The second day arrived, and found me in the same state of mind. The amazement which succeeded the discovery of my metamorphosis had indeed given way, and I could look at my reflection in the mirror with less pain than at first; but my feelings were still as imbittered as ever, and I ardently longed for death to put an end to such intolerable misery. While brooding over these matters, the door of the study opened. Thinking it was one of the domestics, I paid no attention to it; but in a moment I heard a sneeze, which made my flesh creep, and in another the little man with the snuff-coloured surtout, the scarlet waistcoat, and the wooden leg, made his appearance. Since I last saw this old fellow, I had conceived a mortal hatred against him. I thought, althoughthe idea was wild enough, that he had some hand in my Metempsychosis—and the affair of the scales and the marble busts, together with his Pythagorean opinions, his vast learning, his geomancy and astrology, gave to my idea a strong confirmation. On the present occasion his politeness was excessive; he bowed almost to the ground, made fifty apologies for intruding, and inquired with the mostoutréaffectation of tenderness into the state of my health. He then seated himself opposite to me, laid his cocked-hat upon the table, took a pinch of snuff, and commenced his intolerable system of sneezing. I was never less in a humour to relish anything like foppery; so throwing myself back upon the chair, putting on as commanding a look as I could, and looking at him fiercely, I said, “So, sir, you are back again; I suppose you know me?”
“Know you, my dear friend—eh—yes, I derived great pleasure in being made acquainted with you the day before yesterday. You are Mr Frederick Stadt—that is to say, you are Mr Albert Wolstang.”—(A sneeze).
“Then you know that I am not myself?”
“My dear friend,” replied he, with a smile, “I hinted as much the last time I saw you.”
“And pray how did you ascertain that?”
“You don’t ask me such a question,” said he, with an air of surprise; “I knew it by your own signature.”
“My own signature! I know not what you mean by my signature.”
“Eh—eh—the signature, you know—that is, the compact you made with Wolstang.”
“I know of no compact,” cried I, in a passion; “nor did I ever make one with any man living. I defy either you or Wolstang to produce any such instrument.”
“I believe it is in my pocket at this very moment. Look here, my dear sir.” And he brought out a small manuscript book, and, turning up the leaves, pointed to view the following words:—
“I hereby, in consideration of the sum of fifty gilders, give to Albert Wolstang the use of my body, at any time he is disposed, provided that, for the time being, he gives me the use of his.—Frederick Stadt.”
“I hereby, in consideration of the sum of fifty gilders, give to Albert Wolstang the use of my body, at any time he is disposed, provided that, for the time being, he gives me the use of his.—Frederick Stadt.”
“It is a damnable forgery,” said I, starting up with fury; “adeceptio visûs, at least—something like your scales.”
“What about the scales, my dear friend?” said he, with a whining voice.
“Go,” replied I, “into that room, and you shall see.” He accordingly went, but returned immediately, saying that he observed nothing remarkable. “No!” said I, rising up; “then I shall take the trouble to point it out to you.” My astonishment may be better conceived than described, when, instead of the small apothecary’s scales, I beheldthe immense ones in which I had been weighed two days before. I felt confounded and mortified, and returned with him to the study, muttering something aboutdeceptio visûs, necromancy, and demonology.
“Well,” continued I, after recovering a little, “what about this compact—when and where was it made?”
“It was made some three days ago, at the Devil’s Hoof Tavern. You may remember that you and Wolstang were drinking there at that time.”
“Yes, I remember it well enough; but I understood that I was putting my name to a receipt for fifty gilders which he paid me. I never read the writing; I merely subscribed it.”
“That was a pity; for really you have bound yourself as firmly as signing with a person’s own blood can do.”
“Did I sign it with my own blood?” said I, alarmed.
“Exactly so. You may recollect of cutting your finger. I had the pleasure of stanching the blood, a sufficient quantity of which was nevertheless collected to write this document.”
“Then you were present,” said I;—“yes, I have a recollection of your face, now that you mention the circumstance. You were then dressed as a clergyman, if I mistake not.”
“Precisely.”
“And what,” continued I, “are the conditions on which I hold this strange existence? Suppose Wolstang dies?”
“Then you keep his body till the natural period of your own death.”
“Suppose I die?”
“He then keeps your body.”
“Then, if he dies, my body is buried and goes to decay, while I am clogged up in his body, till relieved from it by death?”
“Precisely.”
This announcement struck me with terror. “And shall I never,” said I, weeping, “see my dear body again?”
“You may see it, if ever Wolstang comes in your way.”
“But shall I never possess it—shall I never be myself again?”
“Not unless he pleases.”
“The villain!” exclaimed I, in an agony of grief; “I am then undone—the tool of a heartless unprincipled miscreant. Is my case hopeless?”
“O no, my dear friend,” said the little man, “not at all hopeless; there is nothing simpler than the remedy. Only put your name here, and you will be yourself in a minute. The fellow will then lose all power over your body.” I seized with avidity the pen which he presented to me, dipped it in a vial of red ink, and was proceeding to do as hedirected, when the writing above caught my eye. It ran thus:—
“I hereby engage, after my natural decease, to give over my soul to the owner of this book.”
“I hereby engage, after my natural decease, to give over my soul to the owner of this book.”
“Zounds!” said I, “what is this?”
“It is nothing at all; just a form—a mere form of business, of no intrinsic meaning. If you would just write your name—it is very easily done.”
“Has any other person signed such deeds?” demanded I.
“Many a one. Here, for example, is Wolstang’s name attached to a similar contract. It is, in fact, by virtue of this that he has the power over your body. The deed which you have signed would have availed him nothing without this one.”
“Then,” said I, “if you relieve me from my present condition, you break faith with Wolstang, seeing that you deprive him of his stipulated power.”
“I deprive him of his power over you, but I give him in return a similar power over some other person, which will answer his purpose equally well. I think you had better sign.”
“No, you old villain!” said I, wrought up to a pitch of fury at the infernal plan which I saw he was meditating, “I will never sign your damnable compact. I have religion enough to know the value of my soul, and sufficient philosophy to bear with any wretchedness I may endure under my presentform. You may play the Devil if you choose, but you shall never get me to act the part of Dr Faustus.” I pronounced these words in a voice of thunder; but so far from being angry, he used every endeavour to soothe me—made a thousand apologies for having been the unwilling cause of such a commotion; then, snatching up his hat and making a profound bow, he left the room.
