Hail to thee, Fog! most reverend, worthy Fog!Come in thy full-wigg'd gravity; I muchAdmire thee:—thy old dulness hath a touchOf true respectability. The rogueThat calls thee names (a fellow I could flog)Would beard his grandfather, and trip his crutch.But I am dutiful, and hold with suchAs deem thy solemn company no clog.Not that I love to travel best incog.—To pounce on latent lamp-posts, or to clutchThe butcher in my arms or in a bogPass afternoons; but while through thee, I jog,I feel I am true English, and no Dutch,Nor French, nor any other foreign dogThat never mixed his grogOver a sea-coal fire a day like this,And bid thee scowl thy worst, and found it bliss,And to himself said, "Yes,Italia's skies are fair, her fields are sunny;But, d—n their eyes! Old England for my money."
Hail to thee, Fog! most reverend, worthy Fog!Come in thy full-wigg'd gravity; I muchAdmire thee:—thy old dulness hath a touchOf true respectability. The rogueThat calls thee names (a fellow I could flog)Would beard his grandfather, and trip his crutch.But I am dutiful, and hold with suchAs deem thy solemn company no clog.Not that I love to travel best incog.—To pounce on latent lamp-posts, or to clutchThe butcher in my arms or in a bogPass afternoons; but while through thee, I jog,I feel I am true English, and no Dutch,Nor French, nor any other foreign dogThat never mixed his grogOver a sea-coal fire a day like this,And bid thee scowl thy worst, and found it bliss,And to himself said, "Yes,Italia's skies are fair, her fields are sunny;But, d—n their eyes! Old England for my money."
"And do you call this a sonnet, sir?" I hear some reader say, with his fingers resting on the twentieth line: "I hope I know what a sonnet is; why, sir, sonnet is the Greek forfourteen, to be sure; and your lines must always count just two over the dozen, or you make no sonnet of it; everybody knows this same."
Have patience, good reader, while I proceed to convict thee of impertinence. No man is so happy of an occasion of correcting others as he who has recently learnt something. Now, behold! I have recently learnt this,—that the Italian poets, when they want to be funny, and at the same time to sonnetteer, (new verb,) outrage the gentle proportions of Poetry's fairest daughter—her whose delicate form took captive the soul of Petrarch—by ignominiously affixing to her hinder parts that always unseemly appendage—a tail, which is no less a tail, and therefore no less disgraceful to her who wears it, for being called, in the more courtly language of those original conspirators,coda(from Latincauda, observe;—see your dictionary.) This have I learnt, astonished reader, by poking into theParnasso Italiano, as you may do, and there, beholding these prodigious baboon sonnets in full tail,—for verily they resemble not the true birth more than monkeys resemble men, and that is as much as to say they do resemble them—in such a manner as to make you laugh at the difference. But herein those Italian conspirators, who hatched the infernal plot, gained their end; they diverted their readers at the expense of poetical decency. Now, however, seeing that this second ("caudatus") species of the sonnet has a real and lively existence in the land that gave it birth; and seeing that we have freely imported from that land the other, thenon-caudatus, species, (for I suppose all young ladies and gentlemen know to what country they are indebted for the fourteen-lined happiness,) it seems but fair that we should improve our national stock by bringing over the later breed, and applying it to the same uses as our neighbours.
The above is the first avowed specimen of thetailed sonnet, I believe, that has ever appeared in English; and I hope it may operate as a useful example to better poets, and induce them to clap tails continually to their sonnets, whenever they intend fun.[87]I say it is the firstavowedspecimen, because there exists one (unsuspected) among the poems of no less a man than John Milton, who found nothing admirable in any language but he quickly transplanted it. That most accomplished of modern poetical critics, Leigh Hunt, was the first who discovered the fact, and gave the alarm to Milton's editors; he showed very clearly that that short poem, "On the New Forcers of conscience under the Long Parliament," which is always published, ignorantly, among themiscellaneouspieces, is neither more nor less than a comicsonnetwith the Italian tail to it. If the reader will take the trouble to look into his Milton, he will find that this poem down to the line,
"Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent,"
forms a regular fourteen-liner; then comes the little adjunct,—"That so the parliament,"—which, rhyming with the foregoing, gains the right of introducing a new couplet; then another, rhyming with that, and lending to a second supernumerary. In this manner the Italian poets link on couplet after couplet without end, and you may see some of their sonnets with tails stretching through several pages; nay, for aught I know, you might have a sonnet in two volumes octavo, without exceeding your licence. But it must always be constructed on the above plan, with links of a like thickness. By the bye, it is surprising that the late editors of Milton's poems—men professedly conversant with Italian literature—should still persist in placing this comic sonnet among the "miscellaneous pieces," after the error has been pointed out to them!
As for the question—why a tail should be ridiculous?—it seems to me one of considerable intricacy, and of the highest interest. Yes, Mr. Editor, whyshouldtails be ridiculous? Coat-tails, pig-tails, all tails whatsoever, are found to touch us with a sense of the jocose; nay, your comet's tail itself is only a kind ofterrific absurdity. I say, therefore, without fear of contradiction, that there subsists in this question a deep psychological truth, which demands the exploring hand of philosophy; and if no better man will take the hint,—why, Mr. Editor, I think I must myself present you, another time, with my ideas on this subject, handling the matter in the Aristotelian mode, and dividing mytailsintoheads.
With respect to the tail of a comic sonnet, it may be briefly remarked, that its comicality (of course I speak with reference to the Italian models) arises in a great measure from the stumbling of the little line, which always comes limping after the long one, as if something were forgotten to be said in it, which the little one thus breathlessly comes to adjoin; and then a succession of thesequasioversights makes us laugh, alternately at the seeming blunder and at the funny haste with which it is redressed. Or it is like an orator in his cups, speaking fairly enough hispreparedspeech; but then—encouraged by applause—spoiling all with drunken additionsex tempore.
Squire Egan was as good as his word. He picked out the most suitable horsewhip for chastising the fancied impertinence of Murtough Murphy; and as he switched it up and down with a powerful arm, to try its weight and pliancy, the whistling of the instrument through the air was music to his ears, and whispered of promised joy in the flagellation of the jocular attorney.
