Sketches by Boz

Sketches by Boz

Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-Day People

by Charles Dickens

With Illustrations by George Cruickshank and Phiz

LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, ld. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1903

PREFACE

The whole of these Sketches were written and published, one by one, when I was a very young man. They were collected and republished while I was still a very young man; and sent into the world with all their imperfections (a good many) on their heads.

They comprise my first attempts at authorship—with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, and represented with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I am conscious of their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, and bearing obvious marks of haste and inexperience; particularly in that section of the present volume which is comprised under the general head of Tales.

But as this collection is not originated now, and was very leniently and favourably received when it was first made, I have not felt it right either to remodel or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here and there.

OUR PARISH

CHAPTER I—THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER

How much is conveyed in those two short words—‘The Parish!’ And with how many tales of distress and misery, of broken fortune and ruined hopes, too often of unrelieved wretchedness and successful knavery, are they associated! A poor man, with small earnings, and a large family, just manages to live on from hand to mouth, and to procure food from day to day; he has barely sufficient to satisfy the present cravings of nature, and can take no heed of the future. His taxes are in arrear, quarter-day passes by, another quarter-day arrives: he can procure no more quarter for himself, and is summoned by—the parish. His goods are distrained, his children are crying with cold and hunger, and the very bed on which his sick wife is lying, is dragged from beneath her. What can he do? To whom is he to apply for relief? To private charity? To benevolent individuals? Certainly not—there is his parish. There are the parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish surgeon, the parish officers, the parish beadle. Excellent institutions, and gentle, kind-hearted men. The woman dies—she is buried by the parish. The children have no protector—they are taken care of by the parish. The man first neglects, and afterwards cannot obtain, work—he is relieved by the parish; and when distress and drunkenness have done their work upon him, he is maintained, a harmless babbling idiot, in the parish asylum.

The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps the most, important member of the local administration. He is not so well off as the churchwardens, certainly, nor is he so learned as the vestry-clerk, nor does he order things quite so much his own way as either of them. But his power is very great, notwithstanding; and the dignity of his office is never impaired by the absence of efforts on his part to maintain it. The beadle of our parish is a splendid fellow. It is quite delightful to hear him, as he explains the state of the existing poor laws to the deaf old women in the board-room passage on business nights; and to hear what he said to the senior churchwarden, and what the senior churchwarden said to him; and what ‘we’ (the beadle and the other gentlemen) came to the determination of doing. A miserable-looking woman is called into the boardroom, and represents a case of extreme destitution, affecting herself—a widow, with six small children. ‘Where do you live?’ inquires one of the overseers. ‘I rents a two-pair back, gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown’s, Number 3, Little King William’s-alley, which has lived there this fifteen year, and knows me to be very hard-working and industrious, and when my poor husband was alive, gentlemen, as died in the hospital’—‘Well, well,’ interrupts the overseer, taking a note of the address, ‘I’ll send Simmons, the beadle, to-morrow morning, to ascertain whether your story is correct; and if so, I suppose you must have an order into the House—Simmons, go to this woman’s the first thing to-morrow morning, will you?’ Simmons bows assent, and ushers the woman out. Her previous admiration of ‘the board’ (who all sit behind great books, and with their hats on) fades into nothing before her respect for her lace-trimmed conductor; and her account of what has passed inside, increases—if that be possible—the marks of respect, shown by the assembled crowd, to that solemn functionary. As to taking out a summons, it’s quite a hopeless case if Simmons attends it, on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of the Lord Mayor by heart; states the case without a single stammer: and it is even reported that on one occasion he ventured to make a joke, which the Lord Mayor’s head footman (who happened to be present) afterwards told an intimate friend, confidentially, was almost equal to one of Mr. Hobler’s.

See him again on Sunday in his state-coat and cocked-hat, with a large-headed staff for show in his left hand, and a small cane for use in his right. How pompously he marshals the children into their places! and how demurely the little urchins look at him askance as he surveys them when they are all seated, with a glare of the eye peculiar to beadles! The churchwardens and overseers being duly installed in their curtained pews, he seats himself on a mahogany bracket, erected expressly for him at the top of the aisle, and divides his attention between his prayer-book and the boys. Suddenly, just at the commencement of the communion service, when the whole congregation is hushed into a profound silence, broken only by the voice of the officiating clergyman, a penny is heard to ring on the stone floor of the aisle with astounding clearness. Observe the generalship of the beadle. His involuntary look of horror is instantly changed into one of perfect indifference, as if he were the only person present who had not heard the noise. The artifice succeeds. After putting forth his right leg now and then, as a feeler, the victim who dropped the money ventures to make one or two distinct dives after it; and the beadle, gliding softly round, salutes his little round head, when it again appears above the seat, with divers double knocks, administered with the cane before noticed, to the intense delight of three young men in an adjacent pew, who cough violently at intervals until the conclusion of the sermon.

Such are a few traits of the importance and gravity of a parish beadle—a gravity which has never been disturbed in any case that has come under our observation, except when the services of that particularly useful machine, a parish fire-engine, are required: then indeed all is bustle. Two little boys run to the beadle as fast as their legs will carry them, and report from their own personal observation that some neighbouring chimney is on fire; the engine is hastily got out, and a plentiful supply of boys being obtained, and harnessed to it with ropes, away they rattle over the pavement, the beadle, running—we do not exaggerate—running at the side, until they arrive at some house, smelling strongly of soot, at the door of which the beadle knocks with considerable gravity for half-an-hour. No attention being paid to these manual applications, and the turn-cock having turned on the water, the engine turns off amidst the shouts of the boys; it pulls up once more at the work-house, and the beadle ‘pulls up’ the unfortunate householder next day, for the amount of his legal reward. We never saw a parish engine at a regular fire but once. It came up in gallant style—three miles and a half an hour, at least; there was a capital supply of water, and it was first on the spot. Bang went the pumps—the people cheered—the beadle perspired profusely; but it was unfortunately discovered, just as they were going to put the fire out, that nobody understood the process by which the engine was filled with water; and that eighteen boys, and a man, had exhausted themselves in pumping for twenty minutes, without producing the slightest effect!

The personages next in importance to the beadle, are the master of the workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. The vestry-clerk, as everybody knows, is a short, pudgy little man, in black, with a thick gold watch-chain of considerable length, terminating in two large seals and a key. He is an attorney, and generally in a bustle; at no time more so, than when he is hurrying to some parochial meeting, with his gloves crumpled up in one hand, and a large red book under the other arm. As to the churchwardens and overseers, we exclude them altogether, because all we know of them is, that they are usually respectable tradesmen, who wear hats with brims inclined to flatness, and who occasionally testify in gilt letters on a blue ground, in some conspicuous part of the church, to the important fact of a gallery having being enlarged and beautified, or an organ rebuilt.

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish—nor is he usually in any other—one of that class of men the better part of whose existence has passed away, and who drag out the remainder in some inferior situation, with just enough thought of the past, to feel degraded by, and discontented with the present. We are unable to guess precisely to our own satisfaction what station the man can have occupied before; we should think he had been an inferior sort of attorney’s clerk, or else the master of a national school—whatever he was, it is clear his present position is a change for the better. His income is small certainly, as the rusty black coat and threadbare velvet collar demonstrate: but then he lives free of house-rent, has a limited allowance of coals and candles, and an almost unlimited allowance of authority in his petty kingdom. He is a tall, thin, bony man; always wears shoes and black cotton stockings with his surtout; and eyes you, as you pass his parlour-window, as if he wished you were a pauper, just to give you a specimen of his power. He is an admirable specimen of a small tyrant: morose, brutish, and ill-tempered; bullying to his inferiors, cringing to his superiors, and jealous of the influence and authority of the beadle.

Our schoolmaster is just the very reverse of this amiable official. He has been one of those men one occasionally hears of, on whom misfortune seems to have set her mark; nothing he ever did, or was concerned in, appears to have prospered. A rich old relation who had brought him up, and openly announced his intention of providing for him, left him 10,000_l._ in his will, and revoked the bequest in a codicil. Thus unexpectedly reduced to the necessity of providing for himself, he procured a situation in a public office. The young clerks below him, died off as if there were a plague among them; but the old fellows over his head, for the reversion of whose places he was anxiously waiting, lived on and on, as if they were immortal. He speculated and lost. He speculated again and won—but never got his money. His talents were great; his disposition, easy, generous and liberal. His friends profited by the one, and abused the other. Loss succeeded loss; misfortune crowded on misfortune; each successive day brought him nearer the verge of hopeless penury, and the quondam friends who had been warmest in their professions, grew strangely cold and indifferent. He had children whom he loved, and a wife on whom he doted. The former turned their backs on him; the latter died broken-hearted. He went with the stream—it had ever been his failing, and he had not courage sufficient to bear up against so many shocks—he had never cared for himself, and the only being who had cared for him, in his poverty and distress, was spared to him no longer. It was at this period that he applied for parochial relief. Some kind-hearted man who had known him in happier times, chanced to be churchwarden that year, and through his interest he was appointed to his present situation.

He is an old man now. Of the many who once crowded round him in all the hollow friendship of boon-companionship, some have died, some have fallen like himself, some have prospered—all have forgotten him. Time and misfortune have mercifully been permitted to impair his memory, and use has habituated him to his present condition. Meek, uncomplaining, and zealous in the discharge of his duties, he has been allowed to hold his situation long beyond the usual period; and he will no doubt continue to hold it, until infirmity renders him incapable, or death releases him. As the grey-headed old man feebly paces up and down the sunny side of the little court-yard between school hours, it would be difficult, indeed, for the most intimate of his former friends to recognise their once gay and happy associate, in the person of the Pauper Schoolmaster.

CHAPTER II—THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN

We commenced our last chapter with the beadle of our parish, because we are deeply sensible of the importance and dignity of his office. We will begin the present, with the clergyman. Our curate is a young gentleman of such prepossessing appearance, and fascinating manners, that within one month after his first appearance in the parish, half the young-lady inhabitants were melancholy with religion, and the other half, desponding with love. Never were so many young ladies seen in our parish church on Sunday before; and never had the little round angels’ faces on Mr. Tomkins’s monument in the side aisle, beheld such devotion on earth as they all exhibited. He was about five-and-twenty when he first came to astonish the parishioners. He parted his hair on the centre of his forehead in the form of a Norman arch, wore a brilliant of the first water on the fourth finger of his left hand (which he always applied to his left cheek when he read prayers), and had a deep sepulchral voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable were the calls made by prudent mammas on our new curate, and innumerable the invitations with which he was assailed, and which, to do him justice, he readily accepted. If his manner in the pulpit had created an impression in his favour, the sensation was increased tenfold, by his appearance in private circles. Pews in the immediate vicinity of the pulpit or reading-desk rose in value; sittings in the centre aisle were at a premium: an inch of room in the front row of the gallery could not be procured for love or money; and some people even went so far as to assert, that the three Miss Browns, who had an obscure family pew just behind the churchwardens’, were detected, one Sunday, in the free seats by the communion-table, actually lying in wait for the curate as he passed to the vestry! He began to preach extempore sermons, and even grave papas caught the infection. He got out of bed at half-past twelve o’clock one winter’s night, to half-baptise a washerwoman’s child in a slop-basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners knew no bounds—the very churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on the parish defraying the expense of the watch-box on wheels, which the new curate had ordered for himself, to perform the funeral service in, in wet weather. He sent three pints of gruel and a quarter of a pound of tea to a poor woman who had been brought to bed of four small children, all at once—the parish were charmed. He got up a subscription for her—the woman’s fortune was made. He spoke for one hour and twenty-five minutes, at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots—the enthusiasm was at its height. A proposal was set on foot for presenting the curate with a piece of plate, as a mark of esteem for his valuable services rendered to the parish. The list of subscriptions was filled up in no time; the contest was, not who should escape the contribution, but who should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver inkstand was made, and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate was invited to a public breakfast, at the before-mentioned Goat and Boots; the inkstand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. Gubbins, the ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which drew tears into the eyes of all present—the very waiters were melted.

One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme of universal admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle of popularity. No such thing. The curate began to cough; four fits of coughing one morning between the Litany and the Epistle, and five in the afternoon service. Here was a discovery—the curate was consumptive. How interestingly melancholy! If the young ladies were energetic before, their sympathy and solicitude now knew no bounds. Such a man as the curate—such a dear—such a perfect love—to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous presents of black-currant jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom friends, and warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was as completely fitted out with winter clothing, as if he were on the verge of an expedition to the North Pole: verbal bulletins of the state of his health were circulated throughout the parish half-a-dozen times a day; and the curate was in the very zenith of his popularity.

About this period, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A very quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had officiated in our chapel-of-ease for twelve years previously, died one fine morning, without having given any notice whatever of his intention. This circumstance gave rise to counter-sensation the first; and the arrival of his successor occasioned counter-sensation the second. He was a pale, thin, cadaverous man, with large black eyes, and long straggling black hair: his dress was slovenly in the extreme, his manner ungainly, his doctrines startling; in short, he was in every respect the antipodes of the curate. Crowds of our female parishioners flocked to hear him; at first, because he was so odd-looking, then because his face was so expressive, then because he preached so well; and at last, because they really thought that, after all, there was something about him which it was quite impossible to describe. As to the curate, he was all very well; but certainly, after all, there was no denying that—that—in short, the curate wasn’t a novelty, and the other clergyman was. The inconstancy of public opinion is proverbial: the congregation migrated one by one. The curate coughed till he was black in the face—it was in vain. He respired with difficulty—it was equally ineffectual in awakening sympathy. Seats are once again to be had in any part of our parish church, and the chapel-of-ease is going to be enlarged, as it is crowded to suffocation every Sunday!

The best known and most respected among our parishioners, is an old lady, who resided in our parish long before our name was registered in the list of baptisms. Our parish is a suburban one, and the old lady lives in a neat row of houses in the most airy and pleasant part of it. The house is her own; and it, and everything about it, except the old lady herself, who looks a little older than she did ten years ago, is in just the same state as when the old gentleman was living. The little front parlour, which is the old lady’s ordinary sitting-room, is a perfect picture of quiet neatness; the carpet is covered with brown Holland, the glass and picture-frames are carefully enveloped in yellow muslin; the table-covers are never taken off, except when the leaves are turpentined and bees’-waxed, an operation which is regularly commenced every other morning at half-past nine o’clock—and the little nicknacks are always arranged in precisely the same manner. The greater part of these are presents from little girls whose parents live in the same row; but some of them, such as the two old-fashioned watches (which never keep the same time, one being always a quarter of an hour too slow, and the other a quarter of an hour too fast), the little picture of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold as they appeared in the Royal Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others of the same class, have been in the old lady’s possession for many years. Here the old lady sits with her spectacles on, busily engaged in needlework—near the window in summer time; and if she sees you coming up the steps, and you happen to be a favourite, she trots out to open the street-door for you before you knock, and as you must be fatigued after that hot walk, insists on your swallowing two glasses of sherry before you exert yourself by talking. If you call in the evening you will find her cheerful, but rather more serious than usual, with an open Bible on the table, before her, of which ‘Sarah,’ who is just as neat and methodical as her mistress, regularly reads two or three chapters in the parlour aloud.

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the little girls before noticed, each of whom has always a regular fixed day for a periodical tea-drinking with her, to which the child looks forward as the greatest treat of its existence. She seldom visits at a greater distance than the next door but one on either side; and when she drinks tea here, Sarah runs out first and knocks a double-knock, to prevent the possibility of her ‘Missis’s’ catching cold by having to wait at the door. She is very scrupulous in returning these little invitations, and when she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and the best china tea-service, and the Pope Joan board; and the visitors are received in the drawing-room in great state. She has but few relations, and they are scattered about in different parts of the country, and she seldom sees them. She has a son in India, whom she always describes to you as a fine, handsome fellow—so like the profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard, but the old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the head, that he has always been one of her greatest trials; and that indeed he once almost broke her heart; but it pleased God to enable her to get the better of it, and she would prefer your never mentioning the subject to her again. She has a great number of pensioners: and on Saturday, after she comes back from market, there is a regular levee of old men and women in the passage, waiting for their weekly gratuity. Her name always heads the list of any benevolent subscriptions, and hers are always the most liberal donations to the Winter Coal and Soup Distribution Society. She subscribed twenty pounds towards the erection of an organ in our parish church, and was so overcome the first Sunday the children sang to it, that she was obliged to be carried out by the pew-opener. Her entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for a little bustle in the side aisle, occasioned by a general rise among the poor people, who bow and curtsey until the pew-opener has ushered the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respectful curtsey, and shut the door: and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving church, when she walks home with the family next door but one, and talks about the sermon all the way, invariably opening the conversation by asking the youngest boy where the text was.

Thus, with the annual variation of a trip to some quiet place on the sea-coast, passes the old lady’s life. It has rolled on in the same unvarying and benevolent course for many years now, and must at no distant period be brought to its final close. She looks forward to its termination, with calmness and without apprehension. She has everything to hope and nothing to fear.

A very different personage, but one who has rendered himself very conspicuous in our parish, is one of the old lady’s next-door neighbours. He is an old naval officer on half-pay, and his bluff and unceremonious behaviour disturbs the old lady’s domestic economy, not a little. In the first place, he will smoke cigars in the front court, and when he wants something to drink with them—which is by no means an uncommon circumstance—he lifts up the old lady’s knocker with his walking-stick, and demands to have a glass of table ale, handed over the rails. In addition to this cool proceeding, he is a bit of a Jack of all trades, or to use his own words, ‘a regular Robinson Crusoe;’ and nothing delights him better than to experimentalise on the old lady’s property. One morning he got up early, and planted three or four roots of full-grown marigolds in every bed of her front garden, to the inconceivable astonishment of the old lady, who actually thought when she got up and looked out of the window, that it was some strange eruption which had come out in the night. Another time he took to pieces the eight-day clock on the front landing, under pretence of cleaning the works, which he put together again, by some undiscovered process, in so wonderful a manner, that the large hand has done nothing but trip up the little one ever since. Then he took to breeding silk-worms, which he would bring in two or three times a day, in little paper boxes, to show the old lady, generally dropping a worm or two at every visit. The consequence was, that one morning a very stout silk-worm was discovered in the act of walking up-stairs—probably with the view of inquiring after his friends, for, on further inspection, it appeared that some of his companions had already found their way to every room in the house. The old lady went to the seaside in despair, and during her absence he completely effaced the name from her brass door-plate, in his attempts to polish it with aqua-fortis.

But all this is nothing to his seditious conduct in public life. He attends every vestry meeting that is held; always opposes the constituted authorities of the parish, denounces the profligacy of the churchwardens, contests legal points against the vestry-clerk, will make the tax-gatherer call for his money till he won’t call any longer, and then he sends it: finds fault with the sermon every Sunday, says that the organist ought to be ashamed of himself, offers to back himself for any amount to sing the psalms better than all the children put together, male and female; and, in short, conducts himself in the most turbulent and uproarious manner. The worst of it is, that having a high regard for the old lady, he wants to make her a convert to his views, and therefore walks into her little parlour with his newspaper in his hand, and talks violent politics by the hour. He is a charitable, open-hearted old fellow at bottom, after all; so, although he puts the old lady a little out occasionally, they agree very well in the main, and she laughs as much at each feat of his handiwork when it is all over, as anybody else.

CHAPTER III—THE FOUR SISTERS

The row of houses in which the old lady and her troublesome neighbour reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, a greater number of characters within its circumscribed limits, than all the rest of the parish put together. As we cannot, consistently with our present plan, however, extend the number of our parochial sketches beyond six, it will be better perhaps, to select the most peculiar, and to introduce them at once without further preface.

The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish thirteen years ago. It is a melancholy reflection that the old adage, ‘time and tide wait for no man,’ applies with equal force to the fairer portion of the creation; and willingly would we conceal the fact, that even thirteen years ago the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. Our duty as faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is paramount to every other consideration, and we are bound to state, that thirteen years since, the authorities in matrimonial cases, considered the youngest Miss Willis in a very precarious state, while the eldest sister was positively given over, as being far beyond all human hope. Well, the Miss Willises took a lease of the house; it was fresh painted and papered from top to bottom: the paint inside was all wainscoted, the marble all cleaned, the old grates taken down, and register-stoves, you could see to dress by, put up; four trees were planted in the back garden, several small baskets of gravel sprinkled over the front one, vans of elegant furniture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the windows, carpenters who had been employed in the various preparations, alterations, and repairs, made confidential statements to the different maid-servants in the row, relative to the magnificent scale on which the Miss Willises were commencing; the maid-servants told their ‘Missises,’ the Missises told their friends, and vague rumours were circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in Gordon-place, had been taken by four maiden ladies of immense property.

At last, the Miss Willises moved in; and then the ‘calling’ began. The house was the perfection of neatness—so were the four Miss Willises. Everything was formal, stiff, and cold—so were the four Miss Willises. Not a single chair of the whole set was ever seen out of its place—not a single Miss Willis of the whole four was ever seen out of hers. There they always sat, in the same places, doing precisely the same things at the same hour. The eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the second to draw, the two others to play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no separate existence, but to have made up their minds just to winter through life together. They were three long graces in drapery, with the addition, like a school-dinner, of another long grace afterwards—the three fates with another sister—the Siamese twins multiplied by two. The eldest Miss Willis grew bilious—the four Miss Willises grew bilious immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew ill-tempered and religious—the four Miss Willises were ill-tempered and religious directly. Whatever the eldest did, the others did, and whatever anybody else did, they all disapproved of; and thus they vegetated—living in Polar harmony among themselves, and, as they sometimes went out, or saw company ‘in a quiet-way’ at home, occasionally icing the neighbours. Three years passed over in this way, when an unlooked for and extraordinary phenomenon occurred. The Miss Willises showed symptoms of summer, the frost gradually broke up; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible? one of the four Miss Willises was going to be married!

Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what feelings the poor man could have been actuated, or by what process of reasoning the four Miss Willises succeeded in persuading themselves that it was possible for a man to marry one of them, without marrying them all, are questions too profound for us to resolve: certain it is, however, that the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman in a public office, with a good salary and a little property of his own, besides) were received—that the four Miss Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr Robinson—that the neighbours were perfectly frantic in their anxiety to discover which of the four Miss Willises was the fortunate fair, and that the difficulty they experienced in solving the problem was not at all lessened by the announcement of the eldest Miss Willis,—‘We are going to marry Mr. Robinson.’

It was very extraordinary. They were so completely identified, the one with the other, that the curiosity of the whole row—even of the old lady herself—was roused almost beyond endurance. The subject was discussed at every little card-table and tea-drinking. The old gentleman of silk-worm notoriety did not hesitate to express his decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern descent, and contemplated marrying the whole family at once; and the row, generally, shook their heads with considerable gravity, and declared the business to be very mysterious. They hoped it might all end well;—it certainly had a very singular appearance, but still it would be uncharitable to express any opinion without good grounds to go upon, and certainly the Miss Willises were quite old enough to judge for themselves, and to be sure people ought to know their own business best, and so forth.

At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o’clock, a.m., two glass-coaches drove up to the Miss Willises’ door, at which Mr. Robinson had arrived in a cab ten minutes before, dressed in a light-blue coat and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white neckerchief, pumps, and dress-gloves, his manner denoting, as appeared from the evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, who was sweeping the door-steps at the time, a considerable degree of nervous excitement. It was also hastily reported on the same testimony, that the cook who opened the door, wore a large white bow of unusual dimensions, in a much smarter head-dress than the regulation cap to which the Miss Willises invariably restricted the somewhat excursive tastes of female servants in general.

The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. It was quite clear that the eventful morning had at length arrived; the whole row stationed themselves behind their first and second floor blinds, and waited the result in breathless expectation.

At last the Miss Willises’ door opened; the door of the first glass-coach did the same. Two gentlemen, and a pair of ladies to correspond—friends of the family, no doubt; up went the steps, bang went the door, off went the first class-coach, and up came the second.

The street door opened again; the excitement of the whole row increased—Mr. Robinson and the eldest Miss Willis. ‘I thought so,’ said the lady at No. 19; ‘I always said it was Miss Willis!’—‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady at No. 17.—‘Did you ever, dear!’ responded the young lady at No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. ‘It’s too ridiculous!’ exclaimed a spinster of an _un_certain age, at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall portray the astonishment of Gordon-place, when Mr. Robinson handed in all the Miss Willises, one after the other, and then squeezed himself into an acute angle of the glass-coach, which forthwith proceeded at a brisk pace, after the other glass-coach, which other glass-coach had itself proceeded, at a brisk pace, in the direction of the parish church! Who shall depict the perplexity of the clergyman, when all the Miss Willises knelt down at the communion-table, and repeated the responses incidental to the marriage service in an audible voice—or who shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when—even after the difficulties thus occasioned had been adjusted—all the Miss Willises went into hysterics at the conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred edifice resounded with their united wailings!

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to occupy the same house after this memorable occasion, and as the married sister, whoever she was, never appeared in public without the other three, we are not quite clear that the neighbours ever would have discovered the real Mrs. Robinson, but for a circumstance of the most gratifying description, which will happen occasionally in the best-regulated families. Three quarter-days elapsed, and the row, on whom a new light appeared to have been bursting for some time, began to speak with a sort of implied confidence on the subject, and to wonder how Mrs. Robinson—the youngest Miss Willis that was—got on; and servants might be seen running up the steps, about nine or ten o’clock every morning, with ‘Missis’s compliments, and wishes to know how Mrs. Robinson finds herself this morning?’ And the answer always was, ‘Mrs. Robinson’s compliments, and she’s in very good spirits, and doesn’t find herself any worse.’ The piano was heard no longer, the knitting-needles were laid aside, drawing was neglected, and mantua-making and millinery, on the smallest scale imaginable, appeared to have become the favourite amusement of the whole family. The parlour wasn’t quite as tidy as it used to be, and if you called in the morning, you would see lying on a table, with an old newspaper carelessly thrown over them, two or three particularly small caps, rather larger than if they had been made for a moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the shape of a horse-shoe, let in behind: or perhaps a white robe, not very large in circumference, but very much out of proportion in point of length, with a little tucker round the top, and a frill round the bottom; and once when we called, we saw a long white roller, with a kind of blue margin down each side, the probable use of which, we were at a loss to conjecture. Then we fancied that Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who displays a large lamp with a different colour in every pane of glass, at the corner of the row, began to be knocked up at night oftener than he used to be; and once we were very much alarmed by hearing a hackney-coach stop at Mrs. Robinson’s door, at half-past two o’clock in the morning, out of which there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and night-cap, with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the other, who looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for some very special purpose.

When we got up in the morning we saw that the knocker was tied up in an old white kid glove; and we, in our innocence (we were in a state of bachelorship then), wondered what on earth it all meant, until we heard the eldest Miss Willis, in propriâ personâ say, with great dignity, in answer to the next inquiry, ‘My compliments, and Mrs. Robinson’s doing as well as can be expected, and the little girl thrives wonderfully.’ And then, in common with the rest of the row, our curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had never occurred to us what the matter was, before.

CHAPTER IV—THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

A great event has recently occurred in our parish. A contest of paramount interest has just terminated; a parochial convulsion has taken place. It has been succeeded by a glorious triumph, which the country—or at least the parish—it is all the same—will long remember. We have had an election; an election for beadle. The supporters of the old beadle system have been defeated in their stronghold, and the advocates of the great new beadle principles have achieved a proud victory.

Our parish, which, like all other parishes, is a little world of its own, has long been divided into two parties, whose contentions, slumbering for a while, have never failed to burst forth with unabated vigour, on any occasion on which they could by possibility be renewed. Watching-rates, lighting-rates, paving-rates, sewer’s-rates, church-rates, poor’s-rates—all sorts of rates, have been in their turns the subjects of a grand struggle; and as to questions of patronage, the asperity and determination with which they have been contested is scarcely credible.

The leader of the official party—the steady advocate of the churchwardens, and the unflinching supporter of the overseers—is an old gentleman who lives in our row. He owns some half a dozen houses in it, and always walks on the opposite side of the way, so that he may be able to take in a view of the whole of his property at once. He is a tall, thin, bony man, with an interrogative nose, and little restless perking eyes, which appear to have been given him for the sole purpose of peeping into other people’s affairs with. He is deeply impressed with the importance of our parish business, and prides himself, not a little, on his style of addressing the parishioners in vestry assembled. His views are rather confined than extensive; his principles more narrow than liberal. He has been heard to declaim very loudly in favour of the liberty of the press, and advocates the repeal of the stamp duty on newspapers, because the daily journals who now have a monopoly of the public, never give verbatim reports of vestry meetings. He would not appear egotistical for the world, but at the same time he must say, that there are speeches—that celebrated speech of his own, on the emoluments of the sexton, and the duties of the office, for instance—which might be communicated to the public, greatly to their improvement and advantage.

His great opponent in public life is Captain Purday, the old naval officer on half-pay, to whom we have already introduced our readers. The captain being a determined opponent of the constituted authorities, whoever they may chance to be, and our other friend being their steady supporter, with an equal disregard of their individual merits, it will readily be supposed, that occasions for their coming into direct collision are neither few nor far between. They divided the vestry fourteen times on a motion for heating the church with warm water instead of coals: and made speeches about liberty and expenditure, and prodigality and hot water, which threw the whole parish into a state of excitement. Then the captain, when he was on the visiting committee, and his opponent overseer, brought forward certain distinct and specific charges relative to the management of the workhouse, boldly expressed his total want of confidence in the existing authorities, and moved for ‘a copy of the recipe by which the paupers’ soup was prepared, together with any documents relating thereto.’ This the overseer steadily resisted; he fortified himself by precedent, appealed to the established usage, and declined to produce the papers, on the ground of the injury that would be done to the public service, if documents of a strictly private nature, passing between the master of the workhouse and the cook, were to be thus dragged to light on the motion of any individual member of the vestry. The motion was lost by a majority of two; and then the captain, who never allows himself to be defeated, moved for a committee of inquiry into the whole subject. The affair grew serious: the question was discussed at meeting after meeting, and vestry after vestry; speeches were made, attacks repudiated, personal defiances exchanged, explanations received, and the greatest excitement prevailed, until at last, just as the question was going to be finally decided, the vestry found that somehow or other, they had become entangled in a point of form, from which it was impossible to escape with propriety. So, the motion was dropped, and everybody looked extremely important, and seemed quite satisfied with the meritorious nature of the whole proceeding.

This was the state of affairs in our parish a week or two since, when Simmons, the beadle, suddenly died. The lamented deceased had over-exerted himself, a day or two previously, in conveying an aged female, highly intoxicated, to the strong room of the work-house. The excitement thus occasioned, added to a severe cold, which this indefatigable officer had caught in his capacity of director of the parish engine, by inadvertently playing over himself instead of a fire, proved too much for a constitution already enfeebled by age; and the intelligence was conveyed to the Board one evening that Simmons had died, and left his respects.

The breath was scarcely out of the body of the deceased functionary, when the field was filled with competitors for the vacant office, each of whom rested his claims to public support, entirely on the number and extent of his family, as if the office of beadle were originally instituted as an encouragement for the propagation of the human species. ‘Bung for Beadle. Five small children!’—‘Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small children!!’—‘Timkins for Beadle. Nine small children!!!’ Such were the placards in large black letters on a white ground, which were plentifully pasted on the walls, and posted in the windows of the principal shops. Timkins’s success was considered certain: several mothers of families half promised their votes, and the nine small children would have run over the course, but for the production of another placard, announcing the appearance of a still more meritorious candidate. ‘Spruggins for Beadle. Ten small children (two of them twins), and a wife!!!’ There was no resisting this; ten small children would have been almost irresistible in themselves, without the twins, but the touching parenthesis about that interesting production of nature, and the still more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must ensure success. Spruggins was the favourite at once, and the appearance of his lady, as she went about to solicit votes (which encouraged confident hopes of a still further addition to the house of Spruggins at no remote period), increased the general prepossession in his favour. The other candidates, Bung alone excepted, resigned in despair. The day of election was fixed; and the canvass proceeded with briskness and perseverance on both sides.

The members of the vestry could not be supposed to escape the contagious excitement inseparable from the occasion. The majority of the lady inhabitants of the parish declared at once for Spruggins; and the quondam overseer took the same side, on the ground that men with large families always had been elected to the office, and that although he must admit, that, in other respects, Spruggins was the least qualified candidate of the two, still it was an old practice, and he saw no reason why an old practice should be departed from. This was enough for the captain. He immediately sided with Bung, canvassed for him personally in all directions, wrote squibs on Spruggins, and got his butcher to skewer them up on conspicuous joints in his shop-front; frightened his neighbour, the old lady, into a palpitation of the heart, by his awful denunciations of Spruggins’s party; and bounced in and out, and up and down, and backwards and forwards, until all the sober inhabitants of the parish thought it inevitable that he must die of a brain fever, long before the election began.

The day of election arrived. It was no longer an individual struggle, but a party contest between the ins and outs. The question was, whether the withering influence of the overseers, the domination of the churchwardens, and the blighting despotism of the vestry-clerk, should be allowed to render the election of beadle a form—a nullity: whether they should impose a vestry-elected beadle on the parish, to do their bidding and forward their views, or whether the parishioners, fearlessly asserting their undoubted rights, should elect an independent beadle of their own.

The nomination was fixed to take place in the vestry, but so great was the throng of anxious spectators, that it was found necessary to adjourn to the church, where the ceremony commenced with due solemnity. The appearance of the churchwardens and overseers, and the ex-churchwardens and ex-overseers, with Spruggins in the rear, excited general attention. Spruggins was a little thin man, in rusty black, with a long pale face, and a countenance expressive of care and fatigue, which might either be attributed to the extent of his family or the anxiety of his feelings. His opponent appeared in a cast-off coat of the captain’s—a blue coat with bright buttons; white trousers, and that description of shoes familiarly known by the appellation of ‘high-lows.’ There was a serenity in the open countenance of Bung—a kind of moral dignity in his confident air—an ‘I wish you may get it’ sort of expression in his eye—which infused animation into his supporters, and evidently dispirited his opponents.

The ex-churchwarden rose to propose Thomas Spruggins for beadle. He had known him long. He had had his eye upon him closely for years; he had watched him with twofold vigilance for months. (A parishioner here suggested that this might be termed ‘taking a double sight,’ but the observation was drowned in loud cries of ‘Order!’) He would repeat that he had had his eye upon him for years, and this he would say, that a more well-conducted, a more well-behaved, a more sober, a more quiet man, with a more well-regulated mind, he had never met with. A man with a larger family he had never known (cheers). The parish required a man who could be depended on (‘Hear!’ from the Spruggins side, answered by ironical cheers from the Bung party). Such a man he now proposed (‘No,’ ‘Yes’). He would not allude to individuals (the ex-churchwarden continued, in the celebrated negative style adopted by great speakers). He would not advert to a gentleman who had once held a high rank in the service of his majesty; he would not say, that that gentleman was no gentleman; he would not assert, that that man was no man; he would not say, that he was a turbulent parishioner; he would not say, that he had grossly misbehaved himself, not only on this, but on all former occasions; he would not say, that he was one of those discontented and treasonable spirits, who carried confusion and disorder wherever they went; he would not say, that he harboured in his heart envy, and hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness. No! He wished to have everything comfortable and pleasant, and therefore, he would say—nothing about him (cheers).

The captain replied in a similar parliamentary style. He would not say, he was astonished at the speech they had just heard; he would not say, he was disgusted (cheers). He would not retort the epithets which had been hurled against him (renewed cheering); he would not allude to men once in office, but now happily out of it, who had mismanaged the workhouse, ground the paupers, diluted the beer, slack-baked the bread, boned the meat, heightened the work, and lowered the soup (tremendous cheers). He would not ask what such men deserved (a voice, ‘Nothing a-day, and find themselves!’). He would not say, that one burst of general indignation should drive them from the parish they polluted with their presence (‘Give it him!’). He would not allude to the unfortunate man who had been proposed—he would not say, as the vestry’s tool, but as Beadle. He would not advert to that individual’s family; he would not say, that nine children, twins, and a wife, were very bad examples for pauper imitation (loud cheers). He would not advert in detail to the qualifications of Bung. The man stood before him, and he would not say in his presence, what he might be disposed to say of him, if he were absent. (Here Mr. Bung telegraphed to a friend near him, under cover of his hat, by contracting his left eye, and applying his right thumb to the tip of his nose). It had been objected to Bung that he had only five children (‘Hear, hear!’ from the opposition). Well; he had yet to learn that the legislature had affixed any precise amount of infantine qualification to the office of beadle; but taking it for granted that an extensive family were a great requisite, he entreated them to look to facts, and compare data, about which there could be no mistake. Bung was 35 years of age. Spruggins—of whom he wished to speak with all possible respect—was 50. Was it not more than possible—was it not very probable—that by the time Bung attained the latter age, he might see around him a family, even exceeding in number and extent, that to which Spruggins at present laid claim (deafening cheers and waving of handkerchiefs)? The captain concluded, amidst loud applause, by calling upon the parishioners to sound the tocsin, rush to the poll, free themselves from dictation, or be slaves for ever.

On the following day the polling began, and we never have had such a bustle in our parish since we got up our famous anti-slavery petition, which was such an important one, that the House of Commons ordered it to be printed, on the motion of the member for the district. The captain engaged two hackney-coaches and a cab for Bung’s people—the cab for the drunken voters, and the two coaches for the old ladies, the greater portion of whom, owing to the captain’s impetuosity, were driven up to the poll and home again, before they recovered from their flurry sufficiently to know, with any degree of clearness, what they had been doing. The opposite party wholly neglected these precautions, and the consequence was, that a great many ladies who were walking leisurely up to the church—for it was a very hot day—to vote for Spruggins, were artfully decoyed into the coaches, and voted for Bung. The captain’s arguments, too, had produced considerable effect: the attempted influence of the vestry produced a greater. A threat of exclusive dealing was clearly established against the vestry-clerk—a case of heartless and profligate atrocity. It appeared that the delinquent had been in the habit of purchasing six penn’orth of muffins, weekly, from an old woman who rents a small house in the parish, and resides among the original settlers; on her last weekly visit, a message was conveyed to her through the medium of the cook, couched in mysterious terms, but indicating with sufficient clearness, that the vestry-clerk’s appetite for muffins, in future, depended entirely on her vote on the beadleship. This was sufficient: the stream had been turning previously, and the impulse thus administered directed its final course. The Bung party ordered one shilling’s-worth of muffins weekly for the remainder of the old woman’s natural life; the parishioners were loud in their exclamations; and the fate of Spruggins was sealed.

It was in vain that the twins were exhibited in dresses of the same pattern, and night-caps, to match, at the church door: the boy in Mrs. Spruggins’s right arm, and the girl in her left—even Mrs. Spruggins herself failed to be an object of sympathy any longer. The majority attained by Bung on the gross poll was four hundred and twenty-eight, and the cause of the parishioners triumphed.

CHAPTER V—THE BROKER’S MAN

The excitement of the late election has subsided, and our parish being once again restored to a state of comparative tranquillity, we are enabled to devote our attention to those parishioners who take little share in our party contests or in the turmoil and bustle of public life. And we feel sincere pleasure in acknowledging here, that in collecting materials for this task we have been greatly assisted by Mr. Bung himself, who has imposed on us a debt of obligation which we fear we can never repay. The life of this gentleman has been one of a very chequered description: he has undergone transitions—not from grave to gay, for he never was grave—not from lively to severe, for severity forms no part of his disposition; his fluctuations have been between poverty in the extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own emphatic language, ‘between nothing to eat and just half enough.’ He is not, as he forcibly remarks, ‘one of those fortunate men who, if they were to dive under one side of a barge stark-naked, would come up on the other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for soup in the waistcoat-pocket:’ neither is he one of those, whose spirit has been broken beyond redemption by misfortune and want. He is just one of the careless, good-for-nothing, happy fellows, who float, cork-like, on the surface, for the world to play at hockey with: knocked here, and there, and everywhere: now to the right, then to the left, again up in the air, and anon to the bottom, but always reappearing and bounding with the stream buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before he was prevailed upon to stand a contested election for the office of beadle, necessity attached him to the service of a broker; and on the opportunities he here acquired of ascertaining the condition of most of the poorer inhabitants of the parish, his patron, the captain, first grounded his claims to public support. Chance threw the man in our way a short time since. We were, in the first instance, attracted by his prepossessing impudence at the election; we were not surprised, on further acquaintance, to find him a shrewd, knowing fellow, with no inconsiderable power of observation; and, after conversing with him a little, were somewhat struck (as we dare say our readers have frequently been in other cases) with the power some men seem to have, not only of sympathising with, but to all appearance of understanding feelings to which they themselves are entire strangers. We had been expressing to the new functionary our surprise that he should ever have served in the capacity to which we have just adverted, when we gradually led him into one or two professional anecdotes. As we are induced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in nearly his own words, than with any attempted embellishments of ours, we will at once entitle them.

MR BUNG’S NARRATIVE

‘It’s very true, as you say, sir,’ Mr. Bung commenced, ‘that a broker’s man’s is not a life to be envied; and in course you know as well as I do, though you don’t say it, that people hate and scout ’em because they’re the ministers of wretchedness, like, to poor people. But what could I do, sir? The thing was no worse because I did it, instead of somebody else; and if putting me in possession of a house would put me in possession of three and sixpence a day, and levying a distress on another man’s goods would relieve my distress and that of my family, it can’t be expected but what I’d take the job and go through with it. I never liked it, God knows; I always looked out for something else, and the moment I got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything wrong in being the agent in such matters—not the principal, mind you—I’m sure the business, to a beginner like I was, at all events, carries its own punishment along with it. I wished again and again that the people would only blow me up, or pitch into me—that I wouldn’t have minded, it’s all in my way; but it’s the being shut up by yourself in one room for five days, without so much as an old newspaper to look at, or anything to see out o’ the winder but the roofs and chimneys at the back of the house, or anything to listen to, but the ticking, perhaps, of an old Dutch clock, the sobbing of the missis, now and then, the low talking of friends in the next room, who speak in whispers, lest “the man” should overhear them, or perhaps the occasional opening of the door, as a child peeps in to look at you, and then runs half-frightened away—it’s all this, that makes you feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed of yourself; and then, if it’s wintertime, they just give you fire enough to make you think you’d like more, and bring in your grub as if they wished it ’ud choke you—as I dare say they do, for the matter of that, most heartily. If they’re very civil, they make you up a bed in the room at night, and if they don’t, your master sends one in for you; but there you are, without being washed or shaved all the time, shunned by everybody, and spoken to by no one, unless some one comes in at dinner-time, and asks you whether you want any more, in a tone as much to say, “I hope you don’t,” or, in the evening, to inquire whether you wouldn’t rather have a candle, after you’ve been sitting in the dark half the night. When I was left in this way, I used to sit, think, think, thinking, till I felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house copper with the lid on; but I believe the old brokers’ men who are regularly trained to it, never think at all. I have heard some on ’em say, indeed, that they don’t know how!

‘I put in a good many distresses in my time (continued Mr. Bung), and in course I wasn’t long in finding, that some people are not as much to be pitied as others are, and that people with good incomes who get into difficulties, which they keep patching up day after day and week after week, get so used to these sort of things in time, that at last they come scarcely to feel them at all. I remember the very first place I was put in possession of, was a gentleman’s house in this parish here, that everybody would suppose couldn’t help having money if he tried. I went with old Fixem, my old master, ’bout half arter eight in the morning; rang the area-bell; servant in livery opened the door: “Governor at home?”—“Yes, he is,” says the man; “but he’s breakfasting just now.” “Never mind,” says Fixem, “just you tell him there’s a gentleman here, as wants to speak to him partickler.” So the servant he opens his eyes, and stares about him all ways—looking for the gentleman, as it struck me, for I don’t think anybody but a man as was stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one; and as for me, I was as seedy as a cheap cowcumber. Hows’ever, he turns round, and goes to the breakfast-parlour, which was a little snug sort of room at the end of the passage, and Fixem (as we always did in that profession), without waiting to be announced, walks in arter him, and before the servant could get out, “Please, sir, here’s a man as wants to speak to you,” looks in at the door as familiar and pleasant as may be. “Who the devil are you, and how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house without leave?” says the master, as fierce as a bull in fits. “My name,” says Fixem, winking to the master to send the servant away, and putting the warrant into his hands folded up like a note, “My name’s Smith,” says he, “and I called from Johnson’s about that business of Thompson’s.”—“Oh,” says the other, quite down on him directly, “How is Thompson?” says he; “Pray sit down, Mr. Smith: John, leave the room.” Out went the servant; and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till they couldn’t look any longer, and then they varied the amusements by looking at me, who had been standing on the mat all this time. “Hundred and fifty pounds, I see,” said the gentleman at last. “Hundred and fifty pound,” said Fixem, “besides cost of levy, sheriff’s poundage, and all other incidental expenses.”—“Um,” says the gentleman, “I shan’t be able to settle this before to-morrow afternoon.”—“Very sorry; but I shall be obliged to leave my man here till then,” replies Fixem, pretending to look very miserable over it. “That’s very unfort’nate,” says the gentleman, “for I have got a large party here to-night, and I’m ruined if those fellows of mine get an inkling of the matter—just step here, Mr. Smith,” says he, after a short pause. So Fixem walks with him up to the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and a little chinking of suverins, and looking at me, he comes back and says, “Bung, you’re a handy fellow, and very honest I know. This gentleman wants an assistant to clean the plate and wait at table to-day, and if you’re not particularly engaged,” says old Fixem, grinning like mad, and shoving a couple of suverins into my hand, “he’ll be very glad to avail himself of your services.” Well, I laughed: and the gentleman laughed, and we all laughed; and I went home and cleaned myself, leaving Fixem there, and when I went back, Fixem went away, and I polished up the plate, and waited at table, and gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least idea I was in possession, though it very nearly came out after all; for one of the last gentlemen who remained, came down-stairs into the hall where I was sitting pretty late at night, and putting half-a-crown into my hand, says, “Here, my man,” says he, “run and get me a coach, will you?” I thought it was a do, to get me out of the house, and was just going to say so, sulkily enough, when the gentleman (who was up to everything) came running down-stairs, as if he was in great anxiety. “Bung,” says he, pretending to be in a consuming passion. “Sir,” says I. “Why the devil an’t you looking after that plate?”—“I was just going to send him for a coach for me,” says the other gentleman. “And I was just a-going to say,” says I—“Anybody else, my dear fellow,” interrupts the master of the house, pushing me down the passage to get out of the way—“anybody else; but I have put this man in possession of all the plate and valuables, and I cannot allow him on any consideration whatever, to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count those forks in the breakfast-parlour instantly.” You may be sure I went laughing pretty hearty when I found it was all right. The money was paid next day, with the addition of something else for myself, and that was the best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever got in that line.

‘But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after all,’ resumed Mr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look and flash air, with which he had repeated the previous anecdote—‘and I’m sorry to say, it’s the side one sees very, very seldom, in comparison with the dark one. The civility which money will purchase, is rarely extended to those who have none; and there’s a consolation even in being able to patch up one difficulty, to make way for another, to which very poor people are strangers. I was once put into a house down George’s-yard—that little dirty court at the back of the gas-works; and I never shall forget the misery of them people, dear me! It was a distress for half a year’s rent—two pound ten, I think. There was only two rooms in the house, and as there was no passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went through the room of the people of the house, as they passed in and out; and every time they did so—which, on the average, was about four times every quarter of an hour—they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had been seized too, and included in the inventory. There was a little piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window, and a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people’s use, but their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I’m certain they never could have plucked up courage to look themselves in the face a second time, if they survived the fright of doing so once. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs sticking out for you to knock your head against, or hang your hat upon; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack, by way of rug, before the fireplace, and four or five children were grovelling about, among the sand on the floor. The execution was only put in, to get ’em out of the house, for there was nothing to take to pay the expenses; and here I stopped for three days, though that was a mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all knew, they could never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the place where the fire ought to have been, was an old ’ooman—the ugliest and dirtiest I ever see—who sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, without once stopping, except for an instant now and then, to clasp together the withered hands which, with these exceptions, she kept constantly rubbing upon her knees, just raising and depressing her fingers convulsively, in time to the rocking of the chair. On the other side sat the mother with an infant in her arms, which cried till it cried itself to sleep, and when it ’woke, cried till it cried itself off again. The old ’ooman’s voice I never heard: she seemed completely stupefied; and as to the mother’s, it would have been better if she had been so too, for misery had changed her to a devil. If you had heard how she cursed the little naked children as was rolling on the floor, and seen how savagely she struck the infant when it cried with hunger, you’d have shuddered as much as I did. There they remained all the time: the children ate a morsel of bread once or twice, and I gave ’em best part of the dinners my missis brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid on the bedstead, nor was the room swept or cleaned all the time. The neighbours were all too poor themselves to take any notice of ’em, but from what I could make out from the abuse of the woman up-stairs, it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks before. When the time was up, the landlord and old Fixem too, got rather frightened about the family, and so they made a stir about it, and had ’em taken to the workhouse. They sent the sick couch for the old ’ooman, and Simmons took the children away at night. The old ’ooman went into the infirmary, and very soon died. The children are all in the house to this day, and very comfortable they are in comparison. As to the mother, there was no taming her at all. She had been a quiet, hard-working woman, I believe, but her misery had actually drove her wild; so after she had been sent to the house of correction half-a-dozen times, for throwing inkstands at the overseers, blaspheming the churchwardens, and smashing everybody as come near her, she burst a blood-vessel one mornin’, and died too; and a happy release it was, both for herself and the old paupers, male and female, which she used to tip over in all directions, as if they were so many skittles, and she the ball.

‘Now this was bad enough,’ resumed Mr. Bung, taking a half-step towards the door, as if to intimate that he had nearly concluded. ‘This was bad enough, but there was a sort of quiet misery—if you understand what I mean by that, sir—about a lady at one house I was put into, as touched me a good deal more. It doesn’t matter where it was exactly: indeed, I’d rather not say, but it was the same sort o’ job. I went with Fixem in the usual way—there was a year’s rent in arrear; a very small servant-girl opened the door, and three or four fine-looking little children was in the front parlour we were shown into, which was very clean, but very scantily furnished, much like the children themselves. “Bung,” says Fixem to me, in a low voice, when we were left alone for a minute, “I know something about this here family, and my opinion is, it’s no go.” “Do you think they can’t settle?” says I, quite anxiously; for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his head, and was just about to reply, when the door opened, and in come a lady, as white as ever I see any one in my days, except about the eyes, which were red with crying. She walked in, as firm as I could have done; shut the door carefully after her, and sat herself down with a face as composed as if it was made of stone. “What is the matter, gentlemen?” says she, in a surprisin’ steady voice. “Is this an execution?” “It is, mum,” says Fixem. The lady looked at him as steady as ever: she didn’t seem to have understood him. “It is, mum,” says Fixem again; “this is my warrant of distress, mum,” says he, handing it over as polite as if it was a newspaper which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman.

‘The lady’s lip trembled as she took the printed paper. She cast her eye over it, and old Fixem began to explain the form, but saw she wasn’t reading it, plain enough, poor thing. “Oh, my God!” says she, suddenly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall, and hiding her face in her hands. “Oh, my God! what will become of us!” The noise she made, brought in a young lady of about nineteen or twenty, who, I suppose, had been a-listening at the door, and who had got a little boy in her arms: she sat him down in the lady’s lap, without speaking, and she hugged the poor little fellow to her bosom, and cried over him, till even old Fixem put on his blue spectacles to hide the two tears, that was a-trickling down, one on each side of his dirty face. “Now, dear ma,” says the young lady, “you know how much you have borne. For all our sakes—for pa’s sake,” says she, “don’t give way to this!”—“No, no, I won’t!” says the lady, gathering herself up, hastily, and drying her eyes; “I am very foolish, but I’m better now—much better.” And then she roused herself up, went with us into every room while we took the inventory, opened all the drawers of her own accord, sorted the children’s little clothes to make the work easier; and, except doing everything in a strange sort of hurry, seemed as calm and composed as if nothing had happened. When we came down-stairs again, she hesitated a minute or two, and at last says, “Gentlemen,” says she, “I am afraid I have done wrong, and perhaps it may bring you into trouble. I secreted just now,” she says, “the only trinket I have left in the world—here it is.” So she lays down on the table a little miniature mounted in gold. “It’s a miniature,” she says, “of my poor dear father! I little thought once, that I should ever thank God for depriving me of the original, but I do, and have done for years back, most fervently. Take it away, sir,” she says, “it’s a face that never turned from me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree.” I couldn’t say nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which I was filling up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so I ran my pen through the “Mini” I had just written, and left the miniature on the table.

‘Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in possession, and in possession I remained; and though I was an ignorant man, and the master of the house a clever one, I saw what he never did, but what he would give worlds now (if he had ’em) to have seen in time. I saw, sir, that his wife was wasting away, beneath cares of which she never complained, and griefs she never told. I saw that she was dying before his eyes; I knew that one exertion from him might have saved her, but he never made it. I don’t blame him: I don’t think he could rouse himself. She had so long anticipated all his wishes, and acted for him, that he was a lost man when left to himself. I used to think when I caught sight of her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked shabby even upon her, and would have been scarcely decent on any one else, that if I was a gentleman it would wring my very heart to see the woman that was a smart and merry girl when I courted her, so altered through her love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet, though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the best, during the whole three days, from morning to night, she was out of doors running about to try and raise the money. The money was raised and the execution was paid out. The whole family crowded into the room where I was, when the money arrived. The father was quite happy as the inconvenience was removed—I dare say he didn’t know how; the children looked merry and cheerful again; the eldest girl was bustling about, making preparations for the first comfortable meal they had had since the distress was put in; and the mother looked pleased to see them all so. But if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, I saw it in hers that night.

‘I was right, sir,’ continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly passing his coat-sleeve over his face; ‘the family grew more prosperous, and good fortune arrived. But it was too late. Those children are motherless now, and their father would give up all he has since gained—house, home, goods, money: all that he has, or ever can have, to restore the wife he has lost.’

CHAPTER VI—THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES

Our Parish is very prolific in ladies’ charitable institutions. In winter, when wet feet are common, and colds not scarce, we have the ladies’ soup distribution society, the ladies’ coal distribution society, and the ladies’ blanket distribution society; in summer, when stone fruits flourish and stomach aches prevail, we have the ladies’ dispensary, and the ladies’ sick visitation committee; and all the year round we have the ladies’ child’s examination society, the ladies’ bible and prayer-book circulation society, and the ladies’ childbed-linen monthly loan society. The two latter are decidedly the most important; whether they are productive of more benefit than the rest, it is not for us to say, but we can take upon ourselves to affirm, with the utmost solemnity, that they create a greater stir and more bustle, than all the others put together.

We should be disposed to affirm, on the first blush of the matter, that the bible and prayer-book society is not so popular as the childbed-linen society; the bible and prayer-book society has, however, considerably increased in importance within the last year or two, having derived some adventitious aid from the factious opposition of the child’s examination society; which factious opposition originated in manner following:—When the young curate was popular, and all the unmarried ladies in the parish took a serious turn, the charity children all at once became objects of peculiar and especial interest. The three Miss Browns (enthusiastic admirers of the curate) taught, and exercised, and examined, and re-examined the unfortunate children, until the boys grew pale, and the girls consumptive with study and fatigue. The three Miss Browns stood it out very well, because they relieved each other; but the children, having no relief at all, exhibited decided symptoms of weariness and care. The unthinking part of the parishioners laughed at all this, but the more reflective portion of the inhabitants abstained from expressing any opinion on the subject until that of the curate had been clearly ascertained.

The opportunity was not long wanting. The curate preached a charity sermon on behalf of the charity school, and in the charity sermon aforesaid, expatiated in glowing terms on the praiseworthy and indefatigable exertions of certain estimable individuals. Sobs were heard to issue from the three Miss Browns’ pew; the pew-opener of the division was seen to hurry down the centre aisle to the vestry door, and to return immediately, bearing a glass of water in her hand. A low moaning ensued; two more pew-openers rushed to the spot, and the three Miss Browns, each supported by a pew-opener, were led out of the church, and led in again after the lapse of five minutes with white pocket-handkerchiefs to their eyes, as if they had been attending a funeral in the churchyard adjoining. If any doubt had for a moment existed, as to whom the allusion was intended to apply, it was at once removed. The wish to enlighten the charity children became universal, and the three Miss Browns were unanimously besought to divide the school into classes, and to assign each class to the superintendence of two young ladies.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little patronage is more so; the three Miss Browns appointed all the old maids, and carefully excluded the young ones. Maiden aunts triumphed, mammas were reduced to the lowest depths of despair, and there is no telling in what act of violence the general indignation against the three Miss Browns might have vented itself, had not a perfectly providential occurrence changed the tide of public feeling. Mrs. Johnson Parker, the mother of seven extremely fine girls—all unmarried—hastily reported to several other mammas of several other unmarried families, that five old men, six old women, and children innumerable, in the free seats near her pew, were in the habit of coming to church every Sunday, without either bible or prayer-book. Was this to be borne in a civilised country? Could such things be tolerated in a Christian land? Never! A ladies’ bible and prayer-book distribution society was instantly formed: president, Mrs. Johnson Parker; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the Misses Johnson Parker: subscriptions were entered into, books were bought, all the free-seat people provided therewith, and when the first lesson was given out, on the first Sunday succeeding these events, there was such a dropping of books, and rustling of leaves, that it was morally impossible to hear one word of the service for five minutes afterwards.

The three Miss Browns, and their party, saw the approaching danger, and endeavoured to avert it by ridicule and sarcasm. Neither the old men nor the old women could read their books, now they had got them, said the three Miss Browns. Never mind; they could learn, replied Mrs. Johnson Parker. The children couldn’t read either, suggested the three Miss Browns. No matter; they could be taught, retorted Mrs. Johnson Parker. A balance of parties took place. The Miss Browns publicly examined—popular feeling inclined to the child’s examination society. The Miss Johnson Parkers publicly distributed—a reaction took place in favour of the prayer-book distribution. A feather would have turned the scale, and a feather did turn it. A missionary returned from the West Indies; he was to be presented to the Dissenters’ Missionary Society on his marriage with a wealthy widow. Overtures were made to the Dissenters by the Johnson Parkers. Their object was the same, and why not have a joint meeting of the two societies? The proposition was accepted. The meeting was duly heralded by public announcement, and the room was crowded to suffocation. The Missionary appeared on the platform; he was hailed with enthusiasm. He repeated a dialogue he had heard between two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of distribution societies; the approbation was tumultuous. He gave an imitation of the two negroes in broken English; the roof was rent with applause. From that period we date (with one trifling exception) a daily increase in the popularity of the distribution society, and an increase of popularity, which the feeble and impotent opposition of the examination party, has only tended to augment.

Now, the great points about the childbed-linen monthly loan society are, that it is less dependent on the fluctuations of public opinion than either the distribution or the child’s examination; and that, come what may, there is never any lack of objects on which to exercise its benevolence. Our parish is a very populous one, and, if anything, contributes, we should be disposed to say, rather more than its due share to the aggregate amount of births in the metropolis and its environs. The consequence is, that the monthly loan society flourishes, and invests its members with a most enviable amount of bustling patronage. The society (whose only notion of dividing time, would appear to be its allotment into months) holds monthly tea-drinkings, at which the monthly report is received, a secretary elected for the month ensuing, and such of the monthly boxes as may not happen to be out on loan for the month, carefully examined.

We were never present at one of these meetings, from all of which it is scarcely necessary to say, gentlemen are carefully excluded; but Mr. Bung has been called before the board once or twice, and we have his authority for stating, that its proceedings are conducted with great order and regularity: not more than four members being allowed to speak at one time on any pretence whatever. The regular committee is composed exclusively of married ladies, but a vast number of young unmarried ladies of from eighteen to twenty-five years of age, respectively, are admitted as honorary members, partly because they are very useful in replenishing the boxes, and visiting the confined; partly because it is highly desirable that they should be initiated, at an early period, into the more serious and matronly duties of after-life; and partly, because prudent mammas have not unfrequently been known to turn this circumstance to wonderfully good account in matrimonial speculations.

In addition to the loan of the monthly boxes (which are always painted blue, with the name of the society in large white letters on the lid), the society dispense occasional grants of beef-tea, and a composition of warm beer, spice, eggs, and sugar, commonly known by the name of ‘candle,’ to its patients. And here again the services of the honorary members are called into requisition, and most cheerfully conceded. Deputations of twos or threes are sent out to visit the patients, and on these occasions there is such a tasting of candle and beef-tea, such a stirring about of little messes in tiny saucepans on the hob, such a dressing and undressing of infants, such a tying, and folding, and pinning; such a nursing and warming of little legs and feet before the fire, such a delightful confusion of talking and cooking, bustle, importance, and officiousness, as never can be enjoyed in its full extent but on similar occasions.