A glow of conscious virtue passed over me on his departure. I found that I had resisted evil, and gloried in the thought; but this triumphant feeling gave way to one of revenge against the author of my calamity. After reflecting for a short time, it occurred to me that the best way to punish him would be to commit some outrage which might stamp him with infamy, and render him miserable if ever he thought of resuming his body. “I shall at least have him expelled from the university. This shall be the first blow directed against his comfort. He will in time become weary of my body, and will find very little satisfaction in his own when he takes it into his head to make an exchange.” Full of these ideas, I entered the College court, where the first object that met my eyes was Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead coming towards me—thebaton in his hand, the spectacles on his carbuncle nose, and his head thrown back as he strutted alongà la militaire. Without a moment’s hesitation, I advanced up to him and knocked off his cocked-hat; nor did I stop to see how he looked at this extraordinary salutation, but walked deliberately on. I heard him distinctly call after me, “You shall hear of this, sir, by to-morrow.” “When you please, doctor,” was my answer. “Now, Master Wolstang,” said I to myself, “I have driven you from Gottingen College, and wish you much joy of your expulsion.” Such were my thoughts, and the morrow verified them; for, a meeting of the Senatus Academicus being summoned by the provost, that learned body declared Albert Wolstang unfit to be a member of the university, and he was accordingly placarded upon the gate and expelled,in terrorem.
This circumstance being just what I wanted, gave me no uneasiness; but a few days thereafter an event arose out of it, which subjected me to much inconvenience. Having unwittingly strolled into the College, I was rudely collared by one of the officers, which so enraged me that I knocked down the fellow with a blow of my fist. For this I was apprehended the same day by three gendarmes, and carried before the Syndic, who condemned me to suffer two weeks’ close confinement, and to be fed on bread and water. This punishment, though perhaps not disproportioned to the offence, was, inmy estimation, horribly severe; and now, for the first time, did I feel regret for the absurdity of my conduct. I found that in endeavouring to punish Wolstang I was in truth only punishing myself, and that it was a matter of doubt whether he would ever submit to a corporeal change, seeing that my fortune was much more considerable than his own, and that he would come at it in the course of six months. This I had no doubt was the chief consideration which could have induced the fellow to bring about such a metamorphosis.
On getting out of prison I was the most miserable wretch on earth. The fierce desire of vengeance had formerly kept up my spirits; but this was now gone, and they sank to the lowest pitch. I found that I was spurned by those very persons who were before most anxious to cultivate my friendship. Barnabas and Louise had left me, resolving no longer to serve one who had undergone the punishment of a malefactor. In order to clear up matters, I frequently called at my own house to inquire if I myself was at home—for so was I obliged to speak of the miscreant who had possession of my body; but on every occasion I was answered in the negative. “I had gone out to see a friend in town;” “I had gone to the country;” “I was expected soon.” Never by any possibility could I get a sight of myself. All this convinced me that the case was hopeless, and that I must make the bestof my deplorable situation. Wolstang had evidently played my part much better than I did his, for he had an interest in doing so, and was (thanks to my simplicity) intimately acquainted with the state of my affairs. If anything could add to this irritation, it was to notice the improvements, or rather changes, which the fellow was making in my house. Everything was turned upside down. Many of the most valuable books in my library were brought to the hammer, and replaced by more modern works. Some antique MSS. found among the ruins of Pompeii, and on which I set a high value, were disposed of in the same manner; together with my porphyry snuff-box, my mother’s diamond ring, my illuminated missal, and Arabic autograph of the Koran. The money produced by these valuable relics was laid out in new-painting my study, and in fitting it up with Chinese mandarins, silken pagodas, and other pieces of Eastern trumpery.
In consequence of the peculiar opportunities which I enjoyed, I soon discovered that Wolstang, whom I had long thought rather highly of, was in reality a very bad character. Some persons of the worst description in Gottingen appeared to have been his associates. Times without number I was accosted as an acquaintance by gamblers, pickpockets, usurers, and prostitutes; and through their means I unravelled a train of imposture, profligacy, and dissipation, in which he had been long deeplyinvolved. I discovered that he had two mistresses in keeping; that he had seduced the daughters of several of the most respectable citizens, and was the father of no less than seven natural children, whom he had by those unfortunate women. I found out even worse than this—at least what I dreaded much more. This was a forgery to an immense amount, which he, in concert with another person, had committed on an extensive mercantile house. The accomplice, in a high state of trepidation, came to tell me that the whole was in a fair way of being blown, and that if we wished to save our necks, an instantaneous departure from the city was indispensable. Such a piece of intelligence threw me into great alarm. If I remained, my apprehension would be inevitable; and how would it be possible for me to persuade any one that I was not Wolstang? My conviction and execution must follow; and though I was now so regardless of life that I would gladly have been in my grave, yet there was something revolting in the idea of dying for a villain, merely because I could not show that I was not myself. These reflections had their due weight, and I resolved to leave Gottingen next day, and escape from the country altogether.
While meditating upon this scheme, I walked about three miles out of town for the purpose of maturing my plans, undisturbed by the noise and bustle of the streets. As I was going slowly along,I perceived a man walking about a furlong before me. His gait and dress arrested my attention particularly, and after a few glances I was convinced that he must be myself. The joy that pervaded my mind at this sight no language can describe; it was as a glimpse of heaven, and filled me with perfect ecstasy. Prudence, however, did not forsake me, and I resolved to steal slowly upon him, collar him, and demand an explanation. With this view I approached him, concealing myself as well as I could, and was so successful that I had actually got within ten yards of my prey without being discovered. At this instant, hearing footsteps, he turned round, looked alarmed, and took to his heels. I was after him in a moment, and the flight on one side, and pursuit on the other, were keenly contested. Thanks to Wolstang’s long legs, they were better than the short ones with which my antagonist was furnished, and I caught him by the collar as he was about to enter a wood. I grasped my body with Herculean grip, so terrified was I to lose it. “And now, you villain,” said I, as soon as I could recover breath, “tell me the meaning of this. Restore me my body, or by heaven I will——”
“You will do what?” asked he, with the most insolent coolness. This question was a dagger to my soul, for I knew that any punishment I inflicted upon him must be inflicted upon myself. I stoodmute for a few seconds, still holding him strongly in my grasp. At last throwing pity aside, by one vast effort I cried out, “I declare solemnly, Wolstang, that if you do not give me back my body I shall kill you on the spot.”
“Kill me on the spot!” replied he. “Do you mean to say that you will kill your own body?”
“I do say so,” was my answer. “I will rather destroy my dear body, than it should be disgraced by a scoundrel like you.”
“You are jesting,” said Wolstang, endeavouring to extricate himself.
“I shall show you the contrary,” rejoined I, giving him a violent blow on the nose, and another on the ribs. These strokes almost drew tears from my eyes; and when I saw my precious blood flowing, I certainly would have wept aloud, but for the terrible energy which rage had given me. The punishment had its evident effect, however, upon Wolstang, for he became agitated and alarmed, grew pale, and entreated me to let him go. “Never, you villain, till you return me back my body. Let me be myself again, and then you are free.”
“That is impossible,” said he, “and cannot be done without the agency of another person, who is absent; but I hereby solemnly swear, that five days after my death your body shall be your own.”