"We'll see who can make the sorest blister," said the squire. "I'll back whalebone against Spanish flies any day. Will you bet, Dick?" said he to his brother-in-law, who was a wild helter-skelter sort of fellow, better known over the country as Dick the Devil than Dick Dawson.
"I'll back your bet, Ned."
"There's no fun in that, Dick, as there is nobody to take it up."
"Maybe Murtough will. Ask him before you thrash him; you'd better."
"As forhim," said the squire, "I'll be bound he'll back my bet after he gets a taste o' this;" and the horsewhip whistled as he spoke.
"I think he had better take care of his back than his bet," said Dick, as he followed the squire to the hall-door, where his horse was in waiting for him, under the care of the renowned Andy, who little dreamed the extensive harvest of mischief which was ripening in futurity, all from his sowing.
"Don't kill him quite, Ned," said Dick, as the squire mounted to his saddle.
"Why, if I went to horsewhip a gentleman, of course I should only shake my whip at him; but an attorney is another affair. And, as I'm sure he'll have an action against me for assault, I think I may as well get the worth o' my money out of him, to say nothing of teaching him better manners for the future than to play off his jokes on his employers." With these words, off he rode in search of the devoted Murtough, who was not at home when the squire reached his house; but, as he was returning through the village, he espied him coming down the street in company with Tom Durfy and the widow, who were laughing heartily at some joke Murtough was telling them, which seemed to amuse him as much as his hearers.
"I'll make him laugh at the wrong side of his mouth," thought the squire, alighting and giving his horse to the care of one of the little ragged boys who were idling in the street. He approached Murphy with a very threatening aspect, and, confronting him and his party so as to produce a halt, he said, as distinctly as his rage would permit him to speak, "You little insignificant blackguard, I'll teach you how you'll cut your jokes onmeagain;I'llblister you, my buck!" and, laying hands on the astonished Murtough with the last word, he began a very smart horsewhipping of the attorney. The widow screamed, Tom Durfy swore, and Murtough roared, with some interjectional curses. At last he escaped from the squire's grip, leaving the lappel of his coat in his possession; and Tom Durfy interposed his person between them when he saw an intention on the part of the flagellator to repeat his dose of horsewhip.
"Let me at him, sir; or by——"
"Fie, fie, squire—to horsewhip a gentleman like a cart-horse."
"A gentleman!—an attorney you mean."
"I say a gentleman, Squire Egan," cried Murtough fiercely, roused to gallantry by the presence of a lady, and smarting under a sense of injury and whalebone. "I'm a gentleman, sir, and demand the satisfaction of a gentleman. I put my honour in your hands, Mr. Durfy."
"Between his finger and thumb you mean, for there's not a handful of it," said the squire.
"Well, sir," replied Tom Durfy, "little or much, I'll take charge of it.—That's right, my cock," said he to Murtough, who, notwithstanding his desire to assume a warlike air, could not resist the natural impulse of rubbing his back and shoulders, which tingled with pain, while he exclaimed "Satisfaction! satisfaction!"
"Very well," said the squire: "you name yourself as Mr. Murphy's friend?" added he to Durfy.
"The same, sir," said Tom. "Who do you name as yours?"
"I suppose you know one Dick the Divil."
"A very proper person, sir;—no better: I'll go to him directly."
The widow clung to Tom's arm, and, looking tenderly at him, cried "Oh, Tom, Tom, take care of your precious life!"
"Bother!" said Tom.
"Ah, Squire Egan, don't be so bloodthirsty!"
"Fudge, woman!" said the squire.
"Ah, Mr. Murphy, I'm sure the squire's very sorry for beating you."
"Divil a bit," said the squire.
"There, ma'am," said Murphy; "you see he'll make no apology."
"Apology!" said Durfy;—"apology for a horsewhipping, indeed!—Nothing but handing a horsewhip (which I wouldn't ask any gentleman to do), or a shot can settle the matter."
"Oh, Tom! Tom! Tom!" said the widow.
"Ba! ba! ba!" shouted Tom, making a crying face at her. "Arrah, woman, don't be makin' a fool o' yourself. Go in there to the 'pothecary's, and get something under your nose to revive you; and letusmindourbusiness."
The widow, with her eyes turned up, and an exclamation to Heaven, was retiring to M'Garry's shop wringing her hands, when she was nearly knocked down by M'Garry himself, who rushed from his own door, at the same moment that an awful smash of his shop-window, and the demolition of his blue and red bottles, alarmed the ears of the bystanders, while their eyes were drawn from the late belligerent parties to a chase which took place down the street, of the apothecary roaring "Murder!" followed by Squire O'Grady with an enormous cudgel.
O'Grady, believing that M'Garry and the nurse-tender had combined to serve him with a writ, determined to wreak double vengeance on the apothecary, as the nurse had escaped him; and, notwithstanding all the appeals of his poor frightened wife, he left his bed, and rode to the village to "break every bone in M'Garry's skin." When he entered the shop, the pharmacopolist was much surprised, and said, with a congratulatory grin at the great man, "Dear me, Squire O'Grady, I'm delighted to see you."
"Are you, you scoundrel!" said the squire, making a blow of his cudgel at him, which was fended by an iron pestle the apothecary fortunately had in his hand. The enraged O'Grady made a rush behind the counter, which the apothecary nimbly jumped over, crying "Murder!" as he made for the door, followed by his pursuer, who gave a back-handed slap at the window-bottlesen passant, and produced the crash which astonished the widow, who now joined her screams to the general hue-and-cry; for an indiscriminate chase of all the ragamuffins in the town, with barking curs and screeching children, followed the flight of M'Garry and the pursuing squire.
"What the divil is all this about?" said Tom Durfy, laughing. "By the powers! I suppose there's something in the weather to produce all this fun,—though it's early in the year yet to begin thrashing, for the harvest isn't in yet. But, however, let us manage our little affair, now that we're left in peace and quietness, for the blackguards are all over the bridge afther the hunt. I'll go to Dick the Divil immediately, squire, and arrange time and place."
