CHAPTER XXIV.

“Waes me! what’s this that lugs sae at my heart, And fills my breast with seck a dispert smart? Can’t be that thing cawt luive? Good folks now tell, And I’se set down just how I find mysel.

“I used to sing my sang, and crack my joke, And shake my sides at murth like other folk, But I’se sare chang’d frae what I used to be; Luik i’ my feace, and you may fairly see.” _The Costard’s Complaint, by Ewan Clark._

IT was a profound remark of Mrs. Coddle—and women, however humble, read characters very quickly, especially when their own interests are concerned—that there was no telling what ever had come to her Major since them Sandboys had got back to the place. She only knew he hadn’t been “all there” for the last ten days.

And certainly a peculiar change _had_ taken place in Major Oldschool’s deportment in general, and to his housekeeper in particular. Do what she might, there was no pleasing him. For a long time, Mrs. Coddle speculated as to the cause of the alteration of the gentleman’s conduct towards her. At first, with a true nurse’s discrimination, she had been inclined to refer his ill-temper to what she termed the bad state of his “digester,” being convinced that his stomach rather than his head was deranged, and felt satisfied it was all owing to his having left off his nightly brace of “Cockles.” Accordingly, she provided him with a miniature bandbox of the best antibilious, and endeavoured to persuade him to swallow a double allowance of the tiny medicinal dumplings—but all to no avail. Then she felt certain it must be the nasty rheumatiz flying about him, for he’d been and got his blood chilled the evening he went to the station-’us, she knew, cause, on taking his shoe off that night, she had found his sock was quite damp, and the cold must have struck in’ards; so she made him tureensful of white wine whey and treacle-posset, and hot milk and suet, but he would not touch a thimbleful, as she said, of any of them, vowing he never was better in all his life.

At length, however, Mrs. Coddle communicated in confidence to Mrs. Fokesell that she had that morning discovered the cause of all her Major’s tantrums of late, for, on examining the bottom of her teacup at breakfast that day, she had seen a wedding among the grouts as plain as she had ever seed any think in all her life; and what was more, so as to satisfy herself that she couldn’t be mistaken, she had took the trouble to burn a letter, and watch the sparks among the ashes, and there was the parson and the clerk a-going one after the other, for all the world as if they had been right afore her; and so, she said, putting this and that, and a many other things together, Mrs. Fokesell might take her word for it that there would be a wedding in that very house afore the twelvemonth was over.

Mrs. Fokesell shook her head, and remarked that there was no going agin such things, and that she too remembered of dreaming three times running of tumbling into a bed of nettles, and that meant marriage all the world over—adding, that _her_ Fokesell was going to sea again directly, and there was no telling what might happen afore the year was out. But Mrs. Coddle had, as she observed, her eye on a very different party, and all she would then say was, “that there was no fools like _old_ fools,” and she laid a most significant emphasis on that part of the proverb which refers to the age of the simpletons.

Every day Mrs. Coddle discovered some fresh evidence to confirm her in the opinion she had formed as to the cause of the Major’s odd ways of late. Now she would catch him seated at his desk, and scribbling on his blotting-pad, in a fit of abstraction, the name of “Elcy.” Then he had taken to paying daily visits to Covent Garden Market in quest of bouquets and bunches of violets, or baskets of choice fruit, which he always sent up stairs with his compliments to the ladies. Then again he had grown all of a sudden “so dreadful purticlar” about his dress, that there was no bearing him. To-day the plaiting of his frill wouldn’t suit him—to-morrow his shoe wasn’t polished to his liking—and he had actually been and ordered a light poplin palletott, just because he had seed some of the “young bloods” about in them.

And, to tell the truth, Mrs. Coddle was not very wrong in her surmises as to the reason of the Major’s altered behaviour towards her. Ever since he had first seen Elcy Sandboys weeping in the passage, and had discovered the tenderness of her care and regard for her father, he had had thoughts that he had never known before. Major Oldschool had left England as a mere boy of a cadet, and before he had been a year up at his station in India, he had discontinued corresponding with his mother’s lady’s-maid, to whom he had sworn eternal attachment on quitting the country. While out in India, the want of female society had, in a measure, inured him to celibacy, till at last he had gradually sunk into what the ladies termed “a hardened old bachelor.”