“If better terms cannot be had, I must take even these, but better I shall have; so prepare to partwith what is not your own. Take yourself back again, or I will beat you to mummy.” So saying, I laid on him most unmercifully—flattened his nose (or rather my own), and laid him sprawling on the earth without ceremony. While engaged in this business, I heard a sneeze, and looking to the quarter from which it proceeded, whom did I see emerging from the wood, but my old acquaintance with the snuff-coloured surtout, the scarlet waistcoat, and wooden leg. He saluted me as usual with a smile, and was beginning to regret the length of time which had elapsed since he last had the pleasure of seeing me, when I interrupted him. “Come,” said I, “this is not a time for ridiculous grimace; you know all about it, so help me to get my body back from this scoundrel here.”
“Certainly, my dear friend. Heaven forbid that you should be robbed of so unalienable a property. Wolstang, you must give it up. ’Tis the height of injustice to deprive him of it.”
“Shall I surrender it, then?” said Wolstang with a pitiable voice.
“By all means: let Mr Stadt have his body.”
In an instant I felt great pains shoot through me, and I lay on the ground, breathless and exhausted as if from some dreadful punishment. I also saw the little gentleman, and the tall stout figure of Wolstang, walk away arm in arm, and enter the wood. I was now myself again, but had at firstlittle cause of congratulation on the change, for I was one heap of bruises, while the unprincipled author of my calamities was moving off in his own body without a single scratch. If my frame was in bad case, however, my mind felt relieved beyond conception. A load was taken from it, and it felt the consciousness of being encased in that earthly tenement destined by Heaven for its habitation.
Alas, how transient is human happiness! Scarcely had an hour elapsed when a shudder came over me, precisely similar to that which occurred some weeks before on entering the College of Gottingen. I also perceived that I was stronger, taller, and more vigorous, and, as if by magic, totally free of pain. At this change a horrid sentiment came across me, and, on looking at my shadow in a well, I observed that I was no longer myself, but Wolstang; the diabolical miscreant had again effected a metempsychosis. Full of distracting ideas, I wandered about the fields till nightfall, when I returned into the city, and threw myself into bed, overpowered with fatigue and grief.
Next day I made a point of calling at my own house, and inquiring for myself. The servant said that I could not be seen, being confined to bed inconsequence of several bruises received in an encounter with two highwaymen. I called next day, and was still confined. On the third I did the same, but I had gone out with a friend. On the fourth I learned that I was dead.
It will readily be believed that this last intelligence was far from being unwelcome. On hearing of my own death I felt the most lively pleasure, anticipating the period when I would be myself again. That period, according to Wolstang’s solemn vow, would arrive in five days. Three of these I had spent in the house, carefully secluding myself from observation, when I heard a sneeze at the outside of the door. It opened, and in stepped the little man with the snuff-coloured surtout, the scarlet waistcoat, and the wooden leg. I had conceived a dislike approaching to horror at this old rascal, whom I naturally concluded to be at the bottom of these diabolical transformations; I, however, contained my wrath till I should hear what he had to say.
“I wish you much joy, my dear friend, that you are going to resume your own body. There is, however, one circumstance, which perhaps you have overlooked. Are you aware that you are to be buried to-day?”
“I never thought of it,” answered I calmly, “nor is it of any consequence, I presume. In two days I shall be myself again. I shall then leavethis body behind me, and take possession of my own.”
“And where will your own body be then?”
“In the grave,” said I with a shudder, as the thought came across me.
“Precisely so, and you will enjoy the pleasure of being buried alive; that, I suppose, you have not calculated upon.”
This remark struck me with blank dismay, and I fell back on my chair, uttering a deep groan. “Is there then no hope? cannot this dreadful doom be averted? must I be buried alive?”
“The case is rather a hard one, Mr Stadt, but perhaps not without a remedy.”
“Yes, there is a remedy,” cried I, starting up and striking my forehead. “I shall hie me to my own house, and entreat them to suspend the funeral for two days.”
“I saw the undertaker’s men enter the house, as I passed by, for the purpose, I should think, of screwing down the coffin-lid. The company also, I find, are beginning to collect, so that there is little hope of your succeeding. However,” continued he, taking a pinch of snuff, “you may try, and if you fail, I have a scheme in view which will perhaps suit your purpose. I shall await your return.”
In a moment my hat was on my head, in another I was out of the room, and in a third at my own house. What he had stated was substantially true.Some of the mourners had arrived, and the undertaker’s men were waiting below, till they should be summoned up-stairs to screw down the lid. Without an instant of delay I rushed to the chamber where my dear body was lying in its shell. Some of my friends were there, and I entreated them, in imploring accents, to stop for two days, and they would see that the corpse which lay before them would revive. “I am not dead,” cried I, forgetting myself,—“I assure you I am not dead.”
“Poor fellow! he has lost his senses,” said one.
“Ah, poor Wolstang,” observed another: “he ran deranged some weeks ago, and has been going about asking for himself ever since.”
“I assure you I am not dead,” said I, throwing myself upon my knees before my cousin, who was present.
“I know that, my good fellow,” was his answer, “but poor Stadt, you see, is gone for ever.”
“That is not Stadt—it is I—it is I—will you not believe me! I am Stadt—this is not me—I am not myself. For heaven’s sake suspend this funeral.” Such were my exclamations, but they produced no other effect but that of pity among the bystanders.
“Poor unfortunate fellow, he is crazed. Get a porter, and let him be taken home.”
This order, which was given by my cousin himself, stung me to madness, and, changing my piteous tones for those of fierce resistance, I swore that “Iwould not turn out for any man living. I would not be buried alive to please them.” To this nobody made any reply, but in the course of a minute four stout porters made their appearance, and I was forced from the house.
Returning to Wolstang’s lodgings, the old man was there in waiting, as he promised. “What,” said I with trepidation,—“what is the scheme you were to propose? Tell me, and avert the horrible doom which will await me, for they have refused to suspend the funeral.”
“My dear friend,” said he in the most soothing manner, “your case is far from being so bad as you apprehend. You have just to write your name in this book, and you will be yourself again in an instant. Instead of coming alive in the grave, you will be alive before the coffin-lid is put on. Only think of the difference of the two situations.”
“A confounded difference indeed,” thought I, taking hold of the pen. But at the very moment when I was going to write, I observed above the following words:—
“I hereby engage, after my natural decease, to give over my soul to the owner of this book.”
“I hereby engage, after my natural decease, to give over my soul to the owner of this book.”
“What!” said I, “this is the old compact; the one you wished me to sign before?”
“The same, my dear friend.”
“Then I’ll be d——d if I sign it.”
“Only think of the consequences,” said he.
“I will abide the consequences rather than sell my soul.”
“Buried alive, my dear sir—only think.”
“I will not sign the compact.”
“Only think of being buried alive,” continued he,—“stifled to death—pent up on all sides—earth above, earth below—no hope—no room to move in—suffocated, stupified, horror-struck—utter despair. Is not the idea dreadful? Only think what your feelings will be, when you come to life in that narrow charnel-house, and know your situation.”
I gave a shudder at this picture, which was drawn with horrible truth; but the energies of religion, and the hopes of futurity, rushed upon my soul, and sustained it in the dreadful trial. “Away, away,” said I, pushing him back. “I have made up my mind to the sacrifice, since better may not be. Whatever happens to my body, I am resolved not to risk my eternal soul for its sake.”
