Bentley's Miscellany, Volume I
CHAPTER 1.
"A century or two ago, there was a class of dependents or hangers-on to the great families in Ireland, denominated 'running-footmen,' who may truly be looked upon as originals in their singular, laborious, and sometimes even dangerous calling. Though ostensibly mere letter-carriers, or light-parcel bearers, across the difficult parts of the country, as yet inaccessible to carriages, or even quadrupeds, (or rendered passable by that style of road-making which the _Colossus of Roads_, Macadam, pretended was _his_ discovery,) the running-footmen had occasionally charges of more serious import. They were often suspected of being the agents by whom political measures of local warfare were transmitted from baronial sovereigns to their distant clanships or allies,--of being walking, or rather running, telegraphs (for their speed was prodigious) of some plot of treason against the rights of the invader, and often cruelly and unjustly sacrificed to his fury, when intercepted on their secret but seldom hostile missions. They carried their notions of honour on the point of their trust, whatever it might be, to a romantic scrupulosity. No matter whether it was a love-letter or a challenge, a purse or a process, a curse or a blessing, the faithful runner never revealed it to any one but the person for whom it was intended. Though journeying by the most difficult passes, and undergoing the most severe privations, those extraordinary fellows seldom failed in their undertakings. This may be partially accounted for by the reverence they were held in by their own people; for as the lower Irish still continue to believe in the strange notion of their Oriental ancestors, that the souls of 'innocents' (in plainer English, 'fools,') are in heaven, and that their 'muddy vesture of decay' on earth is entitled to superstitious respect, these motleys, in either their real or assumed garb of folly, were treated with a kind of familiar or affectionate reverence wherever they went amongst their own countrymen. On the other hand, the paths of their treading, when they went out upon distant journeys, were so little known to the hostile strangers, that they ran but little chance of receiving injury at their hands, or even meeting with them. Such were the running-footmen of other days; but they are gone,--their _race_ is ended,--and those who pride themselves upon their descent from the stock seem to have retained but few of the qualifications of their ancestors. Everything romantic and happy in Ireland seems to be dwindling away. No longer do we hear the pleasant announcements of 'Blind Connal the harper, sir,' and 'Miss Biddy Maquillian the fiddler, my lady,' and 'Dermot O'Dowd the piper, boys,' and ----"
I had just read so far in some work or other which I had carelessly taken up for a peep after dinner one day, when a loud knock at the door of my apartment made me close the book, and say "Come in!" The door slowly opened; but, as nobody entered, I demanded "Who's there?"
"It's me, masther; Darby, yir honor."--"What do you want?" inquired I.--"Nothing, sir," said he, "but I've got a letther for ye, sir."--"From whom?" said I.--"Faix, I don't know, sir," replied he archly; "for I haven't read it yit; but here it is."--"Why don't you come in and give it to me?" demanded I.--"I'm afraid, sir," said he, "that my brogues would dirty the carpet, and set all the girls in the kitchen a-laughing at me for comin' into the drawin'-room; and sure a purtier room a man need never wish to come into."--"Oh! very well," said I, rising; "you shall have your way, Darby."--"Am I to wait for an answer, sir?" said he, giving me the letter.--"No," replied I; "I'll ring if it be necessary."--"Thank yir honor," said Darby, and turned to descend the stairs with the furtive caution of a cat when stealing upon its prey, lest he should make his brogues audible. A loud crash, succeeded by a louder laugh, through which I distinctly heard, "_Merry bad look to yiz all!_" convinced me that Darby's coming up stairs with the letter was a contrivance of the other servants to play some trick upon him, which their merriment seemed to show had succeeded; but into which as I did not care to inquire, I sate down, opened my letter, and began to read. I had not proceeded far before I found it related to business of the most serious consequence, and required that I should write _instanter_ to a friend, who was on a visit at Bally----, (nearly forty miles distant across the country,) and have an answer by immediate return of post. There was no time to be lost; so I wrote my letter as speedily as possible, folded, sealed, and directed it, then rang the bell with unusual impatience. It was promptly answered; but this time there was no knock at the door before it opened, for it was Eileen, my usual attendant, that presented herself, with a face whose natural health, cheerfulness, and rustic beauty were considerably heightened by the flush of recent merriment.
"What have you been doing with Darby, Eileen?" said I.--"_Oh, widdy-eelish!_" (her constant ejaculation) said she laughing, "nothing at all, sir; only he said he wanted to see the drawin'-room, so we sent him up with the letter, and he slipped his foot as he came down, sir; that's all."--"You know I don't like those tricks, Eileen," said I, with all the severity I could muster against her smothered laughter.--"No, sir; I know, sir; but when an _omadhaun_ like that--"--"Silence!" said I. "I want to send a letter by the post: what o'clock is it?"--"Half an hour too late, sir," said Eileen, resuming her gravity; "and there'll be no post to-morrow."--"No post to-morrow!" echoed I.--"No sir; tomorrow's Saturday, you know."--"Confusion!" said I, "it will be so indeed. What's to be done?"--"I don't know, sir," replied Eileen despondingly; "how far is it?"--"Oh! nearly forty miles across the country," cried I; "and I want an answer immediately."--"Can't Darby _run_ across with it?" said Eileen.--"_Run_ across with it!" cried I; "is the girl out of her senses? Run across forty miles, as if it were nothing more than a hop-step-and-jump!"--"He'll do it in that same, sir," said Eileen seriously, "if ye'll only tell him what it is."--"_Who_'ll do it?" cried I impatiently.--"Why, Darby, sir," said she; "Darby in the kitchen, that's known all the country round for Darby the Swift."--"What!" cried I, "that fellow that brought me the letter just now? Impossible!"--"There's nothing impossible to God, sir, you know,--glory be to his name!" said Eileen, "and so the _crathur_ has the gift of it: he'll do it, I warrant ye." I looked up in Eileen's face, and saw there was something beyond common opinion pleading for Darby; so, waiving all farther parley, I desired her to go down stairs and send him to me instantly. Eileen curtsied, and, retiring, shut the door; but immediately opened it again, saying "You don't want him the night, sir, do ye? for," added she with a loud laugh, "I think he has broken his shin-bone."--"Send him to me immediately," said I peremptorily; upon which Eileen, exclaiming "_Oh, widdy-eelish!_" made her exit.
Now it was evident from her last words that Eileen, in conjunction with others, had done some injury to poor Darby in their gambols; but as he is just coming up stairs, and will make a long pause before he presumes to knock at the door a second time, allow me, gentle reader, _ad interim_, to present you with a portrait of my servant, or follower, "DARBY RYAN," nick-named "_The Swift_."
Darby Ryan was about thirty years of age, middle-sized, not over stout, and tolerably well made. His hair, both in texture and tint, resembled the _raddled_ back of a fawn-coloured goat, and waved in shaggy luxuriance everywhere save on his forehead, in the middle of which it timidly descended in a close-cropped peak, till it nearly united itself with two enormous dark-coloured eyebrows. His eyes were small, and the blackest I have ever seen; with a gleam of fire occasionally, that lent them more archness than ferocity. Some thought he squinted, and said that, though under _one_ master's direction, his _two pupils_ went contrary ways; but I believe this was all slander, and only set forth by jealous people, who themselves, it is said, are rather queer in their optics. A _fracas_ in a hurling-match had left his nose little more than a one-arched bridge, by which, if you please, we will pass along to his mouth, where, if I had the time, I could find ample _room_ for _rum_ination, &c. But Darby has knocked at my door, and I am forced to say "Come in!"--"Did yir honor want me, sir? or is it only the _caileen_'s fun, and the rest of them, in the kitchen?" said Darby, opening the door, but remaining outside as before. "Come in," said I encouragingly, "and take a seat for a moment; I'll tell you what I want with you." The girl's fears for the carpet were quite right; for Darby, making a bow to me on his entrance, scraped about a pound of mud off his brogues, which would have discomfited him quite if I had not proceeded with "Do you know the road to Bally----? Can you find your way to it safely, Darby?"
"Can a duck swim, yir honor?" said Darby, emboldened by degrees.
"Oh! very well, I understand you," said I. "Now, mark me: I want you to take this letter to a friend of mine, who is on a visit with the clergyman there, and bring me an answer as speedily as possible. Are you so quick-footed as they say?"
"Quick-_futted_!" said Darby, seating himself on the very corner of the nearest chair; "where there's a will there's a way, as the sayin' is: but I was never counted slow anyhows but oncet, and that was when I made the clock stop of its own accord on a Patrick's Day, and sure, when we broke up our party, we found it was two days afterwards."
"Well, take care and be more sparing of your time for the present," said I, anxious to despatch him.
"You may rely on it, sir," said he; "I'll spare _nather_ time nor trouble in the doin' of it, although it is letter-carryin'."
"Letter-carrying!" said I; "and pray what is there disgraceful in the calling?"
"Oh! nothing at all disgraceful in the _calling_, sir," said Darby, "as yir honor says, but quite the reverse, if the letters are not paid aforehand."
"You would not surely appropriate the postage to yourself?" said I, looking severely, though I did not exactly comprehend him.
"Is it me, sir?--_Pop_eriate the king's pocket money in that way, poor ould gentleman! I'm not in parliament yet, nor ever had a fine situation under government, like yir honor."
"Be not impertinent, sir," said I sharply; "I'd have you know and keep your distance." Darby rose immediately from the chair, of which about this time he had occupied nearly one half, saying,
"Any distance you like for a short time, sir; for it's myself would grieve to part you for ever. What's the word of command, sir, and I'm off?--Right or left, north or south, Darby Ryan's yir man 'gainst wind or tide, as was said of one of my posteriors----"
"Your ancestors you mean," said I smiling.
"My _aunt's sisters_, yir honor! Faith and he wasn't one of her _sisters_, nor one of my _four_ fathers either,--for he was neither my godfather, nor my own father, nor my grandfather, nor my great-grandfather; but, as I said afore, one of my pos--pos--pos--_terity_, (I have the word now, divil take it!) that was christened RYAN THE RACER, for bein' runnin' futtman ages ago to the first quality in the country."
By this time I began to perceive that, however quick Darby's heels might be, they had a formidable rival in his tongue; so I endeavoured to check _it_ at once by saying, "I have no time now to attend to any stories about your ancestry or relations; I merely wish to know can you take this letter to its direction, and speedily bring me an answer to it: in a word, can you set our immediately, and travel all night?"--"All night, yir honor! is it all night that's in yir mind?" said Darby, evidently hurt at my inquiry: "Gog's blud!" he continued half apart, "I was never taken for a turkey afore."--"A turkey!" said I, quite at a loss to understand him.--"Yes, yir honor," said Darby, "a turkey--the very worst _baste_ on the road for a long stretch (barrin' his neck) that ever was christened! Did yir honor ever hear of the wager 'tween the goose and him?"--"Never," said I sullenly.--"Then I'm glad of it, masther," said Darby rejoicingly, "for it gives me the pleasure of tellin' it to yir honor. You see, sir, that oncet upon a time there was an ould cock-turkey----"--"Cock and a bull!" said I, losing all patience; "go down stairs! I don't want you at all."--"No sir; I know you don't, sir," said Darby with most provoking perseverance; "but I thought ye'd like to hear how an ould gander sarved the bull-turkey, big as he was."--"Well, then," said I in despair, "go on."--"Thank ye, sir," said Darby, and then continued, while I from time to time anxiously looked at my watch, stirred the fire, or fidgeted myself in twenty different ways, in the hope of interrupting him; but all to no purpose. "Then you see, sir, oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny, or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin, or Tubbercleer?--faix! an' it's myself forgets that same at the present writin',--but Jim Gurn--you know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailor that lives hard by,--him that fought his black and tan t'other day 'gainst Tim Fagan's silver-hackle,--oh! Jim is the boy that'll tell ye the _ins_ and _outs_ of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, 'caze Jim's in the way of it. Well, as I was relatin', the turkey was a parson's bird, and as proud as Lucifer, bein' used to the best of livin'; while the gander was only a poor _commoner_, for he was a _Roman_, and _oblidged_ to live upon what he could get by the road-side. These two fowls, yir honor, never could agree any how,--never could put up their horses together on any blessed pint,--till one day a big row happened betwune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeple-chase across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my surprise,--tho' I wasn't there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who gave me the whole history,--to my surprise, the turkey didn't say _no_ to it, but was quite agreeable all of a suddent; so away they started from Jim Gurn's dunghill one Sunday after mass, for the gander wouldn't stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin' on, no ways downhearted, after him. About night-fall it was his business to pass through an ould archway acrass the road; and as he was stoopin' his head to get under it,--for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,--who should he see comfortably sated in an ivy bush but the turkey himself, tucked in for the night. The gander, winkin' to himself, says, 'Is it there ye are, honey?'--but he kept never mindin' him for all that, but only walked bouldly on to his journey's end, where he arrived safe and sound next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep: 'caze why, ye see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he'll put his futt to, barrin' it's to roost in a tree or the rafters of a cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson's bird wasn't ashamed of himself! Jim Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, tho' to be sure he hadn't long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes 'till he could bear it no longer; so they _dished_ him _intirely_. _Them_ that _ett_ him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief: but, divil's cure to him! what bisness had he to be so proud of himself, the spalpeen!"
Darby _at length_ came to a pause. I paused also for a minute to understand the application of his anecdote; but it was evident: he wished to impress me by his parable that he was fitted for the task I had allotted him; so I inquired what money he would want on the road.
"Maybe yir honor wouldn't think half-a-crown too much? said he diffidently.
"Half-a-crown!" exclaimed I, amazed at the modesty of his demand: "here are ten shillings; and, if you be quick in your errand, I will give you something extra on your return."
"Musha, an' long life to yir honor!" said Darby, scraping the carpet again; "may the grass never grow on the pathway to yir dwellin', nor a baste or Christian ever die belongin' t' ye, barrin' it's for the use of the kitchen!"
