A DRIZZLING mist begins to fall. The clock of St. Clement's strikes
seven. A November fog lowers its invidious veil over the bright face of
London. I hurry on, impatient to listen to the rival strains of the
cricket and kettle, who, I know from a mysterious singing in my ears,
are gaily carolling on my hearth in Clare Market. "There is no place
like home!"
With these thoughts I redouble my speed, even as the jaded cab-horse
quickens his broken knees when he sees in his mind's eye, through
distant streets, the door of the livery stable. The fog has the
thickness of repeated blankets. It is no light task for a blind dame to
thread a needle in the dark. That task, however, is as light as the sun
with 20,000 additional lamps on its birthday, compared to the difficulty
of threading Temple Bar in a fog! But patience, like the boy Jones, will
get through anything.
I have shaken off the mud of the city: I breathe the balmy smoke of
Westminster. My high-low, or rather my high-lows (for I have two) heat
once more the proud Strand. I pass the antique apple-woman on my left;
on my right I leave Holloway and his far-famed leg of twenty years'
standing—that Wandering Jew of advertisements which is perpetually
running through the papers. I drop a sympathetic pill to the memory of
Aldborough. Proud Earl! Never did mortal lay the flattering ointment to
his soul as thou hast done! I hurry onward.
But what fragrant perfume, stolen or strayed from Araby the Blest, plays
round my nostrils? It cannot be the fog, for it is so like stewed eels.
It salutes my nose with all the warmth of a long-absent friend. I follow
it, as Hamlet did the Ghost. An invisible attraction pulls me gently on,
even as the magnetic duck which a child leads where he will by applying
a load-stone to its nasal organ. I neither see, nor feel, nor hear; I
only smell. My whole nature is standing on the bridge of my nose. How
blind is man! In my ardour I have nearly upset a respectable stranger: I
beg his most unadulterated pardon a hundredfold; but he heeds me not. A
rich necklace of pies, Twickenham's fairest jewellery, dazzles his weak
vision, and fastens, as with a golden hook, all his eyes. He is under a
Savory spell, longing for More. A hundred appetites glisten from his
cavernous brows. Epicurus and Dando seem to have chosen his high
cheek-bones for their respective thrones. His mouth opens and shuts a
thousand times, just like the Strand Theatre opposite; but, alas! takes
in nothing by each new motion. Hunger could not well have spared a
leaner Frenchman. Poor Monsieur! I have disturbed thy joyous reverie,
and would fain make amends for it. "Here is sixpence to buy thyself
luscious pies, freighted with all the boundless wealth of the generous
eel." But he is as deaf as a relation that is rich. His thoughts are
seated at the rich banquet within.
* * * * *
The parish engine is pulled along by a lusty beadle, like an invalid
chair at Brighton by one of the plethoric Sons of Plush. Six little boys
subscribe their voices and their strength, but there is more of the
former than the latter. There is merriment in Drury Lane; loud cries of
"Fire" play gaily upon the ear. Even a policeman—that rarest object of
_vertu_—is seen. He illuminates for two seconds the busy scene with the
"light in his laughing eye" of bull. The fire-escape is unrolled, like a
tall mummy, from its dark slumber of ages, and stretches its spider
limbs high into the air as it yawns again into life. It crawls, like a
centipede on its hind leg, as far as Temple Bar, and there draws itself
up, like a big note of exclamation, and makes a full stop. Peradventure
it reaches the fire three days afterwards. There is a time for all
things.
But whose is that ecstatic figure? It is as familiar to my vision as
Cooper in George Barnwell. Who can it be? Yes—no—yes! It cannot be! By
St. Jullien, it is the dismal Child of France! The clock of St.
Clement's strikes ten. What! Monsieur, hast thou for three foggy hours
been poring over those self-same pies? Thy admiration smacks, methinks,
of the bigot. Thou art indeed an enthusiast. Hie thee to Soyer! Catch
him between a poem and a _pâté_, bursting with the richest stuffing of
the goose—I mean the _pâté_. Perform the same rites before his household
pans of stew; let thy every limb speak thy admiration, and my head of
hair, bought but yesterday at Truefitt's, he will give thee, for half
such prodigal worship, thy weight in pies, be they of gooseberry or
mutton, or the ham and veal dedicated to Thespis, or even the delicate
eel, the dear object of thy silent love! Concealment has indeed fed upon
thy damask cheek, and picked it—would I could say clean!—to the bone.
