For some pages, my grandfather’s note-book is filled with memoranda of singular casualties from the enemy’s shot, wonderful escapes, and hasty moments of quietude and attempted comfort snatched “even in the cannon’s mouth.” The fire from the Spanish batteries shortly reduced the town to ruins, and the gunboats at night precluded all hope of peace and oblivion after the horrors of the day. Dreams, in which these horrors were reproduced, were interrupted by still more frightful nocturnalrealities. One of the curious minor evils that my grandfather notices, as resulting from an incessant cannonade, to those not engaged in it actively enough to withdraw their attention from the noise, is the extreme irritation produced by its long continuance, amounting, in persons of nervous and excitable temperament, to positive exasperation.
Some of the numerous incidents he chronicles are also recorded by Drinkwater, especially that of a man who recovered after being almost knocked to pieces by the bursting of a shell. “His head was terribly fractured, his left arm broken in two places, one of his legs shattered, the skin and muscles torn off his right hand, the middle finger broken to pieces, and his whole body most severely bruised and marked with gunpowder. He presented so horrid an object to the surgeons, that they had not the smallest hopes of saving his life, and were at a loss what part to attend to first. He was that evening trepanned; a few days afterwards his leg was amputated, and other wounds and fractures dressed. Being possessed of a most excellent constitution, nature performed wonders in his favour, and in eleven weeks the cure was completely effected. His name,” continues Mr. Drinkwater, with what might be deemed irony—if the worthy historian ever indulged in that figure of rhetoric—“is Donald Ross, and he” (i.e.the remaining fragment of the saidDonald Ross) “now enjoys his sovereign’s bounty in a pension of ninepence a-day for life.” One might almost suppose that Mr Hume had some hand in affixing the gratuity; but in those days there was a king who knew not Joseph.
My grandfather appears to have had also an adventure of his own. During a cessation of the cannonade, he was sitting one morning on a fragment of rock, in the garden behind his quarters, reading his favourite author. The firing suddenly recommenced, and a long-ranged shell, striking the ground at some distance, rolled towards him. He glanced half-absently at the hissing missile; and whether he actually did not for a moment recollect its character, or whether, as was often the case on such occasions, the imminence of the danger paralysed him, he sat immovably watching it as it fizzed within a couple of yards of him. Unquestionably in another three seconds my grandfather’s earthly tabernacle would have been resolved into its original atoms, had not the intrepid Carlota (who was standing near gathering flowers to stick in her hair) darted on him, and, seizing him by the arm, dragged him behind a wall. They were scarce under shelter when the shell exploded—the shock laying them both prostrate, though unhurt but for a few bruises—while the stone on which the Major had been sitting was shivered to atoms. To the description of this incident in the Major’s journal areappended a pious reflection and a short thanksgiving, which, being entirely of a personal nature, I omit.
The stores landed from the fleet were in a very precarious position. Owing to the destruction of the buildings, there were no means of placing them where they might be sheltered at once from the fire of the enemy and from rain. Some were piled under sails spread out as a sort of roof to protect them, and some, that were not likely to sustain immediate injury from the damp air of such a depository, were ordered to be conveyed to St Michael’s Cave.
This cave is one of the most curious features of the Rock. Its mouth—an inconsiderable opening in the slope of the mountain—is situated many hundred feet above the sea. Within, it expands into a spacious hall, the roof, invisible in the gloom, supported by thick pillars formed by the petrified droppings of the rock. From this principal cavern numerous smaller ones branch off, leading, by dark, broken, and precipitous passages, to unknown depths. Along one of these, according to tradition, Governor O’Hara advanced farther than ever man had gone before, and left his sword in the inmost recess to be recovered by the next explorer who should be equally adventurous. But whether it is that the tradition is unfounded, or that the weapon has been carried off by some gnome, or that thegovernor’s exploit is as yet unrivalled, the sword has never been brought to light.
For the duty of placing the stores here, the name of Lieutenant Owen appeared in the garrison orders. My grandfather having nothing particular to do, and being anxious to escape as much as possible for a short time from the din of the bombardment, offered to accompany Frank in the execution of this duty.
The day was dark and gloomy, and the steep path slippery from rain, so that the mules bearing the stores toiled with difficulty up the ascent. At first, my grandfather and Owen indulged in cheerful conversation; but shortness of breath soon reduced the Major to monosyllables, and the latter part of the journey was accomplished in silence. Frequently the Major paused and faced about, at once to look at the prospect and to take breath. Far below, on his right, was seen the southern end of the town, consisting partly of a heap of ruins, with here and there a rafter sticking out of the mass, partly of roofless walls, among which was occasionally heard the crashing of shot; but the guns that discharged them, as well as those that replied from the town, were invisible from this point. Directly beneath him the ground afforded a curious spectacle, being covered with tents, huts, and sheds, of all sorts and sizes, where the outcast population of the ruined town obtained a precarious and insufficientshelter. The only building visible which still retained its former appearance was the convent—the governor’s residence—which was protected by bomb-proofs, and where working-parties were constantly engaged in repairing the injuries. The bay, once thickly wooded with masts and dotted with sails, was now blank and cheerless; only the enemy’s cruisers were visible, lying under the opposite shore of Spain.
Owen and my grandfather arrived at the mouth of the cave somewhat in advance of the convoy. To their surprise a smoke was issuing from it; and, as they approached nearer, their nostrils were greeted by an odour at once savoury and spicy. Going softly up they looked in.
Mr Bags and a couple of friends were seated round a fire, over which was roasting a small pig, scientifically butchered and deprived of his hair, and hung up by the heels. The fire, in the absence of other fuel (of which there was an extreme scarcity in Gibraltar), was supplied by bundles of cinnamon plundered from the store of some grocer, and, as the flame waxed low, Mr Bags took a fresh bundle from a heap of that fragrant spice by his side, and laid it on the embers. Mrs Bags was occupied in basting the pig with lard, which she administered from time to time with an iron ladle.
Presently Mr Bags tapped on the pig’s backwith his knife. It sent forth a crisp crackling sound, that made my grandfather’s mouth water, and caused Mr Bags to become impatient.
