At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every
young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption
of the deepest interest. One of the number who happened to be drinking,
and who caught the Doctor’s eye glaring at him through the side of his
tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments,
and in the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber’s point.
“It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder,” said the Doctor, beginning again
slowly, “that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments
of which we read in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained
a height unknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged
to supply the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet----”
Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in
vain for a full stop, broke out violently.
“Johnson,” said Mr. Feeder, in a low, reproachful voice, “take some
water.”
The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water was
brought, and then resumed:
“And when, Mr. Feeder----”
But Mr. Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, and who knew
that the Doctor would never come to a period before the young gentlemen
until he had finished all he meant to say, couldn’t keep his eye off
Johnson; and thus was caught in the act of not looking at the Doctor,
who consequently stopped.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Feeder, reddening. “I beg your
pardon, Doctor Blimber.”
“And when,” said the Doctor, raising his voice, “when, sir, as we read,
and have no reason to doubt--incredible as it may appear to the vulgar
of our time--the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast, in
which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes----”
“Take some water, Johnson--dishes, sir,” said Mr. Feeder.
“Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.”
“Or try a crust of bread,” said Mr. Feeder.
“And one dish,” pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still
higher as he looked all round the table, “called, from its enormous
dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly
ingredients, of the brains of pheasants----”
“Ow, ow, ow!” (from Johnson).
“Woodcocks,----”
“Ow, ow, ow!”
“The sounds of the fish called scari,----”
“You’ll burst some vessel in your head,” said Mr. Feeder. “You had
better let it come.”
“And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea,”
pursued the Doctor, in his severest voice; “when we read of costly
entertainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a
Titus,----”
“What would be your mother’s feelings if you died of apoplexy!” said
Mr. Feeder.
“A Domitian,----”
“And you’re blue, you know,” said Mr. Feeder.
“A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more,”
pursued the Doctor; “it is, Mr. Feeder--if you are doing me the honor
to attend--remarkable; VERY remarkable, sir----”
But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment
into such an overwhelming fit of coughing, that, although both his
immediate neighbors thumped him on the back, and Mr. Feeder himself
held a glass of water to his lips, and the butler walked him up and
down several times between his own chair and the sideboard, like a
sentry, it was full five minutes before he was moderately composed.
Then there was a profound silence.
“Gentlemen,” said Doctor Blimber, “rise for grace! Cornelia, lift
Dombey down”--nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen above
the table-cloth. “Johnson will repeat to me to-morrow morning before
breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first
Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our studies, Mr.
Feeder, in half-an-hour.”
* * * * *
No wonder that poor little Paul looked forward longingly to the happy
Saturdays, for then Florence always came at noon, and they had long
walks on the great beach, and watched the waves come in. Then Paul
forgot about Doctor Blimber and Nero, and Tiberius and the rest, and
only knew how much he loved his sister.
JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER’S STORY
XIX
JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER’S STORY
MRS. LIRRIPER kept a lodging-house at 81 Norfolk Street, London. Major
Jackman was one of the lodgers, and a very kindly gentleman he was. One
day a young woman left Jemmy at the house, and Mrs. Lirriper adopted
him as her grandchild, and when he was christened the Major stood as
godfather. Jemmy grew up to be a fine boy, and was sent to school in
Lincolnshire. Mrs. Lirriper and the Major were very lonely while he was
away, and there was great rejoicing when he came back for the Christmas
holidays. They sat by the Christmas fire and told stories. The Major
afterward repeated Jemmy’s story thus.
* * * * *
Our first reunited Christmas Day was the most delightful one we have
ever passed together. Jemmy was never silent for five minutes, except
in church-time. He talked as we sat by the fire, he talked when we
were out walking, he talked as we sat by the fire again, he talked
incessantly at dinner, though he made a dinner almost as remarkable
as himself. It was the spring of happiness in his fresh young heart
flowing and flowing, and it fertilized (if I may be allowed so bold a
figure) my much-esteemed friend, and J. J. the present writer.
There were only we three. We dined, in my esteemed friend’s little
room, and our entertainment was perfect. But everything in the
establishment is, in neatness, order, and comfort, always perfect.
After dinner our boy slipped away to his old stool at my esteemed
friend’s knee, and there, with his hot chestnuts and his glass of brown
sherry (really, a most excellent wine!) on a chair for a table, his
face outshone the apples in the dish.
We talked of these jottings of mine, which Jemmy had read through and
through by that time; and so it came about that my esteemed friend
remarked, as she sat smoothing Jemmy’s curls:
“And as you belong to the house too, Jemmy,--and so much more than the
lodgers, having been born in it,--why your story ought to be added to
the rest I think, one of these days.”
