All who entered the farm seemed alike under the influence of one dreary and imperative necessity; that they must take whatever was offered them—which never failed to be too much. A French gentleman one evening underwent with exemplary politeness the martyrdom of drinking sixteen cups of tea, simply from not knowing that he was expected, when tired, to put the spoon in the cup. This at last he did, by mere accident, or good Mrs. N. would have gone on pouring out for him all night, to her great felicity.
Never but once—only once—was that excellent lady convicted of a fit of moderation in the arrangements of her table, and that was when some fine London acquaintances had been persuading her to transform a rustic lout of a stripling into a page, and assuring her that thick pieces of bread at dinner were quite barbarous and vulgar. She did so far forget her original nature, as to decorate the boy with roley-poley buttons, to turn his Christian name of Colin into the surname of Collins, and to admonish him on the subject of bread thus—"Collins, don't cut up so many loaves when we have company at dinner; I don't like very small pieces, but then there shouldn't be too many; you shouldcount heads; you must know how much bread will be wanted, and cut accordingly. Now mind!" Kind, hospitable dame, how was she punished for her precaution! When the next dinner-party assembled, and a dozen persons had taken their seats at the table, Collins proceeded to hand the bread round after the provincial fashion of twenty years ago; but by the time he reached his mistress, the last person of the dozen, the bread was gone. "Collins," said she, in a low discreet whisper, "some bread, some more bread." Collins'swhisper in reply was meant to be equally discreet, but it was more audible. "Please, ma'am, I did count heads, and cut twelve bits, but that 'ere gentlemanhas took two pieces!"
Collins, the page, was but the folly of a day; he speedily disappeared; yet there remained for some time in the heart of his mistress a lurking desire to engraft a few of the best London usages upon the more substantial country customs, and if not to keep pace with the spirit of the present age, at least to emerge out of the deep recesses of the past. Robin, the successor of Collins, was a victim to this spirit of innovation. He was a rustic of one idea; which was, to do whatever he was ordered as well as he could. If told to make haste, he would simply start off at the top of his speed; if told to fly, he would assuredly attempt with his arms and coatflaps an imitation of the action of a bird, and fly as well as he was able. He understood all instructions literally; Robin had no imagination. To bring in everything upon a waiter, was an order he could easily comprehend; mistake was impossible. "Well, I declare!" cried Mrs. N. to some visitors one morning, "you haven't yet seen my pets;" (some pups of an illustrious breed, that had just seen the light;) "Robin, bring in the pets—they are miracles." There was considerable delay, however, in the execution of this order; and more than one inquiry went forth, why Robin did not bring in the pups. At last, when curiosity was at its height, and expectation on tiptoe, Robin did contrive, after a "to do" outside the door, to make a formal appearance with the pups, and to explain the delay:—"Here be pups, ma'am, only dang it they won't keep on waiter."
Where the squire picked up the Imperturbable who came next, I never understood. At this distance of time it is not unreasonable to doubt whether he was in reality a human being; he might have been a talking automaton. He never appeared to have "organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;" he seemed to be simply a thing of clock-work. "Master wants a bit more muffin," or "The ice has broke and master's drownded in the pond," would be uttered by him in exactly the same formal tone of voice, with exactly the same stiff and deliberate air. It was all one to him whether he had to announce—"There's a cricket-match on the common," or "the French have landed." Never shall I forget his walking into the room one day, an hour after dinner, and fixing himself beside his master's chair while the squire was telling us one of his sporting stories which were sometimes rather long; waiting patiently until the close for the signal to proceed, and then when the Squire had turned round leisurely to know what he wanted, saying in his slow tone, "When I went up stairs, sir, a little while ago, the house was a-fire! It's burning now."
But I ought to relate one more example of the manner in which the patience of the Squire's lady was tried, by the rusticity of her attendants, during the short season of her attempt to elevate her household arrangements into something like fashionable dignity. One day, when the Squire had sent off, upon some frivolous errand, every servant in the house except cook and coachman, in dropped a very important visitor who proffered his company at dinner, to the consternation of the lady: hospitable as she was, she was in a dilemma; but it could not be helped. The services of the coachman were duly called into requisition to wait at table, greatly to his chagrin, for he detested the duty, and whenever he chanced to be called upon to perform it, was sure to find some means of letting all the room know that he did. He abhorred indoor work, and took a pride in proclaiming himself to be coachee. On this occasion, having some apple-dumplings to bring in (vulgarities to which the Squire was considerably attached), the coachman, not qualified by daily practice for the duty, let some of them slip off the dish; but recovering himself, he contrived to balance the dish as he held it out, and to steady the rolling dumplings therein, with a "Who-o, whoo-oo,whut!" Neither the Squire nor his lady ever affected the "gentilities" after this, or allowed their honest hearts to be disconcerted about trifles; and with this last "tray" of domestic awkwardness, I for the present take my leave of the Livery.Rus in Urbe.
"Easy travelling this, sir; smooth roads, no turnpikes; no dirt thrown about, no splashing. Pleasant for me, who have just arrived from Van Diemen's Land," (we all looked up at our new visitor V. D. L.)—"yes, sir, where they are 'mending their ways,' as you are here, only not quite so fast; haven't got to Indian-rubber roads yet, though advanced beyond the point at which the traveller in my legend was obliged to stop." This allusion being evidently preparatory to the production of a story, V. D. L. was invited to explain, which he instantly did by chanting the following
LEGEND OF VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.