“Polly,” said he, “it’s my opinion it’s been done these three minutes. I can’t wait much longer.”
And he cast a glance at the other two soldiers (in whom, as well as in Bags, Owen recognised men of his company who had been reported absent for some days, and were supposed to have gone over to the enemy), to ascertain if their opinions tallied with his own on this point.
“It can’t be no better,” said one, taking hold of the pig’s neck between his finger and thumb, which he afterwards applied to his mouth.
“I can’t abear my meat overdone,” said the third. “What I say is, let them that likes to wait, wait, and let them that wants to begin, begin.” So saying, he rose, and was about to attack the ribs of the porker with his knife.
“Do stop a minute—that’s a dear,” said Mrs Bags; “another bundle of cinnament will make it parfect. I’ll give ye something to stay your stomach;” and stepping to a nook in the wall of the cavern, where stood a large barrel, she filled a pewter measure, and handed it to the impatient advocate for underdone pork, who took a considerable dram, and passed it to his companions.
“Cinnament’s better with pork nor with most things,” said Bags. “It spoils goose, because itdon’t agree with the inions, and it makes fowls wishy-washy; but it goes excellent with pig.”
“What’s left in the larder?” asked one of the party.
“There’s a week’s good eating yet,” said Mrs Bags, “and wemightmake it do ten days or a fortnight.”
“Well!” said the other, “they may say what they like about sieges, but this is the jolliest time everIhad.”
“It’s very well by day,” said Bags, “but the nights is cold, and the company of that ghost ain’t agreeable—I see’d it again last night.”
“Ah!” said his friend, “what was it like, Tongs?”
“Something white,” returned Bags in an awful whisper, “with a ghost’s eyes. You may allays know a ghost by the eyes. I was just rising up, and thinking about getting a drink, for my coppers was hot, when it comes gliding up from that end of the cave. I spoke to you, and then I couldn’t see it no more, because it was varnished.”
“Ghosts always varnishes if you speak,” said Mrs Bags. “But never mind the spirit now—let’s look after the flesh,” added the lady, who possessed a fund of native pleasantry: “the pig’s done to a turn.”
At this interesting juncture, and just as they were about to fall to, the footsteps of the approachingmules struck on their ears. Owen went to meet the party, and hastily selecting six men from it, advanced, and desired them to secure the astounded convivialists.
On recovering from their first astonishment, Bags begged Owen would overlook the offence; they were only, he pleaded, having a little spree—times had been hard lately. Mrs Bags, as usual, displayed great eloquence, though not much to the purpose. She seemed to have some idea that an enumeration of the gentlemen’s families she had lived in, and the high estimation in which she had been held in all, would really tell powerfully in favour of the delinquents, and persevered accordingly, till they were marched off in custody of the escort, when she made a final appeal to my grandfather, as the last gentleman whose family she had lived in—with what advantage to the household the reader knows. The Major, who could not forgive the roasting of his ham, called her, in reply, a “horrible woman,” but, at the same time, whispered to Owen that he hoped the fellows would not be severely punished. “If we had caught them after dinner,” said he, “I shouldn’t have pitied them so much.”
“Never mind them,” said Owen; “let us proceed to business. We must select the driest spot we can find to put the stores in.”
[Here, by way of taking leave of Mr Bags, I mayremark, that he narrowly escaped being hanged as a plunderer—failing which, he was sentenced by a court-martial to receive a number of lashes, which I refrain from specifying, because it would certainly make the hair of a modern humanitarian turn white with horror.]
“Come along, Major,” said Owen; “perhaps we may find more of these scoundrels in the course of our researches.”
The Major did not move; he was earnestly regarding the carcass of the pig, that steamed hissing above the embers.
“Queer idea that of the cinnamon fire,” said he. “I wonder how the meat tastes.”
Owen did not hear him, having walked forward.
“Have you got a knife about you, Frank?” said the Major. “Do you know I have a curious desire to ascertain the flavour. It may be a feature in cookery worth knowing.”
Owen had not a knife, nor had any of the men, but one of them suggested that the Major’s sword would answer the purpose.
“To be sure,” said the Major. “A good idea! I don’t see why swords shouldn’t be turned into carving-knives as well as into pruning-hooks.” So saying he drew it from the sheath, and, straddling across the fire, detached a crisp brown mouthful from the pig’s ribs, and putting a little salt on it, he conveyed it to his mouth.
“Excellent!” cried the Major. “I give you my word of honour, Owen, ’tis excellent! The cinnamon gives it a sort of a——”
Here a second and larger mouthful interrupted the criticism.
“It must be very near lunch-time,” said the Major, pausing, sword in hand, when he had swallowed it; then, pretending to look at his watch—“Bless me, it only wants half-an-hour of it. Do you think this business will take you long, Owen?”
“About a couple of hours,” said Owen.
“Ah, why, there you see,” returned the Major, “we shan’t get home till long past lunch-time. I really don’t see why we shouldn’t take a snack now. Nothing can be better than that pig. I only wish the woman had dressed my dinner half as well. Corporal Hodson, would you oblige me with a piece of that biscuit near you?” And, detaching a large fragment of pork, he placed it on the biscuit, and sprinkling it with pepper and salt, which condiments had not been forgotten in the gastronomic arrangements of Mr Bags, he proceeded to follow Owen into the interior of the cave, taking huge bites as he went.
The path slopes at first steeply downward from the mouth to the interior of the cavern, where it becomes more level. Light being admitted only at the entrance, the gloom of the interior is almost impenetrable to the eye. The men had broughttorches to assist them in their work, and, a suitable spot having been selected, these were stuck on different points and abutments of the rocky wall, when the party proceeded to unload the mules at the entrance, conveying their burdens into the cave.
In the midst of the bustle and noise attending the operation, the little dog given by Esther to Carlota, which had that morning followed the Major, to whom it had speedily attached itself, began barking and howling dismally in a dark recess behind one of the great natural pillars before spoken of. As the noise continued, intermixed with piteous whinings, one of the men took a torch from the wall, and stepped forward into the darkness, to see what ailed the animal. Presently he cried out that “there was a man there.”