Jemmy’s eyes sparkled at this, and he said: “So _I_ think, Gran.”
Then he sat looking at the fire, and then he began to laugh in a sort
of confidence with the fire, and then he said, folding his arms across
my esteemed friend’s lap, and raising his bright face to hers: “Would
you like to hear a boy’s story, Gran?”
“Of all things,” replied my esteemed friend.
“Would you, Godfather?”
“Of all things,” I too replied.
“Well, then,” said Jemmy, “I’ll tell you one.”
Here our indisputably remarkable boy gave himself a hug, and laughed
again, musically, at the idea of his coming out in that new line. Then
he once more took the fire into the same sort of confidence as before,
and began:
“Once upon a time, When pigs drank wine, And monkeys chewed tobaccer,
’Twas neither in your time nor mine, But that’s no macker--”
“Bless the child!” cried my esteemed friend, “what’s amiss with his
brain?”
“It’s poetry, Gran,” returned Jemmy, shouting with laughter. “We always
begin stories that way at school.”
“Gave me quite a turn, Major,” said my esteemed friend, fanning herself
with a plate. “Thought he was light-headed!”
“In those remarkable times, Gran and Godfather, there was once a
boy,--not me, you know.”
“No, no,” says my respected friend, “not you. Not him, Major, you
understand?”
“No, no,” says I.
“And he went to school in Rutlandshire----”
“Why not Lincolnshire?” says my respected friend.
“Why not, you dear old gran? Because _I_ go to school in
Lincolnshire, don’t I?”
“Ah, to be sure!” says my respected friend. “And it’s not Jemmy, you
understand, Major?”
“No, no,” says I.
“Well!” our boy proceeded, hugging himself comfortably, and laughing
merrily (again in confidence with the fire), before he again looked
up in Mrs. Lirriper’s face, “and so he was tremendously in love with
his schoolmaster’s daughter, and she was the most beautiful creature
that ever was seen, and she had brown eyes, and she had brown hair
all curling beautifully, and she had a delicious voice, and she was
delicious altogether, and her name was Seraphina.”
“What’s the name of _your_ schoolmaster’s daughter, Jemmy?” asks
my respected friend.
“Polly!” replied Jemmy, pointing his forefinger at her. “There now!
Caught you! Ha, ha, ha!”
When he and my respected friend had had a laugh and a hug together, our
admittedly remarkable boy resumed with a great relish:
“Well! And so he loved her. And so he thought about her, and dreamed
about her, and made her presents of oranges and nuts, and would have
made her presents of pearls and diamonds if he could have afforded it
out of his pocket-money, but he couldn’t. And so her father--Oh, he was
a Tartar! Keeping the boys up to the mark, holding examinations once a
month, lecturing upon all sorts of subjects at all sorts of times, and
knowing everything in the world out of book. And so this boy----”
“Had he any name?” asks my respected friend.
“No, he hadn’t, Gran. Ha, ha! There now! Caught you again!”
After this, they had another laugh and another hug, and then our boy
went on.
“Well! And so this boy, he had a friend about as old as himself at the
same school, and his name (for he _had_ a name, as it happened)
was--let me remember--was Bobbo.”
“Not Bob,” says my respected friend.
“Of course not,” says Jemmy. “What made you think it was, Gran? Well!
And so this friend was the cleverest and bravest and best-looking and
most generous of all the friends that ever were, and so he was in love
with Seraphina’s sister, and so Seraphina’s sister was in love with
him, and so they all grew up.”
“Bless us!” says my respected friend. “They were very sudden about it.”
“So they all grew up,” our boy repeated, laughing heartily, “and Bobbo
and this boy went away together on horseback to seek their fortunes,
and they partly got their horses by favor, and partly in a bargain;
that is to say, they had saved up between them seven and fourpence,
and the two horses, being Arabs, were worth more, only the man said he
would take that, to favor them. Well! And so they made their fortunes
and came prancing back to the school, with their pockets full of
gold, enough to last forever. And so they rang at the parents’ and
visitors’ bell (not the back gate), and when the bell was answered they
proclaimed ‘The same as if it was scarlet fever! Every boy goes home
for an indefinite period!’ And then there was great hurrahing, and then
they kissed Seraphina and her sister,--each his own love, and not the
other’s on any account,--and then they ordered the Tartar into instant
confinement.”
“Poor man!” said my respected friend.