Long time ago, when public roadsIn far Van Diemen's Land,Were only fit for frogs and toads,Composed of pools and sand;(For folks had not tried newest modesOf making wood-ways grand);And narrow wheels, and heavy loads,Made ups and downs on every hand:Long time ago,When things were so,By some arch wag it was averr'dThe following incident occurr'd.—It chanced, on one of old October's days,A traveller was travelling along,And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise,"Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song:When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees,That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze,"But in the middle kept its place!As if it had resolved, with honest pride,Not to be driven down upon the side,When it might hold the central space.The traveller got out, and took it up,—Most strange!—a head beneath the hat appears,Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup,And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:—"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?—Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,So deep into this puddle to have gone.""IfI'm so deep," the other gruffly said,"Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?"
Long time ago, when public roadsIn far Van Diemen's Land,Were only fit for frogs and toads,Composed of pools and sand;(For folks had not tried newest modesOf making wood-ways grand);And narrow wheels, and heavy loads,Made ups and downs on every hand:Long time ago,When things were so,By some arch wag it was averr'dThe following incident occurr'd.—It chanced, on one of old October's days,A traveller was travelling along,And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise,"Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song:When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees,That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze,"But in the middle kept its place!As if it had resolved, with honest pride,Not to be driven down upon the side,When it might hold the central space.The traveller got out, and took it up,—Most strange!—a head beneath the hat appears,Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup,And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:—"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?—Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,So deep into this puddle to have gone.""IfI'm so deep," the other gruffly said,"Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?"
Long time ago, when public roadsIn far Van Diemen's Land,Were only fit for frogs and toads,Composed of pools and sand;(For folks had not tried newest modesOf making wood-ways grand);And narrow wheels, and heavy loads,Made ups and downs on every hand:Long time ago,When things were so,By some arch wag it was averr'dThe following incident occurr'd.—It chanced, on one of old October's days,A traveller was travelling along,And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise,"Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song:When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees,That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze,"But in the middle kept its place!As if it had resolved, with honest pride,Not to be driven down upon the side,When it might hold the central space.The traveller got out, and took it up,—Most strange!—a head beneath the hat appears,Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup,And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:—"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?—Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,So deep into this puddle to have gone.""IfI'm so deep," the other gruffly said,"Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?"
Long time ago, when public roads
In far Van Diemen's Land,
Were only fit for frogs and toads,
Composed of pools and sand;
(For folks had not tried newest modes
Of making wood-ways grand);
And narrow wheels, and heavy loads,
Made ups and downs on every hand:
Long time ago,
When things were so,
By some arch wag it was averr'd
The following incident occurr'd.—
It chanced, on one of old October's days,
A traveller was travelling along,
And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise,
"Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song:
When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees,
That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze,"
But in the middle kept its place!
As if it had resolved, with honest pride,
Not to be driven down upon the side,
When it might hold the central space.
The traveller got out, and took it up,—
Most strange!—a head beneath the hat appears,
Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup,
And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:—
"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?
You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;
How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,
As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?—
Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,
So deep into this puddle to have gone."
"IfI'm so deep," the other gruffly said,
"Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?"
"Accidents of that sort will happen in the best regulated countries," remarked a modern Traveller, who had now, with an air of subdued jollity, taken his place amongst us, and who was distinguished among his familiars as Illustrious Tom, "though I can't say I ever witnessed such an adventure in Cheapside. But you call to mind a home-adventure, a scene at Bolton. Most towns, you must know, in almost every county, can boast of their little evening coterie, in which the affairs of the nation are more or less learnedly discussed, and where the wags of the place play off their jokes, practical, comical, or serious. It generally happens, too, that these congregated sons of smoke (for smokers they all are) take up some district name; as the 'Bolton Trotters,' the 'Wigan Badgers,' the 'Item Dolls,' the 'Corporation of the King's Arms Kitchen,' the 'Quarter of Hundred Bricks,' or a hundred other names that might be mentioned; and all these coteries are composed of about the same materials, the doctors, lawyers, retired tradesmen, country squires, and budding wags. It may be my province by and by to detail a few of the farcicalities which I have either taken part in, or heard related by some old Brick-Badger, Trotter, or Doll. For the present, here is a tale, related to me with many a deep sigh by an old one, whose trot is now reduced to a most miserable shamble.