My grandfather, who was next him, immediately followed, and five paces brought him to the spot. The soldier who held the torch was stooping, and holding it over a figure that lay on the ground on its back. In the unshaven, blood-stained countenance, my grandfather, at first, had some difficulty in recognising Lazaro the Jew. Some fiery splashes of pitch from the torch dropping at the moment on his bare throat, produced no movement, though, had he been living, they must have scorched him to the quick.
On the body was nothing but the shirt he wore the night of his flight from the hospital, but hislegs were wrapt in a woman’s dress. Across his breast, on her face, lay Esther, in her white undergarments—for the gown that wrapt the Jew’s legs was hers. The glare of the torch was bright and red on the two prostrate figures, and on the staring appalled countenance of the man who held it—the group forming a glowing spot in the vast, sombre, vaulted space, where dim gleams of light were caught and repeated on projecting masses of rock, more and more faintly, till all was bounded by darkness.
Years afterwards my grandfather would sometimes complain of having been revisited, in dreams of the night, by that ghastly piece of Rembrandt painting.
The rest quickly flocked to the spot, and Esther was lifted and found to breathe, though the Jew was stiff and cold. Some diluted spirit, from the cellar of Bags, being poured down her throat, she revived a little, when my grandfather caused two of the men to bear her carefully to his house; and the body of the Jew, being wrapt in a piece of canvass, was placed on a mule and conveyed to the hospital for interment.
Medical aid restored Esther to consciousness, and she told how they came to be found in the cave.
Her father, on leaving the hospital, had fled by chance, as she thought, to this cave, for he did notreach it by the usual path, but climbed, in his delirious fear, up the face of the rock, and she had followed him as well as she could, keeping his white figure in sight. They had both lain exhausted in the cave till morning, when, finding that her father slept, she was on the point of leaving him to seek assistance. But, unhappily, before she could quit the place, Bags and his associates entered from their plundering expedition into the town, and, frightened at their drunken language, and recognising in Bags the man who had robbed her of her comb, she had crept back to her concealment. The party of marauders never quitted the cavern from the moment of establishing themselves in it. They spent the day in eating, drinking, singing songs, and sometimes quarrelling. Twice, at night, she ventured forth; but she always found one of them asleep across the entrance, so that she could not pass without waking him, and once one of them started up, and seemed about to pursue her—doubtless Bags, on the occasion when he thought he saw a ghost. Nevertheless, she had mustered courage twice to take some fragments of food that were lying near the fire, leaving each time a piece of money in payment; and she had also taken a lighted candle, the better to ascertain her father’s situation. He had never spoken to her since the first night of their coming, and, during all these dark and weary hours (for they were three nightsand two days in the cavern), she had remained by him listening to his incoherent mutterings and moans. The candle had showed her that he had lost much blood, from the wound in his forehead breaking out afresh, as well as from the other received in the hospital, though the latter was but a flesh wound. These she had bandaged with shreds of her dress, and had tried to give him some of the nourishment she had procured, but could force nothing on him except some water. Some hours, however—how long she did not know, but it was during the night—before Owen’s party found her, the Jew had become sensible. He told her he was dying; and, unconscious of where he was, desired her to fetch a light. This she had procured in the same way as before, lighting the candle at the embers of the fire round which Bags and his friends reposed. Then the Jew, who seemed to imagine himself still in the hospital, bid her say whom, among those she knew in Gibraltar, she would wish to have charge of her when he was no more; and, on her mentioning Carlota, had desired her to take pen and paper and write his will as he should dictate it. Pen she had none, but she had a pencil and a scrap of paper in her pocket, and with these she wrote, leaning over to catch the whispered syllables that he with difficulty articulated.
From this paper it would appear that the Jew had some fatherly feelings for Esther concealedbeneath his harsh deportment towards her. I can describe the will, for I have often seen it. It is written on a piece of crumpled writing-paper, about the size of a bank-note, very stained and dirty. It is written in Spanish; and in it the Jew entreats “the Señora, the wife of Sr. Don Flinder, English officer, to take charge of his orphan child, in requital whereof he leaves her the half of whatsoever property he dies possessed of, the other half to be disposed of for the benefit of his daughter.” Then follows a second paragraph, inserted at Esther’s own desire, to the effect that, should she not survive, the whole was to be inherited by the aforesaid Señora. It is dated “Abril 1781,” and signed in a faint, straggling hand, quite different from the clear writing of the rest—“José Lazaro.”
Esther would now have gone, at all hazards, to obtain assistance, but the Jew clutched her arm, and would not permit her to quit him. He breathed his last shortly after, and Esther remembered nothing more till she came to herself in the Major’s house. The paper was found in her bosom.
Some days after this event, my grandfather went with Owen into the town, during a temporary lull in the enemy’s firing, to visit the house of Lazaro, in order to ascertain whether anything valuable was left that might be converted to Esther’s benefit. They had some difficulty in finding the exact locality, owing to the utter destruction of all the landmarks.The place was a mass of ruins. Some provisions and goods had been left by the plunderers, but so mixed with rubbish, and overflowed with the contents of the casks of liquor and molasses, as to be of no value even in these times of dearth.
Owen, poking about among the wreck, observed an open space in the middle of one of the shattered walls, as if something had been built into it. With the assistance of my grandfather’s cane, he succeeded in dislodging the surrounding masonry, already loosened by shot, and they discovered it to be a recess made in the thickness of the wall, and closed by a small iron door. At the bottom was lying a small box, also of iron, which they raised, not without difficulty, for its weight was extraordinary in proportion to its dimensions. This being conveyed to my grandfather’s, and opened, was found to contain more than six hundred doubloons (a sum in value about two thousand pounds), and many bills of exchange and promissory notes, mostly those of officers. The latest was that of Von Dessel. These the Major, by Esther’s desire, returned to the persons whose signatures they bore.
Esther never completely recovered from the effects of her sojourn in the cave, but remained always pale and of weak health. My grandfather took good care of her inheritance for her, and on leaving Gibraltar, at the conclusion of the siege, invested the whole of it safely for her benefit, placing her,at the same time, in the family of some respectable persons of her own religion. She afterwards married a wealthy Hebrew; and, in whatever part of the world the Major chanced to be serving, so long as she lived, valuable presents would constantly arrive from Gibraltar—mantillas and ornaments of jewellery for Carlota, and butts of delicious sherry for my grandfather. These, however, ceased with her death, about twenty years afterwards.