"_Voici, mon Noble Seigneur, de quoi te régaler._" He sees not the
proffered Joseph; he hears not my tones, sweet with charity. He stirs
not: he stands on holy pavement. Poor Frenchman, I would tarry with
thee, but I must rush me home to supper. Haven't I tripe waiting kindly
for me! My clay, too, points to heavy wet; and my pewter will lose its
head if I am not quickly with it. _Adieu._
* * * * *
Night has spread its shutters over London. All is still, save a
spirituous cry of "Va-_ri_-e-ty," that comes at muffled intervals
leaping through the air. There is not a Gent to be seen. Even Lord Ellam
has retired to his bed under the ducal counter. Sleep snores heavily in
the Strand, and the nightmare rules in the City. All humanity, save
editors and milkmen, is between the sheets.
All, did I say? It is false. There is one figure still, very still, on
its legs. He is no purveyor of chalk, or human kindness. He is not a
thief either, save one of Time; and better to rob him than Rogers'
bank,—though, it is true, the notes may be stopped, but the minutes,
alas! never. Whose is that figure? Egad! It is the Frenchman's.
There he stands, opposite the same identical emporium. He is wrapt in
mystery and a Spanish cloak, with a collar borrowed from the poodle. He
has not moved the whisper of a pig to the right or to the left. What
fearful secret can chain him to that awful spot?
His iron glances seem as if they would pierce like nails at tenpence
a-piece the shutters of that Depôt. The hunger on his countenance is not
yet appeased. I offer him an Havannah, the best that the Green of
Turnham can produce. He answers me only with a sallow smile. No
complaint escapes his lips, though it is clear as Thames water that is
filtered that he is ill at ease. Ah! perhaps he is doing penance for
some early crime? Perhaps it is a vow he has registered in some album to
please his Love? Perhaps—but I waste the valuable ink of the printer
with these idle sur-mises; be the awful cause what it will, from the
bottom of my purse, noble stranger from the noble Land of the _Cancan_,
I do feel for thee! Thou wouldst never remain outside a piscatorial
pastrycook's for nine long hours, transfixed like a _pose plastique_
(only thou art dressed), unless there were some strange mystery at the
bottom of it!
* * * * *
[Illustration:
THE SPIRIT LEVEL.
]
I cannot sleep. My pillow is burning hot. Fever shares my bed. The
vision of that unhappy Frenchman keeps pulling aside the curtains, and
crying aloud in my ear, "Curiosity doth murder sleep." It is too true!
Who can close his eyes, though they be weighed down with two bottles of
port, of the best Public Dinner vintage, and sealed with the smoke of
three-times-ten cigars, when he has a secret gnawing at his heart? I don
my morning suit, and walk breathless, breakfastless to the Strand.
Clerks are plodding to their high stools in the City. All waistcoats are
turned towards St. Paul's. Omnibuses are laden with cashiers—strict
lovers of punctuality—who eat, and drink, and sleep, and make love, by
the chronometer. The antique apple-woman is putting on her great coat,
the relic of her late relict, a deceased cabman. Holloway determines to
have an immense spread, and lays down a roll of ointment eight yards
without a seam. Newspaper boys sing in quires as they canter along with
wet bundles under their arms. The sun rises; the puddles reflect its
golden smiles; the cocks and hens visit their daily cab-stand; the
postman's knock is heard; the clock of St. Clement's strikes nine.
London has begun a new day.
But what are these facts to me? No more than Spanish Bonds, for I do not
even look at them. I have but one object in view, and that is the
Frenchman.
[Illustration]
But the cloak has disappeared, and the person inside it. His penance
doubtless, is at an end—his humble vow fulfilled. He is gone: but, how
strange! he has left his boots behind him. There they stand, in the
middle of the pavement, bolt upright—one a Blucher, its companion a
Wellington—as if they had risen out of the coal-cellar over night, like
a couple of mushrooms. A phantom policeman attempts to take them up, but
they are riveted to the spot. But, see! the poor exile comes this way:
slippers are on his feet. He claims his boots. "Take them," says the man
of law, bound in blue, and lettered B 32. No! They will not stir. He
pulls them with a pair of boot-hooks, but if there were a Woman's
Obstinacy in each sole, they could not maintain their ground more
stoutly.