On his return to England, however, Major Oldschool soon began to find that the Indian life, food, and climate, had made such inroads upon his constitution, and accustomed him to such habits of indolence, or rather dependence upon others for the execution of even his most trifling wants, that now that his retinue of black domestics was no longer at his command, he found it was utterly impossible to remain without some one to look after him, so he provided himself with that most miserable of all matrimonial make-shifts, an old crone of a housekeeper. Mrs. Coddle was not long in discovering how necessary she was to the comfort of the Major, nor in taking every advantage of him that his dependence upon her permitted. Major Oldschool, however, had not been altogether blind to the exactions of his housekeeper—but being naturally deficient in energy, and not exactly seeing any way of immediately extricating himself from the web that she had spun round him, he had tolerated her tyranny in as patient a manner as possible.

On becoming acquainted with Elcy, the Major began to feel the thraldom of Mrs. Coddle unusually irksome to him. He was continually contrasting the truthfulness of the young girl with the artifice and deceit of the old woman, and comparing the gentleness and loving care of the one with the exactions and hollow sympathy of the other; and as he grew to like the younger one, he got almost to hate the older in an equal degree. Still he would hardly allow himself to imagine that he could be in love at his time of life; and whenever he caught himself thinking how wretched he was with old Mrs. Coddle, and how happy he could be with Elcy Sandboys to attend upon him, he drove the thought from his mind, calling himself an old fool, and mentally inquiring what the world would think of him marrying a girl who was young enough to be his daughter.

The gentle cause of all this disturbance in the bosom and domestic arrangements of Major Oldschool was utterly unconscious of the effect she had produced; nor did she reciprocate the feelings of that gentleman. It is true, she was much struck with his kindness to herself and to her father during their trouble, and that she did not hesitate to confess she thought him a very nice old gentleman indeed; and whenever the Major had formed the subject of conversation with her family during his absence, she had always spoken warmly of his kindness and attention to them; but this the girl had done on every occasion, frankly and without a blush.

Mrs. Coddle, however, who was sufficiently well skilled in the development of the gentle passion, from the budding, as it were, to the blossoming of the orange flowers—not having lived all her years, as she said, for nothing,—soon required no prophetic vane to tell her which way the wind blew in the front parlour of Mrs. Fokesell’s establishment, and did not hesitate to confess as much to the landlady herself. She knew how it would all turn out from the very first time the Major set eyes on the “chit” a-snivelling in the passage. His going out without his tea was quite enough for her: and of all artful young husseys, Miss Sandboys was the wust she ever come a-nigh. She couldn’t abear to see such scheming and planning as there was with young gals, now-a-days, to get well settled in life—no matter to them what poor cretur they threw out of bread by it: and she had no doubt that after all she had done for the Major, she’d be thrown o’ one side, like an old shoe, when she wasn’t wanted no longer. But she could tell the pair on ’em that she wasn’t agoing to be got rid on quite so easy; and if they didn’t know their dooty, and had never given it so much as a thought what was to become of her, why, she’d just let them see what she considered was her rights. It made her quite ill to think of the deceit there was in the world; and what business had that “bit of a girl” to come turning her out of house and home—especially when she thought she were comfortable settled for life—was all she wanted to know.

Thus matters went on, the hatred of Mrs. Coddle toward Elcy Sandboys increasing in a direct ratio with the liking of the Major for the same person, and when the housekeeper learnt that the intended visit of the Sandboys to the Exhibition, in company with the Major, had been postponed by the amputation of his wooden leg, she was as delighted at first as she was annoyed on hearing afterwards that the Cumberland folk had been prevailed upon by the Major to remain in London until such time as he could get his leg repaired, and fulfil his engagement with them.

Indeed the Major, much to Mrs. Coddle’s discomfort, would not listen to the departure of his friends, and promised to make all haste in providing himself with a new limb, expressly for their visit to the Crystal Palace. Accordingly, he set himself to work, thinking what kind of a new leg he should have, and whom he should get to make it. This time he made up his mind he would employ a person who had some experience in the line, for the last leg he had made was by a mere novice, and had cost him no little trouble; at first the manufacturer had constructed it of too great a length, and it had made him lean on one side, for all the world like a human tower of Pisa,—then the man cut it down too short, and he had been thrown from one side to the other, like a fresh-water sailor in a heavy swell,—then, too, the fellow had manufactured the thing out of green stuff, and it had warped so, that the wooden leg positively looked bandy.