"There's nothing like saving time and trouble on these occasions," said the squire. "Dick is at my house, I can arrange time and place with you this minute, and he will be on the ground with me."
"Very well," said Tom; "where is it to be?"
"Suppose we say the cross-roads halfway between this and Merryvale. There's very pretty ground there, and we shall be able to get our pistols, and all that, ready in the mean time between this and four o'clock,—and it will be pleasanter to have it all over before dinner."
"Certainly, squire," said Tom Durfy; "we'll be there at four.—Till then, good morning, squire;" and he and his man walked off; Tom having left the widow under the care of the apothecary's boy, who was applying asafœtida and other sweet-smelling things to the alleviation of the faintings which the widow thought it proper and delicate to enact on the occasion.
The squire rode immediately homewards, and told Dick Dawson the piece of work that was before them.
"And so he'll have a shot at you, instead of an action," said Dick. "Well, there's pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman for your sake. It's dirty work shooting attorneys."
"He's enough of a gentleman, Dick, to make it impossible for me to refuse him."
"Certainly, Ned," said Dick.
"Do you know is he anything of a shot?"
"Faith, he makes very pretty snipe-shooting; but I don't know if he has experience of the grass before breakfast."
"You must try and find out from any one on the ground; because, if the poor divil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let him off easy—I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so."
"Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them."
"Here," said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of Rigby's best. Dick opened the case with the utmost care, and took up one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a young child or a lady's hand. He clicked the lock back and forwards a few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced, he said he should like to examine them: "At all events, they want a touch of oil."
"Well, keep them out of the misthriss's sight, Dick, for she might be alarmed."
"Divil a taste," says Dick; "she's a Dawson, and there never was a Dawson yet that did not know men must be men."
"That's true, Dick. I wouldn't mind so much if she wasn't in a delicate situation just now, when it couldn't be expected of the woman to be so stout: so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will bring you anything you want."
Five minutes after, Dick was engaged in cleaning the duelling-pistols, and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the interior of the locks which Dick had just taken off.
"Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir," said Andy, going to take it up.
"Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!" roared Dick, making a rap of the turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.
"Sure I'll save you the throuble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you let me; here's the shabby leather."
"I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor yourshabbyleather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil."
Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to Dick, who swore at him for his stupidity: "The divil fly away with you; you never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol."
"Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'."
"And who wants to burn it, you savage?"
"Aren't you goin' to fire it, sir?"
"Choke you, you vagabond!" said Dick, who could not resist laughing, nevertheless; "be off, and get me some sweet oil, but don't tell any one what it's for."
Andy retired, and Dick pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at, only that Dick was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular source of amusement to him, and on all occasions when he could have Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was produced, Dick looked about for a feather; but, not finding one, desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned, after some delay, with an ink-bottle.
"I brought you the ink, sir, but I can't find a pin."
"Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink; I asked for a pen."
"And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther Dick?"
"I'd knock your brains out if you had any, youomadhaun! Go along and get me a feather, and make haste."
Andy went off, and, having obtained a feather, returned to Dick, who began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.
"What's that for, Misther Dick, sir, if you plaze?"
"To make it work smooth."
"And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?"
"That's the tumbler."
"O Lord! a tumbler—what a quare name for it. I thought there was no tumbler but a tumbler for punch."
"That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy."
"Thrue for you, sir.—And what's that little thing you have your hand on now, sir?"
"That's the cock."
"Oh dear, a cock!—Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"
"No, nor a chicken either, though thereisa feather."
"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with."
"No: but this little thing—this is called the feather-spring."
"It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly."
"No doubt of it, Andy."
"Well, there's some sinse in that name, then; but who'd think of sitch a thing as a tumbler and a cock in a pistle? And what's that place that opens and shuts, sir?"
"The pan."
"Well, there's sinse in that name too, bekaze there's fire in the thing; and it's as nath'ral to say pan to that as to a fryin'-pan—isn't it, Misther Dick?"
"Oh! there was a great gunmaker lost in you, Andy," said Dick, as he screwed on the locks, which he had regulated to his mind, and began to examine the various departments of the pistol-case, to see that it was properly provided. He took the instrument to cut some circles of thin leather, and Andy again asked him for the name "o'thatthing."
"This is called the punch, Andy."
"So, thereisthe punch as well as the tumbler, sir?"
"Ay, and very strong punch it is, you see, Andy;" and Dick struck it with his little mahogany mallet, and cut his patches of leather.
"And what's that for, sir?—the leather, I mane."
"That's for putting round the ball."
"Is it for fear 'twould hurt him too much when you hot him?"
"You're a queer customer, Andy," said Dick, smiling.
"And what weeshee little balls thim is, sir."
"They are always small for duelling-pistols."
"Oh, thenthimis jewellin' pistles. Why, musha, Misther Dick, is it goin' to fight a jule you are?" said Andy, looking at him with earnestness.
"No, Andy,—but the master is; but don't say a word about it."
"Not a word for the world. The masther goin' to fight!—God send him safe out iv it!—Amin. And who is he going to fight, Misther Dick?"
"Murphy the attorney, Andy."
"Oh, won't the masther disgrace himself by fightin' the 'torney?"
"How dare you say such a thing of your master?"
"I ax your pard'n, Misther Dick; but sure you know what I mane.—I hope he'll shoot him."
"Why, Andy, Murtough was always very good to you, and now you wish him to be shot."
"Sure, why wouldn't I rather have him kilt more than the masther?"
"But neither may be killed."
"Misther Dick," said Andy, lowering his voice, "wouldn't it be aniligant thing to put two balls into the pistle instid o' one, and give the masther a chance over the 'torney?"
"Oh, you murdherous villain!"
"Arrah, why shouldn't the masther have a chance over him? sure he has childre, and 'Torney Murphy has none."
"At that rate, Andy, I suppose you'd give the master a ball additional for every child he has, and that would make eight. So, you might as well give him a blunderbuss and slugs at once."