This is, I believe, the most connected and interesting episode to be found in the Major’s note-book; and it is, I think, the last specimen I shall offer of these new “Tales of my Grandfather.”
As a child I used to listen, with interest ever new, to the tale of the young Jewess, which the narrator had often heard from the lips of Carlota and her husband. St Michael’s cave took rank in my mind with those other subterranean abodes where Cassim, the brother of Ali Baba, who forgot the words “Open Sesame,” was murdered by the Forty Thieves; where Aladdin was shut by the magician in the enchanted garden; and where Robinson Crusoe discovered the dying he-goat. And when, at the conclusion of the tale, the scrap of paper containing the Jew’s will was produced from a certain desk, and carefully unfolded, I seemed to be connected by some awful and mysterious link with these departed actors in the scenes I had so breathlessly listened to.
So it was finally agreed upon that we should dine at Jack Ginger’s chambers in the Temple, seated in a lofty story in Essex Court. There was, besides our host, Tom Meggot, Joe Macgillicuddy, Humpy Harlow, Bob Burke, Antony Harrison, and myself. As Jack Ginger had little coin and no credit, we contributed each our share to the dinner. He himself provided room, fire, candle, tables, chairs, tablecloth, napkins—no, not napkins; on second thoughts we did not bother ourselves with napkins—plates, dishes, knives, forks, spoons (which he borrowed from the wig-maker), tumblers, lemons, sugar, water, glasses, decanters—by the by, I am not sure that there were decanters—salt, pepper,vinegar, mustard, bread, butter (plain and melted), cheese, radishes, potatoes, and cookery. Tom Meggot was a cod’s head and shoulders, and oysters to match—Joe Macgillicuddy, a boiled leg of pork, with pease-pudding—Humpy Harlow, a sirloin of beef roast, with horse-radish—Bob Burke, a gallon of half-and-half, and four bottles of whisky, of prime quality (“Potteen,” wrote the Whiskyman, “I say, by Jupiter, but of whichmany-factureHealone knows”)—Antony Harrison, half-a-dozen of port, he having tick to that extent at some unfortunate wine-merchant’s—and I supplied cigarsà discretion, and a bottle of rum, which I borrowed from a West Indian friend of mine as I passed by. So that, on the whole, we were in no danger of suffering from any of the extremes of hunger and thirst for the course of that evening.
We met at five o’clock—sharp—and very sharp. Not a man was missing when the clock of the Inner Temple struck the last stroke. Jack Ginger had done everything to admiration. Nothing could be more splendid than his turn-out. He had superintended the cooking himself of every individual dish with his own eyes—or rather eye—he having but one, the other having been lost in a skirmish when he was midshipman on board a pirate in the Brazilian service. “Ah!” said Jack, often and often, “these were my honest days. Gad! did I ever think when I was a pirate that I was at the end toturn rogue, and study the law!”—All was accurate to the utmost degree. The tablecloth, to be sure, was not exactly white, but it had been washed last week, and the collection of the plates was miscellaneous, exhibiting several of the choicest patterns of delf. We were not of the silver-fork school of poetry, but steel is not to be despised. If the table was somewhat rickety, the inequality in the legs was supplied by clapping a volume of Vesey under the short one. As for the chairs—but why weary about details? Chairs being made to be sat upon, it is sufficient to say that they answered their purposes; and whether they had backs or not—whether they were cane-bottomed, or hair-bottomed, or rush-bottomed, is nothing to the present inquiry.
Jack’s habits of discipline made him punctual, and dinner was on the table in less than three minutes after five. Down we sate, hungry as hunters and eager for the prey.
“Is there a parson in company?” said Jack Ginger, from the head of the table.
“No,” responded I, from the foot.
“Then, thank God,” said Jack, and proceeded, after this pious grace, to distribute the cod’s head and shoulders to the hungry multitude.
The history of that cod’s head and shoulders would occupy but little space to write. Its flakes, like the snow-flakes on a river, were for one moment bright, then gone for ever; it perished unpitiably. “Bring hither,” said Jack, with a firm voice, “the leg of pork.” It appeared, but soon to disappear again. Not a man of the company but showed his abhorrence of the Judaical practice of abstaining from the flesh of swine. Equally clear in a few moments was it that we were truly British in our devotion to beef. The sirloin was impartially destroyed on both sides, upper and under. Dire was the clatter of the knives, but deep the silence of the guests. Jerry Gallagher, Jack’s valet-de-chambre, footman, cook, clerk, shoeblack, aide-de-camp, scout, confidant, dun-chaser, bum-defyer, and many other officesin commendam, toiled like a hero. He covered himself with glory and gravy every moment. In a short time a vociferation arose for fluid, and the half-and-half—Whitbread quartered upon Chamyton—beautiful heraldry!—was inhaled with the most savage satisfaction.
“The pleasure of a glass of wine with you, Bob Burke,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“With pleasure, Joe,” replied Bob. “What wine do you choose? You may as well say port, for there is no other; but attention to manners always becomes a gentleman.”
“Port, then, if you please,” cried Joe, “as the ladies of Limerick say, when a man looks at them across the table.”
“Hobnobbing wastes time,” said Jack Ginger, laying down the pot out of which he had been drinking for the last few minutes; “and, besides, it is not customary now in genteel society—so pass the bottle about.”
[I here pause in my narrative to state, on more accurate recollection, that we had not decanters; we drank from the black bottle, which Jack declared was according to the fashion of the Continent.]
So the port was passed round, and declared to be superb. Antony Harrison received the unanimous applause of the company; and, if he did not blush at all the fine things that were said in his favour, it was because his countenance was of that peculiar hue that no addition of red could be visible upon it. A blush on Antony’s face would be like gilding refined gold.
Whether cheese is prohibited or not in the higher circles of the West End, I cannot tell; but I know it was not prohibited in the very highest chambers of the Temple.
