescence. “Call me Alexander, Wat Tyler, Abelard, Joe
Grimaldi, Scipio Africanus, Martin Van Butchell.”
“Ve vont quarrel about Christun names, Mister Timtiffin. Plain
Timvig vill do for me. The Muffs and all that's a-skin to'em is not
over-purtickler about names.”
Here the poll parrot, that had been listening to and scrutinizing the
intruder from head to foot, struck up the old song,
“Don't you know the muffin man!
Don't you know his name?”
“A comical sort of a bird that is!” remarked the master mason. “I'm
come, I say, Mister Tumvhim to fetch you to Mrs. Flumgarten; for she
says it's werry mystified, but you gay-looking, dandyfied, middle-aged
gentlemen, (Mrs. Flumgarten hates gay-looking, dandified, middle-aged
gentlemen,) are awful loiterers by the vay. You can't see a smart bonnet
or a pretty turn'd ankle, but you old galhant gay Lotharios must stop
and look after'em; and that, she says, is werry low--and the Muffs,
Fubsys, and Flumgartens hates vhat's low.”
Uncle Timothy made a low bow.
“Mrs. Flumgarten von't go to the Museum: she could abide the
stuffed birds and monkeys; but she can't a-bear old war-ses, and old
bronze-eyes. She hates, too, them Algerine (Elgin?) marbles.”
The middle-aged gentleman inwardly rejoiced at Mrs. Flumgarten's
antipathies.
“And she von't go to the play, for Mrs. Flumgarten hates your acting
nonsensical mock stuff; and she don't think she'll go to the Fancy Fair,
for Mrs. Flumgarten--it's wery funny that--hates fun.”
At this moment, Mr. Bosky's Louis Quatorze clock struck a musical
quarter, and the parrot responded with two lines from one of the
laureat's lyrics;
“Quick! quick! be off in a crack;
Cut your stick, or'twill be on your back!”
and a tag (the schoolmaster had been abroad in Little Britain!)
for which my Lord Mayor--the conservator of city morals and the
Thames--would have fined him five shillings.
“That Poll parrot swears like a Chrishtun!” Mr. Muff then took hold of
Uncle Timothy's arm, adding, “If ye don't make haste, Mrs. Flumgarten
vill look as bitter as a duck biled vith camomile-flowers.”
Within my solitary bow'r
I saw a quarter of an hour
Fly heavily along!
Mr. Bosky's quarter flew by the “fast flying waggon that flies on broad
wheels!”
“Ha! ha! 'no creature smarts so little as a fool.' Well said, Alexander
the Little! Poll--pretty Poll!
Pretty Poll! let's you and I
Something merry and musical try,
Is my voice too high? too low?
Answer, Polly, yes or no!
Not a word, undutiful bird,
For barley-sugar and sugar-plums--fie!”
But Poll's eyes still goggled at the door through which Uncle Tim
and his finery had vanished. An almond or two from that _magazin
de comfitures_, Mr. Bosky's waistcoat pocket, soon revived in the
abstracted bird a relish for the good things of this world. He wetted
his whistle cordially with a spoonful of maraschino, and sharpening his
beak against the wires of his cage, presented it for a salute. He then
gave token of a song, and the lauréat led, to the tune of the “_Dandy
O!_”
THE QUAKER DUET.
O Tabitha, in truth, I'm a sober Quaker youth;
Then Hymen's knot, the pretty girls, to spite'em, tye.
My heart is in your trap; you've crimp'd it, like your
cap;
And much the spurrit moves me--hum!--to--
Poll.......Tye turn tye!
And when the knot is tyed, and you're my blushing
bride,
The damsels will (for leading apes must fright'em,)
tye
The rosy bands with speed. O yes, they will, indeed!
And the chorus at our meeting will be--
Poll.......Tye tum tye!
I cannot hear you sigh, ah! I will not see you cry, ah!
My constant Obadi-ah I to unite'em; tye
Our hands and hearts in one, before to-morrow's sun--
Then take thy tender Tabitha to--
Poll.......Tye turn tye!