Having by these cogent reasons convinced himself that it would be far better to place his leg in the hands of an experienced artificer, the Major next began to debate within himself as to what should be the style and material of the limb. One thing he had made his mind up to; he was not going to continue in the Greenwich pensioner style any longer, hobbling about on a leg that was as straight, and had no more symmetry in it than a stork’s. No! he would have a cork one. He had often seen in the shops some beautiful fellows, with a black silk stocking over them, and a calf as plump as a footman’s in high life. Yes! he would despatch a letter that moment to the very place where he remembered having seen one worthy of a fashionable physician in the window. Accordingly, he hopped along to his desk, as best he could, and scribbled a hasty summons to the artificial limb-maker.

It was not long before the human centipede—the modern Briaræus—the Argus of the nineteenth century, made his appearance; and having learnt from the Major the nature of the accident, proceeded to describe to the gentleman the quality of the several artifices at present in vogue for supplying the various defects in the human frame. The limb-maker had an odd way with him of describing the respective artificial appurtenances of his business, as if they were his own individual possessions, and formed part of his own frame, instead of his stock in trade.

“Yes, sir, I believe I may say, without vanity,” observed the loquacious Frankenstein of 1851, “that I have been long celebrated for the make of my legs. It is universally allowed that there are not such legs as mine in all Europe, sir. A lady of quality had one of my legs—the right leg it was—and she danced the polka in it as well as ever she could have done it with her own, sir.”

Major Oldschool threw up his eyebrows with astonishment, while he smiled with delight.

“I can assure you, sir,” continued the man, rubbing his hands as if he were washing them in phantom soap and water, “you will find my knees not at all stiff nor shaky; not like the cheap slop articles, that—if you will permit me to say so—are very much in the hackney-coach-horse style. Then, doubtlessly, you may have heard of the superior quality of my arms and hands, sir. Only the other day I sent home an arm to a general officer, with a dessert service fitted up inside, knife and fork, table-spoon, tea-spoon, meerschaum pipe, cork-screw, and boot-hooks, and the fingers made to take a pinch of snuff positively with an air of grace, sir—an air of grace, I may say, sir.”

Major Oldschool was too glad to listen, and therefore refrained from saying a word that might interrupt the strain of the tradesman’s boastings.

“Then again,” resumed the man, “there are my eyes, sir, which I will challenge the whole world to equal. I will put my eyes against theirs for any sum they please, let them be black, blue, grey, or hazel, sir. Perhaps you may have noticed my eyes in the shop window, sir. I have _one_—a black one, sir—that obtained me the prize from the Society of Arts last year, sir. I don’t think, sir, you could go into any fashionable church or chapel without their being either one or two of my eyes in the place. I serve all the first people, I can assure you, sir. Then I have a charitable society in connexion with my establishment, for the gratuitous distribution of eyes to the poor, and a very great relief it is to them, sir. To servants they are a real blessing—for mistresses object to one-eyed nurses, or lady’s-maids, or cooks, you know, sir—so I let those kind of people have my eyes at what they cost me, and they are very thankful for them, indeed, sir. I should think I have got at least a hundred eyes in place at the present time, sir.”

“Bless me! bless me!” cried the Major; “I had no idea that art was carried to such perfection;—but we live in wonderful times.”

“You may say that, sir,” replied the man of _eye art_. “We can remedy any defect—no matter what, sir. Humpbacks we can pad out into perfect symmetry; spindle legs we can plump into the finest calves. If you will take my word for it, there are several tragedians and footmen in high life who are strutting about at this present time in my calves; and as for waiters and dancing-masters, we do a prodigious business with them in the course of the year. You would not believe it, perhaps, sir, but I have known a leg that was modelled into mahogany bootjacks that was merely made up of my calves, after all. But you will excuse me, sir; this but little concerns you. Touching your own leg, sir, I think you said you should like cork; but if you will allow me to recommend, I should advise you to have a gutta percha one. We are now making up some beautiful limbs in that material. I had one leg at home that I did intend to have brought round with me under my arm, just for your inspection, sir. I am sure you would have liked it, the article is so light and elastic: indeed, it is one of my best legs, and not at all dear, sir. Now, let me make you up one of those; for I can assure you, sir, if you will only leave your leg in my hands, I will turn you out such a nice, light, elegant one”—and here he smiled and bowed—“that will make you regret you have not lost the other. Our art, you see, sir, is no base imitation of Nature, but I may say an improvement upon her—as, indeed, all high art _should_ be, sir. All our limbs are warranted to be true Grecian proportions. If you will oblige me by taking a seat, I will just take the dimensions of your limb, sir.”

