Mrs. C.(indignantly.)—How's this? Why, Scout, you're monstrous rude!Jeremiah(with strong exertion.)—Down, my full heart!I hope I don't intrude? The saddest news, alas, to tell I'm come!(A long and harrowing pause.)Your husband's tapp'd by Tappington, the bum!
Mrs. C.(indignantly.)—How's this? Why, Scout, you're monstrous rude!Jeremiah(with strong exertion.)—Down, my full heart!I hope I don't intrude? The saddest news, alas, to tell I'm come!(A long and harrowing pause.)Your husband's tapp'd by Tappington, the bum!
(With a pas de trois in character.)
End of Act 1. Curtain falls amid a thunder of applause, and an uproarious call for Mrs. Butler, Madame Vestris, and Mr. Harley. They come reluctantly forward. Audience rise by general consent. Cheers and clapping continue five minutes. Stage-bell rings. Performers retire with their hands upon their hearts. Waving of handkerchiefs from the boxes, bravos from the pit, and whistling from the shilling gallery.
"You're a false, cruel wretch! not a year after marriage,To try to degrade me, and put down the carriage!""A lady, my dear," was the answering reproach,"Is known by hercarriage, but not by hercoach!"R. J.
"You're a false, cruel wretch! not a year after marriage,To try to degrade me, and put down the carriage!""A lady, my dear," was the answering reproach,"Is known by hercarriage, but not by hercoach!"R. J.
"WHO WANTED SOMEBODY TO CARE FOR HER."
Theophilus Bullfinchwas a bachelor, middle-aged, and sufficiently stout to look respectable. A spare man conveys a feeling of spareness in all things. The eye never rests so contentedly as on a fat and what is generally termed a "comfortable-looking" personage; a stout man carries an appearance of wealth in the very folds of his coat, and so did Theophilus Bullfinch. But, alas! although temptation fell not in his way, he fell in the way of Mrs. Jennings!
"Time tells a tale,"—and we behold our bachelor located at a watering-place, no less famous for the civility and unimposing character of its inhabitants than the select nature of its visiters,—Margate. This, no one, we are sure, will venture to deny, who has "seasoned" it for three or four months. The kindly feelings of its inhabitants are perceptible even in its ass-drivers. Where will you find such fatherly boys to their donkeys,—such yellow shoes,—such society, as at Margate? We are sure our readers will say with us, Nowhere!
Theophilus felt this; and ventured a trip, and a house, for he bought one, urged thereto by a lady acquaintance, by name Mrs. Palaver,—a lady who drove not only her husband, but a pair of ponies, and astonished the eyes both of "quality" and "natives" by the way she did the genteel,—that is, as far as her ponies went: for herself, she had a soul above mean approbation. Among the "select" at the libraries, Mrs. P. was the ruling star; and, to judge not only from the redness of her face, but as her husband could testify, Mars in petticoats. She shilling-loo'd and "one-in-three'd," even to the hinderance of "The Concert;" but no one bore interruptions of this nature with so much philosophical sweetness as Old Bones, the proprietor; and as the "one-in-threes" bore to him a profit of three to one, the dulcet tones of the signora of the rooms were often eclipsed by Mrs. P.'sshake, or "go," as it is called. Our readers may be curious as to the name of the "signora:" it was Mrs. Nobs by day, Signora Nobini by night. And such a voice! The little boys in Hawley-square heard as well as the company inside,—in fact rather better, for they complained of its being aleetletoo forte.
But although Mrs. Palaver put down shillings, she picked up friends,—dear souls of the newest importation,—and among the rest Mrs. Jennings. Mrs. Jennings was a widow who "wanted somebody to care for her." She had a small independence, and, if we may venture to judge from subsequent events, averysmall independence; in fact, it might be doubted if it were an independence at all. She was tall, scraggy, and thin—we use a homely simile—as a pancake; the effect of grief, doubtless. She had lost a husband, she said, who doted on her; and, having lost so great a treasure, can we wonder at her unwearied exertions to obtain a fresh supply of affection? Theophilus was a man of money. Mrs. Jennings could not boast of the same golden fruit; and, as she wanted "somebody to care for her," she fixed her eye—a grey one—upon Theophilus Bullfinch.
"They met," not in a "crowd," but at a tea and card party; at the mutual friend's, Mrs. Palaver, where real eighteenpenny Cape, and diamond-cut sandwiches of the size and thinness of a three-cornered note, indicated the gentility of the lady of the house. Theophilus and the widow were partners,—a beginning not to be despised. Mrs. Jennings looked confusion over her hand, and vowed her heart must fall to his king of clubs. Theophilus blushed; she sighed, and intent upon anew game, lost the rubber! Theophilus paid for himself; the widow had a mind above trifles. Theophilus was tempted,—what man is not at times?—and paid for Mrs. Jennings. The first stone was laid, and the widow saw the church already built, the door open, and the parson's hand in the same inviting position. The next morning, Mrs. Jennings, our bachelor, and themutual friendwere to perambulate the fields, or rather corn-fields, and numerous of the "quality" were drifting along the chalky roads on an equestrian tour; asses were at a premium, and young ladies legsgoing up. Our party wended their way, and Mrs. J. talked of the days when she and Mr. J. made love in a corn field. If she had only somebodyto care for her!—and Mrs. Jennings squeezed something very like a tear into the corners of her eyes. We know not what effect they might have had on the dear departed, but to our bachelor they appeared the essence of affection,—pretty little drops, distilled from that great alembic, the heart. Theophilus, we have before hinted, was unused to the sweet witchery of womankind, and in the simplicity of his soul thought tears must be a natural production! Let not the wise in the lore of matrimony laugh at his ignorance,—Theophilus was a bachelor!