In rivalry of these two institutions, and as a last expiring effort to acquire parochial popularity, the child’s examination people determined, the other day, on having a grand public examination of the pupils; and the large school-room of the national seminary was, by and with the consent of the parish authorities, devoted to the purpose. Invitation circulars were forwarded to all the principal parishioners, including, of course, the heads of the other two societies, for whose especial behoof and edification the display was intended; and a large audience was confidently anticipated on the occasion. The floor was carefully scrubbed the day before, under the immediate superintendence of the three Miss Browns; forms were placed across the room for the accommodation of the visitors, specimens in writing were carefully selected, and as carefully patched and touched up, until they astonished the children who had written them, rather more than the company who read them; sums in compound addition were rehearsed and re-rehearsed until all the children had the totals by heart; and the preparations altogether were on the most laborious and most comprehensive scale. The morning arrived: the children were yellow-soaped and flannelled, and towelled, till their faces shone again; every pupil’s hair was carefully combed into his or her eyes, as the case might be; the girls were adorned with snow-white tippets, and caps bound round the head by a single purple ribbon: the necks of the elder boys were fixed into collars of startling dimensions.

The doors were thrown open, and the Misses Brown and Co. were discovered in plain white muslin dresses, and caps of the same—the child’s examination uniform. The room filled: the greetings of the company were loud and cordial. The distributionists trembled, for their popularity was at stake. The eldest boy fell forward, and delivered a propitiatory address from behind his collar. It was from the pen of Mr. Henry Brown; the applause was universal, and the Johnson Parkers were aghast. The examination proceeded with success, and terminated in triumph. The child’s examination society gained a momentary victory, and the Johnson Parkers retreated in despair.

A secret council of the distributionists was held that night, with Mrs. Johnson Parker in the chair, to consider of the best means of recovering the ground they had lost in the favour of the parish. What could be done? Another meeting! Alas! who was to attend it? The Missionary would not do twice; and the slaves were emancipated. A bold step must be taken. The parish must be astonished in some way or other; but no one was able to suggest what the step should be. At length, a very old lady was heard to mumble, in indistinct tones, ‘Exeter Hall.’ A sudden light broke in upon the meeting. It was unanimously resolved, that a deputation of old ladies should wait upon a celebrated orator, imploring his assistance, and the favour of a speech; and the deputation should also wait on two or three other imbecile old women, not resident in the parish, and entreat their attendance. The application was successful, the meeting was held; the orator (an Irishman) came. He talked of green isles—other shores—vast Atlantic—bosom of the deep—Christian charity—blood and extermination—mercy in hearts—arms in hands—altars and homes—household gods. He wiped his eyes, he blew his nose, and he quoted Latin. The effect was tremendous—the Latin was a decided hit. Nobody knew exactly what it was about, but everybody knew it must be affecting, because even the orator was overcome. The popularity of the distribution society among the ladies of our parish is unprecedented; and the child’s examination is going fast to decay.

CHAPTER VII—OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

We are very fond of speculating as we walk through a street, on the character and pursuits of the people who inhabit it; and nothing so materially assists us in these speculations as the appearance of the house doors. The various expressions of the human countenance afford a beautiful and interesting study; but there is something in the physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as characteristic, and nearly as infallible. Whenever we visit a man for the first time, we contemplate the features of his knocker with the greatest curiosity, for we well know, that between the man and his knocker, there will inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance and sympathy.

For instance, there is one description of knocker that used to be common enough, but which is fast passing away—a large round one, with the jolly face of a convivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist the sides of your hair into a curl or pull up your shirt-collar while you are waiting for the door to be opened; we never saw that knocker on the door of a churlish man—so far as our experience is concerned, it invariably bespoke hospitality and another bottle.

No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small attorney or bill-broker; they always patronise the other lion; a heavy ferocious-looking fellow, with a countenance expressive of savage stupidity—a sort of grand master among the knockers, and a great favourite with the selfish and brutal.

Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a long thin face, a pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin; he is most in vogue with your government-office people, in light drabs and starched cravats; little spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied with their own opinions, and consider themselves of paramount importance.

We were greatly troubled a few years ago, by the innovation of a new kind of knocker, without any face at all, composed of a wreath depending from a hand or small truncheon. A little trouble and attention, however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to reconcile the new system to our favourite theory. You will invariably find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, who always ask you why you don’t come, and never say do.

Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to suburban villas, and extensive boarding-schools; and having noticed this genus we have recapitulated all the most prominent and strongly-defined species.

Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a man’s brain by different passions, produces corresponding developments in the form of his skull. Do not let us be understood as pushing our theory to the full length of asserting, that any alteration in a man’s disposition would produce a visible effect on the feature of his knocker. Our position merely is, that in such a case, the magnetism which must exist between a man and his knocker, would induce the man to remove, and seek some knocker more congenial to his altered feelings. If you ever find a man changing his habitation without any reasonable pretext, depend upon it, that, although he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is because he and his knocker are at variance. This is a new theory, but we venture to launch it, nevertheless, as being quite as ingenious and infallible as many thousands of the learned speculations which are daily broached for public good and private fortune-making.

Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knockers, it will be readily imagined with what consternation we viewed the entire removal of the knocker from the door of the next house to the one we lived in, some time ago, and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity we had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able to exist without a knocker, appeared so wild and visionary, that it had never for one instant entered our imagination.

We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent our steps towards Eaton-square, then just building. What was our astonishment and indignation to find that bells were fast becoming the rule, and knockers the exception! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We hastened home; and fancying we foresaw in the swift progress of events, its entire abolition, resolved from that day forward to vent our speculations on our next-door neighbours in person. The house adjoining ours on the left hand was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, plenty of leisure to observe our next-door neighbours on the other side.

The house without the knocker was in the occupation of a city clerk, and there was a neatly-written bill in the parlour window intimating that lodgings for a single gentleman were to be let within.

It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of the way, with new, narrow floorcloth in the passage, and new, narrow stair-carpets up to the first floor. The paper was new, and the paint was new, and the furniture was new; and all three, paper, paint, and furniture, bespoke the limited means of the tenant. There was a little red and black carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of flooring all the way round; a few stained chairs and a pembroke table. A pink shell was displayed on each of the little sideboards, which, with the addition of a tea-tray and caddy, a few more shells on the mantelpiece, and three peacock’s feathers tastefully arranged above them, completed the decorative furniture of the apartment.

This was the room destined for the reception of the single gentleman during the day, and a little back room on the same floor was assigned as his sleeping apartment by night.

The bill had not been long in the window, when a stout, good-humoured looking gentleman, of about five-and-thirty, appeared as a candidate for the tenancy. Terms were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down immediately after his first visit. In a day or two the single gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his real character came out.

First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary partiality for sitting up till three or four o’clock in the morning, drinking whiskey-and-water, and smoking cigars; then he invited friends home, who used to come at ten o’clock, and begin to get happy about the small hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by singing songs with half-a-dozen verses of two lines each, and a chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted forth by the whole strength of the company, in the most enthusiastic and vociferous manner, to the great annoyance of the neighbours, and the special discomfort of another single gentleman overhead.

Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three times a week on the average, but this was not all; for when the company did go away, instead of walking quietly down the street, as anybody else’s company would have done, they amused themselves by making alarming and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of females in distress; and one night, a red-faced gentleman in a white hat knocked in the most urgent manner at the door of the powdered-headed old gentleman at No. 3, and when the powdered-headed old gentleman, who thought one of his married daughters must have been taken ill prematurely, had groped down-stairs, and after a great deal of unbolting and key-turning, opened the street door, the red-faced man in the white hat said he hoped he’d excuse his giving him so much trouble, but he’d feel obliged if he’d favour him with a glass of cold spring water, and the loan of a shilling for a cab to take him home, on which the old gentleman slammed the door and went up-stairs, and threw the contents of his water jug out of window—very straight, only it went over the wrong man; and the whole street was involved in confusion.

A joke’s a joke; and even practical jests are very capital in their way, if you can only get the other party to see the fun of them; but the population of our street were so dull of apprehension, as to be quite lost to a sense of the drollery of this proceeding: and the consequence was, that our next-door neighbour was obliged to tell the single gentleman, that unless he gave up entertaining his friends at home, he really must be compelled to part with him.

The single gentleman received the remonstrance with great good-humour, and promised from that time forward, to spend his evenings at a coffee-house—a determination which afforded general and unmixed satisfaction.

The next night passed off very well, everybody being delighted with the change; but on the next, the noises were renewed with greater spirit than ever. The single gentleman’s friends being unable to see him in his own house every alternate night, had come to the determination of seeing him home every night; and what with the discordant greetings of the friends at parting, and the noise created by the single gentleman in his passage up-stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get his boots off, the evil was not to be borne. So, our next-door neighbour gave the single gentleman, who was a very good lodger in other respects, notice to quit; and the single gentleman went away, and entertained his friends in other lodgings.

The next applicant for the vacant first floor, was of a very different character from the troublesome single gentleman who had just quitted it. He was a tall, thin, young gentleman, with a profusion of brown hair, reddish whiskers, and very slightly developed moustaches. He wore a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light grey trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had altogether rather a military appearance. So unlike the roystering single gentleman. Such insinuating manners, and such a delightful address! So seriously disposed, too! When he first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired most particularly whether he was sure to be able to get a seat in the parish church; and when he had agreed to take them, he requested to have a list of the different local charities, as he intended to subscribe his mite to the most deserving among them.

Our next-door neighbour was now perfectly happy. He had got a lodger at last, of just his own way of thinking—a serious, well-disposed man, who abhorred gaiety, and loved retirement. He took down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers.

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive from the country next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt, and a prayer-book, from our next-door neighbour, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting that he might be called punctually at ten o’clock next morning—not before, as he was much fatigued.

He was called, and did not answer: he was called again, but there was no reply. Our next-door neighbour became alarmed, and burst the door open. The serious man had left the house mysteriously; carrying with him the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the bedclothes.

Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregularities of his former lodger, gave our next-door neighbour an aversion to single gentlemen, we know not; we only know that the next bill which made its appearance in the parlour window intimated generally, that there were furnished apartments to let on the first floor. The bill was soon removed. The new lodgers at first attracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited our interest.

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow’s weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor—very poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned, by copying writings, and translating for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place and settled in London; partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances, and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work; and day after day, could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised; the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labours were unceasingly prolonged: and the mother attempted to procure needle-work, embroidery—anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us.

‘I was telling William,’ she said, ‘that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately.’ Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow’s cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us. At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother’s arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly in his mother’s face.

‘William, William!’ murmured the mother, after a long interval, ‘don’t look at me so—speak to me, dear!’

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

‘William, dear William! rouse yourself; don’t look at me so, love—pray don’t! Oh, my God! what shall I do!’ cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony—‘my dear boy! he is dying!’ The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together—‘Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields—anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck—’

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and muscle.

The boy was dead.

SCENES

CHAPTER I—THE STREETS—MORNING

The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before sunrise, on a summer’s morning, is most striking even to the few whose unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits of business, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the day are swarming with life and bustle, that is very impressive.

The last drunken man, who shall find his way home before sunlight, has just staggered heavily along, roaring out the burden of the drinking song of the previous night: the last houseless vagrant whom penury and police have left in the streets, has coiled up his chilly limbs in some paved comer, to dream of food and warmth. The drunken, the dissipated, and the wretched have disappeared; the more sober and orderly part of the population have not yet awakened to the labours of the day, and the stillness of death is over the streets; its very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and lifeless as they look in the grey, sombre light of daybreak. The coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are deserted: the night-houses are closed; and the chosen promenades of profligate misery are empty.

An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the street corners, listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect before him; and now and then a rakish-looking cat runs stealthily across the road and descends his own area with as much caution and slyness—bounding first on the water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting on the flag-stones—as if he were conscious that his character depended on his gallantry of the preceding night escaping public observation. A partially opened bedroom-window here and there, bespeaks the heat of the weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant; and the dim scanty flicker of the rushlight, through the window-blind, denotes the chamber of watching or sickness. With these few exceptions, the streets present no signs of life, nor the houses of habitation.

An hour wears away; the spires of the churches and roofs of the principal buildings are faintly tinged with the light of the rising sun; and the streets, by almost imperceptible degrees, begin to resume their bustle and animation. Market-carts roll slowly along: the sleepy waggoner impatiently urging on his tired horses, or vainly endeavouring to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched on the top of the fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, his long-cherished curiosity to behold the wonders of London.

Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, something between ostlers and hackney-coachmen, begin to take down the shutters of early public-houses; and little deal tables, with the ordinary preparations for a street breakfast, make their appearance at the customary stations. Numbers of men and women (principally the latter), carrying upon their heads heavy baskets of fruit, toil down the park side of Piccadilly, on their way to Covent-garden, and, following each other in rapid succession, form a long straggling line from thence to the turn of the road at Knightsbridge.

Here and there, a bricklayer’s labourer, with the day’s dinner tied up in a handkerchief, walks briskly to his work, and occasionally a little knot of three or four schoolboys on a stolen bathing expedition rattle merrily over the pavement, their boisterous mirth contrasting forcibly with the demeanour of the little sweep, who, having knocked and rung till his arm aches, and being interdicted by a merciful legislature from endangering his lungs by calling out, sits patiently down on the door-step, until the housemaid may happen to awake.

Covent-garden market, and the avenues leading to it, are thronged with carts of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions, from the heavy lumbering waggon, with its four stout horses, to the jingling costermonger’s cart, with its consumptive donkey. The pavement is already strewed with decayed cabbage-leaves, broken hay-bands, and all the indescribable litter of a vegetable market; men are shouting, carts backing, horses neighing, boys fighting, basket-women talking, piemen expatiating on the excellence of their pastry, and donkeys braying. These and a hundred other sounds form a compound discordant enough to a Londoner’s ears, and remarkably disagreeable to those of country gentlemen who are sleeping at the Hummums for the first time.

Another hour passes away, and the day begins in good earnest. The servant of all work, who, under the plea of sleeping very soundly, has utterly disregarded ‘Missis’s’ ringing for half an hour previously, is warned by Master (whom Missis has sent up in his drapery to the landing-place for that purpose), that it’s half-past six, whereupon she awakes all of a sudden, with well-feigned astonishment, and goes down-stairs very sulkily, wishing, while she strikes a light, that the principle of spontaneous combustion would extend itself to coals and kitchen range. When the fire is lighted, she opens the street-door to take in the milk, when, by the most singular coincidence in the world, she discovers that the servant next door has just taken in her milk too, and that Mr. Todd’s young man over the way, is, by an equally extraordinary chance, taking down his master’s shutters. The inevitable consequence is, that she just steps, milk-jug in hand, as far as next door, just to say ‘good morning’ to Betsy Clark, and that Mr. Todd’s young man just steps over the way to say ‘good morning’ to both of ’em; and as the aforesaid Mr. Todd’s young man is almost as good-looking and fascinating as the baker himself, the conversation quickly becomes very interesting, and probably would become more so, if Betsy Clark’s Missis, who always will be a-followin’ her about, didn’t give an angry tap at her bedroom window, on which Mr. Todd’s young man tries to whistle coolly, as he goes back to his shop much faster than he came from it; and the two girls run back to their respective places, and shut their street-doors with surprising softness, each of them poking their heads out of the front parlour window, a minute afterwards, however, ostensibly with the view of looking at the mail which just then passes by, but really for the purpose of catching another glimpse of Mr. Todd’s young man, who being fond of mails, but more of females, takes a short look at the mails, and a long look at the girls, much to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.

The mail itself goes on to the coach-office in due course, and the passengers who are going out by the early coach, stare with astonishment at the passengers who are coming in by the early coach, who look blue and dismal, and are evidently under the influence of that odd feeling produced by travelling, which makes the events of yesterday morning seem as if they had happened at least six months ago, and induces people to wonder with considerable gravity whether the friends and relations they took leave of a fortnight before, have altered much since they have left them. The coach-office is all alive, and the coaches which are just going out, are surrounded by the usual crowd of Jews and nondescripts, who seem to consider, Heaven knows why, that it is quite impossible any man can mount a coach without requiring at least sixpenny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a last year’s annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and a small series of caricatures.

Half an hour more, and the sun darts his bright rays cheerfully down the still half-empty streets, and shines with sufficient force to rouse the dismal laziness of the apprentice, who pauses every other minute from his task of sweeping out the shop and watering the pavement in front of it, to tell another apprentice similarly employed, how hot it will be to-day, or to stand with his right hand shading his eyes, and his left resting on the broom, gazing at the ‘Wonder,’ or the ‘Tally-ho,’ or the ‘Nimrod,’ or some other fast coach, till it is out of sight, when he re-enters the shop, envying the passengers on the outside of the fast coach, and thinking of the old red brick house ‘down in the country,’ where he went to school: the miseries of the milk and water, and thick bread and scrapings, fading into nothing before the pleasant recollection of the green field the boys used to play in, and the green pond he was caned for presuming to fall into, and other schoolboy associations.

Cabs, with trunks and band-boxes between the drivers’ legs and outside the apron, rattle briskly up and down the streets on their way to the coach-offices or steam-packet wharfs; and the cab-drivers and hackney-coachmen who are on the stand polish up the ornamental part of their dingy vehicles—the former wondering how people can prefer ‘them wild beast cariwans of homnibuses, to a riglar cab with a fast trotter,’ and the latter admiring how people can trust their necks into one of ‘them crazy cabs, when they can have a ’spectable ’ackney cotche with a pair of ’orses as von’t run away with no vun;’ a consolation unquestionably founded on fact, seeing that a hackney-coach horse never was known to run at all, ‘except,’ as the smart cabman in front of the rank observes, ‘except one, and he run back’ards.’

The shops are now completely opened, and apprentices and shopmen are busily engaged in cleaning and decking the windows for the day. The bakers’ shops in town are filled with servants and children waiting for the drawing of the first batch of rolls—an operation which was performed a full hour ago in the suburbs: for the early clerk population of Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and Pentonville, are fast pouring into the city, or directing their steps towards Chancery-lane and the Inns of Court. Middle-aged men, whose salaries have by no means increased in the same proportion as their families, plod steadily along, apparently with no object in view but the counting-house; knowing by sight almost everybody they meet or overtake, for they have seen them every morning (Sunday excepted) during the last twenty years, but speaking to no one. If they do happen to overtake a personal acquaintance, they just exchange a hurried salutation, and keep walking on either by his side, or in front of him, as his rate of walking may chance to be. As to stopping to shake hands, or to take the friend’s arm, they seem to think that as it is not included in their salary, they have no right to do it. Small office lads in large hats, who are made men before they are boys, hurry along in pairs, with their first coat carefully brushed, and the white trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared with dust and ink. It evidently requires a considerable mental struggle to avoid investing part of the day’s dinner-money in the purchase of the stale tarts so temptingly exposed in dusty tins at the pastry-cooks’ doors; but a consciousness of their own importance and the receipt of seven shillings a-week, with the prospect of an early rise to eight, comes to their aid, and they accordingly put their hats a little more on one side, and look under the bonnets of all the milliners’ and stay-makers’ apprentices they meet—poor girls!—the hardest worked, the worst paid, and too often, the worst used class of the community.

Eleven o’clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. The goods in the shop-windows are invitingly arranged; the shopmen in their white neckerchiefs and spruce coats, look as it they couldn’t clean a window if their lives depended on it; the carts have disappeared from Covent-garden; the waggoners have returned, and the costermongers repaired to their ordinary ‘beats’ in the suburbs; clerks are at their offices, and gigs, cabs, omnibuses, and saddle-horses, are conveying their masters to the same destination. The streets are thronged with a vast concourse of people, gay and shabby, rich and poor, idle and industrious; and we come to the heat, bustle, and activity of Noon.

CHAPTER II—THE STREETS—NIGHT

But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky winter’s night, when there is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy, without cleansing it of any of its impurities; and when the heavy lazy mist, which hangs over every object, makes the gas-lamps look brighter, and the brilliantly-lighted shops more splendid, from the contrast they present to the darkness around. All the people who are at home on such a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves as snug and comfortable as possible; and the passengers in the streets have excellent reason to envy the fortunate individuals who are seated by their own firesides.

In the larger and better kind of streets, dining parlour curtains are closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury steams of hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin boy rings his way down the little street, much more slowly than he is wont to do; for Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner opened her little street-door, and screamed out ‘Muffins!’ with all her might, than Mrs. Walker, at No. 5, puts her head out of the parlour-window, and screams ‘Muffins!’ too; and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the words out of her lips, than Mrs. Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the street, with a velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in perspective could possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy trouble, and to say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same time, run over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow’s door, when it appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her ‘kittle’s jist a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid,’ and that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ doors, she’d made up her mind to have a nice, hot, comfortable cup o’ tea—a determination at which, by the most singular coincidence, the other two ladies had simultaneously arrived.

After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather and the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the viciousness of boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow as an exception, Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the street; and as he must want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the Docks, she instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same, and after a few words to Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little houses, and slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine o’clock ‘beer,’ who comes round with a lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he lends Mrs. Walker ‘Yesterday’s ‘Tiser,’ that he’s blessed if he can hardly hold the pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of the bitterest nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was frozen to death in the Brick-field.

After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o’clock beer returns to his master’s house, and employs himself for the remainder of the evening, in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking part in the conversation of the worthies assembled round it.

The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which the groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes, surmounted by a splendid design in variegated lamps, looks less gay than usual, and as to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite departed. The candle in the transparent lamp, manufactured of oil-paper, embellished with ‘characters,’ has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to the next wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the idea of illumination in despair, and the only signs of his ‘whereabout,’ are the bright sparks, of which a long irregular train is whirled down the street every time he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.

Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit vendors linger hopelessly in the kennel, in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged boys who usually disport themselves about the streets, stand crouched in little knots in some projecting doorway, or under the canvas blind of a cheesemonger’s, where great flaring gas-lights, unshaded by any glass, display huge piles of blight red and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy rolls of ‘best fresh.’

Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, arising out of their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the terrific combat, which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can ‘come the double monkey,’ or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe.

It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain which has been drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the baked-potato man has departed—the kidney-pie man has just walked away with his warehouse on his arm—the cheesemonger has drawn in his blind, and the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of pattens on the slippy and uneven pavement, and the rustling of umbrellas, as the wind blows against the shop-windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of the night; and the policeman, with his oilskin cape buttoned closely round him, seems as he holds his hat on his head, and turns round to avoid the gust of wind and rain which drives against him at the street-corner, to be very far from congratulating himself on the prospect before him.

The little chandler’s shop with the cracked bell behind the door, whose melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for quarterns of sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is shutting up. The crowds which have been passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly dwindling away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling which issues from the public-houses, is almost the only sound that breaks the melancholy stillness of the night.

There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice is all she has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her own pale face; the child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing adds to the misery of its wretched mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks despairingly down, on a cold damp door-step.

Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as this, think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and spirit, which the very effort of singing produces. Bitter mockery! Disease, neglect, and starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous ditty, that has enlivened your hours of feasting and merriment, God knows how often! It is no subject of jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a fearful tale of want and famishing; and the feeble singer of this roaring song may turn away, only to die of cold and hunger.

One o’clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney-coaches, carriages, and theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen with dim dirty lanterns in their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire to their watering-houses, to solace themselves with the creature comforts of pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box frequenters of the theatres throng to the different houses of refreshment; and chops, kidneys, rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and ‘goes’ innumerable, are served up amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering, perfectly indescribable.

The more musical portion of the play-going community betake themselves to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let us follow them thither for a few moments.

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were so many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just been executed by the three ‘professional gentlemen’ at the top of the centre table, one of whom is in the chair—the little pompous man with the bald head just emerging from the collar of his green coat. The others are seated on either side of him—the stout man with the small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The little man in the chair is a most amusing personage,—such condescending grandeur, and such a voice!

‘Bass!’ as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly remarks to his companion, ‘bass! I b’lieve you; he can go down lower than any man: so low sometimes that you can’t hear him.’ And so he does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till he can’t get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with which he pours forth his soul in ‘My ’art’s in the ’ighlands,’ or ‘The brave old Hoak.’ The stout man is also addicted to sentimentality, and warbles ‘Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me,’ or some such song, with lady-like sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable.

‘Pray give your orders, gen’l’m’n—pray give your orders,’—says the pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for ‘goes’ of gin and ‘goes’ of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness, are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The ‘professional gentlemen’ are in the very height of their glory, and bestow condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition, on the better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and patronising manner possible.

The little round-faced man, with the small brown surtout, white stockings and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of self-denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers, with which he acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying. ‘Gen’l’men,’ says the little pompous man, accompanying the word with a knock of the president’s hammer on the table—‘Gen’l’men, allow me to claim your attention—our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will oblige.’—‘Bravo!’ shout the company; and Smuggins, after a considerable quantity of coughing by way of symphony, and a most facetious sniff or two, which afford general delight, sings a comic song, with a fal-de-ral—tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every verse, much longer than the verse itself. It is received with unbounded applause, and after some aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says ‘Gen’l’men, we will attempt a glee, if you please.’ This announcement calls forth tumultuous applause, and the more energetic spirits express the unqualified approbation it affords them, by knocking one or two stout glasses off their legs—a humorous device; but one which frequently occasions some slight altercation when the form of paying the damage is proposed to be gone through by the waiter.

Scenes like these are continued until three or four o’clock in the morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the inquisitive novice. But as a description of all of them, however slight, would require a volume, the contents of which, however instructive, would be by no means pleasing, we make our bow, and drop the curtain.

CHAPTER III—SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

What inexhaustible food for speculation, do the streets of London afford! We never were able to agree with Sterne in pitying the man who could travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say that all was barren; we have not the slightest commiseration for the man who can take up his hat and stick, and walk from Covent-garden to St. Paul’s Churchyard, and back into the bargain, without deriving some amusement—we had almost said instruction—from his perambulation. And yet there are such beings: we meet them every day. Large black stocks and light waistcoats, jet canes and discontented countenances, are the characteristics of the race; other people brush quickly by you, steadily plodding on to business, or cheerfully running after pleasure. These men linger listlessly past, looking as happy and animated as a policeman on duty. Nothing seems to make an impression on their minds: nothing short of being knocked down by a porter, or run over by a cab, will disturb their equanimity. You will meet them on a fine day in any of the leading thoroughfares: peep through the window of a west-end cigar shop in the evening, if you can manage to get a glimpse between the blue curtains which intercept the vulgar gaze, and you see them in their only enjoyment of existence. There they are lounging about, on round tubs and pipe boxes, in all the dignity of whiskers, and gilt watch-guards; whispering soft nothings to the young lady in amber, with the large ear-rings, who, as she sits behind the counter in a blaze of adoration and gas-light, is the admiration of all the female servants in the neighbourhood, and the envy of every milliner’s apprentice within two miles round.

One of our principal amusements is to watch the gradual progress—the rise or fall—of particular shops. We have formed an intimate acquaintance with several, in different parts of town, and are perfectly acquainted with their whole history. We could name off-hand, twenty at least, which we are quite sure have paid no taxes for the last six years. They are never inhabited for more than two months consecutively, and, we verily believe, have witnessed every retail trade in the directory.

There is one, whose history is a sample of the rest, in whose fate we have taken especial interest, having had the pleasure of knowing it ever since it has been a shop. It is on the Surrey side of the water—a little distance beyond the Marsh-gate. It was originally a substantial, good-looking private house enough; the landlord got into difficulties, the house got into Chancery, the tenant went away, and the house went to ruin. At this period our acquaintance with it commenced; the paint was all worn off; the windows were broken, the area was green with neglect and the overflowings of the water-butt; the butt itself was without a lid, and the street-door was the very picture of misery. The chief pastime of the children in the vicinity had been to assemble in a body on the steps, and to take it in turn to knock loud double knocks at the door, to the great satisfaction of the neighbours generally, and especially of the nervous old lady next door but one. Numerous complaints were made, and several small basins of water discharged over the offenders, but without effect. In this state of things, the marine-store dealer at the corner of the street, in the most obliging manner took the knocker off, and sold it: and the unfortunate house looked more wretched than ever.

We deserted our friend for a few weeks. What was our surprise, on our return, to find no trace of its existence! In its place was a handsome shop, fast approaching to a state of completion, and on the shutters were large bills, informing the public that it would shortly be opened with ‘an extensive stock of linen-drapery and haberdashery.’ It opened in due course; there was the name of the proprietor ‘and Co.’ in gilt letters, almost too dazzling to look at. Such ribbons and shawls! and two such elegant young men behind the counter, each in a clean collar and white neckcloth, like the lover in a farce. As to the proprietor, he did nothing but walk up and down the shop, and hand seats to the ladies, and hold important conversations with the handsomest of the young men, who was shrewdly suspected by the neighbours to be the ‘Co.’ We saw all this with sorrow; we felt a fatal presentiment that the shop was doomed—and so it was. Its decay was slow, but sure. Tickets gradually appeared in the windows; then rolls of flannel, with labels on them, were stuck outside the door; then a bill was pasted on the street-door, intimating that the first floor was to let unfurnished; then one of the young men disappeared altogether, and the other took to a black neckerchief, and the proprietor took to drinking. The shop became dirty, broken panes of glass remained unmended, and the stock disappeared piecemeal. At last the company’s man came to cut off the water, and then the linen-draper cut off himself, leaving the landlord his compliments and the key.

The next occupant was a fancy stationer. The shop was more modestly painted than before, still it was neat; but somehow we always thought, as we passed, that it looked like a poor and struggling concern. We wished the man well, but we trembled for his success. He was a widower evidently, and had employment elsewhere, for he passed us every morning on his road to the city. The business was carried on by his eldest daughter. Poor girl! she needed no assistance. We occasionally caught a glimpse of two or three children, in mourning like herself, as they sat in the little parlour behind the shop; and we never passed at night without seeing the eldest girl at work, either for them, or in making some elegant little trifle for sale. We often thought, as her pale face looked more sad and pensive in the dim candle-light, that if those thoughtless females who interfere with the miserable market of poor creatures such as these, knew but one-half of the misery they suffer, and the bitter privations they endure, in their honourable attempts to earn a scanty subsistence, they would, perhaps, resign even opportunities for the gratification of vanity, and an immodest love of self-display, rather than drive them to a last dreadful resource, which it would shock the delicate feelings of these charitable ladies to hear named.

But we are forgetting the shop. Well, we continued to watch it, and every day showed too clearly the increasing poverty of its inmates. The children were clean, it is true, but their clothes were threadbare and shabby; no tenant had been procured for the upper part of the house, from the letting of which, a portion of the means of paying the rent was to have been derived, and a slow, wasting consumption prevented the eldest girl from continuing her exertions. Quarter-day arrived. The landlord had suffered from the extravagance of his last tenant, and he had no compassion for the struggles of his successor; he put in an execution. As we passed one morning, the broker’s men were removing the little furniture there was in the house, and a newly-posted bill informed us it was again ‘To Let.’ What became of the last tenant we never could learn; we believe the girl is past all suffering, and beyond all sorrow. God help her! We hope she is.

We were somewhat curious to ascertain what would be the next stage—for that the place had no chance of succeeding now, was perfectly clear. The bill was soon taken down, and some alterations were being made in the interior of the shop. We were in a fever of expectation; we exhausted conjecture—we imagined all possible trades, none of which were perfectly reconcilable with our idea of the gradual decay of the tenement. It opened, and we wondered why we had not guessed at the real state of the case before. The shop—not a large one at the best of times—had been converted into two: one was a bonnet-shape maker’s, the other was opened by a tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks and Sunday newspapers; the two were separated by a thin partition, covered with tawdry striped paper.

The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any tenant within our recollection. He was a red-faced, impudent, good-for-nothing dog, evidently accustomed to take things as they came, and to make the best of a bad job. He sold as many cigars as he could, and smoked the rest. He occupied the shop as long as he could make peace with the landlord, and when he could no longer live in quiet, he very coolly locked the door, and bolted himself. From this period, the two little dens have undergone innumerable changes. The tobacconist was succeeded by a theatrical hair-dresser, who ornamented the window with a great variety of ‘characters,’ and terrific combats. The bonnet-shape maker gave place to a greengrocer, and the histrionic barber was succeeded, in his turn, by a tailor. So numerous have been the changes, that we have of late done little more than mark the peculiar but certain indications of a house being poorly inhabited. It has been progressing by almost imperceptible degrees. The occupiers of the shops have gradually given up room after room, until they have only reserved the little parlour for themselves. First there appeared a brass plate on the private door, with ‘Ladies’ School’ legibly engraved thereon; shortly afterwards we observed a second brass plate, then a bell, and then another bell.

When we paused in front of our old friend, and observed these signs of poverty, which are not to be mistaken, we thought as we turned away, that the house had attained its lowest pitch of degradation. We were wrong. When we last passed it, a ‘dairy’ was established in the area, and a party of melancholy-looking fowls were amusing themselves by running in at the front door, and out at the back one.

CHAPTER IV—SCOTLAND-YARD

Scotland-yard is a small—a very small-tract of land, bounded on one side by the river Thames, on the other by the gardens of Northumberland House: abutting at one end on the bottom of Northumberland-street, at the other on the back of Whitehall-place. When this territory was first accidentally discovered by a country gentleman who lost his way in the Strand, some years ago, the original settlers were found to be a tailor, a publican, two eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker; and it was also found to contain a race of strong and bulky men, who repaired to the wharfs in Scotland-yard regularly every morning, about five or six o’clock, to fill heavy waggons with coal, with which they proceeded to distant places up the country, and supplied the inhabitants with fuel. When they had emptied their waggons, they again returned for a fresh supply; and this trade was continued throughout the year.

As the settlers derived their subsistence from ministering to the wants of these primitive traders, the articles exposed for sale, and the places where they were sold, bore strong outward marks of being expressly adapted to their tastes and wishes. The tailor displayed in his window a Lilliputian pair of leather gaiters, and a diminutive round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately garnished with a model of a coal-sack. The two eating-house keepers exhibited joints of a magnitude, and puddings of a solidity, which coalheavers alone could appreciate; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed window-board large white compositions of flour and dripping, ornamented with pink stains, giving rich promise of the fruit within, which made their huge mouths water, as they lingered past.

But the choicest spot in all Scotland-yard was the old public-house in the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted-room of ancient appearance, cheered by the glow of a mighty fire, and decorated with an enormous clock, whereof the face was white, and the figures black, sat the lusty coalheavers, quaffing large draughts of Barclay’s best, and puffing forth volumes of smoke, which wreathed heavily above their heads, and involved the room in a thick dark cloud. From this apartment might their voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the very bank of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth the burden of a popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a strength and length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above them.

Here, too, would they tell old legends of what the Thames was in ancient times, when the Patent Shot Manufactory wasn’t built, and Waterloo-bridge had never been thought of; and then they would shake their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edification of the rising generation of heavers, who crowded round them, and wondered where all this would end; whereat the tailor would take his pipe solemnly from his mouth, and say, how that he hoped it might end well, but he very much doubted whether it would or not, and couldn’t rightly tell what to make of it—a mysterious expression of opinion, delivered with a semi-prophetic air, which never failed to elicit the fullest concurrence of the assembled company; and so they would go on drinking and wondering till ten o’clock came, and with it the tailor’s wife to fetch him home, when the little party broke up, to meet again in the same room, and say and do precisely the same things, on the following evening at the same hour.

About this time the barges that came up the river began to bring vague rumours to Scotland-yard of somebody in the city having been heard to say, that the Lord Mayor had threatened in so many words to pull down the old London-bridge, and build up a new one. At first these rumours were disregarded as idle tales, wholly destitute of foundation, for nobody in Scotland-yard doubted that if the Lord Mayor contemplated any such dark design, he would just be clapped up in the Tower for a week or two, and then killed off for high treason.

By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and more frequent, and at last a barge, laden with numerous chaldrons of the best Wallsend, brought up the positive intelligence that several of the arches of the old bridge were stopped, and that preparations were actually in progress for constructing the new one. What an excitement was visible in the old tap-room on that memorable night! Each man looked into his neighbour’s face, pale with alarm and astonishment, and read therein an echo of the sentiments which filled his own breast. The oldest heaver present proved to demonstration, that the moment the piers were removed, all the water in the Thames would run clean off, and leave a dry gully in its place. What was to become of the coal-barges—of the trade of Scotland-yard—of the very existence of its population? The tailor shook his head more sagely than usual, and grimly pointing to a knife on the table, bid them wait and see what happened. He said nothing—not he; but if the Lord Mayor didn’t fall a victim to popular indignation, why he would be rather astonished; that was all.

They did wait; barge after barge arrived, and still no tidings of the assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it was done by a Duke—the King’s brother. Years passed away, and the bridge was opened by the King himself. In course of time, the piers were removed; and when the people in Scotland-yard got up next morning in the confident expectation of being able to step over to Pedlar’s Acre without wetting the soles of their shoes, they found to their unspeakable astonishment that the water was just where it used to be.

A result so different from that which they had anticipated from this first improvement, produced its full effect upon the inhabitants of Scotland-yard. One of the eating-house keepers began to court public opinion, and to look for customers among a new class of people. He covered his little dining-tables with white cloths, and got a painter’s apprentice to inscribe something about hot joints from twelve to two, in one of the little panes of his shop-window. Improvement began to march with rapid strides to the very threshold of Scotland-yard. A new market sprung up at Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners established their office in Whitehall-place. The traffic in Scotland-yard increased; fresh Members were added to the House of Commons, the Metropolitan Representatives found it a near cut, and many other foot passengers followed their example.

We marked the advance of civilisation, and beheld it with a sigh. The eating-house keeper who manfully resisted the innovation of table-cloths, was losing ground every day, as his opponent gained it, and a deadly feud sprung up between them. The genteel one no longer took his evening’s pint in Scotland-yard, but drank gin and water at a ‘parlour’ in Parliament-street. The fruit-pie maker still continued to visit the old room, but he took to smoking cigars, and began to call himself a pastrycook, and to read the papers. The old heavers still assembled round the ancient fireplace, but their talk was mournful: and the loud song and the joyous shout were heard no more.

And what is Scotland-yard now? How have its old customs changed; and how has the ancient simplicity of its inhabitants faded away! The old tottering public-house is converted into a spacious and lofty ‘wine-vaults;’ gold leaf has been used in the construction of the letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet’s art has been called into requisition, to intimate that if you drink a certain description of ale, you must hold fast by the rail. The tailor exhibits in his window the pattern of a foreign-looking brown surtout, with silk buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He wears a stripe down the outside of each leg of his trousers: and we have detected his assistants (for he has assistants now) in the act of sitting on the shop-board in the same uniform.

At the other end of the little row of houses a boot-maker has established himself in a brick box, with the additional innovation of a first floor; and here he exposes for sale, boots—real Wellington boots—an article which a few years ago, none of the original inhabitants had ever seen or heard of. It was but the other day, that a dress-maker opened another little box in the middle of the row; and, when we thought that the spirit of change could produce no alteration beyond that, a jeweller appeared, and not content with exposing gilt rings and copper bracelets out of number, put up an announcement, which still sticks in his window, that ‘ladies’ ears may be pierced within.’ The dress-maker employs a young lady who wears pockets in her apron; and the tailor informs the public that gentlemen may have their own materials made up.

Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innovation, there remains but one old man, who seems to mourn the downfall of this ancient place. He holds no converse with human kind, but, seated on a wooden bench at the angle of the wall which fronts the crossing from Whitehall-place, watches in silence the gambols of his sleek and well-fed dogs. He is the presiding genius of Scotland-yard. Years and years have rolled over his head; but, in fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or dry, hail, rain, or snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. Misery and want are depicted in his countenance; his form is bent by age, his head is grey with length of trial, but there he sits from day to day, brooding over the past; and thither he will continue to drag his feeble limbs, until his eyes have closed upon Scotland-yard, and upon the world together.

A few years hence, and the antiquary of another generation looking into some mouldy record of the strife and passions that agitated the world in these times, may glance his eye over the pages we have just filled: and not all his knowledge of the history of the past, not all his black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not all the dry studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have cost him a fortune, may help him to the whereabouts, either of Scotland-yard, or of any one of the landmarks we have mentioned in describing it.

CHAPTER V—SEVEN DIALS

We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman had not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have immortalised itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry—first effusions, and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of Catnach and of Pitts—names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown!

Look at the construction of the place. The Gordian knot was all very well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the maze at the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white neckcloths, when the difficulty of getting one on, was only to be equalled by the apparent impossibility of ever getting it off again. But what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials? Where is there such another maze of streets, courts, lanes, and alleys? Where such a pure mixture of Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have adverted. We can suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random—at a house with lodgers too—for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman in Seven Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King’s education had been neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn’t understand half the man said, he took it for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in ‘The Dials’ for the first time, and stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain and confined; and lounging at every corner, as if they came there to take a few gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is too much exhausted already, to be enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are groups of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but a regular Londoner’s with astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who having imbibed the contents of various ‘three-outs’ of gin and bitters in the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or other.

‘Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah?’ exclaims one half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. ‘Vy don’t you? if my ’usband had treated her with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I’d tear her precious eyes out—a wixen!’

‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ inquires another old woman, who has just bustled up to the spot.

‘Matter!’ replies the first speaker, talking at the obnoxious combatant, ‘matter! Here’s poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed children of her own, can’t go out a charing for one arternoon, but what hussies must be a comin’, and ’ticing avay her oun’ ’usband, as she’s been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, for I see the certificate ven I vas a drinkin’ a cup o’ tea vith her, only the werry last blessed Ven’sday as ever was sent. I ’appen’d to say promiscuously, “Mrs. Sulliwin,” says I—’

‘What do you mean by hussies?’ interrupts a champion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a branch fight on her own account (‘Hooroar,’ ejaculates a pot-boy in parenthesis, ‘put the kye-bosk on her, Mary!’), ‘What do you mean by hussies?’ reiterates the champion.

‘Niver mind,’ replies the opposition expressively, ‘niver mind; you go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, mend your stockings.’

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady’s habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the bystanders to ‘pitch in,’ with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with ‘arrival of the policemen, interior of the station-house, and impressive dénouement.’

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin-shops and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a regular bricklayer’s labourer take any other recreation, fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles’s in the evening of a week-day, there they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash, leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again, drab or light corduroy trousers, Blucher boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts. The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all day!

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through ‘the Dials’ finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling houses, with now and then an unexpected court composed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half-naked children that wallow in the kennels. Here and there, a little dark chandler’s shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door to announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age: others, as if for support, against some handsome lofty building, which usurps the place of a low dingy public-house; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants that may have flourished when ‘the Dials’ were built, in vessels as dirty as ‘the Dials’ themselves; and shops for the purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in cleanliness with the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come back again. Brokers’ shops, which would seem to have been established by humane individuals, as refuges for destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day-schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the ‘still life’ of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments.

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one’s first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is, by the same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to ‘increase and multiply’ most marvellously, generally the head of a numerous family.

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked ‘jemmy’ line, or the fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts: and he and his family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then there is an Irish labourer and his family in the back kitchen, and a jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with his family in the front one. In the front one-pair, there’s another man with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there’s ‘a young ’oman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,’ who talks a good deal about ‘my friend,’ and can’t ‘a-bear anything low.’ The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a fireplace, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, ‘to prevent mistakes,’ customers will ‘please to pay on delivery.’ The shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha’porths of ink, his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems for Mr. Warren.

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer’s evening, and saw the different women of the house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the two-pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front’s) head, when he and his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen’s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. A. ‘smacks’ Mrs. B.’s child for ‘making faces.’ Mrs. B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs. A.’s child for ‘calling names.’ The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-officer the result.

CHAPTER VI—MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

We have always entertained a particular attachment towards Monmouth-street, as the only true and real emporium for second-hand wearing apparel. Monmouth-street is venerable from its antiquity, and respectable from its usefulness. Holywell-street we despise; the red-headed and red-whiskered Jews who forcibly haul you into their squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit of clothes, whether you will or not, we detest.

The inhabitants of Monmouth-street are a distinct class; a peaceable and retiring race, who immure themselves for the most part in deep cellars, or small back parlours, and who seldom come forth into the world, except in the dusk and coolness of the evening, when they may be seen seated, in chairs on the pavement, smoking their pipes, or watching the gambols of their engaging children as they revel in the gutter, a happy troop of infantine scavengers. Their countenances bear a thoughtful and a dirty cast, certain indications of their love of traffic; and their habitations are distinguished by that disregard of outward appearance and neglect of personal comfort, so common among people who are constantly immersed in profound speculations, and deeply engaged in sedentary pursuits.

We have hinted at the antiquity of our favourite spot. ‘A Monmouth-street laced coat’ was a by-word a century ago; and still we find Monmouth-street the same. Pilot great-coats with wooden buttons, have usurped the place of the ponderous laced coats with full skirts; embroidered waistcoats with large flaps, have yielded to double-breasted checks with roll-collars; and three-cornered hats of quaint appearance, have given place to the low crowns and broad brims of the coachman school; but it is the times that have changed, not Monmouth-street. Through every alteration and every change, Monmouth-street has still remained the burial-place of the fashions; and such, to judge from all present appearances, it will remain until there are no more fashions to bury.

We love to walk among these extensive groves of the illustrious dead, and to indulge in the speculations to which they give rise; now fitting a deceased coat, then a dead pair of trousers, and anon the mortal remains of a gaudy waistcoat, upon some being of our own conjuring up, and endeavouring, from the shape and fashion of the garment itself, to bring its former owner before our mind’s eye. We have gone on speculating in this way, until whole rows of coats have started from their pegs, and buttoned up, of their own accord, round the waists of imaginary wearers; lines of trousers have jumped down to meet them; waistcoats have almost burst with anxiety to put themselves on; and half an acre of shoes have suddenly found feet to fit them, and gone stumping down the street with a noise which has fairly awakened us from our pleasant reverie, and driven us slowly away, with a bewildered stare, an object of astonishment to the good people of Monmouth-street, and of no slight suspicion to the policemen at the opposite street corner.

We were occupied in this manner the other day, endeavouring to fit a pair of lace-up half-boots on an ideal personage, for whom, to say the truth, they were full a couple of sizes too small, when our eyes happened to alight on a few suits of clothes ranged outside a shop-window, which it immediately struck us, must at different periods have all belonged to, and been worn by, the same individual, and had now, by one of those strange conjunctions of circumstances which will occur sometimes, come to be exposed together for sale in the same shop. The idea seemed a fantastic one, and we looked at the clothes again with a firm determination not to be easily led away. No, we were right; the more we looked, the more we were convinced of the accuracy of our previous impression. There was the man’s whole life written as legibly on those clothes, as if we had his autobiography engrossed on parchment before us.

The first was a patched and much-soiled skeleton suit; one of those straight blue cloth cases in which small boys used to be confined, before belts and tunics had come in, and old notions had gone out: an ingenious contrivance for displaying the full symmetry of a boy’s figure, by fastening him into a very tight jacket, with an ornamental row of buttons over each shoulder, and then buttoning his trousers over it, so as to give his legs the appearance of being hooked on, just under the armpits. This was the boy’s dress. It had belonged to a town boy, we could see; there was a shortness about the legs and arms of the suit; and a bagging at the knees, peculiar to the rising youth of London streets. A small day-school he had been at, evidently. If it had been a regular boys’ school they wouldn’t have let him play on the floor so much, and rub his knees so white. He had an indulgent mother too, and plenty of halfpence, as the numerous smears of some sticky substance about the pockets, and just below the chin, which even the salesman’s skill could not succeed in disguising, sufficiently betokened. They were decent people, but not overburdened with riches, or he would not have so far outgrown the suit when he passed into those corduroys with the round jacket; in which he went to a boys’ school, however, and learnt to write—and in ink of pretty tolerable blackness, too, if the place where he used to wipe his pen might be taken as evidence.

A black suit and the jacket changed into a diminutive coat. His father had died, and the mother had got the boy a message-lad’s place in some office. A long-worn suit that one; rusty and threadbare before it was laid aside, but clean and free from soil to the last. Poor woman! We could imagine her assumed cheerfulness over the scanty meal, and the refusal of her own small portion, that her hungry boy might have enough. Her constant anxiety for his welfare, her pride in his growth mingled sometimes with the thought, almost too acute to bear, that as he grew to be a man his old affection might cool, old kindnesses fade from his mind, and old promises be forgotten—the sharp pain that even then a careless word or a cold look would give her—all crowded on our thoughts as vividly as if the very scene were passing before us.

These things happen every hour, and we all know it; and yet we felt as much sorrow when we saw, or fancied we saw—it makes no difference which—the change that began to take place now, as if we had just conceived the bare possibility of such a thing for the first time. The next suit, smart but slovenly; meant to be gay, and yet not half so decent as the threadbare apparel; redolent of the idle lounge, and the blackguard companions, told us, we thought, that the widow’s comfort had rapidly faded away. We could imagine that coat—imagine! we could see it; we had seen it a hundred times—sauntering in company with three or four other coats of the same cut, about some place of profligate resort at night.

We dressed, from the same shop-window in an instant, half a dozen boys of from fifteen to twenty; and putting cigars into their mouths, and their hands into their pockets, watched them as they sauntered down the street, and lingered at the corner, with the obscene jest, and the oft-repeated oath. We never lost sight of them, till they had cocked their hats a little more on one side, and swaggered into the public-house; and then we entered the desolate home, where the mother sat late in the night, alone; we watched her, as she paced the room in feverish anxiety, and every now and then opened the door, looked wistfully into the dark and empty street, and again returned, to be again and again disappointed. We beheld the look of patience with which she bore the brutish threat, nay, even the drunken blow; and we heard the agony of tears that gushed from her very heart, as she sank upon her knees in her solitary and wretched apartment.

A long period had elapsed, and a greater change had taken place, by the time of casting off the suit that hung above. It was that of a stout, broad-shouldered, sturdy-chested man; and we knew at once, as anybody would, who glanced at that broad-skirted green coat, with the large metal buttons, that its wearer seldom walked forth without a dog at his heels, and some idle ruffian, the very counterpart of himself, at his side. The vices of the boy had grown with the man, and we fancied his home then—if such a place deserve the name.

We saw the bare and miserable room, destitute of furniture, crowded with his wife and children, pale, hungry, and emaciated; the man cursing their lamentations, staggering to the tap-room, from whence he had just returned, followed by his wife and a sickly infant, clamouring for bread; and heard the street-wrangle and noisy recrimination that his striking her occasioned. And then imagination led us to some metropolitan workhouse, situated in the midst of crowded streets and alleys, filled with noxious vapours, and ringing with boisterous cries, where an old and feeble woman, imploring pardon for her son, lay dying in a close dark room, with no child to clasp her hand, and no pure air from heaven to fan her brow. A stranger closed the eyes that settled into a cold unmeaning glare, and strange ears received the words that murmured from the white and half-closed lips.

A coarse round frock, with a worn cotton neckerchief, and other articles of clothing of the commonest description, completed the history. A prison, and the sentence—banishment or the gallows. What would the man have given then, to be once again the contented humble drudge of his boyish years; to have been restored to life, but for a week, a day, an hour, a minute, only for so long a time as would enable him to say one word of passionate regret to, and hear one sound of heartfelt forgiveness from, the cold and ghastly form that lay rotting in the pauper’s grave! The children wild in the streets, the mother a destitute widow; both deeply tainted with the deep disgrace of the husband and father’s name, and impelled by sheer necessity, down the precipice that had led him to a lingering death, possibly of many years’ duration, thousands of miles away. We had no clue to the end of the tale; but it was easy to guess its termination.

We took a step or two further on, and by way of restoring the naturally cheerful tone of our thoughts, began fitting visionary feet and legs into a cellar-board full of boots and shoes, with a speed and accuracy that would have astonished the most expert artist in leather, living. There was one pair of boots in particular—a jolly, good-tempered, hearty-looking pair of tops, that excited our warmest regard; and we had got a fine, red-faced, jovial fellow of a market-gardener into them, before we had made their acquaintance half a minute. They were just the very thing for him. There was his huge fat legs bulging over the tops, and fitting them too tight to admit of his tucking in the loops he had pulled them on by; and his knee-cords with an interval of stocking; and his blue apron tucked up round his waist; and his red neckerchief and blue coat, and a white hat stuck on one side of his head; and there he stood with a broad grin on his great red face, whistling away, as if any other idea but that of being happy and comfortable had never entered his brain.

This was the very man after our own heart; we knew all about him; we had seen him coming up to Covent-garden in his green chaise-cart, with the fat, tubby little horse, half a thousand times; and even while we cast an affectionate look upon his boots, at that instant, the form of a coquettish servant-maid suddenly sprung into a pair of Denmark satin shoes that stood beside them, and we at once recognised the very girl who accepted his offer of a ride, just on this side the Hammersmith suspension-bridge, the very last Tuesday morning we rode into town from Richmond.

A very smart female, in a showy bonnet, stepped into a pair of grey cloth boots, with black fringe and binding, that were studiously pointing out their toes on the other side of the top-boots, and seemed very anxious to engage his attention, but we didn’t observe that our friend the market-gardener appeared at all captivated with these blandishments; for beyond giving a knowing wink when they first began, as if to imply that he quite understood their end and object, he took no further notice of them. His indifference, however, was amply recompensed by the excessive gallantry of a very old gentleman with a silver-headed stick, who tottered into a pair of large list shoes, that were standing in one corner of the board, and indulged in a variety of gestures expressive of his admiration of the lady in the cloth boots, to the immeasurable amusement of a young fellow we put into a pair of long-quartered pumps, who we thought would have split the coat that slid down to meet him, with laughing.

We had been looking on at this little pantomime with great satisfaction for some time, when, to our unspeakable astonishment, we perceived that the whole of the characters, including a numerous corps de ballet of boots and shoes in the background, into which we had been hastily thrusting as many feet as we could press into the service, were arranging themselves in order for dancing; and some music striking up at the moment, to it they went without delay. It was perfectly delightful to witness the agility of the market-gardener. Out went the boots, first on one side, then on the other, then cutting, then shuffling, then setting to the Denmark satins, then advancing, then retreating, then going round, and then repeating the whole of the evolutions again, without appearing to suffer in the least from the violence of the exercise.

Nor were the Denmark satins a bit behindhand, for they jumped and bounded about, in all directions; and though they were neither so regular, nor so true to the time as the cloth boots, still, as they seemed to do it from the heart, and to enjoy it more, we candidly confess that we preferred their style of dancing to the other. But the old gentleman in the list shoes was the most amusing object in the whole party; for, besides his grotesque attempts to appear youthful, and amorous, which were sufficiently entertaining in themselves, the young fellow in the pumps managed so artfully that every time the old gentleman advanced to salute the lady in the cloth boots, he trod with his whole weight on the old fellow’s toes, which made him roar with anguish, and rendered all the others like to die of laughing.

We were in the full enjoyment of these festivities when we heard a shrill, and by no means musical voice, exclaim, ‘Hope you’ll know me agin, imperence!’ and on looking intently forward to see from whence the sound came, we found that it proceeded, not from the young lady in the cloth boots, as we had at first been inclined to suppose, but from a bulky lady of elderly appearance who was seated in a chair at the head of the cellar-steps, apparently for the purpose of superintending the sale of the articles arranged there.

A barrel-organ, which had been in full force close behind us, ceased playing; the people we had been fitting into the shoes and boots took to flight at the interruption; and as we were conscious that in the depth of our meditations we might have been rudely staring at the old lady for half an hour without knowing it, we took to flight too, and were soon immersed in the deepest obscurity of the adjacent ‘Dials.’

CHAPTER VII—HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

We maintain that hackney-coaches, properly so called, belong solely to the metropolis. We may be told, that there are hackney-coach stands in Edinburgh; and not to go quite so far for a contradiction to our position, we may be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester, ‘and other large towns’ (as the Parliamentary phrase goes), have their hackney-coach stands. We readily concede to these places the possession of certain vehicles, which may look almost as dirty, and even go almost as slowly, as London hackney-coaches; but that they have the slightest claim to compete with the metropolis, either in point of stands, drivers, or cattle, we indignantly deny.

Take a regular, ponderous, rickety, London hackney-coach of the old school, and let any man have the boldness to assert, if he can, that he ever beheld any object on the face of the earth which at all resembles it, unless, indeed, it were another hackney-coach of the same date. We have recently observed on certain stands, and we say it with deep regret, rather dapper green chariots, and coaches of polished yellow, with four wheels of the same colour as the coach, whereas it is perfectly notorious to every one who has studied the subject, that every wheel ought to be of a different colour, and a different size. These are innovations, and, like other miscalled improvements, awful signs of the restlessness of the public mind, and the little respect paid to our time-honoured institutions. Why should hackney-coaches be clean? Our ancestors found them dirty, and left them so. Why should we, with a feverish wish to ‘keep moving,’ desire to roll along at the rate of six miles an hour, while they were content to rumble over the stones at four? These are solemn considerations. Hackney-coaches are part and parcel of the law of the land; they were settled by the Legislature; plated and numbered by the wisdom of Parliament.

Then why have they been swamped by cabs and omnibuses? Or why should people be allowed to ride quickly for eightpence a mile, after Parliament had come to the solemn decision that they should pay a shilling a mile for riding slowly? We pause for a reply;—and, having no chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph.

Our acquaintance with hackney-coach stands is of long standing. We are a walking book of fares, feeling ourselves, half bound, as it were, to be always in the right on contested points. We know all the regular watermen within three miles of Covent-garden by sight, and should be almost tempted to believe that all the hackney-coach horses in that district knew us by sight too, if one-half of them were not blind. We take great interest in hackney-coaches, but we seldom drive, having a knack of turning ourselves over when we attempt to do so. We are as great friends to horses, hackney-coach and otherwise, as the renowned Mr. Martin, of costermonger notoriety, and yet we never ride. We keep no horse, but a clothes-horse; enjoy no saddle so much as a saddle of mutton; and, following our own inclinations, have never followed the hounds. Leaving these fleeter means of getting over the ground, or of depositing oneself upon it, to those who like them, by hackney-coach stands we take our stand.

There is a hackney-coach stand under the very window at which we are writing; there is only one coach on it now, but it is a fair specimen of the class of vehicles to which we have alluded—a great, lumbering, square concern of a dingy yellow colour (like a bilious brunette), with very small glasses, but very large frames; the panels are ornamented with a faded coat of arms, in shape something like a dissected bat, the axletree is red, and the majority of the wheels are green. The box is partially covered by an old great-coat, with a multiplicity of capes, and some extraordinary-looking clothes; and the straw, with which the canvas cushion is stuffed, is sticking up in several places, as if in rivalry of the hay, which is peeping through the chinks in the boot. The horses, with drooping heads, and each with a mane and tail as scanty and straggling as those of a worn-out rocking-horse, are standing patiently on some damp straw, occasionally wincing, and rattling the harness; and now and then, one of them lifts his mouth to the ear of his companion, as if he were saying, in a whisper, that he should like to assassinate the coachman. The coachman himself is in the watering-house; and the waterman, with his hands forced into his pockets as far as they can possibly go, is dancing the ‘double shuffle,’ in front of the pump, to keep his feet warm.

The servant-girl, with the pink ribbons, at No. 5, opposite, suddenly opens the street-door, and four small children forthwith rush out, and scream ‘Coach!’ with all their might and main. The waterman darts from the pump, seizes the horses by their respective bridles, and drags them, and the coach too, round to the house, shouting all the time for the coachman at the very top, or rather very bottom of his voice, for it is a deep bass growl. A response is heard from the tap-room; the coachman, in his wooden-soled shoes, makes the street echo again as he runs across it; and then there is such a struggling, and backing, and grating of the kennel, to get the coach-door opposite the house-door, that the children are in perfect ecstasies of delight. What a commotion! The old lady, who has been stopping there for the last month, is going back to the country. Out comes box after box, and one side of the vehicle is filled with luggage in no time; the children get into everybody’s way, and the youngest, who has upset himself in his attempts to carry an umbrella, is borne off wounded and kicking. The youngsters disappear, and a short pause ensues, during which the old lady is, no doubt, kissing them all round in the back parlour. She appears at last, followed by her married daughter, all the children, and both the servants, who, with the joint assistance of the coachman and waterman, manage to get her safely into the coach. A cloak is handed in, and a little basket, which we could almost swear contains a small black bottle, and a paper of sandwiches. Up go the steps, bang goes the door, ‘Golden-cross, Charing-cross, Tom,’ says the waterman; ‘Good-bye, grandma,’ cry the children, off jingles the coach at the rate of three miles an hour, and the mamma and children retire into the house, with the exception of one little villain, who runs up the street at the top of his speed, pursued by the servant; not ill-pleased to have such an opportunity of displaying her attractions. She brings him back, and, after casting two or three gracious glances across the way, which are either intended for us or the potboy (we are not quite certain which), shuts the door, and the hackney-coach stand is again at a standstill.

We have been frequently amused with the intense delight with which ‘a servant of all work,’ who is sent for a coach, deposits herself inside; and the unspeakable gratification which boys, who have been despatched on a similar errand, appear to derive from mounting the box. But we never recollect to have been more amused with a hackney-coach party, than one we saw early the other morning in Tottenham-court-road. It was a wedding-party, and emerged from one of the inferior streets near Fitzroy-square. There were the bride, with a thin white dress, and a great red face; and the bridesmaid, a little, dumpy, good-humoured young woman, dressed, of course, in the same appropriate costume; and the bridegroom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow waist-coats, white trousers, and Berlin gloves to match. They stopped at the corner of the street, and called a coach with an air of indescribable dignity. The moment they were in, the bridesmaid threw a red shawl, which she had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently over the number on the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into the belief that the hackney-coach was a private carriage; and away they went, perfectly satisfied that the imposition was successful, and quite unconscious that there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a plate as large as a schoolboy’s slate. A shilling a mile!—the ride was worth five, at least, to them.