“Think again,” said he, “and make up your mind. If I leave you, your fate is irrevocable. Are you decided?”
“I am.”
“Only reflect once more. Consider how, by putting your name in this book, you will save yourself from a miserable death. Are you decided?”
“I am,” replied I firmly.
“Then, fool,” said he, while a frown perfectly unnatural to him corrugated his brow, and his eyesshot forth vivid glances of fire—“then, fool, I leave you to your fate. You shall never see me again.” So saying, he walked out of the room, dispensing with his usual bows and grimaces, and dashing the door fiercely after him, while I threw myself upon a couch in an agony of despair.
My doom was now sealed beyond all hope; for, going to the windows a few minutes thereafter, I beheld my own funeral, with my cousin at the head of the procession, acting as chief mourner. In a short time I saw the company returning from the interment. “All is over, then,” said I, wringing my hands at this deplorable sight. “I am the victim of some infernal agency, and must prepare for the dreadful sacrifice.” That night I was supremely wretched, tossing incessantly in bed, while sleep was denied to my wearied eyelids. Next morning my haggard look was remarked by my servant, who proposed sending for a physician; but this I would not allow, knowing that woe like mine was beyond the reach of medicine. The greater part of that day was spent in religious exercises, from which I felt considerable relief. The day after was the last I was to behold upon earth. It came, and I endeavoured by every means to subdue the terror which it brought along with it. On arising from bed, I sent for my servant, an elderly woman whom I had got to supply the place of Barnabas and Louise, and gave her one hundredgilders, being all the money I could find in Wolstang’s bureau. “Now, Philippa,” said I, “as soon as the clock of the study has struck three, come in, and you will find me dead. Retire, and do not enter till then.” She went away, promising to do all that I had ordered her.
During the interval I sat opposite the clock, marking the hours pass rapidly by. Every tick was as a death-knell to my ear—every movement of the hands, as the motion of a scimitar levelled to cut me in pieces. I heard all, and I saw all in horrid silence. Two o’clock at length struck. “Now,” said I, “there is but one hour for me on earth—then the dreadful struggle begins—then I must live again in the tomb only to perish miserably.” Half an hour passed, then forty minutes, then fifty, then fifty-five. I saw with utter despair the minute-hand go by the latter, and approach the meridian number of the dial. As it swept on, a stupor fell over my spirit, a mist swam before my eyes, and I almost lost the power of consciousness. At last I heardonestrike aloud—my flesh creeped with dread; thentwo—I gave an universal shudder; thenthree, and I gasped convulsively, and saw and heard nothing further.
At this moment I was sensible of an insufferable coldness. My heart fluttered, then it beat strong, and the blood, passing as it were over my chilled frame, gave it warmth and animation. I also began by slow degrees to breathe. But though my bodily feelings were thus torpid, my mental ones were very different. They were on the rack; for I knew that I was now buried alive, and that the dreadful struggle was about to commence. Instead of rejoicing as I recovered the genial glow of life, I felt appalled with blank despair. I was terrified to move, because I knew I would feel the horrid walls of my narrow prison-house. I was terrified to breathe, because the pent air within it would be exhausted, and the suffocation of struggling humanity would seize upon me. I was even terrified to open my eyes, and gaze upon the eternal darkness by which I was surrounded. Could I resist?—the idea was madness. What would my strength avail against the closed coffin, and the pressure above, below, and on every side? “No, I must abide the struggle, which a few seconds more will bring on: I must perish deplorably in it. Then the Epicurean worm will feast upon my remains, and I shall no longer hear any sound, or see any sight, till the last trumpet shall awaken me fromslumber, and gather me together from the jaws of the tomb.”
Meanwhile I felt the necessity of breathing, and I did breathe fully; and the air was neither so close nor scanty as might have been supposed. “This, however,” thought I, “is but the first of my respirations: a few more, and the vital air will be exhausted; then will the agony of death truly commence.” I nevertheless breathed again, and again, and again; but nothing like stifling seized upon me—nothing of the kind, even when I had made fifty good respirations. On the contrary, I respired with the most perfect freedom. This struck me as very singular; and being naturally of an inquisitive disposition, I felt an irresistible wish, even in my dreadful situation, to investigate if possible the cause of it. “The coffin must be unconscionably large.” This was my first idea; and to ascertain it, I slightly raised my hands, shuddering at the same time at the thought of their coming in contact with the lid above me. However, they encountered no lid. Up, up, up, I elevated them, and met with nothing. I then groped to the sides, but the coffin laterally seemed equally capacious; no sides were to be found. “This is certainly a most extraordinary shell to bury a man of my size in. I shall try if possible to ascertain its limits before I die—suppose I endeavour to stand upright.” The thought no sooner came across my mind than I carried it into execution.I got up, raising myself by slow degrees, in case of knocking my head against the lid. Nothing, however, impeded my extension, and I stood straight. I even raised my hands on high, to feel if it were possible to reach the top: no such thing; the coffin was apparently without bounds. Altogether, I felt more comfortable than a buried man could expect to be. One thing struck me, and it was this—I had no grave-clothes upon me. “But,” thought I, “this is easily accounted for: my cousin comes to my property, and the scoundrel has adopted the most economical means of getting rid of me.” I had not as yet opened my eyes, being daunted at the idea of encountering the dreary darkness of the grave. But my courage being somewhat augmented by the foregoing events, I endeavoured to open them. This was impossible; and on examination, I found that they were bandaged, my head being encircled with a fillet. On endeavouring to loosen it, I lost my balance, and tumbled down with a hideous noise. I did not merely fall upon the bottom of the coffin, as might be expected; on the contrary, I seemed to roll off it, and fell lower, as it were, into some vault underneath. In endeavouring to arrest this strange descent, I caught hold of the coffin, and pulled it on the top of me. Nor was this all; for, before I could account for such a train of extraordinary accidents below ground, and while yet stupified and bewildered, I heard a door open,and in an instant after, human voices. “What, in heaven’s name, can be the meaning of this?” ejaculated I involuntarily. “Is it a dream?—am I asleep, or am I awake? Am I dead or alive?” While meditating thus, and struggling to extricate myself from the coffin, I heard some one say distinctly, “Good God, he is come alive!” My brain was distracted by a whirlwind of vain conjectures; but before it could arrange one idea, I felt myself seized upon by both arms, and raised up with irresistible force. At the same instant the fillet was drawn from my eyes. I opened them with amazement: instead of the gloom of death, the glorious light of heaven burst upon them! I was confounded; and, to add to my surprise, I saw supporting me two men, with whose faces I was familiar. I gazed at the one, then at the other, with looks of fixed astonishment. “What is this?” said I; “where am I?”
“You must remain quiet,” said the eldest, with a smile. “We must have you put to bed, and afterwards dressed.”