Dick locked the pistol-case, having made all right; and desired Andy to mount a horse, carry it by a back road out of the domain, and wait at a certain gate he named until he should be joined there by himself and the squire, who proceeded at the appointed time to the ground.
Andy was all ready, and followed his master and Dick with great pride, bearing the pistol-case after them to the ground, where Murphy and Tom Durfy were ready to receive them, and a great number of spectators were assembled; for the noise of the business had gone abroad, and the ground was in consequence crowded.
Tom Durfy had warned Murtough Murphy, who had no experience as a pistol-man, that the squire was a capital shot, and that his only chance was to fire as quickly as he could.—"Slap at him, Morty, my boy, the minute you get the word; and, if you don't hit him itself, it will prevent his dwelling on his aim."
Tom Durfy and Dick the Devil soon settled the preliminaries of the ground and mode of firing; and twelve paces having been marked, both the seconds opened their pistol-cases, and prepared to load. Andy was close to Dick all the time, kneeling beside the pistol-case, which lay on the sod; and, as Dick turned round to settle some other point on which Tom Durfy questioned him, Andy thought he might snatch the opportunity of giving his master "the chance" he suggested to his second.—"Sure, if Misther Dick wouldn't like to do it, that's no raison I wouldn't," said Andy to himself; "and, by the powers! I'll pop in a ballonknownstto him." And, sure enough, Andy contrived, while the seconds were engaged with each other, to put a ball into each pistol before the barrel was loaded with powder, so that, when Dick took up his pistols to load, a bullet lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Now this must have been discovered by Dick, had he been cool; but he and Tom Durfy had wrangled very much about the point they had been discussing, and Dick, at no time the quietest person in the world, was in such a rage, that the pistols were loaded by him without noticing Andy's ingenious interference, and he handed a harmless weapon to his brother-in-law when he placed him on his ground.
The word was given. Murtough, following his friend's advice, fired instantly: bang he went, while the squire returned but a flash in the pan. He turned a look of reproach upon Dick, who took the pistol silently from him, and handed him the other, having carefully looked to the priming, after the accident which happened to the first.
Durfy handed his man another pistol also; and, before he left his side, said in a whisper, "Don't forget; have the first fire."
Again the word was given: Murphy blazed away a rapid and harmless shot; for his hurry was the squire's safety, while Andy's murderous intentions were his salvation.
"D—n the pistol!" said the squire, throwing it down in a rage. Dick took it up with manifest indignation, and d—d the powder.
"Your powder's damp, Ned."
"No, it's not," said the squire; "it's you who have bungled the loading."
"Me!" said Dick, with a look of mingled rage and astonishment: "Ibungle the loading of pistols!—Ithat have stepped more ground and arranged more affairs than any man in the county!—Arrah, be aisy, Ned!"
Tom Durfy now interfered, and said, for the present it was no matter, as, on the part of his friend, he begged to express himself satisfied.
"But it's very hard we're not to have a shot," said Dick, poking the touch-hole of the pistol with a pricker which he had just taken from the case which Andy was holding before him.
"Why, my dear Dick," said Durfy, "as Murphy has had two shots, and the squire has not had the return of either, he declares he will not fire at him again; and, under these circumstances, I must take my man off the ground."
"Very well," said Dick, still poking the touch-hole, and examining the point of the pricker as he withdrew it.
"And now Murphy wants to know, since the affair is all over and his honour satisfied, what was your brother-in-law's motive in assaulting him this morning, for he himself cannot conceive a cause for it."
"Oh, beaisy, Tom."
"'Pon my soul, it's true."
"Why, he sent him a blister,—a regular apothecary's blister,—instead of some law-process, by way of a joke, and Ned wouldn't stand it."
Durfy held a moment's conversation with Murphy, who now advanced to the squire, and begged to assure him there must be some mistake in the business, for that he had never committed the impertinence of which he was accused.
"All I know is," said the squire, "that I got a blister, which my messenger said you gave him."
"By virtue of my oath, squire, I never did it! I gave Andy an enclosure of the law-process."
"Then it's some mistake that vagabond has made," said the squire. "Come here, you sir!" he shouted to Andy, who was trembling under the angry eye of Dick the Devil, who, having detected a bit of lead on the point of the pricker, guessed in a moment Andy had been at work; and the unfortunate rascal had a misgiving that he had made some blunder, from the furious look of Dick.
"Why don't you come here when I call you?" said the squire.—Andy laid down the pistol-case, and sneaked up to the squire.—"What did you do with the letter Mr. Murphy gave you for me yesterday?"
"I brought it to your honour."
"No, you didn't," said Murphy. "You've made some mistake."
"Divil a mistake I made," answered Andy very stoutly; "I wint home the minit you give it to me."
"Did you go home direct from my house to the squire's?"
"Yis, sir, I did: I wint direct home, and called at Mr. M'Garry's by the way for some physic for the childre."
"That's it!" said Murtough; "he changed my enclosure for a blister there; and if M'Garry has only had the luck to send the bit o' parchment to O'Grady, it will be the best joke I've heard this month of Sundays."
"He did! he did!" shouted Tom Durfy; "for don't you remember how O'Grady was after M'Garry this morning."
"Sure enough," said Murtough, enjoying the double mistake. "By dad! Andy, you've made a mistake this time that I'll forgive you."
"By the powers o' war!" roared Dick the Devil, "I won't forgive him what he did now, though! What do you think?" said he, holding out the pistols, and growing crimson with rage: "may I never fire another shot if he hasn't crammed a brace of bullets down the pistols before I loaded them: so, no wonder you burned prime, Ned."
There was a universal laugh at Dick's expense, whose pride in being considered the most accomplished regulator of the duello was well known.
"Oh, Dick, Dick! you're a pretty second!" was shouted by all.
Dick, stung by the laughter, and feeling keenly the ridiculous position in which he was placed, made a rush at Andy, who, seeing the storm brewing, gradually sneaked away from the group, and, when he perceived the sudden movement of Dick the Devil, took to his heels, with Dick after him.