A pickaxe is brought. The boots are pulled up at length, but in company
with the flag-stone. They are carried on the latter, as on a tray,
before the magistrate. Their disconsolate owner follows them in his
slippers. He unfolds his simple unadorned tale of woe. First he
identifies the boots. The name of "_Marquis de Carambole_" appears
inside each. Next he states he had been giving a lesson in French for
sixpence to a family in the Lane of Leather. On his way home he stopped
to admire some pies arrayed most temptingly in a sumptuous window. He
tarried longer than he intended, but the luxury of the sight beguiled
away the unconscious moments. He felt his feet getting very warm, but he
thought it was only the grateful steam of the shop. He still looked on,
turning over the sixpence alternately in his mind and in his pocket,
whether he should spend it, or keep it to have his hair curled. At last
he resolved on the rash purchase. He attempted to move, but his right
foot was fastened to the pavement, and his left foot too; he was
motionless; he was literally screwed—he had grown to the ground. He was
riveted to the spot, not only in admiration, but in positive reality.
For four interminable hours he endured worse than the torture of
Tantalus, for eel pies were not known in the dark ages of Pluto. A feast
was before him which he could not touch. Twelve o'clock at last put a
friendly termination to his sufferings: the shop closed. He was left in
the streets of London all by himself. He felt cold. His feet were
benumbed, but he could not do anything to keep them warm. Stamping was
out of the question, for he could not even lift them. A policeman told
him once to "move on," but unfortunately he came like a shadow, and so
departed. He thought of his landlord, of his tailor, of his washerwoman,
of everything that was dear to him. A tear washed his cheek. He trembled
like a creditor. He did not like to shout for aid, his position was so
very ridiculous. At last necessity, the coldest he ever experienced,
conquered his vanity. He cut his straps, and ran away like a second
Napoleon, leaving Wellington and Blucher masters of the field. Having
finished, the poor Orphan of France demands, in a voice of tears, that
his boots may be restored to him.
[Illustration:
THE APPROACH OF BLUCHER.—INTREPID ADVANCE OF THE FIRST FOOT.
]
"Certainly," says the urbane magistrate; "but you must first pay for the
damage you have done to the pavement."
The poor Frenchman pleads that it is not his fault; but his plea is as
bootless as himself.
A policeman, with the bump of science, craves leave to explain the
mystery.
[Illustration]
Leave is given to him; and, clearing his throat, he speaks thus:—"I
think I can tell, sir, what is the mystery at the bottom of all this. It
is Gutta Percha. This Gutta Percha, sir, is a new material of a
waterproof substance; at first soluble, which afterwards hardens, and
resists the action of water. It is used largely for boots. It is not
proof, however, against heat. The consequence is that when it is exposed
to a great warmth it becomes adhesive, and very tenacious of the footing
it occupies. There is an instance of a cook whose Irish cousin was
warming his feet at the fire; he had on soles made of Gutta Percha. His
boots adhered to the hobs, and there he stuck in the kitchen for a
fortnight till a frost came. It was called Hobbes' 'Essay on the
Understanding.'"
The man of the oil-skin cape is reprimanded severely for this joke, and
then resumes: "It is exactly the same scrape with this gentleman, if he
will excuse the liberty I take in calling him so," he said, bowing to
the Frenchman. "The fact is he remained so long admiring those eel pies
that his soul expanded at the sight, and when he wanted to go he found
he could not tear himself away: the Gutta Percha had become melted with
the heat of the cook-shop, and strapped him to the pavement like a
statue on a pedestal."
The mystery was as clear as if it had been strained with isinglass. The
boots were investigated, and lo! the policeman's words for once were
truth. Gutta Percha was at the bottom of each boot! The spell was
solved, and so after a time were the soles. But let the reader
scrutinize closely the pavement in the Strand; and on the left side,
before he comes to Temple Bar, he will be able to pick out a flag-stone,
opposite the "Royal Emporium for Eel Pies," which has on it the perfect
imprint of the soles of a Blucher and a Wellington. It was on that very
bit of granite where the poor Frenchman stood for nine hours, buffeted
by the stream of people that kept flowing backwards and forwards, and
tortured beyond any modern martyrdom by the tempting feast spread before
him, which he could only devour with his hungry eyes.