Then, as the Major sank into the nearest chair, the leg-maker proceeded to take his measure, and as he pushed up the trousers, said, after having passed the tape round the ankle, “How shall we do about the calf, sir? Shall we reduce the proportions of the artificial, or plump out those of the natural limb? For my own part, I should recommend a little of both; and if you will allow me, sir, to send you round just one or two of my calves to look at, I think you would be exceedingly pleased with them. I could let you have one calf at a very low figure just now, for I remember I have an odd calf by me, as I supplied an Admiral of the Blue with one just your size, for her Majesty’s last Levee—or else, you see, sir, it would become expensive to break the pair. The one I should send you is made on the best plan; it forms part of the web of the stocking, and so there is no fear of its turning round to the shin while dancing or taking any other active exercise, sir, as I dare say you remember used frequently to happen with the dreadful things they wore a few years back, and which you may perhaps recollect, sir, looked more like the cricketer’s paddings than improvers of the ‘form divine.’”

Major Oldschool thought of the ladies, and assented to the tradesman’s proposal.

The limb-furnisher rose from his kneeling position, and having rolled up his measure, and brushed his hat with his sleeve, previous to his taking his departure, drew a card from his pocket, and presenting it to the Major, said—“Should you be in want of any teeth at any time, sir, you will find that gentleman very skilful and moderate in his charges. He has some remarkably fine china sets just now; you may have noticed one in our window, sir, in a beautiful working wax head, with the eyes moving, the mouth opening, and the teeth going in and out every other minute, by clock-work. I have not the least doubt you remember seeing the model, sir; it has a fine jet-black beard; at one moment the figure is as toothless as a sloth, sir—and the next minute his mouth is filled with an entire set, as beautiful and white as a sweep’s. But perhaps, sir,” he added, finding the Major made no reply, “you are not in want of anything in that way. You will see, sir, the gentleman states at the bottom of the card that his teeth are so much admired, that he has no doubt that his china sets will shortly supersede all others.” Here the man made a profound bow, and, saying the Major should have his leg home in a day or two, quitted the room.

The limb-maker had no sooner closed the door than he returned, and presenting a small pamphlet, said—“I beg your pardon, sir; but would you allow me to present you with this little list of testimonials; you, or some of your friends from the country may, perhaps, be troubled with corns or bunions, and I can assure you that Professor Rootzemout, Chiropodist to her Royal Highness the Duchess of Gloucester, and the rest of the royal family, extracts them with no more pain than corks, sir. You will see that the Professor has had the feet of the ‘first of the land’ under his hands, sir. The Bishop of Calcutta certifies that the Professor has removed a bunion from his great toe, that he had been suffering a martyrdom from for months; and even the Prime Minister of the country publicly expresses his gratitude to the Professor for the eradication of a soft corn that had allowed him no rest for years. The Professor’s specimens in his museum are really quite marvellous, sir. One he has from a late Lord Mayor of London, I give you my word, sir, is as big as a spring onion; but I fear I am intruding on your valuable time;” and so saying, the enterprising tradesman wiped his shoes several times on the carpet as he bowed obsequiously and withdrew.

* * * * *

True to the appointed time, the anxiously-expected leg was sent home carefully enveloped in silver paper, and shortly afterwards the maker arrived to fit it on, and see whether his limb was sufficiently well-set to be allowed to run alone. When he had fixed it the man was in raptures with his own handiwork; and while the Major paced the room, the limb-maker declared, as he bobbed about to look at him from every point of view, that the Major’s leg was the very best he had yet made in the same material.

Major Oldschool was almost as pleased as the man, and exclaimed, on looking at himself in the pier-glass, that he positively shouldn’t have known his own figure again; adding, as he thrust the leg forward, and leant his head on one side to look at the calf of it, that no one could tell it was not his own: and, as he paid the maker, he expressed himself much indebted to his skill for his improved appearance.