"Hurra!" cried Murphy; "a race—a race! I'll bet on Andy—five pounds on Andy."
"Done!" said the squire; "I'll back Dick the Divil."
"Tare an' ouns!" roared Murphy; "how Andy runs! Fear's a fine spur."
"So is rage," said the squire. "Dick's hot-foot after him. Will you double the bet?"
"Done!" said Murphy.
The infection of betting caught the bystanders, and various gages were thrown down and taken up upon the speed of the runners, who were getting rapidly into the distance, flying over hedge and ditch with surprising velocity, and, from the level nature of the ground, an extensive view could not be obtained; therefore Tom Durfy, the steeple-chaser, cried "Mount, mount! or we'll lose the fun: into our saddles, and after them!"
Those who had steeds took the hint, and a numerous field of horsemen joined in the chase of Handy Andy and Dick the Devil, who still maintained great speed. The horsemen made for a neighbouring hill, whence they could command a wider view; and the betting went on briskly, varying according to the vicissitudes of the race.
"Two to one on Dick—he's closing."
"Done!—Andy will wind him yet."
"Well done!—there's a leap! Hurra!—Dick's down! Well done, Dick!—up again, and going."
"Mind the next quickset hedge—that's a rasper; it's a wide gripe, and the hedge is as thick as a wall—Andy'll stick in it.—Mind him!—Well leap'd, by the powers!—Ha! he's sticking in the hedge—Dick'll catch him now.—No, by jingo! he has pushed his way through—there he's going again at the other side.—Ha! ha! ha! ha!look at him—he's in tatthers!—he has left half of his breeches in the hedge."
"Dick is over now.—Hurra!—he has lost the skirt of his coat—Andy is gaining on him.—Two to one on Andy!"
"Down he goes!" was shouted, as Andy's foot slipped in making a dash at another ditch, into which he went head over heels, and Dick followed fast, and disappeared after him.
"Ride! ride!" shouted Tom Durfy, and the horsemen put their spurs in the flanks of their steeds, and were soon up to the scene of action. There was Andy roaring murder, rolling over and over in the muddy bottom of a deep ditch, with Dick fastened on him, pummelling away most unmercifully, but not able to kill him altogether for want of breath.
The horsemen, in a universalscreechof laughter, dismounted, and disengaged the unfortunate Andy from the fangs of Dick the Devil, who was dragged from out of the ditch much more like a scavenger than a gentleman.
The moment Andy got loose, away he ran again, and never cried stop till he earthed himself under his mother's bed in the parent cabin.
The squire and Murtough Murphy shook hands, and parted friends in half an hour after they had met as foes; end even Dick contrived to forget his annoyance in an extra stoup of claret that day after dinner,—filling more than one bumper in drinkingconfusionto Handy Andy, which seemed a rather unnecessary malediction.
On Easter Sunday, Lucy spoke,And said, "A saint you might provoke,Dear Sam, each day, since Monday last;But now I see your rage is past."Said Sam, "What Christian could be meek!You know, my love, 'twasPassion Week;And so, you see, the rage I've spentWas not my own—'twas onlyLent."S. Lover.
On Easter Sunday, Lucy spoke,And said, "A saint you might provoke,Dear Sam, each day, since Monday last;But now I see your rage is past."Said Sam, "What Christian could be meek!You know, my love, 'twasPassion Week;And so, you see, the rage I've spentWas not my own—'twas onlyLent."S. Lover.
BY FRIDOLIN.
PRELIMINARY DISQUISITION ON HUMAN GREATNESS,TOUCHING UPON THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MATTER.
"Some men are born great,some acquire greatness,and some have greatness thrust upon them."
Thus read my aunt Jemima, and thus subsequently read I, in the days of our respective and respectable minorities; but with this difference—uncertain whetherGreatnesshad not already clandestinely made itsavatarinto me at my birth, or whether it was destined hereafter to yield coyly to my wooing, or would force me in future years to cry in vain humility, "Nolo magnificari." I always felt confident of eminence; whereas my aunt Jemima often feelingly reverted to the misery of her young maidenly thoughts, when brooding over the certainty that she could never, under any circumstances, become a "great man."
"Great women" were unknown in her early days. There were no such things; save and except such as might be seen at St. Bartholomew's fair at inexpensive cost,—giantesses, who lowered themselves to gain a living by their height. But my aunt Jemima valued not such femininegreatnessas theirs. Her aspiring spirit looked not "tomeasures, but to men." Our notions change!
It is very melancholy, and rather inconvenient, to drag through the last and heaviest stage of life a martyr to a marvel.
Horace, who forbids all wise men to wonder, himself exhibited a thriftless want of economy in the expenditure of his own wonder when he marvelled, in excellent metre, that any man should eat garlic who had not murdered his father; and also, that any mortal should have dared to venture on the sea before the discovery of Kyan's anti-dry-rot patent.
Nor can I much sympathise in the great marvel of that renowned French statesman, of esculent memory, who professed himself unable to discover any principle in nature, or in philosophy, that could explain how a certain Duke of Thuringia, passing through Strasburg on a diplomatic mission, should not have stopped to dine,en hâte, de foie gras. As for the "three, yea four," curious problems of olden time, which consumed the wise king with their inexplicability, they are as clear to modern apprehensions as plate-glass: nay, as my aunt Jemima used to observe, in the days when glory and greatness had come upon her,—"Thanks be praised!" (My aunt was a religious woman, and guarded herself from profane expressions.)—"Thanks be praised! owing to the enlightenment of the age in which we live, even in those seven wonders of the world there is nothing so very wonderful now." There can be no objection on my part to allow that eclipses were pretty marvellous transactions as long as they occurred in consequence of a bilious dragon needing a pill, and bolting the sun to correct digestion; but ever since dragons have adopted a differenttreatment, and abandoned the solar bolus, this phenomenon has subsided into one of common-place pretension. The age of wonders, like the New Marriage-act, has passed.