“It’s double Gloucester,” said Jack Ginger;“prime, bought at the corner—Heaven pay the cheesemonger, for I shan’t—but, as he is a gentleman, I give you his health.”
“I don’t think,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, “that I ought to demean myself to drink the health of a cheesemonger; but I’ll not stop the bottle.”
And, to do Joe justice, he did not. Then we attacked the cheese, and in an incredibly short period we battered in a breach of an angle of 45 degrees, in a manner that would have done honour to any engineer that directed the guns at San Sebastian. The cheese, which on its first entry on the table presented the appearance of a plain circle, was soon made to exhibit a very different shape, as may be understood by the subjoined diagram:—
[A, original cheese; EBD, cheese after five minutes standing on the table; EBC, angle of 45°.]
With cheese came, and with cheese went, celery. It is unnecessary to repeat what a number of puns were made on that most pun-provoking of plants.
“Clear the decks,” said Jack Ginger to Jerry Gallagher. “Gentlemen, I did not think of getting pastry, or puddings, or dessert, or ices, or jellies,or blancmange, or anything of the sort, for men of sense like you.”
We all unanimously expressed our indignation at being supposed even for a moment guilty of any such weakness; but a general suspicion seemed to arise among us that a dram might not be rejected with the same marked scorn. Jack Ginger accordingly uncorked one of Bob Burke’s bottles. Whop! went the cork, and the potteen soon was seen meandering round the table.
“For my part,” said Antony Harrison, “I take this dram because I ate pork, and fear it might disagree with me.”
“I take it,” said Bob Burke, “chiefly by reason of the fish.”
“I take it,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, “because the day was warm, and it is very close in these chambers.”
“I take it,” said Tom Meggot, “because I have been very chilly all the day.”
“I take it,” said Humpy Harlow, “because it is such strange weather that one does not know what to do.”
“I take it,” said Jack Ginger, “because the rest of the company takes it.”
“And I take it,” said I, winding up the conversation, “because I like a dram.”
So we all took it for one reason or another—and there was an end of that.
“Be off, Jerry Gallagher,” said Jack—“I give to you, your heirs and assigns, all that and those which remains in the pots of half-and-half—item for your own dinners what is left of the solids—and when you have pared the bones clean, you may give them to the poor. Charity covers a multitude of sins. Brush away like a shoeblack—and levant.”
“Why, thin, God bless your honour,” said Jerry Gallagher, “it’s a small liggacy he would have that would dippind for his daily bread for what is left behind any of ye in the way of the drink—and this blessed hour there’s not as much as would blind the left eye of a midge in one of them pots—and may it do you all good, if it ain’t the blessing of heaven to see you eating. By my sowl, he that has to pick a bone after you, won’t be much troubled with the mate. Howsomever—”
“No more prate,” said Jack Ginger. “Here’s twopence for you to buy some beer—but, no,” he continued, drawing his empty hand from that breeches-pocket into which he had most needlessly put it—“no,” said he, “Jerry—get it on credit wherever you can, and bid them score it to me.”
“If they will—” said Jerry.
“Shut the door,” said Jack Ginger, in a peremptory tone, and Jerry retreated.
“That Jerry,” said Jack, “is an uncommonly honest fellow, only he is the d——dest rogue in London. But all this is wasting time—and time islife. Dinner is over, and the business of the evening is about to begin. So, bumpers, gentlemen, and get rid of this wine as fast as we can. Mr Vice, look to your bottles.”
And on this, Jack Ginger gave a bumper toast.
This being done, every man pulled in his chair close to the table, and prepared for serious action. It was plain that we all, like Nelson’s sailors at Trafalgar, felt called upon to do our duty. The wine circulated with considerable rapidity; and there was no flinching on the part of any individual of the company. It was quite needless for our president to remind us of the necessity of bumpers, or the impropriety of leaving heel-taps. We were all too well trained to require the admonition, or to fall into the error. On the other hand, the chance of any man obtaining more than his share in the round was infinitesimally small. The Sergeant himself, celebrated as he is, could not have succeeded in obtaining a glass more than his neighbours. Just to our friends, we were also just to ourselves; and a more rigid circle of philosophers never surrounded a board.
The wine was really good, and its merits did not appear the less striking from the fact that we were not habitually winebibbers, our devotion generally being paid to fluids more potent or more heavy than the juice of the grape, and it soon excited our powers of conversation. Heavens! what a flow of soul! More good things were said in Jack Ginger’s chambers that evening, than in the Houses of Lords and Commons in a month. We talked of everything—politics, literature, the fine arts, drama, high life, low life, the opera, the cockpit—everything from the heavens above to the hells in St James’s Street. There was not an article in a morning, evening, or weekly paper for the week before, which we did not repeat. It was clear that our knowledge of things in general was drawn in a vast degree from these recondite sources. In politics, we were harmonious—we were Tories to a man, and defied the Radicals of all classes, ranks, and conditions. We deplored the ruin of our country, and breathed a sigh over the depression of the agricultural interest. We gave it as our opinion that Don Miguel should be King of Portugal—and that Don Carlos, if he had the pluck of the most nameless of insects, could ascend the throne of Spain. We pitched Louis Philippe to that place which is never mentioned to ears polite, and drank the health of the Duchess of Berri. Opinions differed somewhat about the Emperor of Russia—some thinking thathe was too hard on the Poles—others gently blaming him for not squeezing them much tighter. Antony Harrison, who had seen the Grand Duke Constantine, when he was campaigning, spoke with tears in his eyes of that illustrious prince—declaring him, with an oath, to have been a d——d good fellow. As for Leopold, we unanimously voted him to be a scurvy hound; and Joe Macgillicuddy was pleased to say something complimentary of the Prince of Orange, which would have, no doubt, much gratified his Royal Highness, if it had been communicated to him, but I fear it never reached his ears.
