We were led by accident, the other day, into certain odd speculations upon
THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
Who was it that astonished his hearers by declaring that beefsteak-pudding always put him in mind of Westminster Abbey? It was the same man who responded to the "Why?" by saying, "O! I don't know why, but itdoes!"
"Association of Ideas" is arrangeable under two heads: the discoverable, and the undiscoverable. Of the last, first. How often do we every day jump from one point to another, as distinct in themselves as the sublime and the ridiculous, and far more widely asunder? We are talking of A, and Z starts up in the mind. White is the subject of the speculation, and in walks Black. It may be said, that as likes beget likes, so opposites beget opposites; and it may be very true that if you cannot directly call Z to mind when you want him, it is advisable to recollect A, as likelier to remind you of him than Y, or any other alphabetician.Granted; but, on the same principle, when you want to think of water, you should order in some brandy. The connexion may be close, although the elements are opposite. In like manner, we are told, when trying to recal some reprobate'salias, to think of a church of the same name; as we might think of a duellist, to suggest the image of a practical Christian. So, if we would be reminded of the truth and simplicity of Shakspeare, we ought to remember how his plays are sometimes acted; we shall see the high point from the low. Again, the image of a poor-box might be useful to help us to the idea of fulness; as that of a medicine-chest might be, to suggest the sense of turtle and venison. But we need not multiply opposites; grant that suggestions arise thus, when ideas stand opposed in straight lines—when the electric wire runs direct between them, wonderfully connecting the remote—yet how are we to account for the association of ideas in cross-roads, where there cannot possibly be the slightest connexion—where the fancy starts off at all sorts of angles, or wriggles through all kinds of crooked lines, without an apparent chance of stumbling upon the image that nevertheless comes uppermost? Cases constantly occur where there is not a particle of affinity. The child-idea is born without a parent-idea; there is not the shadow of a traceable relationship. We are discussing the merits of Cerito, and one of Euclid's problems bursts upon us; we are quietly repeating to ourselves some verses of the Odyssey, and suddenly the mind wanders to the subject of muffins. What connexion is there between shirt-frills and glass bottles? Yet how rapidly may one follow the other, like debtor and creditor, and become as intimately related as needle and thread!
On the other hand the Discoverable links of association are often as clear and connected as pearls strung on silver; and sometimes, it must be owned, they are altogether as tangled and confused, though still traceable by a nice curiosity. It needs no ghost to tell us why twenty-one shillings suggest the idea of a guinea—though the one coin be of the more precious metal; nor is it necessary to show why a Manton at this season awakens associations of pheasants and partridges—the consanguinity is obvious. But how comes it that my simple little cat (Dummy by name) called up, the other evening, by a very ordinary movement, the image of Cleopatra? How? Why, the mere sweep of her sable tail reminded me of the black leopard in the Surrey Zoological Gardens: where the gigantic model of Rome suggested a thought of the Cæsars; Antony, of course, started up, and in the "hundred-thousandth part of themillionthdivision of a second," I was in Egypt old, gazing upon the undying glory of Cleopatra! What so simple! Such chains lengthen themselves incessantly in the mind—the links are drawn each to each, of their "own sweet will," and bind us unawares. Lightning is slow compared with the flight of thought. How quickly does an oyster beget the idea of our first parents! Thus: an oyster—Milton oysters—Milton—Adam and Eve! Let any reader who may happen to be thinking of wrought-iron, trace back his speculation, and laugh to find that it had its origin perhaps in camomiles; as camomiles had in turn been suggested by the "Pilgrim's Progress!"
—— But all this is less an address to the patient reader than an apology to an injured Correspondent. We wish to show, beyond mistake, how we misnamed a valued illuminator of our vehicle, who last month related an Incident of Travel. His name isCopus; we could not call it to mind, and so we styled himQuickly. Observe. Quickly in this case was the son of Mrs. Quickly; Mrs. Quickly was, in our imagination, the mother of Sack; Sack is, to our knowledge, the brother of Copus. The connexion is mysterious—yet mysteriously simple. Copus! How could we forget thee?—thou wert companion of our youth. We knew thee well—thou art a spicy fellow, and a cheerful! What youthful reveller in academic relaxations recollects thee not, with thy wine and toast, thy lemon, cloves, and seductive et ceteras! Here's a chant that particularises thy pleasantries:—
"Bring ale, bring wine,Bring lemon too,With the nutmeg fine—We'll brew, we'll brew!The toast throw in, and the clove divine,'Twill do, 'twill do, 'twill do!Here's a draught to the Queen,And the days we have seen,And a health to you, sir, you!"
"Bring ale, bring wine,Bring lemon too,With the nutmeg fine—We'll brew, we'll brew!The toast throw in, and the clove divine,'Twill do, 'twill do, 'twill do!Here's a draught to the Queen,And the days we have seen,And a health to you, sir, you!"
"Bring ale, bring wine,Bring lemon too,With the nutmeg fine—We'll brew, we'll brew!
"Bring ale, bring wine,
Bring lemon too,
With the nutmeg fine—
We'll brew, we'll brew!
The toast throw in, and the clove divine,'Twill do, 'twill do, 'twill do!Here's a draught to the Queen,And the days we have seen,And a health to you, sir, you!"
The toast throw in, and the clove divine,
'Twill do, 'twill do, 'twill do!
Here's a draught to the Queen,
And the days we have seen,
And a health to you, sir, you!"
And now shall Copus, John Copus, (late Quickly) speak for himself, on a subject which, by a natural sequence, treads on the heels of the foregoing.
I sometimes speculate as to what little boys at school now-a-days talk about, as to what form the chief subjects of their amusement. It is sadly to be feared, that the innocent and ingenuous ignorance of my school-days has been exchanged for a culpable smattering of sophisticated knowledge, foolishly so called. Oh! who could wish when he calls to mind the days of his boyhood—at least, who that has a particle of romance, the smallest dash of sentiment, in his heart, could wish, that the boys of the present day should be sceptical as to the soothing belief then so prevalent, that the luscious preparation of sugar and peppermint which they eat, is really and truly a portion of "Gibraltar Rock;" or that the "brandy balls," with which they beguile their happy hours, andclarttheir fingers' ends, are indeed remnants of the lot of those very "Nelson's bullets" which spread destruction on "Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar."
Some of my readers may perhaps know—I confess my ignorance on this point—what boys now are. Whether a Doudnean tunic and variegated cap of divers kinds of cloth warm the possessor of as much solid understanding, as the honest pepper-and-salt clothes and undoubted beaver hat did in times gone by. I will, however, endeavour to illustrate what boys were in the last generation. And first, you shall agree that they excelled as a body in the inventive faculty. I scarcely need instance Walter Scott—the following story will establish my point without further aid.
