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[-184-]
XVII.
DAYBREAK.
IT is but a narrow thread of grayish hue, streaking the murky
horizon in the quarter the sun comes from, that I take to spin my feeble web
from. Fragile it is, and of as little account as the long, slender, attenuated
filament I have seen stretching from the limbs of an oak (whose frame has grown
gaunter, but whose muscles seem to grow stronger in its rigid, iron knots, like
those of an old athlete) down to the cowslips in a field beneath: the aerial
suspension bridge of the spider. Break of day is my slender, gray, flickering
thread; but Day and Night are the strong oak and the wide field they connect;
and my thread may serve as a humble link between two mighty subjects.
And my thread - daybreak - should it not be a chord in the
harp on which Nature at least for ever sings hymns of praise; if men do
sometimes fail to pray? And daybreak, is it not a bell, a marriage-bell to
millions - a passing-bell to dying millions too - a joy-bell and a knell of
death? And daybreak, is it not the main, from which tend smaller pipes of light?
And daybreak, is it not the chandelier at which both wise and foolish virgins
kindle their lamps, to light them their day's work through? The night may seem
lifelong; hut daybreak comes: it must come - like Death.
Yet, omnipresent as it is, how many children of humanity
there be who rise, and work, and go to bed again, through a lifetime, without
once beholding my thread. 'Does one man in a million,' asks Paley, in the
Natural Theology, 'know how oval frames are turned?' - Is there one man in a
thousand, I will less boldly ask, who has seen the break of day? [-185-]
If all had seen it, what would there be left for me to write about? If
everybody knew everything, how many, many days the poor schoolmasters and
philosophers would have to wait for the bread they had cast on the waters!
What aspect, observation, has daybreak on a railway? We have
left London by the night mail for Liverpool. It is August weather, and day
breaks just after we have passed Crewe. With a rasping, shattering express
motion have we come over the rails. Reading was out of the question. A pale
gentleman in spectacles essayed it at Watford; but the letters danced up and
down in all manner of ways against his gold-rimmed pebbles, as though the matrix
they (the letters) had descended from had been a maniac; and they, in
consequence, mad type, wholly unsuitable for so grave a work as 'The
Architectural Psychology of the Middle Ages, as Exhibited in Flying Buttresses,'
which the pale gentleman essayed to peruse but gave up at last in despair.
Another traveller, a political-looking man with gray whiskers
and a determined neckcloth - the sort of man, I warrant, who looks sharply after
the member for his borough, and heads a requisition to him to resign his seat
two or three times in the course of a session - tried also to read a leader in
that day's 'Times;' but, in spite of the large, bold type, and of his folding
the paper into a small, fierce compass, and holding it with both hands, with a
paper-knife pressed over the line immediately below the one he read, and so
moved downwards, and nearly gluing his eyes to it in the bargain; in spite of
this he had no better success; and muttering 'Unprincipled print' (doubtless
because he couldn't read it), went austerely to sleep, and dreamed, probably, of
the brisk rubbing up he will give the honourable member for Throttlebury,
shortly, concerning his infamous tergiversation about that poor burked little
bill which was to have given sewers to Throttlebury. A commercial gentleman,
with his great-coat full of gold pencil-cases, vainly attempted at Rugby to jot
down an order in his note-book, and failing to make anything but incoherent
zigzag diagrams, bound a railway rug round his head till it assumed the
semblance of a grenadier's cap that had been stencilled at a paper-stainer's,
and went to sleep, too. Somebody (I hope he didn't sit near me), not being able
to read, or to sleep, or to snore and gasp and bark like the ball of something
with a wide-awake hat in the left-hand off corner, and afraid to sing, presumed
to smoke, swal-[-186-]lowing the major part of the
fumes through modesty, and tilting the ashes cautiously out of the little
Venetian jaloosies above the window.
We all got out at Wolverton, where the commercial traveller
disappeared - perhaps to take an order for pork pies; and the pale gentleman in
spectacles was indignant (and justly so, I think), that he could not have
threepenn'orth of brandy in his tea. So, through the black night have we rushed
fiercely through black county after county. At Stafford, the ball of something
(which has turned out to be camlet cloak), speaking for the first and last time,
has remarked that 'it is a long train' (which it is not). At some intermediate
station - whose name, as it was yelped forth by a porter as he hurried by
thrusting grease into the hot greedy maw of the axle-box, might just as well
have been cried in Chaldee or Sanscrit for anything I could make of it - a
simpering gentleman with a gold chain peeping even from among his many coats,
and a Fez cap, proposed to enter the carriage; but, drawing back, declared that
somebody had been 'smoking,' and that it was a 'disgwace;' whereupon the guard
asked nobody in particular if anybody had been smoking; and, seeming perfectly
satisfied with the assurance that nobody had, remarked that 'it was the
engine-maybe,' and popped my simpering gentleman into the next carriage, in
which there were two old maids, one purple satin lady of Lambertian or
Armitagian bulk, a young child (querulous), a black nurse, and a gentleman
subject to fits - having them, too, every other station or so. No smoking there!