"Well, now prepare for the road," said I impatiently, "and be off at once."
"An' that I will, sir, in the twinklin' of a bedstead; only, you see, I've just got to run up to Tim Fallon the barber's to take the stubble off of my chin. Tim--(you know Tim Fallon, yir honor.)--Tim won't keep me long, anyhow, for it's late in the day, and his tongue must be dry by this; but if ye wud hear him of a mornin, oh! it's a _trate_, for Tim was once a play-acthur afore he grew a barber, an' by that same a good barber he is. Did he ever _lather_ yir honor?"--I made no reply. "After that," continued Darby, "I'll just step home and put on my Sunday clothes, and then won't I be as fresh as a two-year ould to do yir honor's biddin'!"
"Well, well, lose no time," said I impatiently.
"Sorrow a minute," said Darby: "I'll be there and back agin in the shoot of a wishin' star. Maybe yir honor knows what a wishin' star is?"--I shook my head. "Well, then," continued Darby, "yir honor, no doubt, has been out o'doors of a fine starlight night?"--I nodded assent. "Well then, agin, I'll tell ye what a wishin' star is. Did ye ever sit yir heart upon havin' of anything sir?" "Yes," said I morosely.--"Might I be so bould as to ax in regard to what, sir?" inquired Darby.--"Why, in regard, as you call it, to the letter I have given you just now," replied I; "I wish to have it delivered as quickly as possible."
"Oh! that bein' the case, sir," said Darby somewhat disconcerted, "I'm off at once."--"At once be it, then," said I, opening the door for him.--"I've only, then, to give the letther, sir," said he lingeringly, "to the gentleman at the clargy's? But ye didn't tell me whether it was the priest or the parson he's stoppin' with."--"The parson," said I, with all the patience I could command.--"Oh, very well, sir. God take care of ye till I come back!" So saying, he shut the door after him; but, before I could seat myself in my chair, he opened it again, inquiring "If he left his hat in the drawin'-room?" The only answer I made was by taking up the _caubeen_, which lay on the carpet, and flinging it in his face, out of all patience. "Thank yir honor," said Darby, and retired again, as I hoped, to proceed on his journey, But, alas! I was mistaken. Five minutes had scarcely elapsed when he presented himself once more, with a request that I might allow him to take _Squib_, my pointer dog, with him as a companion. "The road's so drary," said he, "by one's self, you know, yir honour."--"Well, take him, in God's name," said I, hastily shutting the door after him, and glad to be rid of him at any concession.
I again resumed my seat, and opened the volume I had been reading; but I had not got through more than twenty or thirty pages of marvellous matter, when I thought I heard Darby's voice in the yard. On going to the window, I found that it was indeed _he_, and "_as spruce as a Scotch fir_," to use one of his own expressions.
"Not gone yet!" exclaimed I, furiously throwing up the sash. But it was of no use, for he replied with the most perfect coolness, "Oh, yes, sir, I _was_ gone half an hour ago; only, you see, I've come back for the _clieve_ that's to carry _Squib_ to the place where he'll find divarsion in runnin' about in the pleasure-grounds hard by Squire Markhim's inclosure; 'twould kill the baste (God pard'n me for callin' him so, for he's more like a Christian,) to walk him so far: and maybe I'll not bring ye home a brace or two of birds that he'll point at without seein', and a _blue peter_ or so, if yir honor wud only just give me a charge or two of powder and shot."
"Do you wish to get into the hands of the police?" said I.
"Ah! then, is it the Peelers," said Darby contemptuously, "that yir honor manes? Divil a one o' them will be out of his _flay_-park by the time I'm crossing the _Callas_ with Squib and Pat Fagan's ould carbine, that he'll lend me out o' the bog-hole, where he keeps it from the rust and the guagers: and sure, while we're oilin' it with a bit of goose-grace, that it mayn't burst intirely the first goin' off, I can have a bit of gossip with the ould woman in the chimly corner over the _greeshah_, and find out everything about the gintleman in the neighb'rhood that I'm takin' the letther to; for poor Katty Fagan, ever since she lost the brindled heifer, and young Jemmeen her grandson, that they cut out for a priest, and another calf that she won at a weddin' raffle, all in the typhus s_a_son,--you recollect the typhus, yir honor?"
"Oh, curse you and the typhus together!" said I.--"Well, an' it's myself that never could spake a good word for it either, masther, bad look to 't!" said Darby: "but, be that as it may, ever since that time Katty knows more of every other body's bisness nor her own; so I'll lose nothin' by callin' to ax her how she is at laste, thov' it is a mile or two out o' my way."
By this time, reader, you may conclude my power of endurance was pretty nigh exhausted; so, raking down a pair of pistols that hung over the fire-place, I said, "The only powder and shot, my good fellow, that I can spare you at present, are contained in these two barrels; you are welcome to them, and shall have them on the spot, if you do not depart immediately!"--"Ah! then it's myself that wud _depart_ imm_a_diately, sure enough, sir," said Darby, "if yir honor wud only pull the trigger; but keep yir hands off o' them, masther avick, for, charge or no charge, they might go aff and spile my beauty for ever: the divil, they say, can fire an empty charge as well as a full one!"--"Well, then," said I, "take your choice: _go off_ this moment, or one of these shall!"--"Oh, then, sure that's no choice at all, at all, sir," replied Darby; "so I suppose I must go my ways. Well, then, wid ye be wid ye, for I can't always be wid ye. Is there anything else I can do for ye, sir, on the road?"--"Nothing," said I: "begone!"--"Thank ye, sir," said he, and retired.
"Thank Heaven!" said I, "the fellow has at last set out on his journey." So I again turned to the marvellous volume, and was about halfway through the pedestrian exploits of Collier and his sister, who, to use the words of the writer, "thought nothing of putting a pot of _pink-eyes_ down to boil, and _stepping_ to the next market-town (about nine miles distant) for a halfpenny-worth of salt (returning, too, again) before the white horses were on the praties," when Eileen presented herself in such a convulsion of laughter that it was some moments before she could reply to my question of "What's the matter?" At length, terminating with a long-drawn sigh, and her usual "_widdy-eelish_," she replied, "Nothing's the matter, sir; only--only--" (laughing again) "only Darby, sir."--"Darby!" exclaimed I, "what of _him_?"--"He wants to know, sir," said she, "if you will allow him to take a _horse_ with him."--"A _horse_!" exclaimed I; "devil take the fellow! what does he mean?"--"Why, I mane, to be sure," said Darby from the bottom of the stairs, at the same time at the top of his voice, "a _horse_ from the young ash-plants in the ould garden. I'll cut the crookedest I can find, though a straight one would do me betther."--"What is it he wants?" said I, turning to Eileen, who was in a perfect _kink_ of laughter.--"Oh! widdy-eelish," replied she, "I suppose the crather means a pole to help him over the bogs."--"Let me talk to the rascal myself," said I, going to the door in a deuce of a rage.
"Yir sarvant, sir," said Darby, taking his hat off and making a scrape that cost _him_ his equilibrium, and _me_ my gravity, for I could not but sympathise with Eileen's outrageous laughter. "Is it possible that you are here yet?" inquired I, endeavouring to be as severe as possible.
"Oh, never fear, sir, but I'll be off presently," said he: "my walk's waitin' for me on the road; I'll overtake it imm_a_diately."
"I'm sorry that you have undertaken it at all," said I in a tone of unusual displeasure.
"Undertaken, sir! undertake--undertaker!" said Darby rather indignantly; "I never was an undertaker but oncet, and that was at my ould father's funeral, when I was one of the nine bearers. That was a beautiful sight, to be sure," said he, kindling into rapture as he proceeded; "Ah! that was the beautiful sight, agrah! I seen many a lord's berrin', but none to come up to that. Oh! it would do any one's heart good to see us walkin' in _possession_ to the Abbey,--it was so d_a_cent, and all of a piece, like a magpie, white and black from beginnin' to end! Oh! it was a beautiful sight, anyhow," added he with a deep sigh.
"Did you, then, rejoice in your father's death?" said I harshly.
"Why, not exactly rejoice in his death," replied Darby, wiping away a tear from his already suffused eye, "for he was a kind ould body to them he liked, though he didn't sp_a_ke to me good or bad for three years afore he died: but never mind; maybe I wasn't hearty at his wake!"
"At his wake!" said I, with a look of disgust.
"Yes, yir honor!" replied he after a pause of surprise,--"at his wake, to be sure; and where can a body be so alive to fun of all sorts as at a well-conducted dead body's wake? Isn't there smokin', and drinkin', and story-tellin', and now and then a bit of dancin' in the other room with the young ones, to shake off the grief, eh? And didn't I get seven goold guineas from 'Turney Gubbins, that was one of his exec_u_tors, and the ould mare that used to take him from town to town when he took to _fair_ bisness, and the bracket hen that lays yir honor's eggs now, that was the mother of all the p_a_ceable fightin' cocks in the county; and, moreover, his white waistcoat and breeches when he was in the Yeomen, that Ned Fallon the tailor says he'll die any day for me into a second mournin'?"
"And what did you with the seven guineas?" said I: "did you turn them to any account?"
"Oh, the Lord bless yir honor!" said Darby sheepishly; "it's very hard to know what to do with a large sum of money now-a-days: it's dangerous keepin' by you, you know, sir; so _I put it out to interest_!"
"And pray what security did you get?" said I, suspecting something, from the fellow's roguish leer.
"Security, sir?" said Darby; "they tould me it was _collatheral_, I think, yir honor; _collatheral_ was the word."
"_Collateral_!" said I, somewhat surprised at his knowledge of the term.
"Yes, sir," replied he, scratching his head with one hand, and thrusting the other into his breeches pocket, "_I laid it out in_ HOUSES. But, for all that, half an hour afore I die I'll have as much money as'll do me all the days o' my life!"
I could not but smile at the fellow's satirical humour upon his own folly; and, as it was the first time I had ever admitted him to such familiar converse, I patiently listened while he continued to tell me how he "ran through his fortune" in less than three weeks; hoping, however, that he would soon make an end of his recital, and set out with my letter, for the day now began to decline.
"You see, yir honor, this was the way it happened," said Darby. "_Nawthin'_ would save me but I should give a TAY-PARTY at the Three Blacks one evenin' after a hurlin'-match--Did yir honor ever hurl a bit? Oh! then sure it's the finest divarsion that any one cud sit his mind upon, barrin' it doesn't ind in a row, as mostly for the best part it does. But never mind that,--it's fine fun, anyhow; though by it I _did_ get this _clink_ on the nose, that made me lave off snuff-takin' ever since as a dirty habit! Oh! a hurlin'-match is a grate sight, and many a good clergy I've seen strip to the work. There was Father M'Gauvran--yir honor has heard of Father M'Gauvran, that got a son an' heir for Pat Mac Gavany, by givin' his wife an ould _surplus_ that he had by him for some time? Oh! it would raise the cockles of yir heart to see how he _wud_ whip a ball along. He was a _grate_ hurler, anyhow; _he_ was the boy at the _bawke_!"
Conceiving that Darby would not terminate before midnight (if he ever would at all), I interrupted him, saying, "When you return, I shall be very happy to hear the particulars of your TAY-PARTY, but for the present I must decline the narrative. Set out, if you mean to go: when you come back, I will listen vary attentively to the whole recital."
"Oh, then I suppose I'm tiring yir honor! But stop a bit,--I'll be here in the turn of a snipe;" saying which, he disappeared. I had not been long left to my own reflections before he came up stairs, and, without any of his previous knocks and delays, he entered my room hurriedly, and, throwing down a small book on the table before me, said, "There, sir; I hope _that_ will amuse you while I am away: it's an account of my _tay-party_, by _Lame_ Kelly the poet, that wudn't get drunk that night _acause_ he sed he wud write it afore his next sleep. Read it, masther," said Darby; "and never mind the jokes upon me."--"Go your ways," said I.--"I've only _one_ way to go, sir," said Darby.--"Well, then," said I, "in God's name take _that_."--"In God's name be it, then," replied Darby, and ultimately left me.
SHAKSPEARE PAPERS.--No. II.
JAQUES.
"As he passed through the fields, and saw the animals around him,--'Ye,' said he, 'are happy, and need not envy me that walk thus among you burthened with myself; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your felicity, for it is not the felicity of man. I have many distresses from which ye are free; I fear pain when I do not feel it; I sometimes shrink at evils recollected, and sometimes start at evils anticipated. Surely the equity of Providence has balanced peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments.'
"With observations like these the prince amused himself as he returned, uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a look that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life from consciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, and the eloquence with which he bewailed them."--RASSELAS, chap. ii.
This remark of Dr. Johnson on the consolation derived by his hero from the eloquence with which he gave vent to his complaints is perfectly just, but just only in such cases as those of Rasselas. The misery that can be expressed in flowing periods cannot be of more importance than that experienced by the Abyssinian prince enclosed in the Happy Valley. His greatest calamity was no more than that he could not leave a place in which all the luxuries of life were at his command. But, as old Chremes says in the Heautontimorumenos,
"Miserum? quem minus credere 'st? Quid reliqui 'st, quin habeat, quæ quidem in homine dicuntur bona? Parentes, patriam incolumem, amicos, genu', cognatos, divitias: Atque hæc perinde sunt ut illius animus qui ea possidet; Qui uti scit, ei bona; illi, qui non utitur rectè, mala."[97]
On which, as
"Plain truth, dear Bentley, needs no arts of speech,"
I cannot do better than transcribe the commentary of Hickie, or some other grave expositor from whose pages he has transferred it to his own. "'Tis certain that the real enjoyment arising from external advantages depends wholly upon the situation of the mind of him who possesses them; for if he chance to labour under any secret anguish, this destroys all relish; or, if he know not how to use them for valuable purposes, they are so far from being of any service to him, that they often turn to real misfortunes." It is of no consequence that this profound reflection is nothing to the purpose in the place where it appears, because Chremes is not talking of any secret anguish, but of the use or abuse made of advantages according to the disposition of the individual to whom they have been accorded; and the anguish of Clinia was by no means secret. He feared the perpetual displeasure of his father, and knew not whether absence might not have diminished or alienated the affections of the lady on whose account he had abandoned home and country; but the general proposition of the sentence cannot be denied. A "fatal remembrance"--to borrow a phrase from one of the most beautiful of Moore's melodies--may render a life, apparently abounding in prosperity, wretched and unhappy, as the vitiation of a single humour of the eye casts a sickly and unnatural hue over the gladsome meadow, or turns to a lurid light the brilliancy of the sunniest skies.