What an interesting book a hackney-coach might produce, if it could carry as much in its head as it does in its body! The autobiography of a broken-down hackney-coach, would surely be as amusing as the autobiography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist; and it might tell as much of its travels with the pole, as others have of their expeditions to it. How many stories might be related of the different people it had conveyed on matters of business or profit—pleasure or pain! And how many melancholy tales of the same people at different periods! The country-girl—the showy, over-dressed woman—the drunken prostitute! The raw apprentice—the dissipated spendthrift—the thief!

Talk of cabs! Cabs are all very well in cases of expedition, when it’s a matter of neck or nothing, life or death, your temporary home or your long one. But, besides a cab’s lacking that gravity of deportment which so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach, let it never be forgotten that a cab is a thing of yesterday, and that he never was anything better. A hackney-cab has always been a hackney-cab, from his first entry into life; whereas a hackney-coach is a remnant of past gentility, a victim to fashion, a hanger-on of an old English family, wearing their arms, and, in days of yore, escorted by men wearing their livery, stripped of his finery, and thrown upon the world, like a once-smart footman when he is no longer sufficiently juvenile for his office, progressing lower and lower in the scale of four-wheeled degradation, until at last it comes to—a stand!

CHAPTER VIII—DOCTORS’ COMMONS

Walking without any definite object through St. Paul’s Churchyard, a little while ago, we happened to turn down a street entitled ‘Paul’s-chain,’ and keeping straight forward for a few hundred yards, found ourself, as a natural consequence, in Doctors’ Commons. Now Doctors’ Commons being familiar by name to everybody, as the place where they grant marriage-licenses to love-sick couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones; register the wills of people who have any property to leave, and punish hasty gentlemen who call ladies by unpleasant names, we no sooner discovered that we were really within its precincts, than we felt a laudable desire to become better acquainted therewith; and as the first object of our curiosity was the Court, whose decrees can even unloose the bonds of matrimony, we procured a direction to it; and bent our steps thither without delay.

Crossing a quiet and shady court-yard, paved with stone, and frowned upon by old red brick houses, on the doors of which were painted the names of sundry learned civilians, we paused before a small, green-baized, brass-headed-nailed door, which yielding to our gentle push, at once admitted us into an old quaint-looking apartment, with sunken windows, and black carved wainscoting, at the upper end of which, seated on a raised platform, of semicircular shape, were about a dozen solemn-looking gentlemen, in crimson gowns and wigs.

At a more elevated desk in the centre, sat a very fat and red-faced gentleman, in tortoise-shell spectacles, whose dignified appearance announced the judge; and round a long green-baized table below, something like a billiard-table without the cushions and pockets, were a number of very self-important-looking personages, in stiff neckcloths, and black gowns with white fur collars, whom we at once set down as proctors. At the lower end of the billiard-table was an individual in an arm-chair, and a wig, whom we afterwards discovered to be the registrar; and seated behind a little desk, near the door, were a respectable-looking man in black, of about twenty-stone weight or thereabouts, and a fat-faced, smirking, civil-looking body, in a black gown, black kid gloves, knee shorts, and silks, with a shirt-frill in his bosom, curls on his head, and a silver staff in his hand, whom we had no difficulty in recognising as the officer of the Court. The latter, indeed, speedily set our mind at rest upon this point, for, advancing to our elbow, and opening a conversation forthwith, he had communicated to us, in less than five minutes, that he was the apparitor, and the other the court-keeper; that this was the Arches Court, and therefore the counsel wore red gowns, and the proctors fur collars; and that when the other Courts sat there, they didn’t wear red gowns or fur collars either; with many other scraps of intelligence equally interesting. Besides these two officers, there was a little thin old man, with long grizzly hair, crouched in a remote corner, whose duty, our communicative friend informed us, was to ring a large hand-bell when the Court opened in the morning, and who, for aught his appearance betokened to the contrary, might have been similarly employed for the last two centuries at least.

The red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles had got all the talk to himself just then, and very well he was doing it, too, only he spoke very fast, but that was habit; and rather thick, but that was good living. So we had plenty of time to look about us. There was one individual who amused us mightily. This was one of the bewigged gentlemen in the red robes, who was straddling before the fire in the centre of the Court, in the attitude of the brazen Colossus, to the complete exclusion of everybody else. He had gathered up his robe behind, in much the same manner as a slovenly woman would her petticoats on a very dirty day, in order that he might feel the full warmth of the fire. His wig was put on all awry, with the tail straggling about his neck; his scanty grey trousers and short black gaiters, made in the worst possible style, imported an additional inelegant appearance to his uncouth person; and his limp, badly-starched shirt-collar almost obscured his eyes. We shall never be able to claim any credit as a physiognomist again, for, after a careful scrutiny of this gentleman’s countenance, we had come to the conclusion that it bespoke nothing but conceit and silliness, when our friend with the silver staff whispered in our ear that he was no other than a doctor of civil law, and heaven knows what besides. So of course we were mistaken, and he must be a very talented man. He conceals it so well though—perhaps with the merciful view of not astonishing ordinary people too much—that you would suppose him to be one of the stupidest dogs alive.

The gentleman in the spectacles having concluded his judgment, and a few minutes having been allowed to elapse, to afford time for the buzz of the Court to subside, the registrar called on the next cause, which was ‘the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple against Sludberry.’ A general movement was visible in the Court, at this announcement, and the obliging functionary with silver staff whispered us that ‘there would be some fun now, for this was a brawling case.’

We were not rendered much the wiser by this piece of information, till we found by the opening speech of the counsel for the promoter, that, under a half-obsolete statute of one of the Edwards, the court was empowered to visit with the penalty of excommunication, any person who should be proved guilty of the crime of ‘brawling,’ or ‘smiting,’ in any church, or vestry adjoining thereto; and it appeared, by some eight-and-twenty affidavits, which were duly referred to, that on a certain night, at a certain vestry-meeting, in a certain parish particularly set forth, Thomas Sludberry, the party appeared against in that suit, had made use of, and applied to Michael Bumple, the promoter, the words ‘You be blowed;’ and that, on the said Michael Bumple and others remonstrating with the said Thomas Sludberry, on the impropriety of his conduct, the said Thomas Sludberry repeated the aforesaid expression, ‘You be blowed;’ and furthermore desired and requested to know, whether the said Michael Bumple ‘wanted anything for himself;’ adding, ‘that if the said Michael Bumple did want anything for himself, he, the said Thomas Sludberry, was the man to give it him;’ at the same time making use of other heinous and sinful expressions, all of which, Bumple submitted, came within the intent and meaning of the Act; and therefore he, for the soul’s health and chastening of Sludberry, prayed for sentence of excommunication against him accordingly.

Upon these facts a long argument was entered into, on both sides, to the great edification of a number of persons interested in the parochial squabbles, who crowded the court; and when some very long and grave speeches had been made pro and con, the red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles took a review of the case, which occupied half an hour more, and then pronounced upon Sludberry the awful sentence of excommunication for a fortnight, and payment of the costs of the suit. Upon this, Sludberry, who was a little, red-faced, sly-looking, ginger-beer seller, addressed the court, and said, if they’d be good enough to take off the costs, and excommunicate him for the term of his natural life instead, it would be much more convenient to him, for he never went to church at all. To this appeal the gentleman in the spectacles made no other reply than a look of virtuous indignation; and Sludberry and his friends retired. As the man with the silver staff informed us that the court was on the point of rising, we retired too—pondering, as we walked away, upon the beautiful spirit of these ancient ecclesiastical laws, the kind and neighbourly feelings they are calculated to awaken, and the strong attachment to religious institutions which they cannot fail to engender.

We were so lost in these meditations, that we had turned into the street, and run up against a door-post, before we recollected where we were walking. On looking upwards to see what house we had stumbled upon, the words ‘Prerogative-Office,’ written in large characters, met our eye; and as we were in a sight-seeing humour and the place was a public one, we walked in.

The room into which we walked, was a long, busy-looking place, partitioned off, on either side, into a variety of little boxes, in which a few clerks were engaged in copying or examining deeds. Down the centre of the room were several desks nearly breast high, at each of which, three or four people were standing, poring over large volumes. As we knew that they were searching for wills, they attracted our attention at once.

It was curious to contrast the lazy indifference of the attorneys’ clerks who were making a search for some legal purpose, with the air of earnestness and interest which distinguished the strangers to the place, who were looking up the will of some deceased relative; the former pausing every now and then with an impatient yawn, or raising their heads to look at the people who passed up and down the room; the latter stooping over the book, and running down column after column of names in the deepest abstraction.

There was one little dirty-faced man in a blue apron, who after a whole morning’s search, extending some fifty years back, had just found the will to which he wished to refer, which one of the officials was reading to him in a low hurried voice from a thick vellum book with large clasps. It was perfectly evident that the more the clerk read, the less the man with the blue apron understood about the matter. When the volume was first brought down, he took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, smiled with great self-satisfaction, and looked up in the reader’s face with the air of a man who had made up his mind to recollect every word he heard. The first two or three lines were intelligible enough; but then the technicalities began, and the little man began to look rather dubious. Then came a whole string of complicated trusts, and he was regularly at sea. As the reader proceeded, it was quite apparent that it was a hopeless case, and the little man, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his face, looked on with an expression of bewilderment and perplexity irresistibly ludicrous.

A little further on, a hard-featured old man with a deeply-wrinkled face, was intently perusing a lengthy will with the aid of a pair of horn spectacles: occasionally pausing from his task, and slily noting down some brief memorandum of the bequests contained in it. Every wrinkle about his toothless mouth, and sharp keen eyes, told of avarice and cunning. His clothes were nearly threadbare, but it was easy to see that he wore them from choice and not from necessity; all his looks and gestures down to the very small pinches of snuff which he every now and then took from a little tin canister, told of wealth, and penury, and avarice.

As he leisurely closed the register, put up his spectacles, and folded his scraps of paper in a large leathern pocket-book, we thought what a nice hard bargain he was driving with some poverty-stricken legatee, who, tired of waiting year after year, until some life-interest should fall in, was selling his chance, just as it began to grow most valuable, for a twelfth part of its worth. It was a good speculation—a very safe one. The old man stowed his pocket-book carefully in the breast of his great-coat, and hobbled away with a leer of triumph. That will had made him ten years younger at the lowest computation.

Having commenced our observations, we should certainly have extended them to another dozen of people at least, had not a sudden shutting up and putting away of the worm-eaten old books, warned us that the time for closing the office had arrived; and thus deprived us of a pleasure, and spared our readers an infliction.

We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked homewards, upon the curious old records of likings and dislikings; of jealousies and revenges; of affection defying the power of death, and hatred pursued beyond the grave, which these depositories contain; silent but striking tokens, some of them, of excellence of heart, and nobleness of soul; melancholy examples, others, of the worst passions of human nature. How many men as they lay speechless and helpless on the bed of death, would have given worlds but for the strength and power to blot out the silent evidence of animosity and bitterness, which now stands registered against them in Doctors’ Commons!

CHAPTER IX—LONDON RECREATIONS

The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life, to ape the manners and customs of those whom fortune has placed above them, is often the subject of remark, and not unfrequently of complaint. The inclination may, and no doubt does, exist to a great extent, among the small gentility—the would-be aristocrats—of the middle classes. Tradesmen and clerks, with fashionable novel-reading families, and circulating-library-subscribing daughters, get up small assemblies in humble imitation of Almack’s, and promenade the dingy ‘large room’ of some second-rate hotel with as much complacency as the enviable few who are privileged to exhibit their magnificence in that exclusive haunt of fashion and foolery. Aspiring young ladies, who read flaming accounts of some ‘fancy fair in high life,’ suddenly grow desperately charitable; visions of admiration and matrimony float before their eyes; some wonderfully meritorious institution, which, by the strangest accident in the world, has never been heard of before, is discovered to be in a languishing condition: Thomson’s great room, or Johnson’s nursery-ground, is forthwith engaged, and the aforesaid young ladies, from mere charity, exhibit themselves for three days, from twelve to four, for the small charge of one shilling per head! With the exception of these classes of society, however, and a few weak and insignificant persons, we do not think the attempt at imitation to which we have alluded, prevails in any great degree. The different character of the recreations of different classes, has often afforded us amusement; and we have chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the hope that it may possess some amusement for our readers.

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd’s at five o’clock, and drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-hill, or elsewhere, can be said to have any daily recreation beyond his dinner, it is his garden. He never does anything to it with his own hands; but he takes great pride in it notwithstanding; and if you are desirous of paying your addresses to the youngest daughter, be sure to be in raptures with every flower and shrub it contains. If your poverty of expression compel you to make any distinction between the two, we would certainly recommend your bestowing more admiration on his garden than his wine. He always takes a walk round it, before he starts for town in the morning, and is particularly anxious that the fish-pond should be kept specially neat. If you call on him on Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before dinner, you will find him sitting in an arm-chair, on the lawn behind the house, with a straw hat on, reading a Sunday paper. A short distance from him you will most likely observe a handsome paroquet in a large brass-wire cage; ten to one but the two eldest girls are loitering in one of the side walks accompanied by a couple of young gentlemen, who are holding parasols over them—of course only to keep the sun off—while the younger children, with the under nursery-maid, are strolling listlessly about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions, his delight in his garden appears to arise more from the consciousness of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When he drives you down to dinner on a week-day, he is rather fatigued with the occupations of the morning, and tolerably cross into the bargain; but when the cloth is removed, and he has drank three or four glasses of his favourite port, he orders the French windows of his dining-room (which of course look into the garden) to be opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over his head, and leaning back in his arm-chair, descants at considerable length upon its beauty, and the cost of maintaining it. This is to impress you—who are a young friend of the family—with a due sense of the excellence of the garden, and the wealth of its owner; and when he has exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep.

There is another and a very different class of men, whose recreation is their garden. An individual of this class, resides some short distance from town—say in the Hampstead-road, or the Kilburn-road, or any other road where the houses are small and neat, and have little slips of back garden. He and his wife—who is as clean and compact a little body as himself—have occupied the same house ever since he retired from business twenty years ago. They have no family. They once had a son, who died at about five years old. The child’s portrait hangs over the mantelpiece in the best sitting-room, and a little cart he used to draw about, is carefully preserved as a relic.

In fine weather the old gentleman is almost constantly in the garden; and when it is too wet to go into it, he will look out of the window at it, by the hour together. He has always something to do there, and you will see him digging, and sweeping, and cutting, and planting, with manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no end to the sowing of seeds, and sticking little bits of wood over them, with labels, which look like epitaphs to their memory; and in the evening, when the sun has gone down, the perseverance with which he lugs a great watering-pot about is perfectly astonishing. The only other recreation he has, is the newspaper, which he peruses every day, from beginning to end, generally reading the most interesting pieces of intelligence to his wife, during breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the hyacinth-glasses in the parlour-window, and geranium-pots in the little front court, testify. She takes great pride in the garden too: and when one of the four fruit-trees produces rather a larger gooseberry than usual, it is carefully preserved under a wine-glass on the sideboard, for the edification of visitors, who are duly informed that Mr. So-and-so planted the tree which produced it, with his own hands. On a summer’s evening, when the large watering-pot has been filled and emptied some fourteen times, and the old couple have quite exhausted themselves by trotting about, you will see them sitting happily together in the little summerhouse, enjoying the calm and peace of the twilight, and watching the shadows as they fall upon the garden, and gradually growing thicker and more sombre, obscure the tints of their gayest flowers—no bad emblem of the years that have silently rolled over their heads, deadening in their course the brightest hues of early hopes and feelings which have long since faded away. These are their only recreations, and they require no more. They have within themselves, the materials of comfort and content; and the only anxiety of each, is to die before the other.

This is no ideal sketch. There used to be many old people of this description; their numbers may have diminished, and may decrease still more. Whether the course female education has taken of late days—whether the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty nothings, has tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life, in which they show far more beautifully than in the most crowded assembly, is a question we should feel little gratification in discussing: we hope not.

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London population, whose recreations present about as strong a contrast as can well be conceived—we mean the Sunday pleasurers; and let us beg our readers to imagine themselves stationed by our side in some well-known rural ‘Tea-gardens.’

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of whom there are additional parties arriving every moment, look as warm as the tables which have been recently painted, and have the appearance of being red-hot. What a dust and noise! Men and women—boys and girls—sweethearts and married people—babies in arms, and children in chaises—pipes and shrimps—cigars and periwinkles—tea and tobacco. Gentlemen, in alarming waistcoats, and steel watch-guards, promenading about, three abreast, with surprising dignity (or as the gentleman in the next box facetiously observes, ‘cutting it uncommon fat!’)—ladies, with great, long, white pocket-handkerchiefs like small table-cloths, in their hands, chasing one another on the grass in the most playful and interesting manner, with the view of attracting the attention of the aforesaid gentlemen—husbands in perspective ordering bottles of ginger-beer for the objects of their affections, with a lavish disregard of expense; and the said objects washing down huge quantities of ‘shrimps’ and ‘winkles,’ with an equal disregard of their own bodily health and subsequent comfort—boys, with great silk hats just balanced on the top of their heads, smoking cigars, and trying to look as if they liked them—gentlemen in pink shirts and blue waistcoats, occasionally upsetting either themselves, or somebody else, with their own canes.

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, but they are all clean, and happy, and disposed to be good-natured and sociable. Those two motherly-looking women in the smart pelisses, who are chatting so confidentially, inserting a ‘ma’am’ at every fourth word, scraped an acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago: it originated in admiration of the little boy who belongs to one of them—that diminutive specimen of mortality in the three-cornered pink satin hat with black feathers. The two men in the blue coats and drab trousers, who are walking up and down, smoking their pipes, are their husbands. The party in the opposite box are a pretty fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These are the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young man and woman, and an individual addressed by the euphonious title of ‘Uncle Bill,’ who is evidently the wit of the party. They have some half-dozen children with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice the fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman in ‘the gardens,’ who has been married for any length of time, must have had twins on two or three occasions; it is impossible to account for the extent of juvenile population in any other way.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle Bill’s splendid joke of ‘tea for four: bread-and-butter for forty;’ and the loud explosion of mirth which follows his wafering a paper ‘pigtail’ on the waiter’s collar. The young man is evidently ‘keeping company’ with Uncle Bill’s niece: and Uncle Bill’s hints—such as ‘Don’t forget me at the dinner, you know,’ ‘I shall look out for the cake, Sally,’ ‘I’ll be godfather to your first—wager it’s a boy,’ and so forth, are equally embarrassing to the young people, and delightful to the elder ones. As to the old grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the ‘gin-and-water warm with,’ of which Uncle Bill ordered ‘glasses round’ after tea, ‘just to keep the night air out, and to do it up comfortable and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot day!’

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field leading to town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are dragged wearily along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves and the company generally by crying, or resort to the much more pleasant expedient of going to sleep—the mothers begin to wish they were at home again—sweethearts grow more sentimental than ever, as the time for parting arrives—the gardens look mournful enough, by the light of the two lanterns which hang against the trees for the convenience of smokers—and the waiters who have been running about incessantly for the last six hours, think they feel a little tired, as they count their glasses and their gains.

CHAPTER X—THE RIVER

‘Are you fond of the water?’ is a question very frequently asked, in hot summer weather, by amphibious-looking young men. ‘Very,’ is the general reply. ‘An’t you?’—‘Hardly ever off it,’ is the response, accompanied by sundry adjectives, expressive of the speaker’s heartfelt admiration of that element. Now, with all respect for the opinion of society in general, and cutter clubs in particular, we humbly suggest that some of the most painful reminiscences in the mind of every individual who has occasionally disported himself on the Thames, must be connected with his aquatic recreations. Who ever heard of a successful water-party?—or to put the question in a still more intelligible form, who ever saw one? We have been on water excursions out of number, but we solemnly declare that we cannot call to mind one single occasion of the kind, which was not marked by more miseries than any one would suppose could be reasonably crowded into the space of some eight or nine hours. Something has always gone wrong. Either the cork of the salad-dressing has come out, or the most anxiously expected member of the party has not come out, or the most disagreeable man in company would come out, or a child or two have fallen into the water, or the gentleman who undertook to steer has endangered everybody’s life all the way, or the gentlemen who volunteered to row have been ‘out of practice,’ and performed very alarming evolutions, putting their oars down into the water and not being able to get them up again, or taking terrific pulls without putting them in at all; in either case, pitching over on the backs of their heads with startling violence, and exhibiting the soles of their pumps to the ‘sitters’ in the boat, in a very humiliating manner.

We grant that the banks of the Thames are very beautiful at Richmond and Twickenham, and other distant havens, often sought though seldom reached; but from the ‘Red-us’ back to Blackfriars-bridge, the scene is wonderfully changed. The Penitentiary is a noble building, no doubt, and the sportive youths who ‘go in’ at that particular part of the river, on a summer’s evening, may be all very well in perspective; but when you are obliged to keep in shore coming home, and the young ladies will colour up, and look perseveringly the other way, while the married dittos cough slightly, and stare very hard at the water, you feel awkward—especially if you happen to have been attempting the most distant approach to sentimentality, for an hour or two previously.

Although experience and suffering have produced in our minds the result we have just stated, we are by no means blind to a proper sense of the fun which a looker-on may extract from the amateurs of boating. What can be more amusing than Searle’s yard on a fine Sunday morning? It’s a Richmond tide, and some dozen boats are preparing for the reception of the parties who have engaged them. Two or three fellows in great rough trousers and Guernsey shirts, are getting them ready by easy stages; now coming down the yard with a pair of sculls and a cushion—then having a chat with the ‘Jack,’ who, like all his tribe, seems to be wholly incapable of doing anything but lounging about—then going back again, and returning with a rudder-line and a stretcher—then solacing themselves with another chat—and then wondering, with their hands in their capacious pockets, ‘where them gentlemen’s got to as ordered the six.’ One of these, the head man, with the legs of his trousers carefully tucked up at the bottom, to admit the water, we presume—for it is an element in which he is infinitely more at home than on land—is quite a character, and shares with the defunct oyster-swallower the celebrated name of ‘Dando.’ Watch him, as taking a few minutes’ respite from his toils, he negligently seats himself on the edge of a boat, and fans his broad bushy chest with a cap scarcely half so furry. Look at his magnificent, though reddish whiskers, and mark the somewhat native humour with which he ‘chaffs’ the boys and ’prentices, or cunningly gammons the gen’lm’n into the gift of a glass of gin, of which we verily believe he swallows in one day as much as any six ordinary men, without ever being one atom the worse for it.

But the party arrives, and Dando, relieved from his state of uncertainty, starts up into activity. They approach in full aquatic costume, with round blue jackets, striped shirts, and caps of all sizes and patterns, from the velvet skull-cap of French manufacture, to the easy head-dress familiar to the students of the old spelling-books, as having, on the authority of the portrait, formed part of the costume of the Reverend Mr. Dilworth.

This is the most amusing time to observe a regular Sunday water-party. There has evidently been up to this period no inconsiderable degree of boasting on everybody’s part relative to his knowledge of navigation; the sight of the water rapidly cools their courage, and the air of self-denial with which each of them insists on somebody else’s taking an oar, is perfectly delightful. At length, after a great deal of changing and fidgeting, consequent upon the election of a stroke-oar: the inability of one gentleman to pull on this side, of another to pull on that, and of a third to pull at all, the boat’s crew are seated. ‘Shove her off!’ cries the cockswain, who looks as easy and comfortable as if he were steering in the Bay of Biscay. The order is obeyed; the boat is immediately turned completely round, and proceeds towards Westminster-bridge, amidst such a splashing and struggling as never was seen before, except when the Royal George went down. ‘Back wa’ater, sir,’ shouts Dando, ‘Back wa’ater, you sir, aft;’ upon which everybody thinking he must be the individual referred to, they all back water, and back comes the boat, stern first, to the spot whence it started. ‘Back water, you sir, aft; pull round, you sir, for’ad, can’t you?’ shouts Dando, in a frenzy of excitement. ‘Pull round, Tom, can’t you?’ re-echoes one of the party. ‘Tom an’t for’ad,’ replies another. ‘Yes, he is,’ cries a third; and the unfortunate young man, at the imminent risk of breaking a blood-vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the boat fairly lies in the direction of Vauxhall-bridge. ‘That’s right—now pull all on you!’ shouts Dando again, adding, in an under-tone, to somebody by him, ‘Blowed if hever I see sich a set of muffs!’ and away jogs the boat in a zigzag direction, every one of the six oars dipping into the water at a different time; and the yard is once more clear, until the arrival of the next party.

A well-contested rowing-match on the Thames, is a very lively and interesting scene. The water is studded with boats of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions; places in the coal-barges at the different wharfs are let to crowds of spectators, beer and tobacco flow freely about; men, women, and children wait for the start in breathless expectation; cutters of six and eight oars glide gently up and down, waiting to accompany their protégés during the race; bands of music add to the animation, if not to the harmony of the scene; groups of watermen are assembled at the different stairs, discussing the merits of the respective candidates; and the prize wherry, which is rowed slowly about by a pair of sculls, is an object of general interest.

Two o’clock strikes, and everybody looks anxiously in the direction of the bridge through which the candidates for the prize will come—half-past two, and the general attention which has been preserved so long begins to flag, when suddenly a gun is heard, and a noise of distant hurra’ing along each bank of the river—every head is bent forward—the noise draws nearer and nearer—the boats which have been waiting at the bridge start briskly up the river, and a well-manned galley shoots through the arch, the sitters cheering on the boats behind them, which are not yet visible.

‘Here they are,’ is the general cry—and through darts the first boat, the men in her, stripped to the skin, and exerting every muscle to preserve the advantage they have gained—four other boats follow close astern; there are not two boats’ length between them—the shouting is tremendous, and the interest intense. ‘Go on, Pink’—‘Give it her, Red’—‘Sulliwin for ever’—‘Bravo! George’—‘Now, Tom, now—now—now—why don’t your partner stretch out?’—‘Two pots to a pint on Yellow,’ &c., &c. Every little public-house fires its gun, and hoists its flag; and the men who win the heat, come in, amidst a splashing and shouting, and banging and confusion, which no one can imagine who has not witnessed it, and of which any description would convey a very faint idea.

One of the most amusing places we know is the steam-wharf of the London Bridge, or St. Katharine’s Dock Company, on a Saturday morning in summer, when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are usually crowded to excess; and as we have just taken a glance at the river above bridge, we hope our readers will not object to accompany us on board a Gravesend packet.

Coaches are every moment setting down at the entrance to the wharf, and the stare of bewildered astonishment with which the ‘fares’ resign themselves and their luggage into the hands of the porters, who seize all the packages at once as a matter of course, and run away with them, heaven knows where, is laughable in the extreme. A Margate boat lies alongside the wharf, the Gravesend boat (which starts first) lies alongside that again; and as a temporary communication is formed between the two, by means of a plank and hand-rail, the natural confusion of the scene is by no means diminished.

‘Gravesend?’ inquires a stout father of a stout family, who follow him, under the guidance of their mother, and a servant, at the no small risk of two or three of them being left behind in the confusion. ‘Gravesend?’

‘Pass on, if you please, sir,’ replies the attendant—‘other boat, sir.’

Hereupon the stout father, being rather mystified, and the stout mother rather distracted by maternal anxiety, the whole party deposit themselves in the Margate boat, and after having congratulated himself on having secured very comfortable seats, the stout father sallies to the chimney to look for his luggage, which he has a faint recollection of having given some man, something, to take somewhere. No luggage, however, bearing the most remote resemblance to his own, in shape or form, is to be discovered; on which the stout father calls very loudly for an officer, to whom he states the case, in the presence of another father of another family—a little thin man—who entirely concurs with him (the stout father) in thinking that it’s high time something was done with these steam companies, and that as the Corporation Bill failed to do it, something else must; for really people’s property is not to be sacrificed in this way; and that if the luggage isn’t restored without delay, he will take care it shall be put in the papers, for the public is not to be the victim of these great monopolies. To this, the officer, in his turn, replies, that that company, ever since it has been St. Kat’rine’s Dock Company, has protected life and property; that if it had been the London Bridge Wharf Company, indeed, he shouldn’t have wondered, seeing that the morality of that company (they being the opposition) can’t be answered for, by no one; but as it is, he’s convinced there must be some mistake, and he wouldn’t mind making a solemn oath afore a magistrate that the gentleman’ll find his luggage afore he gets to Margate.

Here the stout father, thinking he is making a capital point, replies, that as it happens, he is not going to Margate at all, and that ‘Passenger to Gravesend’ was on the luggage, in letters of full two inches long; on which the officer rapidly explains the mistake, and the stout mother, and the stout children, and the servant, are hurried with all possible despatch on board the Gravesend boat, which they reached just in time to discover that their luggage is there, and that their comfortable seats are not. Then the bell, which is the signal for the Gravesend boat starting, begins to ring most furiously: and people keep time to the bell, by running in and out of our boat at a double-quick pace. The bell stops; the boat starts: people who have been taking leave of their friends on board, are carried away against their will; and people who have been taking leave of their friends on shore, find that they have performed a very needless ceremony, in consequence of their not being carried away at all. The regular passengers, who have season tickets, go below to breakfast; people who have purchased morning papers, compose themselves to read them; and people who have not been down the river before, think that both the shipping and the water, look a great deal better at a distance.

When we get down about as far as Blackwall, and begin to move at a quicker rate, the spirits of the passengers appear to rise in proportion. Old women who have brought large wicker hand-baskets with them, set seriously to work at the demolition of heavy sandwiches, and pass round a wine-glass, which is frequently replenished from a flat bottle like a stomach-warmer, with considerable glee: handing it first to the gentleman in the foraging-cap, who plays the harp—partly as an expression of satisfaction with his previous exertions, and partly to induce him to play ‘Dumbledumbdeary,’ for ‘Alick’ to dance to; which being done, Alick, who is a damp earthy child in red worsted socks, takes certain small jumps upon the deck, to the unspeakable satisfaction of his family circle. Girls who have brought the first volume of some new novel in their reticule, become extremely plaintive, and expatiate to Mr. Brown, or young Mr. O’Brien, who has been looking over them, on the blueness of the sky, and brightness of the water; on which Mr. Brown or Mr. O’Brien, as the case may be, remarks in a low voice that he has been quite insensible of late to the beauties of nature, that his whole thoughts and wishes have centred in one object alone—whereupon the young lady looks up, and failing in her attempt to appear unconscious, looks down again; and turns over the next leaf with great difficulty, in order to afford opportunity for a lengthened pressure of the hand.

Telescopes, sandwiches, and glasses of brandy-and-water cold without, begin to be in great requisition; and bashful men who have been looking down the hatchway at the engine, find, to their great relief, a subject on which they can converse with one another—and a copious one too—Steam.

‘Wonderful thing steam, sir.’ ‘Ah! (a deep-drawn sigh) it is indeed, sir.’ ‘Great power, sir.’ ‘Immense—immense!’ ‘Great deal done by steam, sir.’ ‘Ah! (another sigh at the immensity of the subject, and a knowing shake of the head) you may say that, sir.’ ‘Still in its infancy, they say, sir.’ Novel remarks of this kind, are generally the commencement of a conversation which is prolonged until the conclusion of the trip, and, perhaps, lays the foundation of a speaking acquaintance between half-a-dozen gentlemen, who, having their families at Gravesend, take season tickets for the boat, and dine on board regularly every afternoon.

CHAPTER XI—ASTLEY’S

We never see any very large, staring, black Roman capitals, in a book, or shop-window, or placarded on a wall, without their immediately recalling to our mind an indistinct and confused recollection of the time when we were first initiated in the mysteries of the alphabet. We almost fancy we see the pin’s point following the letter, to impress its form more strongly on our bewildered imagination; and wince involuntarily, as we remember the hard knuckles with which the reverend old lady who instilled into our mind the first principles of education for ninepence per week, or ten and sixpence per quarter, was wont to poke our juvenile head occasionally, by way of adjusting the confusion of ideas in which we were generally involved. The same kind of feeling pursues us in many other instances, but there is no place which recalls so strongly our recollections of childhood as Astley’s. It was not a ‘Royal Amphitheatre’ in those days, nor had Ducrow arisen to shed the light of classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus; but the whole character of the place was the same, the pieces were the same, the clown’s jokes were the same, the riding-masters were equally grand, the comic performers equally witty, the tragedians equally hoarse, and the ‘highly-trained chargers’ equally spirited. Astley’s has altered for the better—we have changed for the worse. Our histrionic taste is gone, and with shame we confess, that we are far more delighted and amused with the audience, than with the pageantry we once so highly appreciated.

We like to watch a regular Astley’s party in the Easter or Midsummer holidays—pa and ma, and nine or ten children, varying from five foot six to two foot eleven: from fourteen years of age to four. We had just taken our seat in one of the boxes, in the centre of the house, the other night, when the next was occupied by just such a party as we should have attempted to describe, had we depicted our beau idéal of a group of Astley’s visitors.

First of all, there came three little boys and a little girl, who, in pursuance of pa’s directions, issued in a very audible voice from the box-door, occupied the front row; then two more little girls were ushered in by a young lady, evidently the governess. Then came three more little boys, dressed like the first, in blue jackets and trousers, with lay-down shirt-collars: then a child in a braided frock and high state of astonishment, with very large round eyes, opened to their utmost width, was lifted over the seats—a process which occasioned a considerable display of little pink legs—then came ma and pa, and then the eldest son, a boy of fourteen years old, who was evidently trying to look as if he did not belong to the family.

The first five minutes were occupied in taking the shawls off the little girls, and adjusting the bows which ornamented their hair; then it was providentially discovered that one of the little boys was seated behind a pillar and could not see, so the governess was stuck behind the pillar, and the boy lifted into her place. Then pa drilled the boys, and directed the stowing away of their pocket-handkerchiefs, and ma having first nodded and winked to the governess to pull the girls’ frocks a little more off their shoulders, stood up to review the little troop—an inspection which appeared to terminate much to her own satisfaction, for she looked with a complacent air at pa, who was standing up at the further end of the seat. Pa returned the glance, and blew his nose very emphatically; and the poor governess peeped out from behind the pillar, and timidly tried to catch ma’s eye, with a look expressive of her high admiration of the whole family. Then two of the little boys who had been discussing the point whether Astley’s was more than twice as large as Drury Lane, agreed to refer it to ‘George’ for his decision; at which ‘George,’ who was no other than the young gentleman before noticed, waxed indignant, and remonstrated in no very gentle terms on the gross impropriety of having his name repeated in so loud a voice at a public place, on which all the children laughed very heartily, and one of the little boys wound up by expressing his opinion, that ‘George began to think himself quite a man now,’ whereupon both pa and ma laughed too; and George (who carried a dress cane and was cultivating whiskers) muttered that ‘William always was encouraged in his impertinence;’ and assumed a look of profound contempt, which lasted the whole evening.

The play began, and the interest of the little boys knew no bounds. Pa was clearly interested too, although he very unsuccessfully endeavoured to look as if he wasn’t. As for ma, she was perfectly overcome by the drollery of the principal comedian, and laughed till every one of the immense bows on her ample cap trembled, at which the governess peeped out from behind the pillar again, and whenever she could catch ma’s eye, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appeared, as in duty bound, to be in convulsions of laughter also. Then when the man in the splendid armour vowed to rescue the lady or perish in the attempt, the little boys applauded vehemently, especially one little fellow who was apparently on a visit to the family, and had been carrying on a child’s flirtation, the whole evening, with a small coquette of twelve years old, who looked like a model of her mamma on a reduced scale; and who, in common with the other little girls (who generally speaking have even more coquettishness about them than much older ones), looked very properly shocked, when the knight’s squire kissed the princess’s confidential chambermaid.

When the scenes in the circle commenced, the children were more delighted than ever; and the wish to see what was going forward, completely conquering pa’s dignity, he stood up in the box, and applauded as loudly as any of them. Between each feat of horsemanship, the governess leant across to ma, and retailed the clever remarks of the children on that which had preceded: and ma, in the openness of her heart, offered the governess an acidulated drop, and the governess, gratified to be taken notice of, retired behind her pillar again with a brighter countenance: and the whole party seemed quite happy, except the exquisite in the back of the box, who, being too grand to take any interest in the children, and too insignificant to be taken notice of by anybody else, occupied himself, from time to time, in rubbing the place where the whiskers ought to be, and was completely alone in his glory.

We defy any one who has been to Astley’s two or three times, and is consequently capable of appreciating the perseverance with which precisely the same jokes are repeated night after night, and season after season, not to be amused with one part of the performances at least—we mean the scenes in the circle. For ourself, we know that when the hoop, composed of jets of gas, is let down, the curtain drawn up for the convenience of the half-price on their ejectment from the ring, the orange-peel cleared away, and the sawdust shaken, with mathematical precision, into a complete circle, we feel as much enlivened as the youngest child present; and actually join in the laugh which follows the clown’s shrill shout of ‘Here we are!’ just for old acquaintance’ sake. Nor can we quite divest ourself of our old feeling of reverence for the riding-master, who follows the clown with a long whip in his hand, and bows to the audience with graceful dignity. He is none of your second-rate riding-masters in nankeen dressing-gowns, with brown frogs, but the regular gentleman-attendant on the principal riders, who always wears a military uniform with a table-cloth inside the breast of the coat, in which costume he forcibly reminds one of a fowl trussed for roasting. He is—but why should we attempt to describe that of which no description can convey an adequate idea? Everybody knows the man, and everybody remembers his polished boots, his graceful demeanour, stiff, as some misjudging persons have in their jealousy considered it, and the splendid head of black hair, parted high on the forehead, to impart to the countenance an appearance of deep thought and poetic melancholy. His soft and pleasing voice, too, is in perfect unison with his noble bearing, as he humours the clown by indulging in a little badinage; and the striking recollection of his own dignity, with which he exclaims, ‘Now, sir, if you please, inquire for Miss Woolford, sir,’ can never be forgotten. The graceful air, too, with which he introduces Miss Woolford into the arena, and, after assisting her to the saddle, follows her fairy courser round the circle, can never fail to create a deep impression in the bosom of every female servant present.

When Miss Woolford, and the horse, and the orchestra, all stop together to take breath, he urbanely takes part in some such dialogue as the following (commenced by the clown): ‘I say, sir!’—‘Well, sir?’ (it’s always conducted in the politest manner.)—‘Did you ever happen to hear I was in the army, sir?’—‘No, sir.’—‘Oh, yes, sir—I can go through my exercise, sir.’—‘Indeed, sir!’—‘Shall I do it now, sir?’—‘If you please, sir; come, sir—make haste’ (a cut with the long whip, and ‘Ha’ done now—I don’t like it,’ from the clown). Here the clown throws himself on the ground, and goes through a variety of gymnastic convulsions, doubling himself up, and untying himself again, and making himself look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme of human agony, to the vociferous delight of the gallery, until he is interrupted by a second cut from the long whip, and a request to see ‘what Miss Woolford’s stopping for?’ On which, to the inexpressible mirth of the gallery, he exclaims, ‘Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come for to go, for to fetch, for to bring, for to carry, for to do, for you, ma’am?’ On the lady’s announcing with a sweet smile that she wants the two flags, they are, with sundry grimaces, procured and handed up; the clown facetiously observing after the performance of the latter ceremony—‘He, he, oh! I say, sir, Miss Woolford knows me; she smiled at me.’ Another cut from the whip, a burst from the orchestra, a start from the horse, and round goes Miss Woolford again on her graceful performance, to the delight of every member of the audience, young or old. The next pause affords an opportunity for similar witticisms, the only additional fun being that of the clown making ludicrous grimaces at the riding-master every time his back is turned; and finally quitting the circle by jumping over his head, having previously directed his attention another way.

Did any of our readers ever notice the class of people, who hang about the stage-doors of our minor theatres in the daytime? You will rarely pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of three or four men conversing on the pavement, with an indescribable public-house-parlour swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar to people of this description. They always seem to think they are exhibiting; the lamps are ever before them. That young fellow in the faded brown coat, and very full light green trousers, pulls down the wristbands of his check shirt, as ostentatiously as if it were of the finest linen, and cocks the white hat of the summer-before-last as knowingly over his right eye, as if it were a purchase of yesterday. Look at the dirty white Berlin gloves, and the cheap silk handkerchief stuck in the bosom of his threadbare coat. Is it possible to see him for an instant, and not come to the conclusion that he is the walking gentleman who wears a blue surtout, clean collar, and white trousers, for half an hour, and then shrinks into his worn-out scanty clothes: who has to boast night after night of his splendid fortune, with the painful consciousness of a pound a-week and his boots to find; to talk of his father’s mansion in the country, with a dreary recollection of his own two-pair back, in the New Cut; and to be envied and flattered as the favoured lover of a rich heiress, remembering all the while that the ex-dancer at home is in the family way, and out of an engagement?

Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, with a very long face, in a suit of shining black, thoughtfully knocking that part of his boot which once had a heel, with an ash stick. He is the man who does the heavy business, such as prosy fathers, virtuous servants, curates, landlords, and so forth.

By the way, talking of fathers, we should very much like to see some piece in which all the dramatis personae were orphans. Fathers are invariably great nuisances on the stage, and always have to give the hero or heroine a long explanation of what was done before the curtain rose, usually commencing with ‘It is now nineteen years, my dear child, since your blessed mother (here the old villain’s voice falters) confided you to my charge. You were then an infant,’ &c., &c. Or else they have to discover, all of a sudden, that somebody whom they have been in constant communication with, during three long acts, without the slightest suspicion, is their own child: in which case they exclaim, ‘Ah! what do I see? This bracelet! That smile! These documents! Those eyes! Can I believe my senses?—It must be!—Yes—it is, it is my child!’—‘My father!’ exclaims the child; and they fall into each other’s arms, and look over each other’s shoulders, and the audience give three rounds of applause.

To return from this digression, we were about to say, that these are the sort of people whom you see talking, and attitudinising, outside the stage-doors of our minor theatres. At Astley’s they are always more numerous than at any other place. There is generally a groom or two, sitting on the window-sill, and two or three dirty shabby-genteel men in checked neckerchiefs, and sallow linen, lounging about, and carrying, perhaps, under one arm, a pair of stage shoes badly wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper. Some years ago we used to stand looking, open-mouthed, at these men, with a feeling of mysterious curiosity, the very recollection of which provokes a smile at the moment we are writing. We could not believe that the beings of light and elegance, in milk-white tunics, salmon-coloured legs, and blue scarfs, who flitted on sleek cream-coloured horses before our eyes at night, with all the aid of lights, music, and artificial flowers, could be the pale, dissipated-looking creatures we beheld by day.

We can hardly believe it now. Of the lower class of actors we have seen something, and it requires no great exercise of imagination to identify the walking gentleman with the ‘dirty swell,’ the comic singer with the public-house chairman, or the leading tragedian with drunkenness and distress; but these other men are mysterious beings, never seen out of the ring, never beheld but in the costume of gods and sylphs. With the exception of Ducrow, who can scarcely be classed among them, who ever knew a rider at Astley’s, or saw him but on horseback? Can our friend in the military uniform ever appear in threadbare attire, or descend to the comparatively un-wadded costume of every-day life? Impossible! We cannot—we will not—believe it.

CHAPTER XII—GREENWICH FAIR

If the Parks be ‘the lungs of London,’ we wonder what Greenwich Fair is—a periodical breaking out, we suppose, a sort of spring-rash: a three days’ fever, which cools the blood for six months afterwards, and at the expiration of which London is restored to its old habits of plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever happened to disturb them.

In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich Fair, for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in almost every description of vehicle. We cannot conscientiously deny the charge of having once made the passage in a spring-van, accompanied by thirteen gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited number of children, and a barrel of beer; and we have a vague recollection of having, in later days, found ourself the eighth outside, on the top of a hackney-coach, at something past four o’clock in the morning, with a rather confused idea of our own name, or place of residence. We have grown older since then, and quiet, and steady: liking nothing better than to spend our Easter, and all our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of whom we shall never tire; but we think we still remember something of Greenwich Fair, and of those who resort to it. At all events we will try.

The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday, is in a state of perpetual bustle and noise. Cabs, hackney-coaches, ‘shay’ carts, coal-waggons, stages, omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-chaises—all crammed with people (for the question never is, what the horse can draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at their utmost speed; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer corks go off in volleys, the balcony of every public-house is crowded with people, smoking and drinking, half the private houses are turned into tea-shops, fiddles are in great request, every little fruit-shop displays its stall of gilt gingerbread and penny toys; turnpike men are in despair; horses won’t go on, and wheels will come off; ladies in ‘carawans’ scream with fright at every fresh concussion, and their admirers find it necessary to sit remarkably close to them, by way of encouragement; servants-of-all-work, who are not allowed to have followers, and have got a holiday for the day, make the most of their time with the faithful admirer who waits for a stolen interview at the corner of the street every night, when they go to fetch the beer—apprentices grow sentimental, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anxious to get on, and actuated by the common wish to be at the fair, or in the park, as soon as possible.

Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to resist the allurements of the stout proprietress of the ‘Jack-in-the-box, three shies a penny,’ or the more splendid offers of the man with three thimbles and a pea on a little round board, who astonishes the bewildered crowd with some such address as, ‘Here’s the sort o’ game to make you laugh seven years arter you’re dead, and turn ev’ry air on your ed gray vith delight! Three thimbles and vun little pea—with a vun, two, three, and a two, three, vun: catch him who can, look on, keep your eyes open, and niver say die! niver mind the change, and the expense: all fair and above board: them as don’t play can’t vin, and luck attend the ryal sportsman! Bet any gen’lm’n any sum of money, from harf-a-crown up to a suverin, as he doesn’t name the thimble as kivers the pea!’ Here some greenhorn whispers his friend that he distinctly saw the pea roll under the middle thimble—an impression which is immediately confirmed by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by, and who, in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet, in consequence of having unfortunately left his purse at home, but strongly urges the stranger not to neglect such a golden opportunity. The ‘plant’ is successful, the bet is made, the stranger of course loses: and the gentleman with the thimbles consoles him, as he pockets the money, with an assurance that it’s ‘all the fortin of war! this time I vin, next time you vin: niver mind the loss of two bob and a bender! Do it up in a small parcel, and break out in a fresh place. Here’s the sort o’ game,’ &c.—and the eloquent harangue, with such variations as the speaker’s exuberant fancy suggests, is again repeated to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession of several new-comers.

The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the public-houses, is the park, in which the principal amusement is to drag young ladies up the steep hill which leads to the Observatory, and then drag them down again, at the very top of their speed, greatly to the derangement of their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the edification of lookers-on from below. ‘Kiss in the Ring,’ and ‘Threading my Grandmother’s Needle,’ too, are sports which receive their full share of patronage. Love-sick swains, under the influence of gin-and-water, and the tender passion, become violently affectionate: and the fair objects of their regard enhance the value of stolen kisses, by a vast deal of struggling, and holding down of heads, and cries of ‘Oh! Ha’ done, then, George—Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary—Well, I never!’ and similar Lucretian ejaculations. Little old men and women, with a small basket under one arm, and a wine-glass, without a foot, in the other hand, tender ‘a drop o’ the right sort’ to the different groups; and young ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of the aforesaid right sort, display a pleasing degree of reluctance to taste it, and cough afterwards with great propriety.

The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a penny, exhibit the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, the place where the men used to hang in chains, and other interesting sights, through a telescope, are asked questions about objects within the range of the glass, which it would puzzle a Solomon to answer; and requested to find out particular houses in particular streets, which it would have been a task of some difficulty for Mr. Horner (not the young gentleman who ate mince-pies with his thumb, but the man of Colosseum notoriety) to discover. Here and there, where some three or four couple are sitting on the grass together, you will see a sun-burnt woman in a red cloak ‘telling fortunes’ and prophesying husbands, which it requires no extraordinary observation to describe, for the originals are before her. Thereupon, the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and ultimately buries her face in an imitation cambric handkerchief, and the gentleman described looks extremely foolish, and squeezes her hand, and fees the gipsy liberally; and the gipsy goes away, perfectly satisfied herself, and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied also: and the prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater importance, fulfils itself in time.

But it grows dark: the crowd has gradually dispersed, and only a few stragglers are left behind. The light in the direction of the church shows that the fair is illuminated; and the distant noise proves it to be filling fast. The spot, which half an hour ago was ringing with the shouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet as if nothing could ever disturb its serenity: the fine old trees, the majestic building at their feet, with the noble river beyond, glistening in the moonlight, appear in all their beauty, and under their most favourable aspect; the voices of the boys, singing their evening hymn, are borne gently on the air; and the humblest mechanic who has been lingering on the grass so pleasant to the feet that beat the same dull round from week to week in the paved streets of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the scene before him, that he belongs to the country which has selected such a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best defenders in the decline of their lives.

Five minutes’ walking brings you to the fair; a scene calculated to awaken very different feelings. The entrance is occupied on either side by the vendors of gingerbread and toys: the stalls are gaily lighted up, the most attractive goods profusely disposed, and unbonneted young ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their employers, seize you by the coat, and use all the blandishments of ‘Do, dear’—‘There’s a love’—‘Don’t be cross, now,’ &c., to induce you to purchase half a pound of the real spice nuts, of which the majority of the regular fair-goers carry a pound or two as a present supply, tied up in a cotton pocket-handkerchief. Occasionally you pass a deal table, on which are exposed pen’orths of pickled salmon (fennel included), in little white saucers: oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates, and divers specimens of a species of snail (wilks, we think they are called), floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green liquid. Cigars, too, are in great demand; gentlemen must smoke, of course, and here they are, two a penny, in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted tallow candle in the centre.

Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which swings you to and fro, and in and out, and every way but the right one; add to this the screams of women, the shouts of boys, the clanging of gongs, the firing of pistols, the ringing of bells, the bellowings of speaking-trumpets, the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a dozen bands, with three drums in each, all playing different tunes at the same time, the hallooing of showmen, and an occasional roar from the wild-beast shows; and you are in the very centre and heart of the fair.

This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so brightly illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of burning fat, is ‘Richardson’s,’ where you have a melodrama (with three murders and a ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some incidental music, all done in five-and-twenty minutes.

The company are now promenading outside in all the dignity of wigs, spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See with what a ferocious air the gentleman who personates the Mexican chief, paces up and down, and with what an eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes on the crowd below, or converses confidentially with the harlequin! The four clowns, who are engaged in a mock broadsword combat, may be all very well for the low-minded holiday-makers; but these are the people for the reflective portion of the community. They look so noble in those Roman dresses, with their yellow legs and arms, long black curly heads, bushy eyebrows, and scowl expressive of assassination, and vengeance, and everything else that is grand and solemn. Then, the ladies—were there ever such innocent and awful-looking beings; as they walk up and down the platform in twos and threes, with their arms round each other’s waists, or leaning for support on one of those majestic men! Their spangled muslin dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a leetle the worse for wear) are the admiration of all beholders; and the playful manner in which they check the advances of the clown, is perfectly enchanting.

‘Just a-going to begin! Pray come for’erd, come for’erd,’ exclaims the man in the countryman’s dress, for the seventieth time: and people force their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly strikes up, the harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are formed in less than no time, the Roman heroes place their arms a-kimbo, and dance with considerable agility; and the leading tragic actress, and the gentleman who enacts the ‘swell’ in the pantomime, foot it to perfection. ‘All in to begin,’ shouts the manager, when no more people can be induced to ‘come for’erd,’ and away rush the leading members of the company to do the dreadful in the first piece.

A change of performance takes place every day during the fair, but the story of the tragedy is always pretty much the same. There is a rightful heir, who loves a young lady, and is beloved by her; and a wrongful heir, who loves her too, and isn’t beloved by her; and the wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws him into a dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, for which purpose he hires a couple of assassins—a good one and a bad one—who, the moment they are left alone, get up a little murder on their own account, the good one killing the bad one, and the bad one wounding the good one. Then the rightful heir is discovered in prison, carefully holding a long chain in his hands, and seated despondingly in a large arm-chair; and the young lady comes in to two bars of soft music, and embraces the rightful heir; and then the wrongful heir comes in to two bars of quick music (technically called ‘a hurry’), and goes on in the most shocking manner, throwing the young lady about as if she was nobody, and calling the rightful heir ‘Ar-recreant—ar-wretch!’ in a very loud voice, which answers the double purpose of displaying his passion, and preventing the sound being deadened by the sawdust. The interest becomes intense; the wrongful heir draws his sword, and rushes on the rightful heir; a blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a tall white figure (who has been all this time, behind the arm-chair, covered over with a table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune of ‘Oft in the stilly night.’ This is no other than the ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was killed by the wrongful heir’s father, at sight of which the wrongful heir becomes apoplectic, and is literally ‘struck all of a heap,’ the stage not being large enough to admit of his falling down at full length. Then the good assassin staggers in, and says he was hired in conjunction with the bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the rightful heir; and he’s killed a good many people in his time, but he’s very sorry for it, and won’t do so any more—a promise which he immediately redeems, by dying off hand without any nonsense about it. Then the rightful heir throws down his chain; and then two men, a sailor, and a young woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in, and the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by supernatural interference, understand—for no one else can; and the ghost (who can’t do anything without blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young lady, by half suffocating them with smoke: and then a muffin-bell rings, and the curtain drops.

The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant theatres are the travelling menageries, or, to speak more intelligibly, the ‘Wild-beast shows,’ where a military band in beef-eater’s costume, with leopard-skin caps, play incessantly; and where large highly-coloured representations of tigers tearing men’s heads open, and a lion being burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop his victim, are hung up outside, by way of attracting visitors.

The principal officer at these places is generally a very tall, hoarse man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, with which he occasionally raps the pictures we have just noticed, by way of illustrating his description—something in this way. ‘Here, here, here; the lion, the lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the canvas outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no deception. The fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gentleman’s head last Cambervel vos a twelvemonth, and has killed on the awerage three keepers a-year ever since he arrived at matoority. No extra charge on this account recollect; the price of admission is only sixpence.’ This address never fails to produce a considerable sensation, and sixpences flow into the treasury with wonderful rapidity.

The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as a dwarf, a giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, ‘a young lady of singular beauty, with perfectly white hair and pink eyes,’ and two or three other natural curiosities, are usually exhibited together for the small charge of a penny, they attract very numerous audiences. The best thing about a dwarf is, that he has always a little box, about two feet six inches high, into which, by long practice, he can just manage to get, by doubling himself up like a boot-jack; this box is painted outside like a six-roomed house, and as the crowd see him ring a bell, or fire a pistol out of the first-floor window, they verily believe that it is his ordinary town residence, divided like other mansions into drawing-rooms, dining-parlour, and bedchambers. Shut up in this case, the unfortunate little object is brought out to delight the throng by holding a facetious dialogue with the proprietor: in the course of which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) pledges himself to sing a comic song inside, and pays various compliments to the ladies, which induce them to ‘come for’erd’ with great alacrity. As a giant is not so easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most capacious dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out, into which two or three stout men get all at once, to the enthusiastic delight of the crowd, who are quite satisfied with the solemn assurance that these habiliments form part of the giant’s everyday costume.

The grandest and most numerously-frequented booth in the whole fair, however, is ‘The Crown and Anchor’—a temporary ball-room—we forget how many hundred feet long, the price of admission to which is one shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you enter, after paying your money, is a refreshment place, at which cold beef, roast and boiled, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue, ham, even fowls, if we recollect right, are displayed in tempting array. There is a raised orchestra, and the place is boarded all the way down, in patches, just wide enough for a country dance.

There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial Eden—all is primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. The dust is blinding, the heat insupportable, the company somewhat noisy, and in the highest spirits possible: the ladies, in the height of their innocent animation, dancing in the gentlemen’s hats, and the gentlemen promenading ‘the gay and festive scene’ in the ladies’ bonnets, or with the more expensive ornaments of false noses, and low-crowned, tinder-box-looking hats: playing children’s drums, and accompanied by ladies on the penny trumpet.

The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, the shouting, the ‘scratchers,’ and the dancing, is perfectly bewildering. The dancing, itself, beggars description—every figure lasts about an hour, and the ladies bounce up and down the middle, with a degree of spirit which is quite indescribable. As to the gentlemen, they stamp their feet against the ground, every time ‘hands four round’ begins, go down the middle and up again, with cigars in their mouths, and silk handkerchiefs in their hands, and whirl their partners round, nothing loth, scrambling and falling, and embracing, and knocking up against the other couples, until they are fairly tired out, and can move no longer. The same scene is repeated again and again (slightly varied by an occasional ‘row’) until a late hour at night: and a great many clerks and ’prentices find themselves next morning with aching heads, empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how it was they did not get home.

CHAPTER XIII—PRIVATE THEATRES

‘Richard the Third.—Duke of Glo’ster 2_l.; Earl of Richmond, 1_l; Duke of Buckingham, 15_s.; Catesby, 12_s.; Tressel, 10_s._ 6_d.; Lord Stanley, 5_s.; Lord Mayor of London, 2_s._ 6_d._’

Such are the written placards wafered up in the gentlemen’s dressing-room, or the green-room (where there is any), at a private theatre; and such are the sums extracted from the shop-till, or overcharged in the office expenditure, by the donkeys who are prevailed upon to pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable ignorance and boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This they do, in proportion to the scope afforded by the character for the display of their imbecility. For instance, the Duke of Glo’ster is well worth two pounds, because he has it all to himself; he must wear a real sword, and what is better still, he must draw it, several times in the course of the piece. The soliloquies alone are well worth fifteen shillings; then there is the stabbing King Henry—decidedly cheap at three-and-sixpence, that’s eighteen-and-sixpence; bullying the coffin-bearers—say eighteen-pence, though it’s worth much more—that’s a pound. Then the love scene with Lady Ann, and the bustle of the fourth act can’t be dear at ten shillings more—that’s only one pound ten, including the ‘off with his head!’—which is sure to bring down the applause, and it is very easy to do—‘Orf with his ed’ (very quick and loud;—then slow and sneeringly)—‘So much for Bu-u-u-uckingham!’ Lay the emphasis on the ’uck;’ get yourself gradually into a corner, and work with your right hand, while you’re saying it, as if you were feeling your way, and it’s sure to do. The tent scene is confessedly worth half-a-sovereign, and so you have the fight in, gratis, and everybody knows what an effect may be produced by a good combat. One—two—three—four—over; then, one—two—three—four—under; then thrust; then dodge and slide about; then fall down on one knee; then fight upon it, and then get up again and stagger. You may keep on doing this, as long as it seems to take—say ten minutes—and then fall down (backwards, if you can manage it without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing like it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley’s and Sadler’s Wells, and if they don’t know how to do this sort of thing, who in the world does? A small child, or a female in white, increases the interest of a combat materially—indeed, we are not aware that a regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be done without; but it would be rather difficult, and somewhat unusual, to introduce this effect in the last scene of Richard the Third, so the only thing to be done, is, just to make the best of a bad bargain, and be as long as possible fighting it out.

The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty boys, low copying-clerks, in attorneys’ offices, capacious-headed youths from city counting-houses, Jews whose business, as lenders of fancy dresses, is a sure passport to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now and then mistake their masters’ money for their own; and a choice miscellany of idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a private theatre may be an ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate actor, a retired smuggler, or uncertificated bankrupt. The theatre itself may be in Catherine-street, Strand, the purlieus of the city, the neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane, or the vicinity of Sadler’s Wells; or it may, perhaps, form the chief nuisance of some shabby street, on the Surrey side of Waterloo-bridge.

The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, and it is needless to add, are usually selected from one class of society; the audiences are necessarily of much the same character as the performers, who receive, in return for their contributions to the management, tickets to the amount of the money they pay.

All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, constitute the centre of a little stage-struck neighbourhood. Each of them has an audience exclusively its own; and at any you will see dropping into the pit at half-price, or swaggering into the back of a box, if the price of admission be a reduced one, divers boys of from fifteen to twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat and turn up their wristbands, after the portraits of Count D’Orsay, hum tunes and whistle when the curtain is down, by way of persuading the people near them, that they are not at all anxious to have it up again, and speak familiarly of the inferior performers as Bill Such-a-one, and Ned So-and-so, or tell each other how a new piece called The Unknown Bandit of the Invisible Cavern, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is to play The Unknown Bandit; how Charley Scarton is to take the part of an English sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with six unknown bandits, at one and the same time (one theatrical sailor is always equal to half a dozen men at least); how Mister Palmer and Charley Scarton are to go through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second act; how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the whole extent of the stage; and other town-surprising theatrical announcements. These gentlemen are the amateurs—the Richards, Shylocks, Beverleys, and Othellos—the Young Dorntons, Rovers, Captain Absolutes, and Charles Surfaces—a private theatre.