Turning to domestic policy—we gave it to the Whigs in high style. If Lord Grey had been within hearing, he must have instantly resigned—he never could have resisted the thunders of our eloquence. All the hundred and one Greys would have been forgotten—he must have sunk before us. Had Brougham been there, he would have been converted to Toryism long before he could have got to the state of tipsyfication in which he sometimes addresses the House of Lords. There was not a topic left undiscussed. With one hand we arranged Ireland—with another put the Colonies in order. Catholic Emancipation was severely condemned, and Bob Burke gave the glorious, pious, and immortal memory. The vote of £20,000,000 to the greasy blacks was much reprobated, and theopening of the China trade declared a humbug. We spoke, in fact, articles that would have made the fortunes of half a hundred magazines, if the editors of those works would have had the perspicacity to insert them; and this we did with such ease to ourselves, that we never for a moment stopped the circulation of the bottle, which kept running on its round rejoicing, while we settled the affairs of the nation.
Then Antony Harrison told us all his campaigns in the Peninsula, and that capital story how he bilked the tavern-keeper in Portsmouth. Jack Ginger entertained us with an account of his transactions in the Brazils; and as Jack’s imagination far outruns his attention to matters of fact, we had them considerably improved. Bob Burke gave us all the particulars of his duel with Ensign Brady of the 48th, and how he hit him on the waistcoat pocket, which, fortunately for the Ensign, contained a five-shilling piece (how he got it was never accounted for), which saved him from grim death. From Joe Macgillicuddy we heard multifarious narrations of steeple-chases in Tipperary, and of his hunting with the Blazers in Galway. Tom Meggot expatiated on his college adventures in Edinburgh, which he maintained to be a far superior city to London, and repeated sundry witty sayings of the advocates in the Parliament House, who seem to be gentlemen of great facetiousness. As for me,I emptied out all Joe Miller on the company; and if old Joe could have burst his cerements in the neighbouring churchyard of St Clement Danes, he would have been infinitely delighted with the reception which the contents of his agreeable miscellany met with. To tell the truth, my jokes were not more known to my companions than their stories were to me. Harrison’s campaigns, Ginger’s cruises, Burke’s duel, Macgillicuddy’s steeple-chases, and Tom Meggot’s rows in the High Street, had been told over and over—so often indeed, that the several relaters begin to believe that there is some foundation in fact for the wonders which they are continually repeating.
“I perceive this is the last bottle of port,” said Jack Ginger; “so I suppose that there cannot be any harm in drinking bad luck to Antony Harrison’s wine-merchant, who did not make it the dozen.”
“Yes,” said Harrison, “the skinflint thief would not stand more than the half, for which he merits the most infinite certainty of non-payment.”
(You may depend upon it that Harrison was as good as his word, and treated the man of bottles according to his deserts.)
The port was gathered to its fathers, and potteen reigned in its stead. A most interesting discussion took place as to what was to be done with it. No doubt, indeed, existed as to its final destination; but various opinions were broached as to the mannerin which it was to make its way to its appointed end. Some wished that every man should make for himself; but that Jack Ginger strenuously opposed, because he said it would render the drinking unsteady. The company divided into two parties on the great questions of bowl or jug. The Irishmen maintained the cause of the latter. Tom Meggot, who had been reared in Glasgow, and Jack Ginger, who did not forget his sailor propensities, were in favour of the former. Much erudition was displayed on both sides, and I believe I may safely say, that every topic that either learning or experience could suggest, was exhausted. At length we called for a division, when there appeared—
FOR THE JUG.FOR THE BOWL.Bob Burke,Jack Ginger,Joe Macgillicuddy,Humpy Harlow,Antony Harrison,Tom Meggot,Myself.Majority 1, in favour of the jug.
I was principally moved to vote as I did, because I deferred to the Irishmen, as persons who were best acquainted with the nature of potteen; and Antony Harrison was on the same side from former recollections of his quarterings in Ireland. Humpy Harlow said that he made it a point always to side with the man of the house.
“It is settled,” said Jack Ginger, “and, as wesaid of Parliamentary Reform, though we opposed it, it is now law, and must be obeyed. I’ll clear away these marines, and do you, Bob Burke, make the punch. I think you will find the lemons good—the sugar superb—and the water of the Temple has been famous for centuries.”
“And I’ll back the potteen against any that ever came from the Island of Saints,” said Bob, proceeding to his duty, which all who have the honour of his acquaintance will admit him to be well qualified to perform. He made it in a couple of big blue water-jugs, observing that making punch in small jugs was nearly as great a bother as ladling from a bowl; and as he tossed the steamy fluid from jug to jug to mix it kindly, he sang the pathetic ballad of Hugger-mo-fane—
“I wish I had a red herring’s tail,” &c.
It was an agreeable picture of continued use and ornament, and reminded us strongly of the Abyssinian maid of the Platonic poetry of Coleridge.
The punch being made, and the jug revolving, the conversation continued as before. But it may have been observed that I have not taken anynotice of the share which one of the party, Humpy Harlow, took in it. The fact is, that he had been silent for almost all the evening, being outblazed and overborne by the brilliancy of the conversation of his companions. We were all acknowledged wits in our respective lines, whereas he had not been endowed with the same talents. How he came among us I forget; nor did any of us know well who or what he was. Some maintained he was a drysalter in the City; others surmised that he might be a pawnbroker at the West End. Certain it is that he had some money, which perhaps might have recommended him to us, for there was not a man in the company who had not occasionally borrowed from him a sum, too trifling, in general, to permit any of us to think of repaying it. He was a broken-backed little fellow, as vain of his person as a peacock, and accordingly we always called him Humpy Harlow, with the spirit of gentlemanlike candour which characterised all our conversation. With a kind feeling towards him, we in general permitted him to pay our bills for us whenever we dined together at tavern or chop-house, merely to gratify the little fellow’s vanity, which I have already hinted to be excessive.