“What is this?” continued I: “am I not dead—was I not buried?”
“Hush, my dear friend—let me throw this great-coat over you.”
“But I must speak,” said I, my senses still wandering. “Where am I?—who are you?”
“Do you not know me?”
“Yes,” replied I, gazing at him intently—“my friend Doctor Wunderdudt. Good God! how do you happen to be here? Did I not come alive in the grave?”
“You may thank us that you did not,” said he. “Look around, and say if you know where you are.”
I looked, as he directed, and found myself in a large room fitted up with benches, and having half-a-dozen skeletons dangling from the roof. While doing this, he and his friend smiled at each other, and seemed anxiously awaiting my reply, and enjoying my wonder. At last I satisfied myself that I was in the anatomical theatre of the University.
“But,” said I, “there is something in all this I cannot comprehend. What—where is the coffin?”
“What coffin, my dear fellow?” said Wunderdudt.
“The coffin that I was in.”
“The coffin,” said he, smiling; “I suppose it remains where it was put the day before yesterday.”
I rubbed my eyes with vexation, not knowing what to make of these perplexing circumstances. “I mean,” said I, “the coffin—that is, the coffin I drew over upon me when I fell.”
“I do not know of any coffin,” answered he, laughing heartily; “but I know very well that you have pulled upon yourself my good mahoganytable; there it lies.” And on looking, I observed the large table, which stood in the middle of the hall, overturned upon the floor. Doctor Wunderdudt (he was professor of anatomy to the college) now made me retire, and had me put in bed till clothing could be procured. But I would not allow him to depart till he had unravelled the strange web of perplexity in which I still found myself involved. Nothing would satisfy me but a philosophical solution of the problem, “Why was I not buried alive, as I had reason to expect?” The doctor expounded this intricate point in the following manner:—
“The day before yesterday,” said he, “I informed the resurrectionists in the service of the University, that I was in want of a subject, desiring them at the same time to set to work with all speed. That very night they returned, assuring me that they had fished up one which would answer to a hair, being both young and vigorous. In order to inform myself of the quality of what they brought me, I examined the body, when, to my indignation and grief, I found that they had disinterred my excellent friend, Mr Frederick Stadt, who had been buried the same day.”
“What!” said I, starting up from the bed, “did they disinter me?—the scoundrels!”
“You may well call them scoundrels,” said the professor, “for preventing a gentleman from enjoyingthe pleasure of being buried alive. The deed was certainly most felonious; and if you are at all anxious, I shall have them reported to the Syndic, and tried for their impertinent interference. But to proceed. No sooner did I observe that they had fallen upon you than I said, ‘My good men, this will never do. You have brought me here my worthy friend Mr Stadt. I cannot feel in my heart to anatomise him, so just carry him quietly back to his old quarters, and I shall pay you his price, and something over and above.’”
“What!” said I, again interrupting the doctor, “is it possible you could be so inhuman as to make the scoundrels bury me again?”
“Now, Stadt,” rejoined he, with a smile, “you are a strange fellow. You were angry at themenfor raising you, and now you are angry atmefor endeavouring to repair their error by reinterring you.”
“But you forget that I was to come alive?”
“How the deuce was I to know that, my dear boy?”
“Very true. Go on, doctor, and excuse me for interrupting you so often.”
“Well,” continued he, “the men carried you last night to deposit you in your long home, when, as fate would have it, they were prevented by a ridiculous fellow of a tailor, who, for a trifling wager, had engaged to sit up alone, during the whole night,in the churchyard, exactly at the spot where your grave lay. So they brought you back to the college, resolving to inter you to-night, if the tailor, or the devil himself, should stand in their way. Your timely resuscitation will save them this trouble. At the same time, if you are still offended at them, they will be very happy to take you back, and you may yet enjoy the felicity of being buried alive.”
Such was a simple statement of the fact, delivered in the professor’s good-humoured and satirical style; and from it the reader may guess what a narrow escape I had from the most dreadful of deaths, and how much I am indebted, in the first instance, to the stupid blundering of the resurrectionists, and, in the second, to the tailor. I returned to my own house as soon as possible, to the no small mortification of my cousin, who was proceeding to invest himself with all that belonged to me. I made him refund without ceremony, and altered my will, which had been made in his favour; not forgetting, in so doing, his refusal to let my body remain two days longer unburied. A day or two afterwards I saw a funeral pass by, which, on inquiry, I learned to be Wolstang’s. He died suddenly, as I was informed, and some persons remarked it as a curious event that his death happened at precisely the same moment as my return to life. This was merely mentioned as a passing observation,but no inference was deduced from it. The old domestic in Wolstang’s house gave a wonderful account of his death, mentioning the hour at which he said he was to die, and how it was verified by the event. She said nothing, however, about the hundred gilders. Many considered her story as a piece of mere trumpery. She had nevertheless a number of believers.
With respect to myself, I excited a great talk, receiving invitations to dine with almost all the respectable families in Gottingen. I had the honour of being waited on by Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead, who, after shaking me by the hand in the kindest manner, made me give a long account of my feelings at the instant of coming alive. Of course, I concealed everything connected with the Metempsychosis, and kept out many circumstances which at the time I did not wish to be known. He was nevertheless highly delighted, and gave it as his opinion (which, being oracular, was instantly acted upon), that a description of the whole should be inserted in the Annals of the University. I had the farther honour of being invited to dinner at his house—an honour which I duly appreciated, knowing that it is almost never conferred except on the syndics, burgomasters, and deacons of the town, and a few of the professors.
These events, which are here related at full, I can only attest by my own word, except indeed theaffair of the coming alive, which everybody in Gottingen knows of. If any doubt the more unlikely parts of the detail, I cannot help it. I have not written this with the view of empty fame, and still less of profit. Philosophy has taught me to despise the former, and my income renders the latter an object of no importance. I merely do it to put my fellow-citizens on their guard against the machinations of the old fellow with the snuff-coloured surtout, the scarlet waistcoat, and the wooden leg. Above all, they should carefully abstain from signing any paper he may present to them, however plausible his offers may be. By mere thoughtlessness in this respect, I brought myself into a multitude of dangers and difficulties, from which every one in the same predicament may not escape so easily as I have done. I shall conclude with acknowledging that a strong change has been wrought in my opinions; and that from ridiculing the doctrines of the sage of Samos, I am now one of their firmest supporters. In a word, I am what I have designated myself,
“A Modern Pythagorean.”