See them at the neighbouring public-house or the theatrical coffee-shop! They are the kings of the place, supposing no real performers to be present; and roll about, hats on one side, and arms a-kimbo, as if they had actually come into possession of eighteen shillings a-week, and a share of a ticket night. If one of them does but know an Astley’s supernumerary he is a happy fellow. The mingled air of envy and admiration with which his companions will regard him, as he converses familiarly with some mouldy-looking man in a fancy neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows, and half-rouged face, testify to the fact of his having just left the stage or the circle, sufficiently shows in what high admiration these public characters are held.

With the double view of guarding against the discovery of friends or employers, and enhancing the interest of an assumed character, by attaching a high-sounding name to its representative, these geniuses assume fictitious names, which are not the least amusing part of the play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so forth, are among the humblest; and the less imposing titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, &c., are completely laid aside. There is something imposing in this, and it is an excellent apology for shabbiness into the bargain. A shrunken, faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers—nay, even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances are very uncommon among the members of the corps dramatique), may be worn for the purpose of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition. Then it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations about employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for the occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere. As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their society—for of course they know that none but strictly respectable persons would be admitted into that close fellowship with them, which acting engenders. They place implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt; and as to the manager, he is all affability when he knows you well,—or, in other words, when he has pocketed your money once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so again.

A quarter before eight—there will be a full house to-night—six parties in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five overtures since seven o’clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty of it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to last six hours at least.

That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is Mr. Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel comedy—his father’s, coal and potato. He does Alfred Highflier in the last piece, and very well he’ll do it—at the price. The party of gentlemen in the opposite box, to whom he has just nodded, are friends and supporters of Mr. Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the Macbeth of the night. You observe their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, each member of the party, with his feet cocked upon the cushion in front of the box! They let them do these things here, upon the same humane principle which permits poor people’s children to knock double knocks at the door of an empty house—because they can’t do it anywhere else. The two stout men in the centre box, with an opera-glass ostentatiously placed before them, are friends of the proprietor—opulent country managers, as he confidentially informs every individual among the crew behind the curtain—opulent country managers looking out for recruits; a representation which Mr. Nathan, the dresser, who is in the manager’s interest, and has just arrived with the costumes, offers to confirm upon oath if required—corroborative evidence, however, is quite unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once.

The stout Jewess who has just entered, is the mother of the pale, bony little girl, with the necklace of blue glass beads, sitting by her; she is being brought up to ‘the profession.’ Pantomime is to be her line, and she is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after the tragedy. The short thin man beside Mr. St. Julien, whose white face is so deeply seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-front is inlaid with open-work, and embossed with coral studs like ladybirds, is the low comedian and comic singer of the establishment. The remainder of the audience—a tolerably numerous one by this time—are a motley group of dupes and blackguards.

The foot-lights have just made their appearance: the wicks of the six little oil lamps round the only tier of boxes, are being turned up, and the additional light thus afforded serves to show the presence of dirt, and absence of paint, which forms a prominent feature in the audience part of the house. As these preparations, however, announce the speedy commencement of the play, let us take a peep ‘behind,’ previous to the ringing-up.

The little narrow passages beneath the stage are neither especially clean nor too brilliantly lighted; and the absence of any flooring, together with the damp mildewy smell which pervades the place, does not conduce in any great degree to their comfortable appearance. Don’t fall over this plate basket—it’s one of the ‘properties’—the caldron for the witches’ cave; and the three uncouth-looking figures, with broken clothes-props in their hands, who are drinking gin-and-water out of a pint pot, are the weird sisters. This miserable room, lighted by candles in sconces placed at lengthened intervals round the wall, is the dressing-room, common to the gentlemen performers, and the square hole in the ceiling is the trap-door of the stage above. You will observe that the ceiling is ornamented with the beams that support the boards, and tastefully hung with cobwebs.

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their own clothes are scattered in hurried confusion over the wooden dresser which surrounds the room. That snuff-shop-looking figure, in front of the glass, is Banquo: and the young lady with the liberal display of legs, who is kindly painting his face with a hare’s foot, is dressed for Fleance. The large woman, who is consulting the stage directions in Cumberland’s edition of Macbeth, is the Lady Macbeth of the night; she is always selected to play the part, because she is tall and stout, and looks a little like Mrs. Siddons—at a considerable distance. That stupid-looking milksop, with light hair and bow legs—a kind of man whom you can warrant town-made—is fresh caught; he plays Malcolm to-night, just to accustom himself to an audience. He will get on better by degrees; he will play Othello in a month, and in a month more, will very probably be apprehended on a charge of embezzlement. The black-eyed female with whom he is talking so earnestly, is dressed for the ‘gentlewoman.’ It is her first appearance, too—in that character. The boy of fourteen who is having his eyebrows smeared with soap and whitening, is Duncan, King of Scotland; and the two dirty men with the corked countenances, in very old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, are the ‘army.’

‘Look sharp below there, gents,’ exclaims the dresser, a red-headed and red-whiskered Jew, calling through the trap, ‘they’re a-going to ring up. The flute says he’ll be blowed if he plays any more, and they’re getting precious noisy in front.’ A general rush immediately takes place to the half-dozen little steep steps leading to the stage, and the heterogeneous group are soon assembled at the side scenes, in breathless anxiety and motley confusion.

‘Now,’ cries the manager, consulting the written list which hangs behind the first P. S, wing, ‘Scene 1, open country—lamps down—thunder and lightning—all ready, White?’ [This is addressed to one of the army.] ‘All ready.’—‘Very well. Scene 2, front chamber. Is the front chamber down?’—‘Yes.’—‘Very well.’—‘Jones’ [to the other army who is up in the flies]. ‘Hallo!’—‘Wind up the open country when we ring up.’—‘I’ll take care.’—‘Scene 3, back perspective with practical bridge. Bridge ready, White? Got the tressels there?’—‘All right.’

‘Very well. Clear the stage,’ cries the manager, hastily packing every member of the company into the little space there is between the wings and the wall, and one wing and another. ‘Places, places. Now then, Witches—Duncan—Malcolm—bleeding officer—where’s the bleeding officer?’—‘Here!’ replies the officer, who has been rose-pinking for the character. ‘Get ready, then; now, White, ring the second music-bell.’ The actors who are to be discovered, are hastily arranged, and the actors who are not to be discovered place themselves, in their anxiety to peep at the house, just where the audience can see them. The bell rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledgment of the call, play three distinct chords. The bell rings—the tragedy (!) opens—and our description closes.

CHAPTER XIV—VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

There was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Vauxhall-gardens would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision at the absurdity of the idea. Vauxhall by daylight! A porter-pot without porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp without the gas—pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be thought of. It was rumoured, too, in those times, that Vauxhall-gardens by day, were the scene of secret and hidden experiments; that there, carvers were exercised in the mystic art of cutting a moderate-sized ham into slices thin enough to pave the whole of the grounds; that beneath the shade of the tall trees, studious men were constantly engaged in chemical experiments, with the view of discovering how much water a bowl of negus could possibly bear; and that in some retired nooks, appropriated to the study of ornithology, other sage and learned men were, by a process known only to themselves, incessantly employed in reducing fowls to a mere combination of skin and bone.

Vague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar nature, cast over Vauxhall-gardens an air of deep mystery; and as there is a great deal in the mysterious, there is no doubt that to a good many people, at all events, the pleasure they afforded was not a little enhanced by this very circumstance.

Of this class of people we confess to having made one. We loved to wander among these illuminated groves, thinking of the patient and laborious researches which had been carried on there during the day, and witnessing their results in the suppers which were served up beneath the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night. The temples and saloons and cosmoramas and fountains glittered and sparkled before our eyes; the beauty of the lady singers and the elegant deportment of the gentlemen, captivated our hearts; a few hundred thousand of additional lamps dazzled our senses; a bowl or two of punch bewildered our brains; and we were happy.

In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vauxhall-gardens took to opening them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly disturbing that veil of mystery which had hung about the property for many years, and which none but the noonday sun, and the late Mr. Simpson, had ever penetrated. We shrunk from going; at this moment we scarcely know why. Perhaps a morbid consciousness of approaching disappointment—perhaps a fatal presentiment—perhaps the weather; whatever it was, we did not go until the second or third announcement of a race between two balloons tempted us, and we went.

We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for the first time, that the entrance, if there had been any magic about it at all, was now decidedly disenchanted, being, in fact, nothing more nor less than a combination of very roughly-painted boards and sawdust. We glanced at the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried past—we just recognised them, and that was all. We bent our steps to the firework-ground; there, at least, we should not be disappointed. We reached it, and stood rooted to the spot with mortification and astonishment. That the Moorish tower—that wooden shed with a door in the centre, and daubs of crimson and yellow all round, like a gigantic watch-case! That the place where night after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore make his terrific ascent, surrounded by flames of fire, and peals of artillery, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we forget even her name now), who nobly devoted her life to the manufacture of fireworks, had so often been seen fluttering in the wind, as she called up a red, blue, or party-coloured light to illumine her temple! That the—but at this moment the bell rung; the people scampered away, pell-mell, to the spot from whence the sound proceeded; and we, from the mere force of habit, found ourself running among the first, as if for very life.

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal men in cocked hats were ‘executing’ the overture to Tancredi, and a numerous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, with their families, had rushed from their half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes, and crowded to the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration when a particularly small gentleman, in a dress coat, led on a particularly tall lady in a blue sarcenet pelisse and bonnet of the same, ornamented with large white feathers, and forthwith commenced a plaintive duet.

We knew the small gentleman well; we had seen a lithographed semblance of him, on many a piece of music, with his mouth wide open as if in the act of singing; a wine-glass in his hand; and a table with two decanters and four pine-apples on it in the background. The tall lady, too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures of admiration, many and many a time—how different people do look by daylight, and without punch, to be sure! It was a beautiful duet: first the small gentleman asked a question, and then the tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman and the tall lady sang together most melodiously; then the small gentleman went through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got very tenor indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall lady responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a shake or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they both merged imperceptibly into the original air: and the band wound themselves up to a pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed the tall lady out, and the applause was rapturous.

The comic singer, however, was the especial favourite; we really thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a pocket-handkerchief, who stood near us, would have fainted with excess of joy. A marvellously facetious gentleman that comic singer is; his distinguishing characteristics are, a wig approaching to the flaxen, and an aged countenance, and he bears the name of one of the English counties, if we recollect right. He sang a very good song about the seven ages, the first half-hour of which afforded the assembly the purest delight; of the rest we can make no report, as we did not stay to hear any more.

We walked about, and met with a disappointment at every turn; our favourite views were mere patches of paint; the fountain that had sparkled so showily by lamp-light, presented very much the appearance of a water-pipe that had burst; all the ornaments were dingy, and all the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt at rope-dancing in the little open theatre. The sun shone upon the spangled dresses of the performers, and their evolutions were about as inspiriting and appropriate as a country-dance in a family vault. So we retraced our steps to the firework-ground, and mingled with the little crowd of people who were contemplating Mr. Green.

Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was ‘going up,’ the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There was one little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round his neck, who entered into conversation with everybody, and had something to say upon every remark that was made within his hearing. He was standing with his arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and then vented his feelings of reverence for the aëronaut, by saying, as he looked round to catch somebody’s eye, ‘He’s a rum ’un is Green; think o’ this here being up’ards of his two hundredth ascent; ecod, the man as is ekal to Green never had the toothache yet, nor won’t have within this hundred year, and that’s all about it. When you meets with real talent, and native, too, encourage it, that’s what I say;’ and when he had delivered himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a sort of admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond himself and Green, that impressed the crowd with the opinion that he was an oracle.

‘Ah, you’re very right, sir,’ said another gentleman, with his wife, and children, and mother, and wife’s sister, and a host of female friends, in all the gentility of white pocket-handkerchiefs, frills, and spencers, ‘Mr. Green is a steady hand, sir, and there’s no fear about him.’

‘Fear!’ said the little man: ‘isn’t it a lovely thing to see him and his wife a going up in one balloon, and his own son and his wife a jostling up against them in another, and all of them going twenty or thirty mile in three hours or so, and then coming back in pochayses? I don’t know where this here science is to stop, mind you; that’s what bothers me.’

Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the spencers.

‘What’s the ladies a laughing at, sir?’ inquired the little man, condescendingly.

‘It’s only my sister Mary,’ said one of the girls, ‘as says she hopes his lordship won’t be frightened when he’s in the car, and want to come out again.’

‘Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,’ replied the little man. ‘If he was so much as to move a inch without leave, Green would jist fetch him a crack over the head with the telescope, as would send him into the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun him till they come down again.’

‘Would he, though?’ inquired the other man.

‘Yes, would he,’ replied the little one, ‘and think nothing of it, neither, if he was the king himself. Green’s presence of mind is wonderful.’

Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the preparations which were being made for starting. The car was attached to the second balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a military band commenced playing, with a zeal and fervour which would render the most timid man in existence but too happy to accept any means of quitting that particular spot of earth on which they were stationed. Then Mr. Green, sen., and his noble companion entered one car, and Mr. Green, jun., and his companion the other; and then the balloons went up, and the aërial travellers stood up, and the crowd outside roared with delight, and the two gentlemen who had never ascended before, tried to wave their flags, as if they were not nervous, but held on very fast all the while; and the balloons were wafted gently away, our little friend solemnly protesting, long after they were reduced to mere specks in the air, that he could still distinguish the white hat of Mr. Green. The gardens disgorged their multitudes, boys ran up and down screaming ‘bal-loon;’ and in all the crowded thoroughfares people rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road, and having stared up in the air at two little black objects till they almost dislocated their necks, walked slowly in again, perfectly satisfied.

The next day there was a grand account of the ascent in the morning papers, and the public were informed how it was the finest day but four in Mr. Green’s remembrance; how they retained sight of the earth till they lost it behind the clouds; and how the reflection of the balloon on the undulating masses of vapour was gorgeously picturesque; together with a little science about the refraction of the sun’s rays, and some mysterious hints respecting atmospheric heat and eddying currents of air.

There was also an interesting account how a man in a boat was distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, ‘My eye!’ which Mr. Green, jun., attributed to his voice rising to the balloon, and the sound being thrown back from its surface into the car; and the whole concluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next Wednesday, all of which was very instructive and very amusing, as our readers will see if they look to the papers. If we have forgotten to mention the date, they have only to wait till next summer, and take the account of the first ascent, and it will answer the purpose equally well.

CHAPTER XV—EARLY COACHES

We have often wondered how many months’ incessant travelling in a post-chaise it would take to kill a man; and wondering by analogy, we should very much like to know how many months of constant travelling in a succession of early coaches, an unfortunate mortal could endure. Breaking a man alive upon the wheel, would be nothing to breaking his rest, his peace, his heart—everything but his fast—upon four; and the punishment of Ixion (the only practical person, by-the-bye, who has discovered the secret of the perpetual motion) would sink into utter insignificance before the one we have suggested. If we had been a powerful churchman in those good times when blood was shed as freely as water, and men were mowed down like grass, in the sacred cause of religion, we would have lain by very quietly till we got hold of some especially obstinate miscreant, who positively refused to be converted to our faith, and then we would have booked him for an inside place in a small coach, which travelled day and night: and securing the remainder of the places for stout men with a slight tendency to coughing and spitting, we would have started him forth on his last travels: leaving him mercilessly to all the tortures which the waiters, landlords, coachmen, guards, boots, chambermaids, and other familiars on his line of road, might think proper to inflict.

Who has not experienced the miseries inevitably consequent upon a summons to undertake a hasty journey? You receive an intimation from your place of business—wherever that may be, or whatever you may be—that it will be necessary to leave town without delay. You and your family are forthwith thrown into a state of tremendous excitement; an express is immediately dispatched to the washerwoman’s; everybody is in a bustle; and you, yourself, with a feeling of dignity which you cannot altogether conceal, sally forth to the booking-office to secure your place. Here a painful consciousness of your own unimportance first rushes on your mind—the people are as cool and collected as if nobody were going out of town, or as if a journey of a hundred odd miles were a mere nothing. You enter a mouldy-looking room, ornamented with large posting-bills; the greater part of the place enclosed behind a huge, lumbering, rough counter, and fitted up with recesses that look like the dens of the smaller animals in a travelling menagerie, without the bars. Some half-dozen people are ‘booking’ brown-paper parcels, which one of the clerks flings into the aforesaid recesses with an air of recklessness which you, remembering the new carpet-bag you bought in the morning, feel considerably annoyed at; porters, looking like so many Atlases, keep rushing in and out, with large packages on their shoulders; and while you are waiting to make the necessary inquiries, you wonder what on earth the booking-office clerks can have been before they were booking-office clerks; one of them with his pen behind his ear, and his hands behind him, is standing in front of the fire, like a full-length portrait of Napoleon; the other with his hat half off his head, enters the passengers’ names in the books with a coolness which is inexpressibly provoking; and the villain whistles—actually whistles—while a man asks him what the fare is outside, all the way to Holyhead!—in frosty weather, too! They are clearly an isolated race, evidently possessing no sympathies or feelings in common with the rest of mankind. Your turn comes at last, and having paid the fare, you tremblingly inquire—‘What time will it be necessary for me to be here in the morning?’—‘Six o’clock,’ replies the whistler, carelessly pitching the sovereign you have just parted with, into a wooden bowl on the desk. ‘Rather before than arter,’ adds the man with the semi-roasted unmentionables, with just as much ease and complacency as if the whole world got out of bed at five. You turn into the street, ruminating as you bend your steps homewards on the extent to which men become hardened in cruelty, by custom.

If there be one thing in existence more miserable than another, it most unquestionably is the being compelled to rise by candlelight. If you have ever doubted the fact, you are painfully convinced of your error, on the morning of your departure. You left strict orders, overnight, to be called at half-past four, and you have done nothing all night but doze for five minutes at a time, and start up suddenly from a terrific dream of a large church-clock with the small hand running round, with astonishing rapidity, to every figure on the dial-plate. At last, completely exhausted, you fall gradually into a refreshing sleep—your thoughts grow confused—the stage-coaches, which have been ‘going off’ before your eyes all night, become less and less distinct, until they go off altogether; one moment you are driving with all the skill and smartness of an experienced whip—the next you are exhibiting à la Ducrow, on the off-leader; anon you are closely muffled up, inside, and have just recognised in the person of the guard an old schoolfellow, whose funeral, even in your dream, you remember to have attended eighteen years ago. At last you fall into a state of complete oblivion, from which you are aroused, as if into a new state of existence, by a singular illusion. You are apprenticed to a trunk-maker; how, or why, or when, or wherefore, you don’t take the trouble to inquire; but there you are, pasting the lining in the lid of a portmanteau. Confound that other apprentice in the back shop, how he is hammering!—rap, rap, rap—what an industrious fellow he must be! you have heard him at work for half an hour past, and he has been hammering incessantly the whole time. Rap, rap, rap, again—he’s talking now—what’s that he said? Five o’clock! You make a violent exertion, and start up in bed. The vision is at once dispelled; the trunk-maker’s shop is your own bedroom, and the other apprentice your shivering servant, who has been vainly endeavouring to wake you for the last quarter of an hour, at the imminent risk of breaking either his own knuckles or the panels of the door.

You proceed to dress yourself, with all possible dispatch. The flaring flat candle with the long snuff, gives light enough to show that the things you want, are not where they ought to be, and you undergo a trifling delay in consequence of having carefully packed up one of your boots in your over-anxiety of the preceding night. You soon complete your toilet, however, for you are not particular on such an occasion, and you shaved yesterday evening; so mounting your Petersham great-coat, and green travelling shawl, and grasping your carpet-bag in your right hand, you walk lightly down-stairs, lest you should awaken any of the family, and after pausing in the common sitting-room for one moment, just to have a cup of coffee (the said common sitting-room looking remarkably comfortable, with everything out of its place, and strewed with the crumbs of last night’s supper), you undo the chain and bolts of the street-door, and find yourself fairly in the street.

A thaw, by all that is miserable! The frost is completely broken up. You look down the long perspective of Oxford-street, the gas-lights mournfully reflected on the wet pavement, and can discern no speck in the road to encourage the belief that there is a cab or a coach to be had—the very coachmen have gone home in despair. The cold sleet is drizzling down with that gentle regularity, which betokens a duration of four-and-twenty hours at least; the damp hangs upon the house-tops and lamp-posts, and clings to you like an invisible cloak. The water is ‘coming in’ in every area, the pipes have burst, the water-butts are running over; the kennels seem to be doing matches against time, pump-handles descend of their own accord, horses in market-carts fall down, and there’s no one to help them up again, policemen look as if they had been carefully sprinkled with powdered glass; here and there a milk-woman trudges slowly along, with a bit of list round each foot to keep her from slipping; boys who ‘don’t sleep in the house,’ and are not allowed much sleep out of it, can’t wake their masters by thundering at the shop-door, and cry with the cold—the compound of ice, snow, and water on the pavement, is a couple of inches thick—nobody ventures to walk fast to keep himself warm, and nobody could succeed in keeping himself warm if he did.

It strikes a quarter past five as you trudge down Waterloo-place on your way to the Golden Cross, and you discover, for the first time, that you were called about an hour too early. You have not time to go back; there is no place open to go into, and you have, therefore, no resource but to go forward, which you do, feeling remarkably satisfied with yourself, and everything about you. You arrive at the office, and look wistfully up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for aught you can see, may have flown away altogether, for preparations appear to be on foot for the departure of any vehicle in the shape of a coach. You wander into the booking-office, which with the gas-lights and blazing fire, looks quite comfortable by contrast—that is to say, if any place can look comfortable at half-past five on a winter’s morning. There stands the identical book-keeper in the same position as if he had not moved since you saw him yesterday. As he informs you, that the coach is up the yard, and will be brought round in about a quarter of an hour, you leave your bag, and repair to ‘The Tap’—not with any absurd idea of warming yourself, because you feel such a result to be utterly hopeless, but for the purpose of procuring some hot brandy-and-water, which you do,—when the kettle boils! an event which occurs exactly two minutes and a half before the time fixed for the starting of the coach.

The first stroke of six, peals from St. Martin’s church steeple, just as you take the first sip of the boiling liquid. You find yourself at the booking-office in two seconds, and the tap-waiter finds himself much comforted by your brandy-and-water, in about the same period. The coach is out; the horses are in, and the guard and two or three porters, are stowing the luggage away, and running up the steps of the booking-office, and down the steps of the booking-office, with breathless rapidity. The place, which a few minutes ago was so still and quiet, is now all bustle; the early vendors of the morning papers have arrived, and you are assailed on all sides with shouts of ‘Times, gen’lm’n, Times,’ ‘Here’s Chron—Chron—Chron,’ ‘Herald, ma’am,’ ‘Highly interesting murder, gen’lm’n,’ ‘Curious case o’ breach o’ promise, ladies.’ The inside passengers are already in their dens, and the outsides, with the exception of yourself, are pacing up and down the pavement to keep themselves warm; they consist of two young men with very long hair, to which the sleet has communicated the appearance of crystallised rats’ tails; one thin young woman cold and peevish, one old gentleman ditto ditto, and something in a cloak and cap, intended to represent a military officer; every member of the party, with a large stiff shawl over his chin, looking exactly as if he were playing a set of Pan’s pipes.

‘Take off the cloths, Bob,’ says the coachman, who now appears for the first time, in a rough blue great-coat, of which the buttons behind are so far apart, that you can’t see them both at the same time. ‘Now, gen’lm’n,’ cries the guard, with the waybill in his hand. ‘Five minutes behind time already!’ Up jump the passengers—the two young men smoking like lime-kilns, and the old gentleman grumbling audibly. The thin young woman is got upon the roof, by dint of a great deal of pulling, and pushing, and helping and trouble, and she repays it by expressing her solemn conviction that she will never be able to get down again.

‘All right,’ sings out the guard at last, jumping up as the coach starts, and blowing his horn directly afterwards, in proof of the soundness of his wind. ‘Let ’em go, Harry, give ’em their heads,’ cries the coachman—and off we start as briskly as if the morning were ‘all right,’ as well as the coach: and looking forward as anxiously to the termination of our journey, as we fear our readers will have done, long since, to the conclusion of our paper.

CHAPTER XVI—OMNIBUSES

It is very generally allowed that public conveyances afford an extensive field for amusement and observation. Of all the public conveyances that have been constructed since the days of the Ark—we think that is the earliest on record—to the present time, commend us to an omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but there you have only six insides, and the chances are, that the same people go all the way with you—there is no change, no variety. Besides, after the first twelve hours or so, people get cross and sleepy, and when you have seen a man in his nightcap, you lose all respect for him; at least, that is the case with us. Then on smooth roads people frequently get prosy, and tell long stories, and even those who don’t talk, may have very unpleasant predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, inside a stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass of rum-and-water, warm, handed in at the window at every place where we changed horses. This was decidedly unpleasant. We have also travelled occasionally, with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair, and no perceptible neck, coming up to town from school under the protection of the guard, and directed to be left at the Cross Keys till called for. This is, perhaps, even worse than rum-and-water in a close atmosphere. Then there is the whole train of evils consequent on a change of the coachman; and the misery of the discovery—which the guard is sure to make the moment you begin to doze—that he wants a brown-paper parcel, which he distinctly remembers to have deposited under the seat on which you are reposing. A great deal of bustle and groping takes place, and when you are thoroughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding your legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while he is looking behind them, it suddenly occurs to him that he put it in the fore-boot. Bang goes the door; the parcel is immediately found; off starts the coach again; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud as he can play it, as if in mockery of your wretchedness.

Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an omnibus; sameness there can never be. The passengers change as often in the course of one journey as the figures in a kaleidoscope, and though not so glittering, are far more amusing. We believe there is no instance on record, of a man’s having gone to sleep in one of these vehicles. As to long stories, would any man venture to tell a long story in an omnibus? and even if he did, where would be the harm? nobody could possibly hear what he was talking about. Again; children, though occasionally, are not often to be found in an omnibus; and even when they are, if the vehicle be full, as is generally the case, somebody sits upon them, and we are unconscious of their presence. Yes, after mature reflection, and considerable experience, we are decidedly of opinion, that of all known vehicles, from the glass-coach in which we were taken to be christened, to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make our last earthly journey, there is nothing like an omnibus.

We will back the machine in which we make our daily peregrination from the top of Oxford-street to the city, against any ‘buss’ on the road, whether it be for the gaudiness of its exterior, the perfect simplicity of its interior, or the native coolness of its cad. This young gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion; his somewhat intemperate zeal on behalf of his employers, is constantly getting him into trouble, and occasionally into the house of correction. He is no sooner emancipated, however, than he resumes the duties of his profession with unabated ardour. His principal distinction is his activity. His great boast is, ‘that he can chuck an old gen’lm’n into the buss, shut him in, and rattle off, afore he knows where it’s a-going to’—a feat which he frequently performs, to the infinite amusement of every one but the old gentleman concerned, who, somehow or other, never can see the joke of the thing.

We are not aware that it has ever been precisely ascertained, how many passengers our omnibus will contain. The impression on the cad’s mind evidently is, that it is amply sufficient for the accommodation of any number of persons that can be enticed into it. ‘Any room?’ cries a hot pedestrian. ‘Plenty o’ room, sir,’ replies the conductor, gradually opening the door, and not disclosing the real state of the case, until the wretched man is on the steps. ‘Where?’ inquires the entrapped individual, with an attempt to back out again. ‘Either side, sir,’ rejoins the cad, shoving him in, and slamming the door. ‘All right, Bill.’ Retreat is impossible; the new-comer rolls about, till he falls down somewhere, and there he stops.

As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five of our party are regular passengers. We always take them up at the same places, and they generally occupy the same seats; they are always dressed in the same manner, and invariably discuss the same topics—the increasing rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral obligations evinced by omnibus men. There is a little testy old man, with a powdered head, who always sits on the right-hand side of the door as you enter, with his hands folded on the top of his umbrella. He is extremely impatient, and sits there for the purpose of keeping a sharp eye on the cad, with whom he generally holds a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping people in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a poke with his umbrella, when any one wants to alight. He usually recommends ladies to have sixpence ready, to prevent delay; and if anybody puts a window down, that he can reach, he immediately puts it up again.

‘Now, what are you stopping for?’ says the little man every morning, the moment there is the slightest indication of ‘pulling up’ at the corner of Regent-street, when some such dialogue as the following takes place between him and the cad:

‘What are you stopping for?’

Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question.

‘I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?’

‘For passengers, sir. Ba—nk.—Ty.’

‘I know you’re stopping for passengers; but you’ve no business to do so. Why are you stopping?’

‘Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is because we perfer stopping here to going on.’

‘Now mind,’ exclaims the little old man, with great vehemence, ‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow; I’ve often threatened to do it; now I will.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ replies the cad, touching his hat with a mock expression of gratitude;—‘werry much obliged to you indeed, sir.’ Here the young men in the omnibus laugh very heartily, and the old gentleman gets very red in the face, and seems highly exasperated.

The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the other end of the vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says that something must shortly be done with these fellows, or there’s no saying where all this will end; and the shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses his entire concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regularly every morning for the last six months.

A second omnibus now comes up, and stops immediately behind us. Another old gentleman elevates his cane in the air, and runs with all his might towards our omnibus; we watch his progress with great interest; the door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears—he has been spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon the driver of the opposition taunts our people with his having ‘regularly done ’em out of that old swell,’ and the voice of the ‘old swell’ is heard, vainly protesting against this unlawful detention. We rattle off, the other omnibus rattles after us, and every time we stop to take up a passenger, they stop to take him too; sometimes we get him; sometimes they get him; but whoever don’t get him, say they ought to have had him, and the cads of the respective vehicles abuse one another accordingly.

As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, Bedford-row, and other legal haunts, we drop a great many of our original passengers, and take up fresh ones, who meet with a very sulky reception. It is rather remarkable, that the people already in an omnibus, always look at newcomers, as if they entertained some undefined idea that they have no business to come in at all. We are quite persuaded the little old man has some notion of this kind, and that he considers their entry as a sort of negative impertinence.

Conversation is now entirely dropped; each person gazes vacantly through the window in front of him, and everybody thinks that his opposite neighbour is staring at him. If one man gets out at Shoe-lane, and another at the corner of Farringdon-street, the little old gentleman grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had got out at Shoe-lane too, he would have saved them the delay of another stoppage; whereupon the young men laugh again, and the old gentleman looks very solemn, and says nothing more till he gets to the Bank, when he trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the same, and to wish, as we walk away, that we could impart to others any portion of the amusement we have gained for ourselves.

CHAPTER XVII—THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD

Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and gratification of knowing by sight—and our acquaintance in this way has been most extensive—there is one who made an impression on our mind which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a fatal presentiment will never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose was generally red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw—slight, but, to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a taste for botany.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted—a bright red; and wherever we went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley’s! Our life upon it, that it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in reply—quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a seat: the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.

The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have studied the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to throw yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, you will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the event of your contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account make the tender, or show the money, until you are safely on the pavement. It is very bad policy attempting to save the fourpence. You are very much in the power of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do you any wilful damage. Any instruction, however, in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly unnecessary if you are going any distance, because the probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before you have completed the third mile.

We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of the nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to pay handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a cheaper rate?

But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to walk down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal thoroughfares in which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two, lying on the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box, a portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very picturesque manner: a horse in a cab standing by, looking about him with great unconcern; and a crowd, shouting and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed faces against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop.—‘What’s the matter here, can you tell me?’—‘O’ny a cab, sir.’—‘Anybody hurt, do you know?’—‘O’ny the fare, sir. I see him a turnin’ the corner, and I ses to another gen’lm’n “that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s a comin’ along rayther sweet, an’t he?”—“He just is,” ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.’ Need we say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in his mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s shop and philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at full gallop, was the red cab’s licensed driver?

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over the risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing. You walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole court resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every vein in Mr. Hobler’s countenance was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor’s facetiousness, but more at his own; the constables and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at the beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his speech, would be endeavouring to state a case of imposition against the red cab’s driver; and the red cab’s driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler, would be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, justice would be so tickled with the red cab-driver’s native humour, that the fine would be mitigated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to impose on somebody else without loss of time.

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own moral principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the feelings and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally speaking, perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he would upset him—sooner, perhaps, because in that case he not only got the money, but had the additional amusement of running a longer heat against some smart rival. But society made war upon him in the shape of penalties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. This was the reasoning of the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look upon the fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had gone half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth eightpence, out he went.

The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him: he had not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and consequently laboured under a great deal of very natural indignation. The dispute had attained a pretty considerable height, when at last the loquacious little gentleman, making a mental calculation of the distance, and finding that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his unalterable determination to ‘pull up’ the cabman in the morning.

‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, ‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow morning.’

‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer.

‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, that’s all. If I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.’

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about the little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after this last declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind of the red cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for an instant; his resolve was soon taken.

‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend.

‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater vehemence an before.

‘Very well,’ said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very calmly. ‘There’ll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that’ll bring me up to the middle o’ next month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may as well get board, lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of the county, as pay for it myself; consequently here goes!’

So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little gentleman down, and then called the police to take himself into custody, with all the civility in the world.

A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state, that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were all provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it came to our knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction for the county of Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation of the silent system; and looked on all the ‘wheels’ with the greatest anxiety, in search of our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and we began to think that the little gentleman in the green coat must have relented, when, as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice, which apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the plaintive air of ‘All round my hat,’ which was then just beginning to form a recognised portion of our national music.

We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook his head.

‘Sad fellow,’ he replied, ‘very sad. He positively refused to work on the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him into solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though, and I am afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings comic songs all day!’

Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-driver?

We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect that this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of our acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to see a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was all over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat, asked, as a matter of course, for ‘a copper for the waterman.’ Now, the fare was by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very indignant at the demand, he replied—‘Money! What for? Coming up and looking at me, I suppose!’—‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, ‘that’s worth twopence.’

The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station in society; and as we know something of his life, and have often thought of telling what we do know, perhaps we shall never have a better opportunity than the present.

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman’s name, Mr. William Barker was born—but why need we relate where Mr. William Barker was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial ledgers, or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in hospitals? Mr. William Barker was born, or he had never been. There is a son—there was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary course? Impossible.

We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period, or by what particular process, this gentleman’s patronymic, of William Barker, became corrupted into ‘Bill Boorker.’ Mr. Barker acquired a high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the members of that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted his energies; and to them he was generally known, either by the familiar appellation of ‘Bill Boorker,’ or the flattering designation of ‘Aggerawatin Bill,’ the latter being a playful and expressive sobriquet, illustrative of Mr. Barker’s great talent in ‘aggerawatin’ and rendering wild such subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker’s disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one—love; love in its most comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions, which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No; it was a nobler love—a general principle. It extended itself with equal force to the property of other people.

There is something very affecting in this. It is still more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded. Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country, with the consent, and at the expense, of its Government; proceeded to a distant shore; and there employed himself, like another Cincinnatus, in clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away.

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the British Government required Mr. Barker’s presence here, or did not require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later life.

Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches from going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopting some more profitable profession; and his active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ransomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, ‘till they was rig’larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.’

An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon presented itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road, encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the proper quarters. The report was correct; the ‘Royal William’ was to make its first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three scrunched children, and just ‘worked out’ his fine for knocking down an old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr. Barker’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary man into the omnibus system—gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great man.

Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has not? But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all.

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, some time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been, who honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind.

It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring heroism to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it was not performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that it was achieved by his brother!

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr. Barker’s knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed. He could tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the real destination of the vehicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady that would be too much flurried by the process of pushing in and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she had been put down, until too late; had an intuitive perception of what was passing in a passenger’s mind when he inwardly resolved to ‘pull that cad up to-morrow morning;’ and never failed to make himself agreeable to female servants, whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the way.

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally happen that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was, on more than one occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not in the power of trifles such as these, however, to subdue the freedom of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties of his profession with unabated ardour.

We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the class of men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing. Improvement has peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated to the very innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustian will vanish before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be forgotten when civility becomes general: and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound body, the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their amusement, and half their occupation.

CHAPTER XVIII—A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

We hope our readers will not be alarmed at this rather ominous title. We assure them that we are not about to become political, neither have we the slightest intention of being more prosy than usual—if we can help it. It has occurred to us that a slight sketch of the general aspect of ‘the House,’ and the crowds that resort to it on the night of an important debate, would be productive of some amusement: and as we have made some few calls at the aforesaid house in our time—have visited it quite often enough for our purpose, and a great deal too often for our personal peace and comfort—we have determined to attempt the description. Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all that feeling of awe, which vague ideas of breaches of privilege, Serjeant-at-Arms, heavy denunciations, and still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken, we enter at once into the building, and upon our subject.

Half-past four o’clock—and at five the mover of the Address will be ‘on his legs,’ as the newspapers announce sometimes by way of novelty, as if speakers were occasionally in the habit of standing on their heads. The members are pouring in, one after the other, in shoals. The few spectators who can obtain standing-room in the passages, scrutinise them as they pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of great importance. Every now and then you hear earnest whispers of ‘That’s Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Which? him with the gilt order round his neck?’ ‘No, no; that’s one of the messengers—that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Here’s Mr. Smith.’ ‘Lor!’ ‘Yes, how d’ye do, sir?—(He is our new member)—How do you do, sir?’ Mr. Smith stops: turns round with an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning); seizes both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the lobby with an extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause, leaving an immense impression in his favour on the mind of his ‘fellow-townsman.’

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in very unpleasant proportion. The livery servants form a complete lane on either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest possible space to avoid being turned out. You see that stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, and great boots, who has been talking incessantly for half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned no small quantity of mirth among the strangers. That is the great conservator of the peace of Westminster. You cannot fail to have remarked the grace with which he saluted the noble Lord who passed just now, or the excessive dignity of his air, as he expostulates with the crowd. He is rather out of temper now, in consequence of the very irreverent behaviour of those two young fellows behind him, who have done nothing but laugh all the time they have been here.

‘Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. ---’ timidly inquires a little thin man in the crowd, hoping to conciliate the man of office.

‘How can you ask such questions, sir?’ replies the functionary, in an incredibly loud key, and pettishly grasping the thick stick he carries in his right hand. ‘Pray do not, sir. I beg of you; pray do not, sir.’ The little man looks remarkably out of his element, and the uninitiated part of the throng are in positive convulsions of laughter.

Just at this moment some unfortunate individual appears, with a very smirking air, at the bottom of the long passage. He has managed to elude the vigilance of the special constable downstairs, and is evidently congratulating himself on having made his way so far.

‘Go back, sir—you must not come here,’ shouts the hoarse one, with tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the offender catches his eye.

The stranger pauses.

‘Do you hear, sir—will you go back?’ continues the official dignitary, gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards.

‘Come, don’t push me,’ replies the stranger, turning angrily round.

‘I will, sir.’

‘You won’t, sir.’

‘Go out, sir.’

‘Take your hands off me, sir.’

‘Go out of the passage, sir.’

‘You’re a Jack-in-office, sir.’

‘A what?’ ejaculates he of the boots.

‘A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,’ reiterates the stranger, now completely in a passion.

‘Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,’ retorts the other—‘pray do not—my instructions are to keep this passage clear—it’s the Speaker’s orders, sir.’

‘D-n the Speaker, sir!’ shouts the intruder.

‘Here, Wilson!—Collins!’ gasps the officer, actually paralysed at this insulting expression, which in his mind is all but high treason; ‘take this man out—take him out, I say! How dare you, sir?’ and down goes the unfortunate man five stairs at a time, turning round at every stoppage, to come back again, and denouncing bitter vengeance against the commander-in-chief, and all his supernumeraries.

‘Make way, gentlemen,—pray make way for the Members, I beg of you!’ shouts the zealous officer, turning back, and preceding a whole string of the liberal and independent.

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a complexion almost as sallow as his linen, and whose large black moustache would give him the appearance of a figure in a hairdresser’s window, if his countenance possessed the thought which is communicated to those waxen caricatures of the human face divine. He is a militia-officer, and the most amusing person in the House. Can anything be more exquisitely absurd than the burlesque grandeur of his air, as he strides up to the lobby, his eyes rolling like those of a Turk’s head in a cheap Dutch clock? He never appears without that bundle of dirty papers which he carries under his left arm, and which are generally supposed to be the miscellaneous estimates for 1804, or some equally important documents. He is very punctual in his attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied ‘He-ar-He-ar,’ is not unfrequently the signal for a general titter.

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a messenger up to the Strangers’ gallery in the old House of Commons, to inquire the name of an individual who was using an eye-glass, in order that he might complain to the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing him! On another occasion, he is reported to have repaired to Bellamy’s kitchen—a refreshment-room, where persons who are not Members are admitted on sufferance, as it were—and perceiving two or three gentlemen at supper, who, he was aware, were not Members, and could not, in that place, very well resent his behaviour, he indulged in the pleasantry of sitting with his booted leg on the table at which they were supping! He is generally harmless, though, and always amusing.

By dint of patience, and some little interest with our friend the constable, we have contrived to make our way to the Lobby, and you can just manage to catch an occasional glimpse of the House, as the door is opened for the admission of Members. It is tolerably full already, and little groups of Members are congregated together here, discussing the interesting topics of the day.

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and cuffs, who wears his D’Orsay hat so rakishly, is ‘Honest Tom,’ a metropolitan representative; and the large man in the cloak with the white lining—not the man by the pillar; the other with the light hair hanging over his coat collar behind—is his colleague. The quiet gentlemanly-looking man in the blue surtout, gray trousers, white neckerchief and gloves, whose closely-buttoned coat displays his manly figure and broad chest to great advantage, is a very well-known character. He has fought a great many battles in his time, and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other arms than those the gods gave him. The old hard-featured man who is standing near him, is really a good specimen of a class of men, now nearly extinct. He is a county Member, and has been from time whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary. Look at his loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious pockets on each side; the knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long waistcoat, and silver watch-chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed brown hat, and the white handkerchief tied in a great bow, with straggling ends sticking out beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume one seldom sees nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off, it will be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was managed in those times, when they used to get up at eight or nine o’clock, except on regular field-days, of which everybody was apprised beforehand. He has a great contempt for all young Members of Parliament, and thinks it quite impossible that a man can say anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House for fifteen years at least, without saying anything at all. He is of opinion that ‘that young Macaulay’ was a regular impostor; he allows, that Lord Stanley may do something one of these days, but ‘he’s too young, sir—too young.’ He is an excellent authority on points of precedent, and when he grows talkative, after his wine, will tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was whipper-in for the Government, brought four men out of their beds to vote in the majority, three of whom died on their way home again; how the House once divided on the question, that fresh candles be now brought in; how the Speaker was once upon a time left in the chair by accident, at the conclusion of business, and was obliged to sit in the House by himself for three hours, till some Member could be knocked up and brought back again, to move the adjournment; and a great many other anecdotes of a similar description.

There he stands, leaning on his stick; looking at the throng of Exquisites around him with most profound contempt; and conjuring up, before his mind’s eye, the scenes he beheld in the old House, in days gone by, when his own feelings were fresher and brighter, and when, as he imagines, wit, talent, and patriotism flourished more brightly too.

You are curious to know who that young man in the rough great-coat is, who has accosted every Member who has entered the House since we have been standing here. He is not a Member; he is only an ‘hereditary bondsman,’ or, in other words, an Irish correspondent of an Irish newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second frank from a Member whom he never saw in his life before. There he goes again—another! Bless the man, he has his hat and pockets full already.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers’ gallery, though the nature of the debate encourages very little hope of success. What on earth are you about? Holding up your order as if it were a talisman at whose command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense. Just preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at all, and make your appearance at the door with your thumb and forefinger expressively inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the door-keeper. ‘Any room?’ ‘Not an inch—two or three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the chance of somebody’s going out.’ Pull out your purse—‘Are you quite sure there’s no room?’—‘I’ll go and look,’ replies the door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, ‘but I’m afraid there’s not.’ He returns, and with real feeling assures you that it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers’ gallery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed. [122]

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descending the stairs, and crossing Palace-yard, we halt at a small temporary doorway adjoining the King’s entrance to the House of Lords. The order of the serjeant-at-arms will admit you into the Reporters’ gallery, from whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the House. Take care of the stairs, they are none of the best; through this little wicket—there. As soon as your eyes become a little used to the mist of the place, and the glare of the chandeliers below you, you will see that some unimportant personage on the Ministerial side of the House (to your right hand) is speaking, amidst a hum of voices and confusion which would rival Babel, but for the circumstance of its being all in one language.

The ‘hear, hear,’ which occasioned that laugh, proceeded from our warlike friend with the moustache; he is sitting on the back seat against the wall, behind the Member who is speaking, looking as ferocious and intellectual as usual. Take one look around you, and retire! The body of the House and the side galleries are full of Members; some, with their legs on the back of the opposite seat; some, with theirs stretched out to their utmost length on the floor; some going out, others coming in; all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing, oh-ing, questioning, or groaning; presenting a conglomeration of noise and confusion, to be met with in no other place in existence, not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or a cock-pit in its glory.

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy’s kitchen, or, in other words, the refreshment-room, common to both Houses of Parliament, where Ministerialists and Oppositionists, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers, and Destructives, strangers from the gallery, and the more favoured strangers from below the bar, are alike at liberty to resort; where divers honourable members prove their perfect independence by remaining during the whole of a heavy debate, solacing themselves with the creature comforts; and whence they are summoned by whippers-in, when the House is on the point of dividing; either to give their ‘conscientious votes’ on questions of which they are conscientiously innocent of knowing anything whatever, or to find a vent for the playful exuberance of their wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts of ‘Divide,’ occasionally varied with a little howling, barking, crowing, or other ebullitions of senatorial pleasantry.

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, in the present temporary House of Commons, leads to the place we are describing, you will probably observe a couple of rooms on your right hand, with tables spread for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although they are both devoted to the same purpose; the kitchen is further on to our left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before we ascend the staircase, however, we must request you to pause in front of this little bar-place with the sash-windows; and beg your particular attention to the steady, honest-looking old fellow in black, who is its sole occupant. Nicholas (we do not mind mentioning the old fellow’s name, for if Nicholas be not a public man, who is?—and public men’s names are public property)—Nicholas is the butler of Bellamy’s, and has held the same place, dressed exactly in the same manner, and said precisely the same things, ever since the oldest of its present visitors can remember. An excellent servant Nicholas is—an unrivalled compounder of salad-dressing—an admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon—a special mixer of cold grog and punch—and, above all, an unequalled judge of cheese. If the old man have such a thing as vanity in his composition, this is certainly his pride; and if it be possible to imagine that anything in this world could disturb his impenetrable calmness, we should say it would be the doubting his judgment on this important point.

We needn’t tell you all this, however, for if you have an atom of observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing-looking head and face—his prim white neckerchief, with the wooden tie into which it has been regularly folded for twenty years past, merging by imperceptible degrees into a small-plaited shirt-frill—and his comfortable-looking form encased in a well-brushed suit of black—would give you a better idea of his real character than a column of our poor description could convey.

Nicholas is rather out of his element now; he cannot see the kitchen as he used to in the old House; there, one window of his glass-case opened into the room, and then, for the edification and behoof of more juvenile questioners, he would stand for an hour together, answering deferential questions about Sheridan, and Percival, and Castlereagh, and Heaven knows who beside, with manifest delight, always inserting a ‘Mister’ before every commoner’s name.

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a great idea of the degeneracy of the times. He seldom expresses any political opinions, but we managed to ascertain, just before the passing of the Reform Bill, that Nicholas was a thorough Reformer. What was our astonishment to discover shortly after the meeting of the first reformed Parliament, that he was a most inveterate and decided Tory! It was very odd: some men change their opinions from necessity, others from expediency, others from inspiration; but that Nicholas should undergo any change in any respect, was an event we had never contemplated, and should have considered impossible. His strong opinion against the clause which empowered the metropolitan districts to return Members to Parliament, too, was perfectly unaccountable.

We discovered the secret at last; the metropolitan Members always dined at home. The rascals! As for giving additional Members to Ireland, it was even worse—decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir, an Irish Member would go up there, and eat more dinner than three English Members put together. He took no wine; drank table-beer by the half-gallon; and went home to Manchester-buildings, or Millbank-street, for his whiskey-and-water. And what was the consequence? Why, the concern lost—actually lost, sir—by his patronage. A queer old fellow is Nicholas, and as completely a part of the building as the house itself. We wonder he ever left the old place, and fully expected to see in the papers, the morning after the fire, a pathetic account of an old gentleman in black, of decent appearance, who was seen at one of the upper windows when the flames were at their height, and declared his resolute intention of falling with the floor. He must have been got out by force. However, he was got out—here he is again, looking as he always does, as if he had been in a bandbox ever since the last session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have described him: and, as characters are scarce, and faithful servants scarcer, long may he be there, say we!

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, and duly noticed the large fire and roasting-jack at one end of the room—the little table for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other—the clock over the window opposite St. Margaret’s Church—the deal tables and wax candles—the damask table-cloths and bare floor—the plate and china on the tables, and the gridiron on the fire; and a few other anomalies peculiar to the place—we will point out to your notice two or three of the people present, whose station or absurdities render them the most worthy of remark.

It is half-past twelve o’clock, and as the division is not expected for an hour or two, a few Members are lounging away the time here in preference to standing at the bar of the House, or sleeping in one of the side galleries. That singularly awkward and ungainly-looking man, in the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black trousers which reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, who is leaning against the meat-screen, apparently deluding himself into the belief that he is thinking about something, is a splendid sample of a Member of the House of Commons concentrating in his own person the wisdom of a constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark hue but indescribable colour, for if it be naturally brown, it has acquired a black tint by long service, and if it be naturally black, the same cause has imparted to it a tinge of rusty brown; and remark how very materially the great blinker-like spectacles assist the expression of that most intelligent face. Seriously speaking, did you ever see a countenance so expressive of the most hopeless extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so strangely put together? He is no great speaker: but when he does address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible.

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just saluted him, is a Member of Parliament, an ex-Alderman, and a sort of amateur fireman. He, and the celebrated fireman’s dog, were observed to be remarkably active at the conflagration of the two Houses of Parliament—they both ran up and down, and in and out, getting under people’s feet, and into everybody’s way, fully impressed with the belief that they were doing a great deal of good, and barking tremendously. The dog went quietly back to his kennel with the engine, but the gentleman kept up such an incessant noise for some weeks after the occurrence, that he became a positive nuisance. As no more parliamentary fires have occurred, however, and as he has consequently had no more opportunities of writing to the newspapers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures he cut them out of their frames, and performed other great national services, he has gradually relapsed into his old state of calmness.

That female in black—not the one whom the Lord’s-Day-Bill Baronet has just chucked under the chin; the shorter of the two—is ‘Jane:’ the Hebe of Bellamy’s. Jane is as great a character as Nicholas, in her way. Her leading features are a thorough contempt for the great majority of her visitors; her predominant quality, love of admiration, as you cannot fail to observe, if you mark the glee with which she listens to something the young Member near her mutters somewhat unintelligibly in her ear (for his speech is rather thick from some cause or other), and how playfully she digs the handle of a fork into the arm with which he detains her, by way of reply.

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them about, with a degree of liberality and total absence of reserve or constraint, which occasionally excites no small amazement in the minds of strangers. She cuts jokes with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him with a great deal of respect—the immovable stolidity with which Nicholas receives the aforesaid jokes, and looks on, at certain pastoral friskings and rompings (Jane’s only recreations, and they are very innocent too) which occasionally take place in the passage, is not the least amusing part of his character.

The two persons who are seated at the table in the corner, at the farther end of the room, have been constant guests here, for many years past; and one of them has feasted within these walls, many a time, with the most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He has gone up to the other House since then; the greater part of his boon companions have shared Yorick’s fate, and his visits to Bellamy’s are comparatively few.

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour can he possibly have dined! A second solid mass of rump-steak has disappeared, and he eat the first in four minutes and three quarters, by the clock over the window. Was there ever such a personification of Falstaff! Mark the air with which he gloats over that Stilton, as he removes the napkin which has been placed beneath his chin to catch the superfluous gravy of the steak, and with what gusto he imbibes the porter which has been fetched, expressly for him, in the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse sound of that voice, kept down as it is by layers of solids, and deep draughts of rich wine, and tell us if you ever saw such a perfect picture of a regular gourmand; and whether he is not exactly the man whom you would pitch upon as having been the partner of Sheridan’s parliamentary carouses, the volunteer driver of the hackney-coach that took him home, and the involuntary upsetter of the whole party?

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that of the spare, squeaking old man, who sits at the same table, and who, elevating a little cracked bantam sort of voice to its highest pitch, invokes damnation upon his own eyes or somebody else’s at the commencement of every sentence he utters. ‘The Captain,’ as they call him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy’s; much addicted to stopping ‘after the House is up’ (an inexpiable crime in Jane’s eyes), and a complete walking reservoir of spirits and water.

The old Peer—or rather, the old man—for his peerage is of comparatively recent date—has a huge tumbler of hot punch brought him; and the other damns and drinks, and drinks and damns, and smokes. Members arrive every moment in a great bustle to report that ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s up,’ and to get glasses of brandy-and-water to sustain them during the division; people who have ordered supper, countermand it, and prepare to go down-stairs, when suddenly a bell is heard to ring with tremendous violence, and a cry of ‘Di-vi-sion!’ is heard in the passage. This is enough; away rush the members pell-mell. The room is cleared in an instant; the noise rapidly dies away; you hear the creaking of the last boot on the last stair, and are left alone with the leviathan of rump-steaks.

CHAPTER XIX—PUBLIC DINNERS

All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor’s annual banquet at Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers’ anniversary at White Conduit House; from the Goldsmiths’ to the Butchers’, from the Sheriffs’ to the Licensed Victuallers’; are amusing scenes. Of all entertainments of this description, however, we think the annual dinner of some public charity is the most amusing. At a Company’s dinner, the people are nearly all alike—regular old stagers, who make it a matter of business, and a thing not to be laughed at. At a political dinner, everybody is disagreeable, and inclined to speechify—much the same thing, by-the-bye; but at a charity dinner you see people of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions. The wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure, and we have heard some hardhearted monsters grumble at the collection; but we really think the amusement to be derived from the occasion, sufficient to counterbalance even these disadvantages.

Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this description—‘Indigent Orphans’ Friends’ Benevolent Institution,’ we think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer, but never mind the rest. You have a distinct recollection, however, that you purchased a ticket at the solicitation of some charitable friend: and you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach, the driver of which—no doubt that you may do the thing in style—turns a deaf ear to your earnest entreaties to be set down at the corner of Great Queen-street, and persists in carrying you to the very door of the Freemasons’, round which a crowd of people are assembled to witness the entrance of the indigent orphans’ friends. You hear great speculations as you pay the fare, on the possibility of your being the noble Lord who is announced to fill the chair on the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it eventually decided that you are only a ‘wocalist.’

The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is the astonishing importance of the committee. You observe a door on the first landing, carefully guarded by two waiters, in and out of which stout gentlemen with very red faces keep running, with a degree of speed highly unbecoming the gravity of persons of their years and corpulency. You pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, and thinking, in your innocence, that two or three people must have been carried out of the dining-room in fits, at least. You are immediately undeceived by the waiter—‘Up-stairs, if you please, sir; this is the committee-room.’ Up-stairs you go, accordingly; wondering, as you mount, what the duties of the committee can be, and whether they ever do anything beyond confusing each other, and running over the waiters.

Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a remarkably small scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, as a matter of course, you lose, before you require it again), you enter the hall, down which there are three long tables for the less distinguished guests, with a cross table on a raised platform at the upper end for the reception of the very particular friends of the indigent orphans. Being fortunate enough to find a plate without anybody’s card in it, you wisely seat yourself at once, and have a little leisure to look about you. Waiters, with wine-baskets in their hands, are placing decanters of sherry down the tables, at very respectable distances; melancholy-looking salt-cellars, and decayed vinegar-cruets, which might have belonged to the parents of the indigent orphans in their time, are scattered at distant intervals on the cloth; and the knives and forks look as if they had done duty at every public dinner in London since the accession of George the First. The musicians are scraping and grating and screwing tremendously—playing no notes but notes of preparation; and several gentlemen are gliding along the sides of the tables, looking into plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the expression of their countenances growing more and more dismal as they meet with everybody’s card but their own.

You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, and—not being in the habit of attending public dinners—are somewhat struck by the appearance of the party on which your eyes rest. One of its principal members appears to be a little man, with a long and rather inflamed face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in front; he wears a wisp of black silk round his neck, without any stiffener, as an apology for a neckerchief, and is addressed by his companions by the familiar appellation of ‘Fitz,’ or some such monosyllable. Near him is a stout man in a white neckerchief and buff waistcoat, with shining dark hair, cut very short in front, and a great, round, healthy-looking face, on which he studiously preserves a half sentimental simper. Next him, again, is a large-headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers; and opposite them are two or three others, one of whom is a little round-faced person, in a dress-stock and blue under-waistcoat. There is something peculiar in their air and manner, though you could hardly describe what it is; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that they have come for some other purpose than mere eating and drinking. You have no time to debate the matter, however, for the waiters (who have been arranged in lines down the room, placing the dishes on table) retire to the lower end; the dark man in the blue coat and bright buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks up to the gallery, and calls out ‘band’ in a very loud voice; out burst the orchestra, up rise the visitors, in march fourteen stewards, each with a long wand in his hand, like the evil genius in a pantomime; then the chairman, then the titled visitors; they all make their way up the room, as fast as they can, bowing, and smiling, and smirking, and looking remarkably amiable. The applause ceases, grace is said, the clatter of plates and dishes begins; and every one appears highly gratified, either with the presence of the distinguished visitors, or the commencement of the anxiously-expected dinner.

As to the dinner itself—the mere dinner—it goes off much the same everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied with awful rapidity—waiters take plates of turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring back plates of lobster-sauce without turbot; people who can carve poultry, are great fools if they own it, and people who can’t have no wish to learn. The knives and forks form a pleasing accompaniment to Auber’s music, and Auber’s music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if you could hear anything besides the cymbals. The substantials disappear—moulds of jelly vanish like lightning—hearty eaters wipe their foreheads, and appear rather overcome by their recent exertions—people who have looked very cross hitherto, become remarkably bland, and ask you to take wine in the most friendly manner possible—old gentlemen direct your attention to the ladies’ gallery, and take great pains to impress you with the fact that the charity is always peculiarly favoured in this respect—every one appears disposed to become talkative—and the hum of conversation is loud and general.

‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for Non nobis!’ shouts the toast-master with stentorian lungs—a toast-master’s shirt-front, waistcoat, and neckerchief, by-the-bye, always exhibit three distinct shades of cloudy-white.—‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, for Non nobis!’ The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the very party that excited your curiosity at first, after ‘pitching’ their voices immediately begin _too-too_ing most dismally, on which the regular old stagers burst into occasional cries of—‘Sh—Sh—waiters!—Silence, waiters—stand still, waiters—keep back, waiters,’ and other exorcisms, delivered in a tone of indignant remonstrance. The grace is soon concluded, and the company resume their seats. The uninitiated portion of the guests applaud Non nobis as vehemently as if it were a capital comic song, greatly to the scandal and indignation of the regular diners, who immediately attempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation, by cries of ‘Hush, hush!’ whereupon the others, mistaking these sounds for hisses, applaud more tumultuously than before, and, by way of placing their approval beyond the possibility of doubt, shout ‘Encore!’ most vociferously.

The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast-master:—‘Gentlemen, charge your glasses, if you please!’ Decanters having been handed about, and glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds, in a regular ascending scale:—‘Gentlemen—air—you—all charged? Pray—silence—gentlemen—for—the cha-i-r!’ The chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it quite unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to propose, with any observations whatever, wanders into a maze of sentences, and flounders about in the most extraordinary manner, presenting a lamentable spectacle of mystified humanity, until he arrives at the words, ‘constitutional sovereign of these realms,’ at which elderly gentlemen exclaim ‘Bravo!’ and hammer the table tremendously with their knife-handles. ‘Under any circumstances, it would give him the greatest pride, it would give him the greatest pleasure—he might almost say, it would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that toast. What must be his feelings, then, when he has the gratification of announcing, that he has received her Majesty’s commands to apply to the Treasurer of her Majesty’s Household, for her Majesty’s annual donation of 25_l._ in aid of the funds of this charity!’ This announcement (which has been regularly made by every chairman, since the first foundation of the charity, forty-two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause; the toast is drunk with a great deal of cheering and knocking; and ‘God save the Queen’ is sung by the ‘professional gentlemen;’ the unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the national anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice, describe as ‘perfectly electrical.’

The other ‘loyal and patriotic’ toasts having been drunk with all due enthusiasm, a comic song having been well sung by the gentleman with the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second of the party, we come to the most important toast of the evening—‘Prosperity to the charity.’ Here again we are compelled to adopt newspaper phraseology, and to express our regret at being ‘precluded from giving even the substance of the noble lord’s observations.’ Suffice it to say, that the speech, which is somewhat of the longest, is rapturously received; and the toast having been drunk, the stewards (looking more important than ever) leave the room, and presently return, heading a procession of indigent orphans, boys and girls, who walk round the room, curtseying, and bowing, and treading on each other’s heels, and looking very much as if they would like a glass of wine apiece, to the high gratification of the company generally, and especially of the lady patronesses in the gallery. Exeunt children, and re-enter stewards, each with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a lively air; the majority of the company put their hands in their pockets and look rather serious; and the noise of sovereigns, rattling on crockery, is heard from all parts of the room.