When the artificer had left, the Major gave full vent to his feelings, and strutted about the room inwardly gloating over the surprise that the ladies and old Sandboys would feel on beholding him firmly on his legs once more. Then he wondered however he could have gone hobbling about on that spindle of a leg so long, with the iron tip thumping, as he went along, like a blind man’s stick on the ground; and he promised himself that immediately after dinner he would arrange with the Sandboys to be off, the first thing in the morning, to the Exhibition; for he longed to show himself there with his new leg quite as much as his Cumberland friends wished to look at the wonders of the Show.

When the Sandboys _did_ behold the Major’s new leg, they were one and all as much astonished as he expected or wished them to be, and the evening was spent in jests at his previous appearance, and in mirthful remembrances of the accident which had brought about the change. Even the fatalistic Mr. Sandboys was obliged to declare that Destiny, for once, had done them a good turn, and before retiring to rest, he had grown to look upon the past adventure as a propitious omen, foretelling their speedy attainment of the object they had so repeatedly sought.

Nor could Elcy herself help speaking in terms of admiration at the Major’s improved appearance, declaring, that had she not seen him with his previous wooden substitute, she should never have been aware of his loss of limb—all of which was so extremely gratifying to the old soldier, that he felt more delighted with the girl than ever.

Major Oldschool got but little rest that night, for he kept thinking over and over again of all that had occurred,—muttering to himself, half unconsciously, when he _did_ doze off, what Elcy had said in admiration of the change that had taken place in him. Nor were the slumbers of Elcy and Jobby more profound; they both ran over in their minds the several wonders they had read of in the Exhibition, and longed for the daylight that was to reveal to them all the marvels of the Crystal Palace.

Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys themselves were up with the sparrows the next morning, alive with the conviction that at last the eventful day which was to consummate their hopes and wishes had really arrived; and in a short time they would be back again to Cumberland in their quiet mountain home, talking over the many wonders they had seen, and laughing with their neighbours over the perplexing adventures they had gone through.

When the party were assembled, Major Oldschool propounded the order of the day’s amusements, as he had mentally arranged them previously to rising that morning. He had crammed the day, he said, as full of sights and shows as he possibly could. He proposed that they should first, as it was a lovely morning, go by the steamer up to the New Houses of Parliament, and having viewed them, and looked in at the Courts of Law, they were to step over to the Abbey and take a peep at the Poet’s Corner. Then they could have a beautiful stroll through the parks, past Buckingham Palace, and along Constitution Hill, to the Wellington Statue; after which they could just drop in at the St. George’s Gallery, and see the splendid Diorama of the Holy Land, and Cumming’s African Hunter’s Exhibition; which done, they could step along to the Chinese Collection, and look at the lady who had only two inches to stand upon, instead of a foot; and after that, just to fortify them against the fatigues of the day, they could drop into M. Mouflet’s restaurant, and have a nice little luncheon, for the Major said it was whispered that the tepid ices, and soupy jellies, and Bath buns—strongly resembling their hard and dry relations the Bath bricks—which were to be had at the Exhibition, could not be included among the _chef-d’œuvres_ of the Crystal Palace. After luncheon, Major Oldschool told them they would be ready for a good four-hours’ feast of their eyes at the Grand Show; and this over, he proposed they should retire to M. Soyer’s Imposium and have a nice little dinner of cold meat and pickles in the Baronial Hall, at the small charge of half-a-guinea a head; and in the evening, he said, they could take a cab, and drive to Leicester-square, and have a turn round the Great Globe, and be nearly broiled by the gas up among the Polar Regions; next, they might step across to M. Cantelo’s Incubator, and see the process of hatching chickens, which was remarkably curious, for he _had_ been informed by one of the first physiologists of the age that the young brood invariably evinced an instinctive attachment to their maternal boiler, striving to nestle themselves under their parent kettle immediately it began to sing. And as a conclusion to the day’s entertainments, they might all pop in at the Adelphi, and having passed an hour or two there, they might then be able to get to Vauxhall just in time to see the horsemanship and fireworks; and there, after a cold fowl and lobster salad, by way of a little supper, they could return home ready and thankful for bed.