Let us suppose the scene—a moderate-sized room—with eighteen beds or so in it, and the same number of boys in them, varying in age from eight to twelve, with every variety of nightcap, from the cosey linen one fitting "snod" to the head, and tied well under the chin, to the dignified and manly double cotton with long tuft; these enclosing all the varieties of hair, known as turnips, carrots, candles, &c. "Now Grant," shouts the biggest of the lot, "it's your turn to tell a story to-night—don't be afraid, (he was a new lad,) any thing will do, so fire away, and I'll thrash the first that interrupts him." The youth thus addressed, having evidently prepared his story, begins slowly and argumentatively thus:—"Well, once upon a time there was a mill" (it was considered a solecism to omit a mill or a castle,) "in a great plain—and a family lived there—well—and so there were three men, and they went out one night and walked across the plain—and it grew quite dark;" (here, one of the youngest lads, frightened at the fearful ideas conjured up by the last words, gives a faint sigh;) "and so after a bit they began to feel hungry—and one said Look! there's a light! and they all swore a solemn oath that they would go to where it was, and get something to eat, or else kill one another." (Here evident proofs are given that the greater portion of the audience are deeply interested in the progress of the tale, for various small sighs are heard, indicative either of sympathy with sufferers under the pangs of hunger, or of apprehension lest the three "jurors," taking the Kilkenny cats as precedents, should eventually become all of them homicides.) "Well—and so they went to the mill—and one of them knocked—and then the miller got up, and sharpening a large knife went to the door and asked who was there?—and the boldest of the three told him, that they were three travellers, and wanted food and a lodging. So the miller let them in, and they had a jolly good tuck-out of tea and buttered toast, and then went to bed.——And so my story's ended."
"Grant—come here!" mildly observes the biggest of the crew. The youth thus addressed rises cheerfully—advances boldly—and falls precipitately—levelled by a well-aimed bolster. "Now Grant!" continues the non-appreciator of a tale worthy for its simplicity of conception of a Wordsworth—for its pensive dénouement of a Dickens;—"Now Grant, just pick that up—and won't I lick you to-morrow morning, you precious fool—that's all."
I cannot lay the flattering unction to my soul, of believing that the modern dormitory could produce so striking a proof of talent. No sir; from fountains such as these have risen the immortal strains of a —— and a —— (you can fill in the names). In vain will the survivors of the next generation look for any similar display of talent. But if this fail to convince you of the decided superiority ofthe boys of auld lang syne in one branch of knowledge, give me your attention whilst I recount an overpowering proof, that in appreciation of real wit and talent for the ludicrous, they were indeed unrivalled. A new lad had come, who from having liberally bestowed various "tucks" on almost every one of his friends in the bed-room was popular on the whole, and received very cordially by us all. At all our stories connected with the various "masters," "monitors," "servants," boys that had left, and boys that remained, (and some of them were by no means amiss,) he seemed rather to sneer, so that he was voted a dull fellow—a spoon—a sap. When, however, emboldened by acquaintance with us, he began to talk of the school he had left, his delight, and even laughter, knew no bounds. "Oh! master was such a jolly fellow"—he said one day to a select circle of friends—"and such a funny fellow too he was you don't know—he! he! he! he used to make us laugh so—he! he! I'll tell you such a funny story of him. There was a lad called Brown, and master called him Jacky, because his name was John—he! he! he! Well, one day at dinner, Jacky had only had once of meat, but he'd two helps of pood;" "Of what?" we all exclaimed. "Oh! we calledrolly,pood, to distinguish it fromstick-jaw," was the explanation given. "So when master said, 'Well, Jacky, will you have any more pudding?' he! he! he! Jacky said, he! he! 'Please sir,' he! he! ha! and master said—he! he! 'Jacky's fond of pudding!' he! he! he! wasn't that funny?"
Having laughed immoderately at the profound and irresistible drollery of Jack Brown's dominie, protesting, that two such schoolmasters would be the death of us, we were all—that is, the whole Omnibus-fraternity in vehicle assembled,—suddenly checked in our hilarity, and sat with solemn visages to listen to
THE LACEMAN'S LAMENT.
"One struggle more and I am free From pangs thatrendmy heart in twain."—Byron.
Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope—Of love—of joy, in early years;Ere aught I knew about the shop,Or view'd life through aveilof tears.Some poet sings, that, "never yet,The course of true love smooth did run;"So mine, I'll take an even bet,Must be the truest 'neath the sun!'Tis long, long since I ceased to weepO'er all thy broken vows of yore;But, if you want some ribbon cheap,I hope you'll not go past my door!'Twas thee my youthful fancy drewThe fairest pattern of your kind;—Lace patterns, now, alone I view,Andfancymuslins rule my mind.Dearest and fairest! oh, forgiveThe thought that prompts this simple lay;'Tis just to tell you where I live—I see you passing, every day.I may, perchance, have measured shortThe lines that are not in my line;For yards, not feet, are now myforte,And rhymes are ill to match and join.In visions of a future day,I see thy long-lost form appear;And, o'er the counter, whispering, say—"Pray can you make it cheaper,dear?"Then I'll not call thee all unkind,Nor every hope untimely drop;Unless, in after days, I findYou take your custom past my shop.J. P.
Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope—Of love—of joy, in early years;Ere aught I knew about the shop,Or view'd life through aveilof tears.Some poet sings, that, "never yet,The course of true love smooth did run;"So mine, I'll take an even bet,Must be the truest 'neath the sun!'Tis long, long since I ceased to weepO'er all thy broken vows of yore;But, if you want some ribbon cheap,I hope you'll not go past my door!'Twas thee my youthful fancy drewThe fairest pattern of your kind;—Lace patterns, now, alone I view,Andfancymuslins rule my mind.Dearest and fairest! oh, forgiveThe thought that prompts this simple lay;'Tis just to tell you where I live—I see you passing, every day.I may, perchance, have measured shortThe lines that are not in my line;For yards, not feet, are now myforte,And rhymes are ill to match and join.In visions of a future day,I see thy long-lost form appear;And, o'er the counter, whispering, say—"Pray can you make it cheaper,dear?"Then I'll not call thee all unkind,Nor every hope untimely drop;Unless, in after days, I findYou take your custom past my shop.J. P.
Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope—Of love—of joy, in early years;Ere aught I knew about the shop,Or view'd life through aveilof tears.
Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope—
Of love—of joy, in early years;
Ere aught I knew about the shop,
Or view'd life through aveilof tears.
Some poet sings, that, "never yet,The course of true love smooth did run;"So mine, I'll take an even bet,Must be the truest 'neath the sun!
Some poet sings, that, "never yet,
The course of true love smooth did run;"
So mine, I'll take an even bet,
Must be the truest 'neath the sun!
'Tis long, long since I ceased to weepO'er all thy broken vows of yore;But, if you want some ribbon cheap,I hope you'll not go past my door!
'Tis long, long since I ceased to weep
O'er all thy broken vows of yore;
But, if you want some ribbon cheap,
I hope you'll not go past my door!
'Twas thee my youthful fancy drewThe fairest pattern of your kind;—Lace patterns, now, alone I view,Andfancymuslins rule my mind.
'Twas thee my youthful fancy drew
The fairest pattern of your kind;—
Lace patterns, now, alone I view,
Andfancymuslins rule my mind.
Dearest and fairest! oh, forgiveThe thought that prompts this simple lay;'Tis just to tell you where I live—I see you passing, every day.
Dearest and fairest! oh, forgive
The thought that prompts this simple lay;
'Tis just to tell you where I live—
I see you passing, every day.
I may, perchance, have measured shortThe lines that are not in my line;For yards, not feet, are now myforte,And rhymes are ill to match and join.
I may, perchance, have measured short
The lines that are not in my line;
For yards, not feet, are now myforte,
And rhymes are ill to match and join.