After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, the secretary puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read the report and list of subscriptions, the latter being listened to with great attention. ‘Mr. Smith, one guinea—Mr. Tompkins, one guinea—Mr. Wilson, one guinea—Mr. Hickson, one guinea—Mr. Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Charles Nixon, one guinea—[hear, hear!]—Mr. James Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Thomas Nixon, one pound one [tremendous applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman of the day, in addition to an annual donation of fifteen pounds—thirty guineas [prolonged knocking: several gentlemen knock the stems off their wine-glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady, Fitz Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten pound—twenty pound’ [protracted knocking and shouts of ‘Bravo!’] The list being at length concluded, the chairman rises, and proposes the health of the secretary, than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable individual. The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that he knows no more excellent individual than the chairman—except the senior officer of the charity, whose health he begs to propose. The senior officer, in returning thanks, observes that he knows no more worthy man than the secretary—except Mr. Walker, the auditor, whose health he begs to propose. Mr. Walker, in returning thanks, discovers some other estimable individual, to whom alone the senior officer is inferior—and so they go on toasting and lauding and thanking: the only other toast of importance being ‘The Lady Patronesses now present!’ on which all the gentlemen turn their faces towards the ladies’ gallery, shouting tremendously; and little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than usual, kiss their hands and exhibit distressing contortions of visage.

We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, that we have hardly time to add one word by way of grace. We can only entreat our readers not to imagine, because we have attempted to extract some amusement from a charity dinner, that we are at all disposed to underrate, either the excellence of the benevolent institutions with which London abounds, or the estimable motives of those who support them.

CHAPTER XX—THE FIRST OF MAY

‘Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you please!’

Young Lady with Brass Ladle.

‘Sweep—sweep—sw-e-ep!’

Illegal Watchword.

The first of May! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling to our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant in nature and beautiful in her most delightful form. What man is there, over whose mind a bright spring morning does not exercise a magic influence—carrying him back to the days of his childish sports, and conjuring up before him the old green field with its gently-waving trees, where the birds sang as he has never heard them since—where the butterfly fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees him now, in all his ramblings—where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone more brightly—where the air blew more freshly over greener grass, and sweeter-smelling flowers—where everything wore a richer and more brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now! Such are the deep feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions which every lovely object stamps upon its heart! The hardy traveller wanders through the maze of thick and pathless woods, where the sun’s rays never shone, and heaven’s pure air never played; he stands on the brink of the roaring waterfall, and, giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it leaps from stone to stone, and from crag to crag; he lingers in the fertile plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the luxury of their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous nature ever spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate the senses of man, compared with the recollection of the old scenes of his early youth? Magic scenes indeed; for the fancies of childhood dressed them in colours brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!

In former times, spring brought with it not only such associations as these, connected with the past, but sports and games for the present—merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with emblems of the season, and reared in honour of its coming. Where are they now! Pillars we have, but they are no longer rustic ones; and as to dancers, they are used to rooms, and lights, and would not show well in the open air. Think of the immorality, too! What would your sabbath enthusiasts say, to an aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York’s column in Carlton-terrace—a grand poussette of the middle classes, round Alderman Waithman’s monument in Fleet-street,—or a general hands-four-round of ten-pound householders, at the foot of the Obelisk in St. George’s-fields? Alas! romance can make no head against the riot act; and pastoral simplicity is not understood by the police.

Well; many years ago we began to be a steady and matter-of-fact sort of people, and dancing in spring being beneath our dignity, we gave it up, and in course of time it descended to the sweeps—a fall certainly, because, though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and moreover very useful in a civilised community, they are not exactly the sort of people to give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps, however, got the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up, and handed it down. This was a severe blow to the romance of spring-time, but, it did not entirely destroy it, either; for a portion of it descended to the sweeps with the dancing, and rendered them objects of great interest. A mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends were in existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost children, and who, after many years of sorrow and suffering, had found them in the character of sweeps. Stories were related of a young boy who, having been stolen from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the occupation of chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his professional career, to sweep the chimney of his mother’s bedroom; and how, being hot and tired when he came out of the chimney, he got into the bed he had so often slept in as an infant, and was discovered and recognised therein by his mother, who once every year of her life, thereafter, requested the pleasure of the company of every London sweep, at half-past one o’clock, to roast beef, plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence.

Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air of mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of those good effects which animals derive from the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. No one (except the masters) thought of ill-treating a sweep, because no one knew who he might be, or what nobleman’s or gentleman’s son he might turn out. Chimney-sweeping was, by many believers in the marvellous, considered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or later period of which, divers young noblemen were to come into possession of their rank and titles: and the profession was held by them in great respect accordingly.

We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about our own age, with curly hair and white teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely believed to be the lost son and heir of some illustrious personage—an impression which was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our infant mind, by the subject of our speculations informing us, one day, in reply to our question, propounded a few moments before his ascent to the summit of the kitchen chimney, ‘that he believed he’d been born in the vurkis, but he’d never know’d his father.’ We felt certain, from that time forth, that he would one day be owned by a lord: and we never heard the church-bells ring, or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without thinking that the happy event had at last occurred, and that his long-lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to Grosvenor-square. He never came, however; and, at the present moment, the young gentleman in question is settled down as a master sweep in the neighbourhood of Battle-bridge, his distinguishing characteristics being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and the possession of a pair of legs very inadequate to the support of his unwieldy and corpulent body.

The romance of spring having gone out before our time, we were fain to console ourselves as we best could with the uncertainty that enveloped the birth and parentage of its attendant dancers, the sweeps; and we did console ourselves with it, for many years. But, even this wicked source of comfort received a shock from which it has never recovered—a shock which has been in reality its death-blow. We could not disguise from ourselves the fact that whole families of sweeps were regularly born of sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers Town and Camden Town—that the eldest son succeeded to the father’s business, that the other branches assisted him therein, and commenced on their own account; that their children again, were educated to the profession; and that about their identity there could be no mistake whatever. We could not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, but we could not bring ourselves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some years in a state of voluntary ignorance. We were roused from our pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations thrown out by a friend of ours, to the effect that children in the lower ranks of life were beginning to choose chimney-sweeping as their particular walk; that applications had been made by various boys to the constituted authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of their ambition with the full concurrence and sanction of the law; that the affair, in short, was becoming one of mere legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to these rumours at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. Month after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, did we meet with accounts of similar applications. The veil was removed, all mystery was at an end, and chimney-sweeping had become a favourite and chosen pursuit. There is no longer any occasion to steal boys; for boys flock in crowds to bind themselves. The romance of the trade has fled, and the chimney-sweeper of the present day, is no more like unto him of thirty years ago, than is a Fleet-street pickpocket to a Spanish brigand, or Paul Pry to Caleb Williams.

This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble youths into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, was a severe blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney-sweeping, and to the romance of spring at the same time. But even this was not all, for some few years ago the dancing on May-day began to decline; small sweeps were observed to congregate in twos or threes, unsupported by a ‘green,’ with no ‘My Lord’ to act as master of the ceremonies, and no ‘My Lady’ to preside over the exchequer. Even in companies where there was a ‘green’ it was an absolute nothing—a mere sprout—and the instrumental accompaniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a set of Panpipes, better known to the many, as a ‘mouth-organ.’

These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a coming change; and what was the result which they shadowed forth? Why, the master sweeps, influenced by a restless spirit of innovation, actually interposed their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and substituted a dinner—an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House—where clean faces appeared in lieu of black ones smeared with rose pink; and knee cords and tops superseded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes.

Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses; and steady-going people who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this alteration to the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was described beyond the reach of praise. But how stands the real fact? Let any man deny, if he can, that when the cloth had been removed, fresh pots and pipes laid upon the table, and the customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed, the celebrated Mr. Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority not the most malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed himself in a manner following: ‘That now he’d cotcht the cheerman’s hi, he vished he might be jolly vell blessed, if he worn’t a goin’ to have his innings, vich he vould say these here obserwashuns—that how some mischeevus coves as know’d nuffin about the consarn, had tried to sit people agin the mas’r swips, and take the shine out o’ their bis’nes, and the bread out o’ the traps o’ their preshus kids, by a makin’ o’ this here remark, as chimblies could be as vell svept by ‘sheenery as by boys; and that the makin’ use o’ boys for that there purpuss vos barbareous; vereas, he ’ad been a chummy—he begged the cheerman’s parding for usin’ such a wulgar hexpression—more nor thirty year—he might say he’d been born in a chimbley—and he know’d uncommon vell as ‘sheenery vos vus nor o’ no use: and as to kerhewelty to the boys, everybody in the chimbley line know’d as vell as he did, that they liked the climbin’ better nor nuffin as vos.’ From this day, we date the total fall of the last lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among the élite of the profession: and from this period we commence a new era in that portion of our spring associations which relates to the first of May.

We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will meet us here, with the assertion, that dancing on May-day still continues—that ‘greens’ are annually seen to roll along the streets—that youths in the garb of clowns, precede them, giving vent to the ebullitions of their sportive fancies; and that lords and ladies follow in their wake.

Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in outward show, these processions have greatly improved: we do not deny the introduction of solos on the drum; we will even go so far as to admit an occasional fantasia on the triangle, but here our admissions end. We positively deny that the sweeps have art or part in these proceedings. We distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse scavengers, brickmakers, and gentlemen who devote their energies to the costermongering line, with obtaining money once a-year, under false pretences. We cling with peculiar fondness to the custom of days gone by, and have shut out conviction as long as we could, but it has forced itself upon us; and we now proclaim to a deluded public, that the May-day dancers are not sweeps. The size of them, alone, is sufficient to repudiate the idea. It is a notorious fact that the widely-spread taste for register-stoves has materially increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men, who, under a fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first of May nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to say nothing of the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, but we have positive proof—the evidence of our own senses. And here is our testimony.

Upon the morning of the second of the merry month of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went out for a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something or other which might induce us to believe that it was really spring, and not Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen House, without meeting anything calculated to dispel our impression that there was a mistake in the almanacks, we turned back down Maidenlane, with the intention of passing through the extensive colony lying between it and Battle-bridge, which is inhabited by proprietors of donkey-carts, boilers of horse-flesh, makers of tiles, and sifters of cinders; through which colony we should have passed, without stoppage or interruption, if a little crowd gathered round a shed had not attracted our attention, and induced us to pause.

When we say a ‘shed,’ we do not mean the conservatory sort of building, which, according to the old song, Love tenanted when he was a young man, but a wooden house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a few shovels, and little heaps of cinders, and fragments of china and tiles, scattered about it. Before this inviting spot we paused; and the longer we looked, the more we wondered what exciting circumstance it could be, that induced the foremost members of the crowd to flatten their noses against the parlour window, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of what was going on inside. After staring vacantly about us for some minutes, we appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a gentleman in a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right hand; but as the only answer we obtained was a playful inquiry whether our mother had disposed of her mangle, we determined to await the issue in silence.

Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-door of the shed opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and emulating the appearance, of May-day sweeps!

The first person who appeared was ‘my lord,’ habited in a blue coat and bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the seams, yellow knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat, ornamented with shreds of various-coloured paper, on his head, a bouquet the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left. A murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which was chiefly composed of his lordship’s personal friends), when this graceful figure made his appearance, which swelled into a burst of applause as his fair partner in the dance bounded forth to join him. Her ladyship was attired in pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low body and short sleeves. The symmetry of her ankles was partially concealed by a very perceptible pair of frilled trousers; and the inconvenience which might have resulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few sizes too large, was obviated by their being firmly attached to her legs with strong tape sandals.

Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers; and in her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive what she figuratively denominated ‘the tin.’ The other characters were a young gentleman in girl’s clothes and a widow’s cap; two clowns who walked upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable delight of all the spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a flageolet; a dirty woman in a large shawl, with a box under her arm for the money,—and last, though not least, the ‘green,’ animated by no less a personage than our identical friend in the tarpaulin suit.

The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the shovels rattled, the ‘green’ rolled about, pitching first on one side and then on the other; my lady threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her left foot over her right ankle, alternately; my lord ran a few paces forward, and butted at the ‘green,’ and then a few paces backward upon the toes of the crowd, and then went to the right, and then to the left, and then dodged my lady round the ‘green;’ and finally drew her arm through his, and called upon the boys to shout, which they did lustily—for this was the dancing.

We passed the same group, accidentally, in the evening. We never saw a ‘green’ so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (no: not even in the house of peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a lady so muddy, or a party so miserable.

How has May-day decayed!

CHAPTER XXI—BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

When we affirm that brokers’ shops are strange places, and that if an authentic history of their contents could be procured, it would furnish many a page of amusement, and many a melancholy tale, it is necessary to explain the class of shops to which we allude. Perhaps when we make use of the term ‘Brokers’ Shop,’ the minds of our readers will at once picture large, handsome warehouses, exhibiting a long perspective of French-polished dining-tables, rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany wash-hand-stands, with an occasional vista of a four-post bedstead and hangings, and an appropriate foreground of dining-room chairs. Perhaps they will imagine that we mean an humble class of second-hand furniture repositories. Their imagination will then naturally lead them to that street at the back of Long-acre, which is composed almost entirely of brokers’ shops; where you walk through groves of deceitful, showy-looking furniture, and where the prospect is occasionally enlivened by a bright red, blue, and yellow hearth-rug, embellished with the pleasing device of a mail-coach at full speed, or a strange animal, supposed to have been originally intended for a dog, with a mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which conjecture has likened to a basket of flowers.

This, by-the-bye, is a tempting article to young wives in the humbler ranks of life, who have a first-floor front to furnish—they are lost in admiration, and hardly know which to admire most. The dog is very beautiful, but they have a dog already on the best tea-tray, and two more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is something so genteel about that mail-coach; and the passengers outside (who are all hat) give it such an air of reality!

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of cheap purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful looking Pembroke tables that were ever beheld: the wood as green as the trees in the Park, and the leaves almost as certain to fall off in the course of a year. There is also a most extensive assortment of tent and turn-up bedsteads, made of stained wood, and innumerable specimens of that base imposition on society—a sofa bedstead.

A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furniture; it may be slightly disguised with a sham drawer; and sometimes a mad attempt is even made to pass it off for a book-case; ornament it as you will, however, the turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to insist on having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up bedstead, and nothing else—that he is indispensably necessary, and that being so useful, he disdains to be ornamental.

How different is the demeanour of a sofa bedstead! Ashamed of its real use, it strives to appear an article of luxury and gentility—an attempt in which it miserably fails. It has neither the respectability of a sofa, nor the virtues of a bed; every man who keeps a sofa bedstead in his house, becomes a party to a wilful and designing fraud—we question whether you could insult him more, than by insinuating that you entertain the least suspicion of its real use.

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that neither of these classes of brokers’ shops, forms the subject of this sketch. The shops to which we advert, are immeasurably inferior to those on whose outward appearance we have slightly touched. Our readers must often have observed in some by-street, in a poor neighbourhood, a small dirty shop, exposing for sale the most extraordinary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder at their ever having been bought, is only to be equalled by our astonishment at the idea of their ever being sold again. On a board, at the side of the door, are placed about twenty books—all odd volumes; and as many wine-glasses—all different patterns; several locks, an old earthenware pan, full of rusty keys; two or three gaudy chimney-ornaments—cracked, of course; the remains of a lustre, without any drops; a round frame like a capital O, which has once held a mirror; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle joint; a pair of curling-irons; and a tinder-box. In front of the shop-window, are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with spinal complaints and wasted legs; a corner cupboard; two or three very dark mahogany tables with flaps like mathematical problems; some pickle-jars, some surgeons’ ditto, with gilt labels and without stoppers; an unframed portrait of some lady who flourished about the beginning of the thirteenth century, by an artist who never flourished at all; an incalculable host of miscellanies of every description, including bottles and cabinets, rags and bones, fenders and street-door knockers, fire-irons, wearing apparel and bedding, a hall-lamp, and a room-door. Imagine, in addition to this incongruous mass, a black doll in a white frock, with two faces—one looking up the street, and the other looking down, swinging over the door; a board with the squeezed-up inscription ‘Dealer in marine stores,’ in lanky white letters, whose height is strangely out of proportion to their width; and you have before you precisely the kind of shop to which we wish to direct your attention.

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things will be found at all these places, it is curious to observe how truly and accurately some of the minor articles which are exposed for sale—articles of wearing apparel, for instance—mark the character of the neighbourhood. Take Drury-Lane and Covent-garden for example.

This is essentially a theatrical neighbourhood. There is not a potboy in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or less extent, a dramatic character. The errand-boys and chandler’s-shop-keepers’ sons, are all stage-struck: they ‘gets up’ plays in back kitchens hired for the purpose, and will stand before a shop-window for hours, contemplating a great staring portrait of Mr. Somebody or other, of the Royal Coburg Theatre, ‘as he appeared in the character of Tongo the Denounced.’ The consequence is, that there is not a marine-store shop in the neighbourhood, which does not exhibit for sale some faded articles of dramatic finery, such as three or four pairs of soiled buff boots with turn-over red tops, heretofore worn by a ‘fourth robber,’ or ‘fifth mob;’ a pair of rusty broadswords, a few gauntlets, and certain resplendent ornaments, which, if they were yellow instead of white, might be taken for insurance plates of the Sun Fire-office. There are several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty courts, of which there are so many near the national theatres, and they all have tempting goods of this description, with the addition, perhaps, of a lady’s pink dress covered with spangles; white wreaths, stage shoes, and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They have been purchased of some wretched supernumeraries, or sixth-rate actors, and are now offered for the benefit of the rising generation, who, on condition of making certain weekly payments, amounting in the whole to about ten times their value, may avail themselves of such desirable bargains.

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to the same test. Look at a marine-store dealer’s, in that reservoir of dirt, drunkenness, and drabs: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and pickled salmon—Ratcliff-highway. Here, the wearing apparel is all nautical. Rough blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons, oil-skin hats, coarse checked shirts, and large canvas trousers that look as if they were made for a pair of bodies instead of a pair of legs, are the staple commodities. Then, there are large bunches of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, in colour and pattern unlike any one ever saw before, with the exception of those on the backs of the three young ladies without bonnets who passed just now. The furniture is much the same as elsewhere, with the addition of one or two models of ships, and some old prints of naval engagements in still older frames. In the window, are a few compasses, a small tray containing silver watches in clumsy thick cases; and tobacco-boxes, the lid of each ornamented with a ship, or an anchor, or some such trophy. A sailor generally pawns or sells all he has before he has been long ashore, and if he does not, some favoured companion kindly saves him the trouble. In either case, it is an even chance that he afterwards unconsciously repurchases the same things at a higher price than he gave for them at first.

Again: pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of London, as unlike both of these as they are to each other. Cross over to the Surrey side, and look at such shops of this description as are to be found near the King’s Bench prison, and in ‘the Rules.’ How different, and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of the unfortunate residents in this part of the metropolis! Imprisonment and neglect have done their work. There is contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtor’s prison; old friends have fallen off; the recollection of former prosperity has passed away; and with it all thoughts for the past, all care for the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all the more expensive articles of dress, have found their way to the pawnbroker’s. That miserable resource has failed at last, and the sale of some trifling article at one of these shops, has been the only mode left of raising a shilling or two, to meet the urgent demands of the moment. Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old to pawn but too good to keep; guns, fishing-rods, musical instruments, all in the same condition; have first been sold, and the sacrifice has been but slightly felt. But hunger must be allayed, and what has already become a habit, is easily resorted to, when an emergency arises. Light articles of clothing, first of the ruined man, then of his wife, at last of their children, even of the youngest, have been parted with, piecemeal. There they are, thrown carelessly together until a purchaser presents himself, old, and patched and repaired, it is true; but the make and materials tell of better days; and the older they are, the greater the misery and destitution of those whom they once adorned.

CHAPTER XXII—GIN-SHOPS

It is a remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially liable, and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The great distinction between the animals and the trades, is, that the former run mad with a certain degree of propriety—they are very regular in their irregularities. We know the period at which the emergency will arise, and provide against it accordingly. If an elephant run mad, we are all ready for him—kill or cure—pills or bullets, calomel in conserve of roses, or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look unpleasantly warm in the summer months, and to trot about the shady side of the streets with a quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of his mouth, a thick leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared in compliance with the thoughtful injunctions of the Legislature, is instantly clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he either looks remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes legally insane, and goes mad, as it were, by Act of Parliament. But these trades are as eccentric as comets; nay, worse, for no one can calculate on the recurrence of the strange appearances which betoken the disease. Moreover, the contagion is general, and the quickness with which it diffuses itself, almost incredible.

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning. Six or eight years ago, the epidemic began to display itself among the linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were an inordinate love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and gilding. The disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a fearful height. Quiet, dusty old shops in different parts of town, were pulled down; spacious premises with stuccoed fronts and gold letters, were erected instead; floors were covered with Turkey carpets; roofs supported by massive pillars; doors knocked into windows; a dozen squares of glass into one; one shopman into a dozen; and there is no knowing what would have been done, if it had not been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Commissioners of Bankruptcy were as competent to decide such cases as the Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little confinement and gentle examination did wonders. The disease abated. It died away. A year or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it burst out again amongst the chemists; the symptoms were the same, with the addition of a strong desire to stick the royal arms over the shop-door, and a great rage for mahogany, varnish, and expensive floor-cloth. Then, the hosiers were infected, and began to pull down their shop-fronts with frantic recklessness. The mania again died away, and the public began to congratulate themselves on its entire disappearance, when it burst forth with tenfold violence among the publicans, and keepers of ‘wine vaults.’ From that moment it has spread among them with unprecedented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the previous symptoms; onward it has rushed to every part of town, knocking down all the old public-houses, and depositing splendid mansions, stone balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated clocks, at the corner of every street.

The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest among them is divided into branches, is amusing. A handsome plate of ground glass in one door directs you ‘To the Counting-house;’ another to the ‘Bottle Department; a third to the ‘Wholesale Department;’ a fourth to ‘The Wine Promenade;’ and so forth, until we are in daily expectation of meeting with a ‘Brandy Bell,’ or a ‘Whiskey Entrance.’ Then, ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the different descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of the community as they gaze upon the gigantic black and white announcements, which are only to be equalled in size by the figures beneath them, are left in a state of pleasing hesitation between ‘The Cream of the Valley,’ ‘The Out and Out,’ ‘The No Mistake,’ ‘The Good for Mixing,’ ‘The real Knock-me-down,’ ‘The celebrated Butter Gin,’ ‘The regular Flare-up,’ and a dozen other, equally inviting and wholesome liqueurs. Although places of this description are to be met with in every second street, they are invariably numerous and splendid in precise proportion to the dirt and poverty of the surrounding neighbourhood. The gin-shops in and near Drury-Lane, Holborn, St. Giles’s, Covent-garden, and Clare-market, are the handsomest in London. There is more of filth and squalid misery near those great thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.

We will endeavour to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as may not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the chance of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drury-Lane, through the narrow streets and dirty courts which divide it from Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the initiated as the ‘Rookery.’

The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London can hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not witnessed it. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper: every room let out to a different family, and in many instances to two or even three—fruit and ‘sweet-stuff’ manufacturers in the cellars, barbers and red-herring vendors in the front parlours, cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three families on the second, starvation in the attics, Irishmen in the passage, a ‘musician’ in the front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry children in the back one—filth everywhere—a gutter before the houses and a drain behind—clothes drying and slops emptying, from the windows; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and in white great-coats, almost their only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling, fighting, and swearing.

You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy. The hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which forms the commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are two side-aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within a light brass rail, and bearing such inscriptions, as ‘Old Tom, 549;’ ‘Young Tom, 360;’ ‘Samson, 1421’—the figures agreeing, we presume, with ‘gallons,’ understood. Beyond the bar is a lofty and spacious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at top with wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it, are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits and ‘compounds.’ They are assisted by the ostensible proprietor of the concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur cap, put on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, and to display his sandy whiskers to the best advantage.

The two old washerwomen, who are seated on the little bench to the left of the bar, are rather overcome by the head-dresses and haughty demeanour of the young ladies who officiate. They receive their half-quartern of gin and peppermint, with considerable deference, prefacing a request for ‘one of them soft biscuits,’ with a ‘Jist be good enough, ma’am.’ They are quite astonished at the impudent air of the young fellow in a brown coat and bright buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and walking up to the bar in as careless a manner as if he had been used to green and gold ornaments all his life, winks at one of the young ladies with singular coolness, and calls for a ‘kervorten and a three-out-glass,’ just as if the place were his own. ‘Gin for you, sir?’ says the young lady when she has drawn it: carefully looking every way but the right one, to show that the wink had no effect upon her. ‘For me, Mary, my dear,’ replies the gentleman in brown. ‘My name an’t Mary as it happens,’ says the young girl, rather relaxing as she delivers the change. ‘Well, if it an’t, it ought to be,’ responds the irresistible one; ‘all the Marys as ever I see, was handsome gals.’ Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how blushes are managed in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by addressing the female in the faded feathers who has just entered, and who, after stating explicitly, to prevent any subsequent misunderstanding, that ‘this gentleman pays,’ calls for ‘a glass of port wine and a bit of sugar.’

Those two old men who came in ‘just to have a drain,’ finished their third quartern a few seconds ago; they have made themselves crying drunk; and the fat comfortable-looking elderly women, who had ‘a glass of rum-srub’ each, having chimed in with their complaints on the hardness of the times, one of the women has agreed to stand a glass round, jocularly observing that ‘grief never mended no broken bones, and as good people’s wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on ’em, and that’s all about it!’ a sentiment which appears to afford unlimited satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay.

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or three occasional stragglers—cold, wretched-looking creatures, in the last stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish labourers at the lower end of the place, who have been alternately shaking hands with, and threatening the life of each other, for the last hour, become furious in their disputes, and finding it impossible to silence one man, who is particularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort to the expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him afterwards. The man in the fur cap, and the potboy rush out; a scene of riot and confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the other half get shut in; the potboy is knocked among the tubs in no time; the landlord hits everybody, and everybody hits the landlord; the barmaids scream; the police come in; the rest is a confused mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats, shouting, and struggling. Some of the party are borne off to the station-house, and the remainder slink home to beat their wives for complaining, and kick the children for daring to be hungry.

We have sketched this subject very slightly, not only because our limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued farther, it would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen, and charitable ladies, would alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description of the drunken besotted men, and wretched broken-down miserable women, who form no inconsiderable portion of the frequenters of these haunts; forgetting, in the pleasant consciousness of their own rectitude, the poverty of the one, and the temptation of the other. Gin-drinking is a great vice in England, but wretchedness and dirt are a greater; and until you improve the homes of the poor, or persuade a half-famished wretch not to seek relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery, with the pittance which, divided among his family, would furnish a morsel of bread for each, gin-shops will increase in number and splendour. If Temperance Societies would suggest an antidote against hunger, filth, and foul air, or could establish dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution of bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be numbered among the things that were.

CHAPTER XXIII—THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP

Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress with which the streets of London unhappily abound, there are, perhaps, none which present such striking scenes as the pawnbrokers’ shops. The very nature and description of these places occasions their being but little known, except to the unfortunate beings whose profligacy or misfortune drives them to seek the temporary relief they offer. The subject may appear, at first sight, to be anything but an inviting one, but we venture on it nevertheless, in the hope that, as far as the limits of our present paper are concerned, it will present nothing to disgust even the most fastidious reader.

There are some pawnbrokers’ shops of a very superior description. There are grades in pawning as in everything else, and distinctions must be observed even in poverty. The aristocratic Spanish cloak and the plebeian calico shirt, the silver fork and the flat iron, the muslin cravat and the Belcher neckerchief, would but ill assort together; so, the better sort of pawnbroker calls himself a silver-smith, and decorates his shop with handsome trinkets and expensive jewellery, while the more humble money-lender boldly advertises his calling, and invites observation. It is with pawnbrokers’ shops of the latter class, that we have to do. We have selected one for our purpose, and will endeavour to describe it.

The pawnbroker’s shop is situated near Drury-Lane, at the corner of a court, which affords a side entrance for the accommodation of such customers as may be desirous of avoiding the observation of the passers-by, or the chance of recognition in the public street. It is a low, dirty-looking, dusty shop, the door of which stands always doubtfully, a little way open: half inviting, half repelling the hesitating visitor, who, if he be as yet uninitiated, examines one of the old garnet brooches in the window for a minute or two with affected eagerness, as if he contemplated making a purchase; and then looking cautiously round to ascertain that no one watches him, hastily slinks in: the door closing of itself after him, to just its former width. The shop front and the window-frames bear evident marks of having been once painted; but, what the colour was originally, or at what date it was probably laid on, are at this remote period questions which may be asked, but cannot be answered. Tradition states that the transparency in the front door, which displays at night three red balls on a blue ground, once bore also, inscribed in graceful waves, the words ‘Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every description of property,’ but a few illegible hieroglyphics are all that now remain to attest the fact. The plate and jewels would seem to have disappeared, together with the announcement, for the articles of stock, which are displayed in some profusion in the window, do not include any very valuable luxuries of either kind. A few old china cups; some modern vases, adorned with paltry paintings of three Spanish cavaliers playing three Spanish guitars; or a party of boors carousing: each boor with one leg painfully elevated in the air, by way of expressing his perfect freedom and gaiety; several sets of chessmen, two or three flutes, a few fiddles, a round-eyed portrait staring in astonishment from a very dark ground; some gaudily-bound prayer-books and testaments, two rows of silver watches quite as clumsy and almost as large as Ferguson’s first; numerous old-fashioned table and tea spoons, displayed, fan-like, in half-dozens; strings of coral with great broad gilt snaps; cards of rings and brooches, fastened and labelled separately, like the insects in the British Museum; cheap silver penholders and snuff-boxes, with a masonic star, complete the jewellery department; while five or six beds in smeary clouded ticks, strings of blankets and sheets, silk and cotton handkerchiefs, and wearing apparel of every description, form the more useful, though even less ornamental, part, of the articles exposed for sale. An extensive collection of planes, chisels, saws, and other carpenters’ tools, which have been pledged, and never redeemed, form the foreground of the picture; while the large frames full of ticketed bundles, which are dimly seen through the dirty casement up-stairs—the squalid neighbourhood—the adjoining houses, straggling, shrunken, and rotten, with one or two filthy, unwholesome-looking heads thrust out of every window, and old red pans and stunted plants exposed on the tottering parapets, to the manifest hazard of the heads of the passers-by—the noisy men loitering under the archway at the corner of the court, or about the gin-shop next door—and their wives patiently standing on the curb-stone, with large baskets of cheap vegetables slung round them for sale, are its immediate auxiliaries.

If the outside of the pawnbroker’s shop be calculated to attract the attention, or excite the interest, of the speculative pedestrian, its interior cannot fail to produce the same effect in an increased degree. The front door, which we have before noticed, opens into the common shop, which is the resort of all those customers whose habitual acquaintance with such scenes renders them indifferent to the observation of their companions in poverty. The side door opens into a small passage from which some half-dozen doors (which may be secured on the inside by bolts) open into a corresponding number of little dens, or closets, which face the counter. Here, the more timid or respectable portion of the crowd shroud themselves from the notice of the remainder, and patiently wait until the gentleman behind the counter, with the curly black hair, diamond ring, and double silver watch-guard, shall feel disposed to favour them with his notice—a consummation which depends considerably on the temper of the aforesaid gentleman for the time being.

At the present moment, this elegantly-attired individual is in the act of entering the duplicate he has just made out, in a thick book: a process from which he is diverted occasionally, by a conversation he is carrying on with another young man similarly employed at a little distance from him, whose allusions to ‘that last bottle of soda-water last night,’ and ‘how regularly round my hat he felt himself when the young ’ooman gave ’em in charge,’ would appear to refer to the consequences of some stolen joviality of the preceding evening. The customers generally, however, seem unable to participate in the amusement derivable from this source, for an old sallow-looking woman, who has been leaning with both arms on the counter with a small bundle before her, for half an hour previously, suddenly interrupts the conversation by addressing the jewelled shopman—‘Now, Mr. Henry, do make haste, there’s a good soul, for my two grandchildren’s locked up at home, and I’m afeer’d of the fire.’ The shopman slightly raises his head, with an air of deep abstraction, and resumes his entry with as much deliberation as if he were engraving. ‘You’re in a hurry, Mrs. Tatham, this ev’nin’, an’t you?’ is the only notice he deigns to take, after the lapse of five minutes or so. ‘Yes, I am indeed, Mr. Henry; now, do serve me next, there’s a good creetur. I wouldn’t worry you, only it’s all along o’ them botherin’ children.’ ‘What have you got here?’ inquires the shopman, unpinning the bundle—‘old concern, I suppose—pair o’ stays and a petticut. You must look up somethin’ else, old ’ooman; I can’t lend you anything more upon them; they’re completely worn out by this time, if it’s only by putting in, and taking out again, three times a week.’ ‘Oh! you’re a rum un, you are,’ replies the old woman, laughing extremely, as in duty bound; ‘I wish I’d got the gift of the gab like you; see if I’d be up the spout so often then! No, no; it an’t the petticut; it’s a child’s frock and a beautiful silk ankecher, as belongs to my husband. He gave four shillin’ for it, the werry same blessed day as he broke his arm.’—‘What do you want upon these?’ inquires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the articles, which in all probability are old acquaintances. ‘What do you want upon these?’—‘Eighteenpence.’—‘Lend you ninepence.’—‘Oh, make it a shillin’; there’s a dear—do now?’—‘Not another farden.’—‘Well, I suppose I must take it.’ The duplicate is made out, one ticket pinned on the parcel, the other given to the old woman; the parcel is flung carelessly down into a corner, and some other customer prefers his claim to be served without further delay.

The choice falls on an unshaven, dirty, sottish-looking fellow, whose tarnished paper-cap, stuck negligently over one eye, communicates an additionally repulsive expression to his very uninviting countenance. He was enjoying a little relaxation from his sedentary pursuits a quarter of an hour ago, in kicking his wife up the court. He has come to redeem some tools:—probably to complete a job with, on account of which he has already received some money, if his inflamed countenance and drunken staggers may be taken as evidence of the fact. Having waited some little time, he makes his presence known by venting his ill-humour on a ragged urchin, who, being unable to bring his face on a level with the counter by any other process, has employed himself in climbing up, and then hooking himself on with his elbows—an uneasy perch, from which he has fallen at intervals, generally alighting on the toes of the person in his immediate vicinity. In the present case, the unfortunate little wretch has received a cuff which sends him reeling to this door; and the donor of the blow is immediately the object of general indignation.

‘What do you strike the boy for, you brute?’ exclaims a slipshod woman, with two flat irons in a little basket. ‘Do you think he’s your wife, you willin?’ ‘Go and hang yourself!’ replies the gentleman addressed, with a drunken look of savage stupidity, aiming at the same time a blow at the woman which fortunately misses its object. ‘Go and hang yourself; and wait till I come and cut you down.’—‘Cut you down,’ rejoins the woman, ‘I wish I had the cutting of you up, you wagabond! (loud.) Oh! you precious wagabond! (rather louder.) Where’s your wife, you willin? (louder still; women of this class are always sympathetic, and work themselves into a tremendous passion on the shortest notice.) Your poor dear wife as you uses worser nor a dog—strike a woman—you a man! (very shrill;) I wish I had you—I’d murder you, I would, if I died for it!’—‘Now be civil,’ retorts the man fiercely. ‘Be civil, you wiper!’ ejaculates the woman contemptuously. ‘An’t it shocking?’ she continues, turning round, and appealing to an old woman who is peeping out of one of the little closets we have before described, and who has not the slightest objection to join in the attack, possessing, as she does, the comfortable conviction that she is bolted in. ‘Ain’t it shocking, ma’am? (Dreadful! says the old woman in a parenthesis, not exactly knowing what the question refers to.) He’s got a wife, ma’am, as takes in mangling, and is as ’dustrious and hard-working a young ’ooman as can be, (very fast) as lives in the back parlour of our ’ous, which my husband and me lives in the front one (with great rapidity)—and we hears him a beaten’ on her sometimes when he comes home drunk, the whole night through, and not only a beaten’ her, but beaten’ his own child too, to make her more miserable—ugh, you beast! and she, poor creater, won’t swear the peace agin him, nor do nothin’, because she likes the wretch arter all—worse luck!’ Here, as the woman has completely run herself out of breath, the pawnbroker himself, who has just appeared behind the counter in a gray dressing-gown, embraces the favourable opportunity of putting in a word:—‘Now I won’t have none of this sort of thing on my premises!’ he interposes with an air of authority. ‘Mrs. Mackin, keep yourself to yourself, or you don’t get fourpence for a flat iron here; and Jinkins, you leave your ticket here till you’re sober, and send your wife for them two planes, for I won’t have you in my shop at no price; so make yourself scarce, before I make you scarcer.’

This eloquent address produces anything but the effect desired; the women rail in concert; the man hits about him in all directions, and is in the act of establishing an indisputable claim to gratuitous lodgings for the night, when the entrance of his wife, a wretched, worn-out woman, apparently in the last stage of consumption, whose face bears evident marks of recent ill-usage, and whose strength seems hardly equal to the burden—light enough, God knows!—of the thin, sickly child she carries in her arms, turns his cowardly rage in a safer direction. ‘Come home, dear,’ cries the miserable creature, in an imploring tone; ‘do come home, there’s a good fellow, and go to bed.’—‘Go home yourself,’ rejoins the furious ruffian. ‘Do come home quietly,’ repeats the wife, bursting into tears. ‘Go home yourself,’ retorts the husband again, enforcing his argument by a blow which sends the poor creature flying out of the shop. Her ‘natural protector’ follows her up the court, alternately venting his rage in accelerating her progress, and in knocking the little scanty blue bonnet of the unfortunate child over its still more scanty and faded-looking face.

In the last box, which is situated in the darkest and most obscure corner of the shop, considerably removed from either of the gas-lights, are a young delicate girl of about twenty, and an elderly female, evidently her mother from the resemblance between them, who stand at some distance back, as if to avoid the observation even of the shopman. It is not their first visit to a pawnbroker’s shop, for they answer without a moment’s hesitation the usual questions, put in a rather respectful manner, and in a much lower tone than usual, of ‘What name shall I say?—Your own property, of course?—Where do you live?—Housekeeper or lodger?’ They bargain, too, for a higher loan than the shopman is at first inclined to offer, which a perfect stranger would be little disposed to do; and the elder female urges her daughter on, in scarcely audible whispers, to exert her utmost powers of persuasion to obtain an advance of the sum, and expatiate on the value of the articles they have brought to raise a present supply upon. They are a small gold chain and a ‘Forget me not’ ring: the girl’s property, for they are both too small for the mother; given her in better times; prized, perhaps, once, for the giver’s sake, but parted with now without a struggle; for want has hardened the mother, and her example has hardened the girl, and the prospect of receiving money, coupled with a recollection of the misery they have both endured from the want of it—the coldness of old friends—the stern refusal of some, and the still more galling compassion of others—appears to have obliterated the consciousness of self-humiliation, which the idea of their present situation would once have aroused.

In the next box, is a young female, whose attire, miserably poor, but extremely gaudy, wretchedly cold, but extravagantly fine, too plainly bespeaks her station. The rich satin gown with its faded trimmings, the worn-out thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the summer bonnet in winter, and the sunken face, where a daub of rouge only serves as an index to the ravages of squandered health never to be regained, and lost happiness never to be restored, and where the practised smile is a wretched mockery of the misery of the heart, cannot be mistaken. There is something in the glimpse she has just caught of her young neighbour, and in the sight of the little trinkets she has offered in pawn, that seems to have awakened in this woman’s mind some slumbering recollection, and to have changed, for an instant, her whole demeanour. Her first hasty impulse was to bend forward as if to scan more minutely the appearance of her half-concealed companions; her next, on seeing them involuntarily shrink from her, to retreat to the back of the box, cover her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

There are strange chords in the human heart, which will lie dormant through years of depravity and wickedness, but which will vibrate at last to some slight circumstance apparently trivial in itself, but connected by some undefined and indistinct association, with past days that can never be recalled, and with bitter recollections from which the most degraded creature in existence cannot escape.

There has been another spectator, in the person of a woman in the common shop; the lowest of the low; dirty, unbonneted, flaunting, and slovenly. Her curiosity was at first attracted by the little she could see of the group; then her attention. The half-intoxicated leer changed to an expression of something like interest, and a feeling similar to that we have described, appeared for a moment, and only a moment, to extend itself even to her bosom.

Who shall say how soon these women may change places? The last has but two more stages—the hospital and the grave. How many females situated as her two companions are, and as she may have been once, have terminated the same wretched course, in the same wretched manner! One is already tracing her footsteps with frightful rapidity. How soon may the other follow her example! How many have done the same!

CHAPTER XXIV—CRIMINAL COURTS

We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our schoolboy days. How dreadful its rough heavy walls, and low massive doors, appeared to us—the latter looking as if they were made for the express purpose of letting people in, and never letting them out again. Then the fetters over the debtors’ door, which we used to think were a bonâ fide set of irons, just hung up there, for convenience’ sake, ready to be taken down at a moment’s notice, and riveted on the limbs of some refractory felon! We were never tired of wondering how the hackney-coachmen on the opposite stand could cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and drink pots of half-and-half so near the last drop.

Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch a glimpse of the whipping-place, and that dark building on one side of the yard, in which is kept the gibbet with all its dreadful apparatus, and on the door of which we half expected to see a brass plate, with the inscription ‘Mr. Ketch;’ for we never imagined that the distinguished functionary could by possibility live anywhere else! The days of these childish dreams have passed away, and with them many other boyish ideas of a gayer nature. But we still retain so much of our original feeling, that to this hour we never pass the building without something like a shudder.

What London pedestrian is there who has not, at some time or other, cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which prisoners are admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity? The thick door, plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low enough to enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill-looking fellow, in a broad-brimmed hat, Belcher handkerchief and top-boots: with a brown coat, something between a great-coat and a ‘sporting’ jacket, on his back, and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps you are lucky enough to pass, just as the gate is being opened; then, you see on the other side of the lodge, another gate, the image of its predecessor, and two or three more turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one, seated round a fire which just lights up the whitewashed apartment sufficiently to enable you to catch a hasty glimpse of these different objects. We have a great respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought to have written more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe.

We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some time ago, when, as we passed this identical gate, it was opened by the officiating turnkey. We turned quickly round, as a matter of course, and saw two persons descending the steps. We could not help stopping and observing them.

They were an elderly woman, of decent appearance, though evidently poor, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying bitterly; she carried a small bundle in her hand, and the boy followed at a short distance behind her. Their little history was obvious. The boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had perhaps sacrificed her own—for whose sake she had borne misery without repining, and poverty without a murmur—looking steadily forward to the time, when he who had so long witnessed her struggles for himself, might be enabled to make some exertions for their joint support. He had formed dissolute connexions; idleness had led to crime; and he had been committed to take his trial for some petty theft. He had been long in prison, and, after receiving some trifling additional punishment, had been ordered to be discharged that morning. It was his first offence, and his poor old mother, still hoping to reclaim him, had been waiting at the gate to implore him to return home.

We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with a dogged look, shaking his head with an air of bravado and obstinate determination. They walked a few paces, and paused. The woman put her hand upon his shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his head as if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and every object looked fresh and happy in the broad, gay sunlight; he gazed round him for a few moments, bewildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was long since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a prison. Perhaps the wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the boy’s heart; perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he was a happy child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded on him—he burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and hurriedly placing the other in his mother’s, walked away with her.

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old Bailey. Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them for the first time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a great deal of form, but no compassion; considerable interest, but no sympathy. Take the Old Court for example. There sit the judges, with whose great dignity everybody is acquainted, and of whom therefore we need say no more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking as cool as a Lord Mayor can look, with an immense bouquet before him, and habited in all the splendour of his office. Then, there are the Sheriffs, who are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself; and the Barristers, who are quite dignified enough in their own opinion; and the spectators, who having paid for their admission, look upon the whole scene as if it were got up especially for their amusement. Look upon the whole group in the body of the Court—some wholly engrossed in the morning papers, others carelessly conversing in low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away an hour—and you can scarcely believe that the result of the trial is a matter of life or death to one wretched being present. But turn your eyes to the dock; watch the prisoner attentively for a few moments; and the fact is before you, in all its painful reality. Mark how restlessly he has been engaged for the last ten minutes, in forming all sorts of fantastic figures with the herbs which are strewed upon the ledge before him; observe the ashy paleness of his face when a particular witness appears, and how he changes his position and wipes his clammy forehead, and feverish hands, when the case for the prosecution is closed, as if it were a relief to him to feel that the jury knew the worst.

The defence is concluded; the judge proceeds to sum up the evidence; and the prisoner watches the countenances of the jury, as a dying man, clinging to life to the very last, vainly looks in the face of his physician for a slight ray of hope. They turn round to consult; you can almost hear the man’s heart beat, as he bites the stalk of rosemary, with a desperate effort to appear composed. They resume their places—a dead silence prevails as the foreman delivers in the verdict—‘Guilty!’ A shriek bursts from a female in the gallery; the prisoner casts one look at the quarter from whence the noise proceeded; and is immediately hurried from the dock by the gaoler. The clerk directs one of the officers of the Court to ‘take the woman out,’ and fresh business is proceeded with, as if nothing had occurred.

No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be as complete as that which is constantly presented in the New Court, the gravity of which is frequently disturbed in no small degree, by the cunning and pertinacity of juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried, say for picking the pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and the offence is about as clearly proved as an offence can be. He is called upon for his defence, and contents himself with a little declamation about the jurymen and his country—asserts that all the witnesses have committed perjury, and hints that the police force generally have entered into a conspiracy ‘again’ him. However probable this statement may be, it fails to convince the Court, and some such scene as the following then takes place:

Court: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy?

Boy: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gen’lm’n is a vaten outside, and vos a vaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial vos a comin’ on.

Court. Inquire for these witnesses.

Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witnesses at the very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as he descends the steps into the court-yard below. After an absence of five minutes, he returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the Court of what it knew perfectly well before—namely, that there are no such witnesses in attendance. Hereupon, the boy sets up a most awful howling; screws the lower part of the palms of his hands into the corners of his eyes; and endeavours to look the picture of injured innocence. The jury at once find him ‘guilty,’ and his endeavours to squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. The governor of the gaol then states, in reply to an inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has been under his care twice before. This the urchin resolutely denies in some such terms as—‘S’elp me, gen’lm’n, I never vos in trouble afore—indeed, my Lord, I never vos. It’s all a howen to my having a twin brother, vich has wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so exactly like me, that no vun ever knows the difference atween us.’

This representation, like the defence, fails in producing the desired effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years’ transportation. Finding it impossible to excite compassion, he gives vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of ‘old big vig!’ and as he declines to take the trouble of walking from the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible.

CHAPTER XXV—A VISIT TO NEWGATE

‘The force of habit’ is a trite phrase in everybody’s mouth; and it is not a little remarkable that those who use it most as applied to others, unconsciously afford in their own persons singular examples of the power which habit and custom exercise over the minds of men, and of the little reflection they are apt to bestow on subjects with which every day’s experience has rendered them familiar. If Bedlam could be suddenly removed like another Aladdin’s palace, and set down on the space now occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out of a hundred, whose road to business every morning lies through Newgate-street, or the Old Bailey, would pass the building without bestowing a hasty glance on its small, grated windows, and a transient thought upon the condition of the unhappy beings immured in its dismal cells; and yet these same men, day by day, and hour by hour, pass and repass this gloomy depository of the guilt and misery of London, in one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up within it—nay, not even knowing, or if they do, not heeding, the fact, that as they pass one particular angle of the massive wall with a light laugh or a merry whistle, they stand within one yard of a fellow-creature, bound and helpless, whose hours are numbered, from whom the last feeble ray of hope has fled for ever, and whose miserable career will shortly terminate in a violent and shameful death. Contact with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the dying—to men in full health and vigour, in the flower of youth or the prime of life, with all their faculties and perceptions as acute and perfect as your own; but dying, nevertheless—dying as surely—with the hand of death imprinted upon them as indelibly—as if mortal disease had wasted their frames to shadows, and corruption had already begun!

It was with some such thoughts as these that we determined, not many weeks since, to visit the interior of Newgate—in an amateur capacity, of course; and, having carried our intention into effect, we proceed to lay its results before our readers, in the hope—founded more upon the nature of the subject, than on any presumptuous confidence in our own descriptive powers—that this paper may not be found wholly devoid of interest. We have only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the reader with any statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found at length in numerous reports of numerous committees, and a variety of authorities of equal weight. We took no notes, made no memoranda, measured none of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches in no particular room: are unable even to report of how many apartments the gaol is composed.

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and what we thought, we will tell at once in our own way.

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who answered our knock at the door of the governor’s house, we were ushered into the ‘office;’ a little room, on the right-hand side as you enter, with two windows looking into the Old Bailey: fitted up like an ordinary attorney’s office, or merchant’s counting-house, with the usual fixtures—a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an almanack, a clock, and a few maps. After a little delay, occasioned by sending into the interior of the prison for the officer whose duty it was to conduct us, that functionary arrived; a respectable-looking man of about two or three and fifty, in a broad-brimmed hat, and full suit of black, who, but for his keys, would have looked quite as much like a clergyman as a turnkey. We were disappointed; he had not even top-boots on. Following our conductor by a door opposite to that at which we had entered, we arrived at a small room, without any other furniture than a little desk, with a book for visitors’ autographs, and a shelf, on which were a few boxes for papers, and casts of the heads and faces of the two notorious murderers, Bishop and Williams; the former, in particular, exhibiting a style of head and set of features, which might have afforded sufficient moral grounds for his instant execution at any time, even had there been no other evidence against him. Leaving this room also, by an opposite door, we found ourself in the lodge which opens on the Old Bailey; one side of which is plentifully garnished with a choice collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the redoubtable Jack Sheppard—genuine; and those said to have been graced by the sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin—doubtful. From this lodge, a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded with nails of the same material, and guarded by another turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, which terminate in a narrow and dismal stone passage, running parallel with the Old Bailey, and leading to the different yards, through a number of tortuous and intricate windings, guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel at once the slightest hope of escape that any new-comer may have entertained; and the very recollection of which, on eventually traversing the place again, involves one in a maze of confusion.

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in the prison, or in other words the different wards—form a square, of which the four sides abut respectively on the Old Bailey, the old College of Physicians (now forming a part of Newgate-market), the Sessions-house, and Newgate-street. The intermediate space is divided into several paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and exercise as can be had in such a place. These yards, with the exception of that in which prisoners under sentence of death are confined (of which we shall presently give a more detailed description), run parallel with Newgate-street, and consequently from the Old Bailey, as it were, to Newgate-market. The women’s side is in the right wing of the prison nearest the Sessions-house. As we were introduced into this part of the building first, we will adopt the same order, and introduce our readers to it also.

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which we just now adverted, omitting any mention of intervening gates—for if we noticed every gate that was unlocked for us to pass through, and locked again as soon as we had passed, we should require a gate at every comma—we came to a door composed of thick bars of wood, through which were discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow yard, some twenty women: the majority of whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the presence of strangers, retreated to their wards. One side of this yard is railed off at a considerable distance, and formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet ten inches in height, roofed at the top, and defended in front by iron bars, from which the friends of the female prisoners communicate with them. In one corner of this singular-looking den, was a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had once been black, and the remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded ribbon of the same hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl—a prisoner, of course—of about two-and-twenty. It is impossible to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old woman. The girl was a good-looking, robust female, with a profusion of hair streaming about in the wind—for she had no bonnet on—and a man’s silk pocket-handkerchief loosely thrown over a most ample pair of shoulders. The old woman was talking in that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound that ears can hear. The girl was perfectly unmoved. Hardened beyond all hope of redemption, she listened doggedly to her mother’s entreaties, whatever they were: and, beyond inquiring after ‘Jem,’ and eagerly catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her, took no more apparent interest in the conversation than the most unconcerned spectators. Heaven knows there were enough of them, in the persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who were no more concerned by what was passing before their eyes, and within their hearing, than if they were blind and deaf. Why should they be? Inside the prison, and out, such scenes were too familiar to them, to excite even a passing thought, unless of ridicule or contempt for feelings which they had long since forgotten.

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slovenly, thick-bordered cap, with her arms muffled in a large red shawl, the fringed ends of which straggled nearly to the bottom of a dirty white apron, was communicating some instructions to her visitor—her daughter evidently. The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with the cold. Some ordinary word of recognition passed between her and her mother when she appeared at the grating, but neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on either side. The mother whispered her instructions, and the girl received them with her pinched-up, half-starved features twisted into an expression of careful cunning. It was some scheme for the woman’s defence that she was disclosing, perhaps; and a sullen smile came over the girl’s face for an instant, as if she were pleased: not so much at the probability of her mother’s liberation, as at the chance of her ‘getting off’ in spite of her prosecutors. The dialogue was soon concluded; and with the same careless indifference with which they had approached each other, the mother turned towards the inner end of the yard, and the girl to the gate at which she had entered.

The girl belonged to a class—unhappily but too extensive—the very existence of which, should make men’s hearts bleed. Barely past her childhood, it required but a glance to discover that she was one of those children, born and bred in neglect and vice, who have never known what childhood is: who have never been taught to love and court a parent’s smile, or to dread a parent’s frown. The thousand nameless endearments of childhood, its gaiety and its innocence, are alike unknown to them. They have entered at once upon the stern realities and miseries of life, and to their better nature it is almost hopeless to appeal in after-times, by any of the references which will awaken, if it be only for a moment, some good feeling in ordinary bosoms, however corrupt they may have become. Talk to them of parental solicitude, the happy days of childhood, and the merry games of infancy! Tell them of hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the pawnbroker’s, and they will understand you.

Two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating, conversing with their friends, but a very large proportion of the prisoners appeared to have no friends at all, beyond such of their old companions as might happen to be within the walls. So, passing hastily down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice the little incidents we have just recorded, we were conducted up a clean and well-lighted flight of stone stairs to one of the wards. There are several in this part of the building, but a description of one is a description of the whole.

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course, by windows looking into the interior of the prison, but far more light and airy than one could reasonably expect to find in such a situation. There was a large fire with a deal table before it, round which ten or a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner. Along both sides of the room ran a shelf; below it, at regular intervals, a row of large hooks were fixed in the wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping mat of a prisoner: her rug and blanket being folded up, and placed on the shelf above. At night, these mats are placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which it hangs during the day; and the ward is thus made to answer the purposes both of a day-room and sleeping apartment. Over the fireplace, was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which were displayed a variety of texts from Scripture, which were also scattered about the room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy-slips which are used in schools. On the table was a sufficient provision of a kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in pewter dishes, which are kept perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order and regularity when they are not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried manner to either side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly—many of them decently—attired, and there was nothing peculiar, either in their appearance or demeanour. One or two resumed the needlework which they had probably laid aside at the commencement of their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless curiosity; and a few retired behind their companions to the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even the casual observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in this and other wards, to whom the thing was no novelty, appeared perfectly indifferent to our presence, and remained standing close to the seats from which they had just risen; but the general feeling among the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the period of our stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word was uttered during the time of our remaining, unless, indeed, by the wardswoman in reply to some question which we put to the turnkey who accompanied us. In every ward on the female side, a wardswoman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation is adopted among the males. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners, selected for good conduct. They alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small stump bedstead being placed in every ward for that purpose. On both sides of the gaol, is a small receiving-room, to which prisoners are conducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. [161]

Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found ourselves at first (and which, by-the-bye, contains three or four dark cells for the accommodation of refractory prisoners), we were led through a narrow yard to the ‘school’—a portion of the prison set apart for boys under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-sized room, in which were writing-materials and some copy-books, was the schoolmaster, with a couple of his pupils; the remainder having been fetched from an adjoining apartment, the whole were drawn up in line for our inspection. There were fourteen of them in all, some with shoes, some without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one in scarce anything at all. The whole number, without an exception we believe, had been committed for trial on charges of pocket-picking; and fourteen such terrible little faces we never beheld.—There was not one redeeming feature among them—not a glance of honesty—not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows and the hulks, in the whole collection. As to anything like shame or contrition, that was entirely out of the question. They were evidently quite gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their idea appeared to be, that we had come to see Newgate as a grand affair, and that they were an indispensable part of the show; and every boy as he ‘fell in’ to the line, actually seemed as pleased and important as if he had done something excessively meritorious in getting there at all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable sight, because we never saw fourteen such hopeless creatures of neglect, before.

On either side of the school-yard is a yard for men, in one of which—that towards Newgate-street—prisoners of the more respectable class are confined. Of the other, we have little description to offer, as the different wards necessarily partake of the same character. They are provided, like the wards on the women’s side, with mats and rugs, which are disposed of in the same manner during the day; the only very striking difference between their appearance and that of the wards inhabited by the females, is the utter absence of any employment. Huddled together on two opposite forms, by the fireside, sit twenty men perhaps; here, a boy in livery; there, a man in a rough great-coat and top-boots; farther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt-sleeves, with an old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall ruffian, in a smock-frock; next to him, a miserable being of distressed appearance, with his head resting on his hand;—all alike in one respect, all idle and listless. When they do leave the fire, sauntering moodily about, lounging in the window, or leaning against the wall, vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. With the exception of a man reading an old newspaper, in two or three instances, this was the case in every ward we entered.

The only communication these men have with their friends, is through two close iron gratings, with an intermediate space of about a yard in width between the two, so that nothing can be handed across, nor can the prisoner have any communication by touch with the person who visits him. The married men have a separate grating, at which to see their wives, but its construction is the same.

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the governor’s house: the latter having no windows looking into the interior of the prison. Whether the associations connected with the place—the knowledge that here a portion of the burial service is, on some dreadful occasions, performed over the quick and not upon the dead—cast over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than art has imparted to it, we know not, but its appearance is very striking. There is something in a silent and deserted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of this one from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The meanness of its appointments—the bare and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side—the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain—the men’s with its unpainted benches and dingy front—the tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp—so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church—are strange and striking. There is one object, too, which rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading-desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in its little area, is the condemned pew; a huge black pen, in which the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the Sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow-prisoners, from many of whom they may have been separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their own souls, to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen to an address, warning their recent companions to take example by their fate, and urging themselves, while there is yet time—nearly four-and-twenty hours—to ‘turn, and flee from the wrath to come!’ Imagine what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant may now remain! Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself, by which they have heard the certainty of their speedy transmission to another world, with all their crimes upon their heads, rung into their ears by the officiating clergyman!

At one time—and at no distant period either—the coffins of the men about to be executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by their side, during the whole service. It may seem incredible, but it is true. Let us hope that the increased spirit of civilisation and humanity which abolished this frightful and degrading custom, may extend itself to other usages equally barbarous; usages which have not even the plea of utility in their defence, as every year’s experience has shown them to be more and more inefficacious.

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so frequently alluded to, and crossing the yard before noticed as being allotted to prisoners of a more respectable description than the generality of men confined here, the visitor arrives at a thick iron gate of great size and strength. Having been admitted through it by the turnkey on duty, he turns sharp round to the left, and pauses before another gate; and, having passed this last barrier, he stands in the most terrible part of this gloomy building—the condemned ward.

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper readers, from its frequent mention in accounts of executions, is at the corner of the building, and next to the ordinary’s house, in Newgate-street: running from Newgate-street, towards the centre of the prison, parallel with Newgate-market. It is a long, narrow court, of which a portion of the wall in Newgate-street forms one end, and the gate the other. At the upper end, on the left hand—that is, adjoining the wall in Newgate-street—is a cistern of water, and at the bottom a double grating (of which the gate itself forms a part) similar to that before described. Through these grates the prisoners are allowed to see their friends; a turnkey always remaining in the vacant space between, during the whole interview. Immediately on the right as you enter, is a building containing the press-room, day-room, and cells; the yard is on every side surrounded by lofty walls guarded by chevaux de frise; and the whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced turnkeys.

In the first apartment into which we were conducted—which was at the top of a staircase, and immediately over the press-room—were five-and-twenty or thirty prisoners, all under sentence of death, awaiting the result of the recorder’s report—men of all ages and appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and grizzly beard of three days’ growth, to a handsome boy, not fourteen years old, and of singularly youthful appearance even for that age, who had been condemned for burglary. There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of these prisoners. One or two decently-dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the fire; several little groups of two or three had been engaged in conversation at the upper end of the room, or in the windows; and the remainder were crowded round a young man seated at a table, who appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. The room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little anxiety or mental suffering depicted in the countenance of any of the men;—they had all been sentenced to death, it is true, and the recorder’s report had not yet been made; but, we question whether there was a man among them, notwithstanding, who did not know that although he had undergone the ceremony, it never was intended that his life should be sacrificed. On the table lay a Testament, but there were no tokens of its having been in recent use.