The Sandboys were all delighted with the Major’s programme for the day’s festivities, and having swallowed a hasty breakfast, and decked themselves out in their holiday costume, they once more descended to the parlour, ready to start for the Great Sight, with Cursty fidgeting at their heels, in inward fear of something or other occurring that would once more delay their departure.

At length, however, the whole party were fairly off; and as Mr. Sandboys stood on the door-step, wondering within himself how they had succeeded in getting even that far towards their destination, he said thoughtfully to the Major, as he held him by the button-hole, while Jobby, Elcy, and Mrs. Sandboys went tripping along lightly up the street, “I’ll tell thee what I’ll do, Major——”

“Yes, yes,” answered his friend, “but tell me as we go, or we shall miss the ladies.”

Cursty paid little or no attention to the Major’s impatience, but still musing, said, “I’ll wager thee a crown, man, that we never get inside t’ Girt Exhibition to-day.”

“Done!” shouted the Major, and he dragged the fatalistic Cursty Sandboys with him, as he hobbled up the street.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

“Wi’ sic thoughts i’ my mind, Time thro’ the warl may gae, And find me still, in twenty years, The same as I’m to-day: ’Tis friendship bears the sway, And keeps friends i’ the e’e; And gin I think I see thee still, Wha can part thee and me?” _Song, by Miss Blamire._

IN a few moments the Sandboys and Major Oldschool were safe on board the penny “Bee,” steaming along the Thames towards the Westminster pier.

The Major, who had found it impossible, with his artificial leg, to keep up with the ladies, had availed himself of the circumstance of his being left alone with Cursty, to paint a vivid picture (as they hobbled through Hungerford Market) of the solitary state of his household, and the horrors of a life dependent for its comforts and enjoyments on the tender mercies of a selfish old housekeeper, expatiating in the meantime on the sufficiency of his funds to maintain a wife in ease, if not in luxury; and winding up with a modest eulogium as to the amiability of his temper—the domesticity of his habits—and his cat-like love of a quiet hearth.

Mr. Sandboys had just inquired how it was—if such were the bent of his inclinations—that he remained in a state of wretched bachelorhood; and the Major had just answered that it was the very thing he wished to speak to him about, when a shrill voice suddenly shouted, “Pay here for the ‘Bee,’ gents! pay here!”

The demand having been complied with, the Major, immediately he was on board the penny steamer, sought out a retired spot where he might continue the delicate subject of their previous conversation, and perceiving that the most quiet part of the vessel was immediately adjoining the line of demarcation between the lovers and the haters of the “fragrant weed,” drew his friend Cursty towards the gangway: leaning their backs against the funnel, the couple resumed the tender topic which had recently engaged them.

As the “Bee” went buzzing over the water, the Major made the father of Elcy his own father-confessor as to the state of his bosom at that particular moment, declaring the object of his affection to be none other than that gentleman’s daughter.

The simple and unobservant, because unsuspicious, Cursty was nearly taken off his nautical legs by the announcement: but referring the Major to Elcy herself for an answer, he confessed that, provided she saw no cause or impediment, &c., he himself would not be the man to forbid the banns; whereupon they both grew so interested in the “momentous question”—the Major intent on making the most of his qualifications for a good husband, and descanting rapturously on Miss Elcy’s possession of all the requisites for a good wife, and Cursty Sandboys lost in the pleasure of listening to the praises of his child—that, though the heat of the funnel at their backs was almost sufficient to cook an omelette, it was utterly unheeded by them.