"It had been a stormy November day, when a commercial traveller alighted at the door of the Swan Inn. It was almost dark. He was a gentleman from Leeds, in the cloth trade, and had ridden over the moors—not as the young ones do now who drive—but on a strong Cleveland bay cob, wrapped in a good Devon kersey coat, that would defy all weathers, much better than your nasty Mackintoshes. Well, sir, there was a good deal o' guessing, among us who were having a bit o' trot, at who he was. The waiter was called in, and 'thowt he was a new chap,'—he didn't know him. In about an hour he made his appearance, and begged to be allowed to join us. He was a strapping Leeds win'er, and no toy to play with, I assure you. The trotting was very slow for a time, when the bold wag, Jem Brown, went in to win, and filled his pipe. Mr. A., the lawyer, sat on one side the fire; the traveller, in what was called Travellers' Chair, on the other. Up got Jem to ring the bell, and then, as he passed by him—'You musthave had a rough day,' says Jem; 'didn't I see you ride in about an hour ago?' 'Mebby ye did, I come in about that toime,' was the answer. 'On a bay cob?' says Jem. 'Eigh, a did.' 'A clever little hack, I be bound,' says Jem again. 'Eigh,' rejoins the traveller, 'the fastest in any town he goes inta.' 'Wew!' says Jem, 'I'll upo'd him a good 'un, but that's going ow'er far.' 'I'll bet a pound on't,' says the traveller. 'Nay, I never bet money—but I'll bet brandies round, I've a faster.' 'Dun,' says the traveller. 'Order in the brandy, and book it,' says Mr. A. Down went the bet, and down went the brandy, and the horses were ordered out. The traveller was soon mounted, and sure enough it was as nice a tit as onny man need wish throw a leg over. The traveller began to be impatient, when Jem at last made his appearance at the door, pipe in hand. What's that your fast hoss? let's see him walk.' On he went. 'Here, come back, and come in, for ye've lost.' 'Lost, how?' 'Why,' says Jem, 'mine's been stuck fast at Bolton-moor clay-pit this three days, and gone dead this afternoon.' 'A fair trot,' cried the whole party, amidst a roar o' laughter, as Jem retreated out o' the way of the strapping and irritated loser. (Now it was on the same evening, and at the expense of this same sturdy Yorkshireman, to provoke whom was no joke, that a joke was played off, which is commemorated in an oil painting that now hangs up in the commercial room of the Swan. Mr. A.'s leg was covered with a black silk stocking; the traveller's was cased in stout leather; when a bet was laid that the wearer of the silks would hold his leg longer in hot water than the wearer of the leathers. The experiment was tried in boiling water. In two minutes the Yorkshireman was in agony, while the lawyer looked on with astonishing composure-for his was acork leg.")
"But a Yorkshireman may be a philosopher," observed C.E.W., who now interposed a remark, "and philosophy can stand every description of hot water, save that which love brings us into. Practical jokes are of many kinds; a kiss is very often but a practical joke; and as an appropriate successor to your tale of the silk stocking and the boot, let me give you the story of
THE GIRL AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
As Kate went tripping up the town(No lassie e'er looked prettier),An "unco chiel" in cap and gown(No mortal e'er looked grittier)Accosted Kitty in the street,As she was going to cross over,And robb'd her of a kiss—the cheat,Saying, "I'm aphilosopher!""A what?" said Kitty, blushing red,And gave his cap a toss over;"Are you? Oh,phi!" and off she sped,Whilst he bewail'd the "los-oph-er!"
As Kate went tripping up the town(No lassie e'er looked prettier),An "unco chiel" in cap and gown(No mortal e'er looked grittier)Accosted Kitty in the street,As she was going to cross over,And robb'd her of a kiss—the cheat,Saying, "I'm aphilosopher!""A what?" said Kitty, blushing red,And gave his cap a toss over;"Are you? Oh,phi!" and off she sped,Whilst he bewail'd the "los-oph-er!"
As Kate went tripping up the town(No lassie e'er looked prettier),An "unco chiel" in cap and gown(No mortal e'er looked grittier)Accosted Kitty in the street,As she was going to cross over,And robb'd her of a kiss—the cheat,Saying, "I'm aphilosopher!""A what?" said Kitty, blushing red,And gave his cap a toss over;"Are you? Oh,phi!" and off she sped,Whilst he bewail'd the "los-oph-er!"
As Kate went tripping up the town
(No lassie e'er looked prettier),
An "unco chiel" in cap and gown
(No mortal e'er looked grittier)
Accosted Kitty in the street,
As she was going to cross over,
And robb'd her of a kiss—the cheat,
Saying, "I'm aphilosopher!"
"A what?" said Kitty, blushing red,
And gave his cap a toss over;
"Are you? Oh,phi!" and off she sped,
Whilst he bewail'd the "los-oph-er!"
"The learned lover, sir, who bewailed the 'los-oph-er'(said a visitor, who now favoured us with his company) was the last man in the world to die of love. No man ever died of love, who did not kill himself; and no man ever killed himself, who knew what philosophy was. True philosophy may buy prussic-acid, but, like Tantalus, taste not a drop; true philosophy saunters to the Serpentine, and then saunters back to supper and a cigar. This," said Dr. Bulgardo, L.S.D., "I shall endeavour to illustrate in a poetical tribute to
THE GRAVE OF THE SUICIDE (WHO THOUGHT BETTER OF IT).
My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster,And soon would my death in theTimeshave rejoiced her;So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister,I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floatedTill pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quotedWhere the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,Without any sugar to take off the taste.But sorrows are often inflicted to try us;Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us;And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie houseThe blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.She kindly assured me my views were mistaken,That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken;So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenhamcoach, to return to my Betty again.Four lovers already had tried to divert herAttentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her;She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her,And now is the suicide gayest of men!"
My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster,And soon would my death in theTimeshave rejoiced her;So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister,I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floatedTill pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quotedWhere the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,Without any sugar to take off the taste.But sorrows are often inflicted to try us;Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us;And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie houseThe blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.She kindly assured me my views were mistaken,That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken;So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenhamcoach, to return to my Betty again.Four lovers already had tried to divert herAttentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her;She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her,And now is the suicide gayest of men!"
My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster,And soon would my death in theTimeshave rejoiced her;So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister,I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floatedTill pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quotedWhere the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.
My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster,
And soon would my death in theTimeshave rejoiced her;
So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister,
I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.
Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floated
Till pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;
So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quoted
Where the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.
Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,Without any sugar to take off the taste.But sorrows are often inflicted to try us;Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us;And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie houseThe blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.
Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,
The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;
My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,
Without any sugar to take off the taste.