Rasselas and Jaques have no secret anguish to torment them, no real cares to disturb the even current of their tempers. To get rid of the prince first:--His sorrow is no more than that of the starling in the Sentimental Journey. He cannot get out. He is discontented, because he has not the patience of Wordsworth's nuns, who fret not in their narrow cells; or of Wordsworth's muse, which murmurs not at being cribbed and confined to a sonnet. He wants the philosophy of that most admirable of all jail-ditties,--and will not reflect that
"Every island is a prison, Close surrounded by the sea; Kings and princes, for that reason, Prisoners are as well as we."
And as his calamity is, after all, very tolerable,--as many a sore heart or a wearied mind, buffeting about amid the billows and breakers of the external world, would feel but too happy to exchange conditions with him in his safe haven of rest,--it is no wonder that the weaving of sonorous sentences of easily soothed sorrow should be the extent of the mental afflictions of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.
Who or what Jaques was before he makes his appearance in the forest, Shakspeare does not inform us,--any farther than that he had been a _roué_ of considerable note, as the Duke tells him, when he proposes to
"Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine. _Duke._ Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. _Jaques._ What, for a counter, would I do but good? _Duke._ Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all the embossed sores and headed evils That thou with licence of free foot hast caught, Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world."
This, and that he was one of the three or four loving lords who put themselves into voluntary exile with the old Duke, leaving their lands and revenues to enrich the new one, who therefore gave them good leave to wander, is all we know about him, until he is formally announced to us as the melancholy Jaques. The very announcement is a tolerable proof that he is not soul-stricken in any material degree. When Rosalind tells him that he is considered to be a melancholy fellow, he is hard put to it to describe in what his melancholy consists. "I have," he says,
"Neither the scholar's melancholy, which Is emulation; nor the musician's, which is Fantastical; nor the courtier's which is proud; Nor the soldier's, Which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which Is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; Nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is A melancholy of mine own, compounded Of many simples, extracted from many objects, And indeed The sundry contemplation of my travels, In which my often rumination wraps me In a most humorous sadness."[98]
He is nothing more than an idle gentleman given to musing, and making invectives against the affairs of the world, which are more remarkable for the poetry of their style and expression than the pungency of their satire. His famous description of the seven ages of man is that of a man who has seen but little to complain of in his career through life. The sorrows of his infant are of the slightest kind, and he notes that it is taken care of in a nurse's lap. The griefs of his schoolboy are confined to the necessity of going to school; and he, too, has had an anxious hand to attend to him. His shining morning face reflects the superintendence of one--probably a mother--interested in his welfare. The lover is tortured by no piercing pangs of love, his woes evaporating themselves musically in a ballad of his own composition, written not to his mistress, but fantastically addressed to her eyebrow. The soldier appears in all the pride and the swelling hopes of his spirit-stirring trade,
"Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth."
The fair round belly of the justice lined with good capon lets us know how he has passed his life. He is full of ease, magisterial authority, and squirely dignity. The lean and slippered pantaloon, and the dotard sunk into second childishness, have suffered only the common lot of humanity, without any of the calamities that embitter the unavoidable malady of old age.[99] All the characters in Jaques's sketch are well taken care of. The infant is nursed; the boy educated; the youth tormented with no greater cares than the necessity of hunting after rhymes to please the ear of a lady, whose love sits so lightly upon him as to set him upon nothing more serious than such a self-amusing task; the man in prime of life is engaged in gallant deeds, brave in action, anxious for character, and ambitious of fame; the man in declining years has won the due honours of his rank, he enjoys the luxuries of the table and dispenses the terrors of the bench; the man of age still more advanced is well to do in the world. If his shank be shrunk, it is not without hose and slipper,--if his eyes be dim, they are spectacled,--if his years have made him lean, they have gathered for him wherewithal to fatten the pouch by his side. And when this strange eventful history is closed by the penalties paid by men who live too long, Jaques does not tell us that the helpless being,
"Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything,"
is left unprotected in his helplessness.
Such pictures of life do not proceed from a man very heavy at heart. Nor can it be without design that they are introduced into this especial place. The moment before, the famished Orlando has burst in upon the sylvan meal of the Duke, brandishing a naked sword, demanding with furious threat food for himself and his helpless companion,
"Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger."
The Duke, struck with his earnest appeal, cannot refrain from comparing the real suffering which he witnesses in Orlando with that which is endured by himself and his "co-mates, and partners in exile." Addressing Jaques, he says,
"Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy. This wide and universal theatre Presents more woful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in."[100]
But the spectacle and the comment upon it lightly touch Jaques, and he starts off at once into a witty and poetic comparison of the real drama of the world with the mimic drama of the stage, in which, with the sight of well-nurtured youth driven to the savage desperation of periling his own life, and assailing that of others,--and of weakly old age lying down in the feeble but equally resolved desperation of dying by the wayside, driven to this extremity by sore fatigue and hunger,--he diverts himself and his audience, whether in the forest or theatre, on the stage or in the closet, with graphic descriptions of human life; not one of them, proceeding as they do from the lips of the _melancholy_ Jaques, presenting a single point on which true melancholy can dwell. Mourning over what cannot be avoided must be in its essence common-place: and nothing has been added to the lamentations over the ills brought by the flight of years since Moses, the man of God,[101] declared the concluding period of protracted life to be a period of labour and sorrow;--since Solomon, or whoever else writes under the name of the Preacher, in a passage which, whether it is inspired or not, is a passage of exquisite beauty, warned us to provide in youth, "while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them; while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain: in the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened, and the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be brought low; also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond-tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burthen, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets: or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern;"--or, to make a shorter quotation, since Homer summed up all these ills by applying to old age the epithet of [Greek: lygros],--a word which cannot be translated, but the force of which must be felt. Abate these unavoidable misfortunes, and the catalogue of Jaques is that of happy conditions. In his visions there is no trace of the child doomed to wretchedness before its very birth; no hint that such a thing could occur as its being made an object of calculation, one part medical, three parts financial, to the starveling surgeon, whether by the floating of the lungs, or other test equally fallacious and fee-producing, the miserable mother may be convicted of doing that which, before she had attempted, all that is her soul of woman must have been torn from its uttermost roots, when in an agony of shame and dread the child that was to have made her forget her labour was committed to the cesspool. No hint that the days of infancy should be devoted to the damnation of a factory, or to the tender mercies of a parish beadle. No hint that philosophy should come forward armed with the panoply offensive and defensive of logic and eloquence, to prove that the inversion of all natural relations was just and wise,--that the toil of childhood was due to the support of manhood,--that those hours, the very labours of which even the etymologists give to recreation, should be devoted to those wretched drudgeries which seem to split the heart of all but those who derive from them blood-stained money, or blood-bedabbled applause. Jaques sees not Greensmith squeezing his children by the throat until they die. He hears not the supplication of the hapless boy begging his still more hapless father for a moment's respite, ere the fatal handkerchief is twisted round his throat by the hand of him to whom he owed his being. Jaques thinks not of the baby deserted on the step of the inhospitable door, of the shame of the mother, of the disgrace of the parents, of the misery of the forsaken infant. His boy is at school, his soldier in the breach, his elder on the justice-seat. Are these the woes of life? Is there no neglected creature left to himself or to the worse nurture of others, whose trade it is to corrupt,--who will teach him what was taught to swaggering Jack Chance, found on Newgate steps, and educated at the venerable seminary of St. Giles's Pound, where
"They taught him to drink, and to thieve, and fight, And everything else but to read and write."
Is there no stripling short of commons, but abundant in the supply of the strap or the cudgel?--no man fighting through the world in fortuneless struggles, and occupied by cares or oppressed by wants more stringent than those of love?--or in love itself does the current of that bitter passion never run less smooth than when sonnets to a lady's eyebrow are the prime objects of solicitude?--or may not even he who began with such sonneteering have found something more serious and sad, something more heart-throbbing and soul-rending, in the progress of his passion? Is the soldier melancholy in the storm and whirlwind of war? Is the gallant confronting of the cannon a matter to be complained of? The dolorous flight, the trampled battalion, the broken squadron, the lost battle, the lingering wound, the ill-furnished hospital, the unfed blockade, hunger and thirst, and pain, and fatigue, and mutilation, and cold, and rout, and scorn, and slight,--services neglected, unworthy claims preferred, life wasted, or honour tarnished,--are all passed by! In peaceful life we have no deeper misfortune placed before us than that it is not unusual that a justice of peace may be prosy in remark and trite in illustration. Are there no other evils to assail us through the agony of life? And when the conclusion comes, how far less tragic is the portraiture of mental imbecility, if considered as a state of misery than as one of comparative happiness, as escaping a still worse lot! Crabbe is sadder far than Jaques, when, after his appalling description of the inmates of a workhouse,--(what would Crabbe have written _now_?)--he winds up by showing to us amid its victims two persons as being
"_happier_ far than they, The moping idiot, and the madman gay."
If what he here sums up as the result of his life's observations on mankind be all that calls forth the melancholy of the witty and eloquent speaker, he had not much to complain of. Mr. Shandy lamenting in sweetly modulated periods, because his son has been christened Tristram instead of Trismegistus, is as much an object of condolence. Jaques has just seen the aspect of famine, and heard the words of despair; the Duke has pointed out to him the consideration that more woful and practical calamities exist than even the exile of princes and the downfall of lords; and he breaks off into a light strain of satire, fit only for jesting comedy. Trim might have rebuked him as he rebuked the prostrate Mr. Shandy, by reminding him that there are other things to make us melancholy in the world: and nobody knew it better, or could say it better, than he in whose brain was minted the hysteric passion of Lear choked by his button,--the farewell of victorious Othello to all the pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war,--the tears of Richard over the submission of roan Barbary to Bolingbroke,--the demand of Romeo that the Mantuan druggist should supply him with such soon-speeding gear that will rid him of hated life
"As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb,"--
the desolation of Antony,--the mourning of Henry over sire slain by son, and son by sire,--or the despair of Macbeth. I say nothing of the griefs of Constance, or Isabel, or Desdemona, or Juliet, or Ophelia, because in the sketches of Jaques he passes by all allusion to women; a fact which of itself is sufficient to prove that his melancholy was but in play,--was nothing more than what Arthur remembered when he was in France, where
"Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness."
Shakespeare well knew that there is no true pathetic, nothing that can permanently lacerate the heart, and embitter the speech, unless a woman be concerned. It is the legacy left us by Eve. The tenor of man's woe, says Milton, with a most ungallant and grisly pun, is still from _wo_-man to begin; and he who will give himself a few moments to reflect will find that the stern trigamist is right. On this, however, I shall not dilate. I may perhaps have something to say, as we go on, of the ladies of Shakspeare. For the present purpose, it is enough to remark with Trim, that there are many real griefs to make a man lie down and cry, without troubling ourselves with those which are put forward by the poetic mourner in the forest of Arden.
Different indeed is the sight set before the eyes of Adam in the great poem just referred to, when he is told to look upon the miseries which the fall of man has entailed upon his descendants. Far other than the scenes that flit across this melancholy man by profession are those evoked by Michael in the visionary lazar-house. It would be ill-befitting, indeed, that the merry note of the sweet bird warbling freely in the glade should be marred by discordant sounds of woe, cataloguing the dreary list of disease,
"All maladies Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms Of heartsick agony, all feverous kinds, Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs, Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums;"
while, amid the dire tossing and deep groans of the sufferers,
"----Despair Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch; And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook, but delayed to strike."
And equally ill-befitting would be any serious allusion to those passions and feelings which in their violence or their anguish render the human bosom a lazar-house filled with maladies of the mind as racking and as wasting as those of the body, and call forth a supplication for the releasing blow of Death as the final hope, with an earnestness as desperate, and cry as loud as ever arose from the tenement, sad, noisome, and dark, which holds the joint-racked victims of physical disease. Such themes should not sadden the festive banquet in the forest. The Duke and his co-mates and partners in exile, reconciled to their present mode of life, ["I would not change it," says Amiens, speaking, we may suppose, the sentiments of all,] and successful in having plucked the precious jewel, content, from the head of ugly and venomous Adversity, are ready to bestow their woodland fare upon real suffering, but in no mood to listen to the heart-rending descriptions of sorrows graver than those which form a theme for the discourses which Jaques in mimic melancholy contributes to their amusement.