In visions of a future day,I see thy long-lost form appear;And, o'er the counter, whispering, say—"Pray can you make it cheaper,dear?"
In visions of a future day,
I see thy long-lost form appear;
And, o'er the counter, whispering, say—
"Pray can you make it cheaper,dear?"
Then I'll not call thee all unkind,Nor every hope untimely drop;Unless, in after days, I findYou take your custom past my shop.J. P.
Then I'll not call thee all unkind,
Nor every hope untimely drop;
Unless, in after days, I find
You take your custom past my shop.
J. P.
This pleasantry not unnaturally called to mind the departed author of a thousand similar essays; of a thousand songs, epigrams, odes, farces, and operas; of a thousand proofs of natural talent and untiring activity of mind. The allusion here made is to Thomas Dibdin, the son of the great sea-songster, the brother of the already by-gone Charles, and consequently, the last of the three! The remains of "Poor Tom" were interred on the 21st of September, in the burial-ground of St. James's Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend,Grimaldi.May he sleep in peace nevertheless! The feeling of a friend seems to be expressed in the subjoined tribute:—
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE THOMAS DIBDIN.
Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,Yet shall thy wit and humour last;For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,Could boast a more productive brain.But what avails, if fleeting praiseAlone the poet's labour pays?If, when the mind is worn away,Pale misery waits on dim decay?If talents rare no more can claimThan idle transitory fame?'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,In sad reverse and want to pine;Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10](Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,And sweetest in a queenly breast.)But rest thee well! nor let us grieveThou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;One legacy of thine shall yetBe valued more—thyCabinet.J. A. Williams.
Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,Yet shall thy wit and humour last;For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,Could boast a more productive brain.But what avails, if fleeting praiseAlone the poet's labour pays?If, when the mind is worn away,Pale misery waits on dim decay?If talents rare no more can claimThan idle transitory fame?'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,In sad reverse and want to pine;Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10](Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,And sweetest in a queenly breast.)But rest thee well! nor let us grieveThou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;One legacy of thine shall yetBe valued more—thyCabinet.J. A. Williams.
Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,Yet shall thy wit and humour last;For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,Could boast a more productive brain.But what avails, if fleeting praiseAlone the poet's labour pays?If, when the mind is worn away,Pale misery waits on dim decay?If talents rare no more can claimThan idle transitory fame?
Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,
Yet shall thy wit and humour last;
For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,
Could boast a more productive brain.
But what avails, if fleeting praise
Alone the poet's labour pays?
If, when the mind is worn away,
Pale misery waits on dim decay?
If talents rare no more can claim
Than idle transitory fame?
'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,In sad reverse and want to pine;Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10](Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,And sweetest in a queenly breast.)But rest thee well! nor let us grieveThou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;One legacy of thine shall yetBe valued more—thyCabinet.J. A. Williams.
'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,
In sad reverse and want to pine;
Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,
To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10]
(Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,
And sweetest in a queenly breast.)
But rest thee well! nor let us grieve
Thou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;
One legacy of thine shall yet
Be valued more—thyCabinet.
J. A. Williams.
It is the fate of one author to be overlooked by the Great, and of another to be overlooked by the Little. But we very much question, whether any author, be he poet or pamphleteer, occupying what is technically called a two-pair front, was ever subjected, whether sitting down to dinner or getting into bed, to the inconvenience of being Overlooked by the Great, after the fashion portrayed in the margin hereof. Now this we really take to be
THE HEIGHT OF IMPUDENCE!
Impudence has many degrees. When a stranger in a coffee-room politely requests to be allowed just to glance for one instant only at the newspaper you are reading, merely to look at an advertisement, and then, ordering candles into the next box, coolly sits down to read through the parliamentary debate—when a friend borrows your horse, to lend to a friend of his whom he would not trust with his own—a certain degree of impudence has unquestionably been attained. There is impudence in looking through a keyhole, in peeping over the parlour-blinds, in spying into the first-floor from the window "over the way;" but surely the highest stage of impudence is reserved for the man who stops as he strolls along at night, to look into your bed-room window, on the second floor—tapping at it probably with a request to be permitted to light his cigar at your candle, as the gas-light has gone out.
As we sauntered along the sea-beach the other day, in the neighbourhood of Margate, we observed a female standing out at a considerable distance from the cliffs, and at a point where she was likely to be cut off from the shore. As the tide at the time was "making in fast," prompted by a humane feeling (and not by an impertinent curiosity, in the hopes of seeing a pretty face), we immediately hastened towards her; upon a nearer approach the form was familiar to us—surely we had seen that figure before—it must be—it is—Mrs. Toddles! What can she be about? She stands motionless upon an elevated patch of sand—the white foam comes boiling and gurgling and hissing around her. She heeds it not—she stirs not; it begins to rain a little—she deliberately puts up her umbrella! What can she mean? Horrible thought! does she meditate self-destruction? Has she resolved to stand there until the mighty waters encompass her about—engulfing herself—her little black stockings—her bonnet—her shawl and all! in the deep, vast, salt, briny, hungry ocean. But what are we about? Let us hasten to prevent such an awful catastrophe! Springing forward therefore quickly, we exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, madam, what are you about? Are you determined to destroy yourself, or are you aware of your danger?" "Danger, sir?" cried Mrs. T. with a scream, "what danger, sir? I am only watching the waves." "Danger, madam! why in five minutes the waves will cut you off from all chance of escape," we exclaimed, and expressed a hope that she could swim. "Swim!" screamed Mrs. T.—"Swim! oh dear, oh dear!"—and away skuttled Mrs. T. along the sands, her little bit black legs going at a most surprising rate. However, leaving Mrs. T.'s legs to themselves, we took to our heels, and encouraged her to increased exertion, when suddenly we heard the little lady exclaim, "Oh, my basket,"—and upon looking round, we saw those little bit black legs hurrying back to the place from whence she started. We hallooed, we bawled—time and space were both narrowing with fearful rapidity—"Now! madam—haste, haste!—quick—your hand!—there, now!—ah!"—Ahah! too late! too late!—bang comes the wave—such a squash—poor Mrs. T. went off dripping wet; but we dare say she would find a little drop of comfort, in the shape ofsmuggledHollands at her lodgings.
☞ We wonderhowMrs. T. got to Margate, and suppose it was in search of her friend, Colonel Walker—who, we presume,mustbe out of town—or we should have heard from him.
THE BITER BIT.
"Stop! stop!" cried a gentleman to an Omnibus cad[11], but the cad would neither hear nor stop. "Stupid fellow!" said the gentleman,—"he'll find it out, to his cost, bye-and-bye; for I have given him a counterfeit five-shilling piece!" But, on looking at the change, he exclaimed—"Well, Inever! hang me if the rascal hasn't given me four shillings and sixpence bad money! But, never mind; I've had my ride for nothing!"