Far behind lies Crewe, though but a minute passed. I draw
down the window, and the keen morning breeze charges in at the aperture like a
Cossack. And in the eastern horizon Day breaks. How many cocks, I wonder, in all
the lands day breaks upon are singing their morning hymn now? I listen for one
Chanticleer; but the engine has a crow of its own, and a yell for going into
tunnels, and a howl for coming out of them, and hideous noises for all seasons
and every inch of the road. All the cocks in Lancashire might crow themselves
hoarse ere I could hear them amid this din.
Day breaks fast, and the slender gray thread expands into a
wide sheet of pale light. Against it the coldly violet clouds are defined in
sharp and rigid relief. These are the fragments of the veil of night yielding
slowly, and, as it were, reluctantly, to daylight. Slower and slower, almost
imper-[-187-]ceptibly, as day gains on night, one
great hank of cloud sinks in nearly a horizontal line into Erebus, like a pair
of flats in a theatrical spectacle; but the side pieces of clouds - the wings
and set pieces, if I may call them so - split up into jagged, obstinate,
refractory cloudlets over the sky, which by this time has turned from ashy
pallid gray to silver blue - not sky-blue, as we generally understand it, yet -
but a blue like that we see in the shadow part of silver lace. These clouds are
of fantastic shapes: some are dark slices, long, and almost mathematically
straight; others torn and zigzag-shaped; some take the semblance of fiendish
heads, and hideous animals with more legs than were ever dreamt of in the
philosophy of Buffon or Cuvier. Fast as the day breaks, and broad daylight as it
is by this time, the genial, warming influence of the blessed sun is yet
wanting. The guests are bidden and the banquet is spread; but the bride and
bridegroom are not come home from church yet. The contract is drawn up, but
lacks the signature. The pyre is heaped up and needs only one friendly torch to
set it in a blaze.
Coldly garish yet is the white, sunless day. Funereally black
and dismal loom tufted masses of tall trees - their urnbrageous mantles
chequered here and there by diamond flashes of the sunlight coming up behind
them. Coldly gray are the wide leas and ploughed fields. Coldly black are the
hedgerows, and hayricks, and stunted pollard willows, and lonely cowshippons.
Coldly dark and dismal, rear their heads, the roofed posts of the electric
telegraph - looking, in the dubious light, like gibbets. Coldly the wind keeps
blowing in at the window; so at least tells me my fellow-traveller in the gold
pencil line-tells me so, too, in a remarkably discourteous tone, with some
nonsensical allusion to the ear-ache. I shut the window and pity him. He thinks
nothing of the break of day - thinks about it no more, nay, not so much as that
flapping crow overhead - no more than that rustic in the clay-soiled fustian,
who has been up since three to fodder the cows and lead Ball and Dapple to the
pond to drink, and who now leans over a gate on the line, smoking his
break-of-day pipe, and whistling bewhiles. And yet, perhaps, I libel this
clay-stained man. Perchance he does think of day and of its Maker-in his
own rough untutored way sees in the clouds, and the sky, and the light, as clear
a connection between the varied Nature and the varied God, as he knows to exist
between. the two plain sets of iron rails [-188-]
on the gravel road before him, and the mighty terminus at Euston Square-two
hundred miles away.
Wra-a-a-ah! the train enters a tunnel. All is black for half
a dozen minutes-then emerging, we see the sun getting imp in the East like a
refreshed generous giant, scattering gold over the world.