“Into instant confinement, Gran,” repeated Jemmy, trying to look severe
and roaring with laughter; “and he was to have nothing to eat but
the boys’ dinners, and was to drink half a cask of their beer every
day. And so then the preparations were made for the two weddings, and
there were hampers, and potted things, and sweet things, and nuts, and
postage-stamps, and all manner of things. And so they were so jolly,
that they let the Tartar out, and he was jolly too.”
“I am glad they let him out,” says my respected friend, “because he had
only done his duty.”
“Oh, but hadn’t he overdone it, though!” cried Jemmy. “Well! And so
then this boy mounted his horse, with his bride in his arms, and
cantered away, and cantered on and on till he came to a certain place
where he had a certain gran and a certain godfather,--not you two, you
know.”
“No, no,” we both said.
“And there he was received with great rejoicings, and he filled the
cupboard and the bookcase with gold, and he showered it out on his gran
and his godfather because they were the kindest and dearest people
that ever lived in this world. And so while they were sitting up to
their knees in gold, a knocking was heard at the street door, and who
should it be but Bobbo, also on horseback with his bride in his arms,
and what had he come to say but that he would take (at double rent) all
the lodgings forever, that were not wanted by this boy and this gran
and this godfather, and that they would all live together, and all be
happy! And so they were, and so it never ended!”
“And was there no quarrelling?” asked my respected friend, as Jemmy sat
upon her lap and hugged her.
“No! Nobody ever quarrelled.”
“And did the money never melt away?”
“No! Nobody could ever spend it all.”
“And did none of them ever grow older?”
“No! Nobody ever grew older after that.”
ON THE WAY TO GRETNA GREEN
XX
ON THE WAY TO GRETNA GREEN
HARRY was eight and Norah was seven. They lived on Shooters Hill, six
or seven miles from London. Harry’s father, Mr. Walmer, had a big
place called the Elms. The children read fairy-stories and delighted
in princes and dragons and wicked enchanters, and kings who had fair
daughters and offered them to any knights who were brave enough to come
and take them. And they liked to read about lovers who ran away to
Gretna Green and were married and lived happily ever after. Just where
Gretna Green was they didn’t know, but it must be a very romantic place
to run away to. Cobbs, the gardener, heard them talking about it all as
they sat under a tree. They intended to keep bees and a cow, and live
on milk and honey.
Cobbs left Mr. Walmer, and went to work at the Holly Tree Inn up in
Yorkshire. One day the coach drew up and two little passengers got out.
Harry and Norah were on their way to Gretna Green.
“We’ll stop here,” said Harry to the landlord. “Chops and cherry
pudding for two.” Then they went to the sitting-room.
Cobbs found them there. Master Harry, on an enormous sofa, was drying
the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket-handkerchief. Their little legs
were entirely off the floor.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_
THE RUNAWAY COUPLE]
“I see you a-getting out, sir,” said Cobbs. “I thought it was you. I
thought I couldn’t be mistaken in your height and figure. What’s the
object of your journey, sir? Matrimonial?”
“We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green. We have run away
on purpose. Norah has been in low spirits, Cobb, but she’ll be happy
now that we have found you to be our friend.”
“Thank you, sir, and thank _you_, miss, for your good opinion. Did
you bring any luggage with you?”
The lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, some buttered toast,
eight peppermint drops, and a small hair-brush. The gentleman had
got half a dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets of
writing-paper, an orange, and a china mug with his name on it.
“What may be the exact natur of your plans, sir?” said Cobb.
“To go on,” said the boy, “in the morning and be married to-morrow.”
“Just so, sir,” said Cobb. “Would it meet your views if I was to
accompany you?”
When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried out:
“Oh, yes, Cobbs, yes!”
“Well, sir,” said Cobbs, “if you will excuse my having to give an
opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I’m acquainted with a
pony, sir, which, put in a phaeton which I could borrow, would take
you and Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior (myself driving, if you approved), to
the end of your journey in a very short space of time.”
They clapped their hands and jumped for joy.
“Is there anything you want, just at present, sir?”
“We should like some cakes after dinner,” answered Master Harry, “and
two apples and jam. With dinner we should have toast and water. But
Norah has been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine for dessert,
and so have I.”
“It shall be ordered at the bar, sir,” said Cobbs.
“Cobbs, are there any good walks in this neighborhood?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Cobbs, “there is Love Lane. And a
pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and
Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior.”
“Norah, dear,” said Master Harry, “put on your bonnet, my sweetest
darling, and we’ll go there with Cobbs.”
It was very pleasant walking down Love Lane gathering water-lilies, but
as the afternoon came on they both became a little homesick. Master
Harry kept up nobly, but Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior began to cry, “I
want to go home.” When Harry’s father and Norah’s mother appeared upon
the scene, every one was happy. Harry and Norah had been on the way to
Gretna Green, though they never got there.