But sorrows are often inflicted to try us;
Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us;
And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie house
The blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.
She kindly assured me my views were mistaken,That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken;So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenhamcoach, to return to my Betty again.Four lovers already had tried to divert herAttentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her;She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her,And now is the suicide gayest of men!"
She kindly assured me my views were mistaken,
That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken;
So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenham
coach, to return to my Betty again.
Four lovers already had tried to divert her
Attentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her;
She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her,
And now is the suicide gayest of men!"
A RIGID SENSE OF DUTY.
At one of our sea-port towns there stood (and, we believe, doth stand there still) a fort, on the outside of which is a spacious field, overlooking a delightful prospect of land and water. At the time we are speaking of, a Major Brown was the commandant; and his family being fond of a milk diet, the veteran had several cows that pastured in the land aforesaid; a sentry was placed near the entrance, part of whose duty it was to prevent strangers and stray cattle from trespassing therein. Upon one occasion, an Irish marine, a stranger to the place, was on guard at this post, and having received the regular orders not to allow any one to go upon the grass but the major's cows, determined to adhere to them strictly. He had not been long at his post, when three elegant young ladies presentedthemselves at the entrance for the purpose of taking their usual evening walk, and were quickly accosted by the marine with "You can't go there!"
"Oh! but we may," uttered the ladies with one voice, "we have the privilege to do so."
"Privilege," repeated the sentry; "fait an' I don't care what ye have, but you mustn't go there, I tell ye; it's Major Brown's positive orders to the conthrary."
"Oh—ay—yes—we know that," said the eldest of the ladies with dignity, "but we are Major Brown's daughters."
"Ah, well, you don't go in there then anyhow," exclaimed Pat, bringing his firelock to the post, "you may be Major Brown's daughters, but you're not Major Brown's cows."
The answer to Mr. Sly's Enigma (in last No.) is aliquid[5], which forms thethirdpart ofRum, thefourthof Port, thefifthofShrub, thesixthofBrandy, theseventhofMadeira, theeighthofBurgundy, theninthofBordeaux, thetenthofMaraschino. It is a letter which is not seen inthe alphabet, forms no part of asyllable, and yet is found ineveryword.—V. D. L.
"Are there two 'S's' in St. Asaph?" asked Lord Dunce of a popular humourist, as he was directing a letter to a learned Bishop who bore that title. "Unlessyouwish to make an 'ass' of his Lordship, decidedly not," was the answer; and Lord Dunce finished the address without further inquiry.
Driver(calling out). Tom, is that 'ere elderly lady come, as ve vaited for last trip?
Cad. Vel, Idothink I sees her a coming.
Driver. But are you sure it's the same?
Cad. Oh yes—Vy I was in the office ven the Governor booked her, by the name o' Mrs. Toddles, and eh?—hang me if she arn't a toddling off the wrong vay arter all. Vel, drive on, ve can't wait for nobody. Some people alversairetoo late, and alvers vill be.
Driver. Vy, yes, Tom; but I reckon it must takehera couple o' hours to put on that bonnet afore she comes out. She must git up a little earlier, or else I should reckimend her to put it on the night afore.
Oh my goodness there is a mouse!!!Oh! my good gracious! here is a great"Black Beadle" !!! !!!!Flying Beadles.[See larger version]
Oh my goodness there is a mouse!!!Oh! my good gracious! here is a great"Black Beadle" !!! !!!!Flying Beadles.
Oh my goodness there is a mouse!!!
Oh! my good gracious! here is a great"Black Beadle" !!! !!!!
Flying Beadles.
[See larger version]
There is no fever so contagious as fright. It runs, like a bell-wire, through the house, communicating from one line of agitation to another.
Frights, in a national point of view, are called "clouds on the political horizon." These clouds are very catching; if one nation in Europe has the vapours, all have—as we have lately had an opportunity of witnessing. In a civic, or we should say rather in a commercial, sense, frights are called "panics;" they are wonderfully contagious. No sooner is one house in danger, than another feels itself in peril. You walk at such a season through some vast capital, amidst lines of lofty and durable-looking mansions, and every one that begins to totter puts at least a couple in mind of tottering also. As this nods to its fall, that returns the nod instinctively. Once set the panic afoot, and each seems inclined to be foremost, rather than hindmost, in the road to ruin; let but a single firm topple down unexpectedly, and its neighbours break too, from nothing but sheer apprehension of breaking. Amidst large assemblages of people—in ball-rooms, theatres, often in churches—fright is irresistible in its progress, if once kindled. The cry of "fire," or a sound construed into the cracking of the wainscot, is enough. The strong, the weak, the bold, the nervous, the old stager and the young novice—are all reduced simultaneously to a common level: they become one mass of flying, fluttering, struggling, shrieking,selfishmortality—rushing to the door, and there effectually blocking up the way; each bent on escape, and each helping to render escape impossible; trampling, stifling, crushing one another, in hideous rout and disorder, without one rational idea amongst the bewildered multitude of the reality of the danger, or one courageous impulse to face it.
This wild alarm, like jealousy, makes the meat it feeds on. There is something so contradictory in it, that the presence of numbers, which should be its protection, increases its confusion. It sees its own pale, glaring, terror-stricken image in each man's face, and its diseased imagination multiplies the causes of fear, because its effects are manifold.
