Sketches by Boz, by Charles Dickens (1836) - The Mudfog and
Other Sketches
THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES
PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG
Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant
town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river,
Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving
population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a
great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about
Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either.
Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is
particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling
over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses,
with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot
summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a
very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not
becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather
impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy
place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s
quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp
situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are
unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face
of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the
vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state
that it is salubrious.
The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque.
Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are both something like it, but they give you a
very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in
Mudfog—more than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The
public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of
the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the
pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of
surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the
door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine
old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in
keeping with the general effect.
In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog
assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the
massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only
furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after
hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the
public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be
permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on
church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after
silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses
have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the
river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns
the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and
better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit
more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for
their country’s good.
Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so
eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his
appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer.
However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the
debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get
personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth,
Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall
asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would
wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency.
The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up
his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about
nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this
point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.
Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes
fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for
Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other.
Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of
two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals,
exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside.
Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the
truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and
set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he
went on like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a
partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business
altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he
had himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into the
belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.
About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that
Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had
corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his
heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great
gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and
contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not,
certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel
chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior
took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr.
Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the
chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but,
more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the
corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to
sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his
two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was
in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to
‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of the country,’ and ‘productive
power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of which denoted and proved that
Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of
Mudfog amazingly.
At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr.
Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs.
Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the
fashionable season.
Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the
health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most
extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years.
The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great
difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was
dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct.
Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of
the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his
successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas
Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they
elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas
Tulrumble with his new elevation.
Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble
being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show
and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was
greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind,
that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord
Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been affable to the Lord
Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the
Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done
a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly
appertain. The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a
personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King
to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was
somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for
half an hour-all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the
whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament
till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer.
As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the
Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the
earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul
immeasurably behind.
Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things,
and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when
the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush
mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already
dancing before his imagination.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they
have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.’
‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s
become of old Sniggs?’
‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr.
Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously
designating a gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The
late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’
The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs.
Tulrumble only ejaculated ‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a
mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.
‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said
Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where
you might have had a show.’
‘I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought
proper, I apprehend,’ said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.
‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs.
Tulrumble.
‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.
‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.
‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people
down there,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.
‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.
So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog
should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a
show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town
before,—no, not even in London itself.
On the very next day after the receipt of the letter,
down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but
inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the
town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by
the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said,
all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post
letter paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings
of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence
had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the
discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all
that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal
more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall
postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that
afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the
whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas
Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully
complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake
about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in
very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about
the matter in his letter.
The corporation stared at one another very hard at all
this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the
tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his
yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his
thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing
very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered
another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he
intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on
the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At this the corporation looked still
more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole
body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog,
they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their
compliments, and they’d be sure to come.
Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other
there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and
perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great
traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a
merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an
invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong
beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the
trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of
Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned.
He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair
calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the
very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring
kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn
his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to
hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day
together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in
toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to
a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines,
running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows:
nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society
in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more
people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain
Manby’s apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his
dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of
Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in
return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or
imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the
compliment by making the most of it.
We have been thus particular in describing the character
and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact
politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by
the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very
same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr.
Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and
light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in
at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned
Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message
from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance
at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr.
Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a
slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet
of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.
Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with
a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession
on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.
‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble,
condescendingly.
There was a time when Twigger would have replied,
‘Well, Nick!’ but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years
before the donkey; so, he only bowed.
‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr.
Tulrumble.
‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.
‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut
the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.’
As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and
disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.
‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said
the Mayor.
‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned,
‘you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron
boiler.’
‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.
‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger;
‘it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’
‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor.
‘I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man
wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.’
‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing
the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a
look of apprehension at the brass suit.
‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined
the Mayor.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.
‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.
‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor. ‘You
would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you
had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just
try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first.
Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it
isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?’
Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a
great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate,
and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it,
and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was
not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident
which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a
counteracting weight of brass on his legs.
‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday
next,’ said Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’
‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.
‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.
‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble;
‘perfectly sober.’ Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be
as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been
Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific
nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than
once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of
dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there.
The next day, and the day following, and the day after
that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light,
hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to
stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many
partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up
and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.
Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never
was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for
the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they
would go wild with wonder!
The day—the Monday—arrived.
If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t
have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in
London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful
occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water
with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post
tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade
defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had
been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day’s work with the
worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge
gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church steeples had
bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser
importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.
The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet
from the front garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some
asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out
came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a
herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback.
This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time
of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the
occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself
on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which
would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a
Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be.
Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most
indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble,
they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to growl forth the most
unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man.
If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying
through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his
mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional
gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was
rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the
crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.
On the procession came. We are afraid to say how
many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to
imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or
how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no
means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel
disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into
the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water
and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen
aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the
barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band
played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the
streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of
which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we
have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.
Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a
corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas
Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch
the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas
Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out
after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a chaplain, and a
supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the
sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they
screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of
Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their
coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is
not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the
procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound
silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident
anticipation of some new wonder.
‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said
Nicholas Tulrumble.
‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.
‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.
‘Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’
‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and
Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the
four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.
While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had
descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the
servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town;
and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so
kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the
first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master
in.
So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on
the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the
unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank
success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to
imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head,
to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid.
The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to
the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable;
and the something strong went briskly round.
At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the
procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated
manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly
cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.
The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not
with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.
‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the
four-wheel chaise. ‘Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass
armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he
go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for?
he has no business here!’
‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.
‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble,
looking up into the secretary’s face.
‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr.
Jennings.
Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary
figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the
arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.
It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full
licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the
armour, got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry
and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of
one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it.
Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus
prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know;
but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the
gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of
intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was
bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas
Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took
it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when
his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense
tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal
his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white
spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three
hundred years old, or thereabouts.
‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble,
quite forgetting his dignity, ‘go back.’
‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable
wretch. I’ll never leave you.’
The by-standers of course received this declaration with
acclamations of ‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’
‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the
obstinacy of a very tipsy man. ‘I’m very unhappy. I’m the
wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir.
I’ll never leave you.’ Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned
proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had
lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics
of the like nature.
‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas:
‘if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’
Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of
bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.
‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings.
‘I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if
he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.’
At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very
respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little
circle of his own.
‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble,
‘he’ll be suffocated.’
‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr.
Jennings; ‘but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance.
I’m quite certain of it from the way he put it on.’
Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in
a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts
of stone, and they laughed heartily.
‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale
at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear
me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?’
‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all.
Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass
coffin.’ At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so
much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas
Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual
in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his
opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared do
it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s
head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a
very good notion.
It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been
broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little
circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form,
than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as
his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance
either, for, however ready they might have been to carry him, they
couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had
plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her
opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used
husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the
law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this
with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best
he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.
What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised
when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in
one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned
into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the
bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break
down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay,
till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he
groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation
Ned Twigger got.
Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on
together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who
had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr.
Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which
ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was
very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside
prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After
which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and
the corporation sat down to dinner.
But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed.
They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made
quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the
very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer
the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was
thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick!
What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call
the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’ He should like to know what the
sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any
other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him.
But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s
doings. If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and
have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics,
and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him
into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.
At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting
on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed,
bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large
fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have
congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of
good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the
Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape
the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest
inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been
reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,—or had made the
secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once
perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize
Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So
he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a
burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.
The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of
the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having
actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary
of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form,
and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas
Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence.
He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town
of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related
how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of
the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the
Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer
between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the
time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went
on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged
twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred
and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen
(the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three
thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six
thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he
proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms,
and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these
arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large
book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates;
and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy
with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm
to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.
But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short.
He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he
was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people
hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely
magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s
Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the
good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.
At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took
heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed
him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his
hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at
the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and
they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.
‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’
said one.
‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’
growled another.
‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands
with them both, whether they would or not. ‘I’ve come down to say that
I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give
me up the old chair, again.’
The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four
more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes,
thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of
joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling
the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and
ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of
pipes, directly.
The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the
next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music
of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a
little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was
in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on
his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the
corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his
acquirements.
Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be
anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father;
and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home
again.
As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six
weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the
town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has
requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the
effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is
not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to
enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower
station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.