But one wonder—single, solitary, omnipotent—oppresses me. It is, that mankind, from ignorance of the meaning of true greatness, lay themselves open to perpetual insult,—nay, court it. Do we not lie down patiently as lambs, and bear impertinent biographies to be thrust before our eyes of persons who are facetiously termedgreat? Great! implying, in a paltry and indifferently disguised innuendo, that you, the reader, are of course small,—stunted, as it were, in intellectual growth,—an under-shrub,—a dwarf specimen. Without being in any way consulted in a matter, or examined, or probed, to see what stuff may be in you, it is taken for granted that the world has already made its odious comparisons between your unobtrusive self and itsGreat Man; and that, with the promptness of a police magistrate, it has summarily decided against you; that you, without knowing it, have been weighed in the scales and found wanting; have flown upwards as a feather, have kicked the beam, have moved lighter than a balloon textured of gossamer and inflated with rarefied essence of hydrogen: a very pretty and gratifying assumption!
Our primitive lessons in emulation generally consist, in great part, in a series of these insults.
The chubby little fellow, bribed to undergo the advantages of scholarship by tardy permission to harass his young nether limbs with trousers, usually of nankeen, finds himself immediately exhorted to strive, in order that in time he may become aGreatman. He images the vague outline of a human mammoth, and sits down with scanty hope of modelling himself accordingly. In the pride and pomp of baby ambition he yearns to rival in stature and girth the sons of Amalek. He is small, and perfectly conscious that he is so; but frets to exchange his little pulpy fingers for a sinewy fist that can shake a weaver's beam: he meditates upon great men as pumpkins, compared with which he is but a gooseberry. He is not taught, by way of softening the injury done him by an unnecessary contrast, that the one may be full of sweetness as the other of insipidity.
He waxes in years and amplitude: still hears he of that obtrusive department in natural history, theGreatmen. He thinks not of them as before; he no longer deems their greatness to consist in the mere admeasurement of their cubic contents, as in the days of his young innocence, when an extensive pudding would, in his ceremonial, have taken precedence of name and fame. He now understands, and, by understanding, suffers the more acutely under the impertinence. If acts of valour and command, or of senatorial display,—if a tyranny over empires, or mighty influence over the minds and feelings of successive generations,—if literary renown or public benefaction constitute greatness, he is himself of most diminutive dimensions. He knows it. He never for a moment dreamed of denying it. He has enjoyed no scope for being otherwise. He is perfectly aware of the fact, and would at once have admitted it. He needs not to have it perpetually pushed into his face, and thrust before his eyes to glare at him. The pauper feels that he is not one of the wealthy ones of the earth, without being reminded at every instant of the incurious circumstance by some rich bullionist shaking his pockets that thewretch may hear the voice of the gold jingling. His memory requires not to be so jogged on the subject. He recognises the truth of his meagre estate, and derives not a whit of pleasure from such external corroboration. It is an insult; and any raciness or merit of originality in it is altogether lost upon him. The wit is purely thrown away.
How fares the boy when, like his primal sire, "he stands erect a man?" and in what spirit does he study the philosophy of "greatness?" He may bethink him of the false fruiterer's melon, how it lay on the stall, its sunny side laughing and coquetting with the eye of the wayfarer,—its rottenness and unsavoury portion in retirement and unseen below. He discovers that the "great" are gigantic in one line, but that "the line upon line" is not their predicate; in some matters they may perchance be far smaller than their neighbours. He is no longer the boy without experience of others, or the child who interprets literally; he measures not the monsters by his own standard; he endeavours not to poise them by his own weight,—with his own girth to buckle their circumference: his acquaintance serve his turn; society establishes and confirms his experience, that an average sprinkling of inherent "greatness" may be detected in all, though the world hath not cared to trumpet it.
It becomes of difficult endurance to see our intimates thrust, as it were, on one side,—morally cast into the mire,—their qualities trampled as by heels. It mars our equability to find our friends in intellectual, philosophical, or worldly utility insinuated as no better than they should be,—to hear them classed as of the herd, essentially and merely gregarious,—vague portions of an unmeritorious whole,—negative existences, positive only in combination,—cyphers without value, that multiply but by relative position. Whereas in our young days we felt personally insulted by contrast with your "great men," in maturity we resent the impertinence as offered to our friends; for in our friends we can trace a "greatness," although the thing may not have been blazoned. Even in a man's household shall he see greatness, though it be obscure; and he shall discover that, whilst it is true that no man is "great to his valet," the comfortable conundrum is equally demonstrable, thatAllareGreat. Your groom shall indite you verses that shall stir the hearts and haunt the dreams of your village maidens—will they compare Homer to him?—and your cook-maid shall be no small domestic oracle on the unfathomable mysteries of phrenology—what cares she for Combe and Spurzheim? Who lives, while yet his father lives, that does not hear the old man "great" in prophecy on the coming "crisis," and rich and ponderous upon the currency question? Who, in the book of the generations of his family, might not inscribe the name of some brother, a mighty man of valour, great amongst his playmates; or a sister, whose attire has given tone for a season to an emulous neighbourhood? And then, in the nineteenth century, who possesses not "great" uncles, who during the war have swayed, although unknown, victories by their strategy or disciplined obedience; or, in more peaceful triumph, have mightily influenced the election of a candidate by the despotism of their oratory? Of aunts—maiden ones—it needs not to speak. They are of the fortunate who require not greatness to be "thrust upon them." Of them it is safely assumed, that theyare "born great" prospectively. This privilege however, is guaranteed to the "maiden" only; for marriage absorbs the bride into unity with her combined-separate—and "the crown of a good wife is her husband."
Your village oracle, seated on his throne—the old oaken bench under the village elm-tree, after his weekly labours, on the Saturday night embalming his tongue in the aroma of the fragrant weed, and bribing his lips into complacent humour by sips from the chirping old October, is trulygreat. He is surrounded by listeners who love to pay homage to his power. Whilst he whiffs, they consult him on great interests,—it may be respecting the destiny of nations, or the desolating march of hostile armies,—it may be on the devastations of the turnip-fly. He lays his pipe aside; his words issue, like the syllables of the Pythoness, in the midst of fragrant fumes. They fix at once the unsettled,—they establish the doubtful,—they convict the speculative.