Shakspeare designed him to be a maker of fine sentences,--a dresser forth in sweet language of the ordinary common-places or the common-place mishaps of mankind, and he takes care to show us that he did not intend him for anything beside. With what admirable art he is confronted with Touchstone. He enters merrily laughing at the pointless philosophising of the fool in the forest. His lungs crow like chanticleer when he hears him moralizing over his dial, and making the deep discovery that ten o'clock has succeeded nine, and will be followed by eleven. When Touchstone himself appears, we do not find in his own discourse any touches of such deep contemplation. He is shrewd, sharp, worldly, witty, keen, gibing, observant. It is plain that he has been mocking Jaques; and, as is usual, the mocked thinks himself the mocker. If one has moralized the spectacle of a wounded deer into a thousand similes, comparing his weeping into the stream to the conduct of worldlings in giving in their testaments the sum of more to that which had too much,--his abandonment, to the parting of the flux of companions from misery,--the sweeping by of the careless herd full of the pasture, to the desertion of the poor and broken bankrupt by the fat and greasy citizens,--and so forth; if such have been the common-places of Jaques, are they not fitly matched by the common-places of Touchstone upon his watch? It is as high a stretch of fancy that brings the reflection how
"----from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale,"
which is scoffed at by Jaques, as that which dictates his own moralizings on the death of the deer. The motley fool is as wise as the melancholy lord whom he is parodying. The shepherd Corin, who replies to the courtly quizzing of Touchstone by such apophthegms as that "it is the property of rain to wet, and of fire to burn," is unconsciously performing the same part to the clown, as _he_ had been designedly performing to Jaques. Witty nonsense is answered by dull nonsense, as the emptiness of poetry had been answered by the emptiness of prose. There was nothing sincere in the lamentation over the wounded stag. It was only used as a peg on which to hang fine concepts. Had Falstaff seen the deer, his imagination would have called up visions of haunches and pasties, preluding an everlasting series of cups of sack among the revel riot of boon companions, and he would have instantly ordered its throat to be cut. If it had fallen in the way of Friar Lawrence, the mild-hearted man of herbs would have endeavoured to extract the arrow, heal the wound, and let the hart ungalled go free. Neither would have thought the hairy fool a subject for reflections, which neither relieved the wants of man nor the pains of beast. Jaques complains of the injustice and cruelty of killing deer, but unscrupulously sits down to dine upon venison, and sorrows over the sufferings of the native burghers of the forest city, without doing anything further than amusing himself with rhetorical flourishes drawn from the contemplation of the pain which he witnesses with professional coolness and unconcern.
It is evident, in short, that the happiest days of his life are those which he is spending in the forest. His raking days are over, and he is tired of city dissipation. He has shaken hands with the world, finding, with Cowley, that "he and it would never agree." To use an expression somewhat vulgar, he has had his fun for his money; and he thinks the bargain so fair and conclusive on both sides, that he has no notion of opening another. His mind is relieved of a thousand anxieties which beset him in the court, and he breathes freely in the forest. The iron has not entered into his soul; nothing has occurred to chase sleep from his eyelids; and his fantastic reflections are, as he himself takes care to tell us, but general observations on the ordinary and outward manners and feelings of mankind,--a species of taxing which
"----like a wild-goose flies, Unclaim'd of any man."
Above all, in having abandoned station, and wealth, and country, to join the faithful few who have in evil report clung manfully to their prince, he knows that he has played a noble and an honourable part; and they to whose lot it may have fallen to experience the happiness of having done a generous, disinterested, or self-denying action,--or sacrificed temporary interests to undying principle,--or shown to the world without, that what are thought to be its great advantages can be flung aside, or laid aside, when they come in collision with the feelings and passions of the world within,--will be perfectly sure that Jaques, reft of land, and banished from court, felt himself exalted in his own eyes, and therefore easy of mind, whether he was mourning in melodious blank verse, or weaving jocular parodies on the canzonets of the good-humoured Amiens.
He was happy "under the greenwood tree." Addison I believe it is who says, that all mankind have an instinctive love of country and woodland scenery, and he traces it to a sort of dim recollection imprinted upon us of our original haunt, the garden of Eden. It is at all events certain, that, from the days when the cedars of Lebanon supplied images to the great poets of Jerusalem, to that in which the tall tree haunted Wordsworth "as a passion," the forest has caught a strong hold of the poetic mind. It is with reluctance that I refrain from quoting; but the passages of surpassing beauty which crowd upon me from all times and languages are too numerous. I know not which to exclude, and I have not room for all; let me then take a bit of prose from one who never indulged in poetry, and I think I shall make it a case in point. In a little book called "Statistical Sketches of Upper Canada, for the use of Emigrants, by a Backwoodsman," now lying before me, the author, after describing the field-sports in Canada with a precision and a _goût_ to be derived only from practice and zeal, concludes a chapter, most appropriately introduced by a motto from the Lady of the Lake,
"'Tis merry, 'tis merry in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweep by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing,"
by saying,
"It is only since writing the above that I fell in with the first volume of Moore's Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald; and I cannot describe the pleasure I received from reading his vivid, spirited, and accurate description of the feelings he experienced on first taking on him the life of a hunter. At an earlier period of life than Lord Edward had then attained, I made my debut in the forest, and first assumed the blanket-cloak and the rifle, the moccasin and the snowshoe; and the ecstatic feeling of Arab-like independence, and the utter contempt for the advantage and restrictions of civilization, which he describes, I then felt in its fullest power. And even now, when my way off life, like Macbeth's, is falling 'into the sere, the yellow leaf,' and when a tropical climate, privation, disease, and thankless toil are combining with advancing years to unstring a frame the strength of which once set hunger, cold, and fatigue at defiance, and to undermine a constitution that once appeared iron-bound, still I cannot lie down by a fire in the woods without the elevating feeling which I experienced formerly returning, though in a diminished degree. This must be human nature;--for it is an undoubted fact, that no man who associates with and follows the pursuits of the Indian, for any length of time, ever voluntarily returns to civilized society.
"What a companion in the woods Lord Edward must have been! and how shocking to think that, with talents which would have made him at once the idol and the ornament of his profession, and affections which must have rendered him an object of adoration in all the relations of private life,--with honour, with courage, with generosity, with every unit that can at once ennoble and endear,--he should never have been taught that there is a higher principle of action than the mere impulse of the passions,--that he should never have learned, before plunging his country into blood and disorder, to have weighed the means he possessed with the end he proposed, or the problematical good with the certain evil!--that he should have had Tom Paine for a tutor in religion and politics, and Tom Moore for a biographer, to hold up as a pattern, instead of warning, the errors and misfortunes of a being so noble,--to subserve the revolutionary purposes of a faction, who, like Samson, are pulling down a fabric which will bury both them and their enemies under it."
Never mind the aberrations of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the religion or the politics of Tom Paine, or the biography of Tom Moore. On all these matters I may hold my own opinions, but they are not wanted now; but have we not here the feelings of Jaques? Here are the gloomy expressions of general sorrow over climate, privation, disease, thankless toil, advancing years, unstrung frame. But here also we have ecstatic emotions of Arab-like independence, generous reflections upon political adversaries, and high-minded adherence to the views and principles which in his honour and conscience he believed to be in all circumstances inflexibly right, coming from the heart of a forest. The Backwoodsman is Dunlop; and is he, in spite of this sad-sounding passage, melancholy? Not he, in good sooth. The very next page to that which I have quoted is a description of the pleasant mode of travelling in Canada, before the march of improvement had made it comfortable and convenient.[102]
"But your march of improvement is a sore destroyer of the romantic and picturesque. A gentleman about to take such a journey now-a-days, orders his servant to pack his portmanteau, and put it on board the John Molson, or any of his family; and at the stated hour he marches on board, the bell rings, the engine is put in motion, and away you go smoking, and splashing, and walloping along, at the rate of ten knots an hour, in the ugliest species of craft that ever disfigured a marine landscape."
Jaques was just as woe-begone as the Tyger, and no more. I remember when he--Dunlop I mean, not Jaques--used to laugh at the phrenologists of Edinburgh for saying, after a careful admeasurement, that his skull in all points was exactly that of Shakspeare,--I suppose he will be equally inclined to laugh when he finds who is the double an old companion has selected for him. But no matter. His melancholy passes away not more rapidly than that of Jaques; and I venture to say that the latter, if he were existing in flesh and blood, would have no scruple in joining the doctor this moment over the bowl of punch which I am sure he is brewing, has brewed, or is about to brew, on the banks of Huron or Ontario.
Whether he would or not, he departs from the stage with the grace and easy elegance of a gentleman in heart and manners. He joins his old antagonist the usurping Duke in his fallen fortunes; he had spurned him in his prosperity: his restored friend he bequeaths to his former honour, deserved by his patience and his virtue,--he compliments Oliver on his restoration to his land, and love, and great allies,--wishes Silvius joy of his long-sought and well-earned marriage,--cracks upon Touchstone one of those good-humoured jests to which men of the world on the eve of marriage must laughingly submit,--and makes his bow. Same sage critics have discovered as a great geographical fault in Shakspeare, that he introduces the tropical lion and serpent into Arden, which, it appears, they have ascertained to lie in some temperate zone. I wish them joy of their sagacity. Monsters more wonderful are to be found in that forest; for never yet, since water ran and tall tree bloomed, were there gathered together such a company as those who compose the _dramatis personæ_ of "As You Like It." All the prodigies spawned by Africa, "_leonum arida nutrix_," might well have teemed in a forest, wherever situate, that was inhabited by such creatures as Rosalind, Touchstone, and Jaques.
* * * * *
* * As to the question which opened these Papers,--why, I must * leave it to the jury. Is the jesting, revelling, rioting Falstaff, broken of fortunes, luckless in life, sunk in habits, buffeting with the discreditable part of the world, or the melancholy, mourning, complaining Jaques, honourable of conduct, high in moral position, fearless of the future, and lying in the forest away from trouble,--which of them, I say, feels more the load of care? I think Shakspeare well knew, and depicted them accordingly. But I must leave it to my readers, _si qui sunt_. W. M.
[97] It may be thus attempted in something like the metre of the original, which the learned know by the sounding name of Tetrameter Iambic Acatalectic:
"Does Clinia talk of misery? Believe his idle tale who can? What hinders it that he should have whate'er is counted good for man,-- His father's home, his native land, with wealth, and friends, and kith and kin? But all these blessings will be prized according to the mind within: Well used, the owner finds them good; if badly used, he deems them ill. _Cl._ Nay, but his sire was always stern, and even now I fear him still," &c.
[98] This is printed as prose, but assuredly it is blank verse. The alteration of a syllable or two, which in the corrupt state of the text of these plays is the slightest of all possible critical licenses, would make it run perfectly smooth. At all events, in the second line, "emulation" should be "emulative," to make it agree with the other clauses of the sentence. The courtier's melancholy is not _pride_, nor the soldier's _ambition_, &c. The adjective is used throughout,--_fantastical_, _proud_, _ambitious_, _politic_, _nice_.
[99] "Senectus ipsa est morbus."--Ter. Phorm. iv. i. 9.
[100] Query _on_? "Where_in_ we play _in_" is tautological. "Wherein we play _on_," _i.e._ "continue to play."
[101] Psalm xc. "A prayer of Moses, the man of God," v. 10.
[102] Formerly, that is to say, previous to the peace of 1815, a journey between Quebec and Sandwich was an undertaking considerably more tedious and troublesome than the voyage from London to Quebec. In the first place, the commissariat of the expedition had to be cared for; and to that end every gentleman who was liable to travel had, as a part of his appointments, a provision basket, which held generally a cold round of beef, tin plates and drinking-cups, tea, sugar, biscuits, and about a gallon of brandy. These, with your wardrobe and a camp-bed, were stowed away in a batteau, or flat-bottomed boat; and off you set with a crew of seven stout, light-hearted, jolly, lively Canadians, who sung their boat-songs all the time they could spare from smoking their pipe. You were accompanied by a fleet of similar boats, called a brigade, the crews of which assisted each other up the rapids, and at night put into some creek, bay, or uninhabited island, where fires were lighted, tents made of the sails, and the song, the laugh, and the shout were heard, with little intermission, all the night through; and if you had the felicity to have among the party a fifer or a fiddler, the dance was sometimes kept up all night,--for, if a Frenchman has a fiddle, sleep ceases to be a necessary of life with him. This mode of travelling was far from being unpleasant, for there was something of romance and adventure in it; and the scenes you witnessed, both by night and day, were picturesque in the highest degree. But it was tedious; for you were in great luck if you arrived at your journey's end in a month; and if the weather were boisterous, or the wind a-head, you might be an indefinite time longer.
FAMILY STORIES.--No. V.-- HON. MR. SUCKLE-THUMBKIN'S STORY.
THE EXECUTION. A SPORTING ANECDOTE.
My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day; It was half after two, He had nothing to do, So his lordship rang for his cabriolet.
Tiger Tim Was clean of limb, His boots were polished, his jacket was trim; With a very smart tie in his smart cravat, And a smart cockade on the top of his hat; Tallest of boys, or shortest of men, He stood in his stockings just four foot ten; And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing, "Pray, did your lordship please to ring?"
My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, And thus to Tiger Tim he said, "Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled, Taglioni has not yet arriv'd in her stead; Tiger Tim, come tell me true, What may a nobleman find to do?"
Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down, He paus'd, and he put on a thoughtful frown, And he held up his hat, and peep'd in the crown, He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head, He let go the handle, and thus he said, As the door, releas'd, behind him bang'd, "An't please you, my lord, there's a man to be hang'd!"
My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news, "Run to M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues. Rope-dancers a score I've seen before-- Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Blackmore; But to see a man swing At the end of a string, With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"
My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab-- Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab; Through street, and through square, His high-trotting mare, Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air. Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place Went the high-trotting mare at a deuce of a pace; She produc'd some alarm, But did no great harm, Save fright'ning a nurse with a child on her arm, Spattering with clay Two urchins at play, Knocking down--very much to the sweeper's dismay-- An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, And upsetting a stall Near Exeter Hall, Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall. But eastward afar, Through Temple Bar, My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car; Never heeding their squalls, Or their calls, or their bawls, He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls, And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's, Turns down the Old Bailey, Where, in front of the jail, he Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump, For the whole first floor of the Magpie and Stump?"