It wanted but two or three weeks to the Christmas vacation (alas! how many years ago!) and we, the worshipful society of undergraduates of —— College, Oxford, were beginning to get tired of the eternal round of supper-parties which usually marked the close of our winter’s campaign, and ready to hail with delight any proposition that had the charm of novelty. A three weeks’ frost had effectually stopped the hunting; all the best tandem-leaders were completely screwed; the freshmen had been “larked” till they were grown as cunning as magpies; and the Dean had set up a divinity lecture at two o’clock, and published a stringent proclamation against rows in the Quad. It was, in short, during a particularly uninteresting state of things, with the snow falling lazily upon the grey roofs and silent quadrangle, that some half-dozen of us had congregated in Bob Thornhill’s rooms, to get over the time between lunch and dinner with as little trouble to our mental and corporeal faculties as possible. Those among us who had been for thelast three months promising to themselves to begin to read “next week,” had now put off that too easy creditor, conscience, till “next term.” One alone had settled his engagements of that nature, or, in the language of his “Testamur”—the prettiest bit of Latin, he declared, that he ever saw—“satisfecit examinatoribus.” Unquestionably, in his case, the examiners must have had the rare virtue of being very easily satisfied. In fact, Mr Savile’s discharge of his educational engagements was rather a sort of “whitewashing” than a payment in full. His passing was what is technically called a “shave,” a metaphor alluding to that intellectual density which finds it difficult to squeeze through the narrow portal which admits to the privileges of a Bachelor of Arts. As Mr S. himself, being a sporting man, described it, it was “a very close run indeed;” not that he considered that circumstance to derogate in any way from his victory; he was rather inclined to consider, that, having shown the field of examiners capital sport, and fairly got away from them in the end without the loss of his brush, his examination had been one of the very best runs of the season. In virtue whereof he was now mounted on the arm of an easy-chair, with a long chibouque, which became the gravity of an incipient bachelor better than a cigar, and took upon himself to give Thornhill (who was really a clever fellow, and professing to be readingfor a first) some advice as to his conducting himself when his examination should arrive.
“I’ll tell you what, Thornhill, old boy, I’ll give you a wrinkle; it doesn’t always answer to let out all you know at an examination. That sly old varmint, West of Magdalen, asked me who Hannibal was. ‘Aha!’ said I to myself, ‘that’s your line of country, is it? You want to walk me straight into those botheration Punic Wars; it’s no go, though; I shan’t break cover in that direction.’ So I was mute. ‘Can’t you tell me something about Hannibal?’ says old West again. ‘I can,’ thinks I, ‘but I won’t.’ He was regularly flabergasted; I spoilt his beat entirely, don’t you see? So he looked as black as thunder, and tried it on in a fresh place. If I had been fool enough to let him dodge me in those Punic Wars, I should have been run into in no time. Depend upon it, there’s nothing like a judicious ignorance occasionally.”
“Why,” said Thornhill, “‘when ignorance is bliss’ (that is, when it gets through the schools), ‘’tis folly to be wise.’”
“Ah! that’s Shakespeare says that, isn’t it? I wish one could take up Shakespeare for a class! I’m devilish fond of Shakespeare. We used to act Shakespeare at a private school I was at.”
“By Jove!” said somebody from behind a cloud of smoke—whose the brilliant idea was, was afterwardsmatter of dispute—“why couldn’t we get up a play?”
“Ah! why not? why not? Capital!”
“It’s such a horrid bore learning one’s part,” lisped the elegant Horace Leicester, half awake on the sofa.
“Oh, stuff!” said Savile, “it’s the very thing to keep us alive! We could make a capital theatre out of the hall; don’t you think the little vice-principal would give us leave?”
“You had better ask for the chapel at once. Why, don’t you know, my dear fellow, the college hall, in the opinion of the dean and the vice, is held rather more sacred of the two? Newcome, poor devil, attempted to cut a joke at the high table one of the times he dined there after he was elected, and he told me that they all stared at him as if he had insulted them; and the vice (in confidence) explained to him that such ‘levity’ was treason against the ‘reverentia loci!’”
“Ay, I remember when that old villain Solomon, the porter, fined me ten shillings for walking in there with spurs one day when I was late for dinner; he said the dean always took off his cap when he went in there by himself, and threatened to turn off old Higgs, when he had been scout forty years, because he heard him whistling one day while he was sweeping it out! Well,” continued Savile, “you shall have my rooms; I shan’t troublethem much now. I am going to pack all my books down to old Wise’s[A]next week, to turn them into readytin; so you may turn the study into a carpenter’s shop, if you like. Oh, it can be managed famously!”
So, after a fewprosandcons, it was finally settled that Mr Savile’s rooms should become the Theatre Royal, —— College; and I was honoured with the responsible office of stage-manager. What the play was to be, was a more difficult point to settle. Savile proposedRomeo and Juliet, and volunteered for the hero; but it passed the united strength of the company to get up a decentJuliet.Richard the Thirdwas suggested; we had “sixRichardsin the field” at once. We soon gave up the heroics, and decided on comedy; for since our audience would be sure to laugh, we should at least have a chance of getting the laugh in the right place. So, after long discussion, we fixed onShe Stoops to Conquer. There were a good many reasons for this selection. First, it was a piece possessing that grand desideratum in all amateur performances, that there were several parts in it of equal calibre, and none which implied decided superiority of talent in its representative; secondly, there was not muchlovein it—a material point where, as an Irishman might say, all the ladies were gentlemen; thirdly, the scenery, dresses, properties, and decorations, were of the very simplestdescription: it was easily “put upon the stage.” We found little difficulty in casting the male characters: old Mrs Hardcastle, not requiring any great share of personal attractions, and being considered a part that would tell, soon found a representative; but when we came to the “donnas”—primaandseconda—then it was that the manager’s troubles began. It was really necessary, to insure the most moderate degree of success to the comedy, that Miss Hardcastle should have at least a lady-like deportment. The public voice, first in whispers, then audibly, at last vociferously, called upon Leicester. Slightly formed, handsome, clever, and accomplished, with naturally graceful manners, and a fair share of vanity and affectation, there was no doubt of his making a respectable heroine if he would consent to be made love to. In vain did he protest against the petticoats, and urge with affecting earnestness the claims of the whiskers which for the last six months he had so diligently been cultivating; the chorus of entreaty and expostulation had its effect, aided by a well-timed compliment to the aristocratically small hand and foot, of which Horace was pardonably vain. Shaving was pronounced indispensable to the due growth of the whiskers; and the importance of the character, and the point of the situations, so strongly dwelt upon, that he became gradually reconciled to his fate, and began seriously to discuss thequestion whether Miss Hardcastle should wear her hair in curls or bands. A freshman of seventeen, who had no pretensions in the way of whiskers, and who was too happy to be admitted on any terms to a share in such a “fast idea” as the getting up a play, was to be the Miss Neville; and before the hall bell rang for dinner, an order had been despatched for a dozen acting copies ofShe Stoops to Conquer.