He was touched by this unexampled proof of, to him, affection; and, drawing himself into closer proximity with Mrs. Jennings than he had before ventured, began—
"My dear ma'am, don't distress yourself. Men are like ears of corn."
"I know it," cried Mrs. Jennings, twisting one round her finger as she spoke.
"Like grass, ma'am; and Time's scythe mows down husbands and fathers!"
"Oh! oh!" sobbed the widow.
"Is there anything I can do to comfort you, ma'am?" asked Theophilus inquiringly.
Mrs. Jennings looked assent, and kept twisting the ear of corn.
"A good wife, ma'am, is a jewel,—the tears are still in your eyes,—and will you allow me to make you an offer——"
"An offer!" said Mrs. Jennings; and the tears, spite of herself, shrunk back, as though ashamed of what they were doing,—"an offer!"
"Of my handkerchief," said Theophilus.
A clover-field is a dangerous thing to walk in. Philosophers may divine the cause,—we only know it is so; sentiment is not for the highway: love and clover are synonymous. Mrs. Jennings knew this, and trotted the unsuspecting, uninitiated Theophilus into one, accordingly. Poppies, we know not why, do grow in clover; and Bullfinch—he was fond of botanising—plucked one, and, lamenting that violets were out of bloom, gave it to Mrs. Jennings. This was enough; and she whispered to the lady who was doingthirdy, "He must mean something."
The town residence of Theophilus Bullfinch was in one of the squares in the neighbourhood of the Museum. But what is a house if it want a woman's smile? So thought Mrs. Jennings and she let no opportunity pass of "popping in;"—we are grieved to say thepoppingwas all upon her side. She would call as she was passing—the day was so hot—to take a rest; or the day was so cold, and she wanted—the truth must be spoken—a warm! What could Theophilus do? With a grim welcome on his face, and a "D—n the woman!" in his heart, he grumbled out, "You'd better take a chair." Mrs. Jennings did, and anything else she could get. But getting was a point not easily arrived at; for if Bullfinch loved one thing more than another, it was himself. She would bring him, by way of treat, wrapt in the corner of her pocket handkerchief; five or six nice little ginger-cakes, of her own making, of the size, and bearing a strong family likeness to what children call "sixes;" but finding all her entreaties thrown away, and her ginger-cakes likely to be in the same predicament, she would in the liberality of her soul take them into the kitchen by way of present to the housekeeper, who "pshaw'd!" as soon as her back was turned, and, enlarging upon the merits of her own ginger-cakes, gave them to the maid, and she—they went no farther: servant-maids have good appetites.
What woman could bear these slights of fortune tamely? We can take upon ourselves to say Mrs. Jennings did not; but, intent upon the one great object of a woman's life,—a husband,—she let no opportunity pass of reporting that herself and Theophilus were shortly to be one, fully convinced of the fact that, though marriages may be made in heaven, there is nothing like speculating upon them on earth; and hoping, no doubt, to discover the true philosophers stone, which "turneth all to gold,"—Theophilus was a man of wealth,—she left no stone unturned to get him; and, to give things an appearance, she sat herself down—we tremble as we write—in no less a place than his bedroom, determined not to quit it until, as she observed, "there was an understanding between them." Theophilus was horror-stricken, the housekeeper no less so, and the servant-maid all flutters and ribbons.
"Oh! oh!" gasped the widow, "you base man!—a weak woman as I am!"
"Very!" grunted Theophilus.
The housekeeper here interfered. "What's the use of crying about it? Why don't you look after somebody else?"
"Ah!" sobbed the widow, "you don't know what's atwixt us!"
"I wish the street-door was," thought Bullfinch.
The lady was inexorable. "The poppy," she said, "had done the business! If she had onlysomeone to care for her!" Her feelings overcame her, and she lay upon the bed in agony of finely-developed grief, we presume, for the convenience of fainting.
Theophilus was at his wits' end, and a something very like a "D—n me!" was at his tongue's; but, "nursing his wrath," and echoing the words of an Eastern sultan, that "he who finds himself in a fire ought to be resigned to the Divine will; but whoever is out of the fire ought to be careful, and keep himself in his happy state." Thus far he thought with Mahomet; so he put on his hat and sallied forth, leaving Mrs. Jennings in undisputed possession of his bed.Whether this argued a want of taste, or was only a chastening of the spirit, we will not attempt to define; but certain it is he went out, and the widow, finding her efforts ineffectual, did the ditto.