He had this evening made many ineffectual attempts to shine, but was at last obliged to content himself with opening his mouth for the admission, not for the utterance, of good things. He wasevidently unhappy, and a rightly constituted mind could not avoid pitying his condition. As jug, however, succeeded jug, he began to recover his self-possession; and it was clear, about eleven o’clock, when the fourth bottle of potteen was converting into punch, that he had a desire to speak. We had been for some time busily employed in smoking cigars, when, all on a sudden, a shrill and sharp voice was heard from the midst of a cloud, exclaiming, in a high treble key—
“Humphries told me”——
We all puffed our Havannahs with the utmost silence, as if we were so many Sachems at a palaver, listening to the narration which issued from the misty tabernacle in which Humpy Harlow was enveloped. He unfolded a tale of wondrous length, which we never interrupted. No sound was heard save that of the voice of Harlow, narrating the story which had to him been confided by the unknown Humphries, or the gentle gliding of the jug, an occasional tingle of a glass, and the soft suspiration of the cigar. On moved the story in its length, breadth, and thickness, for Harlow gave it to us in its full dimensions. He abated it not a jot. The firmness which we displayed was unequalled since the battle of Waterloo. We sat with determined countenances, exhaling smoke and inhaling punch, while the voice still rolled onward. At last Harlow came to an end; and a Babel of conversation burstfrom lips in which it had been so long imprisoned. Harlow looked proud of his feat, and obtained the thanks of the company, grateful that he had come to a conclusion. How we finished the potteen—converted my bottle of rum into a bowl—(for here Jack Ginger prevailed)—how Jerry Gallagher, by superhuman exertions, succeeded in raising a couple of hundred of oysters for supper—how the company separated, each to get to his domicile as he could—how I found, in the morning, my personal liberty outraged by the hands of that unconstitutional band of gens-d’armes created for the direct purposes of tyranny, and held up to the indignation of all England by the weekly eloquence of theDespatch—how I was introduced to the attention of a magistrate, and recorded in the diurnal page of the newspaper—all this must be left to other historians to narrate.
At three o’clock on the day after the dinner, Antony Harrison and I found ourselves eating bread and cheese—part ofthecheese—at Jack Ginger’s. We recapitulated the events of the preceding evening, and expressed ourselves highly gratified with the entertainment. Most of the good things wehad said were revived, served up again, and laughed at once more. We were perfectly satisfied with the parts which we had respectively played, and talked ourselves into excessive good-humour. All on a sudden Jack Ginger’s countenance clouded. He was evidently puzzled; and sat for a moment in thoughtful silence. We asked him, with Oriental simplicity of sense, “Why art thou troubled?” and till a moment he answered—
“Whatwasthe story which Humpy Harlow told us about eleven o’clock last night, just as Bob Burke was teeming the last jug?”
“It began,” said I, “with ‘Humphries told me.’”
“It did,” said Antony Harrison, cutting a deep incision into the cheese.
“I know it did,” said Jack Ginger; “but what was it that Humphries had told him? I cannot recollect it if I was to be made Lord Chancellor.”
Antony Harrison and I mused in silence, and racked our brains, but to no purpose. On the tablet of our memories no trace had been engraved, and the tale of Humphries, as reported by Harlow, was as if it were not, so far as we were concerned.
While we were in this perplexity, Joe Macgillicuddy and Bob Burke entered the room.
“We have been just taking a hair of the same dog,” said Joe. “It was a pleasant party we had last night. Do you know what Bob and I have been talking of for the last half-hour?”
We professed our inability to conjecture.
“Why, then,” continued Joe, “it was about the story that Harlow told last night.”
“The story begins with ‘Humphries told me,’” said Bob.
“And,” proceeded Joe, “for our lives we cannot recollect what it was.”
“Wonderful!” we all exclaimed. “How inscrutable are the movements of the human mind.”
And we proceeded to reflect on the frailty of our memories, moralising in a strain that would have done honour to Dr Johnson.
“Perhaps,” said I, “Tom Meggot may recollect it.”
Idle hope! dispersed to the winds almost as soon as it was formed. For the words had scarcely passed “the bulwark of my teeth,” when Tom appeared, looking excessively bloodshot in the eye. On inquiry, it turned out that he, like the rest of us, remembered only the cabalistic words which introduced the tale, but of the tale itself, nothing.
Tom had been educated at Edinburgh, and was strongly attached to what he callsmetapheesicks; and, accordingly, after rubbing his forehead, he exclaimed—
“This is a psychological curiosity, which deserves to be developed. I happen to have half a sovereign about me” (an assertion which, I may remark in passing, excited considerable surprise in his audience),“and I’ll ask Harlow to dine with me at the Rainbow. I’ll get the story out of the Humpy rascal—and no mistake.”
We acquiesced in the propriety of this proceeding; and Antony Harrison, observing that he happened by chance to be disengaged, hooked himself on Tom, who seemed to have a sort of national antipathy to such a ceremony, with a talent and alacrity that proved him to be a veteran warrior, or what, in common parlance, is called an old soldier.
Tom succeeded in getting Harlow to dinner, and Harrison succeeded in making him pay the bill, to the great relief of Meggot’s half sovereign, and they parted at an early hour in the morning. The two Irishmen and myself were at Ginger’s shortly after breakfast; we had been part occupied in tossing halfpence to decide which of us was to send out for ale, when—Harrison and Meggot appeared. There was conscious confusion written in their countenances. “Did Humpy Harlow tell youthatstory?” we all exclaimed at once.
“It cannot be denied that he did,” said Meggot. “Precisely as the clock struck eleven, he commenced with ‘Humphries told me.’”
“Well—and what then?”
“Why, there it is,” said Antony Harrison, “may I be drummed out if I can recollect another word.”
“Nor I,” said Meggot.
The strangeness of this singular adventure madea deep impression on us all. We were sunk in silence for some minutes, during which Jerry Gallagher made his appearance with the ale, which I omitted to mention had been lost by Joe Macgillicuddy. We sipped that British beverage, much abstracted in deep thought. The thing appeared to us perfectly inscrutable. At last I said, “This never will do—we cannot exist much longer in this atmosphere of doubt and uncertainty. We must have it out of Harlow to-night, or there is an end of all the grounds and degrees of belief, opinion, and assent. I have credit,” said I, “at the widow’s, in St Martin’s Lane. Suppose we all meet there to-night, and get Harlow there if we can?”
“That I can do,” said Antony Harrison, “for I quartered myself to dine with him to-day, as I saw him home, poor little fellow, last night. I promise that he figures at the widow’s to-night at nine o’clock.”