Now, gutta percha is a most admirable material, especially adapted for boats, ropes, and other commodities to be used in the Arctic regions; but, unfortunately, it has the slight drawback of softening like “hardbake” at a high temperature, and consequently it is _not particularly_ suited for firemen’s helmets, owing to its liability to run down the faces of the “brigade” like treacle, when exposed to a “terrific conflagration;” nor is it especially adapted to the manufacture of shaving-pots, seeing that the infusion of the boiling water is certain to elongate the vessel into something approximating the form and appearance of a huge German sausage; and we _have_ known candlesticks made of the treacherous “gutta” _gutter_ away with the expiring “stearine” until nothing was left of the antique candelabrum but a leathery pancake on the tablecloth; picture-frames, too, composed of the same uncertain substance have been found, in the dog-days, to suffer almost as much as aldermen from the extreme heat of the weather, and to grow as limp and bendy at the joints as an acrobat, while the cornices ran down into a series of chocolate-coloured stalactites. Nor is the soluble stuff better adapted to the formation of harness, for gutta percha traces have been occasionally seen, when the thermometer stood at 80° in the shade, to elongate like vulcanized India-rubber, and to leave the vehicle a considerable distance behind the horse which was supposed to be drawing it, while the whip which was intended for the flagellation of the animal has gone as soft as a lollipop, and of no more service than a straw; and to this catalogue of commodities unfitted to be manufactured in gutta percha still one other article must be added, and that is—as an Irishman would say—wooden legs; for though legs are intended to run as well as to walk, it is somewhat inconvenient to find them, on the least increase of temperature, run away altogether, and the limb which was meant as a crutchlike support give way, for all the world as though the wearer had become suddenly afflicted with the “rickets,” his gutta percha leg gradually bending in or bulging out, like a barley-sugar bird-cage at an evening party.

Presently the tender thread of Major Oldschool’s discourse was rudely snapped asunder by a kind of echo duet performed by the captain of the “Busy Bee” in deep bass, and the call-boy in shrill treble, the burden of which was—“ease her! _ease her!_—back her! _back her!_—stop her! _stop her!_”—and then bump went the vessel against the Westminster pier, making the barge wabble on the water like a yeast dumpling in a saucepan.

Until this moment the Major, whose back had been resting against the funnel, had not attempted to stir a foot, and no sooner was he roused from his reverie by the cry of “Now, then, any one for Westminster?” than, seizing Mr. Sandboys by the arm, he cried, “Here we are. Come along, quick! or we shall be carried off to Chelsea;” and made a desperate effort to reach the plank that connected the “Bee” with the pier; but no sooner did he trust the weight of his body to the treacherous gutta percha limb, which the heat of the funnel had by this time rendered as limp as a stale sugar-stick in a confectioner’s window, than it bent under him like a soldier’s penny cane, and down went the Major on his side, dragging the terrified Cursty along with him.

The Major was so unprepared for the mishap, that he was utterly unaware of the cause of his sudden fall, until, on attempting to get up, and trusting once more to his “gummy” leg, he was again precipitated on top of the bewildered Cursty, before that gentleman had time to rise. On looking to the state of his new limb, however, the problem was speedily solved, for he found that his gutta percha calf, softened by the heat of the funnel, had run into his boot, while his artificial ankle had swollen into a “model gout,” while what was originally the thick part of the leg, had been attenuated into a mere tendon, no thicker than a harp-string.

Major Oldschool raved at all new-fangled inventions, and vowed as he clasped his head with vexation, that there was nothing like wood, after all, and called himself an idiot for allowing himself to be talked into any such “tomfoolery,” while the passengers laughed violently at the catastrophe; and even the Sandboys, vexed as they felt at the further postponement of their visit to the Crystal Palace, could not refrain from taking part in the merriment excited on the occasion.

To proceed to the Exhibition with such a leg was utterly impossible, and to the Sandboys’ great discomfiture nothing remained to be done but to have the _uni-ped_ Major carried to a cab, and conveyed back to Craven-street as rapidly as possible.

* * * * *

Mr. Cursty Sandboys, as usual, saw that the calamity had been planned by some of the invisible sprites and mischievous elfins in the employ of that blind and spiteful old maid passing under the name of Destiny or Fate, and whom he felt thoroughly convinced were having a hearty demoniac laugh in their phantom sleeves at the many annoyances they were causing him; and no sooner was he once more located within the parlour of Major Oldschool, than he registered a vow on the ceiling of that apartment, that he would never again move a leg to get to that bothering Crystal Palace. It was no use talking to him—go home he _would_—and people might laugh as they pleased.

That evening, as the Major and Cursty sat enjoying their toddy after the family had retired to rest, and Mr. Sandboys was growing eloquent, under the influence of the whisky punch, on the many beauties of his native Buttermere, Major Oldschool begged Cursty to defer his return to Cumberland until he (the Major) had escorted Elcy to the Exhibition, and availed himself of that opportunity to speak to the young lady on the subject of their morning’s conversation; for, as he said, half laughing, he could not think of marrying a lady who was unacquainted with the wonders of the Exhibition—he might as well pick a wife from a convent at once, and unite himself with one who had had her head shaved, and foresworn the world and every kind of _show_. As an additional inducement, moreover, the Major promised that if he were fortunate enough to gain the young lady’s consent, he would return with the family, be married at Lanthwaite Green Church, as his old friend had been, and pass the rest of his days with the family at Buttermere.