Days passed, and so did Mrs. Jennings the house; the servant-maid, with a prudent industry, answering the door in the area. Bullfinch (in a money-getting lane in the City the curious reader will see the Co. written after it) was a merchant; and as, in the ordinary course of things, it is necessary to emerge into the streets previously to reaching the place "where merchants most do congregate," what was to be done?—for never did cat watch a rat-hole more patiently, more hungrily, than the widow the doorway of his house. His modesty was not widow-proof; and the only way to shun her, was by a back-door, which opened into a mews: patiently picking his way through mire and dirty straw, did Theophilus, cursing widows and poppies, wend his way; whilst she—patience had ceased to be a virtue—vowed vengeance in the streets.
On a wet day, a day of gloom and splash,—the streets running rivers, and the skies shedding drops like pebbles,—the passengers dripping, drenching,—and the New Police, all love and oil-skin, sheltering themselves under doors and gateways,—sat Theophilus Bullfinch, Esq. in his easy-chair, brightening the blaze of warm fire by a fresh "stir," smugly sipping his wine, and in the uprising of his heart wishing confusion to all widows, and devoting a full glass to the particular condemnation of Mrs. Jennings. Every now and then he cast an eye to the patting rain and floating streets, and thanked Heaven which had set the fruits of fortune ripened for his plucking, and given him that which made life like a full cup, that he could drink from, nor tire of. He sat in "contemplation sweet."
"Whence comes that knocking?" he might have said, had not the servant-maid saved him the trouble, by saying a young man wanted to see him.
"Me!" ejaculated Theophilus.
"Yes, sir," was the reply, and, after much scrubbing on the doormat, in a vein endeavour to rub his boots clean, theyoung manwas shown up, soaked to the skin, and dripping like a watering-pot. Theophilus opened his eyes; the young man took the same liberty with his mouth, and inquired if his name was Bullfinch? The answer was in the affirmative. A chair was set; the servant left the room, and, looking at the muddy footsteps on the stair-carpets, uttered sundry pretty little sayings about "dirty feet," "her trouble in the morning;" &c. and retailed her complaints to the goddess of the kitchen.
The young man commenced by saying he had brought a little account.
"And a great deal of wet," gently murmured Theophilus. "A little account!"
"Yes, sir,—for board and lodging."
Bullfinch opened his eyes still wider, and echoed "Board and lodging!"
"The bill, sir, is four-and-twenty pounds."
Another echo, and still higher uplifting of the eyebrows: "Where do you come from?"
"Blackheath, sir."
"Blackheath! What!throughthe rain?"
The young man ventured a smile as he replied, "No, sir; I wish I had."
"Board and lodging!—you must have made a mistake."
"Oh no, sir," said the young man; "here is the bill,—twenty-four weeks, at a pound a-week, as a parlour-boarder, at Mrs. Twig's establishment for young ladies."
Theophilus looked suspiciously at his silver spoons, and eyed the bell-rope. But a new light seemed to break upon him at the mention of the word "establishment," as he replied,
"I am afraid, my good sir, the 'establishment' you come from is in St. George's Fields. I a parlour-boarder at a young ladies' school!"
"No, sir; notyou."
"Who then?" cried Theophilus.
"Mrs. Jennings, sir."
"Mrs. Who!"
"Jennings, sir."
Bullfinch sunk back into his uneasy-chair. "Mrs. Jennings!—Mrs. Devil!" and in the bitterness of his spleen he deemed her no less a personage. "Mrs.——" The word, like Macbeth'samen, "stuck in his throat."
There was a pause. At length, plucking his courage by the ears, he continued; "And do you expect me to pay for this old——!" We omit the word; no lady admires being likened to a dog.
"If you please, sir, I have put 'paid' to the bill."
"That's lucky, for it's the only way you'll ever have the satisfaction of seeing it 'paid.' Four-and-twenty pounds!—not so many farthings!" but the goodness of his disposition got the better of his anger as he added, "unless to buy her a rope."
It is needless to dwell longer upon this occurrence, further than by saying, that the "young man," finding the bill not in a way of being "settled," or Mrs, Jennings either, took his beaver, or—we like to be particular—his four-and-ninepenny, no longer a hat, but a piece of ornamented brown paper in a fine state of decomposition, and was in the act of leaving the room, when rat! tat! tat! went the door, and another young man was announced with a bill for acceptance, drawn by Messrs. Lutestring & Co. for silks, flannels &c. supplied to—Mrs. Jennings! Monsieur Tonson was nothing to this! Another knock, and a female was ushered up with a yard-long bill for millinery, &c. done for—Mrs. Jennings! The "Storm" upon the grand piano was a mere puff to that raised by Bullfinch. He swore, raved, ordered them from his house, and finally, thrusting his head between his hands, groaned a bitter groan, and, smiting his brow, cried, "Oh, that d—d poppy!"
The following morning, a suspicious-looking person, of a pick-pockety exterior, and belonging to a similar industrious calling—he was a lawyer's clerk—knocked at the knocker of Theophilus Bullfinch, and with that gentlemanly ease and accomplished manner so peculiar to young men in the law, handed to the aforesaid personage a letter, prettily worded, and headed "JenningsversusBullfinch." It was a notice of action for "breach."