A SKAITING PARTYA Sliding SiuteA Skaiting AcademyDesigned, Etched & Published by George Cruikshank No.r-1 1841[See larger version]
A SKAITING PARTYA Sliding SiuteA Skaiting AcademyDesigned, Etched & Published by George Cruikshank No.r-1 1841
A SKAITING PARTY
A Sliding Siute
A Skaiting Academy
Designed, Etched & Published by George Cruikshank No.r-1 1841
[See larger version]
If our grandfathers, and great-grandfathers, and great-grandmothers, and great-great-grandmothers, (who, depend upon it, were all very little people,) could only look down and see what is going on among us here below, how they would, as an Irish friend remarks, turn up their eyes! Those who were wont, while vegetaters in this world, to creep to bed with the lamb, for want of a light to sit up by, (before man "found out long-sixes,") must, upon peeping down now, be dazzled by the blaze of gas; yet what is gas compared to the Bude-light, already superseding it? Those who made their wills when they undertook a three-weeks journey from York to London, must be abundantly startled by our railroads; yet what is railway-travelling now to the velocity with which we are hereafter to move—when, seated on a cannon-ball, we shall be shot into a distant city in less time than it would take us to stop at home. But of all the wonders that must make them open their unsubstantial eyes, and rub their aerial spectacles, a Skating Assembly in a London drawing-room must assuredly take the lead. Balloons pilotable and walks under the Thames, iron ships and canals over carriage-ways,—these are mere common-places. Earth, air, fire, and water, are old-fashioned things.Artificial Iceis the new element that shall astonish the other four.
In America they are boasting the construction of a railroad to convey ice to Charlestown, for the supply of the West Indies! Very well; but that isrealice. England has done something more; she has established her independence of winter. She can do without frost altogether, and yet go on skating all the year round. She has discovered more than Parry did at the Pole; she has found out—Artificial Ice!
To Mr. Bradwell, whose ingenuity as a machinist has so long been signalized in Covent Garden theatre, the public will be indebted for the realization of this wonder. It is proposed that in what were once the nursery-grounds in the New Road the infant art shall be nursed and reared, and the New Road to Enjoyment be thrown open. Magnificent rooms, on a scale of extraordinary magnitude, will be laid with sheets of patent ice, upon which the common skate can be used with the same facility as upon the frozen Serpentine. There will be rooms for learners and private parties. The artificial ice has been put to the test of extreme heat, and is unaffected by it. It may be used in private houses, and be carpeted when skating is over.
Such is the accredited statement; and our inference naturally is, that skating will soon become popular all over the world. The speculators who long ago sent out skates to India will now make their fortunes. With ourselves it will soon bethenational pastime. People will get up in the dog-days, early, and go out for a morning's skating. They will enjoy the sport with advantages hitherto undreamed of; there will be no keen winter-wind to cut them in two—no "mobocracy" to mix with—no rheumatisms to catch—no duckings to dread. The word "dangerous" will be as a term in the unknown tongue. They will not anticipate a drawback in the use of the drags, and though they mix in every society,the "Humane" will be untroubled; there will be neither falling in nor falling out.
MR. AND MRS. SLIPPERSREQUEST THE HONOUR OFMR., MRS., AND MISS SLIDER'SCOMPANY TO AN EVENING PARTY,ON THE 1ST OF JULY, 184—.Skates at 10.
MR. AND MRS. SLIPPERSREQUEST THE HONOUR OFMR., MRS., AND MISS SLIDER'SCOMPANY TO AN EVENING PARTY,ON THE 1ST OF JULY, 184—.
Skates at 10.
Skating-floors will, of course, be laid down in the houses of all the affluent, and invites will be issued from Portland-place and Park-lane, after the fashion of the accompanying card. It will be the privilege of a gentleman to solicit the hand of a lady for the next figure-of-eight, to beseech her to take part with him in the date of the year, or to join him in a true-lover's knot. Servants will skate in and out with real ice. The text of Milton will be altered in the next edition, and his couplet will be read—
"Come and trip it, long and late,On the light fantastic skate."
"Come and trip it, long and late,On the light fantastic skate."
"Come and trip it, long and late,On the light fantastic skate."
"Come and trip it, long and late,
On the light fantastic skate."
But the skating-floor will be in equal request for family use as for company. On a wet morning, when it is impossible to go out, the gentleman will say—"Here's a soaker! no ride, no walk; James, bring me my skates." Or perhaps the lady will cry—"What a horrid dry day! nothing but dust! Why don't they put an awning all over Hyde Park! Eustace, my skates!" What an immense saving will there be in families in the article of firing, when people are thus irresistibly moved to "stir their stumps," instead of the fire.
But will the advantages end here? Certainly not. There can be no question but that the experiment will be tried in the new Houses of Parliament, where, should a skating-floor be laid down, notices of motion will be far less abundant than motions without notice. Changing sides will be a matter of constant practice; to cut figures, not to cultivate them, will be the order of the day; the noble lord will "feel great reluctance in reducing himself to the level of the honourable gentleman," and the honourable gentleman "will very unwillingly adopt the position of the noble lord." Supportingpetitions will be of less consequence than supportingpartitions; and the strong party measure that will be necessary, will be a strong party wall.
Westminster-hall will of course be furnished with a floor for the use of the lawyers, and the juries in waiting; the counsel will show where an action may lie, the plaintiff will naturally go against the defendant, and the defendant will as naturally move for a new trial. The town-halls throughout the kingdom will be similarly supplied. But may not patent-ice pavements be laid down in our popular thoroughfares? We have asphalte promenades and wooden highways; but what are such inventions as these to the convenience of ice-pavements, and the luxury of skating down Cheapside to be early on 'Change! What a ninth of November will that be which shows us the two Sheriffs skating away to Guildhall after the new Lord Mayor, followed by the Court of Aldermen and the Companies. A procession on skates! the Cabinet Ministers, the Judges,—the sword-bearer, and the men in armour—all skating like Dutchmen!
[If herein we exaggerate, we have not exaggerated the ingenuity of Mr. Bradwell, to whom we wish a signal success.]
[If herein we exaggerate, we have not exaggerated the ingenuity of Mr. Bradwell, to whom we wish a signal success.]
BY EDWARD HOWARD, AUTHOR OF "RATTLIN THE REEFER."
The dark ages of barbarism are generally supposed to have been more prolific of monsters; but modern times,—the times of civilization and refinement—have far excelled them in this respect. What are your giants, your anthropophagi, and "men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders," as monsters, compared with that maximum of monstrosity,a dun? He is an iniquity, who may claim Impudence and Usury for his father and mother. He is a devouring Sin, a rampant atrocity, a thing unendurable.
And then the double duplicity of the monster! He makes his first approaches towards his victim smiling—he actually smiles!—he offers to lend you money, the angel! or bestow upon you his goods; and then he is nothing but the beneficent assister of the poor: for every man who condescends to be in debt must be poor—if in want, pitiably poor in fact; if not in want, poor in spirit beyond the approach of contempt. But when his meshes have once entangled his prey, this seraph stands forth in the sublimity of the horrible—the Dun!
Come, as we are in a free nation, let us talk about the chains of slavery, tyranny's oppression, themorgueof aristocracy, and thefiertéof those in authority; shall we not rise in arms against them "'Sblood! shall we not be rebels?" Stop. Let us first conquer a tyrant far stronger than any of these—a despot more despotic than any autocrat who ever existed. This persecutor violates all the sanctities of private life; he is with us at our meals, he penetrates the closet, even the bedchamber affords us no asylum. There is no sanctuary from the dun. Death? That may be, yet we know not. We should hesitate the accepting a gravegratis, even were it a mausoleum, near the "remains" of a dun. Nobody can answer for the force of habit.