This is the first time we have published any of our
gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we
may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog.
FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING
We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary
exertions to place before our readers a complete and accurate account of the
proceedings at the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the
town of Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in
the shape of various communications received from our able, talented, and
graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the purpose, who has immortalized
us, himself, Mudfog, and the association, all at one and the same time. We
have been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who will transmit the
greatest name to posterity; ourselves, who sent our correspondent down; our
correspondent, who wrote an account of the matter; or the association, who gave
our correspondent something to write about. We rather incline to the
opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, inasmuch as the notion of an
exclusive and authentic report originated with us; this may be prejudice: it may
arise from a prepossession on our part in our own favour. Be it so.
We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned in this mighty assemblage is
troubled with the same complaint in a greater or less degree; and it is a
consolation to us to know that we have at least this feeling in common with the
great scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose
speculations we record.
We give our correspondent’s letters in the order in
which they reached us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful
whole, would only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich
vein of picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.
‘Mudfog, Monday night, seven o’clock.
‘We are in a state of great excitement here.
Nothing is spoken of, but the approaching meeting of the association. The
inn-doors are thronged with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals;
and the numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses,
intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very animated
and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety of colours, and the
monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by every possible size and style
of hand-writing. It is confidently rumoured that Professors Snore, Doze,
and Wheezy have engaged three beds and a sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box.
I give you the rumour as it has reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its
accuracy. The moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain information
upon this interesting point, you may depend upon receiving it.’
‘Half-past seven.
I have just returned from a personal interview with the
landlord of the Pig and Tinder-box. He speaks confidently of the
probability of Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at
his house during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds have
been yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the chambermaid—a
girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance. The boots denies that
it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put up here;
but I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by the proprietor
of the Original Pig, which is the opposition hotel. Amidst such
conflicting testimony it is difficult to arrive at the real truth; but you may
depend upon receiving authentic information upon this point the moment the fact
is ascertained. The excitement still continues. A boy fell through
the window of the pastrycook’s shop at the corner of the High-street about
half an hour ago, which has occasioned much confusion. The general
impression is, that it was an accident. Pray heaven it may prove so!’
‘Tuesday, noon.
‘At an early hour this morning the bells of all the
churches struck seven o’clock; the effect of which, in the present lively
state of the town, was extremely singular. While I was at breakfast, a
yellow gig, drawn by a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right
eyelid, proceeded at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables;
it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here for the purpose of
attending the association, and, from what I have heard, I consider it extremely
probable, although nothing decisive is yet known regarding him. You may
conceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to the arrival of the
four o’clock coach this afternoon.
‘Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no
outrage has yet been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion
of the police, who are nowhere to be seen. A barrel-organ is playing
opposite my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale,
parade the streets. With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I trust
will continue so.’
‘Five o’clock.
‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that
Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not repair to the Pig and
Tinder-box, but have actually engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This
intelligence is exclusive; and I leave you and your readers to draw their
own inferences from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world,
should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and Tinder-box, it is
not easy to conceive. The professor is a man who should be above all such
petty feelings. Some people here openly impute treachery, and a distinct
breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze; while others, again, are disposed
to acquit them of any culpability in the transaction, and to insinuate that the
blame rests solely with Professor Wheezy. I own that I incline to the
latter opinion; and although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure
or disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements, still I
am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if all the reports
which have reached my ears be true, I really do not well know what to make of
the matter.
‘Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical
researches, arrived this afternoon by the four o’clock stage. His
complexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing constantly. He
looked extremely well, and appeared in high health and spirits. Mr.
Woodensconce also came down in the same conveyance. The distinguished
gentleman was fast asleep on his arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he
had been so the whole way. He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching
fatigues; but what gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of
such a man when his body is in a state of torpidity!
‘The influx of visitors increases every moment.
I am told (I know not how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the
Original Pig within the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow,
containing three carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and
Tinder-box no longer ago than five minutes since. The people are still
quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a wildness in their
eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of their countenances, which shows
to the observant spectator that their expectations are strained to the very
utmost pitch. I fear, unless some very extraordinary arrivals take place
to-night, that consequences may arise from this popular ferment, which every man
of sense and feeling would deplore.’
‘Twenty minutes past six.
‘I have just heard that the boy who fell through the
pastrycook’s window last night has died of the fright. He was suddenly
called upon to pay three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution,
it seems, was not strong enough to bear up against the shock. The inquest,
it is said, will be held to-morrow.’
‘Three-quarters part seven.
‘Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the
hotel door; they at once ordered dinner with great condescension. We are
all very much delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with
which they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life.
Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and privately
requested him to purchase a live dog,—as cheap a one as he could meet
with,—and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and fork, and
a clean plate. It is conjectured that some experiments will be tried upon
the dog to-night; if any particulars should transpire, I will forward them by
express.’
‘Half-past eight.
‘The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog,
of rather intelligent appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs.
He has been tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.’
‘Ten minutes to nine.
‘The dog has just been rung for. With an
instinct which would appear almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal
seized the waiter by the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and
made a desperate, though ineffectual resistance. I have not been able to
procure admission to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentlemen; but,
judging from the sounds which reached my ears when I stood upon the
landing-place outside the door, just now, I should be disposed to say that the
dog had retreated growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping
the professors at bay. This conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of
the ostler, who, after peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he
distinctly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle of
prussic acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair,
obstinately declined to smell. You cannot imagine the feverish state of
irritation we are in, lest the interests of science should be sacrificed to the
prejudices of a brute creature, who is not endowed with sufficient sense to
foresee the incalculable benefits which the whole human race may derive from so
very slight a concession on his part.’
‘Nine o’clock.
‘The dog’s tail and ears have been sent down-stairs
to be washed; from which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more.
His forelegs have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens
the supposition.’
‘Half after ten.
‘My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken
place in the course of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength
to detail the rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those
who are cognizant of their occurrence. It appears that the pug-dog
mentioned in my last was surreptitiously obtained,—stolen, in fact,—by some
person attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resident in
this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her favourite, the lady
rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the most heart-rending and
pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore her, her Augustus,—for so the
deceased was named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover of his
mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, which renders the
circumstances additionally affecting. I am not yet in a condition to
inform you what circumstance induced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to
the hotel which had witnessed the last struggles of her protégé.
I can only state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his detached
members were passing through the passage on a small tray. Her shrieks
still reverberate in my ears! I grieve to say that the expressive features
of Professor Muff were much scratched and lacerated by the injured lady; and
that Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several severe bites, has lost some
handfuls of hair from the same cause. It must be some consolation to these
gentlemen to know that their ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone
occasioned these unpleasant consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful
country will sufficiently reward them. The unfortunate lady remains at the
Pig and Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious state.
‘I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for
catastrophe has cast a damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration;
natural in any case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of
the deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected by
the whole of his acquaintance.’
‘Twelve o’clock.
‘I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel
to inform you that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window is not
dead, as was universally believed, but alive and well. The report appears
to have had its origin in his mysterious disappearance. He was found half
an hour since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had been
announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and where—a
sufficient number of members not having been obtained at first—he had
patiently waited until the list was completed. This fortunate discovery
has in some degree restored our gaiety and cheerfulness. It is proposed to
get up a subscription for him without delay.
‘Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow
will bring forth. If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I
have left strict directions to be called immediately. I should have sat
up, indeed, but the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.
‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze,
or Wheezy. It is very strange!’
‘Wednesday afternoon.
‘All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am
at length enabled to set the minds of your readers at rest. The three
professors arrived at ten minutes after two o’clock, and, instead of taking up
their quarters at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the
course of yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the
Pig and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and openly announced
their intention of remaining. Professor Wheezy may reconcile this very
extraordinary conduct with his notions of fair and equitable dealing, but
I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he presumes too far upon
his well-earned reputation. How such a man as Professor Snore, or, which
is still more extraordinary, such an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly
allow himself to be mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will naturally
inquire. Upon this head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but
forbear to give utterance to them just now.’
‘Four o’clock.
‘The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been
offered for a bed and refused. Several gentlemen were under the necessity
last night of sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which
they were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed to
prison as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I understand to
be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill, who had forwarded a
paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical Science, on the construction of
pipkins with copper bottoms and safety-values, of which report speaks highly.