Tremble, oh, ye bachelors!—and oh, ye spinsters! smirk in the hope of one day convincing the world yououghtto have been married. Mrs. Jennings was of the same opinion, and, in a spirit of justice to her sex, put her case into the hands of Messrs. Twist and Strainer, as respectable a firm as ever undertook a "breach of promise case." It is needless to say they issued their process with becoming expedition; and Bullfinch, sorely galled, mastered his antipathy,—we cannot but think a very foolish one,—and applied to an attorney!—in the hope—men catch at straws—that an attorneymightbe an honest man! Alas! that a person of his years should not have more wisdom!—It is perhaps necessary to inform the reader that the damages were laid at five thousand pounds.
The day of trial arrived. Theophilus, with a blushing face and tremulous heart, squeezed himself into a seat beside his legal adviser; his eyes upon the floor, and his hands feelingly placed in his pockets. He fancied all eyes bent on his, and smarted under them as they were burning-glasses. By degrees his timidity abated, and at the bustle occasioned by the judge coming into court had so far summoned courage as to raise his eyes. They met, "gently beaming," the eyes of Mrs. Jennings, who was seated in the gallery. He would rather have looked on a wolf's; but a sort of fascination, as birds feel looking at serpents, kept them fixed,—nailed to the eyes of what seemed to him his evil genius; whilst she, with the bland look of injured innocence, jerked a few tears into her eyes, and, taking out her pocket-handkerchief,—a clean one for the occasion,—wept, that is, she appeared to do so; but a woman's tears, like her ornaments, are not always real.
She looked, and Bullfinch spell-bound met her gaze; but, as a friend of ours once said, "He gave her a look!"
The proceedings commenced. The learned counsel opened the case by enlarging upon "the enormity of the defendant's crime, and the plaintiff's unprotected state; a crime," the learned counsel went on to say, "unparalleled in the annals of the law; a crime, my lord and gentlemen, which breaks into the peace of families, and takes from the lovely and the virtuous that jewel no wealth can barter,—her reputation, gentlemen, her unspotted, her unblushing reputation! Not that I would be understood to accuse the defendant of seduction. No, gentlemen; the lady whose case I am pleading is too fair a flower to be hurt by his calumniating breath!—she is——"
Here Theophilus uttered a word; we are grieved we cannot repeat it; but the officer of the court bawled "Silence!" in so loud a tone as completely to drown it. The learned counsel continued:
"Yes, my lord and gentlemen, the defendant—I blush, gentlemen, I blush," and the learned counsel was evidently overcome with the novelty of his situation,—"the defendant is a man," he resumed, "past the intoxicating meridian of life, when the feelings of youth flutter like bees sipping flowers of the fairest hue. He has proved himself——"
Another ejaculation from Theophilus, and again the officer "Silence'd!"
"He has proved himself a monster of the blackest dye,—a reptile who ought to be crushed off the face of the earth! Oh, gentlemen, did you but know the lady as I do,—have known the sanctity of her private life, and the ethereal nature of her public one; her loveliness,her virgin excellence, beloved by relations, idolized by her family!" The lades in the gallery were visibly affected, and looked daggers at the brute of a defendant. The counsel, after a pause, resumed: "This, gentlemen, is the being for whom I am to plead. Englishmen will, I am sure, never desert the ladies!"
The jury-box felt the appeal, and looked proudly dignified; and after dwelling for two hours and three quarters on "the villain who by his insidious wiles"—Theophilus looked patiently unconscious of his Don Juan accomplishments—"had wormed himself into the lady's affections, and then basely left her, a daisy on the stalk, to pine!" he called upon them as husbands,—"Think of your wives," continued the counsel: they evidently did, and looked anything but pleased; and urging them as fathers and as men to give the plaintiff such damages as the enormity of the crime and the wealth of the defendant warranted, the learned counsel sat down, evidently to the satisfaction of himself and all who heard him.
It is needless to dwell longer upon this interesting trial, as the curiously inclined may read a full account of it in any newspaper of the date, and therein they will see it stated in evidence how the "mutual friend" bore witness to Mr. Bullfinch picking the poppy and paying for the widow at cards. Theophilus had often accused himself of the folly, and sundry other little etceteras "too numerous to mention." The housekeeper, in being cross-examined, also bore evidence, though much against her will, to the intimacy of the parties. The maid—women invariably hold by each other—always considered master'gagedto Mrs. Jennings. The jury seemed to think so too, and returned a verdict of—Theophilus never recovered the shock—five hundred pounds!
Ye elderly bachelors, and ye bachelors of all degrees, hear this and pause! There are specks in the sun; can you, in the vanity of your hearts, think women more immaculate? Alas, the error! Pause then, and, whenever you play at cards with a lady, think of Theophilus Bullfinch, and never pay for your partner; and for the rest of your lives, if you would escape actions for "breach," never pick poppies, or walk in clover with widows!