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature of whose offence rendered it necessary to separate them, even from their companions in guilt. It is a long, sombre room, with two windows sunk into the stone wall, and here the wretched men are pinioned on the morning of their execution, before moving towards the scaffold. The fate of one of these prisoners was uncertain; some mitigatory circumstances having come to light since his trial, which had been humanely represented in the proper quarter. The other two had nothing to expect from the mercy of the crown; their doom was sealed; no plea could be urged in extenuation of their crime, and they well knew that for them there was no hope in this world. ‘The two short ones,’ the turnkey whispered, ‘were dead men.’

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of escape, was lounging, at the greatest distance he could place between himself and his companions, in the window nearest to the door. He was probably aware of our approach, and had assumed an air of courageous indifference; his face was purposely averted towards the window, and he stirred not an inch while we were present. The other two men were at the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light, had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed this room again afterwards. The first man was pacing up and down the court with a firm military step—he had been a soldier in the foot-guards—and a cloth cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed respectfully to our conductor, and the salute was returned. The other two still remained in the positions we have described, and were as motionless as statues. [165]

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation of the building, in which are the two rooms we have just quitted, lie the condemned cells. The entrance is by a narrow and obscure stair-case leading to a dark passage, in which a charcoal stove casts a lurid tint over the objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something like warmth around. From the left-hand side of this passage, the massive door of every cell on the story opens; and from it alone can they be approached. There are three of these passages, and three of these ranges of cells, one above the other; but in size, furniture and appearance, they are all precisely alike. Prior to the recorder’s report being made, all the prisoners under sentence of death are removed from the day-room at five o’clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where they are allowed a candle until ten o’clock; and here they remain until seven next morning. When the warrant for a prisoner’s execution arrives, he is removed to the cells and confined in one of them until he leaves it for the scaffold. He is at liberty to walk in the yard; but, both in his walks and in his cell, he is constantly attended by a turnkey who never leaves him on any pretence.

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long by six wide, with a bench at the upper end, under which were a common rug, a bible, and prayer-book. An iron candlestick was fixed into the wall at the side; and a small high window in the back admitted as much air and light as could struggle in between a double row of heavy, crossed iron bars. It contained no other furniture of any description.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth in this cell. Buoyed up with some vague and undefined hope of reprieve, he knew not why—indulging in some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he knew not how—hour after hour of the three preceding days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed which no man living would deem possible, for none but this dying man can know. He has wearied his friends with entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in his feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his spiritual consoler; and, now that the illusion is at last dispelled, now that eternity is before him and guilt behind, now that his fears of death amount almost to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can alone avail.

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with folded arms, heedless alike of the fast decreasing time before him, and the urgent entreaties of the good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting gradually, and the deathlike stillness of the street without, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning fast away. The deep bell of St. Paul’s strikes—one! He heard it; it has roused him. Seven hours left! He paces the narrow limits of his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quivering with agony. Seven hours! He suffers himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible which is placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No: his thoughts will wander. The book is torn and soiled by use—and like the book he read his lessons in, at school, just forty years ago! He has never bestowed a thought upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child: and yet the place, the time, the room—nay, the very boys he played with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday; and some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo of one uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn promises of pardon for repentance, and its awful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush! what sound was that? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark! Two quarters have struck;—the third—the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Tell him not of repentance! Six hours’ repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin! He buries his face in his hands, and throws himself on the bench.

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled state of mind pursues him in his dreams. An insupportable load is taken from his breast; he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless prospect on every side—how different from the stone walls of Newgate! She is looking—not as she did when he saw her for the last time in that dreadful place, but as she used when he loved her—long, long ago, before misery and ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature, and she is leaning upon his arm, and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection—and he does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her from him. And oh! how glad he is to tell her all he had forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees before her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and cruelty that wasted her form and broke her heart! The scene suddenly changes. He is on his trial again: there are the judge and jury, and prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. How full the court is—what a sea of heads—with a gallows, too, and a scaffold—and how all those people stare at him! Verdict, ‘Guilty.’ No matter; he will escape.

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets are cleared, the open fields are gained and the broad, wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and lightness, astonishing even to himself. At length he pauses; he must be safe from pursuit now; he will stretch himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise.

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The dull, gray light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from his uneasy bed in momentary uncertainty. It is but momentary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and despairing; and in two hours more will be dead.

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I—THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE

It is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or indifferent, a man may live and die in London. He awakens no sympathy in the breast of any single person; his existence is a matter of interest to no one save himself; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for no one remembered him when he was alive. There is a numerous class of people in this great metropolis who seem not to possess a single friend, and whom nobody appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in the first instance, they have resorted to London in search of employment, and the means of subsistence. It is hard, we know, to break the ties which bind us to our homes and friends, and harder still to efface the thousand recollections of happy days and old times, which have been slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush upon the mind, to bring before it associations connected with the friends we have left, the scenes we have beheld too probably for the last time, and the hopes we once cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, however, happily for themselves, have long forgotten such thoughts. Old country friends have died or emigrated; former correspondents have become lost, like themselves, in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city; and they have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures of habit and endurance.

We were seated in the enclosure of St. James’s Park the other day, when our attention was attracted by a man whom we immediately put down in our own mind as one of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in a black coat, scanty gray trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand—not for use, for the day was fine—but, evidently, because he always carried one to the office in the morning. He walked up and down before the little patch of grass on which the chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were doing it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a matter of compulsion, just as he would walk to the office every morning from the back settlements of Islington. It was Monday; he had escaped for four-and-twenty hours from the thraldom of the desk; and was walking here for exercise and amusement—perhaps for the first time in his life. We were inclined to think he had never had a holiday before, and that he did not know what to do with himself. Children were playing on the grass; groups of people were loitering about, chatting and laughing; but the man walked steadily up and down, unheeding and unheeded his spare, pale face looking as if it were incapable of bearing the expression of curiosity or interest.

There was something in the man’s manner and appearance which told us, we fancied, his whole life, or rather his whole day, for a man of this sort has no variety of days. We thought we almost saw the dingy little back office into which he walks every morning, hanging his hat on the same peg, and placing his legs beneath the same desk: first, taking off that black coat which lasts the year through, and putting on the one which did duty last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the other. There he sits till five o’clock, working on, all day, as regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud ticking is as monotonous as his whole existence: only raising his head when some one enters the counting-house, or when, in the midst of some difficult calculation, he looks up to the ceiling as if there were inspiration in the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of every pane of glass. About five, or half-past, he slowly dismounts from his accustomed stool, and again changing his coat, proceeds to his usual dining-place, somewhere near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill of fare in a rather confidential manner—for he is a regular customer—and after inquiring ‘What’s in the best cut?’ and ‘What was up last?’ he orders a small plate of roast beef, with greens, and half-a-pint of porter. He has a small plate to-day, because greens are a penny more than potatoes, and he had ‘two breads’ yesterday, with the additional enormity of ‘a cheese’ the day before. This important point settled, he hangs up his hat—he took it off the moment he sat down—and bespeaks the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it while he is at dinner, he eats with much greater zest; balancing it against the water-bottle, and eating a bit of beef, and reading a line or two, alternately. Exactly at five minutes before the hour is up, he produces a shilling, pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his waistcoat-pocket (first deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns to the office, from which, if it is not foreign post night, he again sallies forth, in about half an hour. He then walks home, at his usual pace, to his little back room at Islington, where he has his tea; perhaps solacing himself during the meal with the conversation of his landlady’s little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a penny, for solving problems in simple addition. Sometimes, there is a letter or two to take up to his employer’s, in Russell-square; and then, the wealthy man of business, hearing his voice, calls out from the dining-parlour,—‘Come in, Mr. Smith:’ and Mr. Smith, putting his hat at the feet of one of the hall chairs, walks timidly in, and being condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully tucks his legs under his chair, and sits at a considerable distance from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry which is poured out for him by the eldest boy, and after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a state of nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover, until he finds himself once more in the Islington-road. Poor, harmless creatures such men are; contented but not happy; broken-spirited and humbled, they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure.

Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the result of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white heads and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from some cause, real or imaginary—generally the former, the excellent reason being that they are rich, and their relations poor—grow suspicious of everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight in thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they come near, miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere; you will know them at coffee-houses by their discontented exclamations and the luxury of their dinners; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people near them; at church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the loud tone in which they repeat the responses; at parties, by their getting cross at whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate, and pictures about him in profusion; not so much for his own gratification, as to be superior to those who have the desire, but not the means, to compete with him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flattered, and hated by the members of them all. Sometimes he will be appealed to by a poor relation—a married nephew perhaps—for some little assistance: and then he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvidence of young married people, the worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, and other unpardonable crimes; winding up his exhortations with a complacent review of his own conduct, and a delicate allusion to parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian conduct in this world, and their comfortable conviction of his happiness in the next.

But, next to our very particular friends, hackney-coachmen, cabmen and cads, whom we admire in proportion to the extent of their cool impudence and perfect self-possession, there is no class of people who amuse us more than London apprentices. They are no longer an organised body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify his Majesty’s subjects whenever it pleases them to take offence in their heads and staves in their hands. They are only bound, now, by indentures, and, as to their valour, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of the New Police, and a perspective view of a damp station-house, terminating in a police-office and a reprimand. They are still, however, a peculiar class, and not the less pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one fail to have noticed them in the streets on Sunday? And were there ever such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent as the young fellows display! We walked down the Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a little group; and they furnished food for our amusement the whole way. They had come out of some part of the city; it was between three and four o’clock in the afternoon; and they were on their way to the Park. There were four of them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so many bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and coats for which the English language has yet no name—a kind of cross between a great-coat and a surtout, with the collar of the one, the skirts of the other, and pockets peculiar to themselves.

Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a large tassel at the top, which he occasionally twirled gracefully round; and the whole four, by way of looking easy and unconcerned, were walking with a paralytic swagger irresistibly ludicrous. One of the party had a watch about the size and shape of a reasonable Ribstone pippin, jammed into his waistcoat-pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at St. Clement’s and the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter ‘Change, the clock of St. Martin’s Church, and the clock of the Horse Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James’s Park, the member of the party who had the best-made boots on, hired a second chair expressly for his feet, and flung himself on this two-pennyworth of sylvan luxury with an air which levelled all distinctions between Brookes’s and Snooks’s, Crockford’s and Bagnigge Wells.

We may smile at such people, but they can never excite our anger. They are usually on the best terms with themselves, and it follows almost as a matter of course, in good humour with every one about them. Besides, they are always the faint reflection of higher lights; and, if they do display a little occasional foolery in their own proper persons, it is surely more tolerable than precocious puppyism in the Quadrant, whiskered dandyism in Regent-street and Pall-mall, or gallantry in its dotage anywhere.

CHAPTER II—A CHRISTMAS DINNER

Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire—fill the glass and send round the song—and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty; one slight form that gladdened the father’s heart, and roused the mother’s pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past; think not that one short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one!

Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten; social feelings are awakened, in bosoms to which they have long been strangers; father and son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, or a look of cold recognition, for months before, proffer and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again reunited, and all is kindness and benevolence! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into action among those to whom they should ever be strangers!

The Christmas family-party that we mean, is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two’s notice, originating this year, having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible members of the family, young or old, rich or poor; and all the children look forward to it, for two months beforehand, in a fever of anticipation. Formerly, it was held at grandpapa’s; but grandpapa getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have given up house-keeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle George; so, the party always takes place at uncle George’s house, but grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down, all the way to Newgate-market, to buy the turkey, which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always insisting on the man’s being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink ‘a merry Christmas and a happy new year’ to aunt George. As to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so, to prevent rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and pen-knives, and pencil-cases, for the younger branches; to say nothing of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George at the pastry-cook’s, such as another dozen of mince-pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children.

On Christmas-eve, grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children, during the day, in stoning the plums, and all that, insists, regularly every year, on uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humouredly does, to the vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blind-man’s-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an opportunity of displaying his dexterity.

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state: leaving aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling casters, and uncle George carrying bottles into the dining-parlour, and calling for corkscrews, and getting into everybody’s way.

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it—a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages grandmamma’s ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandmamma under a mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George; and grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily than any of them.

But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excitement when grandmamma in a high cap, and slate-coloured silk gown; and grandpapa with a beautifully plaited shirt-frill, and white neckerchief; seat themselves on one side of the drawing-room fire, with uncle George’s children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the front, waiting the arrival of the expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney-coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims ‘Here’s Jane!’ on which the children rush to the door, and helter-skelter down-stairs; and uncle Robert and aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up-stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of ‘Oh, my!’ from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too, for that matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, laughing, and merriment.

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of ‘Who’s that?’ and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it’s ‘poor aunt Margaret.’ Upon which, aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new-comer; and grandmamma draws herself up, rather stiff and stately; for Margaret married a poor man without her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a disobedient child; but, to banish her at a period of general good-will and hilarity, from the hearth, round which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister, pale in looks and broken in hope—not from poverty, for that she could bear, but from the consciousness of undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness—it is easy to see how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother’s neck. The father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband’s hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail.

As to the dinner, it’s perfectly delightful—nothing goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of previous turkeys, on former Christmas-days, which grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour and hospitality; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mince-pies, is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert!—and the wine!—and the fun! Such beautiful speeches, and such songs, from aunt Margaret’s husband, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so attentive to grandmamma! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous encore, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new one which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before; and a young scapegrace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and commission—neglecting to call, and persisting in drinking Burton Ale—astonishes everybody into convulsions of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that ever were heard. And thus the evening passes, in a strain of rational good-will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived.

CHAPTER III—THE NEW YEAR

Next to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled away, and to the New Year that is just beginning to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with gaiety and glee.

There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we can look back, with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of justice and equity to give the New Year credit for being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him.

This is our view of the matter; and entertaining it, notwithstanding our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, penning this article with as jovial a face as if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our good humour.

Hackney-coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed coachfuls to crowded parties; loud and repeated double knocks at the house with green blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbourhood that there’s one large party in the street at all events; and we saw through the window, and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, and drew our curtains, pastry-cooks’ men with green boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse-carts, with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an annual festival is held in honour of the occasion.

We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door.

Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know it is a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning, and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies ‘doing’ another of the young ladies’ hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing else but a quadrille party could possibly justify.

The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office; we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait—the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset House air about them.

Hark!—a cab! That’s a junior clerk in the same office; a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes in a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat-pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat, who is a disguised messenger from the office.

The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. ‘Mr. Tupple!’ shouts the messenger. ‘How are you, Tupple?’ says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been talking politics and airing himself. ‘My dear, this is Mr. Tupple (a courteous salute from the lady of the house); Tupple, my eldest daughter; Julia, my dear, Mr. Tupple; Tupple, my other daughters; my son, sir;’ Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, and the old year, and the last new murder, and the balloon, and the ladies’ sleeves, and the festivities of the season, and a great many other topics of small talk.

More double knocks! what an extensive party! what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Tupple now, in our mind’s eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady’s cup to the servant; and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady’s daughter, before he leaves the room; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy.

Charming person Mr. Tupple—perfect ladies’ man—such a delightful companion, too! Laugh!—nobody ever understood papa’s jokes half so well as Mr. Tupple, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delightful partner! talks through the whole set! and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling! Quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him; but everybody knows that’s only envy, and they needn’t give themselves the trouble to depreciate his merits at any rate, for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it’s only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there’s any unexpected delay in the kitchen.

At supper, Mr. Tupple shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. Tupple is so droll: insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa—when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Tupple requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose: on which all the gentlemen cry ‘Hear! hear!’ and pass the decanters accordingly: and Mr. Tupple being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present, how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts captivated, by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) Much as he (Tupple) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present, enables him to propose a toast, which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving—that toast he begs to say is—‘The Ladies!’ (Great applause.) The Ladies! among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host, are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to ‘The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!’ (Prolonged approbation; above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, overhead, is distinctly audible.)

The applause consequent on this toast, has scarcely subsided, when a young gentleman in a pink under-waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgety, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once perceiving, determines to forestall by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple proceeds). He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality—he may say the splendour—with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess. (Unbounded applause.) Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business—he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple’s) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the morning papers, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors, majestic in his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs. Dobble? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble’s feelings; he will spare the feelings of his friend—if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so—Mr. Dobble, junior. (Here Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy). He will simply say—and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur—that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters); and he will conclude by proposing their worthy ‘Host and Hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years!’

The toast is drunk with acclamation; Dobble returns thanks, and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out; and dancing is kept up, until far in the first morning of the new year.

We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when the first stroke of twelve, peals from the neighbouring churches. There certainly—we must confess it now—is something awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now, than at any other time; for the hours steal as swiftly on, at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man’s life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the landmarks which stands between us and the grave. Disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds, that when the next bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now.

CHAPTER IV—MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE

Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter, a journeyman carpenter of small dimensions, decidedly below the middle size—bordering, perhaps, upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known as ‘aggerawators.’ His earnings were all-sufficient for his wants, varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly—his manner undeniable—his sabbath waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that, with these qualifications, Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex: many women have been captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But, Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt fate had destined him. He came, and conquered—proposed, and was accepted—loved, and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins ‘kept company’ with Jemima Evans.

Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the useful pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden-town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one Monday afternoon, in his best attire, with his face more shining and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. It was quite a little feast; two ounces of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was ‘cleaning herself’ up-stairs; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars under the kettle, to make the water boil for tea.

‘I wos a thinking,’ said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation—‘I wos a thinking of taking J’mima to the Eagle to-night.’—‘O my!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. ‘Lor! how nice!’ said the youngest Miss Ivins. ‘Well, I declare!’ added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. ‘Tell J’mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly,’ screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J’mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a little red shawl, plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked stockings; white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand—all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss J’mima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress-cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who should Miss J’mima Ivins stumble upon, by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man!—And it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes—they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing, and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young man would have the ladies go into the Crown, to taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately, till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed their journey, and walked very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.

‘How ev’nly!’ said Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, both at once, when they had passed the gate and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted—and the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes—and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads—and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company’s feet—and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens—and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy-and-water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda; and in short the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed—‘one of dazzling excitement.’ As to the concert-room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass; and such an organ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whispered it had cost ‘four hundred pound,’ which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was ‘not dear neither;’ an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it; and everybody was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water ‘warm with—’ and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with ‘a pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed biscuits;’ and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only a strange gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J’mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about ‘people’s imperence,’ and ‘swells out o’ luck;’ and to intimate, in oblique terms, a vague intention of knocking somebody’s head off; which he was only prevented from announcing more emphatically, by both Miss J’mima Ivins and her friend threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word.

The concert commenced—overture on the organ. ‘How solemn!’ exclaimed Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed hard-breathing vengeance, perhaps,—but said nothing. ‘The soldier tired,’ Miss Somebody in white satin. ‘Ancore!’ cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend. ‘Ancore!’ shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout-bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss J’mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, grew lively and talkative, as Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, grew morose and surly in inverse proportion.

Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers. And the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss J’mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded, they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same; and made divers remarks complimentary to the ankles of Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up and asked Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, than if they was nobody!

‘What do you mean by that, scoundrel!’ exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress-cane firmly in his right hand. ‘What’s the matter with you, you little humbug?’ replied the whiskers. ‘How dare you insult me and my friend?’ inquired the friend’s young man. ‘You and your friend be hanged!’ responded the waistcoat. ‘Take that,’ exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress-cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled into the air, cane and all. ‘Give it him,’ said the waistcoat. ‘Horficer!’ screamed the ladies. Miss J’mima Ivins’s beau, and the friend’s young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more.

Miss J’mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected—wrongfully suspected—oh! that they should ever have lived to see the day—and so forth; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes and saw their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney-coach, and a state of insensibility, compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement.

CHAPTER V—THE PARLOUR ORATOR

We had been lounging one evening, down Oxford-street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman-street, Finsbury-square, and so on, with the intention of returning westward, by Pentonville and the New-road, when we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, decent public-house, which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (it was not far from the City-road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French-polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar aforesaid—a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected by a large screen: from behind which the young lady emerged on our representing our inclination for a glass of ale.

‘Won’t you walk into the parlour, sir?’ said the young lady, in seductive tones.

‘You had better walk into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the screen, to survey our appearance.

‘You had much better step into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old lady, popping out her head, on the other side of the screen.

We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our ignorance of the locality so much recommended. The little old landlord observed it; bustled out of the small door of the small bar; and forthwith ushered us into the parlour itself.

It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken wainscoting, a sanded floor, and a high mantel-piece. The walls were ornamented with three or four old coloured prints in black frames, each print representing a naval engagement, with a couple of men-of-war banging away at each other most vigorously, while another vessel or two were blowing up in the distance, and the foreground presented a miscellaneous collection of broken masts and blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending from the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and bell-pull; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a thickly-planted row of those slippery, shiny-looking wooden chairs, peculiar to hostelries of this description. The monotonous appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon; and a triangular pile of those useful articles adorned the two upper corners of the apartment.

At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose short, stiff, black hair curled closely round a broad high forehead, and a face to which something besides water and exercise had communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident oracular air which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and universal anecdote-relater, of the place. He had evidently just delivered himself of something very weighty; for the remainder of the company were puffing at their respective pipes and cigars in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently under discussion.

On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a white head, and broad-brimmed brown hat; on his left, a sharp-nosed, light-haired man in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe, and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alternately.

‘Very extraordinary!’ said the light-haired man after a pause of five minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘Not at all extraordinary—not at all,’ said the red-faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie, and turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had spoken.

‘Why should it be extraordinary?—why is it extraordinary?—prove it to be extraordinary!’

‘Oh, if you come to that—’ said the light-haired man, meekly.

‘Come to that!’ ejaculated the man with the red face; ‘but we must come to that. We stand, in these times, upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. Proof, is what I require—proof, and not assertions, in these stirring times. Every gen’lem’n that knows me, knows what was the nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation of the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society, to recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there—I forget the name of it. “Mr. Snobee,” said Mr. Wilson, “is a fit and proper person to represent the borough in Parliament.” “Prove it,” says I. “He is a friend to Reform,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “The abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parliaments; the extender of nothing but the suffrages of the people,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “His acts prove it,” says he. “Prove them,” says I.

‘And he could not prove them,’ said the red-faced man, looking round triumphantly; ‘and the borough didn’t have him; and if you carried this principle to the full extent, you’d have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an elevation of intellectual attainment, and having reached the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument—this always has been my argument—and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I’d make ’em shake in their shoes with it. And the red-faced man, having struck the table very hard with his clenched fist, to add weight to the declaration, smoked away like a brewery.

‘Well!’ said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice, addressing the company in general, ‘I always do say, that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers’s, or who is such improving company.’

‘Improving company!’ said Mr. Rogers, for that, it seemed, was the name of the red-faced man. ‘You may say I am improving company, for I’ve improved you all to some purpose; though as to my conversation being as my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to say anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point; but this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don’t believe there was one man in it, who knew he was a slave—and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied.’

‘Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb,’ said a little greengrocer with a chubby face, ‘of course you can have anything chalked up, as you likes to pay for, so far as it relates to yourself and your affairs; but, when you come to talk about slaves, and that there abuse, you’d better keep it in the family, ’cos I for one don’t like to be called them names, night after night.’

‘You are a slave,’ said the red-faced man, ‘and the most pitiable of all slaves.’

‘Werry hard if I am,’ interrupted the greengrocer, ‘for I got no good out of the twenty million that was paid for ’mancipation, anyhow.’

‘A willing slave,’ ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with eloquence, and contradiction—‘resigning the dearest birthright of your children—neglecting the sacred call of Liberty—who, standing imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart, and points to your helpless infants, but in vain.’

‘Prove it,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Prove it!’ sneered the man with the red face. ‘What! bending beneath the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy; bowed down by the domination of cruel laws; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it!—’ The red-faced man abruptly broke off, sneered melo-dramatically, and buried his countenance and his indignation together, in a quart pot.

‘Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers,’ said a stout broker in a large waistcoat, who had kept his eyes fixed on this luminary all the time he was speaking. ‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the broker with a sigh, ‘that’s the point.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said divers members of the company, who understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself.

‘You had better let him alone, Tommy,’ said the broker, by way of advice to the little greengrocer; ‘he can tell what’s o’clock by an eight-day, without looking at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on some other suit; it won’t do with him, Tommy.’

‘What is a man?’ continued the red-faced specimen of the species, jerking his hat indignantly from its peg on the wall. ‘What is an Englishman? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor? Is he to be knocked down at everybody’s bidding? What’s freedom? Not a standing army. What’s a standing army? Not freedom. What’s general happiness? Not universal misery. Liberty ain’t the window-tax, is it? The Lords ain’t the Commons, are they?’ And the red-faced man, gradually bursting into a radiating sentence, in which such adjectives as ‘dastardly,’ ‘oppressive,’ ‘violent,’ and ‘sanguinary,’ formed the most conspicuous words, knocked his hat indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and slammed the door after him.

‘Wonderful man!’ said he of the sharp nose.

‘Splendid speaker!’ added the broker.

‘Great power!’ said everybody but the greengrocer. And as they said it, the whole party shook their heads mysteriously, and one by one retired, leaving us alone in the old parlour.

If we had followed the established precedent in all such instances, we should have fallen into a fit of musing, without delay. The ancient appearance of the room—the old panelling of the wall—the chimney blackened with smoke and age—would have carried us back a hundred years at least, and we should have gone dreaming on, until the pewter-pot on the table, or the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into life, and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, by some means or other, we were not in a romantic humour; and although we tried very hard to invest the furniture with vitality, it remained perfectly unmoved, obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the unpleasant necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our thoughts reverted to the red-faced man, and his oratorical display.

A numerous race are these red-faced men; there is not a parlour, or club-room, or benefit society, or humble party of any kind, without its red-faced man. Weak-pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief they do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a pattern one up, to know the others by, we took his likeness at once, and put him in here. And that is the reason why we have written this paper.

CHAPTER VI—THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

In our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture to ourself the gloomy and mournful scenes that are passing within. The sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections; the mere glimmering of the low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous merriment.

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the sick man hears, is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of a dying man? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by strangers; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child?

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the nearly-deserted streets; and the sight of the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the streets and doorways; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery? The wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man—the ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left—which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in death? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of debasement stalk before them; when repentance seems a mockery, and sorrow comes too late?

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent-garden (we had been thinking about these things over-night), we were attracted by the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take the trouble of walking to the Police-office, on the ground that he hadn’t the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd.

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators as could squeeze their way in.

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest brutality; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful.

Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the prisoner; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight o’clock that evening, to take her deposition, it was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given. He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word.

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we obtained it.

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke—they were introduced as ‘dressers’—and after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we were conducted to the ‘casualty ward’ in which she was lying.

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third, there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of anguish and suffering.

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate’s inquiry whether she was in great pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not know him.

‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was desired, and the man’s features were disclosed.

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of the errand was explained, and the oath tendered.

‘Oh, no, gentlemen,’ said the girl, raising herself once more, and folding her hands together; ‘no, gentlemen, for God’s sake! I did it myself—it was nobody’s fault—it was an accident. He didn’t hurt me; he wouldn’t for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn’t!’

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was not prepared for this. He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl’s colour changed, and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying.

‘We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,’ said the gentleman who had spoken first, ‘but let me warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him.’

‘Jack,’ murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘they shall not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn’t do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me.’ She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken whisper, ‘I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!’

The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse.

CHAPTER VII—THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE

If we had to make a classification of society, there is a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of ‘Old Boys;’ and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old-boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine. It would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they are at this moment alarmingly on the increase.

Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes—the gay old boys, and the steady old boys. The gay old boys, are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time: the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night; and who assume all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time. There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. Grand old boys they were—fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows—always there—one on one side the table, and the other opposite—puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some people that they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don’t mean immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower, resident with three daughters—all grown up, and all unmarried—in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clockwork—breakfast at nine—dress and tittivate a little—down to the Sir Somebody’s Head—a glass of ale and the paper—come back again, and take daughters out for a walk—dinner at three—glass of grog and pipe—nap—tea—little walk—Sir Somebody’s Head again—capital house—delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister’s clerk—rum fellow that Jones—capital company—full of anecdote!—and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the ‘rush’ had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, sir,—then—Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from business; and going to the pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and waiting there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial; and fainting after all, with the heat and fatigue, before the play began; in which situation he was lifted out of the pit, into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of the finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to know how he found himself, sir—by G-! Between the acts Mr. Dounce and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones—knowing fellow that Jones—knew everybody—pointed out the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a ‘fine woman—very fine woman, indeed,’ or that ‘there might be a little more of her, eh, Jones?’ Just as the case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce and the other old boys were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones—wicked dog that Jones—whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out of their eyes.

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters; and when they came to the second glass of brandy-and-water, Jones—hoaxing scamp, that Jones—used to recount how he had observed a lady in white feathers, in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted home.

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely topsy-turvy—not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster; and thus it happened.

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody’s Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street—not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings’s birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing—when his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster-shop, on a magnificent scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe.

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone—splendid creature, charming face and lovely figure! It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the lady smiled; then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster-like bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered—the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed—still she came not. He entered the shop.

‘Can you open me an oyster, my dear?’ said Mr. John Dounce.

‘Dare say I can, sir,’ replied the lady in blue, with playfulness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eightpence in less than no time.

‘Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?’ inquired Mr. John Dounce.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you, sir,’ replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence.

‘You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy-and-water, my dear, I suppose?’ said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters: in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could.

‘I’ll see, sir,’ said the young lady: and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the coal-cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies’ grog—hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it.

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which made him feel more affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all—she couldn’t abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply—at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush—and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy-and-water; and, at last, John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and disinterested attachments.

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy-and-water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward, a change came over the spirit of John Dounce’s dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait); ‘went on’ altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was.

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody’s Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he did go there, Jones—vulgar fellow that Jones—persisted in asking ‘when it was to be?’ and ‘whether he was to have any gloves?’ together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature: at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings also; so, he cut the two, altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop.

Now comes the moral of the story—for it has a moral after all. The last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce’s attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she ‘wouldn’t have him at no price;’ and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to everybody, made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys.

CHAPTER VIII—THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION

Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty—what ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you would just have stepped up, in the evening, to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription ‘Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking, in all its branches;’ you’d just have knocked two loud knocks at the street-door; and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies of the most approved description.

If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or if the young lady who called had been recommended by any other young lady whom Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would—so kind, and so comfortable—it really wasn’t like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to be sure, in a low dress with short sleeves; made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom; to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of ‘Missis,’ who wouldn’t allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an arternoon—no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear-rings; let alone hiding people’s heads of hair under them frightful caps. At the termination of this complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and were obliged to keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance—leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service, who had married a great deal better than their missises, and they were not very good-looking either; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing of her; but how she needn’t hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk. And, after expressing due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner: and the one went back to her ‘place,’ and the other, to her room on the second-floor front.

There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service; or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dressmaking or millinery.

A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping company with an ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding-dinner with her presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman had taken a house—no lodgings nor vulgarity of that kind, but a house—four beautiful rooms, and a delightful little washhouse at the end of the passage—which was the most convenient thing in the world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the company, and then run into the little washhouse and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, and then pop back into the parlour again, as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was! Beautiful Kidderminster carpet—six bran-new cane-bottomed stained chairs—three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard—farmer’s girl and farmer’s boy on the mantelpiece: girl tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself, on the handle of a pitchfork—long white dimity curtains in the window—and, in short, everything on the most genteel scale imaginable.

Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle; porter-pots at the corners; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre; vegetables on the floor; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tartlets without number: to say nothing of cheese, and celery, and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the Company! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared, on a subsequent occasion, that, much as she had heard of the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s connexion, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman—and his mother, such a dear old lady—and his sister, such a charming girl—and his brother, such a manly-looking young man—with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately, was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of ‘Red Ruffian, retire!’ it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, ‘thrilling.’ And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the House, his only reply was, that he would back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square—a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn’t bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed that it ‘’ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of.’ So Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he’d think of it.

When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company—a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing frequent allusions to some young gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating ‘Beautiful!’—‘Charming!’—‘Brilliant!’—‘Oh! splendid,’ &c.; and at its close the admiration of himself, and his lady, knew no bounds.

‘Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Never; indeed I never did, love,’ replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Don’t you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?’ asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,’ answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

And thus the time passed away; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking-stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time; and even the funny old gentleman began singing. His song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence—each for himself, without reference to the other—and finally separated: all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening: and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to ‘come out’ without delay.

Now, ‘coming out,’ either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come out with a burst, and being out, to keep out, and not go in again; but, it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties, of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them, of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either—and so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin’s principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin practising. Half-suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly—the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then—the dresses were the result.

Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, and progressed, and was more than half over. The dressmaking business had fallen off, from neglect; and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to the ‘comic gentleman’ whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness—he had composed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived; there was an immense room—ninety-seven sixpenn’orths of gin-and-water, thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painter’s journeyman, with his wife and a select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song—sentimental—by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons—[applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat and more bright basket buttons—[increased applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, ‘Red Ruffian, retire!’—[great applause]. Solo, Miss Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)—‘I am a Friar’—[enthusiasm]. Original duet, comic—Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin—‘The Time of Day.’ ‘Brayvo!—Brayvo!’ cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. ‘Go to work, Harry,’ cried the comic gentleman’s personal friends. ‘Tap-tap-tap,’ went the leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin. ‘Sing out’—shouted one gentleman in a white great-coat. ‘Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,’ exclaimed another, ‘S-s-s-s-s-s-s’-went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. ‘Shame, shame!’ remonstrated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party—‘S-s-s-s’ went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins, and a majority of the brandies.

‘Turn them geese out,’ cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, with great indignation.

‘Sing out,’ whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘So I do,’ responded Miss Amelia Martin.

‘Sing louder,’ said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘I can’t,’ replied Miss Amelia Martin.

‘Off, off, off,’ cried the rest of the audience.

‘Bray-vo!’ shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t do—Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered it; and, as she couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour, without being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin’s good humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the local abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation that Miss Martin possessed.

CHAPTER IX—THE DANCING ACADEMY

Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi’s, of the ‘King’s Theatre.’ It was not in Spring-gardens, or Newman-street, or Berners-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street, or Percy-street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses; it was not in the West-end at all—it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane. It was not a dear dancing academy—four-and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter’s payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition—an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi’s family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance with; and when he had been sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the assembly-room.

Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, when Mr. Augustus Cooper, of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement walking leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi, of the King’s Theatre, intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball.

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line—just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who, having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease; and so, somehow or other, he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the shop on week-days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days; whereas Young White, at the gas-fitter’s over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin’—going to the theatre—supping at harmonic meetings—eating oysters by the barrel—drinking stout by the gallon—even out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be ‘blowed,’ in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street-door key. And he was walking down Holborn-hill, thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at four-and-sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself and great delight to his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped advertisement—an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards—and having procured a very small card with the Signor’s address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor’s house—and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five-and-seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and, what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man—and so polite! The list was not full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up, that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and, being very much afraid that the lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her.

‘And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,’ said Signor Billsmethi, ‘that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper—I don’t say it to flatter you, for I know you’re above it—that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and appearance, sir.’

‘I am very glad of it too, sir,’ said Augustus Cooper.

‘And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,’ said Signor Billsmethi.

‘And I’m sure I hope we shall too, sir,’ responded Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and in came a young lady, with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her ankles.

‘Don’t run away, my dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi; for the young lady didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. ‘Don’t run away, my dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi, ‘this is Mr. Cooper—Mr. Cooper, of Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, sir—Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I hope will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet, gavotte, country-dance, fandango, double-hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir; and so shall you, sir, before you’re a quarter older, sir.’

And Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years,—so friendly;—and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him, and Signor Billsmethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d wish to see; upon which the young lady exclaimed, ‘Lor, pa!’ and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself—you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp at a chemist’s shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night—taking them just as they were—no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind—and learn his positions in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball.

Well; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers’ shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence, and men’s strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi’s. There were four other private pupils in the parlour: two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of pride about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable; and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over, Signor Billsmethi, and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies, and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille—none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work, flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door,—something like dancing! Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper, and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, ‘strike ’em wulgar if they’d stand that;’ and were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness to allow him—and they had the kindness to allow him; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot. They had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper’s hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o’clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief.

Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together, for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and, after a grand Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It was a night! Everything was admirably arranged. The sandwich-boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra potboy was laid on for the occasion. In short, nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew: not only one another, but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi, in black tights, with a large blue bow in his buttonhole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers: and the ladies talked away—and laughed they did—it was delightful to see them.

As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld; there was such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, and then disentangling them again! And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably. He was missing from his partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, without any definite object; but, generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, until he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain; and ‘stood’ considerable quantities of spirits-and-water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five-and-seventy pupils.

Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged, rather than repelled, the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico who had appeared particularly struck with him from the first; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by calling the young lady in brown gauze a ‘creeter,’ which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking; and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils, that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her; on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he ‘wanted anything for himself,’ he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer’s letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till: which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps. And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser.

CHAPTER X—SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE

There are certain descriptions of people who, oddly enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them, every day, in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere; they seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate the remark by a variety of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a specimen—that class which is so aptly and expressively designated as ‘shabby-genteel.’

Now, shabby people, God knows, may be found anywhere, and genteel people are not articles of greater scarcity out of London than in it; but this compound of the two—this shabby-gentility—is as purely local as the statue at Charing-cross, or the pump at Aldgate. It is worthy of remark, too, that only men are shabby-genteel; a woman is always either dirty and slovenly in the extreme, or neat and respectable, however poverty-stricken in appearance. A very poor man, ‘who has seen better days,’ as the phrase goes, is a strange compound of dirty-slovenliness and wretched attempts at faded smartness.

We will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man, lounging up Drury-Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long-acre, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with grease-spots: the trousers made very full over the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each leg—wearing, also, what has been a brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at the side, cocked over his right eye—don’t pity him. He is not shabby-genteel. The ‘harmonic meetings’ at some fourth-rate public-house, or the purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts; he entertains a rooted antipathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar terms with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close as he can to the area-railings, a man of about forty or fifty, clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees-waxed—the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for the look of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off at the heels,—if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white neckerchief is carefully pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will make your heart ache—always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor a political economist.

We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man; he was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind’s eye all night. The man of whom Sir Walter Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet, that we sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice, by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had before him a couple of shabby-genteel books—two old dog’s-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon; and when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where else to go, for warmth and quiet. There he used to sit all day, as close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on his coat: with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation.

About two o’clock, you would see him munching a French roll or a penny loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who knew he was only making a lunch; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner.

When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impossible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far, as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter; he grew more and more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over—on the other side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead.

We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge—whether he really was dead or had only been arrested—when our conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man himself. He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep, glossy black; and yet they looked like the same suit; nay, there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had made us familiar. The hat, too—nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown gradually increasing in circumference towards the top. Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint; but, now, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed suddenly upon us—they had been ‘revived.’ It is a deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver; we have watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a temporary assumption of importance: possibly into the purchase of a new pair of gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in this case; the transient dignity of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the ‘reviver’ wore off. The knees of the unmentionables, and the elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began to get alarmingly white. The hat was once more deposited under the table, and its owner crept into his seat as quietly as ever.

There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration the ‘reviver’ had entirely vanished, and the shabby-genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improvement in his outward appearance.

It would be difficult to name any particular part of town as the principal resort of shabby-genteel men. We have met a great many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court. They may be met with, in Holborn, between eight and ten any morning; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors’ Court will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on ‘Change, by any chance, without seeing some shabby-genteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business they can have there. They will sit there, for hours, leaning on great, dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to them, nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing together on ‘Change, but our experience assures us that this is an uncommon circumstance, occasioned by the offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such civility.

It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign any particular spot for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to enumerate their general occupations. We were never engaged in business with more than one shabby-genteel man; and he was a drunken engraver, and lived in a damp back-parlour in a new row of houses at Camden-town, half street, half brick-field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel man may have no occupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent, or a wine merchant, or a collector of debts, or a broker’s assistant, or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of the lowest description, or a contributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know not; this we know—that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels his poverty and vainly strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people.

CHAPTER XI—MAKING A NIGHT OF IT

Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend: and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have, however, grown obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except the sham ones, and they cost half-a-crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times, have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand. We have Potter and Smithers on the other; and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof.

Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other’s company very night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were ‘thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it.’ There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers’s disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, a sort of consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what, coming across him he didn’t precisely know why—which stood out in fine relief against the off-hand, dashing, amateur-pickpocket-sort-of-manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree.

The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides—peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated ‘kiddy’ or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Russell-street, and divers other places of public and fashionable resort.

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter’s salary, they would jointly and in company ‘spend the evening’—an evident misnomer—the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of, on the occasion to which reference is made; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would ‘make a night of it’—an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole.

The quarter-day arrived at last—we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets: moving wonderfully quick when you have a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner; and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in, two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his ‘very mildest’ Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same; and then, Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, ‘the abolition of all offices whatever’ (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause. So they went on, talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water, until the ‘goes’—most appropriately so called—were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until, what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach with his back to the horses.

As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was ‘all right;’ in proof of which, he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, and, after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also. When he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers awoke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it had not been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they mightn’t have done ’em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill,—twelve and twopence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the waiter—thirteen shillings in all—started out on their expedition to manufacture a night.

It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn’t do better than go at half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter in confidence that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre, by falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes.

Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a ‘knowing card,’ a ‘fast-goer,’ and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed—rather too fast at last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with him. On his first entry, he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to ‘flare up,’ accompanying the demand with another request, expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously ‘form a union,’ both which requisitions were responded to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions.

‘Give that dog a bone!’ cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves.

‘Where have you been a having half a pint of intermediate beer?’ cried a second. ‘Tailor!’ screamed a third. ‘Barber’s clerk!’ shouted a fourth. ‘Throw him o—ver!’ roared a fifth; while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to ‘go home to his mother!’ All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance melodramatically.

The overture—to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment—concluded, the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter, emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all, he imitated the shake of the principal female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire; then, affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost; and, lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an audible voice, upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually awoke Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. ‘Turn them out!’ was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a hurried dialogue of ‘Come out?’—‘I won’t!’—‘You shall!’—‘I shan’t!’—‘Give me your card, Sir?’—‘You’re a scoundrel, Sir!’ and so forth, succeeded. A round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road, without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent.

Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast-going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last until the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street-door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it: and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly assented; and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for assisting them in making a night; where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, and a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen and cab-drivers, all drinking and talking together; and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they began to have a very confused idea, either of things in general, or of anything in particular; and, when they had done treating themselves they began to treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving.

Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—‘all was a blank!’ and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words ‘Station-house,’ and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, at different times, five men, four boys, and three women; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at least forty pounds’ worth of oaths, at the rate of five shillings apiece; terrified whole streets full of Her Majesty’s subjects with awful shrieks and alarms of fire; destroyed the uniforms of five policemen; and committed various other atrocities, too numerous to recapitulate. And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each, for being, what the law vulgarly terms, drunk; and thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults at forty shillings a-head, with liberty to speak to the prosecutors.

The prosecutors were spoken to, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit, for a quarter, as best they might; and, although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on the same terms, they have never since been detected in ‘making a night of it.’

CHAPTER XII—THE PRISONERS’ VAN

We were passing the corner of Bow-street, on our return from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd, assembled round the door of the Police-office, attracted our attention. We turned up the street accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing on the pavement and half across the road; and a few stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side of the way—all evidently waiting in expectation of some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but nothing occurred; so, we turned round to an unshorn, sallow-looking cobbler, who was standing next us with his hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual question of ‘What’s the matter?’ The cobbler eyed us from head to foot, with superlative contempt, and laconically replied ‘Nuffin.’

Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time; but, as we knew very well that no crowd of people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, ‘What are all these people waiting here for?’—‘Her Majesty’s carriage,’ replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We could not imagine what earthly business Her Majesty’s carriage could have at the Public Office, Bow-street. We were beginning to ruminate on the possible causes of such an uncommon appearance, when a general exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of ‘Here’s the wan!’ caused us to raise our heads, and look up the street.

The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the police-offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full speed. It then occurred to us, for the first time, that Her Majesty’s carriage was merely another name for the prisoners’ van, conferred upon it, not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but because the aforesaid van is maintained at Her Majesty’s expense: having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses of call known by the general denomination of ‘Her Majesty’s Gaols.’

The van drew up at the office-door, and the people thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler, and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into the office. The office-door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the tiptoe of expectation.

After a few minutes’ delay, the door again opened, and the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the elder—could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was evident, from the resemblance which still subsisted between them, though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the elder girl’s features, as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially; and, although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects, which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly—not for display, or in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame: her face was buried in her handkerchief: and her whole manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow.

‘How long are you for, Emily?’ screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd. ‘Six weeks and labour,’ replied the elder girl with a flaunting laugh; ‘and that’s better than the stone jug anyhow; the mill’s a deal better than the Sessions, and here’s Bella a-going too for the first time. Hold up your head, you chicken,’ she continued, boisterously tearing the other girl’s handkerchief away; ‘Hold up your head, and show ’em your face. I an’t jealous, but I’m blessed if I an’t game!’—‘That’s right, old gal,’ exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident.—‘Right!’ replied the girl; ‘ah, to be sure; what’s the odds, eh?’—‘Come! In with you,’ interrupted the driver. ‘Don’t you be in a hurry, coachman,’ replied the girl, ‘and recollect I want to be set down in Cold Bath Fields—large house with a high garden-wall in front; you can’t mistake it. Hallo. Bella, where are you going to—you’ll pull my precious arm off?’ This was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff. ‘Come down, and let’s show you the way.’ And after jerking the miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched companion.

These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was then, the elder had been once; and what the elder then was, the younger must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how surely to be realised; a tragic drama, but how often acted! Turn to the prisons and police offices of London—nay, look into the very streets themselves. These things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour—they have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded. The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pestilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and wide-spreading infection. Step by step, how many wretched females, within the sphere of every man’s observation, have become involved in a career of vice, frightful to contemplate; hopeless at its commencement, loathsome and repulsive in its course; friendless, forlorn, and unpitied, at its miserable conclusion!

There were other prisoners—boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of fifty—a houseless vagrant, going joyfully to prison as a place of food and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would willingly have effaced.

The crowd dispersed; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and misfortune; and we saw no more of the Prisoners’ Van.

TALES

CHAPTER I—THE BOARDING-HOUSE

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area-steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and bright, as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing, could make them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription ‘Mrs. Tibbs,’ had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour-windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont in the pride of her heart to boast, ‘all the way up.’ The bell-lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The banisters were bees-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering.

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man. He had, moreover, very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance with her—he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but, if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, ‘I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,’—but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism.

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about 43_l._ 15_s._ 10_d._ a year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock, drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700_l._, would be to take and furnish a tolerable house—somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somers-town—for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that ‘Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, residing within ten minutes’ walk of’—everywhere. Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants; and most profound was the secrecy observed. ‘E.’ didn’t like this; ‘I.’ couldn’t think of putting up with that; ‘I. O. U.’ didn’t think the terms would suit him; and ‘G. R.’ had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were ‘agreeable to all parties.’ In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’s.

‘Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. ‘Charming woman, indeed!’ repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. ‘And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join us at dinner for the first time.’

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say.

‘The young ladies,’ continued Mrs. T., ‘have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano.’

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it.

A bright thought struck him—

‘It’s very likely—’ said he.

‘Pray don’t lean your head against the paper,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs; ‘and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse.’

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and proceeded. ‘It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage—’

‘A what!’ shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion.

‘I beg you won’t mention such a thing,’ said Mrs. T. ‘A marriage, indeed to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world.’

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but, as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was ‘time to go to business.’ He always went out at ten o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City.

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes and parasols, guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner.

‘Are these gals ’andsome?’ inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room, before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps.

‘Don’t know,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a ‘very talented young man.’ He was fond of ‘lugging’ into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application; in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s; always dressed according to the caricatures published in the monthly fashion; and spelt Character with a K.

‘I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home,’ simpered Mr. Simpson.

‘Materials for the toilet, no doubt,’ rejoined the Don Juan reader.

—‘Much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.’

‘Is that from Milton?’ inquired Mr. Simpson.

‘No—from Byron,’ returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. ‘Hush! Here come the gals,’ and they both commenced talking in a very loud key.

‘Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. ‘Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones’—and vice versâ. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtseyed, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pocket-handkerchiefs: the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish-sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender.

‘Julia, my love,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—‘Julia.’

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘Don’t stoop.’—This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause.

‘We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone.

‘Dear me!’ replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her ‘Missis.’

‘I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil,’ said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone.

‘Positively I think they are,’ replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before.

‘And cabmen, too,’ said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated, by word or sign, the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen.

‘Robinson, what do you want?’ said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door during the preceding five minutes.

‘Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things,’ replied the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the window, and ‘went off’ like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths; and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant warning.

Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still, while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started an idea; but if any commonplace topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic-douloureux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300_l._ a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness, and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day.

This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were ‘eligible.’ A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result.

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty: shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could have no other motive. The ‘dear girls’ themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of ‘a good establishment.’ One of them was twenty-five; the other, three years younger. They had been at different watering-places, for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do—but, as yet, to no purpose.

‘What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!’ whispered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia.

‘Splendid!’ returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the ‘swell’ in the pantomime at ‘Richardson’s Show.’

‘What whiskers!’ said Miss Julia.

‘Charming!’ responded her sister; ‘and what hair!’ His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d’oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; his whiskers meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs.

‘Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please,’ said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s.

‘Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you.’ Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice.

‘Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,’ said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband ‘my dear’ before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife.

‘Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?’

‘If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you’ (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate).

‘Julia is a very little eater,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton.

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, ‘Ah!’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, ‘what do you take?’ The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, ‘Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think.’

‘Did you say fish, my dear?’ (another frown).

‘Yes, dear,’ replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her ‘wretch of a husband,’ as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish.

‘James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife.’ This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen.

‘Take away, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning.

‘I’ll take a bit of bread, James,’ said the poor ‘master of the house,’ more hungry than ever.

‘Never mind your master now, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘see about the meat.’ This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present.

A pause ensued, before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks, produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him.

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged interval.

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation—

‘But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.’

‘Very ungentlemanly behaviour,’ thought little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘to talk in that way.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. ‘Tom Moore is my poet.’

‘And mine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone.

‘And mine,’ said Miss Julia.

‘And mine,’ added Mr. Simpson.

‘Look at his compositions,’ resumed the knocker.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson, with confidence.

‘Look at Don Juan,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks.

‘Julia’s letter,’ suggested Miss Matilda.

‘Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?’ inquired Miss Julia.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson.

‘Or Paradise and the Peri,’ said the old beau.

‘Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,’ repeated Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally.

‘It’s all very well,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. ‘Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?’

‘Talking of a siege,’ said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—‘when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—’

‘Tell your master, James,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, ‘tell your master if he won’t carve those fowls, to send them to me.’ The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known but, if he did, nobody heard it.

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said ‘Yes,’ or ‘Certainly,’ at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the ‘young people’ amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the newcomers; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time.

---

We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let ‘years roll on;’ but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions, together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do. And we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back.

‘Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly,’ said Mr. Septimus to the boy. ‘Stop—is Mr. Calton unwell?’ inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown.

‘Not as I knows on, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘ Please, sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be.’

‘Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill,’ returned Hicks, unconsciously. ‘Very well: I’ll be down directly.’ Downstairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. ‘Tap, tap.’ ‘Come in.’—Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence.

‘I received a note—’ he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold.

‘Yes,’ returned the other, ‘you did.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes.’

Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously.

‘Hicks,’ said he, ‘I have sent for you, in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage.’

‘With a marriage!’ gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed.

‘With a marriage,’ returned the knocker. ‘I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you.’

‘And will you betray me?’ eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote.

‘I betray you! Won’t you betray_ me_?’

‘Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business,’ responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation.

‘People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine,’ said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. ‘We may have a family.’

‘We!—That won’t affect you, surely?’

‘The devil it won’t!’

‘No! how can it?’ said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair. ‘Oh, Matilda!’ sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daisical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. ‘Oh, Matilda!’

‘What Matilda?’ inquired Hicks, starting up.

‘Matilda Maplesone,’ responded the other, doing the same.

‘I marry her to-morrow morning,’ said Hicks.

‘It’s false,’ rejoined his companion: ‘I marry her!’

‘You marry her?’

‘I marry her!’

‘You marry Matilda Maplesone?’

‘Matilda Maplesone.’

‘Miss Maplesone marry you?’

‘Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.’

‘Good Heaven!’ said Hicks, falling into his chair: ‘You marry the mother, and I the daughter!’

‘Most extraordinary circumstance!’ replied Mr. Calton, ‘and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father.’

‘I should have been most happy, I assure you,’ said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; ‘but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is not usual to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll do it for you.’

‘I don’t like to ask him,’ replied Calton, ‘he’s such a donkey.’

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him. ‘Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father,’ he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair—

‘Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there? ’Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair.’

‘The idea has struck me already,’ said Mr. Calton: ‘but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you know.’

‘He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly,’ said Mr. Septimus Hicks. ‘Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.’

A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay the baker’s bill.

‘Mr. Tibbs,’ called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters.

‘Sir!’ replied he of the dirty face.

‘Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bedroom-door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as most timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition.

‘A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,’ said Calton, in a very portentous manner, ‘obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say, to your wife.’

Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters.

Mr. Calton resumed; ‘I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation.’

Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought Mr. H.’s being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder might constitute the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable ‘Lor!’

‘Now,’ continued the knocker, ‘let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning.’ And he drew back his chair, several feet, to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement.

If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down-stairs, and fainted in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise—his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said with a half-chuckle, ‘Just so.’

‘You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?’ inquired Mr. Calton.

‘Bless you, no, sir,’ returned Tibbs; ‘after all, its very natural. When two young people get together, you know—’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction.

‘You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?’ asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tibbs; ‘I was just the same at his age.’ He actually smiled when he said this.

‘How devilish well I must carry my years!’ thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment.

‘Well, then, to come to the point at once,’ he continued, ‘I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise.

‘You will not?’

‘Decidedly not,’ reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off.

Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same.

‘Now, confess,’ asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, ‘were you not a little surprised?’

‘I b’lieve you!’ replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; ‘I b’lieve you! When I first heard of it.’

‘So sudden,’ said Septimus Hicks.

‘So strange to ask me, you know,’ said Tibbs.

‘So odd altogether!’ said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed.

‘I say,’ said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, ‘what bothers me is, what will his father say?’

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton.

‘Yes; but the best of it is,’ said the latter, giggling in his turn, ‘I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!’

‘You haven’t got a father. No; but he has,’ said Tibbs.

‘Who has?’ inquired Septimus Hicks.

‘Why, him.’

‘Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?’

‘You! No; you know who I mean,’ returned Tibbs with a knowing wink.

‘For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion.

‘Why Mr. Simpson, of course,’ replied Tibbs; ‘who else could I mean?’

‘I see it all,’ said the Byron-quoter; ‘Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!’

‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, ‘of course he does.’

It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed, at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence, the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs.

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a ‘holy alliance’ with Miss Julia; Tibbs acting as father, ‘his first appearance in that character.’ Mr. Calton, not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, ‘appealed,’ as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, ‘with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country.’ She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000_l._ which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable haircutter’s; hairdressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits, and style of thinking, of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, cant, and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community.

It only remains to add, that this complication of disorders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she could have best spared—her husband. That wretched little man returned home, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is understood, his witticisms will be in future confined: a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers.

The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be reserved for another chapter.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

‘Well!’ said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first Landings;—‘Things have not turned out so badly, either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again.’

Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune.

The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid.

‘T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning.

‘T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you.

‘I remain yours Truly ‘Wednesday evening.’

Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document, over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the ‘i’ for the ‘T. I.;’ and the transition from the ‘I. T.’ to the ‘You.’ The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs ‘to make herself tidy.’

The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards, Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border.

The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negotiation commenced.

‘I called in consequence of an advertisement,’ said the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off.

‘Yes!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions.

‘Money isn’t no object whatever to me,’ said the lady, ‘so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire.

‘I am constantly attended by a medical man,’ resumed the pelisse wearer; ‘I have been a shocking unitarian for some time—I, indeed, have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.’

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising.

‘I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,’ said Mrs. Bloss; ‘but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton-chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. ‘Now mind,’ said that lady, after terms were arranged; ‘I am to have the second-floor front, for my bed-room?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?’

‘Oh! certainly.’

‘And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.’

‘With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday.’

‘And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning,’ said Mrs. Bloss. ‘I shall get up on purpose.’

‘Very well,’ returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had ‘been given and required,’ and it was quite certain that the new-comer had plenty of money. ‘It’s rather singular,’ continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, ‘that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room.’

‘The next room?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss.

‘The next room,’ repeated the hostess.

‘How very promiscuous!’ ejaculated the widow.

‘He hardly ever gets up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper.

‘Lor!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone.

‘And when he is up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘we never can persuade him to go to bed again.’

‘Dear me!’ said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. ‘What is his complaint?’

‘Why, the fact is,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, ‘he has no stomach whatever.’

‘No what?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm.

‘No stomach,’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head.

‘Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!’ gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere.

‘When I say he has no stomach,’ explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s an inconvenience.’

‘Never heard such a case in my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. ‘Why, he’s worse than I am.’

‘Oh, yes!’ replied Mrs. Tibbs;—‘certainly.’ She said this with great confidence, for the damson pelisse suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint.

‘You have quite incited my curiosity,’ said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. ‘How I long to see him!’

‘He generally comes down, once a week,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday.’ With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the street.

It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds; and, by way of retaliation, he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100_l._ a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny.

The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house: and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid Agnes: both of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions.

Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young-lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour, and increased the comfort, of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First, there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout, and an umbrella; then, a train of trunks; then, a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then, an easy chair with an air-cushion; then, a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—‘though last not least’—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes: the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals: like a disguised Columbine.

The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing, in point of bustle and turmoil, to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up-stairs for her consumption.

‘Why, what do you think, ma’am?’ inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; ‘what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married.’

‘Married!’ said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—‘married! Unpossible!’

‘She is indeed, ma’am,’ returned the Columbine; ‘and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am.’

‘In the kitchen!’

‘Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—“Ah! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you?”’ Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit.

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs. Bloss.

‘Yes. And please, ma’am, the servants gives him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them.’

‘Tickle the boarders!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed.

‘No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.’

‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.

‘He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now,’ said Agnes, indignantly; ‘but I gave it him—a little wretch!’

This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story.

The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers; with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milkpot with a teaspoon.

A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a chair; and a stern-looking man, of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and a Sunday paper in his hand, entered the room.

‘Good morning, Mr. Evenson,’ said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow.

‘How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?’ replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word.

‘Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?’ inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something.

‘I should think he was,’ replied the stern gentleman. ‘He was whistling “The Light Guitar,” in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning.’

‘He’s very fond of whistling,’ said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

‘Yes—I ain’t,’ was the laconic reply.

Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and, could tell you, off-hand, where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state; and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd’s-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance reminded one of Orson.

‘Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling ‘Di piacer.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he ever said to anybody.

‘How are you, Tibbs?’ condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever.

‘Pretty air, that!’ said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper.

‘Glad you like it,’ replied Wisbottle, highly gratified.

‘Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?’ inquired the mastiff.

‘No; I don’t think it would,’ rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle.

‘I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle,’ said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours—‘the next time you feel disposed to whistle “The Light Guitar” at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—’

The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion.

Mrs. Tibbs apologised for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared, and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the window. ‘Here—Wisbottle—pray come here—make haste.’

Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up.

‘Do you see,’ said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—‘a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?’

‘Dear me! I see,’ replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration.

‘I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life,’ ejaculated Alfred. Everybody (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment; for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it.

‘I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect,’ said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point.

The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48.

The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared, leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions; a chain to match; and a splendid assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head; Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle, bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction.

Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity.

‘You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the Drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?’ said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic.

‘Yes,’ replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.

‘Never saw anything like it before, I suppose?’ suggested Wisbottle.

‘No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,’ replied O’Bleary.

‘Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?’

‘Oh, infinitely superior!’

‘Gad! I don’t know,’ said the aristocratic Wisbottle, ‘the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.’

‘What was he presented on?’ inquired Evenson.

‘On his arrival in England.’

‘I thought so,’ growled the radical; ‘you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that.’

‘Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,’ said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice.

‘Well,’ said Wisbottle, evading the point, ‘it’s a splendid sight.’