On points of international law, Puffendorf and Grotius would shrink into nut-shells before him; they would discover their littleness: yet some deemthemgreat!
Bilious disputants may deny that any can be great whom the world has not thought fit to canonise. "Indeed!" do I reply with the sarcastic smile of superiority with which it is customary to spill the arguments of men of straw whom controversialists set up for the sake of knocking down again—"Indeed! Were the Andes a whit smaller before their exact height was proclaimed to the same arrogant world? Was not the moon as great a ball in the days when the world esteemed it a green cheese, as it is now, when men are acquainted with its diameter?"
"Ay," may reply my subtle disputant; "but these are physical facts, independent of opinion: mental, moral, social greatness, are widely different. They have no altitudes subject to trigonometrical survey by an ordnance-board like the Andes; they admit not of parallax, like the planets. Master Fridolin, your illustrations are no more worth than the kernel of a vicious nut."
"What!" I answer, "you want a metaphysical instance, do you? Physics are too coarse. Well, sir, 'Magna est veritas—Truth is great,'—that is to say, your canoniser, theworldsay so. Now, pray, what does the world, much more a man of straw, know about truth? Confessedly less than it knows about my groom, who isgreatin poetry,—my cook-maid, who isgreatin phrenology,—my father, who isgreaton those hobgoblins the coming crises; and, let me say, amazingly less than it knows, or will know, of my aunt Jemima, who wasgreatin political economy; let alone our village oracle, who is regarded, pipe and all, asgreatby a larger portion of the inhabitants of theworldthan can boast any intimate acquaintance with abstract verity.
"And now, man of straw! a word in your ear:—unless you are dull in grain, methinks you will admit yourself answered."
No fallacy is more palpable when examined, and, consequently, none is more preposterous, than that of connectingGreatnesswith theworld'sapplause; yet for this, men fume and fret, struggle and strive, elbow their neighbours, and tread on their own bunnions, forgettingthat they might be quite asgreatif they would only be quiet; nay, that their chance of being so, without exertion, lies, according to Shakspeare's nice and accurate calculation, in the very comfortable proportion of two to one in their favour. TwoGreatmen out of every three, find themselves so, without the least trouble on their own parts. They are born so, or their greatness "is thrust upon them." They have nothing to do in life but to button in the morning, unbutton at night, sip, masticate, and sleep, if their conscience and digestion will permit: they find themselves not a whit less great. The third alone—the "odd one"—acquiresGreatness; and "odd" enough it is, to discover a sample of this meagre class.
But the case may be settled to mathematical certainty. Statistical inquirers—men, the breath of whose nostrils are the bills of mortality—have discovered that a tenth part of all men born into the world die and are buried before one brief year has passed. It follows, therefore, as a corollary, that of those "born great" a great proportion diegreatwhen extremely little. Their nurses see one tenth of all "the great men" born, fade and expire, hydrocephalic or rickety, ere their tendencies and tastes have toddled beyond the pap-boat. What does the world know about this evanescent tenth? What does mankind trouble about the grave offence of the sepulchre in seizing and gobbling up annually these great and small tithes? What say they against its appropriating clause? Why, the world is clearly ignorant of the departed great ones,—the buried little ones; yet their greatness is indisputable.
The true philosophy of the matter, is the philosophy of the matters herein set forth; and, in her latter days, my aunt Jemima acknowledged it, for she felt it. There were no great women when she was youthful; but she lived to perceive greatness come upon her. It was not thrust—it was inherent: but it took time and acted leisurely in developing itself. It was not a creation or an acquisition, but a developement, an exudation of that which wouldout,—nolens volens.
The real truth is this,—Allunder circumstances are great, although few are aware that they are so. Celebrity has nothing to do with the affair; it may proclaim the fact, but does not constitute it;—as will hereafter be shown in the instance of my aunt Jemima.
F. Harrison Rankin.
"Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate."
Paris!—there was once a magic in the name—a music in the sound. "Paris!" how often said I to myself when in another quarter of the globe, "Yes, I will one day visit thee—will revive the memory of the great events of which thou hast been the arena—thy Fronde—the League—the Revolution—the Cent Jours—the history of thy chivalrous François—thy noble-minded Henri—the Grand Monarque—the witty and profligate Regent—thy unfortunate Louis, and still more pitiable Empereur;—and then, the Gallery of the Louvre—the Museum of the Luxembourg—Versailles—St. Cloud—the Tuileries!" My dream was about to be realised.
I was then in my twenty-fifth year. I had health—a sufficiency of the goods of fortune to purchase the enjoyment of the moderate pleasures of life. My person and manners were agreeable; my acquirements greater then those of most of my college contemporaries; and the fine arts were "my passion and my enjoyment." All these advantages, with a pardonable egotism, I had been canvassing during my solitary journey (solitary? no, my mind was occupied with the most enchanting reveries—the most intoxicating visions) from which I was only awakened at the barrier of Montmartre. How my heart beat with delight as, from the eminence that overlooks the city, I beheld its spires, and domes, and houses, huddled in the vaporous gloom of an evening in May! The day had been a glorious one; the air breathed balm. My caleche was open; and four posters whirled me rapidly through the Boulevards, and entered the gateway of the Hotel des Princes in the Rue Richelieu. This street was, as all who are acquainted with it, know, the centre and focus of the fashion,—the life and motion of Paris, and of the foreigners who then flocked to it from all parts of Europe, (for it was the third year of the Restoration,) and had caught some of the volatile spirit of its mercurial people.
Times and dynasties change. Politics, that many-headed monster, now reigns supreme. Instead of the goddess Pleasure,—at whose shrine all sacrificed,—they have set up the Gorgon of parties. The army is no "état"—the church is no "état." It is become a city of national guards—reviewed by a king, with his three sons,—a family marked for assassination. There is no court—noancienne noblesse. Everywhere distress and misery, hate and calumny, persecution and imprisonment, ruin, the grippe, and bankruptcy. Such is a picture of the Paris of 1837.