While such panics prevail, as all veracious chronicles show they do, amongst mankind, who shall presume ungallantly to laugh at thy innocent objects of terror, oh, womankind! or, childhood, even at thine! All have their favourite antipathies. Gentlemen ere now have been appalled at the sight of a black-bottle; many a lady yet looks aghast at the intrusion of a black-beetle; while the child still screams, affrighted at the idea of black-bogy. Leaving the first to the satirist, and the last to the schoolmaster, let us picture to the eyes of ladies a scene, in which every fair reader almost must have been, at leastoncein her life, an actress.
We will suppose that scene to be a lady's "finishing establishment"—for there are no schools now—the school went out of fashion with the shop, and the "establishment" came in with the "depôt" and the "emporium."
The group is the prettiest possible, as a specimen of still-life; there is not a whisper, scarcely a motion; the superior is silently calculating the amount of her Michaelmas accounts; the assistant is mutely wonderingwhether young Ariosto Jackson, whom she met at Northampton last holidays, will again be there at the next breaking up; and several young ladies, in process of tuition, are learning irregular verbs by heart, reading treatises abstrusely scientific, and thinking all the time of nothing; when—all of a sudden—but no, that is not the word—quicker than lightning, transformed as by magic, the scene presents to the eye but one image of consternation—to the ear but one note of terror and dismay.
In the centre of the sacred apartment has been detected a small sable intruder. A cry of horror from one young lady—"Oh! my good gracious, there's a great blackbeadle!" brings every other young lady's heart into her mouth. In an instant the room resounds with wild piercing screams. Every chair has its pedestalled votary of Fear, its statue of Alarm exquisitely embodied; the sofa boasts a rare cluster of affrighted nymphs—more agonised by far than if they had been, by some wicked bachelor of a magician, locked for life into a nunnery. The lady-president, to exhibit an example of presence of mind, has leaped upon a chair for the purpose of pulling the bell; she at the same time conveys a lesson of industry, for she agitates it like a "ringer" pulling for a leg of mutton and trimmings. The bell-rope breaks, and the other is out of reach. The screams increase; the servants are summoned by more names than they were ever christened by. "Cook, Sarah, Betsy, Betsy, Jane, Cook, Sarah," are called, together with several domestics who have long since gone away.
In the mean time let us snatch a glance at the little dingy contemptible insect, the sable agitator, the Christophe of entomology, who has innocently created all this palpitation in tender bosoms, this distortion of beautiful features, this trembling of limbs, and this discord in voices the most musical. He stands a moment stupified, petrified with astonishment at the rush and the roar around him; recovering from his first surprise, he creeps a pace or two in blank perplexity; he wrestles with his fears—for frightened he is out of his little black wits, you may depend upon it—runs here and there, a few inches to the east, and then a few inches westward, to and fro like a bewildered thing; and then making up his mind, "away he cuts" as hard as he can pelt into the obscurest corner. The enemy out of sight, the boldest of the party, after a minute or two, ventures down and makes a desperate rush to the door; others soon follow this heroine's example; and when they reach the landing—there pale, though recent from the roasting jack, and peeping up from one of the lower stairs of the kitchen flight, they perceive the face of the cook—a face whose expression is half curiosity, half fear. Aspects of wonder and wo-begone alarm are discernible beyond, and fill up the picture of agitation.
"Oh, cook! where have you been?" cry the pretty tremblers.
"Oh, Miss! whatisthe matter?" sighs the cook sentimentally, observing at the same time that "her heart beats that quick as she ain't sure she knows her own name when she hears it."
"Oh, cook!" cries the least exhausted of the party, "here's a great—here's a great black beadle in the parlour!" On which a very small scream, and a pretty shudder at the recollection, pervade the assembly.
"A black-beadle, Miss Higgins!is that all! Lauk, well that is disappineting; we thought as you was all a being murdered, and so wecouldn't move, we was so frightened. Why, I minds a black-beadle no more nor—no more nor—no, that I don't! But if it had bin a hearwig, Miss Higgins!—ur-r-r-rh! now that's a ruptile as I never could abide!"
Had we rushed down stairs sooner, just before the first ring of the bell, a kitchen-group might have presented itself, not unworthy of being sketched. There should we have seen a feminine party of four seated round a table spread with solid viands; the actresses have played their parts to perfection; not like unfortunate players on the mimic stage, who raise to their parched lips empty japan cups, and affect to eat large slices of pasteboard turkeys. No; they have, in the fullest sense of the word,dined; and are in that delicious state of dreamy repose, induced by a hearty meal, about mid-day in summer, after having risen early and "washed" till twelve! It is at this juncture they hear the loud quick ring of the parlour-bell. At such a moment, when Missus know'd they was at dinner! Again, again, again; nay, the peal is continuous, and mingled with confused screams. Terror and the cold beef combined, strong ale and intense alarm, prevent them from stirring. Still the bell rings, the screams continue, and grow more distinct! Sarah faints, Betsy manages about half a fit, and Jane staggers a few paces and falls into the arms of Robert the gardener. A jug of ale, which the cook mistakes for water, flung into the face of the fair insensible, causes a sensation that arouses the whole party; and curiosity overcoming fear, leads them towards the stairs, where, hushed and horror-stricken, they await the dread intelligence that "a great black beadle has got into the parlour," his first appearance this season!
"Had it been a mad dog, indeed!" they all cry. Yes, and if it had been merely a tiny puppy with the smallest tin kettle tied to his tail, retreating affrightedly from roguish boys, they themselves would have been thrown into a fright indeed. Their instinct would have led them to cry, "Oh here's a mad dog," and to run right in his way.