Of all the new inventions there is not one which is likely to make a
firmer stand, or keep its ground longer, than Gutta Percha.
THE FEMALE TARS OF GREAT BRITAIN.
FASHIONABLE YACHTING.
The ladies are invading everything. The Stock Exchange, Capel Court, the
field, the lecture-room, the betting-ring—places exclusively devoted
hitherto to black coats and legs of the same colour—have been recently
graced, or disgraced, as the case has been, with the presence the fair,
and sometimes unfair, sex. The clubs, it is true, are still in the hands
of men, and woman, though she has voice enough in laying down the law at
home, has none as yet in Parliament; though we are confident if a
handsome duchess, or Mrs. Nisbett, were only to put up for a county (say
Bucks), that she would no sooner announce her intention of standing,
than every Buck in the borough would rush forward to offer her a seat.
Common politeness would carry her into the House of Commons. Government,
however, is not the only floating and sinking thing that has a helm. Our
yachts are open to the ladies; and, till they can steer the Vessel of
State, they are at full liberty to soil their _gants de Paris_ in
handling the tiller of a Yacht. Are the quick-sands of office more
dangerous to thread than the Needles? And what are the breezes, and the
ups and downs of a parliamentary life, to those of the ocean? Go, ask
Earl Grey, and he will tell you that he would sooner have fifty berths
under Government than one in a royal yacht, any day!
The example set by the Queen every year has turned all the ladies mad
for a Yacht. It is customary now, instead of packing up the drawing-room
furniture whilst the family is out of town, to have it carried on board,
where it is fitted up on deck, or does state duty in the cabins. The
Turkey carpet covers the vulgar planks, the bell ropes are substituted
for the coarse ropes; and chairs, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
replace the plain lockers. The whole household is transported generally
as well, though apoplectic footmen sometimes desert after the first day,
preferring board wages in May Fair to the best wages on board, in the
Mediterranean.
The following extract from a Lady's Log Book will best illustrate this
new fashion. It is written in the beautifully small handwriting of the
enterprising Lady Augusta Fiddle-Faddle, who sailed in the _Jenny Lind_
on a cruise to Paris, last October.
Sept. 2nd.—Started from Cowes. Sea just like a rocking-horse, up and
down, up and down; not at all pleasant; very giddy; wind blowing all
day at my back, nearly breaking my beautiful ostrich feather; no
appetite for dinner; took an early tea, no muffins, not even a
sally-lunn. Gave orders that the French cook (a promising pupil of
Soyer's) might be told "to take good care it didn't occur again." In
bed at eight, very unwell; ordered the rocking of the vessel to be
stopped immediately, but not a soul paid any attention to my
sufferings.
[Illustration:
YACHTING FOR LADIES—MAYFAIR IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.
]
3rd.—No new milk for breakfast; told the butler to send for some
directly; the impudent fellow sent word, "that there was no
possibility of making Cowes so soon." Ordered his beer to be
stopped. Dreadful noise overhead. Told Adolphus to inquire what it
was. The intelligent lad brought me intelligence that it was the
housemaid sweeping the carpets on deck. Went upstairs, and asked the
reason why the deck was not ready before twelve o'clock. Told Jane
and Maria Louisa that I would have the strictest discipline
maintained in my Yacht, or else they had better suit themselves at
once with other situations. Superintended the dusting of the
ottomans, and reprimanded John Thomas for going up the dirty ropes
without his Berlin gloves on. Detected a faint smell of tar, and
ordered the carpet to be sprinkled with eau-de-Cologne, and feathers
to be burnt in every room in the Yacht. Threw my glove over the
railing of the vessel to see which way the wind blew; but on its
going straight down and sinking very rapidly recollected that my
purse was inside. A thorough draft arising at that moment blew off
my _fichu_ towards the right, and proved beyond a doubt that the
wind was in a straight line to Brighton. Determined to go there, and
told the coachman in charge of the Yacht to make as much haste as
possible, as I wished to make a morning call on Lady Bandury Bunn,
who was staying there, with all her little Bunns. It turned out,
however, towards four o'clock, that we were not many hundred yards'
distance from Havre; but as I had not a French bonnet with me I
declined going on shore. In the evening, a ball, and I played a
small concertina (I had brought with me to charm the dolphins), to
enable the poor servants to dance. John Thomas and Jane Hussey went
through a hornpipe as well as the uneven state of the Yacht would
allow them. Served out tea and sugar at eight. Towards nine there
was a very strong smell of tobacco; searched the Yacht, escorted by
Adolphus, who carried two wax candles before me; we found the smell
proceeded from the servants' hall. Descended the narrow staircase
cautiously, and surprised, in the pantry, the butler, John Thomas,
and the French cook, each smoking with the window open, what is
called, I believe, a pipe. Ordered these offensive articles to be
seized, and to be instantly thrown into the lowest depths of the
sea; and did not retire to rest before my orders were strictly
executed. Looked into the housekeeper's room, and gave directions
for a muslin cover to be made for the gold Cupid that holds the
compass; if I am correct in so terming the long darning-needle that
is kept under a glass shade.