Break of day after the Honourable Mrs. Plover's soirée
dansante. The Honourable Mrs. Plover was the youngest and seventh daughter
of General the Earl of Duxandraques of Liverwing Hall. The footmen at Liverwing
have had for some years a somewhat Hebrew-Caucasian cast of countenance, and
evil-minded men do say they are bailiffs in disguise. The noble lord's solicitor
and heirs male do not dare to trust him, if they can help it, with as much wood
as would serve for a lucifer match - so addicted is he to cutting down the
timber on his estate, and afterwards 'cutting away' with the ligneous proceeds
to Hombourg or Baden-Baden. The Honourable Miss de Bressbohun (that is the
family name of the Duxandraques) had for her fortune only a remarkably pretty
face, and an assortment of the most captivating blonde ringlets you ever saw; so
she married Mr. Rufus Plover, who is ambiguously known to be 'on 'Change' and
brings fabulously large sums of money off it. They have a grand country-house at
Gunnersbury, and a sweet little marine villa at Brighton - all Venetian blinds
and dazzling stucco; and, to crown all, a jewel of a house, Number 402 (A),
Toppletoton Street, Crinoline Square. In this Elysian mansion (Madame de
Pompadour could not have spent more in upholstery upon it than did Mrs. Plover,)
the enchanting soirees dansantes of the Honourable Mrs. P. are held.
This had been a grand night for the P. family. Half Long Acre
in the way of carriages. Half the Heralds' College in the armorial bearings on
the coach panels. Quite a Zoological Garden of lions rampant, couchant, and
passant, griffins sparring wildly with their paws at inoffensive shields, and
birds', beasts', and fishes' heads drawn and quartered in every imaginary way.
Quite a little course of 'Latin without a master' in the heraldic mottos.
And such company! No merchants, nor ship-owners, nor people
of that sort - not even one of Mr. Plover's 'Exchange' friends. Their exclusion
was won from Mr. P. after a hard battle the very morning of the ball, and only
after the concession on the part of his lady of two trifles and a model of the
[-189-] Great Exhibition in confectionary, to be withdrawn from the menu
of the supper. The nearest approach to commerce among the guests was the
great Sir Blanke Cheque, the banker of Lombard Street, who has three daughters
married to peers of the realm, and one to the Russian Count Candleatevich, who
is immensely rich, but dare not return to Russia, where he would infallibly be
knouted, have his nose and ears slit, and be sent to Tobolsk, for daring to
overstay the time allowed him by the Czar for a continental trip, and for
presuming to go to a concert where Miss Crotchet sang the 'Fair Land of Poland;'
a due minute of which last crime was made the very next day by little Juda
Benikowski, the Muscovite* (*Nous avons changé tout ca - will say my Russian
friends, who have so improved in civilisation within the last two years,
that happening to turn over the leaves of a book called the "Journey due
North" the other day at a stall - [the "Journey" was marked
eightpence] - I thought I was reading the narrative of a nightmare.) Jew
spy, and duly recorded against the count in the archives of the Russian
Consulate General. Among the company was the noble Duke and Duchess of Garternee;
the Earl and Countes of Anchorsheet, and Ladies Fitzfluke (2); Field- Marshal
Count Schlaghintern; the Ban of Lithuania; the Waywode of Bosnia; the Hospodar
of Thrace; the new Bishop of Yellowjack Island, West Indies, the Mac Kit of that
ilk in full Highland costume, with a dirk in his stocking worth five hundred
pounds - having come to Mrs. Plover's straight from the anniversary of the
Tossancaber Highland Association, where he danced more strathspeys on the table,
emptied more mulls of snuff, and drank more glasses of whisky than I care to
name. Then there was Chibouck Pasha, in a tight frock-coat like that of an
inspector of police, but with a blister of diamonds on his breast, a red cap,
and a gorgeous beard.
There was Mr. Vatican O'Phocleide, M.P. for Barrybugle,
Ireland, who had a slight dispute with the Hansom cabman who brought him to
Toppletoton Street, and threatened to inflict personal chastisement on Berkely
Montmorency, Mrs. P.'s sergeant-footman, for not rightly announcing his style
and titles. There was old General Halberts, who served in the Prussian army at
Leipsic, who was about sixty years of age when that battle was fought, but is
about fifty- one or two now, has very black hair and whiskers and mustachoes,
but being rather shaky and tremulous (not with [-190-] age,
of course), got nervous at the great confusion of carriages at the top of the
street, and chose to dismount and walk to 402 (A), whereby he became entangled
between one of Mr. Bunter's pastry-cook's men, and Ludovico Scartafaccio from
Modena (with his orchestra on wheels, drawn by a pony of a Modenese cast of
countenance), and unluckily hooked himself on to an area railing by his
diamond-hilted sabre, and the collar of the Golden Fleece, from which unpleasant
position he was at length extricated by policeman P. 95, and Silver Sam, the
link-boy.