Every man has his "fright." Toads are exceedingly unpopular. The deathwatch, like conscience, doth make cowards of us all. Spiders are unwelcome visitors. Rats (politics apart) are eminently disagreeable. One of a party who went out to kill buffaloes, happening to run away just as all his courage was required, explained the circumstance to his friends thus: "One man dislikes this, and another man that animal; gentlemen, my antipathy is the buffalo." But in certain climates, people are accustomed to horrors; they sup full of them. Nobody there screams out, "Oh here's a scorpion!" or "Good gracious, here's an alligator!" The visits of such common-places are not angelic, being neither few nor far between. It is only some rarer monster that can hope to make a sensation. Now, a hippopotamus, once a season, would come with a forty black-beetle power to an evening party; and a group of timid ladies, kicking the mere crocodiles and rattle-snakes away, may well be imagined rushing into a corner, startled by an unlooked-for intruder, and crying out "Oh my! if here isn't a mammoth! Mamma! here's a great large leviathan!"
It is a melancholy sight to witness the half-starved, anatomical-looking small youths, dressed in every variety of poverty's wardrobe, that linger for hours near a certain little bow-window in St. Giles's; where the nobility, gentry, and public are informed that by paying down the sum of threepence they will be allowed peaceably to depart with an imperial pint of leg-of-beef soup in their own jug. It is a moving sight. To see the hungry looks—the earnest gazes, that are darted through that little bow-window—to see with what intense relish they snuff up the odoriferous vapours which occasionally ascend through the gratings beneath that little bow-window, or roll out in their full fragrance through the doorway adjacent to that little bow-window, ensnaring at every other burst some new, hungry, unsuspecting wayfarer—to see this is indeed a moving sight. Seldom, very seldom is it the good fortune of these watchful youths to revel in such luxuries as leg-of-beef soup, or its rival, alamode; they are beings destined only to view such things afar off, and make vain speculations upon their ravishing flavour; to contemplate them as amalgams expressly prepared for the affluent—those happy ones who can spend threepence and not feel it. Oh! what felicity to be the master of such a shop!—to eat as much as he likes and nothing to pay—to be able to feast his eyesight with the savoury contents of those bright tin kettles whennothungry—to dress in a white apron and striped jacket, and to have supreme command of that ladle—to be able to look sternly upon those perturbed spirits without, and disregard their earnest whisperings of "Oh, don't it smell jolly; and warn't that piece prime, though!"—to be able to go on fishing up the delicious morsels with the same provoking coolness. Oh! to what joys are some men born!
But see. Here come two that have had their enjoyment; maybe each has eaten a whole three-penn'orth. No longer do the fumes possess any charm for them; they can now walk composedly past those magic kettles. Now, two happy beings are entering the elysium—two whose delights are yet to come. One of them is a dustman in a spotted neckerchief, red wrist-cuffs, and a cap peculiar to gentlemen in that line of business; the other is his lady, glorying in the euphonic name of "Doll."
See with what a majestic air he strides in and takes his seat, as if he could buy up the whole establishment twice over if he chose. Hark with what a lordly voice he calls the waiting-boy, whose benevolent master, for services rendered, rewards him with ninepence per week, and the gratuitous licking of all the crockery soiled on the premises.
"Vater!" again vociferates he of the neckerchief. "Yes, sir," is the reply. "Didn't you heear me call vater afore?" "Sorry, sir, but the gen'l'm'n as is just gone was agoin' to forget to pay, sir—that's all, sir." "That's nuffin to do vith me. Ven I calls 'vater,' I vants yer. I can't afford to vaste my precious breath to no purpose as the members o' parliament do, so just prick up them long ears of your'n, and then I think you'll grow the viser." "Yes, sir." "Vell, then, bring this here leddy and me a freeha'penny plate each, and two penny crusties, and ven a gen'l'm'n calls agin, listen to his woice, or maybe it's not unpossible he may get his bit o' wittles at some other ho-tel." With another professional "Yes, sir," the urchin vanishes from the presence.
Once more the purveyor's ladle dives into the bright tin kettle. Again he tortures the hungry beholders outside the window—as they look on with outstretched necks and spasmodic mouths—with glimpses of its treasures. They see the choice bits of gristle but for an instant, and no more; for whilst gazing at the sight, in a paroxysm of longing and fever of desire, the plates are borne off to that vile dustman.
"Now, Mr. Imperence," says the lady, addressing the purveyor's protégé, at the same time, with much dexterity and elegance, converting a fork she has discovered upon the seat into a toothpick. "Now, Mr. Imperence, I hope you've brought a little less paddywack in it than there was yesterday. As Will says," she continues, stirring and scrutinising the contents of the plate, "bless'd if this house ain't quite losing its caroter." "Brayvo! Doll!" ejaculates her lord approvingly, as leaning backwards with extended leg he draws from his pocket a coin of the realm. "Here, jist valk yer laziness across the vay, and travel back agin vith a pint of half-and-half. Now, vot do you stand ringing o' the money for? Do you think other people is as vicked as yerself?"—"Th' s'picious little warmint!" rejoins the lady, swallowing a spoonful of the soup with alarming expedition, and fulfilling the purposes of a napkin with the back of her hand. "Did you see wot a imperent grin the little beast give?" "Never mind, old gal, you get on," responds the dustman, lounging with both elbows upon the table, and regarding with an air of much complacency the thin-visaged youths outside. "You get on, for I must soon be astirring."