4th.—Wind very fair to-day. Curled my hair for the first time in
ringlets. Inspected some Valenciennes lace I have bought, a perfect
bargain, of a French smuggler; it will look well on a velvet dress.
Told John to drive direct to Paris. The insolent fellow asked "if I
would go by Brussels, or did I prefer Vienna?" Gave him instantly
warning. He turned the vessel round with its head towards London.
Told him that was not the road to Paris, when he said he "was going
back to Southampton to suit himself with another place." Rang the
bell, and told Grisetta to tell all the servants to come upstairs.
The poor girl only speaking French, the stupid servants, who worry
my life out, did not understand her. Directed my page Adolphus to
summon the butler before me. Mr. Smithers appeared with his hat on;
I asked him how he dared to appear in my presence with his head
covered? His answer was, "that he had had two wigs blown off
already, and he had caught a violent cold in his head." Asked him
"What was his cold in the head when the discipline of the ship was
at stake?" and he could not answer a word. Told him I should report
him to Sir Valentine as soon as we landed in Grosvenor Square. Being
determined to punish the coachman, ordered him to leave the box, and
took the whip out of his hand in the presence of my maid and the
German governess. The menial coloured, and to make his degradation
the more striking, I pulled the cockade off his hat. I then took the
what-d'ye-call-it, the long pole that pushes the vessel along, and
attempted to guide it. The fatigue, however, was too much for my
wrists, and I split my gloves in the exertion; was afraid, besides,
of turning the vessel upside down, but disguised my fears before the
dependents. Left the pole, and picked my way down to the servants'
hall. Found the servants, male and female, at dinner, the butler in
the chair, and Mrs. Bantam, the housekeeper, at the bottom.
Apologized for intruding, for I thought it was best to be civil.
Spoke kindly, and told them to serve me properly, and their rations
of tea and sugar should be doubled. Mrs. Bantam thanked me. Then
told them that "a great act of insubordination had been shown by the
coachman above, and that I had been obliged to strip him"—(Here I
paused to take note of the effect of my words; but no sympathy was,
I am glad to say, evinced)—"of his situation." I reminded them of
their duties, and conjured them to be faithful to their mistress,
and they should not repent it when their wages were paid; but I told
them plainly, if they coalesced with the coachman it should be as
much as their situations were worth. If any one of them was
displeased, and thought herself ill-used, or out of her proper
element, she might leave the ship that instant, and I would be the
last person to prevent her bettering herself. Not one amongst them
took me at my word, and I was pleased more than I can express at
their fidelity. I told them as much, and confessed I had anticipated
a mutiny, but had made up my mind fully how to act in case the
smallest _soupçon_ of treachery had declared itself. "I would have
opened the plugs at the bottom of the yacht," I said loudly to them,
"and we should have all sunk together, after I had taken the
precaution to write a letter to the _Times_, in which every one of
your names would have been reported at full length, with your
christian names and ages." I was going on in the most eloquent
strain, when the most dreadful thumping occurred to the ship, and
there was a noise overhead such as I had never heard before, even at
one of Verdi's operas. I nearly fainted, for I thought a whale had
run against us, and had burst in one of our panels; but a young
footman, who had run upstairs and down again whilst I was losing my
colour, assured me it was only the bowsprit (for so he called the
long pole which protrudes from the front of the vessel) which had
been shattered to pieces in consequence of its coming in collision
with Southampton Pier, which happened at that moment to be in the
way. I then recollected that I had left no one in charge of the
Yacht, and hastened upstairs. I found a Custom-House officer coming