* * * * *
The clock strikes Twelve--it is dark midnight-- Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light. The parties are met; The tables are set; There is "punch," "cold _without_," "hot _with_," "heavy wet," Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs, And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits, and kidneys--rare work for the jaws!-- And very large lobsters, with very large claws; And there is M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues, All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"
The clock strikes One! Supper is done, And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, Singing "Jolly companions every one!" My Lord Tomnoddy Is drinking gin-toddy, And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body. The clock strikes Two!--and the clock strikes Three! --"Who so merry, so merry as we?" Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze, While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.
The clock strikes Four! Round the debtors' door Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more; As many await At the press-yard gate, Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight The mob divides, and between their ranks A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks.
The clock strikes Five! The sheriffs arrive, And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks, A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks. Lieutenant Tregooze Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; My Lord Tomnoddy Has drunk all his toddy, And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks, With roseate streaks, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky Smil'd upon all things far and nigh, All--save the wretch condemn'd to die! Alack! that ever so fair a Sun As that which its course has now begun, Should rise on such scene of misery! Should gild with rays so light and free That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows tree!
And hark!--a sound comes big with fate, The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes--Eight!-- List to that low funereal bell: It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell! And see!--from forth that opening door They come--He steps that threshold o'er Who never shall tread upon threshold more. --God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see That pale wan man's mute agony, The glare of that wild despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky, As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er Shall be lifted again,--not ev'n in prayer; That heaving chest!---- Enough--'tis done! The bolt has fallen!--the Spirit is gone-- For weal or for woe is known to but One! Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight! Ah me! A deed to shudder at,--not to see.
Again that clock!--'tis time, 'tis time! The hour is past:--with its earliest chime The cord is sever'd, the lifeless clay By "dungeon villains" is borne away: Nine!--'twas the last concluding stroke! And then--my Lord Tomnoddy awoke! And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose, And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose; And they stared at each other, as much as to say "Hollo! Hollo! Here's a Rum Go! Why, Captain!--my Lord!--Here's the Devil to pay! The fellow's been cut down and taken away! What's to be done? We've miss'd all the fun! Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town, We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"
What _was_ to be done?--'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again:-- What _was_ to be done?--The man was dead!-- Nought _could_ be done--nought could be said; So--my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!
EPIGRAM.
'Tis strange, amid the many trades By which men gather riches, That ridicule should most attach To those who make our breeches! But so it is; yet, as they sew, Rich is the harvest made: Then call not theirs, unseemly wags! A _so-so_ sort of trade. R. J.
THE ROMANCE OF A DAY. A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF AN ADVENTURER.
WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
When things are at the worst, they are sure to mend, says the old adage; and the hero of the following narrative is a case in point. Dick Diddler was a distant connexion, by the mother's side, of the famous Jeremy, immortalized by Kenny. He was a shrewd, reckless adventurer, gifted with an elastic conscience that would stretch like Indian-rubber, and a genius for raising the wind unsurpassed by Æolus himself. At the period to which this tale refers, he had dissipated at the minor West-end hells, and elsewhere, the last farthing of a pittance which he inherited from his father; and was considerably in arrears with his landlady, a waspish gentlewoman who rented what she complacently termed "an airy house" in the windiest quarter of Camden Town. This was embarrassing; but Dick was not one to despair. He had high animal spirits, knowledge of the world, imperturbable self-possession, good exterior, plausible address, and a modesty which he felt persuaded would never stand in the way of his advancement.
Thousands of London adventurers, it has been observed, rise in the morning without knowing how they shall provide a meal for the day. Our hero was just now in this predicament, for he had not even the means of procuring a breakfast. Something, however, must be done, and that immediately, so he applied himself to a cracked bell which stood on his ill-conditioned table; and, while waiting his landlady's answer to the tintinnabulary summons, occupied himself by casting a scrutinizing glance at his outer Adam. Alas! there was little here to gratify the eye of taste and gentility! His coat was in that peculiar state denominated "seedy," his linen was as yellow as a sea-sick cockney, and his trousers evinced tokens of an antiquity better qualified to inspire reverence than admiration.
Just as he had completed his survey, his landlady entered the room, accompanied by her first-born,--a hopeful youth, with a fine expanse of mouth calculated seriously to perplex a quartern loaf. Dick perused her features attentively, and thought he had never before seen her look so ugly. But this of course: Venus herself would look a fright, if she came to dun for money.
"Ah, poppet, is that you?" exclaimed Dick, affectionately patting the urchin's head, by way of an agreeable commencement to the conversation; "Why, how the dear boy grows! Blessings on his pretty face: he's the very image of his Ma!"
"Come, come, Mr. Diddler," replied Mrs. Dibbs, "that language won't do no longer. You've been blessing little Tom twice a day ever since you got into my books, but I'm not going to take out my account in blessings. Blessings won't pay my milk-score, so I must have my money,--and this very day too, for I've got a bill to make up to-morrow."
"Have patience, my good lady, and all will be right."
"Ay, so you've said for the last month; but saying's one thing, and doing's another."
"Very good."
"But it ain't very good; it's very bad."
"Well, well, no matter, Mrs. D----"
"No matter! But I say it is a great matter,--a matter of ten pounds fifteen shillings, to say nothing of them oysters what you did me out on last night."
"Exactly so; and you shall have it all this very day, for it so happens that I'm going into the City to receive payment of a debt that has been owing me since November last. And this reminds me that I have not yet breakfasted; so pray send up--now don't apologise, for you could not possibly have known that I had an appointment in Fenchurch-street at ten o'clock."
"Breakfast!" exclaimed Mrs. Dibbs with a disdainful toss of her head; "no, no; not a mouthful shall you have till I get my money: I'm quite sick of your promises."
"Nay, but my dear Mrs. D----"
"It's no use argufying the pint; what I've said, I'll stand to. Come, Tom--drat the boy! why don't you come?" and so saying, the choleric dame, catching fast hold of her son by the pinafore, flounced out of the room, banging the door after her with the emphasis of a hurricane.
Dick remained a few minutes behind, in the hope that breakfast might yet be forthcoming: but finding that there was not the slightest prospect of his landlady's relenting, he, in the true spirit of an indignant Briton, consigned her "eyes" to perdition; and, having thus expectorated his wrath, began to furbish up his faded apparel. He tucked in his saffron shirt-collar; buttoned up his coat to the chin, refreshing the white seams with the "Patent Reviver;" smoothed round his silk hat, which luckily was in good preservation; and then rushed out of the house with the desperate determination of breakfasting at some one's expense. There is nothing like the gastric juice to stimulate a man's ingenuity. It is the secret of half the poetic inspiration in our literature.
Chance--or perhaps that ruling destiny which, do what we will, still sways all our actions--led Dick's steps in the direction of the Hampstead Road. It was a bright, cool, summer morning; the housemaids were at work with their brooms outside the cottages; the milkman was going his rounds with his "sky-blue;" and the shiny porter-pots yet hung upon the garden rails. As our hero moved onward, keeping his mouth close shut, lest the lively wind might act too excitingly on his unfurnished epigastrum, his attentive optics chanced to fall on a cottage, in the front parlour of which, the window being open, he beheld a sight that roused all the shark or alderman within him,--to wit, a breakfast set forth in a style that might have created an appetite "under the ribs of death." Dick stopped: the case was desperate; but his self-possession was equal to the emergency. "A Mr. Smith lives here," said he, running his eye hastily over the premises: "the bower, and the wooden god, those trees so neatly clipped, and that commonplace-looking terrier sleeping at the gate, with his nose poked through the rails, all betoken the habits and fancies of a Smith. Good! I will favour the gentleman with a call;" and with these words Dick gave a vehement pull at the garden-bell.
"Is Mr. Smith at home?" he inquired with an air of easy assurance that produced an instant effect on the girl who answered the bell.
"No, sir."
"Upon my life, that's very awkward; particularly so as he requested me to be----"
"Oh! I suppose, then, you're the gentleman that was expected here to breakfast this morning?"
"The very same, my dear."
"Well," continued the girl, unlocking the gate, "master desired me to say that you were to walk in, and not wait for him, for he had to go into Tottenham-court Road on business, and should not be back for an hour."
Dick took the hint, walked in, and in an instant was hard at work.
How he punished the invigorating coffee! What havoc he wrought among the eggs and French rolls! Never was seen such voracity since the days of the ventripotent Heliogabalus. His expedition was on a par with his prowess, for Mr. Smith's guest being momentarily expected, he felt that he had not a moment to lose. Accordingly, after doing prompt, impartial justice to every article on table, he coolly rang the bell, and, without noticing the muttered "My stars!" of the servant as she glanced at the wreck before her, he desired her to tell Mr. Smith that, as he had a visit to pay in the neighbourhood, he could not wait longer for him, but would call again in the course of the day; and then, putting on his hat with an air, he quitted the cottage on the best possible terms with himself and all the world. There is nothing like good eating and drinking to bring out the humanities.
Having no professional duties to attend to, Dick strolled on to Hampstead Heath, where he seated himself on a bench that commands an extensive view towards the west and north. Here he continued musing upwards of an hour, in that buoyant mood which a good breakfast never fails to call forth. It was early yet to trouble himself about dinner or his landlady's bill; and Dick was not the man to recognise a grievance till it stared him in the face, when, if he could not give it the cut direct, he would boldly confront and grapple with it: so he occupied himself with whistling one of Macheath's songs in the Beggar's Opera.
While thus idling away his time, and picturing in his mind's eye the perplexed visages of Mr. Smith and his guest when they should become acquainted with the extent of their calamity, Dick's attention was suddenly directed to the sound of voices near him. He listened; and, from the dulcet accents in which the conversation was carried on, felt persuaded that the parties were making love. Curious to ascertain who they were, he retreated behind one of the broadest elms on the terrace, and there beheld a dry old maid, thin as a thread-paper, and straight as a stick of sealing-wax, smirking and affecting to blush at something that was whispered in her ear by a young man. Our adventurer fancied that the latter's person was familiar to him; so, the instant the enamoured turtles separated, he emerged from his hiding-place, and saw, advancing towards the bench he had just quitted, an old com-rogue, to whom in his better days he had lost many a sum at the gaming-table.
The recognition was mutual.
"What! Dick Diddler?"
"What! Sam Spragge?"
"Why, Sam, what has brought you here at this hour?" quoth our hero.
Samuel smiled, and pointed significantly towards the ancient virgin, who was just then crossing the Heath, near the donkey-stand.
"Hem! I understand. Much property?"
"Eight hundred a year at her own disposal, and two thousand _three per cents_ at the death of a crusty, invalid brother-in-law, who lives with her in that old-fashioned house she is now entering."
"Eight hundred a year!" said Dick musing; "lucky dog! And how long have you known her?"
"Oh! an eternity. Three days."
"And where did you pick her up?"
"Under a gateway in Camden Town, where we were both standing up from the rain."
"You seem to have made excellent use of your time."
"Nothing easier. I could see at a glance that she was quite as anxious for a husband as I am for a rich wife; so, after some indifferent chat about the weather, &c. I prevailed on her to accept of my escort home; talked lots of sentiment as we jogged along under my umbrella; praised her beauty to the skies,--for she is inordinately vain, though ugly enough, as you must have seen, to scare a ghost--and, in short, did not quit her till she had promised to meet me on the following day."
"And she kept her word, no doubt?"
"Yes, I have now seen her four times, and am sure that if I could but muster up funds enough for a Gretna-green trip,--for she has all the romance of a boarding-school girl,--I could carry her off this very night. But I cannot, Dick, I cannot;" and Sam heaved a sigh that was quite pathetic.
"Can you not borrow of her?--'tis for her own good, you know."
"Impossible! I have represented myself as a man of substance; and, were she once to suppose me otherwise, so quick-witted is she on money matters, that she would instantly give me my dismissal."
"And what is your angel's name?"
"Priscilla Spriggins."
"My dear fellow," exclaimed Dick with a sudden burst of emotion, "from my soul I pity you; but, alas! sympathy is all I have to offer:--look here!" and, turning his empty pockets inside out, he displayed two holes therein, about as big as the aperture of a mousetrap.
An expressive pause followed this touching exhibition; shortly after which the two adventurers parted,--Sam returning towards London, with a view, no doubt, of seeking, like Apollyon, "whom he might devour;" and Dick remaining where he was, casting ever and anon a glance towards the house where the fair Priscilla vegetated, and meditating, the while, on the revelation that had just been made to him.
Tired at length of reverie, he rose from the bench, and made his way back into Hampstead,--slowly, for every step was bringing him nearer the residence of his unreasonable landlady. On passing down by Mount Vernon, he beheld the walls on either side of him placarded with hand-bills announcing that an auction was to take place that day at a large old family mansion (the by-streets of Hampstead abound in such) close by: and, on moving towards the spot, he saw, by the groups of people who were lounging at the open door, that the sale had already begun. By way of killing an idle half-hour or so, Dick entered; and, elbowing his way up stairs, soon found himself in a spacious drawing-room, crowded with pictures, vases, old porcelain, and other articles of _virtù_.
Just at that moment the auctioneer put up a landscape painting by one of the old masters, on which he expatiated with the customary professional eloquence. "Going, ladies and gentlemen, going for two hundred pounds--undoubted Paul Potter--highly admired by the late lamented Lawrence--sheep so naturally coloured, you'd swear you could hear 'em bleat--frame, too, in excellent condition--going--going----"
"Two hundred and thirty!" said a small gentleman in spectacles, raising himself on tip-toe to catch the auctioneer's eye.
"Two hundred and fifty" shouted another.
"Going for two hundred and fifty," said the man in the rostrum; after a pause, "upon my word, ladies and gentlemen, this is giving away the picture. Pray look at that fore-shortened old ram in the background; why, his two horns alone are worth the money. Let me beg, for the honour of art, that----"
"Three hundred!" roared Dick, with an intrepid effrontery that extorted universal respect,--for to his other amiable qualities he added that of being a "brag" of the first water, and was proud, even though it were but for a moment, of displaying his consequence among strangers.