"After all," said Theophilus, as he wrote a check for the amount of damages, and another for the costs, "even this is better than being bothered by Mrs. Jennings, especially as shewanted somebody to care for her."
H. H.
TO BE CALLED
WILLIAM RUFUS; OR,THE RED ROVER.
Act 1.Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa,Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mamma:Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons,He's a sort of a Sub in the Rufus dragoons;Has travell'd but comes home abruptly, the ratherThat some unknown rascal has murder'd his father;And scarce has he pick'd out, and stuck in his quiver,The arrow that pierc'd the old gentleman's liver,When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone,That his Sweetheart has bolted,—with whom is not known.But, as murder will out, he at last finds the ladyAt court, with her character grown rather shady;This gives him the "Blues," and impairs the delightHe'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a KnightFor giving a runaway stallion a check,And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.Act 2.Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost,And frightens a soldier away from his post;Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,Draws it over his ears, and pretends he's a Friar.This gains him access to his Sweetheart, Miss Faucit;But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet,Where, oddly enough, among some of her thingsHe discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's,Of the very same pattern with that which he foundSticking into his father when dead on the ground!Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor,With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,And blows up King William the Second sky-high,Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.Act 3.KingRufusis cross when he comes to reflectThat as King he's been treated with gross disrespect;So he pens a short note to a holy physician,And gives him a rather unholy commission,Viz. to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir WalterPerceives in his walks this same cup on the altar.As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking,When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking;He pauses of course, and, as she's thirsty too,Says, very politely, "Miss F., after you!"The young Lady curtsies, and, being so dry,Raises somehow her fair little-finger so high,That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye:"While, the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter!" and dies.At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,Pops inen passanton the desperate lover,Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him;—So he does,—he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel,Walks down to the foot-lights, and draws this fine moral."Ladies and Gentlemen,Lead sober lives;—Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!—When you go out a sporting, take care of your Gun,And—Never shoot elderly people for fun!"
Act 1.Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa,Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mamma:Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons,He's a sort of a Sub in the Rufus dragoons;Has travell'd but comes home abruptly, the ratherThat some unknown rascal has murder'd his father;And scarce has he pick'd out, and stuck in his quiver,The arrow that pierc'd the old gentleman's liver,When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone,That his Sweetheart has bolted,—with whom is not known.But, as murder will out, he at last finds the ladyAt court, with her character grown rather shady;This gives him the "Blues," and impairs the delightHe'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a KnightFor giving a runaway stallion a check,And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.
Act 2.Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost,And frightens a soldier away from his post;Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,Draws it over his ears, and pretends he's a Friar.This gains him access to his Sweetheart, Miss Faucit;But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet,Where, oddly enough, among some of her thingsHe discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's,Of the very same pattern with that which he foundSticking into his father when dead on the ground!Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor,With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,And blows up King William the Second sky-high,Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.
Act 3.KingRufusis cross when he comes to reflectThat as King he's been treated with gross disrespect;So he pens a short note to a holy physician,And gives him a rather unholy commission,Viz. to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir WalterPerceives in his walks this same cup on the altar.As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking,When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking;He pauses of course, and, as she's thirsty too,Says, very politely, "Miss F., after you!"The young Lady curtsies, and, being so dry,Raises somehow her fair little-finger so high,That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye:"While, the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter!" and dies.At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,Pops inen passanton the desperate lover,Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him;—So he does,—he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel,Walks down to the foot-lights, and draws this fine moral.
"Ladies and Gentlemen,Lead sober lives;—Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!—When you go out a sporting, take care of your Gun,And—Never shoot elderly people for fun!"
THE VICTIM OF IMPROVEMENTS!
It was on a fine warm day in June, several years before Beulah Spa was invented, that, eviting leafy Hampstead, and airy Highgate, and woody Hornsey, John Pooledoune, with a party of companions, sought the delights of a rural ramble and pic-nic, amid the sylvan scenery of Norwood. Of the journey thither, the sporting there, the banquet on the grass, the hilarious after-dinner bumpers, the casting away of bottles, and the wide-spread waste of orts, there is no occasion to speak; suffice it to state, that the frolic and profusion attracted a visit from a couple of dark-haired and bright-glancing Gipsies, whose sojourn was thereabouts, and who, though reckless of the present, were, or pretended to be, deeply read in the future. Their appearance added to the merriment of the occasion; and, with that natural curiosity which belongs to human nature, our revellers agreed to have a peep into futurity palmed upon them, at the small cost of a few silver coins. One after another were their lines submitted to Sibyllic inspection; and loud were their laughs as the pretty "brows of Egypt" bent over their destinies, and told of coming estates, and wives, and children, and, sooth to add, little amours and indiscretions which nevertheless promised pleasures hardly less acceptable to the expectant listeners. At length it fell to the turn of Jack Pooledoune, who was indeed so well off in the world, that he had little either to hope or to fear from the fickle goddess; when, all at once, a sudden chill crept over the group, "a change came o'er the spirit of their dream," and the hitherto gay and giggling priestesses of mystery assumed aspects of horror and dismay. What before was curiosity was now intense interest. Whence the cause of this awful alteration?—why had mirth in a moment given place to these boding looks and signs of terror? Time and our tale will show; and we have only here to record the prediction reluctantly wrung from one of the distraught and shuddering Gipsies.