The incarceration of this gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence
will preclude any discussion on the subject.
‘The bills are being taken down in all directions, and
lodgings are being secured on almost any terms. I have heard of fifteen
shillings a week for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can
scarcely believe it. The excitement is dreadful. I was informed this
morning that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of popular
feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be under arms;
and that, with the view of not irritating the people unnecessarily by their
presence, they had been requested to take up their position before daybreak in a
turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile from the town. The vigour and
promptness of these measures cannot be too highly extolled.
‘Intelligence has just been brought me, that an
elderly female, in a state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her
intention to “do” for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns compiled by
that gentleman, relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this
place, are supposed to be the cause of the wretch’s animosity. It is
added that this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had
assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate Mr. Slug
aloud by the opprobrious epithet of “Stick-in-the-mud!” It is
earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their
interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that power
which is vested in them by the constitution of our common country.’
‘Half-past ten.
‘The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been
completely quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. She had a pail
of cold water thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great
contrition and uneasiness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about
to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of the
association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having its illustrious
members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go off peaceably. I
shall send you a full report of to-morrow’s proceedings by the night coach.’
‘Eleven o’clock.
‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has
occurred since I folded it up.’
‘Thursday.
‘The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I
did not observe anything particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except
that he appeared to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened fancy) to
shine with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent lustre upon the
town, such as I had never observed before. This is the more extraordinary,
as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At
half-past nine o’clock the general committee assembled, with the last year’s
president in the chair. The report of the council was read; and one
passage, which stated that the council had corresponded with no less than three
thousand five hundred and seventy-one persons, (all of whom paid their own
postage,) on no fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics,
was received with a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress.
The various committees and sections having been appointed, and the more formal
business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at eleven
o’clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupying a most eligible
position at that time, in
‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.
President—Professor Snore. Vice-Presidents—Professors
Doze and Wheezy.
‘The scene at this moment was particularly striking.
The sun streamed through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole
scene with its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages
of the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some with
red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some with black heads,
some with block heads, presented a coup d’oeil which no eye-witness
will readily forget. In front of these gentlemen were papers and
inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches extending as far as the forms
could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those lovely and elegant
women for which Mudfog is justly acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole
world. The contrast between their fair faces and the dark coats and
trousers of the scientific gentlemen I shall never cease to remember while
Memory holds her seat.
‘Time having been allowed for a slight confusion,
occasioned by the falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside,
the president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication entitled,
“Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations on the importance
of establishing infant-schools among that numerous class of society; of
directing their industry to useful and practical ends; and of applying the
surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for them a comfortable and respectable
maintenance in their old age.”
‘The author stated, that, having long turned his
attention to the moral and social condition of these interesting animals, he had
been induced to visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by
the designation of “The Industrious Fleas.” He had there seen many
fleas, occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he
was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could fail to
regard with sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the level of a beast
of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a particularly small
effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while another was staggering beneath
the weight of a golden model of his great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte.
Some, brought up as mountebanks and ballet-dancers, were performing a
figure-dance (he regretted to observe, that, of the fleas so employed, several
were females); others were in training, in a small card-board box, for
pedestrians,—mere sporting characters—and two were actually engaged in the
cold-blooded and barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity
recoiled with horror and disgust. He suggested that measures should be
immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and parcel of the
productive power of the country, which might easily be done by the establishment
among them of infant schools and houses of industry, in which a system of
virtuous education, based upon sound principles, should be observed, and moral
precepts strictly inculcated. He proposed that every flea who presumed to
exhibit, for hire, music, or dancing, or any species of theatrical
entertainment, without a licence, should be considered a vagabond, and treated
accordingly; in which respect he only placed him upon a level with the rest of
mankind. He would further suggest that their labour should be placed under
the control and regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits,
a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, their widows and
orphans. With this view, he proposed that liberal premiums should be
offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; from which—as
insect architecture was well known to be in a very advanced and perfect
state—we might possibly derive many valuable hints for the improvement of our
metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public edifices.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to be informed how the ingenious
gentleman proposed to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first
instance, so that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages
they must necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and applying
themselves to honest labour. This appeared to him, the only difficulty.
‘THE AUTHOR submitted that this difficulty was easily
overcome, or rather that there was no difficulty at all in the case.
Obviously the course to be pursued, if Her Majesty’s government could be
prevailed upon to take up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary
the individual to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in
Regent-street at the period of his visit. That gentleman would at once be
able to put himself in communication with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct
them in pursuance of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by
Parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among them were advanced
enough to officiate as teachers to the rest.
‘The President and several members of the section
highly complimented the author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and
important treatise. It was determined that the subject should be
recommended to the immediate consideration of the council.
‘MR. WIGSBY produced a cauliflower somewhat larger
than a chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means than
the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure. He
explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new and delicious
species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in principle something similar
to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at once obtained; the stalk of course
being kept downwards. He added that he was perfectly willing to make a
descent from a height of not less than three miles and a quarter; and had in
fact already proposed the same to the proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in
the handsomest manner at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an early
day next summer for the undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the
cauliflower should be previously broken in three or four places to ensure the
safety of the descent.
‘THE PRESIDENT congratulated the public on the grand
gala in store for them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the
establishment alluded to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety
of human life, both of which did them the highest honour.
‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional
lamps the royal property would be illuminated with, on the night after the
descent.
‘MR. WIGSBY replied that the point was not yet finally
decided; but he believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary
illuminations, to exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of
additional lamps.
‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this
announcement.
‘MR. BLUNDERUM delighted the section with a most
interesting and valuable paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,”
which produced a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being
compiled from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The
account stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby,
but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives in the
profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch as his
father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen victims to the butcher at
different times. An uncle of his indeed, had with very great labour been
traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in a very infirm state at the
time, being afflicted with measles, and shortly afterwards disappeared, there
appeared too much reason to conjecture that he had been converted into sausages.
The disorder of the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being
aggravated by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and
terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy instance
of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching dissolution, was
recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable company with his
performances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he fixed his eyes on
the biographer, and, turning to the watch which lay on the floor, and on which
he was accustomed to point out the hour, deliberately passed his snout twice
round the dial. In precisely four-and-twenty hours from that time he had
ceased to exist!
‘PROFESSOR WHEEZY inquired whether, previous to his
demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding
the disposal of his little property.
‘MR. BLUNDERUM replied, that, when the biographer took
up the pack of cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted
several times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was accustomed
to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood that he
wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since done. He
had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had accordingly been
pawned by the same individual.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether any Member of
the section had ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported
to have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a golden
trough.
‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the
pig-faced lady was his mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would
not violate the sanctity of private life.
‘THE PRESIDENT begged pardon. He had considered
the pig-faced lady a public character. Would the honourable member object
to state, with a view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way
connected with the learned pig?
‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the
question appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his
half-brother, he must decline answering it.
‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.
President—Dr. Toorell. Vice-Presidents—Professors
Muff and Nogo.
DR. KUTANKUMAGEN (of Moscow) read to the section a
report of a case which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly
illustrative of the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful
treatment of a virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the
patient on the 1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms
peculiarly alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular,
his step firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his
appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit of
eating three meals per diem, and of drinking at least one bottle
of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the course
of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so hearty a
manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful medicine, low
diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly
decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for only
one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruel, weak broth, and
barley-water, led to their entire disappearance. In the course of a month
he was sufficiently recovered to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to
enjoy an airing in a close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the
present moment he was restored so far as to walk about, with the slight
assistance of a crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the
section to learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never
heard to laugh by any accident whatever.
‘DR. W. R. FEE, in complimenting the honourable member
upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient
still bled freely?
‘DR. KUTANKUMAGEN replied in the affirmative.
‘DR. W. R. FEE.—And you found that he bled freely
during the whole course of the disorder?
‘DR. KUTANKUMAGEN.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.
‘DR. NEESHAWTS supposed, that if the patient had not
submitted to be bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a
cure could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen
rejoined, certainly not.
‘MR. KNIGHT BELL (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax
preparation of the interior of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently
swallowed a door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of
dissipated habits, being present at the post mortem examination, found
means to escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the
stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly impressed,
with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character, who made a new key
from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the medical student
entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed a burglary to a large
amount, for which he was subsequently tried and executed.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know what became of the
original key after the lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the
gentleman was always much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had
gradually devoured it.