‘And did it never occur to you,’ inquired the radical, who never would be quiet; ‘did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society?’

‘It certainly has occurred to me,’ said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser; ‘it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them.’

‘Well, and it has occurred to me too,’ replied John Evenson, ‘and I ain’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?’ continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. ‘There are two great principles—demand—’

‘A cup of tea if you please, dear,’ interrupted Tibbs.

‘And supply—’

‘May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?’ said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it.

The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper.

‘If it’s very fine,’ said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, ‘I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.’ Mr. Wisbottle hummed, ‘Flow on, thou shining river.’

‘We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part.

‘The accommodations are extraordinary,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Extraordinary indeed,’ returned Mrs. Bloss. ‘When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with berths, is not creditable.’

Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he had not.

The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their teaspoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room; and, when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together.

‘Oh dear!’ said the latter, ‘I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular.’ (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) ‘By-the-bye,’ said Mrs. Bloss, ‘I have not seen Mr. What’s-his-name yet.’

‘Mr. Gobler?’ suggested Mrs. Tibbs.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up-stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together.’

‘I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,’ repeated Mrs. Bloss.

‘I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.’

‘I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A little double-knock interrupted the conversation; Dr. Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face—dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay.

‘Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?’ inquired Wosky, in a soothing tone.

‘Very ill, doctor—very ill,’ said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper

‘Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed,’ said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient.

‘How is our appetite?’

Mrs. Bloss shook her head.

‘Our friend requires great care,’ said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. ‘I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again.’ Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she was made quite stout.

‘We must take stimulants,’ said the cunning Wosky—‘plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,’ concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, ‘and we must keep quiet.’

‘Dear man!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into the carriage.

‘Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees.

As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s; and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions; we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked, indeed, like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against his will.

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become, every day, more sarcastic and more ill-natured; and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last.

One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone.

‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,’ said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; ‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour!’

‘No, no—it’s nothing,’ returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; ‘it’s only the heat of the room.’

‘A flush!’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; ‘that’s good for four.’

‘If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, ‘he should leave this house instantly.’

‘Go!’ said Mrs. Bloss again.

‘And if I thought,’ continued the hostess with a most threatening air, ‘if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—’

‘One for his nob!’ said Gobler.

‘Oh,’ said Evenson, in a most soothing tone—he liked to make mischief—‘I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless.’

‘I have generally found him so,’ sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot.

‘Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs—consider—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!’ said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. ‘We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so.’ Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks.

‘When you think every one has retired to rest to-night,’ said Evenson very pompously, ‘if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bedroom door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper.’

Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again.

‘Well, Mr. O’Bleary,’ said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, ‘what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?’

‘Oh, it’s very fair,’ replied Orson, who had been enthusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition.

‘Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?’

‘No,’ returned the patriot, with his usual reservation—‘except in Dublin.’

‘I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,’ said Wisbottle; ‘they appeared much delighted.’

‘Then it must be beautiful,’ snarled Evenson.

‘I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done,’ suggested Mrs. Bloss. ‘In their shaggy white coats, they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?’

‘I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours,’ replied the discontented one.

‘Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well,’ gasped Gobler; ‘only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully! I was obliged to have several shower-baths, before I could leave my room.’

‘Capital things those shower-baths!’ ejaculated Wisbottle.

‘Excellent!’ said Tomkins.

‘Delightful!’ chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.)

‘Disgusting machines!’ rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter.

‘Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!’ said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—‘Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they have saved by promoting perspiration.’

‘Promoting perspiration, indeed,’ growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—‘I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. ‘Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards.’

A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided James brought up ‘the tray,’ containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread; cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley; one pickled walnut and the third of another; and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table; and the servants retired for the night.

Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never ate supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary ate as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking, and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle ‘got into an argument;’ that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning.

Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk, on his way home to Somers-town, struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water ‘coming in’ at number eleven.

‘He must be asleep by this time,’ said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything.

‘S-s-s!’ whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off.

‘Hush!’ whispered somebody else.

‘Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Here;’ and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard.

‘This way, Mrs. Tibbs,’ whispered the delighted busybody: ‘give me your hand—there! Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?’

‘No,’ said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling.

‘Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters;’ and down-stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon.

‘It’s Wisbottle and somebody, I’ll swear,’ exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments.

‘Hush—pray let’s hear what they say!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration.

‘Ah! if I could but believe you,’ said a female voice coquettishly, ‘I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.’

‘What does she say?’ inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion.

‘She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs. ‘The wretch! they’re plotting murder.’

‘I know you want money,’ continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; ‘and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more.

‘I think she says she’ll set the house on fire,’ replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. ‘But thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!’

‘The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,’ said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, ‘you may depend on having the money.’

‘Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a parenthesis.

‘The villain!’ said the indignant Mr. Evenson.

‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the Hibernian, ‘is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ returned Agnes.

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper.

‘He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life.

‘And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,’ continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered.

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. ‘Hush!’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs.

‘There’s somebody coming up-stairs,’ said Agnes to O’Bleary.

‘There’s somebody coming down-stairs,’ whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs.

‘Go into the parlour, sir,’ said Agnes to her companion. ‘You will get there, before whoever it is, gets to the top of the kitchen stairs.’

‘The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!’ whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down-stairs, and one coming up.

‘What can it be?’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. ‘It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!’

‘Nor I,’ returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. ‘Hush! here they are at the door.’

‘What fun!’ whispered one of the new-comers.—It was Wisbottle.

‘Glorious!’ replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. ‘Who would have thought it?’

‘I told you so,’ said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. ‘Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.’

‘Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?’ interrupted Tomkins.

‘Not notice it!’ continued Wisbottle. ‘Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed.’

‘They’re talking of us!’ exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind.

‘I know it—I know it,’ replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape.

‘What’s to be done? we cannot both stop here!’ ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement.

‘I’ll get up the chimney,’ replied Evenson, who really meant what he said.

‘You can’t,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. ‘You can’t—it’s a register stove.’

‘Hush!’ repeated John Evenson.

‘Hush—hush!’ cried somebody down-stairs.

‘What a d-d hushing!’ said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered.

‘There they are!’ exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room.

‘Hark!’ whispered both the young men.

‘Hark!’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

‘Let me alone, sir,’ said a female voice in the store-room.

‘Oh, Hagnes!’ cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, ‘Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!’

‘Be quiet, sir!’ (A bounce.)

‘Hag—’

‘Be quiet, sir—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir!’

‘My wife!’ exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; ‘I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—’

‘I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?’ (Another bounce and a scuffle.)

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Tibbs, with a start.

‘What’s what?’ said Agnes, stopping short.

‘Why that!’

‘Ah! you have done it nicely now, sir,’ sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’s bedroom door, which would have beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow.

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ called out Mrs. Bloss. ‘Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up.’ (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.)

‘Oh, dear—dear!’ exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. ‘She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered! What will they think?’

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ screamed the woodpecker again.

‘What’s the matter!’ shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s.

‘Oh, Mr. Gobler!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; ‘I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises!’

‘The devil you have!’ shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. ‘Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce! all up and dressed?’

‘Astonishing!’ said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm.

‘Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,’ said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room.—‘What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!’

‘Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!’ repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair were discovered: Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’s house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, ‘except in Ireland.’ We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and his pleasing wife revel in retirement: happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43_l._ 15_s._ 10_d._, which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also, annually, that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas.

CHAPTER II—MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said—of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held ‘a responsible situation under Government.’ He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some 10,000_l._ of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate.

‘I’ll break the ice, my love,’ said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, ‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.’

‘Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,’ replied Mrs. Budden. ‘Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!’

‘Very true,’ said Mr. Budden, musing, ‘very true indeed, my love!’ On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer’s name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense letters, ‘Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.’s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.’

‘Budden!’ ejaculated Minns, ‘what can bring that vulgar man here!—say I’m asleep—say I’m out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep him down-stairs.’

‘But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,’ replied the servant, and the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

‘Hem—show the gentleman in,’ said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance.

‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

‘How are you, my hearty?’

‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’

‘Uncommonly well, thank you,’ said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet.

‘Ah, you rogue!’ said Budden to his dog; ‘you see, Minns, he’s like me, always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns.

‘Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make myself at home, you see!’ continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. ‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’pon my life, I’m hungry.’

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

‘I decidedly never was so hot in my life,’ continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; ‘well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear capitally!’

‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile.

‘’Pon my life, I do!’

‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’

‘Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place as we’ve got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I really thought it was a cut above me.’

‘Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,’ interrupted Minns, ‘if you cut it the other way?’ He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules.

‘No, thank ye,’ returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, ‘I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don’t you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he’s spoiling your curtains, Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!’ Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

‘Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!’ cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

‘A good dog for the country that!’ coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, ‘but he’s not much used to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s see, to-day’s Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don’t say no—do.’

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

‘Now mind the direction,’ said Budden: ‘the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white house.’

‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time.

‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you can’t go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with “Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and anybody will show you which is my place.’

‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’

‘Be punctual.’

‘Certainly: good morning.’

‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’

‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time.

‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

‘Bill, take them cloths off.’ Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes.

‘Coachman! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,’ said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

‘Going this minute, sir,’ was the reply;—and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol, became his fellow-passengers.

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

‘Be quiet, dear,’ said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of impatience. ‘Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.’

‘Thank Heaven I am not!’ thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his wretchedness.

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the stables, the ‘Beware of the Dog,’—every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with ‘a garden’ in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy ‘The Hall,’ ushered him into a front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

‘Well, Brogson,’ said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves—‘Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?’

‘Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.’

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from ‘stormy’ to ‘set fair.’

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down ‘Master Alexander,’ habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are you?’

‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!’

‘He asked me how old I was,’ said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called, out, with a very patronising air, ‘Alick, what part of speech is be.’

‘A verb.’

‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother’s pride.

‘Now, you know what a verb is?’

‘A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.’

‘I’ll give you an apple,’ replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, ‘if you’ll tell me what is the meaning of be.’

‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an insect that gathers honey.’

‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the substantive.’

‘I don’t think he knows much yet about common substantives,’ said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. ‘It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!’

‘Gentlemen,’ called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, ‘will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.’

‘Hear! hear!’ cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—‘Gentlemen; there is an individual present—’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers.

‘Pray be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden.

‘I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,’ resumed the host, ‘in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure.’ [‘Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!’ thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] ‘Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval.

‘Gentlemen,’ continued Budden, ‘my cousin is a man who—who is a relation of my own.’ (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. ‘Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every sentiment of—of—’

‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family.

‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.’

‘Standing, gentlemen!’ shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers—‘and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!’

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, ‘we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman’s observations.’ The words ‘present company—honour—present occasion,’ and ‘great happiness’—heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried ‘Bravo!’ and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up.

‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow me to propose a toast?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right across the table, ‘Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.’ Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:

‘It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was—’

Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o’clock) had room for one inside.

Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise, and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and as the coachman couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word for Mr. Minns to ‘run round’ and catch him. However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of ‘running round’ to the Swan, the coach—the last coach—had gone without him.

It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein.

CHAPTER III—SENTIMENT

The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, ‘The Misses Crumpton,’ were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny personages: very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting manner—like twins! and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very strongly of lavender.

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a ‘finishing establishment for young ladies,’ where some twenty girls of the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and Italian, dancing lessons twice a-week; and other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a little removed from the roadside, with close palings in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly open, to afford a bird’s-eye view of numerous little bedsteads with very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front parlour hung round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who, whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the very deep appearance of the place.

‘Amelia, my dear,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school-room one morning, with her false hair in papers: as she occasionally did, in order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality. ‘Amelia, my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just received. You needn’t mind reading it aloud.’

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an air of great triumph:

‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., presents his compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton’s calling on him, if she conveniently can, to-morrow morning at one o’clock, as Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.

‘Adelphi.

‘Monday morning.’

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ ejaculated Amelia, in an ecstatic tone.

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ repeated Miss Maria, with a smile of delight, which, of course, elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies.

‘It’s exceedingly delightful!’ said Miss Amelia; whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but school-boys, and court-ladies school-girl’s.

So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the day. A holiday was declared, in commemoration of the great event; the Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies verging on eighteen wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore much bustle, and many other whethers of equal importance.

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could—which, by-the-bye, is not saying much for them. Having sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august presence of the profound Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very haughty, solemn, and portentous. He had, naturally, a somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the M.P. attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy, on a small scale, in his own family arrangements, he considered himself unrivalled. He was a county magistrate, and discharged the duties of his station with all due justice and impartiality; frequently committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like adverbs, may be known by their answering to a commonplace question, and doing nothing else.

On the present occasion, this talented individual was seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing, but trying to look busy, playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to ‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,’ were ostentatiously scattered over the table; at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion—in a blue tunic with a black belt—a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an immense buckle—looking like a robber in a melodrama, seen through a diminishing glass.

After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by running away with Miss Maria Crumpton’s chair as fast as it was placed for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., opened the conversation.

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high character he had received of her establishment from his friend, Sir Alfred Muggs.

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and Cornelius proceeded.

‘One of my principal reasons, Miss Crumpton, for parting with my daughter, is, that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas, which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind.’ (Here the little innocent before noticed, fell out of an arm-chair with an awful crash.)

‘Naughty boy!’ said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else; ‘I’ll ring the bell for James to take him away.’

‘Pray don’t check him, my love,’ said the diplomatist, as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling consequent upon the threat and the tumble. ‘It all arises from his great flow of spirits.’ This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the antique Maria: not exactly seeing, however, the connexion between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall from an arm-chair.

Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: ‘Now, I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of girls of her own age; and, as I know that in your establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her young mind, I propose to send her to you.’

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgments of the establishment generally. Maria was rendered speechless by bodily pain. The dear little fellow, having recovered his animal spirits, was standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with the writing-table.

‘Of course, Lavinia will be a parlour boarder,’ continued the enviable father; ‘and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her inferior in life, has been the cause of her present state of mind. Knowing that of course, under your care, she can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not object to—indeed, I should rather prefer—her mixing with such society as you see yourself.’

This important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyousness breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded; two little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as the man left the room, and the child was gone.

‘Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything,’ said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at all.

‘Certainly,’ said both the Miss Crumptons together.

‘And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton,’ continued the legislator, ‘I hope you will have the goodness to comply, in all respects, with any request I may forward to you.’

The promise was of course made; and after a lengthened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith on the next day but one, on which occasion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl’s mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both the Miss Crumptons pronounced her ‘a most charming girl;’ an opinion which, by a singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension exhibited, and the interview terminated.

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, ‘on a scale of magnitude never before attempted,’ were incessantly made at Minerva House to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up, the folding-doors were taken down, the furniture was taken out, and rout-seats were taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand piano already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off on the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, practised incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant correspondence was kept up, between the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastrycook.

The evening came; and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be in everybody’s way, and were pushed about accordingly; and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied, one another, as earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually come out.

‘How do I look, dear?’ inquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend, because she was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.

‘Oh! charming, dear. How do I?’

‘Delightful! you never looked so handsome,’ returned the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion.

‘I hope young Hilton will come early,’ said another young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation.

‘I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,’ returned the other, who was practising l’été.

‘Oh! he’s so handsome,’ said the first.

‘Such a charming person!’ added a second.

‘Such a distingué air!’ said a third.

‘Oh, what do you think?’ said another girl, running into the room; ‘Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s coming.’

‘What! Theodosius Butler?’ said everybody in raptures.

‘Is he handsome?’ inquired a novice.

‘No, not particularly handsome,’ was the general reply; ‘but, oh, so clever!’

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be met with in almost every circle. They have, usually, very deep, monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though they don’t precisely know why. They are very conceited, and usually possess half an idea; but, with enthusiastic young ladies, and silly young gentlemen, they are very wonderful persons. The individual in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some very weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other; and as every sentence contained a good many words of four syllables, his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.

‘Perhaps that’s he,’ exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate.

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a young lady—Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball costume, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose; an ivory fan in her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family, with the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise: papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig; the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners. The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back-parlour—a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide her somewhere, on account of her being a fright.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of ‘The Recollections of Ireland’ was universally declared to be almost equal to that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the back drawing-room in which she was seated.

‘Now, Theodosius,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of the whole company, ‘I must introduce you to our new pupil.’

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.

‘She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,’ said Maria.—Theodosius started.

‘And her name is—?’ he inquired.

‘Miss Brook Dingwall.’

‘Great Heaven!’ poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone.

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her head.

‘Edward!’ she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the well-known nankeen legs.

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia’s incoherent exclamations, she was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.

‘Oh, Edward!’ exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young ladies, as the light of science seated himself beside her, ‘Oh, Edward, is it you?’

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned manner, that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.

‘Then why—why—this disguise? Oh! Edward M’Neville Walter, what have I not suffered on your account?’

‘Lavinia, hear me,’ replied the hero, in his most poetic strain. ‘Do not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection—if any being, so vile, deserve your notice—you may remember that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled “Considerations on the Policy of Removing the Duty on Bees’-wax.”’

‘I do—I do!’ sobbed Lavinia.

‘That,’ continued the lover, ‘was a subject to which your father was devoted heart and soul.’

‘He was—he was!’ reiterated the sentimentalist.

‘I knew it,’ continued Theodosius, tragically; ‘I knew it—I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never! No, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of endearment. As M’Neville Walter, I devoted myself to the stirring cause; as M’Neville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character I was ejected from your house by your father’s domestics; and in no character at all have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am—Theodosius Butler.’

The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the immortal advocate of bees’-wax.

‘May I hope,’ said he, ‘that the promise your father’s violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?’

‘Let us join this set,’ replied Lavinia, coquettishly—for girls of nineteen can coquette.

‘No,’ ejaculated he of the nankeens. ‘I stir not from this spot, writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may I—hope?’

‘You may.’

‘The promise is renewed?’

‘It is.’

‘I have your permission?’

‘You have.’

‘To the fullest extent?’

‘You know it,’ returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of the interesting Butler’s visage expressed his raptures.

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced, and talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening—how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How the writing-master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist-table in the little back-parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head-dress in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a tart here and there by way of variety; and how the visitors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was seated at the same library-table, and in the same room, as we have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep thought and solemn gravity—he was drawing up ‘A Bill for the better observance of Easter Monday.’

The footman tapped at the door—the legislator started from his reverie, and ‘Miss Crumpton’ was announced. Permission was given for Miss Crumpton to enter the sanctum; Maria came sliding in, and having taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for the presence of a third party! Even the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief.

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the handsome little boy were in good health.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.

‘Much obliged to you, Miss Crumpton,’ said Cornelius, in his most dignified manner, ‘for your attention in calling this morning. I should have driven down to Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much, that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on?’

‘Very well indeed, sir,’ returned Maria, dreading to inform the father that she had gone off.

‘Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her.’

Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a match for her. But the unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.

‘You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss Crumpton?’

‘Strictly, sir.’

‘You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.’

‘Very much indeed, sir.’

‘To be sure. I was convinced they would.’

‘But I fear, sir,’ said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion, ‘I fear the plan has not succeeded, quite so well as we could have wished.’

No!’ exclaimed the prophet. ‘Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened?’

‘Miss Brook Dingwall, sir—’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Has gone, sir’—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.

‘Gone!’

‘Eloped, sir.’

‘Eloped!—Who with—when—where—how?’ almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria’s face changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet on the member’s table.

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, and another from Theodosius. He glanced over their contents—‘Ere this reaches you, far distant—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bees’-wax—slavery,’ &c., &c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.

‘Now mind; from this time forward,’ said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand; ‘from this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever, permit a man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of this house but the kitchen.—I’ll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and never see their faces again: and, damme! ma’am, I’ll bring in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools.’

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball’s-pond, pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and writes incessantly; but, in consequence of a gross combination on the part of publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness; and that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness than she ever anticipated.

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his admirable arrangements was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons, but his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is in status quo, and ‘The Misses Crumpton’ remain in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School.

CHAPTER IV—THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

Once upon a time there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of the water, within three minutes’ walk of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph Tuggs—a little dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measuring from the centre button of his waistcoat in front, to the ornamental buttons of his coat behind. The figure of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly symmetrical, was decidedly comfortable; and the form of her only daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into that state of luxuriant plumpness which had enchanted the eyes, and captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr. Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs’s only brother, was as differently formed in body, as he was differently constituted in mind, from the remainder of his family. There was that elongation in his thoughtful face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic disposition. The slightest traits of character in such a being, possess no mean interest to speculative minds. He usually appeared in public, in capacious shoes with black cotton stockings; and was observed to be particularly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament of any description.

There is perhaps no profession, however useful; no pursuit, however meritorious; which can escape the petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was beyond the breath of calumny; but no—the neighbours stigmatised him as a chandler; and the poisonous voice of envy distinctly asserted that he dispensed tea and coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce, cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggses. Mr. Tuggs attended to the grocery department; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery; and Miss Tuggs to her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his father’s books, and his own counsel.

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on a tub of weekly Dorset, behind the little red desk with a wooden rail, which ornamented a corner of the counter; when a stranger dismounted from a cab, and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black cloth, and bore with him, a green umbrella, and a blue bag.

‘Mr. Tuggs?’ said the stranger, inquiringly.

‘My name is Tuggs,’ replied Mr. Simon.

‘It’s the other Mr. Tuggs,’ said the stranger, looking towards the glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, and on the inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly visible, peeping over the curtain.

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of his wish that his father would advance. Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with considerable celerity, removed his face from the curtain and placed it before the stranger.

‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.

‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same moment.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch cheese.

‘From the Temple,’ repeated the man with the bag; ‘from Mr. Cower’s, the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.’ And the man with the bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Now the words ‘we have been successful,’ had no sooner issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest ostensible cause or pretence.

‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.

‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs.

‘I’m better now,’ said Mr. Simon Tuggs. ‘What! successful!’ And then, as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again, and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with the position of the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit respecting the validity of a will, had been unexpectedly decided; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was the possessor of twenty thousand pounds.

A prolonged consultation took place, that night, in the little parlour—a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of the Tuggses. The shop was shut up, at an unusually early hour; and many were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn’orths of pepper, which were to have been ‘left till Saturday,’ but which fortune had decreed were to be left alone altogether.

‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Simon shall go to the bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ said his son.

‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘And you must always call me “Ma,” and father “Pa,”’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,’ interposed Miss Tuggs.

‘I’ll take care of all that,’ responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently. He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

‘We must leave town immediately,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

‘Gravesend?’ mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was low.

‘Margate?’ insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody there, but tradespeople.

‘Brighton?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that ‘no blame whatever was attributable to the coachman.’

‘Ramsgate?’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was just the place of all others.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed gay and lively.—No wonder—the Tuggses were on board.

‘Charming, ain’t it?’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap with a gold band.

‘Soul-inspiring,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at the bar. ‘Soul-inspiring!’

‘Delightful morning, sir!’ said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained down to the soles of his boots.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the observation. ‘Heavenly!’ he replied.

‘You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?’ said the military gentleman.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Travelled much, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not much,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘You’ve been on the continent, of course?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—in a qualified tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

‘You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?’ said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, ‘Of course.’ Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the young lady to the military gentleman.

‘Yes, Belinda, my love,’ responded the military gentleman to the black-eyed young lady.

‘What have you left me alone so long for?’ said the young lady. ‘I have been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.’

‘What! stared at?’ exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady’s face with inconceivable rapidity. ‘Which young men—where?’ and the military gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers around.

‘Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’ said the young lady.

‘I won’t,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Do, sir,’ interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘They ain’t worth your notice.’

‘No—no—they are not, indeed,’ urged the young lady.

‘I will be calm,’ said the military gentleman. ‘You speak truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the guilt of manslaughter.’ Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

‘My sister, sir!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

‘My wife, ma’am—Mrs. Captain Waters,’ said the military gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady.

‘My mother, ma’am—Mrs. Tuggs,’ said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as unembarrassed as they could.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

‘Yes, my love,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?’

‘Lord bless me, very!’ said the military gentleman.

‘It struck me, the moment I saw him,’ said the young lady, gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady.

‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

‘If you did,’ continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘you would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing appearance.’

‘He is—he is indeed!’ exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion.

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the fac simile of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier.

‘Good-bye, dear!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; ‘we shall see you on the sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.’

‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the paddle-box.

‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters—‘good-bye, Mr. Cymon!’ and with a pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

‘Fly, sir?’ exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the street.

‘Here’s the gen’lm’n at last!’ said one, touching his hat with mock politeness. ‘Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin’ for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!’

‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: ‘fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme welocity!’

‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry large fly here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’

‘Here’s your fly, sir!’ shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. ‘Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingein!’

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of lodgings.

‘How many beds have you got?’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that apartments were to be let within.

‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply.

‘Three.’

‘Will you step in, ma’am?’ Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly.

‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage. Same question—same answer—similar result.

‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper.

‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Orvis the vay here, sir,’ said the driver, by way of accounting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

It had grown dusk when the ‘fly’—the rate of whose progress greatly belied its name—after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills, stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea—if you thrust half of your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area. Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells with beds in them up-stairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

‘Five guineas a week, ma’am, with attendance,’ replied the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

‘Rather dear,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. ‘Oh dear, no, ma’am!’ replied the mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. ‘Very cheap!’

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week’s rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour’s time, the family were seated at tea in their new abode.

‘Capital srimps!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically said ‘Shrimps.’

‘Well, then, shrimps,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Srimps or shrimps, don’t much matter.’

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon’s eye, as he replied, ‘Don’t matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he heard such vulgarity?’

‘Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,’ added Charlotta, ‘if she saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and all!’

‘It won’t bear thinking of!’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. ‘How different,’ he thought, ‘from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!’

‘Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?’ inquired Miss Charlotta.

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, ‘An angel of beauty!’

‘Hallo!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care. Married lady, you know;’ and he winked one of his twinkling eyes knowingly.

‘Why,’ exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as unexpected as alarming, ‘why am I to be reminded of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to—to—to—’ and the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath, was never distinctly ascertained.

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too, half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and perplexity.

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms, were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four rush-bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand, forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half—‘Well, I never!’

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the chairs, and removed them further back.

‘Why, I’m blessed if there ain’t some ladies a-going in!’ exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

‘Lor, pa!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

‘There is, my dear,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water; round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler, too!’ ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

‘Why, here’s some gentlemen a-going in on this side!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the water like so many dolphins.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

‘How d’ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,’ said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner of it.

‘How d’ye do?’ said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

‘Belinda, my love,’ said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘There’s Harry Thompson!’

‘Where?’ said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

‘Bathing.’

‘Lor, so it is! He don’t see us, does he?’

‘No, I don’t think he does’ replied the captain. ‘Bless my soul, how very singular!’

‘What?’ inquired Belinda.

‘There’s Mary Golding, too.’

‘Lor!—where?’ (Up went the glass again.)

‘There!’ said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

‘So it is, I declare!’ exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘How very curious we should see them both!’

‘Very,’ said the captain, with perfect coolness.

‘It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,’ whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to his father.

‘I see it is,’ whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. ‘Queer, though—ain’t it?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

‘What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?’ inquired the captain. ‘Shall we lunch at Pegwell?’

‘I should like that very much indeed,’ interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell; but the word ‘lunch’ had reached her ears, and it sounded very agreeably.

‘How shall we go?’ inquired the captain; ‘it’s too warm to walk.’

‘A shay?’ suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘Chaise,’ whispered Mr. Cymon.

‘I should think one would be enough,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. ‘However, two shays if you like.’

‘I should like a donkey so much,’ said Belinda.

‘Oh, so should I!’ echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

‘Well, we can have a fly,’ suggested the captain, ‘and you can have a couple of donkeys.’

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany them.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was speedily found; and three donkeys—which the proprietor declared on his solemn asseveration to be ‘three parts blood, and the other corn’—were engaged in the service.

‘Kim up!’ shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon’s boots, and Cymon’s boots nearly scraping the ground.

‘Way—way! Wo—o—o—!’ cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting.

‘Don’t make it gallop!’ screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

‘My donkey will go into the public-house!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs in the rear.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them.

Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs’s leg on the rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters’s donkey, apparently under the influence of some playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected, and the little party jogged slowly on together.

‘Now let ’em walk,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘It’s cruel to overdrive ’em.’

‘Werry well, sir,’ replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the animals than to their riders.

‘What a lovely day, dear!’ said Charlotta.

‘Charming; enchanting, dear!’ responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!’

Cymon looked full in Belinda’s face, as he responded—‘Beautiful, indeed!’ The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Mr. Cymon,’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, ‘Mr. Cymon—I am another’s.’

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was impossible to controvert.

‘If I had not been—’ resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

‘What—what?’ said Mr. Cymon earnestly. ‘Do not torture me. What would you say?’

‘If I had not been’—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—‘if, in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth—a kindred soul—a congenial spirit—one capable of feeling and appreciating the sentiments which—’

‘Heavens! what do I hear?’ exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘Is it possible! can I believe my—Come up!’ (This last unsentimental parenthesis was addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs, appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

‘Hi—hi—hi,’ said the boys behind. ‘Come up,’ expostulated Cymon Tuggs again. ‘Hi—hi—hi,’ repeated the boys. And whether it was that the animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs’s command, or felt alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor’s boots running behind him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of ‘hi—hi’s,’ than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked Mr. Cymon’s hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head, into the very doorway of the tavern.

Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had not sustained much more injury than the donkey—he was grazed, and the animal was grazing—and then it was a delightful party to be sure! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden behind:—small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in such spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf, and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said, it didn’t matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs responded, ‘To be sure.’ And then they went down the steep wooden steps a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is, to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies in the maroon-coloured gowns.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in the same uniform.

‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady. ‘Numbers eight and eleven!’

‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady.

‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady.

‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second.

‘The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,’ said the first. The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded round the table.

‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

‘Throw, Jane, my dear,’ said the stout lady. An interesting display of bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to a younger sister.

‘Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,’ said the stout lady; and then she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands’ Macassar Oil, who stood next her, and said, ‘Jane is so very modest and retiring; but I can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is so truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!’

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight for her sister, ten for herself.

‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside her.

‘Beautiful!’

‘And such a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can not help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

‘Who’s this?’ inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring to the programme of the concert.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of hands, and shouts of ‘bravo!’ which greeted her appearance, proceeded to sing the popular cavatina of ‘Bid me discourse,’ accompanied on the piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on the chin by Master Tippin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if anybody had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed higher into the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures first sat down—and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away; light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully breaking silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’

‘Oh, Cymon!’ resumed Belinda, ‘the chaste delight, the calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!’ Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and murmured unintelligibly.

‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,’ exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’

‘Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,’ exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. ‘Do not say for ever!’

‘I must,’ replied Belinda.

‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’

‘My husband!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘You little know him. Jealous and revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy! Would you be assassinated before my eyes?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of assassination before the eyes of anybody.

‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘Leave me, this night, for ever. It is late: let us return.’

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand. ‘Good night,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He did walk in.

‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the drawing-room.

‘Good night!’ replied Belinda; ‘and, if at any period of my life, I—Hush!’ The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at the street-door.

‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was heard below.

‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives floated up the staircase.

‘The curtain! The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon.

‘The curtain!’ reiterated the frantic lady: ‘you will be murdered.’ This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

‘My dear,’ said the captain, ‘Lieutenant, Slaughter.’ Two iron-shod boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr. Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason.

‘The brandy, my dear!’ said the captain. Here was a situation! They were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all of no use—out came the cough.

‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?’

‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.

‘It makes you cough.’

‘Oh dear no.’

‘You coughed just now.’

‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’

‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.

‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

‘Fancy,’ said the captain.

‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.

‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain.

‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you mean?’

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? Slaughter, your sabre!’

‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Mercy!’ said Belinda.

‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon.

‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand me—the villain’s life!’

‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon.

‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six weeks’ acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom, however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition to a commencement; we have therefore no alternative. Lieutenant Slaughter brought a message—the captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph Tuggs interposed—the lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and exciting circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen hundred pounds; and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and there are not wanting some who affirm that three designing impostors never found more easy dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant Slaughter, in the Tuggses at Ramsgate.

CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS

‘Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last assembly night,’ said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port;—‘very great attention; and I say again, every possible encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down here to dine.’

‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton.

‘Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly, and whom all the girls are talking about. Young—dear me! what’s his name?—Marianne, what is his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and looking sentimental.

‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

‘Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton. ‘Decidedly the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—’

‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

‘You should recollect, my dear,’ resumed Mrs. Malderton, ‘that Teresa is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that something should be done.’

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with vermilion cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and Brixton; to say nothing of those who ‘dropped in’ from town. Miss Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had an equal chance of ‘going off.’

‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, ‘he is so gentlemanly!’

‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa.

‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,’ said Miss Marianne.

‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa.

‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. Malderton.

‘Well, well,’ returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; ‘if I see him at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down. I hope he knows we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?’

‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’

‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap; ‘I’ll see about it.’

Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion, taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had a very decided and becoming horror of anything which could, by possibility, be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation, illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience, and a love of good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests. He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table, because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure what he called ‘sharp fellows.’ Probably, he cherished this feeling out of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond their own small circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters. Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy. Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well. A barrister?—He said he was not called. He used very fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he be a distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life, polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these surmises, there existed some valid objection.—‘Then,’ said everybody, ‘he must be somebody.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned Mr. Malderton, within himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and pays us so much attention.’

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was ‘assembly night.’ The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak Lodge at nine o’clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in full-dress costume, was the very beau idéal of a smart waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband, usually are. Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would patronise the great unknown by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement; who had lodgings of his own in town; who had a free admission to Covent-garden theatre; who always dressed according to the fashions of the months; who went up the water twice a-week in the season; and who actually had an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of challenging him to a game at billiards.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa.

‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne.

‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom.

‘Tom—don’t be an ass!’ said his father, who checked him on all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming ‘sharp’—which was very unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the family had crossed the room. He then started up, with the most natural appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same time, condescending personage.

‘Miss Malderton,’ said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and bowing very low, ‘may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure—’

‘I don’t think I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so many—’

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

‘I shall be most happy,’ simpered the interesting Teresa, at last. Horatio’s countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of rain.

‘A very genteel young man, certainly!’ said the gratified Mr. Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille which was just forming.

‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick.

‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to put his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’

‘Tom!’ said his father solemnly, ‘I think I desired you, before, not to be a fool.’ Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

‘How delightful!’ said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—‘how delightful, how refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—whose frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose affection would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could bestow on man?’

‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more heavily on her companion’s arm.

‘But enough—enough!’ resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical air. ‘What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these! Miss Malderton’—here he stopped short—‘may I hope to be permitted to offer the humble tribute of—’

‘Really, Mr. Sparkins,’ returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the sweetest confusion, ‘I must refer you to papa. I never can, without his consent, venture to—’

‘Surely he cannot object—’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not!’ interrupted Miss Teresa, well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa. ‘What a fuss about nothing!’

‘It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o’clock, if you have no better engagement,’ said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering invitation.

‘I must confess,’ continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his new acquaintance, ‘that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as the comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge. They have no great charms for an elderly man.’

‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins. ‘I say, what is man?’

‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’

‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

‘I say, we know that we exist,’ repeated Horatio, raising his voice, ‘but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the summit of our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends. What more do we know?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning home in the fly, ‘that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a splendid mode of expressing himself!’

‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘How charmingly romantic!’

‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I don’t exactly understand what he means.’

‘I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,’ said his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins’s conversation.

‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made yourself very ridiculous this evening.’

‘No doubt of it,’ cried everybody—and the unfortunate Tom reduced himself into the least possible space. That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether, in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously encourage the visits of her present associates; and dreamed, all night, of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he keep a gig?—was it possible he could come on horseback?—or would he patronize the stage? These, and other various conjectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole morning after church.

‘Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,’ said Mr. Malderton to his wife. ‘On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, I purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable! I declare I wouldn’t have him mention his shop, before our new guest—no, not for a thousand pounds! I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible business, that he will let people know what he is.’

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: ‘he’d made his money by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.’

‘Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?’ said Mr. Malderton, as a little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. ‘You got my note?’

‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’

‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know everybody?’

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know everybody, but in reality know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody, to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical.

‘Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,’ returned Flamwell, in a low tone, and with an air of immense importance. ‘I have no doubt I know him, though. Is he tall?’

‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa.

‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

‘Rather a snub nose?’

‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman nose.’

‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell. ‘He’s an elegant young man?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together. ‘You must know him.’

‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly exclaimed Mr. Malderton. ‘Who d’ye think he is?’

‘Why, from your description,’ said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking his voice, almost to a whisper, ‘he bears a strong resemblance to the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very talented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely probable he may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.’

Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne! What a name to be elegantly engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon! ‘The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!’ The thought was transport.

‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch: ‘I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look—as people when they particularly expect a visitor always do—as if they were perfectly unsuspicious of the approach of anybody.

The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant.

‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton. ‘Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do! Any news?’

‘Why no,’ returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner. ‘No, none partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d’ye do, gals and boys? Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.’

‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at the window, ‘on such a black horse!’ There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley’s supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things at Teresa.

‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great authority—‘not exactly.’

‘Who is he then?’

‘Hush!’ said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of state, from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, ‘pray divide the ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.’ This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions, acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white neckerchief and shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a second footman.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa, and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is ‘much easier to be imagined than described.’

‘Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?’ inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

‘Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before yesterday.’

‘All! I hope his lordship is very well?’ said Malderton, in a tone of the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

‘Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed. He’s a devilish good fellow. I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed, I’m rather intimate with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather, indeed I may say very, intimate.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ returned the host, consequentially—in reality knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.—‘He has a capital business.’

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

‘Talking of business,’ interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the table. ‘A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and—’

‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain manner—’

‘Floury, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word ‘shop.’

‘He said, says he,’ continued the culprit, after despatching the potato; ‘says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly—you know my way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business will never be above me. Ha, ha!’

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his dismay, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’

‘Happy to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We were talking the other evening,’ resumed the host, addressing Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer’s stories—‘we were talking the other night about the nature of man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.’

‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of the head.

‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies simpered.

‘Man,’ replied Horatio, ‘man, whether he ranged the bright, gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves, in times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in any place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without woman, would be—alone.’

‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr. Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.

‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young lady blushed.

‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interposed Malderton, determined not to give his relation another opportunity, ‘and I don’t agree with you.’

‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer.

‘I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,’ said the host, in as positive a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other had laid down, ‘but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very monstrous proposition.’

‘But I meant to say—’

‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of obstinate determination. ‘Never.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, ‘cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’

‘What!’ said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in wondering delight—‘what! Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause the precursor of effect?’

‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton.

‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio.

‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell.

‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again. ‘It settles the point.’

‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t see it before.’

‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but I suppose it’s all right.’

‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

‘Oh, he’s quite a love!’ said both the young ladies together; ‘he talks like an oracle. He must have seen a great deal of life.’

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, first broke silence.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said that distinguished personage, ‘I presume you have studied for the bar? I thought of entering once, myself—indeed, I’m rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished profession.’

‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not exactly.’

‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ inquired Flamwell, deferentially.

‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell. He was a young gentleman ‘about to be called.’

‘I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,’ said Tom, speaking for the first time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the remark.

No one made any reply.

‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another observation.

‘Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,’ said his father. ‘Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.’

‘Very well, father,’ replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past five o’clock, p.m., and it was then eight.

‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind! I think with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather wear an apron.’

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a man’s above his business—’

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he intended to say.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’

‘I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an opportunity of serving him considerably,’ replied Horatio, slightly colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the acknowledgment.

‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ he whispered to Mr. Malderton, confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. ‘It’s quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr. Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr. Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as possible. Miss Teresa played the ‘Fall of Paris,’ as Mr. Sparkins declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr. Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his visit on the following Sunday.

‘But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow evening?’ suggested Mrs. M. ‘Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to see the pantomime.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party in box 48, in the course of the evening.

‘We will not tax you for the morning,’ said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly; ‘for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. I know that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton significantly.—‘It’s term time!’ he whispered.

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the ‘fly’ was at the door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a friend’s house. First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were to go to Redmayne’s in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were dropsical figures of seven with a little three-farthings in the corner; ‘perfectly invisible to the naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty thousand ladies’ boas, from one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an equally cheap rate; and ‘every description of goods,’ as the proprietors said—and they must know best—‘fifty per cent. under cost price.’

‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; ‘what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’

‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

‘Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?’ inquired the obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad ‘portrait of a gentleman’ in the Somerset-house exhibition.

‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton.

‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where is Mr. Smith?’

‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop.

‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C. ‘You never are to be found when you’re wanted, sir.’

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and beheld—Horatio Sparkins!

‘We will draw a veil,’ as novel-writers say, over the scene that ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins—he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and dreamed, but had never expected to behold, was suddenly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a ‘cheap shop;’ the junior partner in a slippery firm of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected recognition, could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almack’s was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an increased aversion to anything low.

CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL

One winter’s evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney. The night was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the whole day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a thousand matters in his wandering imagination. First, he thought how hard the wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at that moment beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his native place and dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be to see him, and how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her that he had found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to come down again, in a few months’ time, and marry her, and take her home to gladden his lonely fireside, and stimulate him to fresh exertions. Then, he began to wonder when his first patient would appear, or whether he was destined, by a special dispensation of Providence, never to have any patients at all; and then, he thought about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed about her, till the tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears, and her soft tiny hand rested on his shoulder.

There was a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny; its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the parish to carry medicine and messages. As there was no demand for the medicine, however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually occupied his unemployed hours—averaging fourteen a day—in abstracting peppermint drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master with a shake.

‘What lady?’ cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose herself.—‘What lady? Where?’

‘There, sir!’ replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading into the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an instant, on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing so close to the door that her face almost touched the glass. The upper part of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for the purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black veil. She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full height, and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were fixed on him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no gesture whatever, the slightest consciousness of his having turned towards her.

‘Do you wish to consult me?’ he inquired, with some hesitation, holding open the door. It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not alter the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on the same spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the direction of the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate.

‘Leave the room, Tom,’ said the young man, addressing the boy, whose large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this brief interview. ‘Draw the curtain, and shut the door.’

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a seat. The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it. As the blaze shone upon the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was saturated with mud and rain.

‘You are very wet,’ be said.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was that of a person in pain.

‘I am,’ was the reply—‘very ill; not bodily, but mentally. It is not for myself, or on my own behalf,’ continued the stranger, ‘that I come to you. If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone, at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted with it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down and pray to die. It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may be mad to ask it for him—I think I am; but, night after night, through the long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been ever present to my mind; and though even I see the hopelessness of human assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his grave without it makes my blood run cold!’ And a shudder, such as the surgeon well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker’s frame.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman’s manner, that went to the young man’s heart. He was young in his profession, and had not yet witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human suffering.

‘If,’ he said, rising hastily, ‘the person of whom you speak, be in so hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost. I will go with you instantly. Why did you not obtain medical advice before?’

‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless even now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however, rendered such a result impossible.

‘You are ill,’ he said, gently, ‘although you do not know it. The fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue you have evidently undergone, is burning within you now. Put that to your lips,’ he continued, pouring out a glass of water—‘compose yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can, what the disease of the patient is, and how long he has been ill. When I know what it is necessary I should know, to render my visit serviceable to him, I am ready to accompany you.’

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising the veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

‘I know,’ she said, sobbing aloud, ‘that what I say to you now, seems like the ravings of fever. I have been told so before, less kindly than by you. I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that have gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old friends long since dead, and young ones—children perhaps—who have fallen off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died too. My natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be dear on that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh—with cheerfulness—with joy—if what I tell you now, were only false, or imaginary. To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I know, though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and could not serve, him.’

‘I am unwilling to increase your distress,’ said the surgeon, after a short pause, ‘by making any comment on what you have just said, or appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot reconcile with probability. This person is dying to-night, and I cannot see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will be useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then! If he be, indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not try to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease render it impracticable?’

‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how can I hope strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You will not see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly.

‘I did not say that I declined to see him,’ replied the surgeon; ‘but I warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination, and the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.’

‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the stranger bitterly. ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear, and ready to answer.’

‘As I incur none,’ continued the surgeon, ‘by acceding to your request, I will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address. At what hour can he be seen?’

‘Nine,’ replied the stranger.

‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon. ‘But is he in your charge now?’

‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder.

‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night, you could not assist him?’

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more information by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the woman’s feelings, which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now irrepressible and most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his promise of calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His visitor, after giving him a direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the house in the same mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible circumstances of the case. In common with the generality of people, he had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and realised. At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with a foreboding of their own death. This woman, however, spoke of another person—a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken. It could not be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the woman, originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath, had relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some outrage on the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible, by the timely interposition of medical aid? The idea of such things happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and preposterous to be entertained beyond the instant. Then, his original impression that the woman’s intellects were disordered, recurred; and, as it was the only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his thoughts at the time, and presented themselves again and again through the long dull course of a sleepless night; during which, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil from his disturbed imagination.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but, five-and-thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of questionable character, whose poverty prevented their living in any better neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its solitude desirable. Very many of the houses which have since sprung up on all sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great majority even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable description.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit he was about to make, had awakened. Striking off from the high road, his way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here and there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with decay and neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night, skirted the path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of garden-ground, with a few old boards knocked together for a summer-house, and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered from the neighbouring hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of the inhabitants, and the little scruple they entertained in appropriating the property of other people to their own use. Occasionally, a filthy-looking woman would make her appearance from the door of a dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking utensil into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little slip-shod girl, who had contrived to stagger a few yards from the door under the weight of a sallow infant almost as big as herself; but, scarcely anything was stirring around: and so much of the prospect as could be faintly traced through the cold damp mist which hung heavily over it, presented a lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in keeping with the objects we have described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as the object of his destination. It was a small low building, one story above the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior than any he had yet passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn across the window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but not fastened. The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood at an angle of a narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond the house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we say nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest reader. The police of London were a very different body in that day; the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and the progress of improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the main body of the city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most depraved characters. Even the streets in the gayest parts of London were imperfectly lighted, at that time; and such places as these, were left entirely to the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting desperate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, were thus rendered very few, and their offences naturally increased in boldness, as the consciousness of comparative security became the more impressed upon them by daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must be remembered that the young man had spent some time in the public hospitals of the metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had then gained a horrible notoriety, his own observation might have suggested to him how easily the atrocities to which the former has since given his name, might be committed. Be this as it may, whatever reflection made him hesitate, he did hesitate: but, being a young man of strong mind and great personal courage, it was only for an instant;—he stepped briskly back and knocked gently at the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on the landing above. It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy boots upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfastened; the door opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face, as the surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the passage.

‘Am I in time?’

‘Too soon!’ replied the man. The surgeon turned hastily round, with a gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it impossible to repress.

‘If you’ll step in here, sir,’ said the man, who had evidently noticed the action—‘if you’ll step in here, sir, you won’t be detained five minutes, I assure you.’

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal chairs, and a table of the same material. A handful of fire, unguarded by any fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if it served no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was stealing down the walls, in long slug-like tracks. The window, which was broken and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed piece of ground, almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be heard, either within the house, or without. The young surgeon sat down by the fireplace, to await the result of his first professional visit.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of some approaching vehicle struck his ear. It stopped; the street-door was opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise of footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three men were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above. The creaking of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the new-comers having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving the house. The door was again closed, and the former silence was restored.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to explore the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his errand known, when the room-door opened, and his last night’s visitor, dressed in exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before, motioned him to advance. The singular height of her form, coupled with the circumstance of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across his brain for an instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman’s attire. The hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the convulsive attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once exposed the absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the door, to let him enter first. It was scantily furnished with an old deal box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or cross-rails, which was covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed from the outside, rendered the objects in the room so indistinct, and communicated to all of them so uniform a hue, that he did not, at first, perceive the object on which his eye at once rested when the woman rushed frantically past him, and flung herself on her knees by the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and covered with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless. The head and face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage which passed over the head and under the chin. The eyes were closed. The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily—‘the man is dead!’

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

‘Oh! don’t say so, sir,’ she exclaimed, with a burst of passion, amounting almost to frenzy. ‘Oh! don’t say so, sir! I can’t bear it! Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if proper means had been resorted to. Don’t let him lie here, sir, without one effort to save him! This very moment life may be passing away. Do try, sir,—do, for Heaven’s sake!’—And while speaking, she hurriedly chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

‘It is of no use, my good woman,’ said the surgeon, soothingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man’s breast. ‘Stay—undraw that curtain!’

‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up.

‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

‘I darkened the room on purpose,’ said the woman, throwing herself before him as he rose to undraw it.—‘Oh! sir, have pity on me! If it can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than mine!’

‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon. ‘I must see the body!’ With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

‘There has been violence here,’ he said, pointing towards the body, and gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his searching glance.

‘There has!’ replied the woman.

‘This man has been murdered.’

‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately; ‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’

‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder.

‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon.

‘My son,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death, and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the sufferings she had endured for him—incessant anxiety of mind, and voluntary starvation of body—had plunged into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman’s hands, and his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.

CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION

Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square which command an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—‘a devilish good fellow.’ He had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always ‘willing to make himself generally useful.’ If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy-godfather; and if any member of a friend’s family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own appropriate and expressive description—‘like winkin’!’

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore, after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, cardboard drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

‘Splendid idea, ’pon my life!’ soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the evening. ‘Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance, emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was the laundress. ‘Did you call, sir?’

‘Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor should call again, you’d better say—you’d better say I’m out of town, and shan’t be back for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost his address, or I’d have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?’

‘The funny gentleman, sir?’

‘Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as herself.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into an easy chair near the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house officer, or some other interesting amateur.

‘You good creature!’ said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy. ‘You really are a good soul! You’ve come about the water-party, I know.’

‘I should rather suspect I had,’ replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly. ‘Now, come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to the table.

‘Now,’ continued Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘it seems to me that the best way will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by these ten fellows jointly.’

‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part of the arrangements.

‘Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then named; every member of the committee shall have the power of black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.’

‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily.

‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in his element. ‘I think it’ll do. Then you know we shall go down to the Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know what you call ’em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles all day; and then, whoever we know that’s musical, you know, why they’ll make themselves useful and agreeable; and—and—upon the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!’

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises.

‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the ten gentlemen to be?’

‘Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall have—’

‘Mr. Hardy!’ interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that could be adopted on so short a notice.

‘How are you?’ said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as ‘the funny gentleman.’ He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jews’-harp. He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendous laugh.

‘How are you?’ said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many pump-handles.

‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a detailed account of the proposed excursion. ‘Oh, capital! glorious! What a day it will be! what fun!—But, I say, when are you going to begin making the arrangements?’

‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’

‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies. ‘Pray, do!’

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother’s) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated, however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he trusted not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never existed.—(Hear, hear!) The young gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on pic-nics and constitutional rights.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said this, without the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put that ‘The Endeavour’ be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment, that the word ‘Fly’ be substituted for the word ‘Endeavour’; but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was provided with two backgammon men, one black and one white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman.

‘It is,’ replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—‘Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.’ The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceedings.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the Briggses were reinstated; and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and, as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on board by seven o’clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman; and the meeting separated.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s chambers.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised.

It was just five o’clock. He calculated the time—he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was stationed a ‘street-breakfast.’ The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three ‘ladies’ and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements by ‘bonneting’ the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. ‘Boat, sir?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

‘Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?’ inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’

‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before. ‘Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’

‘So did I,’ said another; ‘and I should think she’d gone down by this time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lemen.’

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. ‘Shove her off!’ cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach the ‘Custum-us.’

‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour.

‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board.

‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon well this morning.’

‘She does, indeed,’ replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the steward’s wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion.

The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters.

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week’s incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage—they wore feathers.

‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with ‘wretch.’)

‘Quite well, thank you, dear,’ replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air.—‘Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain Helves.’

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

‘Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,’ resumed Mrs. Taunton, ‘I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.’

‘In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir,’ replied Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) ‘But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?’

‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

‘Now, is every one on board?’ inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start.

‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle-boxes.

‘Go on!’ echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern.

‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, sir?’

‘Noakes,’ exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and near, through the large telescope, ‘it’s the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!’

‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very inconsiderate!’

‘I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t it?’ suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

‘Stop her!’ cried the captain.

‘Stop her!’ repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss of human life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

The boat once more started off; the band played ‘Off she goes:’ the major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be ‘a naughty man—a shocking creature’—and so forth; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jews’-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities.

‘Perhaps,’ he said in a very insinuating manner, ‘Captain Helves will oblige us?’ Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her daughters.

‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very happy, ‘but—’

‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies.

‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’

‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without accompaniments.’

‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly—‘Perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people.’

‘And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to other persons’ daughters,’ returned Mrs. Briggs, ‘some persons would not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons.’

‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs.

‘Insolence!’

‘Creature!’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. ‘Hush!—pray, silence for the duet.’

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began the following duet from the opera of ‘Paul and Virginia,’ in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated ‘a bass voice.’

‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing Bright flames the or—b of d—ay. From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box.

‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. ‘My child! it is his voice—I know it.’

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery.

‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned with the child in his arms.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ inquired the father once more—hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’

‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him.

‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial which men usually assume when they think they have done something to astonish the company.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, ‘if the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be very much delighted.’

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that it was ‘quite sickening!’ and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’

‘Pretty! isn’t it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military cough;—‘de-lightful!’

‘Sweet instrument!’ said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular individual.

‘Did you ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

‘A tom-tom.’

‘Never!’

‘Nor a gum-gum?’

‘Never!’

‘What is a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies.

‘When I was in the East Indies,’ replied the captain—(here was a discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—‘when I was in the East Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying our hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa, we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there), accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up—’

‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’

‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go on.’

‘—Started up and drew a pistol. “Helves,” said he, “my boy,”—he always called me, my boy—“Helves,” said he, “do you hear that tom-tom?” “I do,” said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame shaken by violent emotions. “Do you see that gum-gum?” said he. “No,” said I, staring about me. “You don’t?” said he. “No, I’ll be damned if I do,” said I; “and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,” said I. I really thought the Ram would have dropped. He drew me aside, and with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper—’

‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the steward’s wife.

‘Will you allow me?’ said the captain, immediately suiting the action to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease as if he had finished the story.

‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old gentleman, preserving his listening attitude.

‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies.

‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the coolness of the whole affair.

‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady. ‘I wonder what a gum-gum really is?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter amazement, ‘I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.’

‘How illiberal! how envious!’ cried everybody, as they made for the cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the day—impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day, was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the first instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a state of convalescence. It had been ‘spitting’ with rain for the last half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight emotion on the part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat were an overladen clothes-basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts—every one entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will acknowledge any. The majority of the company, therefore, endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially miserable.

‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else.

‘No, I don’t think it does,’ responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and was almost blown off his seat.

‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally.

‘No doubt of it!’ said the remainder of the company, whose attention was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating, carving, taking wine, and so forth.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in. The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were convulsed—everything was shaking and jarring. The beams in the roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became ill-tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons up, they would fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were made for small glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness: thereby greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be coming down at the same moment.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles, who had been in a fluctuating state for some time—at one moment bright, and at another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as follows:

‘Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I may say a stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he paused, and looked extremely odd)—whose talents, whose travels, whose cheerfulness—’

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables.

‘Will you have some brandy?’

‘No!’ replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; ‘what should I want brandy for?’

‘Will you go on deck?’

‘No, I will not.’ This was said with a most determined air, and in a voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.’

A pause.

‘Pray go on.’

‘Mr. Edkins is gone,’ cried somebody.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he can’t answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been werry ill, but he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.’

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition. Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing, endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent down below, on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors. That interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had no voice left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the remainder of the passage.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the Thursday morning dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy the Tauntons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other subject.

Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose town-debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds, he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.

CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, straggling, quiet High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red Town-hall, half-way up—a market-place—a cage—an assembly-room—a church—a bridge—a chapel—a theatre—a library—an inn—a pump—and a Post-office. Tradition tells of a ‘Little Winglebury,’ down some cross-road about two miles off; and, as a square mass of dirty paper, supposed to have been originally intended for a letter, with certain tremulous characters inscribed thereon, in which a lively imagination might trace a remote resemblance to the word ‘Little,’ was once stuck up to be owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post-office, from which it only disappeared when it fell to pieces with dust and extreme old age, there would appear to be some foundation for the legend. Common belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles long, colonised by one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop; but, even this authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme suspicion, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to the present day.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the small building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great Winglebury—the commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the ‘Blue’ house at every election, and the judges’ house at every assizes. It is the head-quarters of the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (so called in opposition to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down): and whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great Winglebury in his circuit, it is immediately placarded all over the town that Mr. So-and-so, ‘trusting to that liberal support which the inhabitants of Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing, has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commodious assembly-rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.’ The house is a large one, with a red brick and stone front; a pretty spacious hall, ornamented with evergreen plants, terminates in a perspective view of the bar, and a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new-comer the moment he enters, and excite his appetite to the highest possible pitch. Opposite doors lead to the ‘coffee’ and ‘commercial’ rooms; and a great wide, rambling staircase,—three stairs and a landing—four stairs and another landing—one step and another landing—half-a-dozen stairs and another landing—and so on—conducts to galleries of bedrooms, and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated ‘private,’ where you may enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place where some bewildered being walks into your room every five minutes, by mistake, and then walks out again, to open all the doors along the gallery until he finds his own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury Arms some time since—no matter when—two or three minutes before the arrival of the London stage. Four horses with cloths on—change for a coach—were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be seen. Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock itself. Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions, out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were electrified—unstrapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging willing horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most exhilarating bustle. ‘Lady inside, here!’ said the guard. ‘Please to alight, ma’am,’ said the waiter. ‘Private sitting-room?’ interrogated the lady. ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ responded the chamber-maid. ‘Nothing but these ’ere trunks, ma’am?’ inquired the guard. ‘Nothing more,’ replied the lady. Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman; off came the cloths, with a jerk; ‘All right,’ was the cry; and away they went. The loungers lingered a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by one. The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, quieter than ever.

‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the landlady.—‘Thomas!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at the Lion left it. No answer.’

‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number nineteen’s table.

‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which he had been surveying the scene just described.

‘Yes, sir,’—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete sentences,)—‘yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar, sir, I think, sir?’

‘My name is Trott,’ replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. ‘You may go, waiter.’ The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place that was not dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn’t do. He threw himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—

‘Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, ‘Great Winglebury. ‘Wednesday Morning.

‘Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our counting-house, and followed you. I know the purport of your journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

‘I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and contemptible in everybody else’s: nor will I tamely submit to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

‘Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun’s Acre.’ [Mr. Trott shuddered.] ‘I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty minutes before six o’clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip.

‘Horace Hunter.

‘PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won’t sell gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

‘PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.’

‘Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!’ ejaculated the terrified Trott. ‘I always told father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It’s bad enough as it is, to marry with the old people’s commands, and without the girl’s consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What shall I do? What can I do? If I go back to the city, I’m disgraced for ever—lose the girl—and, what’s more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the Browns’ by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun’s Acre (another shudder), I’m as good as dead. I’ve seen him hit the man at the Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of every six, and when he didn’t hit him there, he hit him in the head.’ With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, ‘What shall I do?’

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the ‘governor’s’ anger, and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son. Then the words ‘To Brown’s’ were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but Horace Hunter’s denunciation rung in his ears;—last of all it bore, in red letters, the words, ‘To Stiffun’s Acre;’ and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots—for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. ‘Come in,’ said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again desired to ‘come in,’ brought in the body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

‘You are the upper-boots, I think?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Yes, I am the upper-boots,’ replied a voice from inside a velveteen case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—‘that is, I’m the boots as b’longs to the house; the other man’s my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.’

‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply.

‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott.

‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the top-boots, with brevity.

‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.

‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ interrogated Trott.

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots.

‘But this letter,’ said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—‘this letter is anonymous.’

‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots.

‘Anonymous—he’s not to know who it comes from.’

‘Oh! I see,’ responded the reg’lar, with a knowing wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—‘I see—bit o’ Sving, eh?’ and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. ‘But, I say!’ he continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott. ‘I say, he’s a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you’ve a spite agen him, you’d better not burn his house down—blessed if I don’t think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.’ And he chuckled inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter’s letter of defiance.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private business of paramount importance—a summons which that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of ‘Bless me!’ and other manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

‘Show the gentleman in,’ said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost waiter’s announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly-dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves.

‘Miss Julia Manners!’ exclaimed the mayor at length, ‘you astonish me.’

‘That’s very unfair of you, Overton,’ replied Miss Julia, ‘for I have known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you might extend equal courtesy to me.’

‘But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!’ remonstrated the mayor.

‘You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?’ was the cool rejoinder.

‘And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!’ pettishly ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an arm-chair, and producing Miss Julia’s letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the assertion that he had been asked.