Times have materially changed since Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Christ-Church; the University, one of the earliest nurses of the infant drama, has long since turned it out of doors for a naughty child, and forbid it, under pain of worse than whipping, to come any nearer than Abingdon or Bicester. Taking into consideration the style of some of the performances in which undergraduates of some three hundred years ago were the actors, the “Oxford Theatre” of those days, if it had more wit in it than the present, had somewhat less decency. The ancient “moralities” were not over moral, and the “mysteries” rather Babylonish. So far we have had no great loss. Whether the judicious getting up of a tragedy of Sophocles or Æschylus, or even a comedy of Terence—classically managed, as it could be done in Oxford, and well acted—would be more unbecoming the gravity of our collected wisdom, or more derogatory to the dignity of our noble “theatre,” than the squallingof Italian singers, masculine, feminine, and neuter, is a question which, when I have a seat in the Hebdomadal Council, I shall certainly propose. Thus much I am sure of,—if a classical playbill were duly announced for the next grand commemoration, it would “draw” almost as well as any lion of the day: the dresses might be quite as showy, the action could hardly be less graceful, than those of the odd-looking gentlemen who are dubbed doctors of civil law on such occasions; and the speeches of Prometheus, Œdipus, or Antigone, would be more intelligible to the learned, and more amusing to the ladies, than those Latin essays or the Creweian oration.
However, until I am vice-chancellor, the legitimate drama, Greek, Roman, or English, seems little likely to revive in Oxford.Ourbranch of that great family, I confess, bore the bar-sinister. The offspring of our theatrical affections was unrecognised by college authority. The fellows of —— would have done anything but “smile upon its birth.” The dean especially would have burked it at once had he suspected its existence. Nor was it fostered, like the former Oxford theatricals to which we have alluded, by royal patronage; we could not, consistently with decorum, request her Majesty to encourage an illegitimate. Nevertheless—spite of its being thus born under the rose, it grew and prospered. Our plan of rehearsal wasoriginal. We used to adjourn from dinner to the rooms of one or other of the company; and there, over our wine and dessert, instead of quizzing freshmen and abusing tutors, open each our acting copy, and, with all due emphasis and intonation, go regularly through the scenes ofShe Stoops to Conquer. This was all the study we ever gave to our parts; and even thus it was difficult to get a muster of all the performers, and we had generally to play dummy for some one or more of the characters, or “double” them, as the professionals call it. The excuses for absenteeism were various. Mrs Hardcastle and Tony were gone to Woodstock with a team, and were not to be waited for; Diggory had a command to dine with the Principal; and once an interesting dialogue was cut short by the untoward event of Miss Neville’s being “confined”—in consequence of some indiscretion or other—“to chapel.” It was necessary in our management, as much as in Mr Bunn’s or Mr Macready’s, to humour the caprices of the stars of the company; but the lesser lights, if they became eccentric at all in their orbits, were extinguished without mercy. Their place was easily supplied; for the moment it became known that a play was in contemplation, there were plenty of candidates for dramatic fame, especially among the freshmen; and though we mortally offended one or two aspiring geniuses, by proffering them the vacant situations of Ralph,Roger, and Co., in Mr Hardcastle’s household, on condition of having their respective blue dress-coats turned up with yellow to represent the family livery, there were others to whom the being admitted behind the scenes, even in these humble characters, was a subject of laudable ambition. Nay, unimportant as were some parts in themselves, they were quite enough for the histrionic talent of some of our friends. Till I became a manager myself, I always used to lose patience at the wretched manner in which some of the underlings on the stage went through the little they had to say and do: there seemed no reason why the “sticks” should be so provokingly sticky; and it surprised me that a man who could accost one fluently enough at the stage-door, should make such a bungle as some of them did in a message of some half-dozen words “in character.” But when I first became initiated into the mysteries of amateur performances, and saw how entirely destitute some men were of any notion of natural acting, and how they made a point of repeating two lines of familiar dialogue with the tone and manner, but without the correctness, of a schoolboy going through a task—then it ceased to be any matter of wonder that those to whom acting was no joke, but an unhappily earnest mode of getting bread, should so often make their performance appear the uneasy effort which it is. There was one man in particular, a good-humoured,gentlemanly fellow, a favourite with us all,—not remarkable for talent, but a pleasant companion enough, with plenty of common-sense. Well, “he would be an actor”—it was his own fancy to have a part, and, as he was “one of us,” we could not well refuse him. We give him an easy one, for he was not vain of his own powers, or ambitious of theatrical distinction; so he was to be “second fellow”—one of Tony’s pot-companions. He had but two lines to speak; but from the very first time I heard him read them, I set him down as a hopeless case. He read them as if he had just learned to spell the words; when he repeated them without the book, it was like a clergyman giving out a text. And so it was with a good many of the rank and file of the company; we had more labour to drill them into something like a natural intonation than to learn our own longest speeches twice over. So we made their attendance at rehearsals asine qua non. We dismissed a promising “Mat Muggins” because he went to the “Union” two nights successively, when he ought to have been at “The Three Pigeons.” We superseded a very respectable “landlord” (though he had actually been measured for a corporation and a pair of calves) for inattention to business. The only one of the supernumeraries whom it was at all necessary to conciliate, was the gentleman who was to sing the comicsong instead of Tony (Savile, the representative of the said Tony, not having music in his soul beyond a view-holloa). He was allowed to go and come at our readingsad libitum, upon condition of being very careful not to take cold.
When we had become tolerably perfect in the words of our parts, it was deemed expedient to have a “dress rehearsal”—especially for the ladies. It is not very easy to move safely—let alone gracefully—in petticoats, for those who are accustomed to move their legs somewhat more independently. And it would not have been civil in Messrs Marlow and Hastings to laugh outright at their lady-loves before company, as they were sure to do upon their first appearance. A dress rehearsal, therefore, was a very necessary precaution. But if it was difficult to get the company together at six o’clock under the friendly disguise of a wine-party, doubly difficult was it to expect them to muster at eleven in the morning. The first day that we fixed for it, there came a not very lady-like note, evidently written in bed, from Miss Hardcastle, stating, that having been at a supper-party the night before, and there partaken of brandy-punch to an extent to which she was wholly unaccustomed, it was quite impossible, in the present state of her nervous system, for her to make her appearance in character at any price. There was no alternative but to putoff the rehearsal; and that very week occurred a circumstance which was very near being the cause of its adjournmentsine die.
“Mr Hawthorne,” said the dean to me one morning, when I was leaving his rooms, rejoicing in the termination of lecture, “I wish to speak with you, if you please.” The dean’s communications were seldom of a very pleasing kind, and on this particular morning his countenance gave token that he had hit upon something more than usually piquant. The rest of the men filed out of the door as slowly as they conveniently could, in the hope, I suppose, of hearing the dean’s fire open upon me; but he waited patiently till my particular friend, Bob Thornhill, had picked up carefully, one by one, his miscellaneous collection of note-book, pencil, pen-knife, and other small wares, and had been obliged at length to make an unwilling exit; when, seeing the door finally closed, he commenced with his usual—“Have the goodness to sit down, sir.”
Experience had taught me, that it was as well to make one’s-self as comfortable as might be upon these occasions; so I took the easy-chair, and tried to look as if I thought the dean merely wanted to have a pleasant half-hour’s chat. He marched into a little back-room that he called his study, and I began to speculate upon the probable subject of our conference. Strange! that week had been a more than usually quiet one. No late knocking in; nocutting lectures at chapel; positively I began to think that, for once, the dean had gone on a wrong scent, and that I should repel his accusations with all the dignity of injured innocence; or had he sent for me to offer his congratulations on my having commenced in the “steady” line, and to ask me to breakfast? I was not long left to indulge such delusive hopes. Re-enter the dean (O.P., as our stage directions would have had it), with—a pair of stays!