‘DR. NEESHAWTS and several of the members were of
opinion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s
stomach.
‘MR. KNIGHT BELL believed it did at first. It
was worthy of remark, perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled
with a night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a
wine-cellar door.
‘PROFESSOR MUFF related a very extraordinary and
convincing proof of the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses,
which the section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very
minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human frame,
would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large dose
administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a grain of
calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill, and so on in
proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had tried the
experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been brought into the
hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the infinitesimal system in the
incredibly short space of three months. This man was a hard drinker.
He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of rum through a bucket of water,
and requested the man to drink the whole. What was the result?
Before he had drunk a quart, he was in a state of beastly intoxication; and five
other men were made dead drunk with the remainder.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether an infinitesimal
dose of soda-water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that
the twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each patient,
would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked that this was a
most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen
would patronize it immediately.
‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be
possible to administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese
to all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same
satisfying effect as their present allowance.
‘PROFESSOR MUFF was willing to stake his professional
reputation on the perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of
human life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of
pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.
‘PROFESSOR NOGO called the attention of the section to
a very extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being
merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide street, was at
once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state. He was followed to
his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms of the hands, fell into a
sound sleep, in which he continued without intermission for ten hours.
‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS.
HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.
President—Mr. Woodensconce. Vice-Presidents—Mr.
Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered.
‘MR. SLUG stated to the section the result of some
calculations he had made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state
of infant education among the middle classes of London. He found that,
within a circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were
the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:-
‘Jack the Giant-killer 7,943
Ditto and Bean-stalk 8,621
Ditto and Eleven Brothers 2,845
Ditto and Jill
1,998
Total
21,407
‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to
Philip Quarlls was as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of
Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the
former to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple
Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was lamentable.
One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint George of England or
a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied, “Taint George of Ingling.”
Another, a little boy of eight years old, was found to be firmly impressed with
a belief in the existence of dragons, and openly stated that it was his
intention when he grew up, to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of
captive princesses, and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child
among the number interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring
whether he was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and
others whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park. They had
not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and
considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager that the world had
ever produced.
‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the
other books mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted
from the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very outset
of the tale, were depicted as going up a hill to fetch a pail of water,
which was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the family linen was
being washed, for instance.
‘MR. SLUG feared that the moral effect of this passage
was more than counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in
which very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was
personally chastised by her mother
“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”
besides, the whole work had this one great fault, it
was not true.
‘THE PRESIDENT complimented the honourable member on
the excellent distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt
upon the immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with
nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very forcibly
remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.
‘MR. SLUG then stated some curious calculations
respecting the dogs’-meat barrows of London. He found that the total
number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats
and dogs of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three.
The average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each
dogs’-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number
of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand
seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained. Allowing
that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the odd
two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally devoured with the
meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty
thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine
hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of
London; which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a
mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel
of war for the use of her Majesty’s navy, to be called “The Royal Skewer,”
and to become under that name the terror of all the enemies of this island.
‘MR. X. LEDBRAIN read a very ingenious communication,
from which it appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the
manufacturing population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers,
forty thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses
was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable average of three legs
to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. From this calculation
it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing
two legs to every person,—that ten thousand individuals (one-half of the whole
population) were either destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed
the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes.
‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE.
COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.
President—Mr. Carter. Vice-Presidents—Mr.
Truck and Mr. Waghorn.
‘PROFESSOR QUEERSPECK exhibited an elegant model of a
portable railway, neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket.
By attaching this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office
clerk could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of
business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to gentlemen of
sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.
‘THE PRESIDENT was desirous of knowing whether it was
necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.
‘PROFESSOR QUEERSPECK explained that City gentlemen
would run in trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or
unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at eight,
nine, and ten o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and
various other places in which City gentlemen are accustomed to reside. It
would be necessary to have a level, but he had provided for this difficulty by
proposing that the best line that the circumstances would admit of, should be
taken through the sewers which undermine the streets of the metropolis, and
which, well lighted by jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them,
would form a pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the
inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be wholly
dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor Queerspeck stated
that no substitute for the purposes to which these arcades were at present
devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection on this
head would be allowed to interfere with so great an undertaking.
‘MR. JOBBA produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan,
for bringing joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The
instrument was in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling
appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a pantomime
trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of the company to which
the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so ingeniously placed, that when
the acting directors held shares in their pockets, figures denoting very small
expenses and very large returns appeared upon the glass; but the moment the
directors parted with these pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure
suddenly increased itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain
profits became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the
machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he had never
once known it to fail.
‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely
neat and pretty. He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental
derangement? Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable
to be blown up, but that was the only objection to it.
‘PROFESSOR NOGO arrived from the anatomical section to
exhibit a model of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in
less than half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm
persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was quite
ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a few minutes
on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the escape without falling
into the street. The Professor stated that the number of boys who had been
rescued in the daytime by this machine from houses which were not on fire, was
almost incredible. Not a conflagration had occurred in the whole of London
for many months past to which the escape had not been carried on the very next
day, and put in action before a concourse of persons.
‘THE PRESIDENT inquired whether there was not some
difficulty in ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the
bottom, in cases of pressing emergency.
‘PROFESSOR NOGO explained that of course it could not
be expected to act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a
fire; but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether the
top were up or down.’
With the last section our correspondent concludes his
most able and faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him
for his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit.
It is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed; of
the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which they have
elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to read, to
consider, and to profit.
The place of meeting for next year has undergone
discussion, and has at length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence
being taken upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the
hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope at
this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that we may be
once more the means of placing his communications before the world. Until
that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this number of our Miscellany
to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to the trade, without any advance
upon our usual price.
We have only to add, that the committees are now broken
up, and that Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed
tranquillity,—that Professors and Members have had balls, and soirées,
and suppers, and great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to
their several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next
year!
Signed BOZ.
FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING
In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of
recording, at an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the
history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog Association for
the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held its first great
half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire. We
announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most remarkable Report,
that when the Second Meeting of the Society should take place, we should be
found again at our post, renewing our gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once
more making the world ring with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable
superiority, and intense remarkability of our account of its proceedings.
In redemption of this pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle
(at which place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th
instant), the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former
report, and who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished
by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself,—has forwarded a
series of letters, which, for faithfulness of description, power of language,
fervour of thought, happiness of expression, and importance of subject-matter,
have no equal in the epistolary literature of any age or country. We give
this gentleman’s correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached
our office.
‘Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, half-past
eight.
‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the
hackney cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I
experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the
importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was leaving
London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of loneliness and a
sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts, and for a time rendered me
even insensible to the presence of my carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever
feel grateful to the driver of a Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of
his vehicle through the small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult
of imaginings that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our
imperfect nature composed!
‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on
board, and shall thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in
the order of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so
are the crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house
upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I hear
that he has got the steam up.
‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just
made the discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by
Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor
Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime the
two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On Mr.
Slug’s bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter, carefully
closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful instrument
of a new construction, doubtless.’
‘Ten minutes past nine.
‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come
in my way except several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a
good plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular
smell below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it
is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again. I
learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at the Black
Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If this
intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your readers will draw
such conclusions as their different opinions may suggest.
‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as
the facts come to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose
nothing of their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small
packets as opportunities arise.’
‘Half past nine.
‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf.
I think it is a travelling carriage.’
‘A quarter to ten.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Half-past ten.
The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four
omnibuses full have just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity.
The noise and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and
the steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal distances
down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs; but, being
used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping them on
his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He is a young man of
exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or a mulatto, but I think
the former.
‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf
in an omnibus, has just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering
towards the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that
he may reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery.
Was that a splash? Gracious powers!
‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk
is standing upon the extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is
nowhere to be seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not,
but promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his
humane efforts prove successful!
‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his
nightcap on under his hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and
water, with a hard biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What
can this mean?
‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have
already alluded have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the
exception of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and
can’t get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable
to get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have
had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably
arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is necessary to
agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable, there is not room
for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time, and even he must take
his boots off in the passage.
‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided
for the passengers’ supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your
readers will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from
cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities.
Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat his
crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter. How
interesting are these peculiarities!’
‘Half-past eleven.
‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of
good humour that delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of
mulled port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be
decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter
course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could
win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as
an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this
expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed that
gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.’
‘Twenty minutes to twelve.
‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his
half-crown out of one of the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the
steward shall toss for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount,
but there are no takers.
‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;”
but the coin having lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again.
The interest and suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be
imagined.’
‘Twelve o’clock.
‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me,
and Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every
ground, whether of public or private character, intellectual endowments, or
scientific attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor
Woodensconce ought to have come off victorious. There is an
exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.’
‘A quarter past twelve.
‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of
his victory in no very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and
that he knew it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a
similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of
decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor
Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded in
plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level of his
acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will do well to look to
this.’
‘One o’clock.
‘I am writing in bed. The small cabin is
illuminated by the feeble light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling;
Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with
his mouth wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling
of the tide, the noise of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the
river, the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant
creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear.
With these exceptions, all is profound silence.
‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very
much excited. Mr. Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously
withdrawn the curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to
satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of
which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest. What
rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious case? It
is evidently a profound secret to all.’
‘A quarter past one.
‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more
mysterious. He has unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his
observations upon his companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly
unobserved. He is clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray
heaven that it be not a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be
promoted, and I am prepared for the worst.’
‘Five minutes later.
‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a
roll of some substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case.
The experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in
the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’
‘Twenty minutes before two.
‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the
tin tube contains a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I
discover on regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a
preservative against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small
portions, and is now sticking it over himself in every direction.’
‘Three o’clock.
‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor,
and the machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that
Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of
carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from his shelf
head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of extreme terror,
ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under the impression that we were sinking,
and uttering loud cries for aid. I am assured that the scene which ensued
baffles all description. There were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in
their respective berths at the time.
‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of
the extreme ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation,
that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be situated, the
machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends
stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the association.’
‘Half-past ten.
‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as
smooth water as a steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who
has just woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a
steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can
scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes.
It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’
‘Friday afternoon, six o’clock.
‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has
proved of no avail. He is in great agony, but has applied several large,
additional pieces notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion
to science and pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!
‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the
breakfast was one of the most animated description. Nothing unpleasant
occurred until noon, with the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella
and white hat becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a
knot of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup
for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost
immediately afterwards.’
‘Half-past six.
‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as
Mr. Slug’s sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness.’
‘Seven o’clock.
‘A messenger has just come down for a clean
pocket-handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate
gentleman being quite unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be
thrown overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though
in a state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold
brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him.
Such is the triumph of mind over matter.
‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite
well; but he will eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this
gentleman no sympathy with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he
has, on what principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’
‘Black Boy and Stomach-ache, Oldcastle, Saturday
noon.
‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length
arrived here in safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the
private lodgings and hotels are filled with savans of both sexes.
The tremendous assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in
the last degree overwhelming.
‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have
been fortunate enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very
reasonable terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea
per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition
that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other
gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the outhouses intended to
be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the
Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements.
Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw-dust with which the floors
are sprinkled. The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as
you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.’
‘Half-past nine.
‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite
bewildering. Within the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to
the door, filled inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr.
Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr.
Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, Professor
John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr. Smith (of London), Mr.
Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The
ten last-named gentlemen were wet through, and looked extremely intelligent.’
‘Sunday, two o’clock, p.m.
‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers,
accompanied by Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They
accomplished the former feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This
has naturally given rise to much discussion.
‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place
at the Boot-jack and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent
beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are
doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to
communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary proceeding has
given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to ascertain the truth
from him.’
‘Half-past six.
‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the
above, and proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence,
passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on
either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr.
Kwakley’s hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven piece of paving,
but has certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such
event had recently occurred there. From this point I proceeded—passing
the gas-works and tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to me
as the beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards
further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing towards me.
‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged
development of that peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly
termed a double chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also
a very red nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising—so red,
indeed, that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from
occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at
liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull,
but had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police
regulation, and added with peculiar significance “Never wos sitch times!”
‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave
me considerable surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no
time in waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit.
After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say,
behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in
italics) that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning
at the Boot-jack and Countenance, to keep off the boys; and that he had
further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed, with the same
object, at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache!
‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your
comments and the consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a
beadle, without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting
otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in
council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the parish,
and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the rising youth of
this country. I have yet to learn that a beadle can be called out by any
civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over the boys of Britain.
I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor
law regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal
interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise criminal.
I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the Queen’s highway at
his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of the street is not free and
open to any man, boy, or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the
houses—ay, be they Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and
Countenances, I care not.’
‘Nine o’clock.
‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful
sketch of the tyrant Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity,
you will no doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy
with every copy of your next number. I enclose it.
[Picture which cannot be reproduced]
The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it
is to be strictly anonymous.
‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life,
and complete in every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the
man’s real character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I
should have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of
expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian’s
eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor
is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.’
‘Monday.
‘The great day has at length arrived. I have
neither eyes, nor ears, nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the
wonderful proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my
energies and proceed to the account.
‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.
President—Sir William Joltered. Vice-Presidents—Mr.
Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley.
‘MR. X. X. MISTY communicated some remarks on the
disappearance of dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on
the exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had
observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years ago a
sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with reference to
itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace, gradually fell off
one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until not one remained to create
a taste for natural history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed.
One bear, indeed,—a brown and ragged animal,—had lingered about the haunts
of his former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and
had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but
hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length
driven him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a
sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted to add that a
similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to
monkeys. These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful as
the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in
the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to
three organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments,
and the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for organs,
which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of public amusement was
wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the deepest importance, in
connection with national education, that the people should not lose such
opportunities of making themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of
two most interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures
should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly
intellectual amusements.
‘THE PRESIDENT inquired by what means the honourable
member proposed to attain this most desirable end?
‘THE AUTHOR submitted that it could be most fully and
satisfactorily accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be
brought over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the
public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the
town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No difficulty
whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the reception of
these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected in the immediate
neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously the most proper and
eligible spot for such an establishment.
‘PROFESSOR MULL doubted very much whether any correct
ideas of natural history were propagated by the means to which the honourable
member had so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had
been the means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject.
He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said that
many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from what they had
observed in the streets, at and before the period to which the honourable
gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red coats and spangles,
and that their hats and feathers also came by nature. He wished to know
distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed the want of encouragement
the bears had met with to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a
want of ability on the part of the bears themselves?
‘MR. X. X. MISTY replied, that he could not bring
himself to believe but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among
the bears and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper
encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.
‘PROFESSOR PUMPKINSKULL wished to take that
opportunity of calling the attention of the section to a most important and
serious point. The author of the treatise just read had alluded to the
prevalent taste for bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair,
which undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very
alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to be
aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their behaviour
in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a considerable lack of that
gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in more ignorant times, had been
thought becoming. He wished to know whether it were possible that a
constant outward application of bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about
town had imperceptibly infused into those unhappy persons something of the
nature and quality of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark;
but if this theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at
once explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which,
without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.
‘THE PRESIDENT highly complimented the learned
gentleman on his most valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect
upon the assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young
gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity, which
nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly explain.
It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly verging into a
generation of bears.
‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was
resolved that this important question should be immediately submitted to the
consideration of the council.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether any gentleman
could inform the section what had become of the dancing-dogs?
‘A MEMBER replied, after some hesitation, that on the
day after three glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late
most zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their
professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of the town
to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given to understand
that since that period they had supported themselves by lying in wait for and
robbing blind men’s poodles.
‘MR. FLUMMERY exhibited a twig, claiming to be a
veritable branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the SHAKSPEARE,
which has taken root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of
its broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman
remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time;
but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where
the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine SHAKSPEARE, by which name he
begged to introduce it to his countrymen.
‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know what botanical
definition the honourable gentleman could afford of the curiosity.
‘MR. FLUMMERY expressed his opinion that it was A
DECIDED PLANT.
‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL
SCIENCE.
LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.
President—Mr. Mallett. Vice-Presidents—Messrs.
Leaver and Scroo.