As this was the highest bidding, the picture was knocked down to our hero, who, having cracked his joke, and gratified his swaggering propensities, was about to beat a retreat, when he found his elbow twitched by a nervous, eager little man,--a duodecimo edition of a virtuoso,--who had only that moment entered the room.
"So you have purchased that Paul Potter, sir, I understand," said the stranger, wiping the perspiration from his bald head, and evidently struggling with his vexation.
Dick nodded an affirmative, not a little curious to know what would come next.
"Bless my soul, how unlucky! To think that I should have been only five minutes too late, and such a run as I had for it! Excuse the liberty I am taking, but have you any wish to be off your bargain, sir?--not that I am particularly anxious about the picture--I merely ask for information; that's all, sir, I assure you," added the virtuoso, aware that he had committed himself, and endeavouring to retrieve his blunder.
Dick cast one of his most searching glances at the stranger; and, reading in his countenance the anxiety he would fain have concealed under a show of indifference, said in his slyest and most composed manner, "May I beg to be favoured with your name, sir?"
"Smithson, sir,--Richard Smithson, agent to Lord Theodore Thickskull, whose picture-gallery I have the honour of a commission to furnish; and happening to read a day or two ago in the "Times" that a few old paintings were to be disposed of by auction here on the premises, I thought, perhaps----"
"Indeed! That alters the case," replied our hero with an air of dignified courtesy, "for I have some slight acquaintance with his lordship myself."
"Bless my soul, how odd!--how uncommon odd! Possibly, then, for my lord's sake, you will not object to----"
"No," replied Dick smiling, "I did not say that."
"Rely on it, sir," continued the fidgety little virtuoso, "you are mistaken in your estimate of that painting. They say it is a Paul Potter; but it's no such thing--no such thing, sir."
"Then why are you so anxious to get possession of it?"
"Who? I, sir? Bless my soul, I'm not anxious. I merely thought that as his lordship was particularly partial to landscapes, he might be tempted, perhaps, to give more--"
"Well," said Dick, eager to bring the matter to a conclusion, "as I have no very pressing desire to retain the picture, though it is the very thing for my library in Mount-street, you shall have it; but on certain conditions."
"Name them, my dear sir, name them," said the virtuoso, his eyes sparkling with animation.
"I have bought the painting," resumed Dick, "for three hundred guineas; now, you shall have it for six hundred. You see I put the matter quite on a footing of business, without the slightest reference to his lordship."
"Six hundred guineas! Bless my soul, impossible!"
"As you please," replied our hero with exquisite nonchalance; "I am indifferent about the matter."
"Say four hundred, sir."
"Not a farthing less. The pictures in this house, as the advertisement which brought me up here at this unseasonable hour, before I had even time to complete my toilette, justly observes, have been long celebrated, and----"
"I'll give you five hundred," replied Smithson, cutting short Dick's remarks.
"Well, well, for his lordship's sake----"
"Good!" exclaimed the virtuoso; and hurrying Dick to a more quiet corner of the room, he took out pen and inkhorn, wrote a check on a West-end banker for the amount of the balance, thrust it into his hand, and then, after assuring him that he would arrange everything with the auctioneer, and would not trouble him to stay longer, hurried away towards the rostrum, as though he feared our hero would repent the transfer of a painting for which he himself imagined he should be able to screw about eight hundred pounds out of his lordship, who was remarkable for the readiness with which he paid through the nose.
No sooner had Dick lost sight of Mr. Smithson, than away he flew from the house, bounding and taking big leaps like a ram, till he reached the main street, when, changing his exultant pace for a more sober and gentlemanlike one, he hailed the Hampstead coach, which was about leaving the office, snugly ensconced himself inside, and within the hour was deposited at Charing-cross.
"Coachman," quoth our hero, as the Jehu, having descended from his box, held out his hand to receive the usual fare, "I am rather delicately situated."
"Humph!" replied the man, who seemed perfectly to comprehend, though not to sympathise with, the delicacy of the case, "sorry for it; but master always says, says he----"
"The fact is," continued Dick, interrupting what bade fair to become a prolix Philippic, "though I have not a farthing in my pocket, having forgotten to take out my purse this morning, yet as I am just going to receive cash for a two hundred pound cheque, and shall return with you to Hampstead, I presume the delay of an hour will make no great difference."
The coachman, whose white round face usually beamed with all the bland expression of a turnip, evinced symptoms of an uneasy distrust at this speech; but when Dick exhibited the cheque--not relishing the idea of a "bolt," long experience having no doubt taught him that coachmen running after a fare are apt to run with most inconvenient velocity--when, I say, Dick exhibited this convincing scrap of paper, all Jehu's suspicions vanished, and, touching the shining edge of his hat, he absolved our hero from extempore payment, with a bow that might have done honour to a Margate dancing-master.
This knotty point settled, the ingenious Richard next posted off in a cab to the banker's,--for it was beneath his dignity to walk,--presented his cheque, received the amount, placed it securely in his waistcoat pocket, and then made all possible haste to a well-known shop in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, where every item necessary to perfect the man of fashion may be procured at a minute's notice.
Our hero entered the shop in a condition bordering upon the shabby genteel, though his person and address were a handsome set-off against the infirmities of his apparel: he came out dressed in the very height of ton. The hue of his linen was unimpeachable; his pantaloons fitted to a miracle; his coat was guiltless of a wrinkle. Then his gay, glossy silk waistcoat, to say nothing of--but enough; the metamorphosis was complete--the snake had cast its skin--the grub was transformed into the butterfly.
But, startling as was the change which his Hampstead speculation had wrought in his person, still more so was its effect on his mind. Here an entire revolution was already in full activity. Vast ideas fermented in his brain. He no longer crept along with the downcast look of an adventurer, but stared boldly about him, as one conscious that he was somebody. And so he was. It is not every one who cuts a figure at the West-end that can boast of the possession of two hundred pounds!
On his road back to Charing-cross, the first object which caught our hero's eye was the Hampstead coach preparing to set out on its return. The sight brought to his recollection the fair Priscilla Spriggins; and in an instant, with the decision of a Napoleon, he resolved to make a "Bold Stroke for a Wife," and carry her of to Gretna that very night. The scheme was hopeless, you will say: granted; but Dick was formed to vanquish, not be vanquished by, circumstances. "Faint heart never won fair lady," said he; "so here goes;" and in he popped.
It was now about two o'clock, the hour when the fair inhabitants of our cockney Arcadia are in the habit of taking the air on the Heath, some with work-bags, some with the "last new novel," but the majority with "Bentley's Miscellany" in their hands. Dick no sooner reached the donkey-stand, than he seated himself on a bench close by,--where two young ladies were standing, fondly imagining that they beheld Windsor Castle through a spyglass,--and looked anxiously about him, to see if he could detect Miss Spriggins among the peripatetics. But no Priscilla was visible. How, therefore, should he act? "Wait," said common sense; so Dick waited.
Half an hour had elapsed, and he was beginning to get impatient, when suddenly, on casting his eyes towards the lady's house, he saw the door open, and Miss Spriggins herself stepped forth, with a novel in one hand, and a pea-green parasol in the other. Dick watched her motions as a cat watches a mouse: saw her steal away towards a retired quarter of the Heath, and, having made up his mind as to the line of conduct he should pursue, started from his seat and followed quickly in her wake.
On reaching her side, "Miss Spriggins, I presume?" said he with a profound obeisance.
"The same, sir," replied the surprised Priscilla.
"Ah! madam," resumed Dick, bursting at once into a sentimental vein, for he felt that every minute was precious, "happy am I to see that enchanting face once more."
"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Spriggins, affecting to bridle up; "but really I do not comprehend----"
"Comprehend, madam!--and how should you? I scarcely comprehend myself. But how should it be otherwise, when for weeks past I have daily wandered over this romantic heath, hoping, but, alas! in vain, to catch one stray gleam of that sunny beauty which last April--how well I remember the date!--so riveted my fancy as it flashed on me from the front drawing-room of yonder house;" and Dick pointed towards Priscilla's dwelling.
"Really, sir, this language----"
"Is the language of frenzy, maybe; but it is the language also of passion. Ah! madam, if you but knew the flame that that one casual glimpse of your bewitching countenance lit up in my unhappy heart, you would pity what I now feel. Would to God that you were as much a stranger to me as I am to you, for then I should cease to be the wretch I am;" and Dick, having no onion ready, turned away his head, and covered his face with his handkerchief.
"Sir," replied Miss Spriggins, startled, yet far from displeased, "I really know not what answer to make to this most extraordinary----"
"Extraordinary, madam? Is it extraordinary to admire beauty--to reverence perfection--to live but in the hope of again seeing her who, once seen, can never be forgotten--is this extraordinary? If so, then am I the most extraordinary of men. Revered Priscilla,--Miss Spriggins, I should say,--your beauty has undone me. I should have joined my regiment at Carlisle ere now; but you, and you only, have kept me lingering in this sylvan district. Ah, lady! Captain Felix O'Flam was happy till he saw you,--happy, even though deceived by one whom he once thought his friend."
The fair Priscilla, whose predominant infirmity, as has been before observed, was an indigestion of celibacy, could not witness the affliction of the dashing young man before her, without sympathising with him; perceiving which, Dick continued, "I see you pity me, lady, and your pity would be still more profound did you know all. It is no later than last week that I became acquainted with the arts of an adventurer named Spragge, who, for months previously, having wormed himself into my confidence, had led me to believe that----"
"Spragge!" interrupted Miss Spriggins with a look of huge dismay; "and pray what sort of a person may he have been?"
In reply, Dick described Sam to the life; whereupon his companion, no longer able to conceal her rage, exclaimed abruptly, "The wretch!--what an escape have I had!"
"Escape, madam! How so? Has the villain dared to deceive you, as he has me? I know that he is one of those plausible, unprincipled adventurers about town, who make a point of preying on the unwary--and such he must have considered me, when he introduced himself one morning as a relation of the commanding officer of my regiment;--but that he should have presumed to----"
"Oh no, captain," replied Miss Spriggins with evident embarrassment; "I was never his dupe. He merely called,--if indeed it be the same person, as I feel convinced it is,--one day last week at my brother's, on some pretence or other, which--which--But I have done with him, the monster!"
"Call on you, madam!" replied Dick, adroitly giving in to the lady's little deviation from fact, "call on you, when _I_ dared not approach your threshold! But enough--I'll cut his throat!"
"No, no, captain; believe me, he is unworthy of your revenge."
"You say right, madam; for, since I have found reason to suspect him, I have instituted inquiries into his character, and am told that he is beneath contempt. Why--would you believe it?--the fellow has been twice ducked in a horse-pond, for thimble-rigging, at Epsom,--flogged at the cart's tail for petty larceny, rubbed down with vinegar and set in the black-hole to dry."
"Mercy on us! you don't say so?"
"Fact. But to quit this unworthy theme, and revert to a more pleasing one:--May I, lady,"--and Dick here put on his most wheedling air,--"may, I, having at length been honoured with one interview with you, presume to hope for a second? Say only that we may again meet,--nay, that this very evening we may take a stroll together through these sequestered shades,--and make me the happiest of men. Alas! I once thought that fortune alone was necessary to constitute felicity; but, now that I have _that_, I feel 'tis as nothing; and that love,--disinterested, impassioned love,--is the main ingredient in the cup of human bliss. Give me but the woman I adore, and I ask--I expect nothing further; but wealth without her is a mere mockery."
This rhapsody had more effect on his companion than anything Dick had yet said. It was a shot between wind and water.
"Oh, captain!" replied Priscilla, "I appreciate your generous sentiments; and, to convince you that I am not unworthy to share them, will--however strange it may appear in a young and timid female--consent to see you once more. But, remember, it must be our last interview;" and she sighed,--and so did Dick.
"Adieu, then, idol of my soul! if so I may presume to call you," exclaimed this ingenuous young man; "adieu, till the shades of twilight lengthen along the horse-pond hard by the donkey-stand, when we will meet again, and the thrice-blessed Felix----" Dick stopped: seized the lady's hand, which she faintly struggled to withdraw; imprinted on it a kiss that "came twanging off," as Massinger would say; and then tore himself away, as if fearful of trusting himself with farther speech.
On quitting Priscilla's side, Dick rattled across the fields to Highgate, wondering at the success that had thus far crowned his efforts. "Will she keep her appointment?" said he. "Yes, yes; I see it in her eye. The 'captain' has done the business; never was there so conceited an old lass!" and, thus soliloquizing, he found himself at the door of the best hotel in Highgate, strutted into the coffee-room, and rang the bell for the waiter.
The man answered his summons, cast a shrewd glance at his exterior, and, satisfied with the scrutiny, made a low bow, prefaced by a semicircular flourish of his napkin.
"Waiter," said Dick, with the air of a prince, "show me into a private room, and let it be your best."
"Please to follow me, sir," replied the man; and, so saying, he ushered our hero into a spacious apartment, which commanded a picturesque view of a brick-field, with a pig-sty in the background.
"Good!" said Dick, and throwing himself full-length on a sofa, he ordered an early dinner, cold, but of the best quality, together with one bottle of madeira, and another of port, by way of appendix.
Well; the dinner came, wine ditto, and both were excellent. Glass after glass was filled and emptied, and Dick felt his spirits mounting into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. His thoughts were winged; his prospects radiant with the sunny hues of hope. The fair Priscilla was his own,--his grievances were at an end,--and he henceforth could snap his fingers at fate. Happy man!
Having despatched his madeira, and two or three supplementary glasses of port, so that one bottle might not be jealous of the attentions paid to the other, Dick summoned the waiter into his presence, paid his bill like a lord, and concluded by ordering a post-chaise and four to be ready for him within two hours in a certain lane which he specified, and which led off the high-road a few yards beyond the turnpike. Of course the man understood the drift of this order. Dick, however, took no notice of his knowing simper; but, telling him that he should return in a short time, stalked from the hotel as if the majesty of England were centred in his person.