The ancients had very correct notions on this subject. There was a dun at the very entrance to their "shades below;" how could any place of torment be complete without one? There was Charon, with his skinny hand outstretched for a penny. It was not much, certainly; but it is a great deal more than dutiful sons, affectionate nephews, and disconsolate heirs, can now afford to bestow upon the illustrious departed. It is a good thing for the modern dead that all this about Styx and the ferry-boat is held to be fiction.
Detestable as is the dun, there is something heroic about him. It has been matter of dispute among learned commentators whether the assertion respecting this right valourous Thomas Thumb should be construed literally or paraphrastically, "He made the giants first, and then he killed them." There can be no doubt about the deeds of the dun. He actually does "make his giants first, and then he kills them." Without him there would be no debtors to destroy. If debt be a crime, the creditor is more thanparticeps criminis. He is the originator of, and tempter to, the deed. Justice should really punish the dun for drawing his victim into debt. We deny not that lending money is glorious among the virtues: nobody can appreciate that more than ourselves. But topunish a poor devil for affording a fellow-creature an opportunity for exercising the most exalted virtue, ranks next in heinousness to the crime of that man who may degrade himself into adun.
But what is a dun? the ignorant affluent may exclaim. It is this that the abomination is: the quintessence of vexation; a single plague, a plaguey deal worse than the whole ten that plagued Egypt. He is a substantial ghost, perpetually haunting a man, and sucking away his substance more eagerly than ever James the First imagined that a hobgoblin sucked a witch. He is far more ravenous than "the horseleech, who always cries 'Give, give!'" In his voice he imitates the cuckoo, having but one note, provided that he gets hold of yours—"Pay, pay! money, money!" He is a troublesome fiend, not to be laid with Protestant prayers, or Papistical holy water, and yet can be exorcised merely by a check.
The dun hath an extraordinary sympathy with a knocker. For him, a knocker cannot be placed too high or too low, nor will his ready hand find it too heavy or too light. It is the instrument on which he most loveth to play. He can therewith simulate every man's tune; at the unobtrusive "one modest tap" of the poor cousin, the quaker-like simplicity of the postman'sappel, the hearty rally of the intimate friend, and the prolonged thunder of the crimson-thighed lacquey, he is equally expert. The hypocrite can achieve every knock that has been or can be knocked in this knocking world. And yet, he can hardly deceive the poor tremulous debtor. Hence, since the times have become bad, and John Doe and Richard Roe have stalked through our streets triumphant, gentlemen have left off wearing certain appendages to the backs of their heads, as being too typical and too much reminiscent of "iteration" of the pertinacious foe.
What gentleman would like to have bobbing at his back an excrescence, which, if he walked slowly, would remind him of his tailor's—if fast, of his bootmaker's summons?
It would be planting an imp of importunity on his shoulders, which, like Sinbad's old man, he might shake, but could not shake off.
Many are the doubts of the dun's pedigree. Some hold that he descends from one of Nimrod's illegitimates, for he is a mighty hunter by profession, as well as a tyrant by nature. A blood-hound he is, of a notable quick scent to discover his game, with a deep mouth to pursue it. His presumption is boundless; for he pretends to ape creation by attempting to squeeze something out of nothing, and raise cash from a vacuum.
Etymologists have laid it down that he is called a dun, by antiphrasis, because he never will have done until he has undone you; and yet nothing is more natural and pleasant than the doing of a dun, nothing worse than his doings. Whether he repair to church or the meeting-house, he cannot be accounted a true Christian, as he never either gives or forgives, but merely lends in order to show that he has no forgiveness. He is the most persevering of all bores and the most penetrable; nothingcan divert him from his persecutions; and 'tis very lucky for him that doors cannot maintain actions of assault and battery.
The new penny postage is a fortunate measure for the afflicted victim of the dun. If he live so far off that he cannot be dunned three times a day, he will be punished to the amount only of what the good Samaritan gave to the wounded wayfarer; but this punishment will be daily, punctual as the day itself.
He is, this dun, the acutest mental torturer that exists, and the greatest tempter to all manner of wickedness. Near, he almost annihilates you; remote, he torments you, racking your very soul. He is to the poor creditor what the guilty conscience is to the murderer; he can neither eat, drink, sleep, or walk in quiet for him. Indeed, the tenter-hooks upon which he puts a man, are enough to warp the best nature in the world. With truth he will not be satisfied, and you are forced to rid yourself of him by a lie. At length his importunity provokes you to swear at him, and then he hardens you into a determination never to pay him at all. He thus enacts the gentleman-usher to the black gentleman, leading you on from lying to swearing, from swearing to dishonesty, till at last you pave your way to a "certain place,"—more certainly than ever you will pave it with your good intentions. It would not be difficult to prove that your thorough-paced dun was the father of the seven deadly sins.
Let us single out a specimen from a flock of dun-coloured duns: for the true dun affecteth not brilliancy of colours. He has marked his quarry. He pursues it cautiously, stealthily. He must be upon it, before he takes the alarm. Whilst he approaches, he puckers up his face into all the foldings of hypocrisy. He has gilded his countenance with a villanous smile. He is on tiptoe. He touches his unsuspecting victim on the shoulder—that victim was in the act of a triumphant pass with an admiring companion. He turns round!—where is the smile of exultation? He looks more affrighted than the flying hare, more ghastly than a tombstone by moonlight. And yet he suffers his clammy hand to be grasped in the horny palm of the dun—to be shaken: the contact is loathsome—he must bear it, for he owes the man money.
"My little account——"
Then comes the shuffling, the lying, the fawning—if the wretch be, as is generally the case, mean-spirited. One dun would go far to tame even Hercules—but two, with the assistance of a rascally sheriff's-officer, would subdue a whole army of heroes and demi-gods. It is a good thing for the wild beasts that they know not the use of money. How easy would have been Van Amburgh's task, could he but have lent his most violent lions some loose cash, and have discounted the note of paw of his most intractable tigers, they being amenable to mesne process! But that happy consummation for the duns is still far distant. It will be long before they induce carrion-crows to give an I O U, instead of a C A W; or that they will persuade eagles to indorse bills, excepting in the backs of their prey; so the dunning fraternity must be content with torturing their fellow-sharers in humanity, until men grow so wise as to discover that debt is nothing more than a moral obligation, and that it is both wickedness and folly to punish it as a crime.
Translated by Ali.
"'Tis a long 'Lane' that has noturning."
Old Prov.
Know, O Prince of the Faithful! that my name is Jöhn Thómkeens, and my father was Sháh Bandar of the merchants of Löhndöhn, and be resided in the street which is called Oksphut; and he had great riches, and possessed many stuffs, and jewels, and minerals, and female slaves, and black male slaves, and memlooks; and a great desire came upon me to travel, and divert myself with viewing the cities of the world; then said I to my father, "By Allah! O my father, I conjure thee that thou permittest me to travel from thee awhile, that I may divert myself with viewing the cities of the world!" But my father was not willing to hinder me from doing this, although it grieved him to part with me, so when I conjured him to let me go, he hung his head awhile towards the earth, for his bosom was contracted, and after a little space he raised his head, and said to me, "O, my son! great grief has afflicted me, by reason of this thy request; but as thou art eager to travel, may no harm befall thee; be careful of thy substance, and associate not with those with whom there is no avail to associate;" and he ceased not to advise me of that which it was right for me to do, until the hour of prayer; and after that he ordered his memlooks, and they prepared for me a mule, and put on its saddle and equipments. So my father advanced to embrace me, for the purpose of bidding me farewell, and he embraced me and wept until he fainted, and when he recovered he recited these verses:—
"The man from the bad coin parteth without sorrow[13];But the bosom of the father is contracted with the loss of his child.The lamb was eager to leave the fold, despising the words of his mother;But when the wolf appeared, he longed for the safety of the fold."