By what confounded ill-luck they had got into his possession I could not imagine; but there they were. The dean touched them as if he felt their very touch an abomination, threw them on the table, and briefly said—“These, sir, were found in your rooms this morning. Can you explain how they came there?”
True enough, Leicester had been trying on the abominable articles in my bedroom, and I had stuffed them into a drawer till wanted. What to say was indeed a puzzle. To tell the whole truth would no doubt have ended the matter at once, and a hearty laugh should I have had at the dean’s expense; but it would have put the stopper onShe Stoops to Conquer. It was too ridiculous to look grave about; and blacker grew the countenance before me, as, with a vain attempt to conceal a smile, I echoed his words, and stammered out—“In my rooms, sir?”
“Yes, sir, in your bedroom.” He rang the bell.“Your servant, Simmons, most properly brought them to me.”
The little rascal! I had been afraid to let him know anything about the theatricals; for I knew perfectly well the dean would hear of it in half an hour, for he served him in the double capacity of scout and spy. Before the bell had stopped, Dick Simmons made his appearance, having evidently been kept at hand. He did look rather ashamed of himself, when I asked him, what business he had to search my wardrobe?
“Oh dear, sir! I never did no sich a thing; I was a-making of your bed, sir, when I sees the tag of a stay-lace hanging out of your topmost drawer, sir—(I am a married man, sir,” to the dean apologetically, “and I know the tag of a stay-lace, sir)—and so I took it out, sir; and knowing my duty to the college, sir, though I should be very sorry to bring you into trouble, Mr Hawthorne, sir”——
“Yes, yes, Simmons, you did quite right,” said the dean. “You are bound to give notice to the college authorities of all irregularities, and your situation requires that you should be conscientious.”
“I hope I am, sir,” said the little rascal; “but indeed I am very sorry, Mr Hawthorne, sir”——
“Oh! never mind,” said I; “you did right, no doubt. I can only say those things are not mine, sir; they belong to a friend of mine.”
“I don’t ask who they belong to, sir,” said thedean indignantly; “I ask, sir, how came they in your rooms?”
“I believe, sir, my friend (he was in my rooms yesterday) left them there. Some men wear stays, sir,” continued I, boldly; “it’s very much the fashion, I’m told.”
“Eh! hum!” said the dean, eyeing the brown jean doubtingly. “I have heard of such things. Horrid puppies men are now. Never dreamt of such things in my younger days; but then, sir, we were not allowed to wear white trousers, and waistcoats of I don’t know what colours; we were made to attend to the statutes—‘Nigri aut subfusci,’sir. Ah! times are changed—times are changed, indeed! And do you mean to say, sir, you have a friend, a member of this university, who wears such things as these?”
I might have got clear off, if it had not been for that rascal Simmons. I saw him give the dean a look, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
“But I don’t think, sir,” resumed he, “these can be a man’s stays—eh, Simmons?” Simmons looked diligently at his toes. “No,” said the dean, investigating the unhappy garment more closely—“no; I fear, Simmons, these are female stays!”
The conscientious Simmons made no sign.
“I don’t know, sir,” said I, as he looked fromSimmons to me. “I don’t wear stays, and I know nothing about them. If Simmons were to fetch a pair of Mrs Simmons’s, sir,” resumed I, “you could compare them.”
Mrs Simmons’s figure resembled a sack of flour, with a string round it; and if she did wear the articles in question, they must have been of a pattern almost unique—made to order.
“Sir,” said the dean, “your flippancy is unbecoming. I shall not pursue this investigation any further; but I am bound to tell you, sir, this circumstance is suspicious—very suspicious.” I could not resist a smile for the life of me. “And doubly suspicious, sir, in your case. The eyes of the college are upon you, sir.” He was evidently losing his temper, so I bowed profoundly, and he grew more irate. “Ever since, sir, that atrocious business of the frogs, though the college authorities failed in discovering the guilty parties, there are some individuals, sir, whose conduct is watched attentively. Good morning, sir.”
The “business of the frogs,” to which the dean so rancorously alluded, had, indeed, caused some consternation to the fellows of ——. There had been a marvellous story going the round of the papers, of a shower of the inelegant reptiles in question having fallen in some part of the kingdom. Old women were muttering prophecies, and wise men acknowledged themselves puzzled. The AshmoleanSociety had sat in conclave upon it, and accounted so satisfactorily for the occurrence, that the only wonder seemed to be that we had not a shower of frogs, or some equally agreeable visitors, every rainy morning. Now, every one who has strolled round Christ-Church meadows on a warm evening, especially after rain, must have been greeted at intervals by a whole gamut of croaks; and if he had the curiosity to peer into the green ditches as he passed along, he might catch a glimpse of the heads of the performers. Well, the joint reflections of myself and an ingenious friend, who were studying this branch of zoology while waiting for the coming up of the boats one night, tended to the conclusion, that a very successful imitation of the late “Extraordinary Phenomenon” might be got up for the edification of the scientific in our own college. Animals of all kinds find dealers and purchasers in Oxford. Curs of lowest degree have their prices. Rats, being necessary in the education of terriers, come rather expensive. A polecat—even with three legs only—will command a fancy price. Sparrows, larks, and other small birds, are retailed by the dozen on Cowley Marsh to gentlemen undergraduates who are aspiring to the pigeon-trap. But as yet there had been no demand for frogs, and there was quite a glut of them in the market. They were cheap accordingly; for a shilling a-hundred we foundthat we might inflict the second plague of Egypt upon the whole university. The next evening, two hampers, containing, as our purveyor assured us, “very prime ’uns,” arrived at my rooms “from Mr S——, the wine merchant;” and by daylight on the following morning were judiciously distributed throughout all the comeatable premises within the college walls. When I awoke the next morning, I heard voices in earnest conversation under my window, and looked out with no little curiosity. The frogs had evidently produced a sensation. The bursar, disturbed apparently from his early breakfast, stood robed in an ancient dressing-gown, with theTimesin his hand, on which he was balancing a frog as yellow as himself. The dean, in cap and surplice, on his way from chapel, was eagerly listening to the account which one of the scouts was giving him of the first discovery of the intruders.
“Me and my missis, sir,” quoth John, “was a-coming into college when it was hardly to say daylight, when she, as I reckon, sets foot upon one of ’em, and was like to have been back’ards with a set of breakfast chiney, as she was a-bringing in for one of the fresh gentlemen. She scritches out, in course, and I looks down, and then I sees two or three a-’oppin about; but I didn’t take much notice till I gets to the thoroughfare, when there was a whole row on ’em a-trying to climb up thebottom step; and then I calls Solomon the porter, and”——