"Oh! strange unfortunate Fortunate!" she exclaimed as she conned John Pooledoune's hand,
"By making rich, made poor;By making happy, miserable;By amending, hurt; by curing, slain;
"By making rich, made poor;By making happy, miserable;By amending, hurt; by curing, slain;
never Lost on earth, alive or dead, yet Found by numbers; bodiless corpse;The Victim of Improvement, for ever to improve;—
"No hand to close thy eyes,No eye to see thy grave,No grave to give thee rest,—Strange Being!
"No hand to close thy eyes,No eye to see thy grave,No grave to give thee rest,—Strange Being!
Dead; resembling Death, yet keeping thy place among the dead and the living; thy end shall not be an ending, and every one shall know that thou art and art not!"
With this fearful prophecy the Gipsies took to their heels; and Jack, with an oath at their impudent mummery, shied half a half-quartern loaf at their retreating heads. The iced punch was speedily resumed; but, so strong is the hold of superstition upon us, even when wine andpunch have infused a factitious courage, it was found impossible to re-animate the convivial festival, and the party returned to town, either in silent abstraction, or reverting to and commenting on the oddness of the Gipsy foolery!
Old Roger Pooledoune was one of the busiest and most substantial of hosiers in the ward of Cheap; a respectable citizen, whose heart and soul were in his business, to which he attended from morning to night as if, instead of toil, it were pleasure; and indeed it did comprehend the mighty pleasure of profit, the be-all and the end-all of many a cit. Stockings, stocks, and socks, braces, collars, gloves, nightcaps, and garters, were all the same to honest Roger; and he would serve his customers with equal cordiality with every one of these articles, from the price of a grey groat to the cost of sterling gold. Thus he dealt and throve. His shop was never empty, for his commodities were reputed to be of good quality; and, in process of years, his industry was rewarded with such increase, that his neighbours declared him to be a warm man, and guessed his worth at no less than thirty thousand pounds. Nor were they far wrong.
Roger, like a man ignorant of Malthus, had in the midst of all his occupations found leisure to court and win a wife; and, in due process, a certain portion of the stock in the warehouse, namely, some very small socks, gaiters, &c. had to be transferredgratisto the nursery, where Isabella, Matilda, and Margaret, and last, John Pooledoune, the only son, the fruits of his marriage-bed, required such equipments from their fond father,—the fonder in consequence of the last family event having made him a widower. Twenty years had elapsed since that period of mingled joy and woe, of birth and death,—the conjunction of the two extremes of human life,—when it occurred to the corporation of the city of London that it would be a vast improvement in the approaches thereto, and accommodation to the traffic thereof, to have a new bridge thrown across the bosom of old Father Thames, just where it suited a company of keen-sighted, speculative, and money-making gentry to have that operation performed for the public and their own benefit. It so happened that the site so agreeable to them was exceedingly disagreeable to Roger Pooledoune, inasmuch as it created a necessity for carrying a street, as it were the string of a bow, direct to the bridge, not only leaving his shop at the farthest bend of the said bow, but plunging it into an unfrequented valley, orcul de sac, at which it was irksome to look from the popular balustrades of the recent direct and splendid erections. Old Roger, it is true, claimed and received a handsome,—a very handsome, and neighbourly, and citizen-like compensation: for his loss in the daily sale of nightcaps and garters was estimated at the sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven pounds sixteen shillings and fivepence three farthings: but, like Othello, his occupation was gone. The money obtained in a lump was not like the money gained by slow and minute degrees. He became uncomfortable, uneasy, irritable; he would gaze up towards the new street to the new bridge, and, counting the passing crowds, would calculate on the proportional passing demand for ready-made hosiery of every description. The whole was diverted into another channel: he could not bear the sight, he could not endure the idea; and so he pined, and he sickened, and he died, for want of a brisk retail.
The disposition of the defunct hosier's property was such as might be expected from a wealthy and prudent tradesman. He had sunk the fourteen thousand and odd pounds in annuities on his three daughters, and so tied them up, that none but themselves—nor brother, nor friend, nor husband, nor lover—could receive the half-yearly dividends; and, if loan or mortgage were attempted upon them, they were forfeited for ever. Thus were they provided with inalienable competencies for the terms of their natural lives. To John was left the residue, which, when the good will of the shop was with good will disposed of for nothing, everything else settled, and affairs wound up, was ascertained to amount to the neat round sum of two-and-thirty thousand pounds; and thus warmly provided, the gipsy foredoomed Victim of Improvements began the world, his own master, and for himself alone.