On returning to the Heath, he found, as he had expected, the fair Priscilla awaiting his advent by the horse-pond. She received him with a blush, to which he replied by a squeeze; and then, emboldened by the wine he had drunk, went on in a strain of high-flown panegyric which rapidly thawed the heart of the too susceptible Miss Spriggins. Dick was not the lad to do things by halves. Neck or nothing was his motto; and accordingly, before he had been ten minutes in company with his fair one, he had succeeded in drawing from her a confession that she preferred him to all the suitors she had ever had. This point gained, our hero adroitly changed the conversation; talked of his prospects when his father's estates in the North should come into his possession; of his friend Lord Theodore Thickskull, to whom he should be so proud to introduce his Priscilla; and of his intention to sell out of the army the instant she consented to be his.
Thus chatting, Dick--accidentally, to all appearance--drew his companion on towards Highgate, when, suddenly putting on a look of extreme wonder, he exclaimed, "Who'd have thought it! We are close by the Tunnel. Ah! dearest Priscilla, you see how time flies when we are with those we love! And, now that you are here, my angel, you cannot surely refuse to honour my hotel with your presence. Nay, not a word; it is hard by, and I am sure you must be fatigued after your walk."
The lady protested that she could not think of entering an hotel with a single man. She did, however; and was so favourably impressed with the respect shown to Dick by the waiter, who with his finger beside his nose implied that all was ready, that had she ever harboured distrust, this circumstance alone would have effectually banished it from her mind.
No sooner had the parties entered Dick's private apartment, than, strange to tell, they beheld a bottle of port wine standing on the table. And, lo! there also were two glasses! Of course our hero could not but present one to Priscilla, who received it, nothing loth, though affecting extreme coyness. Its effects were soon visible. Her bleak blue nose assumed a faint mulberry tinge, her eyes sparkled, and she simpered, languished, and ogled Dick, sighing the while, with a sort of die-away sensibility, intended to show the extreme tenderness of her nature. These blandishments, which our hero returned with compound interest, were, however, soon put an end to, by the lady's suddenly rising, and requesting him to _chaperon_ her home, as it was getting late, and her brother would be uneasy at her absence. Dick complied, though with apparent reluctance, and, as he passed through the hall with Priscilla hanging on his arm, he could see the landlady peeping at him through the yellow gauze blinds of the tap-room window.
It was now confirmed twilight; the dicky-birds were asleep in their nests; the Highgate toll-bar looked vague and spectral in the gloom; and nought disturbed the solemn silence of the hour, save the pot-boys calling "Beer!" at the cottages by the road-side. As Dick rambled on, under the pretence of leading Miss Spriggins by a short cut home, his thoughts took the hue of the season, and he became pensive and abstracted. He looked at Priscilla, and sighed; while she reciprocated the respiration, heaving up from the depths of her oesophagus a sigh that might have upset a schooner. And thus the enamoured pair pursued their walk, Dick every now and then squeezing his companion's hand with the gentle compression of a blacksmith's vice. 'Twas a spectacle gratifying to a benevolent heart, the sight of those devoted lovers, so wrapt up in each other as to be regardless of the extraordinary beauties of the picturesque scenery about them. The dog-rose bloomed in the hedge, but they inhaled not its fragrance. The ducks quacked in the verdant ditch beside their path, but they heeded not their euphonious ejaculations. Their own sweet thoughts were enough for them. Surrounding nature was as nought,--they seemed alone in creation,--the sole denizens of Middlesex!
By this time the moon had climbed the azure vault of heaven; the last Omnibus had set down the last man; when lo! before he was aware of his contiguity, Dick found himself close by the turnpike. 'Twas a critical moment; but the young man was desperate, and desperation knows no impossibilities. Changing the sentimental tone he had hitherto adopted, he burst into the most frenzied exclamations of grief; stated the necessity he was under of immediately joining his regiment at Carlisle, which he should have done long before had not his love for Priscilla kept him lingering in the vicinity of Hampstead; that he had not the heart to state this before; but, now that he had explained his situation, he felt that he should not survive the shock of a separation. "There," said he, pointing to the carriage, which was but a few yards off, "there is the detested vehicle destined to bear me far from thee! Why had I not the candour to explain my position till this moment? Alas! who, situated as I am, could have acted otherwise? Lady, I love--adore--doat--on you to distraction! Let us fly, then, and link our fates together. You speak not, alas!"
"Good Heavens!" replied the bewildered Miss Spriggins, "impossible! What would the world say? Oh fie, Captain Felix!--to think that I should have been exposed to----"
"Come, Priscilla,--my Priscilla,--and let us hasten to be happy. The respected clergyman at Gretna ----"
"An elopement!--Monstrous!--Oh! that I should have lived to hear such a proposition!"
Need the sequel be insisted on? Dick wept, prayed, capered, tore his hair, and acted a thousand shrewd extravagances; swore he would hang himself to the toll-bar, or cut his throat with an oyster-knife, if his own dear Priscilla did not consent to unite her destiny with his; and, in fact, so worked upon the damsel's sensibilities, that she had no help for it but to gasp forth a reluctant consent. An instant, and all was ready for departure. Crack went the whip, round went the wheels, and away went the fond couple to Gretna-green, rattling along the high north road at the rate of fourteen miles an hour!
Thus he who at nine o'clock in the morning was an adventurer without a sixpence in his pocket, by the same hour in the evening was a gentleman in possession of a woman worth eight hundred pounds _per annum_!--Gentle reader, truth is strange,--stranger than fiction.
THE MAN WITH THE TUFT. BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
I. I ever at college From commoners shrank, Still craving the knowledge Of people of rank: In my glass, my lord's ticket I eagerly stuffed; And all call'd me "Riquet," The man with the Tuft.
II. My patron! most noble! Of highest degree! Thou never canst probe all My homage for thee! Thy hand--oh! I'd lick it, Though often rebuff'd; And still I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft!
III. Too oft the great, shutting Their doors on the bold, Do deeds that are cutting, Say words that are cold! Through flattery's wicket _My_ body I've stuff'd, And _so_ I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft!
IV. His lordship's a poet, Enraptured I sit; He's dull--(and I know it)-- _I_ call him a wit! His fancy, I nick it, By me he is puff'd. And still I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft!
THE MINISTER'S FATE. A SKETCH OF THE PAST.
Now that the session of parliament is fairly set in, and occupying public attention, sketches and recollections of public orators, with touches at the gallery M.P.'s, or "gentlemen of the fourth estate," as the reporters have been termed, will of course become redundant; but for scribblers who have known St. Stephen's only a session or two to attempt a thing of this sort, so as to satisfy those who take a real interest in the doings of the senate, is out of the question. To deal with such matters properly, a man, as Pierce Egan says of the important mysteries of boxing and slang, "must be brought up to the business from a _young 'un_."
It is not my purpose to deal with matters of the day. My sketches might go a quarter, or probably half a century back: Graham's celestial bed, Mr. Dodd's execution, and Lord George Gordon's riots, will scarcely be out of my reach. Though I set off with what relates to the House of Commons, from having known many of the distinguished writers who have at various periods laboured there, other scenes will occasionally recur to me, which it may be worth while to bring, with the details none but an eyewitness can give, before the reader.
I did not, however, know, but from reading of them in the newspapers, the parliamentary orators of my time, till after the opening of the present century. The last stars of a galaxy admitted to be of more than ordinary splendour, had not yet faded when I made my debut in the gallery of St. Stephen's Chapel: Pitt and Fox, Lord North and Burke, had "shuffled off this mortal coil;" but Wyndham, and Sheridan, and Tierney remained. Of them and of their latter contemporaries I have many recollections; some of which, as they are connected with matters of historical interest, it may be entertaining at least, to recall. It will not be important to observe strict chronological order, so each scene is kept by itself, the colouring not exaggerated and every fact related with a scrupulous regard to sacred truth.
Shades of the departed, how ye rise to "my mind's eye" as I prepare to enter on my task! On the right, as we looked from the gallery of the old House, that is, to the left of the Speaker's chair, I see Ponsonby, with his portly form, white hair, and red chubby countenance; Wyndham, a tall, spare figure, and a head partially bald; Tierney, with his lowering brow, apparently waiting to spring on his ministerial victim; Sheridan, exhibiting an aspect but too indicative of the thoughtless career he pursued; Romilly, maintaining an air of solemn dignity, with an appearance of exhaustion from severe mental toil; Whitbread, robust, shrewd, and never weary; his deportment might have passed for that of a blunt, resolute farmer. Always at his post; during the session, the House of Commons was his home. Opposed to these I see the keen, sarcastic, and animated Perceval. He had a bright penetrating eye, and a nose rather inclining upwards, which the H. B.'s of 1807 converted into a most ludicrous pug nose; his figure was small, and he had little hair on the crown of his head; but he wore a long thin queue behind, which in debate, from the vivacity of his manner, was continually showing itself over one or other shoulder. Near him sat Castlereagh. He boasted an elegant figure and handsome countenance, and often carried the polish of the drawing-room into the tumult of political warfare, but sometimes abruptly dropped it, to strike the table or the box before him with almost farcical violence. The capacious forehead and fine features of Canning were generally by his side. The well-powdered head of Old George Rose was seldom very distant, and the bald shining skull of "Brother Bragge," as Mr. Bragge Bathurst had been facetiously called by Canning, was one of the group.
Memory now turns to the gentlemen up-stairs in the gallery; nor ought these to be thought beneath some notice, remembering how many have since descended into the House to furnish occupation to their reporting posterity. Woodfall formerly sat at the right hand corner of the front of the gallery, on the seat which was what a goose is for a meal, "too much for one, but too little for two,"--I mean the continuation of the member's bench. He commonly held a gold-headed cane in his hand, which he continually turned round one way when listening to a speech, and then caused it to revolve the other way attending to the reply. The smiling suavity of Hogan, the dry good-humour of Donovan, (these gentlemen went out chief justice and judge advocate to Sierra Leone, where they died,) the severe glance of Keating, the gracious swagger and laugh of Edward Quin, the "amiable obliquity of vision" of Peter Finnerty, the ardent gaiety of Power, and the overflowing merriment of the senior Dowling, all seem to return, with the peculiarities of many others, who, like them, are no more, and those of a much greater number who fortunately survive.
The consequences of a war of unexampled length were severely felt in 1812, and much of the distress which then prevailed was affirmed to have been produced by our own "orders in council," issued to meet the decrees of Bonaparte. Earl Grey was their strenuous and persevering opponent. A parliamentary inquiry into their operation was instituted. In the Commons Mr. Whitbread greatly exerted himself in support of the views of his noble friend Earl Grey, and the investigation was entered upon by the whole House in committee. The interminable examinations which followed, exhausted public curiosity to such a pitch, that the gentlemen of the press had instructions not to report them. In consequence of this, when the order of the day was moved for going into the committee, they closed their books, entered into conversation, and sometimes even left the House.
The gallery was at that time on such occasions nearly deserted; two or three reporters indolently reclining on their seats, and from twelve to twenty visitors were all the audience the subject commanded.
Of the last-mentioned individuals, some few, from their own interests being affected by the matter under inquiry, went to the house frequently enough to get in some degree acquainted with the writers; and among them was one gentleman who usually took his place on the back seat, though he was always ready to resign it to those who, as they went there for business, and not for pleasure, considered that they had a right to claim it as their own. There was something singular in this person's manner; and the eagerness with which he surveyed the members, by means of an opera-glass, often excited the mirth of his waggish neighbours. He asked many questions, but timed them so well, and always deported himself with so much respectful good-humour, that any information he desired was readily given.
One fine summer's afternoon I and some other tired visitors to the House availed ourselves of the leisure which the sitting of the committee afforded, to enjoy a walk on the banks of the river. On our return, near Milbank, a person who had some knowledge of us inquired if we had heard that a duel had taken place between the Earl of Liverpool and Mr. Perceval, in which the latter had fallen. We laughed at the improbability of the story, but were seriously assured that we should find it true. Still incredulous, we said we would soon ascertain the fact, and accordingly advanced to Palace Yard. There the closed gates, the crowd assembled outside, and the information communicated by a thousand tongues, soon placed it beyond all doubt that the minister was no more, having within the last hour been shot, not by his noble colleague, but by a stranger named Bellingham.
Mr. Perceval was in the habit of coming down to the House about five o'clock. On this day it was a quarter past that hour, when, as he entered the lobby, he was shot through the heart. He staggered a few paces, fell against one of the pillars, and almost immediately expired. The assassin was instantly seized and taken to the bar of the House, where a crowd of persons, members and strangers mixed in extreme confusion, assembled round him; and as soon as an attempt at restoring order could be made, the Speaker directed Mr. Whitbread and other members to precede and follow the prisoner to a place of safe custody. This was done, and these facts were generally known to the multitude, which now beset all the avenue leading to the two Houses.
From mouth to mouth the mournful tidings flew with unexampled rapidity. The very prominent situation in which Mr. Perceval stood, the active and important business he was daily seen engaged in, made men almost seem to doubt if it were possible that such a career could so suddenly be closed for ever. The rumours sent forth had the same effect on every one they reached, I might almost say, that it has been shown they had on me and my companions. All who heard that the right honourable gentleman was dead, seemed to determine instantly to verify the fact by repairing to Westminster. It was about a quarter past five in the afternoon of the 11th of May that Mr. Perceval was shot in the lobby of the House, and, by six, countless thousands poured down the Strand and all the streets leading to Charing Cross. Second editions of the evening papers were got out with astonishing expedition; and, by the time I have mentioned, one had been carried so far towards Westminster as the end of Parliament-street, opposite Downing-street. The extreme eagerness of every one to know all that could be known, I remember, instantly got a crowd round the bearer of it. Ownership and ceremony were not thought of: every one who could get hold of the much-coveted broad sheet, considered that he had a right to it. I, among a host of intruders, saw there, in the manner described, the first connected detail of the catastrophe.