But I was in the Rue Richelieu—the great artery of the life's blood of Paris. From it, as from a floodgate, rushed along in conflicting eddies, sweeping like a torrent, a crowd in quest of pleasure. Some were hurrying to the gaming-houses; someaux Italiens, to the Ambigu, of the Varietés, and the different theatres; others to the Palais Royal, which in its magic circle comprehends all that vice or luxury can invent to seduce the imagination or gratify the sense; then to Tortoni's, or the innumerable cafés, there to enjoy theal frescoof the Boulevards Italiens seated under the trees, or to minglewith the multitude, chatting, laughing, or whispering in delighted ears under the well-lighted avenue of elms that had just put forth their young leaves. I made one of the throng, and would thatArmidaParis had had no worse enchantments—no more seductive pleasures. Alas! what have I now to do with them?—they have lost their charm. My hair is grey,—my heart is withered!
But I anticipate.
What do the phrenologists mean, by not having assigned to their chart of the skull a place for play? Gall, during his long practice in Paris, might surely have discovered it; for, of all people, the Parisians have this passion the most strongly developed. It is common, indeed, to the most savage, as well as the most civilised nations; for I have seen the Hindu strip himself naked, and bet at chukra the last rag in his possession; the African stakes his wife and children; but our neighbours may plunge their families, to the third and fourth generation, in misery and destitution. The pauper sells his only bed: the cradle of his child. The manufacturer takes to the Mont de Pieté his tools; steals those of his employers. The diplomatist and the figurante, the financier and the mendicant, all fall down before one idol—a Moloch worse than that of the Valley of Gehenna—a monster without pity or remorse, who delights in the tears, and groans, and gnashings of teeth of his votaries, nor quits his prey till he tracks them to the Morgue—name of horrid sound! and yet, the last refuge and sole resting-place of his infatuated victims.
How easy it is to moralise! I should like to know if I always had this infernal bias, or if it was engrafted in me, or whether I was seized at that time with the general epidemy, taking the infection, like the cholera, from those about me, or from the air which I was respiring. Oh, worse than wind-walking pestilence is play! It has a subtle poison, and more kinds of death; no, not death! for,Ilive,—if dying from day to day can be called life.
The first weeks of myséjourpassed like days, nay hours; but I did not confine myself to Paris itself. Few foreigners, or even natives, know the beauty of the environs. These were the scenes of my rides by day. In the evening I assisted at some Frenchréunion, or mixed in thesoiréesof our own country; frequented the Opera Italienne, where not a note is lost: and such notes!—for Pasta was the prima donna. Being "un peu friand," I frequently dined at the Rocher de Concal. I mention that restaurant because I have reason to remember it. The Rocher de Concal boasts none of the magnificence of Very's, or Beauvilliers. The entrance is encumbered with the shells of thehuitres d'Ostende, the most delicious of oysters. The rooms are not much larger than boxes at the opera; but they enclose a world of fun. The rustling of silk is often heard there, and one meets in the narrow passages veiled forms hastening to some mysterious rendezvous.
It was here that I became acquainted with the Prince M——. His was a fatal initial; and might have reminded me of what he proved to be,—my Mephistophiles! M—— was one of those princes that "fourmillent" in all the capitals of Europe. He was about thirty years of age. His figure was tall, slight, and emaciated, and corresponded with his countenance, that was of a paleness approaching to marble, and might be said to have no expression, so complete amastery had he obtained over his feelings. His equipage had nothing at first sight remarkable. The cabriolet was of a sombre colour, and the harness without ornaments; but the horse was not to be matched for beauty and power. His dress seemed equally plain; but, on closer inspection, you discovered it was of a studied elegance, the colours being so well matched that the eye had nothing particular on which to rest. He never was known to laugh, and seldom smiled; he was rather cold, though not forbidding in his manners, and perfectly indifferent whether he amused or not. He never spoke of the politics of the day, of his domains, of his stud or family,—much less of himself, his exploits, or his adventures. He never made an observation that was worthy of being repeated, yet never said a foolish thing. With the sex he was a great favourite, for he perfectly understood the science of flattery; but it was with the utmost tact that he put it in requisition. His address was perfect: he spoke French, and indeed several languages, with that admirable choice of phrase for which the Russians are remarkable. The sole occupation of his life was play; and to win or lose seemed a matter of perfect indifference to him, whatever the stake.
There was also of the party that day another foreigner, Baron A——, who had been a Jew. He was hiscompagnon de voyage. Castor and Pollux were not more inseparable. Thisalter egowas a little man, with a grey eye of singular archness, and a light moustache, as most Germans have. His whole fortune consisted of five hundred louis, which he carried about with him;—an excellent nest-egg; for he contrived to double annually this poor capital. One year he was at Rome, another at Florence, a third at Vienna—no; there he was too well known. A gambler, like a prophet, has no honour in his own country. The last spring he had passed in London, where, of course, he had theentréeat Almack's, and now opened the campaign under the most promising auspices at Paris. The baron was a sort of lion's-provider—the pilot-fish of the shark.
We separated at an early hour, and I afterwards met my newfriendsat an hotel in the Fauxbourg St. Honoré, where there was, as usual, an écarté-table. Ecarté was then all the rage; though, like our all-fours, it had originally been the game of thepeuple, or rather in Paris of thelaquais. It is a game uniting skill and chance; but it is a game of countenance; a game, also, in which the cards played with, being fewer in number than at whist, it is no difficult matter to scratch an important one, so as to know in time of need where to find it, or tosauter le coup. That evening, for the first time, I was induced to take a hand, and, in my innocence of such manœuvres, wondered that my opponent turned up the king so much oftener than myself. In time my eyes were opened, and I discovered that othertricherieswere practicable. For instance, one morning, after a ball given by an English lady, there were found rolled up in one corner of the room two queens and a knave; and, on examining the écarté packs, these were missing,—had literally been discarded,—a circumstance which rendered the success of two officers of thegarde de corps, who cleaned out the party, by no means problematical. But I was now initiated; and a witty writer says,