John Pooledoune had received what is called a first-rate "commercial and classical education," at a boarding-school near Deptford, where these identical words were painted in capital letters on a board which ran along the entire façade of the building. He had thus been prepared for more general and severer pursuits; and accordingly, about that era when the first drum was beat for the March of Intellect, he enrolled himself in the ranks for the diffusion of knowledge, and, to speak comparatively, soon reached the distinction of a halbert in the cause. He became a leading man in the Mechanics' Institutes, attended lectures on every possible subject at least five evenings in every week, was elected a member of the Society of Arts and of the Statistical Society, joined the British Association at Bristol,[104]and, in fine, adopted the most admired course to become a utilitarian of the first water. He was acknowledged to be an independent, and sensible, and well-informed individual; he needed neither favour nor assistance, had plenty of ready money in the funds, and was courted and caressed accordingly. He was, in short, a faultless monster.
But not only had Fortune been kind to him; Nature was equally liberal: he was well-proportioned in lith and limb; stout, healthy, and well-looking. If not a perfect, but, rather, as George the Fourth would say, an ungentlemanly gentleman, he was not a vulgar plebeian; and, altogether, hardly ever did a man start in the middle walks of life with so fair a promise of prosperity and happiness. John Pooledoune had the silver spoon to his mouth,—the salt of the earth to his portion.
With such qualities, and to such a character, inactivity was impossible. Inclination and means led to projects of utility, and John was determined to benefit mankind by his efforts in promoting the ingenious conceptions of the clever and the "talented." His apartments were encumbered with models, his chairs and his tables laden with plans; nay, he even fancied at times that he was himself an inventor. It was, to be sure, only in a small way, but it kept the ruling passion in a blaze; and when he took out his first patent for a broom to eat its own dust, his ecstasies had nearly laid him with the dust, to which he was thus made doubly akin.
It is wonderful to behold how many of our species, full of the most extraordinary and indubitable inventions, from which indescribable riches must accrue, languish in abject poverty: to such, a JohnPooledoune is a god-send, even though it may be that in the issue he is reduced to fraternization. He was the friend of projectors, the believer in perfectibility, but singularly unlucky in nearly all his undertakings. Of these we must mention a few, the leading incidents of a brief career.
We have alluded to the patent for a dust-consuming broom, with which John was so marvellously elated. The worst of it was, that it involved him in a law-suit with Mr. Pratt, who clearly proved to the judge and jury that he had perfected a similar besom five years before. It was in vain that John's counsel argued that his broom acted transversely, not horizontally; and possessed a vertical, not a rotary action; in vain he asserted that new brooms swept cleanest: the verdict was for the plaintiff; and the infringement of the right to use a useless brush cost Mr. Pooledoune within a trifle of a thousand pounds. The lawyers and attorneys declared that it was a shameful verdict, and advised Mr. Pooledoune to move for a new trial; but he had sense enough to be satisfied with one.
Misfortunes, we are told, never come single. Like crows, if you see one alight on a field, you may be pretty sure there will soon be a few more, and probably a flock; and so it fell out with our hero's mischances.
A company was formed upon the most admirable principles to supply the metropolis with pure water instead of the abomination hitherto imbibed from the polluted river, the grand recipient of the filth of a million and a half of nasty people. It was to be brought from Tonbridge Wells, laid on in crystal pipes, and supplied with a bounty that defied competition. John Pooledoune became a large shareholder and a director; but somehow or other the stream did not run smooth, the crystal pipes broke, and so did the company; and John, being a responsible person, got out with the largest share—of the loss. He next embarked in gas works, the most prosperous that ever were demonstrated by calculations and estimates on the tables printed by the projectors. But this design, alas! also failed: the gas dissolved into thin air; and another troublesome and expensive law-suit proved that the thousands of tons of coke which had been consumed were utterly wasted, as their use in that particular way, custom, and manner, was not sanctioned by Coke upon Lyttleton.—SeeVesey's Reports, div. 4, cap. 3, lib. 2, page 1.