‘MR. CRINKLES exhibited a most beautiful and delicate
machine, of little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely
by himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets
could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in
four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been put into active
operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had never
been once known to fail.
‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various
members of the section buttoning their pockets,
‘THE PRESIDENT narrowly inspected the invention, and
declared that he had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite
construction. Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section
whether he had taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?
‘MR. CRINKLES stated that, after encountering some
preliminary difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication
with Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who had
awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified approbation.
He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished practitioners, in common
with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed Tommy, and other members of a
secondary grade of the profession whom he was understood to represent,
entertained an insuperable objection to its being brought into general use, on
the ground that it would have the inevitable effect of almost entirely
superseding manual labour, and throwing a great number of highly-deserving
persons out of employment.
‘THE PRESIDENT hoped that no such fanciful objections
would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.
‘MR. CRINKLES hoped so too; but he feared that if the
gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.
‘PROFESSOR GRIME suggested, that surely, in that case,
Her Majesty’s Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.
‘MR. CRINKLES said, that if the objection were found
to be insuperable he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail
to recognise the utility of the invention.
‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, up to this time
Parliament had certainly got on very well without it; but, as they did their
business on a very large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the
improvement. His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by
constant working.
‘MR. COPPERNOSE called the attention of the section to
a proposition of great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of
models, and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled
“Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and
wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His proposition
was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four in
breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by Act of
Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve feet in height.
He proposed that it should be laid out with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges,
miniature villages, and every object that could conduce to the comfort and glory
of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive
beyond it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious
and extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as
had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the
most expensive and handsome style. It would be further provided with whole
streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so constructed that
they could be easily wrenched off at night, and regularly screwed on again, by
attendants provided for the purpose, every day. There would also be gas
lamps of real glass, which could be broken at a comparatively small expense per
dozen, and a broad and handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their
cabriolets upon when they were humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of
which feat live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small
charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the
intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside
any article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant
frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if they
liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoyment would be afforded
that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire. But as even these
advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling
the nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth after
dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the event of their
being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other, the inventor had turned
his attention to the construction of an entirely new police force, composed
exclusively of automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious
Signor Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in
making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon
the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down like
any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen or
gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers groans, mingled with
entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion complete, and the enjoyment
perfect. But the invention did not stop even here; for station-houses
would be built, containing good beds for noblemen and gentlemen during the
night, and in the morning they would repair to a commodious police office, where
a pantomimic investigation would take place before the automaton
magistrates,—quite equal to life,—who would fine them in so many counters,
with which they would be previously provided for the purpose. This office
would be furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman
or gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the
prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the
complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they thought
proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to very little more
than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the public would be much
benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.
‘PROFESSOR NOGO wished to be informed what amount of
automaton police force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.
‘MR. COPPERNOSE replied, that it was proposed to begin
with seven divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive.
It was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on active
duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the police office
ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.
‘THE PRESIDENT, awarding the utmost merit to the
ingenious gentleman who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton
police would quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and
gentlemen would perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.
‘MR. COPPERNOSE submitted, that as the usual odds in
such cases were ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it
could make very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman
or cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a
policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a condition
to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next morning with his
head in his hand, and give it equally well.
‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir,
of what materials it is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be
composed?
‘MR. COPPERNOSE.—The magistrates will have wooden
heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials
that can possibly be obtained.
‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—I am quite satisfied. This is
a great invention.
‘PROFESSOR NOGO.—I see but one objection to it.
It appears to me that the magistrates ought to talk.
‘MR. COPPERNOSE no sooner heard this suggestion than
he touched a small spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were
placed upon the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with
great volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and the
other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.
‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a
shout of applause that the invention was complete; and the President, much
excited, retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his
return,
‘MR. TICKLE displayed his newly-invented spectacles,
which enabled the wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great
distance, and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him.
It was, he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the
principle of the human eye.
‘THE PRESIDENT required some information upon this
point. He had yet to learn that the human eye was remarkable for the
peculiarities of which the honourable gentleman had spoken.
‘MR. TICKLE was rather astonished to hear this, when
the President could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent
persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous
horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in
the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must know, too, with what
quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour’s faults,
and how very blind they were to their own. If the President differed from
the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a defective one, and it
was to assist his vision that these glasses were made.
‘MR. BLANK exhibited a model of a fashionable annual,
composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by
milk and water.
‘MR. PROSEE, after examining the machine, declared it
to be so ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went
on at all.
‘MR. BLANK.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of
it.
‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.
President—Dr. Soemup. Vice-Presidents—Messrs.
Pessell and Mortair.
‘DR. GRUMMIDGE stated to the section a most
interesting case of monomania, and described the course of treatment he had
pursued with perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle
rank of life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit
of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment,
although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to the necessary
outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms soon
became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in. At this period
the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total indisposition to
perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme languor, except when
pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew
brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent
exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for
her, and that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient’s
appetite was affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total
abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he
then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the
chest, and another on the back; having done which, and administered five grains
of calomel, he left the patient to her repose. The next day she was
somewhat low, but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were
removed. The next day she improved still further, and on the next again.
On the fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which
no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel,
and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred
within two hours, the patient’s head should be immediately shaved to the very
last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less than
four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now betray the
least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other ornaments.
She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial change had been
effected in her whole temperament and condition.
‘MR. PIPKIN (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most
interesting communication in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir
William Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the
Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the
Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would
occasion the disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a
healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a remarkable
circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn employed a woman
to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that one drop (a
purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe), placed upon his tongue,
after death, would restore him. What was the obvious inference? That
Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy
places, was impressed with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which
case, had his instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been
brought to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if
this woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead
and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith.
But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning by
analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate gentleman had
been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry.
‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.
OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.
President—Mr. Slug. Vice-Presidents—Messrs.
Noakes and Styles.
‘MR. KWAKLEY stated the result of some most ingenious
statistical inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the
qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world, and
its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that every member
of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a clear freehold
estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable gentleman excited great
amusement and laughter by stating the exact amount of freehold property
possessed by a column of legislators, in which he had included himself. It
appeared from this table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0
pounds, 0 shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great
laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating
gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary qualifications,
to the ownership of which they swore solemnly—of course as a mere matter of
form. He argued from these data that it was wholly unnecessary for
members of Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they
had none the public could get them so much cheaper.
‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND
DITCHWATERISICS.
President—Mr. Grub. Vice Presidents—Messrs.
Dull and Dummy.
‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a
bay pony with one eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a
butcher’s cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The communication
described the author of the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile
pursuit, betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to
Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary
appearance above described. The pony had one distinct eye, and it had been
pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who
assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked
his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and
whisked at the same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering;
and the author proposed to constitute it of the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious.
It certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony with
one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the
same moment.
‘MR. Q. J. SNUFFLETOFFLE had heard of a pony winking
his eye, and likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two
ponies or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all
events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous
winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of such a
marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which ponies were
governed. Referring, however, to the mere question of his one organ of
vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having been literally half
asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed only one eye.
‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, whether the pony was
half asleep or fast asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was
wide awake, and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to
dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but
he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies
in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable donkeys
than the other gentlemen around him.
‘PROFESSOR JOHN KETCH was then called upon to exhibit
the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag,
remarking, on being invited to make any observations that occurred to him,
“that he’d pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a
more gamerer cove nor he vos.”
‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting
relic ensued; and, some difference of opinion arising respecting the real
character of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the
cranium before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of
destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable development of
the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was proceeding to combat
this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly interrupted the proceedings by
exclaiming, with great excitement of manner, “Walker!”
‘THE PRESIDENT begged to call the learned gentleman to
order.
‘PROFESSOR KETCH.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got
the wrong un, I tell you. It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut
as my brother-in-law has been a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked
tatur-stall wots a-comin’ down ’ere vile the ’sociation’s in the town.
Hand over, vill you?”
‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed
himself of the cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had
exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there
appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s, or a
hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a
monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’
‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in
conclusion, ‘I cannot close my account of these gigantic researches and
sublime and noble triumphs without repeating a bon mot of Professor
Woodensconce’s, which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend
when truth can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and
playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and
feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men,
entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where the
richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks—propitiatory sacrifices to
learning—sent forth their savoury odours. “Ah!” said Professor
Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is what we meet for; this is what
inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us onward; this is the spread
of science, and a glorious spread it is.”’
THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE
Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at
once confess to a fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and
pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to a
chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and
many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they occasionally be
with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which regulate the proceedings of
meaner and less comprehensive minds. We revel in pantomimes—not because
they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and gold leaf; not because they present to
us, once again, the well-beloved chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our
childhood; not even because, like Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and
Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our
attachment is founded on a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime
is to us, a mirror of life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences
generally, although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is
the secret cause of their amusement and delight.
Let us take a slight example. The scene is a
street: an elderly gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features,
appears. His countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple
is on his broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman,
comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not
unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say gaudily,
dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the pleasures of the
table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in which he rubs his
stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is going home to dinner.
In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied security of wealth, in the
possession and enjoyment of all the good things of life, the elderly gentleman
suddenly loses his footing, and stumbles. How the audience roar! He
is set upon by a noisy and officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him
unmercifully. They scream with delight! Every time the elderly
gentleman struggles to get up, his relentless persecutors knock him down again.
The spectators are convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly
gentleman does get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing,
himself battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted
with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of applause.
Is this like life? Change the scene to any real
street;—to the Stock Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s
counting-house, or even the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men
fall,—the more suddenly, and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches,
the better. What a wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the
shouting mob; how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them!
Mark how eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride
him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.
Of all the pantomimic dramatis personae, we
consider the pantaloon the most worthless and debauched. Independent of
the dislike one naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in
pursuits highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from
ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain,
constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or
petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the
enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his share
of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires with remarkable
caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until the affair has blown
over. His amorous propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his
mode of addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right improper,
being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid
ladies in the waist, after committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed
(as well he may be) of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless,
to ogle and beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral
manner.
Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in
his own social circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at
the west end of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going
through the last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as
total an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We
can tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this
moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange
freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for years
past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual attempts to be
young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die with laughter.
Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the Café
de l’Europe in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the
expense of the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the
door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the
courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of
which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great prototype.
He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane to and fro, with
affected carelessness. Suddenly he stops—’tis at the milliner’s
window. He peeps through one of the large panes of glass; and, his view of
the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls, directs his attentions
to the young girl with the band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window
also. See! he draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him.
He draws near her again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under
the chin, and, retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces,
while the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled
visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after
her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!
But the close resemblance which the clowns of the
stage bear to those of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some
people talk with a sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and
dismal tones the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy
and excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns
that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes
them—more’s the pity!
‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron
of Mr. Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far,
and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith as did
Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced
gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young
gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says the
young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the ‘Delphi.’
Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the dirty face,
and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing shirt-collar, we do not
mean either the performer who so grotesquely burlesqued the Popish conspirator,
or the three unchangeables who have been dancing the same dance under different
imposing titles, and doing the same thing under various high-sounding names for
some five or six years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than
the public, who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what
on earth it is we do mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell
them.
It is very well known to all playgoers and
pantomime-seers, that the scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very
height of his glory are those which are described in the play-bills as
‘Cheesemonger’s shop and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and
Mrs. Queertable’s boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where
the great fun of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has
not the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false
pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable shopkeeper next
door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his window, or, to shorten
the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he possibly can, it only remaining to
be observed that, the more extensive the swindling is, and the more barefaced
the impudence of the swindler, the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the
audience. Now it is a most remarkable fact that precisely this sort of
thing occurs in real life day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it.
Let us illustrate our position by detailing the plot of this portion of the
pantomime—not of the theatre, but of life.
The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by
his livery servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has
grown grey in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and
ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a
street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of
competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured,
kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment to any,
he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine, baskets of
provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of luxuries of
the costliest description, flock to the house of the Honourable Captain
Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the utmost readiness by the
highly respectable Do’em; while the captain himself struts and swaggers about
with that compound air of conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness
which a military captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the
admiration and terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no
sooner turned, than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and
assisted by the faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least
touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for,
although the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above
cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all. After
various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are
recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are both taken
is thronged with their dupes.
Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart
of the best portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the
clown; Do’em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The
best of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his
complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who sat in
the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed the most
boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well done either. Talk
of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best days, ever do
anything in this way equal to Da Costa?
The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown
reminds us of his last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain
stamped acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely
laid down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s
performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject
flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.
All people who have been behind the scenes, and most
people who have been before them, know, that in the representation of a
pantomime, a good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of
being cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had
never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd,
lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there, and
everywhere, could ever have been created. We see it all, now. They
are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been thrust
into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over each other, and
running their heads against all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite
to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it,
he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do
the corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same
broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden eye—the same unmeaning, vacant
stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in at
precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had not the
slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table again and
again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to class him with.
How very odd that this never occurred to us before!
We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with
the harlequin. We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living
pantomime, that we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of
the theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was
neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who
had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away
in light and trivial amusements. On reflection, however, we remembered
that harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we
are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent property,
generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours. On a more mature
consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion that the
harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or
degree, on whom a certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances,
confers the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime
of public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then
conclude—merely premising in this place that we decline any reference whatever
to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of her connection
with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any means clear that we should
be justified in introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who
peruse our lucubrations.
We take it that the commencement of a Session of
Parliament is neither more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a
grand comic pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the
opening thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of
‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to
our mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the
propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how frequently this
speech is made, immediately after the change too, the parallel is quite
perfect, and still more singular.
Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was
richer than at this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no
former time, we should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers
so ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring
throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some
ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting gratuitously
through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce themselves to the
level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the respectability of the
profession. Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort of thing; and though
Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J.
Smith has ruralised at Sadler’s Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a
general tumbling through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who
threw summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority
either, because he had never been on the regular boards.
But, laying aside this question, which after all is a
mere matter of taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on
the proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after
night will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in
the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the funniest
slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without evincing the smallest
tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the confusion, the shouting and
roaring, amid which all this is done, too, would put to shame the most turbulent
sixpenny gallery that ever yelled through a boxing-night.
It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns
compelled to go through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible
influence of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his
head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly
motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the
faculty of speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he will become
all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without
sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic
contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust.
These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather
disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with whom we
confess we have no fellow-feeling.
Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also
performed by the harlequin who holds for the time being the magic wand which we
have just mentioned. The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will
dispossess his brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it
with an entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the
colour of a man’s coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who,
having this wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from
side to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity and
dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions.
Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of the
temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions
all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin
anew.
We might have extended this chapter to a much greater
length—we might have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we
might have shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a
little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as we
fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this chapter just
where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a dramatic poet, wrote
thus a year or two ago -
‘All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:’
and we, tracking out his footsteps at the
scarcely-worth-mentioning little distance of a few millions of leagues behind,
venture to add, by way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we
are all actors in The Pantomime of Life.
SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION
We have a great respect for lions in the abstract.
In common with most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of
their bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial
and charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when
they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense of the
politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a certain state.
All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of their excellent
qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular recounts a touching instance
of an old lion, of high moral dignity and stern principle, who felt it his
imperative duty to devour a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as
a striking example to the rising generation.
All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and,
indeed, says a very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound
to state, however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in
with have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up
to the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never
saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we
have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair under a
tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by, hot from the
baker’s. But we have seen some under the influence of captivity, and the
pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic,
heavy-headed fellows.
The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance.
He is all very well; he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord
bless us! what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as
ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion
or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar,
fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer to
attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless these
creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any especially
meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to frighten him; but
the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is sufficient to scare them even
then. These are pleasant characteristics, whereas we make it matter of
distinct charge against the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that
they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.
We do not remember to have ever seen one of them
perfectly awake, except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the
biped lions against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge
controversy upon the subject.
With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our
curiosity and interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our
acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal of her
invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a lion
coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and became
as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.
We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part
of the drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the
interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the
room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became
inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to make
solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden there came a
tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the house, after
gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep over the banisters,
came into the room, rubbing his hands together with great glee, and cried out in
a very important voice, ‘My dear, Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment
arrived.’
Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we
observed several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously
with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while
some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and
small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the company,
and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even the young
man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly
affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his excitement.
All this time there was a great talking outside, more
than once accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital!
excellent!’ from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these
exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host.
Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his
keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his
acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of half-suppressed
admiration, that—(naming the lion again) was in such cue to-night!
The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were
a vast number of people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious
to be introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for the
purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received all their
patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what we had so
often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are compelled to go
through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be acquainted with, just as
often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon them.
While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper
was not idle, for he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most
industriously. To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that
the noble animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course,
rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured a
hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before, where
twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra cheer for the
lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of interceding to procure the
majestic brute’s sign-manual for their albums. Then, there were little
private consultations in different corners, relative to the personal appearance
and stature of the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see
him, or taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like
his portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was
black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these
consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and
single subject of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the
people relapsed into their old topics of conversation—themselves and each
other.
We must confess that we looked forward with no slight
impatience to the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion
under particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all
others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a
sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and immediately
afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house down-stairs.
We offered our arm to an elderly female of our acquaintance, who—dear old
soul!—is the very best person that ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for,
be the room ever so small, or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some
intuitive perception of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor
close to the best dishes on the table;—we say we offered our arm to this
elderly female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were
fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.
Of course the keeper was there already. He had
planted himself at precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a
decent pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key,
as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and immediately
began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the lion out, and
putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such flashes of wit as he
elicited from the lion! First of all, they began to make puns upon a
salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and then upon the trifle; but
the best jokes of all were decidedly on the lobster salad, upon which latter
subject the lion came out most vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most
competent authorities, quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent
mode of shining in society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic
model of the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein
the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes
and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and excite
much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we recommend it
to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it succeeded to
admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.
When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the
trifle, and the lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford
standing-room for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very
dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in
one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal’s mouth,
and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently presents a
melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this achievement, and other
keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated for their daring. It is
due to our lion to state, that he condescended to be trifled with, in the most
gentle manner, and finally went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly
peaceable, but slightly fuddled.
Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some
reflections upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked
homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former
impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by what we
had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and compliments
in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear flattered by the
attentions that are paid them; while those conceal themselves to the utmost of
their power from the vulgar gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their
brethren, whom nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready
to display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears
of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been
wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught
monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire; and
elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn the
barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion, literary or
otherwise,—and we state it as a fact which is highly creditable to the whole
species,—who, occasion offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity
which was afforded him, of performing to his heart’s content on the first
violin.
MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’
In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in
the immediate neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics,
every evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an
individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the press,’
which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert Bolton’s
regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a greengrocer, a
hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a man’s head, and placed
on the top of two particularly short legs, and a thin man in black, name,
profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits in the same position, always
displays the same long, vacant face, and never opens his lips, surrounded as he
is by most enthusiastic conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco
smoke, or give vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill hem! The
conversation sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary
character, and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by
that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the
Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the following
conversation, preserved it.
‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’
inquired the hairdresser of the stomach.
‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’
‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m
thinking, Mr. Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head
blocks, and a dead Bruin.’
‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse.
‘I lends nothing on the security of the whigs or the Poles either. As
for whigs, they’re cheats; as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I
never have nothing to do with blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it
(ironically), and a dead bear’s about as much use to me as I could be to a
dead bear.’
‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book
as belonged to Pope, Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got
Pope’s identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for
security?’
‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But
how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’
‘Mean! why, that it’s got the hottergruff of
Pope.
“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;
For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”
All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the
book; so, as my son says, we’re bound to believe it.’
‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially,
and in a half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the
hairdresser’s grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried,
‘you’ll pay for the first upset afore you thinks of another.’
‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the
hairdresser, ‘I think, I says I think—you’ll excuse me, Mr.
Clip, I think, you see, that won’t go down with the present
company—unfortunately, my master had the honour of making the coffin of that
ere Lord’s housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don’t think
I’m proud on it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort.
I’ve no more respect for a Lord’s footman than I have for any respectable
tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip!
(bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope
died. And it’s a logical interference to defer, that they neither of
them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope never
had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to
that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have
’eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to
reward you for the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying
anything more—partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just
entered. I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I
do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.’
‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking
with double force?’ said the object of the above remark, as he entered.
‘I never excuse a man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s
seated so close to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put
yourself into such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme
physical and mental excitement, sir?’
Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert
Bolton, a shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing
current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the
establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it signifies that
no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their services. Mr. Bolton
was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very dissipated expression of
countenance. His habiliments were composed of an exquisite union of
gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity, newness, and old age.
Half of him was dressed for the winter, the other half for the summer. His
hat was of the newest cut, the D’Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the
inroads of mud and ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his
throat he wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while
his tout ensemble was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown
poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid
cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and
two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the
extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be
the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short, spare man, of a
somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed influenced by his entry
into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the patronizing.
The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the stomach. A minute
afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the
conversation took place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first
observation.
‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’
observed Mr. Bolton.
Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were
fixed upon the man of paragraphs.
‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a
copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous
horror.
‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the
most effective emphasis; ‘boiled him!’
‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the
hairdresser, ‘the particulars?’
Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some
two or three dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial
capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with the
press, and then said -
‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one
looked at the baker present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being
his son, also was necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer
had a wife, whom he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state,
of kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing while
in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet or
blanket.’
The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at
everybody else, and exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’
‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr.
Bolton, ‘that, on the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a
reprehensible state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him
in that condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual
couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the
morrow’s dawn beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the
reporter that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.)
‘The son came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to
bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he
taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear maternal
shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his
indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the
parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What
must have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his
male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female.
The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested the knife
from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs, shoved him
into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon
the top of it, in which position he was found with a ferocious countenance by
the mother, who arrived in the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled
himself.
‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.
‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the
benign father.
‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed
from the house, and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute
afterwards. The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted
himself. They dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the
cauldron, and, with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they
immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker was
apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street,
lighting his pipe.’
The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho,
condensed into the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have
so affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble
of all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the baker, as
well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only broken after some
minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the intense indignation of
every man present. The baker wondered how a British baker could so
disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling to which he belonged; and the
others indulged in a variety of wonderments connected with the subject; among
which not the least wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and
information of Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and
his unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most
solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question,
when I took up my hat, and left.
FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD AGED TWO YEARS AND TWO MONTHS
MY CHILD,
To recount with what trouble I have brought you
up—with what an anxious eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how
often I have sat up at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I
have received from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of
whom have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety and
tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected and
chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which some
injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow, and
retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed calculated to
keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an agreeable child, and
one who might be popular with society in general,—to dilate on the steadiness
with which I have prevented your annoying any company by talking
politics—always assuring you that you would thank me for it yourself some day
when you grew older,—to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a
parent, is beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair
appearance—your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take to be
the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and
delight.
It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you
are, I have no doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon
strange times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a
melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning from
Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into another
train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and
disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping at some
station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the little box
in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with pistol and
blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman (or railwayman) who
shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel (when they travel at all) inside
and in a portable stable invented for the purpose,—he dismounted, I say,
slowly and sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in
dismal recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire—the
glass of foaming ale—the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room
and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood
leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined
affliction and disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and
golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his
bright green shawl—his pride in days of yore—the steam condensed in the
tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His
eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his
own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his
office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an
elaborate practical joke.
As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an
anticipation of those days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be
judges of horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a
horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have given
place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I,
‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite
engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet
unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a
mail-coach guard exhibit his TRAINED ANIMALS in a mock mail-coach. Then,
shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip, it is
all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and stand alone
unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when the coursers
neigh!’
Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was
only awakened then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of
present though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the
digression, for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is
the very subject of which I desire to treat.
In fact, my child, you have changed hands.
Henceforth I resign you to the guardianship and protection of one of my most
intimate and valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best
wishes and warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by
parting from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in
this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany, and
never mine.
Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard
this altered state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and
satisfaction.
Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, your
guard is at home in his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant
desperadoes ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an
engine; (not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid
locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands
towards you in loco parentis as the skilful engineer and supervisor of
the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on
its new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand, I
approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old road, and
presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both
for their sakes and that of the old coachman,
Boz.