As soon as the Major was provided with a new limb, he accompanied Elcy and her brother to the Great Exhibition, and there, as he led her through all the countries of the civilized globe, he endeavoured to reveal the state of his feelings—now, as they paused for a moment in France, he asked her whether she thought she could be happy with him for life—and now, as they rambled through China, he inquired whether she fancied she would be very miserable if she had him for a companion for the remainder of her days. Elcy replied that he had been so kind to them all, that she was sure she should always be glad to be in his company, and that ever since her first acquaintance with him, she had esteemed him as one of her father’s best friends—all which so encouraged the Major, that he availed himself of the solitude of America to beg to be informed whether her esteem for him as a friend could make her love him as a husband?

The young lady was wholly unprepared for such an inquiry, and as she thought of the disparity of their ages, she hurried on and pretended to be so absorbed with the ingenuity of the sewing machine, as not to have heard the question; the Major, however, had no sooner led his fair companion into Russia, than he whispered the same tender question in her ear as she stood admiring the beauty of the malachite doors. Elcy, finding at last that it was impossible to evade the question, begged of the Major not to press her for an answer, telling him that the remembrance of his great kindness would always insure him her best regard, and as she said so, the frank-hearted girl shook him by the hand in token of her friendship; all of which the sanguine Major construed into a modest assent to his proposal, and he plucked up his shirt collar, as he felt as if the snows of some thirty winters had been suddenly swept away from his head. On the return home of the party, after their day’s tour of the world, the Major announced at tea that he proposed passing the remainder of his days in Buttermere, and it was accordingly arranged between himself and Cursty that they should leave London for Cumberland with the least possible delay.

But the departure of the Sandboys and the Major was doomed to be delayed once more; for Mrs. Cursty no sooner received a full and impartial account from Elcy and Jobby, of all the many curiosities contained beneath the huge glass case of the Crystal Palace, than she made up her mind she would have one peep at it before she left.

And when Mrs. Sandboys had feasted her eyes on the banquet of the works of Industry of all nations, she in her turn came back with a glowing account of its many marvels, so that poor Cursty began inwardly to long for a peep at it himself, but remembering the vow he had registered on the ceiling, he still pretended to be firm, though in his heart he was really waiting for his friends to press him to abandon his resolution, and to find some little excuse by which he could, with any show of honour, sneak out of the determination he had come to; and in the hope of their so doing, he managed to put off their departure, day after day, until at last, on the Monday morning fixed for their return to Buttermere, as Cursty sat at breakfast, sipping his hot tea hastily, so as to be in time for the train to the North, he confessed it would be a shame for him to go back without seeing the Exhibition. Accordingly, he asked the Major if, as a man of honour, he thought he could rescind his vow, saying that it struck him that, as he had taken an oath he would not stir a foot to get to the Great Exhibition, that did not prevent his being carried there. The Major smiled at the equivocation, and telling his friend that he might do so, and still preserve his honour unsullied, Mr. Sandboys consented that the cab which was then at the door to convey them to the station on their way back to their mountain home, should go round by the Exhibition, and drop him at the transept, so that he might pop his head in, and just be able to say that he had seen it, after all.

The Major who, while Cursty was coquetting with his conscience, stood at the window entertaining himself with the perusal of the morning paper, which he had bought to lighten the tedium of the long journey, no sooner heard the announcement of his friend’s altered determination, than he shouted out, “It’s no use now, Cursty! for here is a long account of the closing of the Exhibition last Saturday.” Mr. Sandboys’ jaw fell like a carriage dog’s, and, knocking his “wide-awake” on his head, he hurried into the cab, and in a minute the Sandboys family, in company with the Major, were on their way back to Buttermere, Cursty vowing that if there was ever another Exhibition, he would never think of coming up to London again to enjoy himself.

THE END.

Savill & Edwards, Printers, 4, Chandos-street, Covent garden.

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ The inconsistent formatting of chapter headings was regularized. ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text that was bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).