This was another rather severe blow upon Mr. Pooledoune, who began to reflect on the uncertainty of all pursuits of the kind. "I will not," said he to himself, "risk any more considerable sums in such plans. Houses and lands," said he, "are certain, real, visible, tangible property: I will buy an estate and build a house upon it." Accordingly, day after day did he examine those oracles of truth, the morning newspapers; and particularly that portion of them which is the truest of the true, the advertisements of the auctioneers. Long did he ponder over the most desirable of investments, the most eligible of sites, the paradises of nature, the soils which scantily concealed inexhaustible mines, the views of hanging woods whose trees never changed their fruits: long did he balance which it were best to possess; and at last he was fortunate enough to be allowed to purchase one of George Robins' most extraordinary bargains, an estate which was positively "given away". It was nevertheless dear enough to thebuyer; and the seller had not so much reason as might be imagined to be dissatisfied with the prodigal liberality of his agent on the occasion. The land was found to be susceptible of no inconsiderable improvement; and the charming, picturesque, indescribably interesting, and gothically elegant, fine, ancient mansion, was in truth little better than an inconvenient and incongruous pile of ruins. But as Mr. Pooledoune had, from the first, intended to cultivate the earth in his own way, and to erect a mansion upon his own design, these slight discrepancies did not so much signify. The titles were actually good, and old Hurlépoer Hall was regularly transferred, made over, granted, and assigned to its new proprietor, John Pooledoune, esquire. It is a proud thing to be an esquire, the owner of broad acres, to walk over fields you can call your own, to speak of your domain and your country house, of your Hurlépoer Hall, and the parts and appurtenances thereunto pertaining. Never did John Pooledoune feel so elevated as when he arrived in a post-chaise to take possession of his beautiful estate. It was only an amusing drawback, which served to occupy his time, that he had to pull down the old hall and re-edify it in a modern style. There was ready money, and the work went briskly on, till at last a handsome villa stood where Hurlépoer, or at least some of its walls, had outbraved the winds and rains two hundred winters. It was christened Hosiery Hall by some of the poor and envious landlords round about; but it was nevertheless a very pretty place, and constructed on the most novel and approved principles of architecture. The foundations were laid in Roman cement, the timbers were steeped to saturation in Kyan's anti-dry-rot composition, and the roof was of patent cast-iron. Nor had Mr. P. during the season been inattentive to the cultivation of his ground. The steward, a positive, ignorant, and impracticable ass, was dismissed the service, for insisting upon sowing wheat, and barley, and oats; laying certain portions fallow, and turnip-cropping other parts. The squire taking affairs into his own hands, the farm-horses were sold, and a wonderfully perfect steam-plough put into operation. Instead of turnips, the cow-cabbage was introduced, and room left about every plant to allow it to extend to its full dimensions of from eighteen to twenty-two feet in diameter. The corn-arable was converted into plantations of beetroot for the manufacture of sugar, and a thousand hogsheads for its reception were ordered of the coopers. Everything went on tolerably well for a while, except the plough, which always refused to move up hill or to go straight on the level, and very soon denied motion in any manner, or in any direction. Mr. Pooledoune, incensed at this misconduct, which he attributed to the stupidity of the ploughman and the malice of the quondam driver, who had no longer any horses to drive, and consequently went whistling alongside, occasionally eyeing his useless whip, as if he would gladly apply it to his master's back, in a moment of anger took the stilts himself, to show the boors how it ought to be done. He poked the fire and filled the kettle, and off set the machine with a run. Unluckily there was a great stone in the line of the furrow, against which the plough was dashed with so much force that it tilted up, and, throwing down its unfortunate holder, dashed the burning coals and boiling steam all over his body. Dreadfully scalded, it was many weeks before the squire was sufficiently convalescent to leave hisroom; and when he did once again visit hisci-devantgreen fields, it was as a cripple from the severe accident. The melancholy of autumn, too, was upon the scene,—a melancholy untempered to him by the sight of sweeps of ripened grain, (the yellow gold of nature,) and the busy hum of harvest. The season had been unusually dry, and the soil was chalky. Owing to this the cow-cabbages had not flourished, and only one here and there was visible, and about the ordinary size of a tailor's dinner, though with plenty of room to grow larger if it liked. The cultivation of the beetroot was hardly more successful; still there was wherewithal to try the experiment of sugar-making, and to this our sanguine hero turned with his indomitable spirit. The process went on, and the roots were crushed;—so, speedily, were his hopes. Twenty-seven barrels of bad molasses was the produce of above eight hundred acres of the best land belonging to Hurlépoer Hall. It was a year of dead loss, and there was nothing left for it but to get through the winter as comfortably as possible, and prepare for taking the field in the spring with greater experience, and a moreimprovedsystem throughout.
It is a well-known fact with regard to the weather in England, that if there be a balance of good and bad, the latter never fails to occupy its fair proportion of foulness. As the summer had been unusually warm and dry, the winter turned out unusually cold and wet. The rain hardly ceased during four months, the country was a swamp, and there was not even enough for a dry joke in the parish. One night the storm descended, hail was shaken and lightning glanced from the wings of the mighty tempest: it was aperfecthurricane, (for hurricanes are so called when they are most fearfully outrageous,) and blew great guns. In the midst of the rattling, and spouting, and howling, a dreadful crash was heard by the inhabitants of Hurlépoer villa; the walls tottered, and they rushed forth in nakedness and desperation. Nor had they a moment to spare; for the Roman-cement foundations gave way, the anti-dry-rot timbers split into a thousand splinters, and the ponderous patent iron roof descended with one awful and crushing demolition upon the wrecks below. Poor Pooledoune was again unfortunate. Having delayed a minute to save an electrical apparatus for making diamonds of flints and asparagus, in which he had all but succeeded, he was struck by a projected mass of the broken wood, and had his right arm very badly fractured.
With these calamities terminated John Pooledoune's rural experiments. Hurlépoer was soon again in the market, but the value of land had fallen tremendously within the last eighteen months; and, though the auctioneer did his utmost, that which had cost twenty thousand pounds so short a while ago was sold for eight thousand pounds, and John's whole fortune reduced to little more than ten. Still there was a competency; and with the mind of a projector there is always contentment. John bought a small ready-furnished house, about two miles out of London, and sat down under its lowly slate roof, and all his troubles, with most philosophic apathy.
He engaged in lesser speculations with the same ardour with which he had embarked in extensive undertakings; but the doom of the Gipsies of Norwood was still upon him, and