As the night closed in, the crowd became immense, and some discreditable exultation was expressed by the lowest of the mob; but the general feeling created was that of humane commiseration and unmitigated horror.
Admiring the great talents of Mr. Perceval as I did, and impressed with a conviction that he was most amiable in private life, my own sorrow was great; and I rejoiced at the thought that the murderer was in safe custody, and would possibly, (as the sessions were about to commence,) before a single week should have elapsed, suffer the last penalty of the law.
Never shall I forget the spectacle which the House of Commons presented on the following day. Those who have been in the habit of going there, must have noticed with some annoyance the ceaseless murmur which prevails for the first hour, or hour and a half, after the Speaker has taken the chair, while private bills and petitions of little interest, are being disposed of, and papers presented at the bar. The monotonous repetition by the Speaker of the words, "So many as are of that opinion say '_aye_,' those who are of a contrary opinion say '_no_;' the ayes have it," on putting questions which are unopposed,--the ceaseless slamming of doors,--the creaking of shoes of some of those members who seem to delight in displaying their elegance by marching, or I might almost say by skating, up and down the body of the House, as if to let their friends, the strangers in and under the gallery, see how very grand it is possible for them to look,--and the frequent cry of "Order! order!" "Bar! bar!" from the Chair, given forth, as was then the case, with full-toned dignity of Mr. Speaker Abbot (the late Lord Colchester), altogether gave the idea of a careless, irregular assembly,--of anything but a place where the most important business of a great nation was to be transacted. Such was its usual aspect in those days; but on the 12th of May 1812, most widely different I found the scene. The attendance was unusually full, but solemn funereal stillness marked the approach of each member to assist in the proceedings growing out of the recent and melancholy fate of the minister.
"How silent did his old companions tread"
on that floor over which they had so long been accustomed to pass with him whose fall they now lamented! Party feeling was annihilated; all mourned, and many wept, for the deceased, as if he had been their nearest, dearest friend or relative. A place on the ministerial bench was pointed at from the gallery as that which Mr. Perceval had been used to fill. I am not aware, though he generally sat nearly in the same place, that any precise spot was particularly reserved for him; and on the occasion which it is my object to recall, certainly no such theatrical effort at effect was made. The vacant seat was soon occupied by one of the late right honourable gentleman's colleagues.
Not only was there the abstinence from conversation, which I have noted, but action--the common ordinary motions of gentlemen meeting in assembly were suspended. The benches were filled with unwonted regularity; and their occupants, scarcely venturing on a whisper, and hardly changing their position, seemed almost like breathing statues, while they awaited with awful interest the announcement of what steps the government proposed to take, and what information had been obtained by them respecting the event which had deprived the administration of its chief.
The silence which prevailed was at length broken by the Speaker, who, with an effort at firmness, but in a tone somewhat subdued, pronounced the name of Lord Castlereagh, (the Late Marquis of Londonderry,) who had at that moment presented himself at the bar.
His lordship, in a faltering voice, stated that he was the bearer of a message from the Prince Regent.
"Please to bring it up," was the matter-of-course reply, and his lordship handed the paper to the Chair. It was forthwith read. The Regent expressed his deep regret for the event, which he could never cease to deplore, and recommended to the House to make a provision for the family of Mr. Perceval.
It was then moved that the House should resolve itself into a committee, to take into consideration the message; and that being done, Lord Castlereagh took upon himself the task of addressing the members on the painful subject which they were then to entertain. His lordship spoke with great feeling. A more than official attachment seemed to connect his lordship with the late premier. On an occasion then recent, when the conduct of his lordship had been the subject of grave accusation respecting the disposal of certain seats in that House, Mr. Perceval had defended him with great earnestness and success; and, doing so, his declaration was, "I raise my voice for the man I esteem, and the friend I love."
In the course of his statement, the noble lord had, in connexion with the awful event of the preceding day, to make known the conviction of the ministry, from all the inquiries that had down to that hour been instituted, that the act of Bellingham was perfectly unconnected with any general scheme or conspiracy. Proceeding to speak of the domestic distress it had caused, he said, the children left by Mr. Perceval were twelve in number. "For the widow," he added, "her happiness in this world is closed;" and the painful feelings by which he was oppressed so overpowered him, that he was unable to proceed. He burst into tears, and with strong emotions raised a handkerchief to his eyes, and concealed his face for some moments.
With a knowledge of subsequent events, I cannot but recall this passage of Lord Castlereagh's address, though perfectly appropriate at the time, with a cynical glance,--a something between mirth and sorrow. Looking at the picture drawn of Mrs. Perceval, and remembering that horror at learning the fate of her husband was said to have almost petrified her; that, wild and unconscious, the most fatal effects were anticipated from her excessive woe, till, by the advice of her medical attendants, she was led into the room where the corpse of her lord was lying, when that ghastly spectacle caused her tears to flow, and thus afforded the bursting heart some relief; I cannot recall these things, without connecting with them the news which the fashionable world were destined at no very distant period to receive, that this afflicted and heart-broken lady, the mother of twelve children, had been again led to the altar by a gallant officer much younger than herself. Of the matrimonial discord that followed, I will not speak.
I am not going to copy from the journals of the House the particulars of the grant proposed as a provision for the Perceval family, nor from the papers of the day the debates to which the event gave rise. What I propose to do is, merely to give a few sketches of the attendant circumstances, which may be thought interesting now, but were lost sight of then, from the pressure of matter of greater importance.
Let it then suffice to say that the House cordially approved of the course recommended by the Crown. Mr. Whitbread, who had been one of the most unsparing opponents of the departed premier, was frequently in tears. He bore testimony to the amiable personal character of the late minister. "I never," said he, "carry hostility to those from whom I differ on political questions beyond that door," pointing to the door opening into the lobby: "with that man it was impossible to carry it so far."
It is due to that honourable gentleman to say that this was not a mere _post mortem_ compliment. With the deceased he had often come into collision. Mr. Whitbread was irritable, and was sometimes deeply stung by the sarcasms launched at him by Mr. Perceval. In one debate the latter, having adverted to predictions formerly made by Mr. Whitbread, which had not been borne out by events, and to new ones then hazarded, applied to his assailant the words of Pope,
"Destroyed his web of sophistry in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again."
Mr. Whitbread, nettled at this, spoke to order, and demanded that the words should be taken down. A very brief and simple explanation restored his good humour, and the subject was dropped. On another occasion, not long before Mr. Perceval's death, when some personal altercation had occurred between them, the right honourable gentleman, in explaining away that which had given offence, took occasion to say that among his faults--and he had many--want of respect for the honourable member was not one of them. Mr. Whitbread, in cordially accepting the explanation, replied, that "among all the right honourable gentleman's virtues--and he had many--there was none more to be admired than the promptness with which he could return to friendly conference from the heat of political debate."
There was, indeed, much affability about Mr. Perceval's manner. Many anecdotes of his condescension were published at the time. An instance of his courtesy and good-nature occurs to me which has never appeared in print.
At a grand city feast in Guildhall, the publisher of a fashionable journal having taken wine rather freely, was hoaxed by some mischievous friend with a belief that Mr. Perceval was one of the officers of the hall, and under this impression, wishing to leave for a short time, accosted him with a theatrically pompous air, which the individual (a well-known character at that time among the votaries of the drama,) loved to assume, and said,
"My good fellow, I wish to step into King-street for a moment; you'll take notice of me and let me in again," at the same time offering to slip half-a-crown into the hands of the prime minister. The gift was declined, and Mr. Perceval replied with a smile, "I am sorry it is not in my power to oblige you; but you had better speak to some of those gentlemen," pointing to the marshalmen; "they may be able to do what you wish."
While the good qualities of the deceased were rehearsed, and the consequences of his fate to the government and to the country were discussed, curiosity naturally turned to the cause of the important change. Great was my surprise to learn that the individual was not wholly unknown to me; I was soon reminded of the singular personage who had attracted notice by his manner and his opera-glass in the gallery. That was no other than Bellingham; and two of the gentlemen who had been in the habit of meeting, and perhaps of conversing with him there, were the first who advanced after the dreadful deed to secure him in the lobby.
The remainder of that unhappy man's story is soon told. In the course of a day or two the coroner's inquest returned a verdict of wilful murder, and the grand jury a true bill against him. On the Friday he stood at the bar of the Old Bailey to take his trial. He made a long rambling defence, and occasionally his agony was so great, not for his impending fate, but from recollection of the sufferings of a wife, whom he described with fondness, that it deeply affected all present. It was attempted to prove him insane; but certainly there were no grounds for considering him in that state which the law requires shall be proved to exempt the murderer from capital punishment. He himself opposed that plea. A verdict of Guilty was returned, and on the succeeding Monday the sentence of death was carried into effect. The case was from the first so clear, the evidence so conclusive, that the prisoner was perhaps the only man in England who expected any other result. He seemed to look for an acquittal. With every one else conviction and death were thought inevitable,--indeed so much matters of course, that the following singular announcement, through some slip of the pen, in the _Morning Post_ of Thursday, "The trial will take place to-morrow, the execution on Monday," was hardly viewed as reprehensible, hazardous, or extraordinary; though certainly such a one, but in that single instance, I have never seen. H. T.
EPIGRAM.
"Make _hay_ while the sun shines," cried old Gaffer Grey, When lounging to make with fair Susan _sweet_ hay. "Keep off!" said the maiden, whose brow was o'ercast, "_Your hey-day of life_, pray remember, has past." R. J.
LOVE IN THE CITY.
PREFACE.
In offering the following dramatic production to a discerning public, the author respectfully intimates, that, notwithstanding an accidental similarity in name between this play and one by Mr. William Shakspeare, in plot, language, and situations, the two dramas will be found to differ totally. "_Love in the City_" is of that order generally termed "the Domestic;" and, while the incidents are varied, simple, and common-place, it is to be hoped that the _dénouement_ will be acknowledged singularly striking and effective.
To restore the legitimate drama, whose neglect has been so long and uselessly deplored, has been the author's principal aim; and, in the construction of the play here presented to the world, he trusts that he has eminently succeeded. No German horrors have been employed; the use of thunder and lightning has been dispensed with; not even a dance of demons has been introduced; and, with the exception of reproducing Mr. Clipclose, senior, in the second act, after he had shuffled off this mortal coil, there is not an event in the whole drama, but those of every-day occurrence.
Although "_Love in the City_" has been expressly written for the eminent performers whose names are attached to the _dramatis personæ_, the author will extend a limited privilege of acting to country managers, he receiving a clear half of the gross receipts of their respective houses. Any offer short of this stipulation will remain unattended to. Music-sellers may address proposals for the melodies to Mr. Richard Bentley; and, should my attempt at piracy be detected,--the copyright of the drama being duly entered at Stationers' Hall,--persons thus offending are respectfully informed that they will be subjected to an action at law. THE AUTHOR. Camomile-street, May 1, 1837.
LOVE IN THE CITY; OR, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
A MELODRAMATIC EXTRAVAGANZA, _In Two Acts._
_As it is to be performed at the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, with rapturous applause._
_The words_ not _by Thomas Moore,_ nor _the music by Henry R. Bishop._
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_Captain Connor_,--a gentleman from Ireland, with black whiskers and four wives, six feet two high, a sergeant in the 2nd Life-Guards, in love with Mrs. Clipclose, _cum multis aliis_,--MR. CHARLES KEMBLE (his reappearance on the stage for this occasion only).
_Mr. Robert Clipclose_,--an eminent mercer, of amorous disposition, and in embarrassed circumstances,--MR. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
_Old Clipclose_,--father to Robert, a retired tradesman, afflicted by gout and avarice, with a house at Highgate,--MR. WILLIAM FARREN.
_His Ghost_,--MR. T. P. COOKE.
_Jeremiah Scout_,--in the confidence of Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose, and porter to the establishment,--MR. HARLEY.
_Samuel Snags_, } clerks to Clipclose and Co. and men of fashion, _Matthew Mags, and_ } their names omitted by mistake in the Court _Philip Poppleton_, } Calendar,--MESS. LISTON, VINING, and YATES.
_Timothy O'Toole_,--corporal, 2nd Life-Guards, troop No. 4--MR. TYRONE POWER.
_Benjamin Blowhard_,--trumpeter, same troop,--MR. J. RUSSELL.
_Pieman and All-hot_,--by a POST-CAPTAIN and an ASSISTANT-SURGEON, H.P. R.N. Their first appearance on any stage.
_Policemen A. and S._--by two gentlemen from the country, of great provincial celebrity.
_Mrs. Clipclose_,--lady-like and extravagant, in love with Captain Connor,--MRS. BUTLER, who has kindly promised to come from North America to sustain the character, and is hourly expected, per the "Silas Tomkins, of New York."
_Miss Juliana Smashaway_,--a young lady of great personal attraction and small fortune, in lodgings in Upper Stamford-street, and in love with Captain Connor,--MISS ELLEN TREE.
_Annette_, vulgò _Netty_,--a maid of all work, engaged to Samuel Snags, and in love with Captain Connor,--MADAME VESTRIS.
_Captains Wife_, _No. 1_, --MISS HELEN FAUCIT. _Do._ _No. 2_, --MRS. YATES. _Do._ _No. 3_, --MRS. NISBIT. _Do._ _No. 4_, --MISS VINCENT.
_Kitty_,--lady of the bed-chamber to Miss Smashaway,--MISS MORDAUNT.
Men about town, women ditto, apprentices, guardsmen, police A. 27 and F. 63, attendants, &c. &c. &c. _by eminent performers_.
_Time_, rather indefinite. _Scene_, always within sound of Bow-bell, and chiefly in Ludgate-hill _or_ Upper Stamford-street.