In due time the boy and the solution of malt and hops present themselves, and after a hearty draught of the grateful beverage, the dustmanevinces a disposition to become musical, and whistles an air or two with perhaps rather more of good will than of good taste. He suddenly looks round, and discovering his lady has finished the plate of soup and the last drain of beer also, summons forth the juvenile waiter from behind a little partition, just at the mortifying moment when his tongue is making clean the interiors and exteriors of two recently-used plates.
"Now, then, young imp, wot's the damage?"—"Sixpence, please sir," said the waiter, vainly endeavouring to quiet his tongue, which keeps playing round the sides of his mouth; "two plates and three loaves, please, sir." "We aint had free, you cheating little wagabond!" screams the lady; "we've only had two—you know that!" "Oh! beg pardon, ma'am," replies the boy, after a sly lick; "it was t'other box where the gen'lm'n was as had three. Fippence, then, please sir—two plates and two new'uns—fippence."
"You're a nice sample o' thievery for your age," says the dustman, contemplating the boy with one eye, and then counting out four penny pieces and four farthings with curious deliberation. "You're a nice article to cast a gen'l'm'n's bill. Do you happ'n to know a cove in London by the name o' Ketch—Jack Ketch?" "Yes, sir." "Vell then, the next time as you go his vay, have the goodness to leave your card, and say you was strongly recommended to him by me. Now, Doll."
Having delivered himself to this effect, greatly to the moral benefit of the boy, who mechanically replies at the conclusion of it, "Yes, sir," with a dignified step he leads the way to the door, merely condescending, as he places his foot upon the sill, to inform the proprietor, that "he's blow'd if there's a worser prog-shop in the whole blessed vurld!"Alpha.
The penny-postage has already wrought an extraordinary change in the public ideas of the value of money. Formerly, according to the old maxim, ninepence was but ninepence; but even twopence has now become a sum sterling, to demand which is to stir men's blood as violently as if the said coins were flung in their faces. To put a letter into the post, and an intimate friend to the expense of twopence, was, only the other day, perfectly natural; under the present system, it is fiendish.
A letter sent free costs the sender a penny; to receive a letter not pre-paid, is to expend double the amount. In the degree of attention shown to this little fact, it is not impossible to find a test of the principles of mankind—of the whole corresponding portion of creation at least.
The last post-office returns show, that there are upon an average 7654 persons—monsters in the human form, we should rather say—in this metropolis alone, who walk about day by day dropping stampless epistles into ravenous letter-boxes, from sheer misanthropy—hatred of their fellow-creatures; which feeling they are pleased to call forgetfulness, stamplessness, or copperlessness, as convenience may dictate.
Never become enraged when you receive a missive from one of them—never storm when you pay double—lest you should chance to justify where you mean to condemn.
At unpaid letters look not blue,Nor call your correspondent scamp;For if you storm, he proves that youReceived his letter—with"a stamp!"
At unpaid letters look not blue,Nor call your correspondent scamp;For if you storm, he proves that youReceived his letter—with"a stamp!"
At unpaid letters look not blue,Nor call your correspondent scamp;For if you storm, he proves that youReceived his letter—with"a stamp!"
At unpaid letters look not blue,
Nor call your correspondent scamp;
For if you storm, he proves that you
Received his letter—with"a stamp!"
Reflect seriously upon the character of such a correspondent. The man whose letters are not pre-paid may be thus denounced:—
He is selfish, because he would rather you should pay twice, than that he should pay once.
He would rather inflict an injury on his friend, than act fairly himself.
He is disloyal, because he ought to grace his letter with the head of his Queen, and he declines doing so.
He prefers seeing his brother'stwopockets picked, to having a hand thrust into one of his own.
He is an old fool, who wants to be thought young, and affects carelessness, because it is a youthful fault.
Rather than take a bottle of wine out of his own cellar, he would drink a couple at his neighbour's expense.
Sooner than experience a stamp on his toe, he would see his old father's gouty feet trampled on.
He is ready to discharge a double-barrelled gun at anybody, to escape a single shot at himself.
He would ride his friend's horse fifty miles, to save his own from a journey of five-and-twenty.
To avoid an easy leap from the first-floor window, he would doom his nearest connexion to jump from the roof.
Rather than submit to the privation of half a meal, he would subject any human being to the misery of being dinnerless.
He is penny wise and twopence foolish. His penny saved is not a penny got, since the damage he occasions will recoil upon himself.
He is more mindful of the flourishing finances of the postmaster-general, than of the scanty funds of individuals who are dear to him.
He has no care for the revenue, for he shrinks from prompt payment.
He is dishonest, for rather than pay in advance he won't pay at all.
Above all, never listen to anything that may be urged in his defence. Never attach the slightest importance to such arguments as these:—
He is the best of patriots, because he raises a sinking revenue.
He is the best of friends, for he impels all whom he addresses to do good to the state at a slight cost to themselves.
He is the most loyal of men, for he cannot bear to part with his Queen's likeness, even upon a penny-piece.
He is a gentleman, and never has vulgar halfpence within reach.
He is kind to street-beggars, and gives away the penny in charity before he can get to the post-office.
He is well read in ancient literature, and knows that those who pay beforehand are the worst of paymasters.
He is delicate-minded, and feels that a pre-paid letter implies a supposition that the receiver would care about the postage.
His house is open to his acquaintances, who write so many notes there that he never has a stamp to use.
He scorns to subject the portrait of his lady-sovereign to the indignity of being tattooed like a New-Zealander.
He is a logician, and maintains that if a penny-postage be a good thing, a twopenny-postage must be exactly twice as good.