"The man from the bad coin parteth without sorrow[13];But the bosom of the father is contracted with the loss of his child.The lamb was eager to leave the fold, despising the words of his mother;But when the wolf appeared, he longed for the safety of the fold."
"The man from the bad coin parteth without sorrow[13];But the bosom of the father is contracted with the loss of his child.The lamb was eager to leave the fold, despising the words of his mother;But when the wolf appeared, he longed for the safety of the fold."
"The man from the bad coin parteth without sorrow[13];
But the bosom of the father is contracted with the loss of his child.
The lamb was eager to leave the fold, despising the words of his mother;
But when the wolf appeared, he longed for the safety of the fold."
Then I bade him farewell, and recited these verses:—
"Youthful strength despises not labour;And strange things meet the eye of him that travels[14]."
"Youthful strength despises not labour;And strange things meet the eye of him that travels[14]."
"Youthful strength despises not labour;And strange things meet the eye of him that travels[14]."
"Youthful strength despises not labour;
And strange things meet the eye of him that travels[14]."
I then pursued my journey, not knowing whither I was going, and I proceeded until I arrived upon the banks of a great river; and as I looked, lo! a vast bridge was before me, and I considered my case, and ascended upon the bridge, and a man met me, and said unto me, "By Allah! O, my son, thou canst not pass here, until thou hast paid unto me a penny!" So I gave him a penny, and proceeded; and the name of that river was Thámez, and the name of that bridge Vockshál.
And I proceeded a little space, and I looked, and lo! a great palace appeared before me, the doors of which were of the iron of China, and the door-posts of brass, and the walls thereof were inlaid with jewels and all kinds of precious stones, such as I had never before beheld. The gates of the palace were open, so I descended from my mule and entered, and lo! I found therein a spacious hall the like of which my eyes had never before beheld; and within this great hall were many ghools, and lo! they were busied about some great work; and I approached and beheld, and lo! they were stamping with the signet of Sulezmán, the son of Dáood (on both of whom be peace); and they were stamping the signets with astounding quickness; and when I beheld them, I said within myself, "God is great! What he willeth, that cometh to pass; and what he willeth not, doth not happen."
After that I proceeded; and as I was walking from the palace, my foot struck upon some hard substance, and I looked down, and lo! it was a bottle of brass, filled with something, and having its mouth closed with a stopper of lead, bearing the impression of the seal of Sulezmán, the son of Dáood (on both of whom be peace); then said I to myself, "By Allah, the great, the wonderful! I must open this and see what is in it." So I took out a knife, and picked at the lead until I had extracted it from the bottle of brass; and when I had so done, lo! a great quantity of smoke came forth, and I heard a sound as if of a strong rushing wind; and while I was looking, behold the smoke collected together, and shook, and it became an Efreet, horrible in form. His head was like a dome, and from it there rose a huge horn, like a great column; his hair was as kohl; his eyes flashed forth fire, and from his mouth issued flames; and when I beheld him the muscles of my sides quivered, my teeth were locked together, my spittle dried up, and I saw not my way.
Then the Efreet, when he saw me, cried out and said to me, "Fear not, O thou of the sons of Adam! for as thou hast released me from confinement, there shall no harm befall thee; and lo! I will now convey thee where thou mayest have all thy wants, and fulfil all thy desires; but keep thou in thine hand the impression of the signet of Sulezmán, the son of Dáood (on both of whom be peace), for thou wilt have need of it in thy way." Then said I unto him, "Whither is it that thou wilt lead me, O! Márid?" And he said, "I will lead thee to a place such as thou hast never before beheld, and show unto thee sights such as thou hast never before looked on. But fear not; for I swear to thee, by Allah, the good, the powerful! that no harm shall befall thee."
Then the Efreet took me up in his arms—I suffering him all this time, by reason of the extremity of my fear, which deprived me of all power over my limbs—and seated me on his shoulders, and flew away with me through the air. And he ceased not to fly until we came to a huge mountain, whose top reached unto the Seventh Heaven; and in the side of this mountain there was a great cavern, and I said unto the Efreet, "O, Efreet! enter not with me into this cavern; for verily I am in great fear, and my heart is contracted within my bosom." But the Márid answered, "Sit thou firm, O, man! and keep thou the impression of the signet in thine hand; and fear not." So I held firm the impression of the signet that was in my hand, and clung to the Efreet, and we entered together into the cavern. And I heard from within the cavern a great noise as if of the panting of many horses, and of ten thousand chariot-wheels, and a smell such as I had never before smelt the like of; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and the muscles of my sides quivered, by reason of my fear, and I could not move by reason of my dread; and presently a great scream arose, shrill and dreadful, and lo! many ghools and márids surrounded us, making hideous faces, and grinning horribly.
And I clung to the Efreet who was carrying me, and he said to me, "Fear not; for we shall soon have passed through this cavern, and the ghools and the márids cannot approach thee; but thou must first behold and be presented to the chief of the Ján, who will inform you of all you have to do for the attainment of your wishes." Then said I, "I hear and obey;" and after that we proceeded. And again I heard that great scream, and the ghools, and the márids, and the jënnezeh, came around us; and the noise of the panting and the snorting of horses increased, and the sounds of the chariots became louder, and the whole air was filled with them; and I quaked with fear, and put my fingers into my ears, for I could not bear this great noise. And I looked, and lo! a great ján stood before us, whose head reached the utmost roof of the cavern, and whose arms were like winnowing forks, and his legs like masts; and when we stopped before him, the Efreet said to me, "Do obeisance, O thou of the sons of Adam!" And I kissed the ground before him, and humbled myself, and kissed his feet; after which I waited, and presently he opened his mouth, and cried unto me, saying,——"Station!"
And I found that, whilst sitting in the railway carriage, reading Lane's "Arabian Nights," I had converted myself into—
ONE OF THE"Sleepers"ON THE RAILWAY.
BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.
"Going out" is sometimes a matter of exceeding difficulty; the phrase should rather be "getting out."
Morning is the time for the trial to which we allude. You have an appointment of very considerable importance, and itmustbe kept; or you have made up your mind, moved by the seductive serenity of the day, to take an easy stroll, and clear off an arrear of pleasant calls—youmustgo. The sunny look-out is exhilarating after a week's wind and rain, which has held you prisoner in your chambers, without so much as wafting or washing a single visitor to your door. You are tired of the house, and long for the fresh calm air, like a schoolboy for a whole holiday, or a usurer for cent, per cent. Every thing is looking quite gay, like a Christmas fire to one who has just come out of a Christmas fog. The people go by with smiling faces, and in smart attire; you consequently take a little more pains than usual with your dress,—rejecting this waistcoat as too quakerish, and selecting your liveliest pair of gloves to match—when, just as your personal equipments are all but complete, not quite,—"rat-tat-tat—tat-tat—tat!" there is a knock at the door.