up the rope ladder by the side, and gave the coachman into custody
for having violated the laws of his country. The man searched him,
and said, with the greatest _nonchalance_, that there was nothing
about him that warranted his detaining him. He then asked me if I
had anything to declare. "Anything to declare?" I said. "Yes, I
declare that your conduct is the greatest piece of impertinence I
have ever heard of;" and I went on in a great passion for a long
time. The man got very angry, and I had a very good mind to have him
thrown into the sea for his insolence; but I conquered my pride, for
at that moment Prince FitzunStartz, the young Bohemian nobleman who
first brought over the polka, came tripping on the yacht, and I was
too glad, in order to escape, to take his arm, though he had just
been smoking. I recounted to him the dangers I had gone through, and
he would have it I was "quizzing" him, just as if I was likely to
joke upon such a matter of life and death. We had scarcely reached
the end of the pier when an officer stopped us, and informed me that
the _Jenny Lind_ was seized by the Custom House authorities for
having on board a quantity of smuggled goods. Oh dear! oh dear! that
Valenciennes will cost me dearer than what I might have got it for
at Howell and James's, and they wouldn't have asked me for the money
for six years to come at least; whereas I paid that smuggler every
bit in sovereigns. Oh! that stupid Yacht!
[Illustration]
HINTS TO AGRICULTURAL SOCIETIES.—About November stuff your calves for
approaching show, and put the tails of your pigs over night into curl
paper. Rub a little bear's grease on the head of your sheep, and pass
small-tooth combs through their fleecy wool. Wash your Southdowns in
warm soap-and-water, and let your little porkers have a good lathering,
particularly about the chops. Trim your cows with satin ribbons, part
the hair on their foreheads down the middle, and fix it with bandoline.
Black the hoofs of your bulls, stir up your Durhams well, and see that
they are properly mustered.
* * * * *
PRETTY THOUGHT.—"I would not be a pig," says a Dutch poet, "for then I
could not eat it."
LAYS OF MODERN BABY-LON.
BY YOUNG WHAT-YOU-MAY-CALLEE.
(_Aged five years and a day._)
"High diddle lofty diddle and diddle wondrous high—
Diddle exalted like balloons far up into the sky."
Thus sung a youth of Kensington, a youth of gentle mien,
Whose mother came from Knightsbridge, and whose sire from Turnham
Green.
"High diddle diddle," warbled he, "the fiddle and the cat,"
But very much I marvel now what meant the youth by that.
But words contain all mysteries, as difficult to trace
As Cleopatra's needle when it works the fragile lace,
And into many patterns all rapidly it flies—
As the clouds take strange appearances in floating through the skies.
"High diddle diddle," sung the youth with energy intense,
"The cat and fiddle," whispered he—alack, he spoke not sense.
"The cow," he murmured mournfully, and rather out of tune,
"Has at a bound sprung from the ground, and cleared the silver moon."
I wot not of his purpose in singing such a strain,
But hush! don't interrupt the youth, he takes it up again:
"Over the moon the cow has jumped, and then, such sport to see,
The little dog laughs quite outright, with a loud _ha! ha!_ HEE!"
And now a sad elopement it is our lot to mark—
Why should the little dog have laughed? how came he not to bark?
For 'twas his solemn duty to try the course to stay
Of the roguish dish to thwart the wish, ere with spoon he ran away.
The song of youth is ended, but ever and anon
The murmur of the melody goes undulating on;
The echoes give in fragments the words "high diddle diddle,"
Then with a rush there comes a gush of—hark! "the cat and fiddle."
The melody again I think I hear—or shall hear very soon—
The line that says the rampant cow has jumped right o'er the moon,
The little dog is laughing too, such merry sport to see,
So in half-broken accents whispers a voice to me.
But worst of all, and last of all, and saddest thing to say,
A voice insists "that with the spoon the dish has run away."
The music of the melody has floated through the air,
And died off like the premium upon a railway share.