He enables others to do a double service to their country, rather than by doing half that service himself, prevent them from doing any.
He denies himself one pleasure that his fellow-creatures may have two.
He sympathises in the postman's joy at the receipt of twopence, as it brings back old times, and restores to him his youth.
He is so anxious to write to those he loves, that the stamp, hastily affixed, comes off in the letter-box.
Signing himself "your most obedient humble servant," of course he dares not take the liberty of paying for whatyoureceive.
He is married, and leaves it to bachelors to paysinglepostage.
Mark his hand-writing, nevertheless; and when his unpaid epistle arrives, let your answer be, a copy of the "Times," supplement and all, sealed up in an unstamped envelope.
BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, C. B.
The vessel rose upon the mountain waves, with her bowsprit pointing up to the northern star, and then plunged down into the trough of the sea, as if she were diving like the porpoises which played across her bows,—shaking and trembling fore and aft as she chopped through the masses of water which impeded her wild course. Sea after sea struck her on the chesstree or the beam, pouring over her decks and adding to the accumulation of water in her hold. Her sides were without a vestige of paint—her shrouds and standing rigging worn to less than inch-rope; her running rigging as mere threads; the foresail, the only sail set, as thin as gauze. Decay was visible in every part of her; her timbers were like touchwood; even her capstan had half rotted away; and her masts might have proved, if once ashore, a safe asylum to colonies of ants and woodpeckers. How then could a vessel in this forlorn condition continue afloat or contend with so fierce a gale? Because it was the spectre-ship with her spectre-crew; Vanderdecken, in the Flying Dutchman, still contending against the divine fiat, still persevering in his fatal oath—that he would double the Cape. Vanderdecken stood at the break of the weather-gangway with his chief officer, Jansen, by his side. The crew were most of them sheltering themselves under the weather-side of the deck; their large, flat, pale muffin faces sunk down deep in their chests; shoulders, high andbony; their nether garments like bladders half shrunken, as if there was nothing in them. When they shifted from one part of the deck to the other, their broad, flat feet made no sound as they passed along the planks, which were soft as pith.
Their dresses were now of the colour of mahogany or chocolate; seaweed was growing here and there on their jackets; and to the seats of their small-clothes, a crop of barnacles had become firmly attached. They all looked melancholy and disheartened; and as they shivered, the rattle of their bones was distinctly to be heard.
Vanderdecken put his speaking-trumpet to his lips—
"Another pull of the weather fore-brace," cried he.
"Yaw, yaw," replied the spectre-crew, put into motion by the order.
The boatswain piped belay—the sound could hardly be distinguished, as from long use he had blown away much of the metal of which his pipe was composed. Jansen, the mate, looked up at the fore-yard, and then at Vanderdecken. He appeared at first irresolute when he looked into the dogged countenance of Vanderdecken;—at last, he hitched up his nether garments with both hands, and spoke—"It won't do, Captain Vanderdecken,—and the men say it won't do—do you not, my lads, all of you?"
"Yaw," was the hollow, melancholy response of the seamen.
"Donder und blitzen—what won't do?" replied the captain.
"We must bear up, Captain Vanderdecken," replied Jansen; "the ship leaks like an old sieve; our hold is full of water; the men are worn out; every sail we have has been bent and split; nothing but the foresail left. It's no use, Captain Vanderdecken, we must bear up and refit."
"You forget mine oath," replied Vanderdecken, surlily. "Hold on, Jansen, that sea is aboard of us."
Jansen shook his three jackets and ten pair of small-clothes, as soon as the drenching had passed over.
"I tell you, Mynheer Vanderdecken, it won't do—we must bear up."
"Yaw, yaw," responded the crew.
"Mine oath!" cried the captain again, as he held on by one of the belaying pins.
"Without sails, without provisions, and without fresh water on board, you cannot keep your oath—which was to double the Cape. We must bear up, refit, and then try it again."
"Mine Oath—I have sworn—I cannot—I will not bear up; Jansen, hold your tongue."
"Well, you may keep your oath—for we will bear up for you against your will."
"We will! Who will? Do you mutiny?"
"Yaw, yaw; we all mutiny," cried the sailors; "we have been now two years trying to double this stormy Cape, and never had a dry jacket the whole time; we must mend our small-clothes, and darn our stockings. For two years and more we have had no fresh meat, and that is contrary to the articles. Captain Vanderdecken we do not mutiny; but we will bear up; with your will, if you please; if not, against your will."
"So you mutiny, you ungrateful rascals! Well, stop a moment, till I go into my cabin; when I come out again, I will hear what you have tosay, and see if any man dares speak;" and Captain Vanderdecken in a great fury rushed aft and went into his cabin.
"I know what he will do, my men," said Jansen; "he has gone for his double-barrelled pistols, and will shoot us through the head;—we must not let him come out again."
"Nein, nein," replied the seamen; and they ran to the cabin-doors, and made them fast, so that Vanderdecken could not get out, and could shoot nobody but himself.
"Now my lads," said Jansen, "put the helm up, and square the yards."
"What's the course to be, Mynheer Jansen," asked the man at the helm.
"Keep her right before it, my man; how's her head now?"
"About south-west."
"That will do—it will fetch somewhere—she walks fast through it. Spielman, heave the log."
"What does she go?"
"Eighty-five miles an hour; but we must allow something for the heave of the sea," replied the second mate.
"She don't sail as well as she did; but we are half full of water," replied Jansen.