So we separated. At nine every man of the party was in St Martin’s Lane, seated in the little back parlour; and Harrison was as good as his word, for he brought Harlow with him. He ordered a sumptuous supper of mutton kidneys, interspersed with sausages, and set to. At eleven o’clock precisely, the eye of Harlow brightened, and putting his pipe down, he commenced with a shrill voice—
“Humphries told me——”
“Ay,” said we all, with one accord, “here itis—now we shall have it—take care of it this time.”
“What do you mean?” said Humpy Harlow, performing that feat which by the illustrious Mr John Keeve is called “flaring up.”
“Nothing,” we replied, “nothing, but we are anxious to hear that story.”
“I understand you,” said our broken-backed friend. “I now recollect that I did tell it once or so before in your company, but I shall not be a butt any longer for you or anybody else.”
“Don’t be in a passion, Humpy,” said Jack Ginger.
“Sir,” replied Harlow, “I hate nicknames—it is a mark of a low mind to use them—and as I see I am brought here only to be insulted, I shall not trouble you any longer with my company.”
Saying this, the little man seized his hat and umbrella, and strode out of the room.
“His back is up,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, “and there’s no use of trying to get it down. I am sorry he is gone, because I should have made him pay for another round.”
But he was gone, not to return again—and the story remains unknown. Yea, as undiscoverable as the hieroglyphical writings of the ancient Egyptians. It exists, to be sure, in the breast of Harlow; but there it is buried, never to emerge into the light of day. It is lost to the world—andmeans of recovering it, there, in my opinion, exist none. The world must go on without it, and states and empires must continue to flourish and to fade without the knowledge of what it was that Humphries told Harlow. Such is the inevitable course of events.
For my part, I shall be satisfied with what I have done in drawing up this accurate and authentic narrative, if I can seriously impress on the minds of my readers the perishable nature of mundane affairs—if I can make them reflect that memory itself, the noblest, perhaps the characteristic, quality of the human mind, will decay, even while other faculties exist—and that, in the words of a celebrated Lord of Trade and Plantations, of the name of John Locke, “we may be like the tombs to which we are hastening, where, though the brass and marble remain, yet the imagery is defaced, and the inscription is blotted out for ever!”
“I do not say it is possible—I only say it is true.”
Elizabeth was a wonderful princess for wisdom, learning, magnificence, and grandeur of soul. All this was fine,—but she was as envious as a decayed beauty—jealous and cruel—and that spoiled all. However, be her defects what they may, her fame had pierced even to the depths of Germany, whence the Enchanter Faustus set off for her court, that great magician wishing to ascertain by his own wits, whether Elizabeth was as gifted with good qualities as she was with bad. No one could judge this for him so well as himself, who read the stars like his A B C, and whom Satan obeyed like his dog—yet, withal, who was not above a thousand pleasant tricks, that make people laugh, and hurt no one: such, for instance, as turning anold lord into an old lady, to elope with his cook-maid—exchanging a handsome wife for an ugly one, &c. &c.
The Queen, charmed with the pretty things which she heard of him, wished much to see him—and from the moment that she did, became quite fascinated. On his side, he found her better than he had expected; not but that he perceived she thought a great deal too much of her wit—though she had a tolerable share of it; and still more of her beauty—of which she had rather less.
One day that she was dressed with extraordinary splendour, to give audience to some ambassadors, she retired into her cabinet at the close of the ceremony, and sent for the Doctor. After having gazed at herself in all the mirrors in the room, and seeming very well pleased with their reflection,—for her roses and lilies were as good as gold could buy, her petticoat high enough to show her ankle, and her frill low to expose her bosom,—she sat downen attitude, in her great chair. It was thus the Enchanter Faustus found her. He was the most adroit courtier that you could find, though you searched the world over. For though there are good reasons why a courtier may not be a conjuror, there are none why a conjuror may not be a courtier; and Faustus, both in one—knowing the Queen’s foible as to her imaginary beauty—took care not to let slip so fine an opportunity of paying his court. Hewas wonderstruck, thunderstruck, at such a blaze of perfection. Elizabeth knew how to appreciate the moment of surprise. She drew a magnificent ruby from her finger, which the Doctor, without making difficulties about it, drew on his.
“You find me then passable for a Queen?” said she, smiling. On this he wished himself at the devil (his old resting-place), if, not alone that he had ever seen, but if anybody else had ever seen, either queen or subject to equal her.
“Oh, Faustus, my friend,” replied she, “could the beauties of antiquity return, we should soon see what a flatterer you are!”
“I dare the proof,” returned the Doctor. “If your Majesty will it—but speak, and they are here.”
Faustus, of course, never expected to be taken at his word; but whether Elizabeth wished to see if magic could perform the miracle, or to satisfy a curiosity that had often tormented her, she expressed herself amazingly pleased at the idea, and begged it might be immediately realised.
Faustus then requested her Majesty to pass into a little gallery near the apartment, while he went for his book, his ring, and his large black mantle.
All this was done nearly as soon as said. There was a door at each end of the gallery, and it was decided that the beauties should come in at one, and go out at the other, so that the Queen might havea fair view of them. Only two of the courtiers were admitted to this exhibition; these were the Earl of Essex and Sir Philip Sydney.
Her Majesty was seated in the middle of the gallery, with the Earl and the Knight standing to the right and left of her chair. The enchanter did not forget to trace round them and their mistress certain mysterious circles, with all the grimaces and contortions of the time. He then drew another opposite to it, within which he took his own station, leaving a space between for the actors.
When this was finished, he begged the Queen not to speak a word while they should be on the stage; and, above all, not to appear frightened, let her see what she might.
The latter precaution was needless, for the good Queen feared neither angel nor devil. And now the Doctor inquired whatbelleof antiquity she would first see.
“To follow the order of time,” she answered, “they should commence withHelen.”
The magician, with a changing countenance, now exclaimed, “Sit still!”
Sydney’s heart beat quick. The brave Essex turned pale. As to the Queen, not the slightest emotion was perceptible.
Faustus soon commenced some muttered incantations and strange evolutions, such as were the fashion of the day for conjurors. Anon the galleryshook, so did the two courtiers, and the Doctor, in a voice of anger, called out,