Well, a knock at the door is no very astounding occurrence; but in this knock there is something startling, something ominous, something unwelcome. Nobody has knocked (nobody in the shape of a visitor) for some days, and it has an unusual sound. Had it suddenly broke in upon you while you were shaving, its effect might have been felt acutely; but you were just fixing the last shirt-stud, and a slight crumple is the sole consequence. You ring the bell hastily, rather anxious. "Tim," you cry softly, admonishing the sleepy little sinecurist that attends to the door; "Tim, there's a knock. Now, pray be cautious; I'm going out immediately; and can't see any stranger; you know whom I'm alwaysat home to—don't let anybody in that you don't know well—mind!" You listen, with your hands uncomfortably stretched towards the back of your neck, in the suspended action of fastening your stock; and distinctly catch Tim's responsive "Yes, sir!" So, then, youareat home to somebody; and Tim immediately announces Mr. Bluff, your oldest and best friend, who is ever welcome, and to whom you are at home at all hours;—Yes,—only—only you are just now going out! But, never mind. Will he wait five minutes? You won't be longer; and Tim hurries off to him with theTimes.
Two minutes more bring you almost to the completion of your toilet, and one arm has already half insinuated itself into the—ay, in the hurry it happens, of course, to be the wrong sleeve of the waistcoat, when alarm the second sounds; there's another knock. "Tim, mind! pray mind! I'm going out. I can't see a soul—unless it's somebody that Imustbe at home to. You'll see who it is."
Tim returns with a card,—"Mr. Joseph Primly." "Primly, Primly! oh!—a—yes—that man, yes,—you didn't say I was at home?" Tim hadnotsaid you were at home, he had said that he didn't know whether you would be at home to him or not, and that he would go and see! "Stupid boy! Well, but this Primly—what canhewant? I never spoke to him but once, I think—must see him, I suppose, as he's a stranger. Give him theChronicle, and say, I'm coming down in one minute—just going out."
But before youcan"come down," before you can quite coax on the last article of attire, the knocker is again raised, and rap the third resounds. Confusion thrice confounded! "Now, Tim, whoisthat? I can't be at home to anybody—you'll know whether Icanbe denied—I'm going out, Tim. Where are my gloves?—Pray mind!" And, with an anxious face you await the third announcement. "Mr. Puggins Cribb." Thisisprovoking. You can't be out tohim. He is your quarrelsome friend, to whom you have just been reconciled; the irascible brother of your soul, who suspects all your motives, makes no allowances for you, and charges you with the perpetual ill-usage which he himself inflicts. Should you be denied tohim, he will be sure to suspect you are at home; and should he find you really are, he will make the grand tour of the metropolis in three days, visiting everybody who knows you, and abusing you everywhere. "Yes, Tim, very right—I must be at home to him. But gracious goodness, what's the time? I'm just going out!"
Misfortunes never come single, and visitors seldom come in twos and threes. Before you are fairly at the bottom of the stairs, a fourth arrival is in all probability announced. What can you do? There was an excellent plan, first adopted by Sheridan, of getting rid of untimely visitors; but then his visitors were creditors. They came early, at seven in the morning, to prevent the possibility of being tricked with the usual answer, "Not at home," and of course they would not go away. One was shut up in one room, and another in another. By twelve o'clock in the day there was a vast accumulation; and at that hour, the master of the house would say, "James, are all the doors shut?" "All shut, sir.""Very well, then open thestreet-door softly;" and Sheridan walked quietly out between the double line of closed doors.
But this plan, though a thought of it darts across your mind, you cannot put in operation against friends. You therefore face them, grasping this one vigorously by the hand; then begging to be excused for a single moment, while, with a ceremonious bow, you just touch the fingertips of another to whom you have scarcely the honour to be known,—or nod familiarly to a third in the farther corner, who, by the way, is testifying to the intimacy of his friendship, by turning over your favourite set of prints with the brisk manner of an accountant tumbling over a heap of receipts and bills of parcels.
For each you have the same welcome, modified only by the tone and action that accompany it! "You are so happy that they arrived in time, for you werejust going out, having a very important engagement;" and, curious to remark, each has the same reply to your hospitable intimation; but it is delightfully varied in voice and manner,—"Ishall not detain you—don't letmekeep you a moment." But each does;—one because he's an acquaintance only, and exacts formality; and another because he's a devoted friend, and thinks it necessary to deprecate formality fifty times over, with—"Nonsense, never mindme—come, no ceremony—I'm going." In fact, those detain you longest with whom you can use most freedom; and though you may bow out a formal visitor in twenty minutes, it takes you half an hour to push out a friendly one.
There are so many reasons why you must be at home to people; to a first, because he's a stranger, to a second because he's a relation; to one, because he was married the other day, and you must wish him joy; to another, because his play failed last night, and you must condole with him; to this, because he doesn't come for money; to that, because he does—which is the oddest of all.
After a succession of pauses, hints and gentle embarrassments, three out of the four yield one by one to the pressure of appearances, and as you are evidently "going out," allow you to get out by taking their departure. Only onewilllinger to say a few words that amount to nonsense, on business that amounts to nothing, occupying professedly a minute, but in fact fifteen; when, just as he is taking his fifth start, and going in reality, crash comes the knocker once more; and that man of all your acquaintances, who never stops to ask whether you are at home or not, but stalks forward, in "at the portal," as the ghost of Hamlet senior stalks out of it, now dashes rather than drops in, delighted to catch you before you make your exit, and modestly claiming just half an hour of your idle morning—not an instant more.
"My dear fellow, I'm going out—a particular engagement—been kept in all the morning;—will Friday do? Or shall I see you at the club?" No—nothing will do but listening; and your pertinacious and not-to-be-denied detainer has just settled himself in the easiest chair, and commenced his story with, "Now, come sit down, and I'll tell you all about it."—when the knocker once more summons the half-tired Tim, who forthwith enters with a proclamation in an under-tone, "Mr. Drone, sir, comes by appointment."
Luckily this occasions no difficulty. Mr. Drone was appointed to come at eleven, and it is now half-past two; he is therefore easily dismissed; besides, appointments, in these cases, are never troublesome; you can always be very sorry at a minute's notice, be particularly engaged very unexpectedly, and appoint another hour and another day with perfect convenience.—No, it is the dropper-in who blocks up your way—it is the idler who interrupts you in your expedition;—the man of business who comes by appointment may generally be despatched without ceremony or delay!
You return again to your guest with a disconsolate air, though with a desperate determination to look attentive; butsityou will not; for while you keep poking the fire almost out, you seem to be preparing for your exit; and while you saunter listlessly about the room, you seem to be going; till at last you are brought to a stand-still, and compelled to submit to another bit of delay, by your visitor (who dined out, and staid late somewhere the night before) asking for a glass of sherry, and some soda-water! You hurry to the bell with the happiest grace in the world; you are ashamed of not offering something of the sort before; you beg pardon—really; and taking a seat with a smiling countenance and a heavy heart, bid a mournful adieu to every thought about your hat for the next quarter of an hour at least.