OUR SCHOOL
XXI
OUR SCHOOL
THE children who live now are fortunate in having schools that are
made for their happiness as well as for their mental improvement. Most
of the schools Dickens describes were dreary places like that which
Sissie Jupes attended. However, there were some memories that were
not altogether unpleasant, and I enjoy reading the chapter which he
entitles “Our School.”
* * * * *
It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We
have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-School, which we have
sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new
street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a
belief, that it was over a dyer’s shop. We know that you went up steps
to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you
generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud
off a very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the Establishment
holds no place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in
an eternal entry long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal
animosity toward us, who triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful
Pug, a certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs,
the ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and the
insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live
and flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with
a fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and his name
_Fidèle_. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back
parlor, whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and
in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he would sit up and balance
cake upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted.
To the best of our belief we were once called in to witness this
performance; when, unable, even in his milder moments, to endure our
presence, he instantly made at us, cake and all.
Why a something in mourning, called “Miss Frost,” should still connect
itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. We retain no
impression of the beauty of Miss Frost--if she were beautiful; or of
the mental fascinations of Miss Frost--if she were accomplished; yet
her name and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance.
An equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself
unalterably into “Master Mawls,” is not to be dislodged from our brain.
Retaining no vindictive feeling toward Mawls--no feeling whatever,
indeed--we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost....
But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came and
overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old enough to
be put into Virgil when we went there, and to get prizes for a variety
of polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It was a school
of some celebrity in its neighborhood--nobody could have said why--and
we had the honor to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy.
The master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers
was supposed to know everything. We are still inclined to think the
first-named supposition perfectly correct.
We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade,
and had bought us--meaning Our School--of another proprietor who was
immensely learned. Whether this belief had any real foundation, we are
not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which
he showed the least acquaintance were ruling and corporally punishing.
He was always ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or
smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument,
or viciously drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large
hands, and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt whatever
that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence.
A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, of course,
derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggle-eyed boy,
with a big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared
as a parlor-boarder, and was rumored to have come by sea from some
mysterious part of the earth where his parents rolled in gold. He was
usually called “Mr.” by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlor
on steaks and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly
stated that if rolls and coffee were ever denied him at breakfast,
he would write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he
had come, and cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold.
He was put into no form or class, but learned alone, as little as he
liked--and he liked very little--and there was a belief among us that
this was because he was too wealthy to be “taken down.” His special
treatment, and our vague association of him with the sea, and with
storms, and sharks, and coral reefs, occasioned the wildest legends to
be circulated as his history. A tragedy in blank verse was written on
the subject--if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that now
chronicles these recollections--in which his father figured as Pirate,
and was shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities: first imparting
to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth was stored, and
from which his only son’s half-crowns now issued. Dumbledon (the boy’s
name) was represented as “yet unborn” when his brave father met his
fate; and the despair and grief of Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was
movingly shadowed forth as having weakened the parlor-boarder’s mind.
This production was received with great favor, and was twice performed
with closed doors in the dining-room. But it got wind, and was seized
as libellous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. Some
two years afterward, all of a sudden one day, Dumbledon vanished. It
was whispered that the Chief himself had taken him down to the docks,
and re-shipped him for the Spanish Main; but nothing certain was ever
known about his disappearance. At this hour, we cannot thoroughly
disconnect him from California.
Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There was
another--a heavy young man, with a large double-cased silver watch,
and a fat knife the handle of which was a perfect tool-box--who
unaccountably appeared one day at a special desk of his own, erected
close to that of the Chief, with whom he held familiar converse. He
lived in the parlor, and went out for his walks, and never took the
least notice of us--even of us, the first boy--unless to give us a
deprecatory kick, or grimly to take our hat off and throw it away, when
he encountered us out of doors, which unpleasant ceremony he always
performed as he passed--not even condescending to stop for the purpose.
Some of us believed that the classical attainments of this phenomenon
were terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective,
and he had come there to mend them; others, that he was going to set
up a school, and had paid the Chief “twenty-five pound down,” for
leave to see Our School at work. The gloomier spirits even said that
he was going to buy us; against which contingency, conspiracies were
set on foot for a general defection and running away. However, he never
did that. After staying for a quarter during which period, though
closely observed, he was never seen to do anything but make pens out
of quills, write small-hand in a secret portfolio, and punch the point
of the sharpest blade in his knife into his desk all over it, he too
disappeared, and his place knew him no more.