Finally, to mention a few more notabilities, there was
Bohwanie-Lall, from Calcutta, a being strongly resembling a cocoa-nut candle
swathed in a pair of white muslin curtains, bound round with bell-ropes of
diamonds, pearls, and emeralds, and surmounted by a toupee of
birds-of-paradise feathers. There was the author of the last new novel, and the
last new painter, and the last new preacher, and the last new lion of whatever
shape or degree he might be. There was Professor Oxalicacides, from Breslau,
who, in his lectures on hygiene lately, gravely hinted his suspicions
that the English sweet-stuff makers adulterated Everton toffee with sugar of
lead and aqua tofana. There was Madame Sostenuta, and Mademoiselle Orphea
Sospianti, and Signor Portamento from the Italian Opera, engaged to sing
professionally; and with them Herr Bompazek, the great German basso, with a
voice from the tombs, and hair dreadfully long and dishevelled. There were
battalions of grand old dowagers in various stages of velvet and satin, more or
less airy. There were frigid chaperons, so awful in their impressiveness that
they seemed to possess the capacity of doing the office of Medusa's head for you
at once. There were anxious mammas; and simpering young dandies in colossal
white neckcloths, and feet so tiny as to endanger their centre of gravity, and
to render their tumbling over in the midst of a quadrille anything but unlikely.
There were flushed-faced old papas. There was Jullien's band; and there were
cohorts, Pyrrhic phalanxes, of the dear English girls, the forms, the faces, the
bright eyes, the red lips, the laughing lips that I will defy you to match -
Mademoiselle Eulalie, or Signora Bianca, or Fräulein Trudschen, or Donna Inez,
or Sudarinia Nadiezda, or Khanoum Haidee, Gulnare, or Dudu, any summer or
winter's day the whole year through. And so, through the noise of the night
season, the Hon. Mrs. Plover's soirée dansante proceeded.
[-191-] How many quadrilles, and
polkas, valses a deux temps, Schottisches and mazurkas there were.
How the 'lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;' how 'a thousand hearts beat
happily,' and 'eyes looked love to eyes which spoke again;' how hands were
squeezed in conservatories, and soft nothings whispered in balconies; how
crushed white roses were ravished from unresisting Sabines by impetuous
dragoons, and tulle ribbons purloined by Cupid-struck undergraduates of the
University of Oxford, tell, philosopher in the ill-washed neck- cloth and the
dress-coat, to whose appearance candle-light was a decided advantage -
philosopher, too awkward to dance, too timid to play whist, too moody to do
aught else save lounge against doorposts and observe. How Lord Claude Pettitoes
proposed (over strawberry ice) to Mrs. Vanilla, the Cuban widow; how rude
General Halberts made a dash at a model of Osler's crystal fountain in
barley-sugar, and ate the fluted column up bodily. How Chibouck Pacha quaffed
champagne till his face shone again; and Lady Blanche Pettitoes (sister of Lord
Claude and daughter of the Marchioness of Dayryfedde) complained to her mamma,
that he, the Pacha, squeezed her; how Mr. Remanet, M.P., insisted on talking
agricultural statistics to his partner; how the various lions - literary,
artistic, and scientific-howled, roared, and were stirred up with poles of
different lengths and were trotted out in different corners of the different salons.
How dancing commenced again after supper; how Mrs. Plover was here, there,
and everywhere, with a smile for everybody and frown for nobody, save that sad
fellow the member for Barrybugle, who tried to get a circle together in the
boudoir, to discuss the wrongs of Ireland. How Bohwanie Lall from Calcutta,
being strictly of the Brahminical persuasion, rigidly refused to partake of
supper with unbelievers, and was served with a light repast of pistachio nuts
and water-ice in an adjoining apartment, - though my private opinion is that he
subsequently devoured a trayfull of real patties on the staircase. How the
professional singers sang like syrens, and Herr Bompazek shook the very
chandeliers with his sepulchral tones. How all these things were done, tell,
fashionable Muse of soirees dansantes, if, Muse, thou wert honoured with
a card for Mrs.. Plover's, which I was not!
When daybreak came at last, how garish the yellow candlelight
looked against the strong beams of the morning, the stalwart workers, the
early-to-bed goers, and early risers. [-192-] How
they beat down the flickering wax-ends in their sockets. And the pretty girls -
pretty still - yet looking pale, and a trifle draggled, and a thought sickly.
There was a faint odour through the crowded rooms of faded roses and spilt
perfumes, and spent champagne corks. The Honourable Mrs. Plover's soirée was
over. Slowly down the grand staircase came the company, looking, if I may be
permitted the use of vulgarism, 'seedy.' Slowly the yawning footmen opened the
carriage-doors, and the sleepy horses clattered off. This was break of day-the
day the grubs have to earn their daily bread by-and it was time for the
butterflies to be in bed.