At last he does go, and you feel that although the cream of the morning is skimmed off, it may still be worth while to take quietly what remains; you may visit the scene of your broken engagement, though too late; you may enjoy a diminished stroll, although the flower of the day is cropped; and in this spirit, cane in hand, and hat actually on head, you advance to the street-door delivered from every visitor. It is opened—you stand in the very door-way;—and then—then, in that moment of liberty, when you seemed free as air—you behold close to the step, and right in your path, another unconscionable acquaintance who never takes a denial, but always seizes a button instead! To retreat is impossible, to pass him unseen is equally so. Your hope of going out dies of old age and ill-usage within you—you can'tgetout. Your start of vexation and dismay is involuntary, and not to be concealed; but what cares he for your disappointment, so that he catches you! "Well, now Iamlucky," he exclaims, "one moment more, and, presto! I had missed you for the morning! Come, 'going out,' is not 'gone,' anyhow—so I must just trouble you to turn back—I shan't keep you long!"
Of course, you explain, and protest, and are very civil and very sorry; but all this is idle. A visitor of the class to which the new-comer belongs knows very well the advantage he has over you. He smiles triumphantly, in a superb consciousness of your helpless and destitute condition. He is aware that youcan'tshut the door in his face; that if he persists in going in, under the pretence of a moment's interview, youmustgo in with him; that you are bound to be glad to see him, or stand exposed to the imputation of rudeness and inhospitality; that he may let you off if he likes, but that you cannot decently bolt without his consent; in short, that you are at his mercy—and this conviction teaches him to have no mercy upon you.
The result! who can ask it? You turn back, take off your hat, enter the nearest room, and without the slightest movement of hospitality beyond that—without the slightest hint to the remorseless being who has followed you in that there is such a thing as a chair in the room, you rest the fingers of one hand on the table, and with your hat held resolutely in the other, await your tyrant's pleasure.He!—powers of impudence in the garb of intimacy, where will ye find a limit? He, the most domesticated of animals, at once finds himself in his own house. He, when his foremost foot has once gained admittance into your sanctum, feels perfectly and entirely at home. He flings himself into a chair, and after a little parley about the weather (he acknowledges that it has been the loveliest morning of the season), and the glorious effects of exercise (he confesses that nothing on earth prevents him from taking his diurnal round in the bracing period of the day), launches boldly into a dissertation on some subject of immediate interest to himself—connected perhaps with municipal institutions, and the risk he incurs if he should decline to serve the office of sheriff; this suggests to him a recollection of the sheriff, his grandfather, whose history he relates at some length, followed by a narrative of his father's remarkable exploits in the whale-trade, and of his own life down to the period of his second marriage.
During all this time you have stood, too tired to interrupt—too polite at least to interrupt to any purpose—until at last, reminded by the shade creeping over the apartment that the beauty of the day is vanishing, that your meditated excursion is all but hopeless, and that you have been for the space of a brilliant summer's morning a prisoner in your own house, you savagely endeavour to bring him to the point. Whatdoeshe want with you? Nothing; nothing of course, except a little rest after the pleasant saunter he has had—and a little refreshment also;—for when he looks at his watch (as you fondly suppose with the intention of going) he discovers that it happens to be his hour for "a snack." In short, this inveterate and uncompromising customer forciblyhas the tray up; you haven't strength or courage to misunderstand his wishes, feeling rather faint yourself, sick of hope deferred, and inclining to potted beef. You place your hat and stick, both of which you have all this time held, upon the table; you draw off one glove; you fall-to with a famished fiend who has walked twice round the Park in the bracing air; and another hour is gone.
So at length is he! And now, even now the promised stroll may be seized—the coast is clear—you feel "like a giant refreshed," and after all, you cannot help owning, that it's a horribly vulgar thing to be seen strolling about before four o'clock in the day. You remember what the delicate philosopher said about the world not being properly aired before three; and bless your stars that what you have lost in health you have gained in reputation. On go your gloves once more, and—rap goes the knocker! It seems miraculous. All society is but one spiteful conspiracy against you. You forget that the same fine morning which quickened life in you kindled the fire of motion in others. No matter; the hour has at length arrived for "not at home to any human being. No, Tim, not to a living soul!" Unluckily, it is the fate of this most inflexibledecree to be countermanded; there is one exception to the rule of not at home to anybody. "If the surveyor calls about the repairs"—ay, and itisthe surveyor. Well, the roof, and the cracked wall, must at once be looked to; however, that will not occupy ten minutes, and to the needful business you heroically devote yourself. Half-an-hour flies, and then you are finally released; but, unhappily, just at that moment the man brings home your two new coats; you must glance at one, for you may wear it at dinner. And then crawls up to the door that dilatory fellow whose tidings about the books you have been waiting for—yes, at least for a fortnight; and while discussing with him a particular achievement in binding on which you have set your heart, a letter arrives—a letter marked "important and immediate," though of no earthly consequence, and anything but pressing; still it must be answered, and accordingly the hat is once more taken off, the gloves are petulantly flung down, the cane is tossed anywhere, and—
Rat-tat-tat, &c. resound once more through the rooms; and following quick as though he were the visible echo of a single rap, Cool Sam comes in. He had found Tim at the open door chatting with the messenger in waiting. Cool Sam! Now own frankly that there is small chance of your escape on this side the dinner-hour—nay, there is none at all. An engagement you may have, a determination you may have formed; but do you for a single instant seriously expect to fulfil the one, or hold to the other? Then you are a fool. We prophesy at once, thatyou won't get out to-day. A man may be always going and going, and yet never be gone. You are Sam's till dinner-time, you are Sam's then, and you are Sam's afterwards. Till bed-time (and he himself fixes that hour) you are his. Mark our words if you are not. True, you tell him you have to write a letter. "Write away, boy," he responds, "I can wait." You warn him that the moment this feat is accomplished, you must sally forth on urgent and especial business. "All right," he rejoins, "I'll jump into a cab with you, and we'll come back and dine. I came on purpose."
A glance tells you, if your ears did not, that your guest has settled the thing. His looks, his tone, his bearing, are in exquisite agreement; for a quiet conviction, that whathehas made up his mind tomusttake place, there never was anything like it. You write a word or two, and in agitation blot; another line, and then an erasure again.Doeshe mean tostop! Your perplexity increases. No, this smudge of a note will never do; you take another sheet and recommence your epistle. "Take your time, boy, take your time; we shan't dine till seven I suppose." Your eye wanders for an instant, and you discover that there is butonehat in the room, and that the one is your own. His is hanging up with his umbrella; he had disposed of both, like a man who means to stay, before he entered the apartment.
To struggle with Cool Sam is in vain, to attempt it absurd. To cry like the starling, "I can't get out," doesn't open the door of your cage. Instead of complaining, you soon feel grateful to him for his great consideration in allowing you to finish that letter. Instead of biting your lips through and through, you laugh over your good luck in being permitted to complete the work he had interrupted. But beyond that you have nowill of your own.Out!You might as well attempt to go out without your shadow. You may take a few turns at sunset, attended by your Mephistophiles; but before you go you must issue orders for what he calls "a light dinner with a few extras" at seven. You may mourn your day lost, if you will, but you must lose your evening nevertheless; and when once more alone at past midnight, you drop off to sleep, making to yourself many delicious vows of reform; the foremost of which is, that you will be up in good time in the morning,AND GET OUT.