‘Now, Overton,’ replied the lady, ‘I want your assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who—who—’

‘Who was to have married you, and didn’t, because he died first; and who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,’ suggested the mayor.

‘Well,’ replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, ‘in the lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn’t die of consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:—help me now.’

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired, ‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Miss Julia—‘I’ll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter—’

‘That’s the young man, I suppose—’ interrupted the mayor.

‘That’s the young Nobleman,’ replied the lady, with a great stress on the last word. ‘Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.’

‘Very well,’ observed Joseph Overton, ‘and then he can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the presence or interference of a third party, can’t you?’

‘No,’ replied Miss Julia. ‘We have every reason to believe—dear Lord Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:—to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick, say. If I don’t show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.’

The thought occurred to the mayor’s mind that the lady might show herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and the lady proceeded.

‘With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.’

‘Has he arrived?’ inquired Overton.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the lady.

‘Then how am I to know!’ inquired the mayor. ‘Of course he will not give his own name at the bar.’

‘I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,’ replied Miss Manners; ‘and to prevent the possibility of our project being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his pockets—‘most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours—didn’t know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn’t have attended to it.—Oh! here it is.’ And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. ‘Is this his lordship’s hand?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Julia; ‘good, punctual creature! I have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—’

‘Ay, ay, I see,’ replied the mayor.—‘Horses and dogs, play and wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.’

‘Here’s what he says,’ pursued the mayor; ‘“Sir,—A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow morning at an early hour.” (That’s good—he means marrying.) “If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he mean by that?’

‘That he’s so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it’s put off, and that I may possibly do the same,’ replied the lady with great complacency.

‘Oh! I see—not much fear of that;—well—“two human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night.” (He wants to start at once.) “Fear not to do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your promptitude.” Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?’

‘Do,’ replied Miss Julia; ‘and entreat him to act his part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor.

‘Settle all the arrangements.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor again.

‘And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o’clock.’

‘Very well,’ said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

The announcement, ‘Gentleman to speak with you, sir,’ induced Mr. Trott to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very low and cautious tone,

‘My lord—’

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

‘Hush—hush!’ said the cautious attorney: ‘to be sure—quite right—no titles here—my name is Overton, sir.’

‘Overton?’

‘Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous information, this afternoon.’

‘I, sir?’ exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled surprise; for, coward as he was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter in question. ‘I, sir?’

‘Yes, you, sir; did you not?’ responded Overton, annoyed with what he supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion. ‘Either this letter is yours, or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon the subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more to say.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said Trott, ‘it is mine; I did write it. What could I do, sir? I had no friend here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ said the mayor, encouragingly, ‘you could not have managed it better. Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to leave here to-night in a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys drive, the better. You are not safe from pursuit.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, ‘can such things happen in a country like this? Such unrelenting and cold-blooded hostility!’ He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

‘It certainly is a very hard case,’ replied the mayor with a smile, ‘that, in a free country, people can’t marry whom they like, without being hunted down as if they were criminals. However, in the present instance the lady is willing, you know, and that’s the main point, after all.’

‘Lady willing,’ repeated Trott, mechanically. ‘How do you know the lady’s willing?’

‘Come, that’s a good one,’ said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr. Trott on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; ‘I have known her, well, for a long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Trott, ruminating. ‘This is very extraordinary!’

‘Well, Lord Peter,’ said the mayor, rising.

‘Lord Peter?’ repeated Mr. Trott.

‘Oh—ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then—Trott—very good, ha! ha!—Well, sir, the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.’

‘And what is to become of me until then?’ inquired Mr. Trott, anxiously. ‘Wouldn’t it save appearances, if I were placed under some restraint?’

‘Ah!’ replied Overton, ‘very good thought—capital idea indeed. I’ll send somebody up directly. And if you make a little resistance when we put you in the chaise it wouldn’t be amiss—look as if you didn’t want to be taken away, you know.’

‘To be sure,’ said Trott—‘to be sure.’

‘Well, my lord,’ said Overton, in a low tone, ‘until then, I wish your lordship a good evening.’

‘Lord—lordship?’ ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step or two, and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

‘Ha-ha! I see, my lord—practising the madman?—very good indeed—very vacant look—capital, my lord, capital—good evening, Mr.—Trott—ha! ha! ha!’

‘That mayor’s decidedly drunk,’ soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing himself back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

‘He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young nobleman—he carries it off uncommonly well,’ thought Overton, as he went his way to the bar, there to complete his arrangements. This was soon done. Every word of the story was implicitly believed, and the one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian of the person of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o’clock. In pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric gentleman armed himself with a walking-stick of gigantic dimensions, and repaired, with his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr. Trott’s apartment, which he entered without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly depositing himself on a chair near the door, where he proceeded to beguile the time by whistling a popular air with great apparent satisfaction.

‘What do you want here, you scoundrel?’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott with a smile of pity, and whistled an adagio movement.

‘Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s desire?’ inquired Trott, rather astonished at the man’s demeanour.

‘Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,’ calmly responded the boots, ‘and don’t say nothing to nobody.’ And he whistled again.

‘Now mind!’ ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of wishing with great earnestness to fight a duel if they’d let him. ‘I protest against being kept here. I deny that I have any intention of fighting with anybody. But as it’s useless contending with superior numbers, I shall sit quietly down.’

‘You’d better,’ observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick expressively.

‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself with indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. ‘Under protest.’

‘Oh, certainly!’ responded the boots; ‘anything you please. If you’re happy, I’m transported; only don’t talk too much—it’ll make you worse.’

‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: ‘the man’s drunk!’

‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, going through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.

‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. ‘Leave the room, sir, and tell them to send somebody else.’

‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots.

‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he began to be alarmed on a new score.

‘Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!’ said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and brandishing the stick aloft. ‘Be quiet, you miserable object, and don’t let everybody know there’s a madman in the house.’

‘He is a madman! He is a madman!’ exclaimed the terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of abject horror.

‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he is a madman with a vengeance! Listen to me, you unfortunate. Ah! would you?’ [a slight tap on the head with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move towards the bell-handle] ‘I caught you there! did I?’

‘Spare my life!’ exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly.

‘I don’t want your life,’ replied the boots, disdainfully, ‘though I think it ’ud be a charity if somebody took it.’

‘No, no, it wouldn’t,’ interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, ‘no, no, it wouldn’t! I—I-’d rather keep it!’

‘O werry well,’ said the boots: ‘that’s a mere matter of taste—ev’ry one to his liking. Hows’ever, all I’ve got to say is this here: You sit quietly down in that chair, and I’ll sit hoppersite you here, and if you keep quiet and don’t stir, I won’t damage you; but, if you move hand or foot till half-past twelve o’clock, I shall alter the expression of your countenance so completely, that the next time you look in the glass you’ll ask vether you’re gone out of town, and ven you’re likely to come back again. So sit down.’

‘I will—I will,’ responded the victim of mistakes; and down sat Mr. Trott and down sat the boots too, exactly opposite him, with the stick ready for immediate action in case of emergency.

Long and dreary were the hours that followed. The bell of Great Winglebury church had just struck ten, and two hours and a half would probably elapse before succour arrived.

For half an hour, the noise occasioned by shutting up the shops in the street beneath, betokened something like life in the town, and rendered Mr. Trott’s situation a little less insupportable; but, when even these ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional rattling of a post-chaise as it drove up the yard to change horses, and then drove away again, or the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the stables behind, it became almost unbearable. The boots occasionally moved an inch or two, to knock superfluous bits of wax off the candles, which were burning low, but instantaneously resumed his former position; and as he remembered to have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had an unfailing effect in controlling mad people, he kept his solitary organ of vision constantly fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott. That unfortunate individual stared at his companion in his turn, until his features grew more and more indistinct—his hair gradually less red—and the room more misty and obscure. Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of ‘Chaise-and-four for number twenty-five!’ A bustle on the stairs succeeded; the room door was hastily thrown open; and Mr. Joseph Overton entered, followed by four stout waiters, and Mrs. Williamson, the stout landlady of the Winglebury Arms.

‘Mr. Overton!’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a frenzy. ‘Look at this man, sir; consider the situation in which I have been placed for three hours past—the person you sent to guard me, sir, was a madman—a madman—a raging, ravaging, furious madman.’

‘Bravo!’ whispered Mr. Overton.

‘Poor dear!’ said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, ‘mad people always thinks other people’s mad.’

‘Poor dear!’ ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott. ‘What the devil do you mean by poor dear! Are you the landlady of this house?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the stout old lady, ‘don’t exert yourself, there’s a dear! Consider your health, now; do.’

‘Exert myself!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; ‘it’s a mercy, ma’am, that I have any breath to exert myself with! I might have been assassinated three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the oakum head. How dare you have a madman, ma’am—how dare you have a madman, to assault and terrify the visitors to your house?’

‘I’ll never have another,’ said Mrs. Williamson, casting a look of reproach at the mayor.

‘Capital, capital,’ whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr. Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak.

‘Capital, sir!’ exclaimed Trott, aloud; ‘it’s horrible. The very recollection makes me shudder. I’d rather fight four duels in three hours, if I survived the first three, than I’d sit for that time face to face with a madman.’

‘Keep it up, my lord, as you go down-stairs,’ whispered Overton, ‘your bill is paid, and your portmanteau in the chaise.’ And then he added aloud, ‘Now, waiters, the gentleman’s ready.’

At this signal, the waiters crowded round Mr. Alexander Trott. One took one arm; another, the other; a third, walked before with a candle; the fourth, behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson brought up the rear; and down-stairs they went: Mr. Alexander Trott expressing alternately at the very top of his voice either his feigned reluctance to go, or his unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a madman.

Mr. Overton was waiting at the chaise-door, the boys were ready mounted, and a few ostlers and stable nondescripts were standing round to witness the departure of ‘the mad gentleman.’ Mr. Alexander Trott’s foot was on the step, when he observed (which the dim light had prevented his doing before) a figure seated in the chaise, closely muffled up in a cloak like his own.

‘Who’s that?’ he inquired of Overton, in a whisper.

‘Hush, hush,’ replied the mayor: ‘the other party of course.’

‘The other party!’ exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat.

‘Yes, yes; you’ll soon find that out, before you go far, I should think—but make a noise, you’ll excite suspicion if you whisper to me so much.’

‘I won’t go in this chaise!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his original fears recurring with tenfold violence. ‘I shall be assassinated—I shall be—’

‘Bravo, bravo,’ whispered Overton. ‘I’ll push you in.’

‘But I won’t go,’ exclaimed Mr. Trott. ‘Help here, help! They’re carrying me away against my will. This is a plot to murder me.’

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Williamson again.

‘Now, boys, put ’em along,’ cried the mayor, pushing Trott in and slamming the door. ‘Off with you, as quick as you can, and stop for nothing till you come to the next stage—all right!’

‘Horses are paid, Tom,’ screamed Mrs. Williamson; and away went the chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott and Miss Julia Manners carefully shut up in the inside.

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner of the chaise, and his mysterious companion in the other, for the first two or three miles; Mr. Trott edging more and more into his corner, as he felt his companion gradually edging more and more from hers; and vainly endeavouring in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the furious face of the supposed Horace Hunter.

‘We may speak now,’ said his fellow-traveller, at length; ‘the post-boys can neither see nor hear us.’

‘That’s not Hunter’s voice!’—thought Alexander, astonished.

‘Dear Lord Peter!’ said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm on Mr. Trott’s shoulder. ‘Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?’

‘Why, it’s a woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of excessive wonder.

‘Ah! Whose voice is that?’ said Julia; ‘’tis not Lord Peter’s.’

‘No,—it’s mine,’ replied Mr. Trott.

‘Yours!’ ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; ‘a strange man! Gracious heaven! How came you here!’

‘Whoever you are, you might have known that I came against my will, ma’am,’ replied Alexander, ‘for I made noise enough when I got in.’

‘Do you come from Lord Peter?’ inquired Miss Manners.

‘Confound Lord Peter,’ replied Trott pettishly. ‘I don’t know any Lord Peter. I never heard of him before to-night, when I’ve been Lord Peter’d by one and Lord Peter’d by another, till I verily believe I’m mad, or dreaming—’

‘Whither are we going?’ inquired the lady tragically.

‘How should I know, ma’am?’ replied Trott with singular coolness; for the events of the evening had completely hardened him.

‘Stop stop!’ cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the chaise.

‘Stay, my dear ma’am!’ said Mr. Trott, pulling the glasses up again with one hand, and gently squeezing Miss Julia’s waist with the other. ‘There is some mistake here; give me till the end of this stage to explain my share of it. We must go so far; you cannot be set down here alone, at this hour of the night.’

The lady consented; the mistake was mutually explained. Mr. Trott was a young man, had highly promising whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and an insinuating address—he wanted nothing but valour, and who wants that with three thousand a-year? The lady had this, and more; she wanted a young husband, and the only course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his disgrace was a rich wife. So, they came to the conclusion that it would be a pity to have all this trouble and expense for nothing; and that as they were so far on the road already, they had better go to Gretna Green, and marry each other; and they did so. And the very next preceding entry in the Blacksmith’s book, was an entry of the marriage of Emily Brown with Horace Hunter. Mr. Hunter took his wife home, and begged pardon, and was pardoned; and Mr. Trott took his wife home, begged pardon too, and was pardoned also. And Lord Peter, who had been detained beyond his time by drinking champagne and riding a steeple-chase, went back to the Honourable Augustus Flair’s, and drank more champagne, and rode another steeple-chase, and was thrown and killed. And Horace Hunter took great credit to himself for practising on the cowardice of Alexander Trott; and all these circumstances were discovered in time, and carefully noted down; and if you ever stop a week at the Winglebury Arms, they will give you just this account of The Great Winglebury Duel.

CHAPTER IX—MRS. JOSEPH PORTER

Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting family, as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play which had been ‘many months in preparation,’ approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive description, ‘regularly turned out o’ windows;’ the large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes in theatrical slang included under the comprehensive name of ‘properties.’ The bedrooms were crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene in ‘Othello’—it having been determined that that tragedy should form the first portion of the evening’s entertainments.

‘When we’re a leetle more perfect, I think it will go admirably,’ said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps dramatique, at the conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, unanimously elected stage-manager. ‘Evans,’ continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers—‘Evans, you play Roderigo beautifully.’

‘Beautifully,’ echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady friends to be ‘quite a dear.’ He looked so interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! Roderigo simpered and bowed.

‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?’

‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; ‘I’ve fallen about, a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I find it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one’s head a good deal.’

‘But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,’ said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. ‘The stage is very narrow, you know.’

‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; ‘I shall fall with my head “off,” and then I can’t do any harm.’

‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall make a decided hit in “Masaniello.” Harleigh sings that music admirably.’

Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked foolish—not an unusual thing with him—hummed’ Behold how brightly breaks the morning,’ and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was trying on.

‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, ‘we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides Fenella, and four fishermen. Then, there’s our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do for another—that’s five. In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of ’em. And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.’

‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers unâ voce—and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend the ‘setting up’ of some of the amateur-painted, but never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape of ridicule; lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this feeling—she regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way. However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for much the same reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman.

‘Never mind, ma,’ said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected relative, and trying to look unconcerned; ‘if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such an exhibition.’

‘Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,’ returned the mother. ‘I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceeding.’ Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made ‘an exhibition’ of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

‘There!’ said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; ‘there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too!’

‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically.

‘I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business, however,’ said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

‘Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,’ said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play, ‘well, my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? I was just telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’

‘What?’

‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gattleton; ‘she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—’

‘Oh, now pray don’t mention it,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter; ‘it’s most absurd—quite as absurd as young What’s-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play Fenella.’

‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up.

‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; ‘most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot;—and then—such puppies as these young men are—he had the impudence to say, that—’

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family ‘Uncle Tom,’ changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces: as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in existence: always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neckerchief; and it was his pride that he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did. The result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a misquotation from the ‘Swan of Avon’ without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He was also something of a wag; never missed an opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous.

‘Well, girls!’ said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—‘how d’ye get on? Know your parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I—place, left-cue—“Unknown fate,”—What’s next, eh?—Go on—“The Heavens—”’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect—

“The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!”’

‘Make a pause here and there,’ said the old gentleman, who was a great critic. ‘“But that our loves and comforts should increase”—emphasis on the last syllable, “crease,”—loud “even,”—one, two, three, four; then loud again, “as our days do grow;” emphasis on days. That’s the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?’

‘Very well, thankee, uncle,’ returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round each eye: the result of his constant corking. ‘Of course we see you on Thursday.’

‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’

‘What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr. Balderstone!’ whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; ‘you would have been invaluable.’

‘Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably up to the thing,’ responded Uncle Tom.

‘I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,’ resumed Mrs. Porter; ‘and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.’

‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power’

‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts, ‘but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on Thursday. I am sure she’s scheming something.’

‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily.

The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, ‘no disappointments, to speak of.’ True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded severe colds. What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody knew his part: the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling until he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; Iago was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make ‘a decided hit.’ A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins’s talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an address on somebody’s escaping from nothing); and last, not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately.

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to ‘The Men of Prometheus.’ The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, ‘sounded very well, considering.’ The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment ‘at sight,’ found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, ‘ought of sight, out of mind;’ for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman too-too’d away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of ‘Here’s a pretty go!—what’s to be done?’ &c. The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to ‘clear the stage, and ring up.’

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots paddling about; and there remained.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton solus, and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and said:

‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, that Iago who was to have played Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played Iago, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed that Iago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening. Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur performance—a—another gentleman undertaken to read the part—request indulgence for a short time—courtesy and kindness of a British audience.’ Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when the substitute Iago had finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the original Iago unexpectedly arrived. The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate: the only remarkable circumstance being, that as Iago could not get on any of the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the Duke, a carpenter, two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought.

Mr. Sempronius proceeded:

‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’

‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

‘No.’

‘Tell him so, then.’

‘I will. Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my boy.’

‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded Othello, quite forgetting the dignity of his situation.

‘You’ve left out something. “True I have married—”’

‘Oh, ah!’ said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence—

—‘“true I have married her;— The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more.”

(Aside) Why don’t you prompt, father?’

‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle.

‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom.

‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with his part.

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers; suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody’s part as it was being delivered, in an under-tone. The audience were highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personae. None of the performers could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in ‘the flies;’ and the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of ‘Masaniello’ to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire, which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told everybody, ‘a complete failure.’ The audience went home at four o’clock in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that immortal bard.

CHAPTER X—A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE

CHAPTER THE FIRST

Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an over-weening predilection for brandy-and-water, it is a misfortune into which a man easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to extricate himself. It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and three-quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at all—plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one of Richardson’s novels, and had a clean-cravatish formality of manner, and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to the individual who received it, in one respect—it was rather small. He received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he ran himself out, about a day after the expiration of the first week, as regularly as an eight-day clock; and then, to make the comparison complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular tick.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think; but the idea of matrimony had never ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries on this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in Cecil-street, Strand, into a neat house in the suburbs; the half-hundredweight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up into three tons of the best Walls-end; his small French bedstead was converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster; and in the empty chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, imagination seated a beautiful young lady, with a very little independence or will of her own, and a very large independence under a will of her father’s.

‘Who’s there?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his room-door disturbed these meditations one evening.

‘Tottle, my dear fellow, how do you do?’ said a short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the question by asking another.

‘Told you I should drop in some evening,’ said the short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle’s hand, after a little struggling and dodging.

‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had ‘dropped in’ to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.

‘How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?’ inquired Tottle.

‘Quite well, thank you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared vacancy out of countenance.

‘Quite well,’ repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had expired. ‘I may say remarkably well.’ And he rubbed the palms of his hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.

‘What will you take?’ inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very little chance of taking anything else.

‘Oh, I don’t know—have you any whiskey?’

‘Why,’ replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, ‘I had some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it’s all gone—and therefore its strength—’

‘Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,’ said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did duty in an imaginary wine-cellar; left the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application was successful; the spirits were speedily called—not from the vasty deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing themselves.

‘Tottle,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘you know my way—off-hand, open, say what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can’t bear affectation. One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people have about ’em, without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one. Now listen to what I’m going to say.’

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.

‘It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,’ resumed the short gentleman.—‘You want to get married.’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; ‘why—I should certainly—at least, I think I should like—’

‘Won’t do,’ said the short gentleman.—‘Plain and free—or there’s an end of the matter. Do you want money?’

‘You know I do.’

‘You admire the sex?’

‘I do.’

‘And you’d like to be married?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then you shall be. There’s an end of that.’ Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.

‘Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,’ said Tottle. ‘Really, as the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of, in this way.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject, and the brandy-and-water—‘I know a lady—she’s stopping with my wife now—who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it, by her last will and testament.’

‘I’ll pay my addresses to her,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘She isn’t very young—is she?’

‘Not very; just the thing for you. I’ve said that already.’

‘What coloured hair has the lady?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Egad, I hardly recollect,’ replied Gabriel, with coolness. ‘Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.’

‘A what?’ ejaculated Tottle.

‘One of those things with curls, along here,’ said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. ‘I know the front’s black; I can’t speak quite positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that it was rather lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish tinge, perhaps.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the next attack without delay.

‘Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?’ he inquired.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the soft impeachment.

‘I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,’ said Parsons.

‘Never in my life!’ replied his friend, apparently indignant at being suspected of such an act. ‘Never! The fact is, that I entertain, as you know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now, the fact is, that anything like this easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if you were,’ replied Parsons, gravely; ‘I shouldn’t wonder. However, you’ll be all right in this case; for the strictness and delicacy of this lady’s ideas greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes, hanging up in her bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there, till it was taken down, considering it decidedly wrong.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘certainly.’

‘And then, the other night—I never laughed so much in my life’—resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons; ‘I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny—that’s Mrs. Parsons, you know—and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny’s flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and left the room.’

‘Quite right!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘she could not possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?’

‘Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.’

‘But, didn’t you apologise for hurting her feelings?’

‘Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;—men ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture; being a married man.’

‘And what did the lady say to that?’ inquired Tottle, deeply interested.

‘Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its impropriety was obvious.’

‘Noble-minded creature!’ exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.

‘Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for you.’

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart; ‘I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the deuce you’ll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.’ Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense.

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure.

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle; and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman who felt more uncomfortable.

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his pardon—alighted, with great dignity. ‘All right!’ said he, and away went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which ‘short’ stages are generally remarkable.

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the garden-gate bell. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum.

‘Is Mr. Parsons at home?’ inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling.

‘Here I am,’ shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then, the gentleman without the coat called out ‘play,’ very loudly, and bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and took another run. Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and didn’t hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into a neighbouring field. They called this cricket.

‘Tottle, will you “go in?”’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which made him even warmer than his friend.

‘Then we’ll go into the house, as it’s past four, and I shall have to wash my hands before dinner,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Here, I hate ceremony, you know! Timson, that’s Tottle—Tottle, that’s Timson; bred for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;’ and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stiffly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sincerity.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa, was seated a lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess; her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her complexion—with a slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance I assure you,’ said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.

‘Splendid, majestic creature!’ thought Tottle.

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was deserved.

‘May I beg,’ said the reverend gentleman,—‘May I beg to call upon you, Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket distribution society?’

‘Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,’ responded Miss Lillerton.

‘You are truly charitable, madam,’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson, ‘and we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.’

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady’s face, as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, ‘it’s my private opinion, Timson, that your “distribution society” is rather a humbug.’

‘You are so severe,’ replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners.

‘So positively unjust!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Certainly,’ observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual.

‘Why,’ urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, ‘what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he hasn’t a bed, or giving him soup when he requires substantial food?—“like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.” Why not give ’em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase what they think best? Why?—because your subscribers wouldn’t see their names flourishing in print on the church-door—that’s the reason.’

‘Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I wish to see my name in print, on the church-door,’ interrupted Miss Lillerton.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and getting another glance.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Parsons. ‘I dare say you wouldn’t mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church register—eh?’

‘Register! What register?’ inquired the lady gravely.

‘Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,’ replied Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in spirits. The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and had taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port on the plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all. At length, the ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour previously—signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she generally did at once.

‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an under-tone.

‘I dote on her with enthusiasm already!’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,”’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson.

‘The ladies!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen ladies, off-hand.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘I remember when I was a young man—fill your glass, Timson.’

‘I have this moment emptied it.’

‘Then fill again.’

‘I will,’ said Timson, suiting the action to the word.

‘I remember,’ resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘when I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to think every woman was an angel.’

‘Was that before you were married?’ mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! certainly,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘I have never thought so since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so at all. But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most ridiculous circumstances possible.’

‘What were they, if one may inquire?’ asked Timson, who had heard the story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.

‘I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,’ said Parsons, by way of a beginning.

‘In a back-kitchen chimney!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle. ‘How dreadful!’

‘Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant,’ replied the small host. ‘The fact is, Fanny’s father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but had a decided objection to my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn’t any money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up somebody else. However, we managed to discover the state of each other’s affections somehow. I used to meet her, at some mutual friends’ parties; at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that sort of thing; then, I used to like nothing so well as sitting by her side—we didn’t talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a great notion of looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left eye—and then I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write verses, and use Macassar oil. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer, and after I had walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street in tight boots for a week—and a devilish hot summer it was too—in the hope of meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own mouth. I said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn’t live without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate, so as to take myself off in some way or other. Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the housemaid to give her the note, which she did.’

‘And what was the reply?’ inquired Timson, who had found, before, that to encourage the repetition of old stories is to get a general invitation.

‘Oh, the usual one! Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her to swerve from the duty she owed her parents; implored me to forget her, and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing. She said she could, on no account, think of meeting me unknown to her pa and ma; and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt to meet her there.’

‘You didn’t go, of course?’ said Watkins Tottle.

‘Didn’t I?—Of course I did. There she was, with the identical housemaid in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption. We walked about, for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable; and were regularly engaged. Then, we began to “correspond”—that is to say, we used to exchange about four letters a day; what we used to say in ’em I can’t imagine. And I used to have an interview, in the kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. Well, things went on in this way for some time; and we got fonder of each other every day. At last, as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been raised too, shortly before, we determined on a secret marriage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend’s, on the previous night; we were to be married early in the morning; and then we were to return to her home and be pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, and bathe his boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady and call her “mother,” and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as possible. Married we were, the next morning; two girls-friends of Fanny’s—acting as bridesmaids; and a man, who was hired for five shillings and a pint of porter, officiating as father. Now, the old lady unfortunately put off her return from Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the next morning; and as we placed great reliance on her, we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours. My newly-made wife returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in strolling about Hampstead-heath, and execrating my father-in-law. Of course, I went to comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I could, with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. I opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shown by the servant to our old place of meeting—a back kitchen, with a stone-floor and a dresser: upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and make love.’

‘Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!’ interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged.

‘Ah! On a kitchen-dresser!’ replied Parsons. ‘And let me tell you, old fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no other place to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself of such an opportunity. However, let me see;—where was I?’

‘On the dresser,’ suggested Timson.

‘Oh—ah! Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite disconsolate and uncomfortable. The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits. So, I put a good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy the pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length, poor Fanny brightened up a little. I stopped there, till about eleven o’clock, and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the girl came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a great fright, to tell us that the old villain—Heaven forgive me for calling him so, for he is dead and gone now!—prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness, was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper—a thing he had not done before, for six months, to my certain knowledge; for the cask stood in that very back kitchen. If he discovered me there, explanation would have been out of the question; for he was so outrageously violent, when at all excited, that he never would have listened to me. There was only one thing to be done. The chimney was a very wide one; it had been originally built for an oven; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and then shot backward and formed a sort of small cavern. My hopes and fortune—the means of our joint existence almost—were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney-board, I could see the light of the candle which my unconscious father-in-law carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer; and I never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down came the infernal chimney-board with a tremendous crash. He stopped and put down the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser; he was a nervous old fellow, and any unexpected noise annoyed him. He coolly observed that the fire-place was never used, and sending the frightened servant into the next kitchen for a hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the door on the outside. So, there was I, on my wedding-night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat, that I had been married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of which was nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the neighbours. And there,’ added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the bottle, ‘there I remained till half-past seven the next morning, when the housemaid’s sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe that no one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.’

‘And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he found you were married?’ inquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke, was not satisfied until he heard a story to the very end.

‘Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned us off-hand, and allowed us something to live on till he went the way of all flesh. I spent the next night in his second-floor front, much more comfortably than I had spent the preceding one; for, as you will probably guess—’

‘Please, sir, missis has made tea,’ said a middle-aged female servant, bobbing into the room.

‘That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘She went into Fanny’s service when we were first married, and has been with us ever since; but I don’t think she has felt one atom of respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went into violent hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since. Now, shall we join the ladies?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘By all means,’ added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for the drawing-room accordingly.

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed, and occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed. They cut for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson having conscientious scruples on the subject of card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his reception by Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made up to visit the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday.

‘It’s all right, I think,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him.

‘I hope so,’ he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand.

‘You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘Undoubtedly.’

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and the success of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

‘The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen feet of gravel which bordered the ‘lawn,’ on the Saturday morning which had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt.

‘No, sir; I haven’t seen it,’ replied a gardener in a blue apron, who let himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his ‘keep.’

‘Time Tottle was down,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating—‘Oh, here he is, no doubt,’ added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill; and he buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the expected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse Petersham great-coat, whity-brown neckerchief, faded black suit, gamboge-coloured top-boots, and one of those large-crowned hats, formerly seldom met with, but now very generally patronised by gentlemen and costermongers.

‘Mr. Parsons?’ said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air.

‘My name is Parsons,’ responded the sugar-baker.

‘I’ve brought this here note,’ replied the individual in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper: ‘I’ve brought this here note from a gen’lm’n as come to our house this mornin’.’

‘I expected the gentleman at my house,’ said Parsons, as he broke the seal, which bore the impression of her Majesty’s profile as it is seen on a sixpence.

‘I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here, replied the stranger, ‘if he hadn’t happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts no gen’lm’n furder nor we can see him—no mistake about that there’—added the unknown, with a facetious grin; ‘beg your pardon, sir, no offence meant, only—once in, and I wish you may—catch the idea, sir?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly, but a cold. He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound astonishment on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of which he had been the bearer. Once opened and the idea was caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for 33_l._ 10_s._ 4_d._, and dated his communication from a lock-up house in the vicinity of Chancery-lane.

‘Unfortunate affair this!’ said Parsons, refolding the note.

‘Oh! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,’ coolly observed the man in the Petersham.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ consideration, ‘just put the horse in, will you?—Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost as soon as you are,’ he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer’s Mercury.

‘Werry well,’ replied that important functionary; adding, in a confidential manner, ‘I’d adwise the gen’lm’n’s friends to settle. You see it’s a mere trifle; and, unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore the court, it’s hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. Our governor’s wide awake, he is. I’ll never say nothin’ agin him, nor no man; but he knows what’s o’clock, he does, uncommon.’ Having delivered this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman in the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into the house; said that business had suddenly summoned him to town; that he had desired the messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would return together to dinner. He then hastily equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his gig, was soon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him) in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane.

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object in view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his journey, the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear not only to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and painful experience of its justice in the course of his drive. There are three classes of animated objects which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort or celerity through streets which are but little frequented—they are pigs, children, and old women. On the occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks, and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the little deal battledores, and the children played in the road; and women, with a basket in one hand, and the street-door key in the other, would cross just before the horse’s head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet-street, there was ‘a stoppage,’ in which people in vehicles have the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying the slowest pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses’ bridles, and back them into shop-windows, by way of clearing the road and preventing confusion. At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant), he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs. Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the chance of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was of glass, grated like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron bars—painted white to look comfortable.

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who, after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, applied a large key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts.

‘I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,’ said Parsons.

‘It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,’ screamed a voice from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor. ‘The gentleman’s in the coffee-room.’

‘Up-stairs, sir,’ said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had made his way through the aperture—‘First floor—door on the left.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and ill-lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the before-mentioned ‘door on the left,’ which were rendered inaudible by the hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on some frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the handle, and entered the apartment. Being informed that the unfortunate object of his visit had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had leisure to sit down and observe the scene before him.

The room—which was a small, confined den—was partitioned off into boxes, like the common-room of some inferior eating-house. The dirty floor had evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to carpet or floor-cloth: and the ceiling was completely blackened by the flare of the oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night. The gray ashes on the edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plentifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty glasses and half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with the porter pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations in which the individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary residence in his house indulged. Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass, extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but by way of counterpoise, the ashes were confined by a rusty fender about twice as long as the hearth.

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons was naturally directed to its inmates. In one of the boxes two men were playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some with green, and some with red backs—selections from decayed packs. The cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some ingenious visitor with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a two-pronged fork, with which the necessary number of holes had been made in the table at proper distances for the reception of the wooden pegs. In another box a stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was eating some dinner which his wife—an equally comfortable-looking personage—had brought him in a basket: and in a third, a genteel-looking young man was talking earnestly, and in a low tone, to a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his own mind as the debtor’s wife. A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extreme of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, ever and anon puffing forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying, with much apparent relish, to a pint pot, the contents of which were ‘chilling’ on the hob.

‘Fourpence more, by gum!’ exclaimed one of the cribbage-players, lighting a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game; ‘one ’ud think you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when you wanted it.’

‘Well, that a’n’t a bad un,’ replied the other, who was a horse-dealer from Islington.

‘No; I’m blessed if it is,’ interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who, having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water. The faithful partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the anti-temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy. ‘You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker—will you dip your beak into this, sir?’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to the other to accept the proffered glass. ‘Here’s your health, sir, and your good ’ooman’s here. Gentlemen all—yours, and better luck still. Well, Mr. Willis,’ continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the young man with the cigar, ‘you seem rather down to-day—floored, as one may say. What’s the matter, sir? Never say die, you know.’

‘Oh! I’m all right,’ replied the smoker. ‘I shall be bailed out to-morrow.’

‘Shall you, though?’ inquired the other. ‘Damme, I wish I could say the same. I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George, and stand about as much chance of being bailed out. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Why,’ said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud key, ‘look at me. What d’ye think I’ve stopped here two days for?’

‘’Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,’ interrupted Mr. Walker, winking to the company. ‘Not that you’re exactly obliged to stop here, only you can’t help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must—eh?’

‘A’n’t he a rum un?’ inquired the delighted individual, who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife.

‘Oh, he just is!’ replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these flashes of imagination.

‘Why, my case,’ frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the pot on the table, at intervals,—‘my case is a very singular one. My father’s a man of large property, and I am his son.’

‘That’s a very strange circumstance!’ interrupted the jocose Mr. Walker, en passant.

‘—I am his son, and have received a liberal education. I don’t owe no man nothing—not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to put my name to some bills for a friend—bills to a large amount, I may say a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no consideration. What’s the consequence?’

‘Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances weren’t taken up, and you were, eh?’ inquired Walker.

‘To be sure,’ replied the liberally educated young gentleman. ‘To be sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred pound.’

‘Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?’ inquired Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air.

‘Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,’ replied the other, in a tone of expostulation—‘Never!’

‘Well, it is very odd to—be—sure,’ interposed the owner of the flat bottle, mixing another glass, ‘but I’ve been in difficulties, as one may say, now for thirty year. I went to pieces when I was in a milk-walk, thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a spring wan; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur line—but all that time I never see a youngish chap come into a place of this kind, who wasn’t going out again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested on bills which he’d given a friend and for which he’d received nothing whatsomever—not a fraction.’

‘Oh! it’s always the cry,’ said Walker. ‘I can’t see the use on it; that’s what makes me so wild. Why, I should have a much better opinion of an individual, if he’d say at once in an honourable and gentlemanly manner as he’d done everybody he possibly could.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, ‘so should I.’ The young gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the point of offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising of the young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. She had been weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon her excited feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion necessary as they quitted it together.

There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was observed until the whirr—r—bang of the spring door announced that they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer.

‘Poor creetur!’ said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of gin-and-water. ‘She’s very young.’

‘She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,’ added the horse-dealer.

‘What’s he in for, Ikey?’ inquired Walker, of an individual who was spreading a cloth with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recognising as the man who had called upon him in the morning.

‘Vy,’ responded the factotum, ‘it’s one of the rummiest rigs you ever heard on. He come in here last Vensday, which by-the-bye he’s a-going over the water to-night—hows’ever that’s neither here nor there. You see I’ve been a going back’ards and for’ards about his business, and ha’ managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them; and so far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here effect—’

‘Cut it short, old fellow,’ interrupted Walker, who knew from former experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor intelligible in his narratives.

‘Let me alone,’ replied Ikey, ‘and I’ll ha’ wound up, and made my lucky in five seconds. This here young gen’lm’n’s father—so I’m told, mind ye—and the father o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad, out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down sort o’ terms; but somehow or another, when he was a wisitin’ at some gentlefolk’s house, as he knowed at college, he came into contract with the young lady. He seed her several times, and then he up and said he’d keep company with her, if so be as she vos agreeable. Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he vos upon her, and so I s’pose they made it all right; for they got married ’bout six months arterwards, unbeknown, mind ye, to the two fathers—leastways so I’m told. When they heard on it—my eyes, there was such a combustion! Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to ’em. The young gen’lm’n’s father cut him off vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut himself off vith a wife; and the young lady’s father he behaved even worser and more unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, and swore he’d never see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows—and as you knows, Mr. Valker, a precious sight too well—to go about and buy up the bills and them things on which the young husband, thinking his governor ’ud come round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself on vith for a time; besides vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he could; but things he never expected to have to meet till he’d had time to turn himself round, come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed. He vos brought here, as I said afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s about—ah, half-a-dozen detainers agin him down-stairs now. I have been,’ added Ikey, ‘in the purfession these fifteen year, and I never met vith such windictiveness afore!’

‘Poor creeturs!’ exclaimed the coal-dealer’s wife once more: again resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the bud. ‘Ah! when they’ve seen as much trouble as I and my old man here have, they’ll be as comfortable under it as we are.’

‘The young lady’s a pretty creature,’ said Walker, ‘only she’s a little too delicate for my taste—there ain’t enough of her. As to the young cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the mouth for me—he ain’t game.’

‘Game!’ exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do. ‘He’s game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about; but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him?—It’s enough to drive any man’s heart into his boots to see ’em together—and no mistake at all about it. I never shall forget her first comin’ here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come—I know he did, ’cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs, says he, “Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional expense—just to see my wife in?” says he. Jacobs looked as much as to say—“Strike me bountiful if you ain’t one of the modest sort!” but as the gen’lm’n who had been in the back parlour had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says—werry grave—“Sir,” says he, “it’s agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but,” says he, “for a gentleman, I don’t mind breaking through them for once.” So then he turns round to me, and says, “Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,” vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos a waitin’ at the parlour door—and wasn’t he a trembling, neither? The poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him. “Oh, Harry!” she says, “that it should have come to this; and all for my sake,” says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like—“Why, Kate,” says he—’

‘Here’s the gentleman you want,’ said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins Tottle, who at that moment entered the room. Watkins advanced with a wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out.

‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive of his dislike of the company.

‘This way,’ replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend’s countenance.

‘Yes; and here you’re likely to be,’ said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after an awkward pause.

‘37_l_. 3_s_ 10_d_.’

‘Have you any money?’

‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, ‘Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.’

‘I do.’

‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’

‘I fear I am.’

‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘listen: here’s my proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t. I’ll pay the debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10_l._ more (which, added to your annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.’

‘My dear—’

‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.’

‘At once! My dear Parsons, consider.’

‘It’s for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation, though she did not know you personally until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married out of hand with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has confessed.’

‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

‘Why,’ replied Parsons, ‘to say exactly what she has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons.

‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’

‘I have,’—and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs’s establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy when they found themselves once again—to wit, the _out_side.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—‘you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.’

‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously.

‘How I should like to see you together,’ ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.—‘What fun!’ and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ said Gabriel, as they approached the house. ‘Mind your eye, Tottle.’

‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking.

‘Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight expression of disappointment or carelessness.

‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his friend.

‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,’ replied Tottle.

‘Pooh, nonsense!’ whispered Parsons again—‘it’s always the way with the women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It’s the way with the whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over again—see what it is to have a wife.’

‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

‘Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,’ said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director.

‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again. ‘Confound it! pay her a compliment, can’t you?’

‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘you are really very polite; you stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.’

‘We were talking of the business, my dear, which detained us this morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

‘Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,’ said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not.

‘I think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested Tottle.

(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons.

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house.

‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’ inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the effect.’

‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins Tottle, ‘much too broad!’

‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room, ‘mad from modesty.’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,’ said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: ‘Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

‘Take off the covers, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with lemon.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist you?’

‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’

Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change.

‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

‘Not the least consequence,’ replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of broken glass.

‘I presume,’ said Miss Lillerton, ‘that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest penalty.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the circumstances, was really extraordinary.

‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the pleasure?’

‘I shall be most happy.’

‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.’ (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)—

‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, ‘but I’ve been in Devonshire.’

‘Ah!’ replied Gabriel, ‘it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?’

Mr. Watkins Tottle had happened to hear his friend mention it some four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our meaning.

‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons. ‘I beg your pardon, my dear.’

‘When I was in Suffolk,’ resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, ‘which is now years ago, business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s. I had to stop at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so dark—’

‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, ‘don’t spill that gravy.’

‘Fanny,’ said Parsons impatiently, ‘I wish you’d defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.’

‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘But, my dear, you did interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

‘How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you saw the stain to-morrow morning.’

‘Well,’ continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no getting over the point about the carpet, ‘I was just saying, it was so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—’

‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.

‘Now, pray, my dear,’ remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. ‘As I turned a corner of the road,’ resumed Gabriel, ‘the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—’

‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘Oh! it’s no use,’ exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. ‘Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It’s useless to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Parsons is present.’

This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and at her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it. Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

‘I say,’ said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, ‘don’t you think it would be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?’

‘Don’t you think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?’ retorted Parsons bluntly.

‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you’ll excuse me.’

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred it, and put some coals on.

‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you spoke.’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,’ said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

‘No, thank you,’ returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, ‘Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.’

‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’

‘To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.’ The lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: ‘Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me—at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but—’ here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved him.

‘Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?’

‘She has.’

‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish air, ‘what could induce you to seek such an interview as this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?’

Here was the time for a flourish—‘By allowing me,’ replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in the act—‘By allowing me to be your slave, your servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart’s feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?’

‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as he could. ‘My information was correct?’ he tremulously inquired, when he was once more on his feet.

‘It was.’ Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture.

‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar and delicate one.’

‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle.

‘Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

‘Indeed!’ said Tottle.

‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins.

‘Oh!’ he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that she had known him from report, ‘I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?’

‘It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I ought to pursue,’ replied Miss Lillerton, ‘but pardon my feelings of delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar ideas on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.’

‘Then allow me to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly.

‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, ‘but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.’

‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is that to be, I wonder!’

‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the—clergyman.’

‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. ‘Angel! Certainly—this moment!’

‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the door; ‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.’

‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

‘Oh! Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and she left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle. ‘Hush—I’m going to the clergyman.’

‘No!’ said Parsons. ‘How well you have managed it!’

‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane. He’s waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could have carried it off so!’

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat.

‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.’

‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

‘Mr. Charles is at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.’

‘I am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.

‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.’

‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; ‘Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

‘How do you do, sir?’ replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was.

‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked-hat.

‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour. ‘Pray sit down.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. ‘May I ask,’ he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, ‘whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?’

‘Our friend is in my confidence,’ replied Watkins, with considerable importance.

‘Then, sir,’ said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, ‘allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part you have acted in this affair.’

‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle. ‘Confound these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.’

‘I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,’ continued Timson. ‘Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few men who would have acted as you have done.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily, ‘When is it to be?’

‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at half-past eight.’

‘Uncommonly early,’ observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant self-denial. ‘I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.’ (This was intended for a joke.)

‘Never mind, my dear fellow,’ replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, ‘so long as we see you to breakfast, you know—’

‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

‘I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,’ replied Timson, ‘we will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson with appalling perseverance.

‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm, ‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs. Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’

‘Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,’ angrily exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson,—‘but have the goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?’

‘This note,’ replied Timson, ‘is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have been for the last five weeks regularly engaged. Her singular scruples and strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire. She informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making her her confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this elderly gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even undertook to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long sought in vain—an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful.’

‘Good night, Timson,’ said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the bewildered Tottle with him.

‘Won’t you stay—and have something?’ said Timson.

‘No, thank ye,’ replied Parsons; ‘I’ve had quite enough;’ and away he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said—

‘You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the unfortunate Watkins.

‘I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you?’ inquired Gabriel.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ replied the bewildered Tottle.

‘Well,’ said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, ‘the next time you make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don’t throw a chance away. And the next time you’re locked up in a spunging-house, just wait there till I come and take you out, there’s a good fellow.’

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning; but we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither emerged therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours. At the expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held in the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of milk-and-water. The next morning he went through the formalities of eating and drinking as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he never perfectly recovered.

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body of a gentleman unknown, was found in the Regent’s canal. In the trousers-pockets were four shillings and threepence halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement from a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper: a tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would have led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for the circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A bill, which has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill, which has not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his parlour-window.

CHAPTER XI—THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING

Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, ‘long Dumps,’ was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old: cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable; and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a ‘first-floor furnished,’ at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was ‘the most unfortunate man in the world.’ Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; and if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate anything in particular, because he disliked everything in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the ‘Society for the Suppression of Vice’ for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, in the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next.

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the ‘Bedford-square,’ and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words ‘Tottenham-court-road.’)

‘No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning.

‘I cannot, indeed I cannot,’ returned Dumps.

‘Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little trouble.’

‘As to the trouble,’ rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, ‘I don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles, don’t fidget with that stool so; you’ll drive me mad.’ Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air, and holding fast on by the desk.

‘I beg your pardon, uncle,’ said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor, with a force sufficient to drive them through it.

‘But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers.’

‘If it’s a boy!’ said Dumps; ‘why can’t you say at once whether it is a boy or not?’

‘I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet.’

‘Not born yet!’ echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage. ‘Oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won’t want me; or if it is a boy, it may die before it is christened.’

‘I hope not,’ said the father that expected to be, looking very grave.

‘I hope not,’ acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. ‘I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course.’

‘Lord, uncle!’ ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

‘Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—’

‘How frightful!’ interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell.

‘The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors.’ Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. ‘Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.’

‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; ‘though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst.’

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eyes:—

‘Births.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.’

‘It is a boy!’ he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. ‘It is a boy!’ But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality.

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:—

‘Great Russell-street, Monday morning.

‘Dear Uncle,—You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally. He was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever.

‘Believe me, dear Uncle, ‘Yours affectionately, ‘Charles Kitterbell.

‘P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal.’

It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials ‘F. C. W. K.,’ with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith.

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was ‘unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;’ and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. ‘I knew how it would be,’ said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion-house at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. ‘I knew how it would be. I am concerned, and that’s enough;’—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the ‘fare’ as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of ‘standing up’ under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday.

Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could ‘pull him up’ in return.

‘Now, sir!’ cried the young gentleman who officiated as ‘cad’ to the ‘Lads of the Village,’ which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed.

‘This vay, sir!’ shouted the driver of the ‘Hark-away,’ pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—‘This vay, sir—he’s full.’ Dumps hesitated, whereupon the ‘Lads of the Village’ commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the ‘Hark-away;’ but the conductor of the ‘Admiral Napier’ settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner, for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle which had just come up and only wanted the sixteenth inside.

‘All right,’ said the ‘Admiral,’ and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled-up bootjack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on the one side, and then on the other, like a ‘Jack-in-the-green,’ on May-day, setting to the lady with a brass ladle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?’ inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time.

‘Anywhere but on my chest, sir,’ replied the old gentleman in a surly tone.

‘Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better,’ suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance.

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that would not shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter.

‘Don’t bang the door so,’ said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; I am very nervous—it destroys me.’

‘Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?’ replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request.

‘I told you not to bang the door so!’ repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions.

‘Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging,’ replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, ‘I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, ‘it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!’ shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—‘Where is the cad?’

‘I think he’s on the box, sir,’ said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink.

‘I want to be set down!’ said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts.

‘I think these cads want to be set down,’ returned the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally.

‘Hollo!’ cried Dumps again.

‘Hollo!’ echoed the passengers. The omnibus passed St. Giles’s church.

‘Hold hard!’ said the conductor; ‘I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if you please,’ he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was ‘all right.’ Dumps’s indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. ‘Drury-lane!’ he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time.

‘Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir.’

Dumps’s passion was paramount: he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded, if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver.

‘Hollo!’ said that respectable person, standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. ‘Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can’t reject that, anyhow.’

The argument was irresistible: Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street.

Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of ‘a few friends’ in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds, on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room, very prettily furnished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables.

‘Ah, uncle!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, ‘how d’ye do? Allow me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle. I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?’

‘Have had the pleasure,’ returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. ‘I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation, is—’

‘I knew you’d say so, my love,’ said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: ‘Bless you!’ The last two words were accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps’s bile.

‘Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one’s mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby.

‘Now, uncle,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, ‘Who do you think he’s like?’

‘He! he! Yes, who?’ said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying.

‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; ‘remarkably small indeed.’

‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. ‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’

‘He’s a dear,’ said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown.

‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell.

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.

‘I really don’t know who he’s like,’ he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him.

‘Don’t you think he’s like me?’ inquired his nephew with a knowing air.

‘Oh, decidedly not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.’

‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly.

‘Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!’ The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle.

‘Well!’ said the disappointed little father, ‘you’ll be better able to tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.

‘Now, my love,’ said Kitterbell to his wife, ‘it’s time we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?’ inquired the anxious husband.

‘No, sweet,’ returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’s proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject.

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—‘and all that sort of thing’—as little Kitterbell said—‘in less than no time;’ and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party.

Evening came—and so did Dumps’s pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a man apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man, who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’s nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will.

‘There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,’ ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.

Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it; and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match.

‘It’s a large party,’ sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded.

‘How are you?’ said little Kitterbell, in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of sawdust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles.

‘Good God!’ said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on, which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. ‘How many people are there up-stairs?’

‘Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what’s the matter?’ continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. ‘What have you lost? Your pocket-book?’

‘No,’ returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth.

‘Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?’ continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning.

‘No! no!’ ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets.

‘Not—not—the mug you spoke of this morning?’

‘Yes, the mug!’ replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

‘How could you have done it?’ inquired Kitterbell. ‘Are you sure you brought it out?’

‘Yes! yes! I see it all!’ said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; ‘miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see it all: it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!’

‘Mr. Dumps!’ shouted the greengrocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. ‘Mr. Dumps!’—everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk.

‘Happy to see you again,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; ‘you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:—my mamma, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters.’ Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.

‘Uncle,’ said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, ‘you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m sure you’ll like him—this way,’—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear.

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French-horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily.

The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed, and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled.

‘Very warm,’ said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something.

‘Yes. It was warmer yesterday,’ returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A general laugh.

‘I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir,’ he continued, addressing Dumps—‘godfather, I mean.’—The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies.

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.)

‘Oh, you dear!’ said one.

‘How sweet!’ cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration.

‘Heavenly!’ added a third.

‘Oh! what dear little arms!’ said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked.

‘Did you ever!’—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats—‘Did you ever!’

‘Never, in my life,’ returned her admirer, pulling up his collar.

‘Oh! do let me take it, nurse,’ cried another young lady. ‘The love!’

‘Can it open its eyes, nurse?’ inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own.

The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself; several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing ‘We met’—‘I saw her at the Fancy Fair’—and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. ‘The young men,’ as Mrs. Kitterbell said, ‘made themselves very agreeable;’ the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again.

The ‘sit-down supper’ was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates did not come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry, and the greengrocer ran about till he thought his seven and sixpence was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible, for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine was drunk, and everybody talked and laughed considerably.

‘Hush! hush!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. ‘My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mamma, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, ‘will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast.’

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked serious.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ slowly continued the ominous Dumps, ‘I’—(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience).

‘Order! order!’ said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter.

‘Order!’ said the gentlemen.

‘Danton, be quiet,’ said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—‘In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!’—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies. ‘That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. (“Hear, hear!” and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in after times the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child”’—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment, after all.

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter; and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions. He must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with ‘the most miserable man in the world.’

CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH

We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he ‘knows by sight,’ to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, with a respectable tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?—or cannot any of our readers call to mind from among the list of their quondam acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the pavement in hungry misery—from whom every one turns coldly away, and who preserves himself from sheer starvation, nobody knows how? Alas! such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man’s experience; and but too often arise from one cause—drunkenness—that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and station; and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death.

Some of these men have been impelled, by misfortune and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But by far the greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless.

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled loud bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An elderly woman, with her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman—her daughter—on her arm. But it was not towards her that the was face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped; they pressed the husband’s arm; the eyes so soon to be closed in death rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and death.

A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around, and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantel-shelf; its low ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit.

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights—such nights as only watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart—the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years—poured forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the wanderings of dying men; tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who stood by the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds the very name of which has driven the boldest man away.

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed-side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and moaning alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother’s grasp relaxed, and, turning one look from the children to the father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leant over her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. That heart was broken, and she was dead!

The husband sunk into a chair by the bed-side, and clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow or console the widower.

The time had been when many a friend would have crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heartfelt condolence would have met him in his grief. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relations, the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty, and how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the tavern to her bed-side in time to see her die.

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupefied with drink, and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death! Every one must die, and why not she? She was too good for him; her relations had often told him so. Curses on them! Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home? Well—she was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass—one more! Hurrah! It was a merry life while it lasted; and he would make the most of it.

Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were children no longer. The father remained the same—poorer, shabbier, and more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him; the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old course, and a merry life he led.

One night, as early as ten o’clock—for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public-house—he bent his steps homeward, bethinking himself that if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl alive, if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would let him.

At the back of Fleet-street, and lying between it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars: it was to one of these that he directed his steps.

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from every room.

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out, either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley—all the sluggish odours of which had been called forth by the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the destruction of the whole place.

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness, sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers; and he proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the attic story.

He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously out.

‘Is that you, father?’ said the girl.

‘Who else should it be?’ replied the man gruffly. ‘What are you trembling at? It’s little enough that I’ve had to drink to-day, for there’s no drink without money, and no money without work. What the devil’s the matter with the girl?’

‘I am not well, father—not at all well,’ said the girl, bursting into tears.

‘Ah!’ replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he could. ‘You must get better somehow, for we must have money. You must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine. They’re paid for it, damn ’em. What are you standing before the door for? Let me come in, can’t you?’

‘Father,’ whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing herself before it, ‘William has come back.’

‘Who!’ said the man with a start.

‘Hush,’ replied the girl, ‘William; brother William.’

‘And what does he want?’ said the man, with an effort at composure—‘money? meat? drink? He’s come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the candle—give me the candle, fool—I ain’t going to hurt him.’ He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the room.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered.

‘Fasten the door, Mary,’ said the young man hastily—‘Fasten the door. You look as if you didn’t know me, father. It’s long enough, since you drove me from home; you may well forget me.’

‘And what do you want here, now?’ said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fireplace. ‘What do you want here, now?’

‘Shelter,’ replied the son. ‘I’m in trouble: that’s enough. If I’m caught I shall swing; that’s certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop here; that’s as certain. And there’s an end of it.’

‘You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, then?’ said the father.

‘Yes, I do,’ replied the son. ‘Does it surprise you, father?’ He looked steadily in the man’s face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground.

‘Where’s your brothers?’ he said, after a long pause.

‘Where they’ll never trouble you,’ replied his son: ‘John’s gone to America, and Henry’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not express.

‘Dead,’ replied the young man. ‘He died in my arms—shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for pardon for her youngest son. “I was her favourite boy, Will,” he said, “and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done anything to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will, why was she taken away, and father left?” There’s his dying words, father,’ said the young man; ‘make the best you can of ’em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the morning we ran away; and here’s the end of it.’

The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro.

‘If I am taken,’ said the young man, ‘I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man’s murder. They cannot trace me here, without your assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up to justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to escape abroad.’

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and as the girl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall.

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public-house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered once more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, were on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he entered the public-house, they followed him.

‘You’ll drink with me, master,’ said one of them, proffering him a glass of liquor.

‘And me too,’ said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents.

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger. But they were nothing to the drunkard. He did drink; and his reason left him.

‘A wet night, Warden,’ whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his daughter’s life depended.

‘The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,’ whispered the other.

‘Sit down here,’ said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. ‘We have been looking arter the young un. We came to tell him, it’s all right now, but we couldn’t find him ’cause we hadn’t got the precise direction. But that ain’t strange, for I don’t think he know’d it himself, when he come to London, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ replied the father.

The two men exchanged glances.

‘There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it’s high water,’ resumed the first speaker, ‘and we’ll put him on board. His passage is taken in another name, and what’s better than that, it’s paid for. It’s lucky we met you.’

‘Very,’ said the second.

‘Capital luck,’ said the first, with a wink to his companion.

‘Great,’ replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence.

‘Another glass here; quick’—said the first speaker. And in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the hangman’s hands.

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair; it approached nearer; it reached the landing; and the father staggered into the room.

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed.

‘Very quietly done,’ said one of the men to his companion, ‘thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come, it’s no use crying, young woman. It’s all over now, and can’t be helped.’

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity.

‘Listen to me, father,’ he said, in a tone that made the drunkard’s flesh creep. ‘My brother’s blood, and mine, is on your head: I never had kind look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, I never will forgive you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.’ He raised his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave.

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattress on the floor was undisturbed; everything was just as he remembered to have seen it last: and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He rambled through the streets, and scrutinised each wretched face among the crowds that thronged them, with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, and he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate and weary.

For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her!

He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was spent in the old way. A year passed over his head; the roof of a jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under archways, and in brickfields—anywhere, where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb.

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful home—and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again.

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food—they were before him: he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them—and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was coming upon him by inches—and that there were none to care for or help him.

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark! A groan!—another! His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him.

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water’s level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the river.

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water’s surface—but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life—life in any form, poverty, misery, starvation—anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore—but one foot of dry ground—he could almost touch the step. One hand’s breadth nearer, and he was saved—but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant—for one brief instant—the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible—once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar.

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognised and unpitied, it was borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away!

SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

TO THE YOUNG LADIES of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; also THE YOUNG LADIES of the principality of wales, and likewise THE YOUNG LADIES resident in the isles of guernsey, jersey, alderney, and sark, the humble dedication of their devoted admirer,

Sheweth,—

That your Dedicator has perused, with feelings of virtuous indignation, a work purporting to be ‘Sketches of Young Ladies;’ written by Quiz, illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

That after an attentive and vigilant perusal of the said work, your Dedicator is humbly of opinion that so many libels, upon your Honourable sex, were never contained in any previously published work, in twelvemo or any other mo.

That in the title page and preface to the said work, your Honourable sex are described and classified as animals; and although your Dedicator is not at present prepared to deny that you are animals, still he humbly submits that it is not polite to call you so.

That in the aforesaid preface, your Honourable sex are also described as Troglodites, which, being a hard word, may, for aught your Honourable sex or your Dedicator can say to the contrary, be an injurious and disrespectful appellation.

That the author of the said work applied himself to his task in malice prepense and with wickedness aforethought; a fact which, your Dedicator contends, is sufficiently demonstrated, by his assuming the name of Quiz, which, your Dedicator submits, denotes a foregone conclusion, and implies an intention of quizzing.

That in the execution of his evil design, the said Quiz, or author of the said work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence reposed in him by some members of your Honourable sex, otherwise he never could have acquired so much information relative to the manners and customs of your Honourable sex in general.

That actuated by these considerations, and further moved by various slanders and insinuations respecting your Honourable sex contained in the said work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Ladies,’ your Dedicator ventures to produce another work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Gentlemen,’ of which he now solicits your acceptance and approval.

That as the Young Ladies are the best companions of the Young Gentlemen, so the Young Gentlemen should be the best companions of the Young Ladies; and extending the comparison from animals (to quote the disrespectful language of the said Quiz) to inanimate objects, your Dedicator humbly suggests, that such of your Honourable sex as purchased the bane should possess themselves of the antidote, and that those of your Honourable sex who were not rash enough to take the first, should lose no time in swallowing the last,—prevention being in all cases better than cure, as we are informed upon the authority, not only of general acknowledgment, but also of traditionary wisdom.

That with reference to the said bane and antidote, your Dedicator has no further remarks to make, than are comprised in the printed directions issued with Doctor Morison’s pills; namely, that whenever your Honourable sex take twenty-five of Number, 1, you will be pleased to take fifty of Number 2, without delay.

And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c.

THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We found ourself seated at a small dinner party the other day, opposite a stranger of such singular appearance and manner, that he irresistibly attracted our attention.

This was a fresh-coloured young gentleman, with as good a promise of light whisker as one might wish to see, and possessed of a very velvet-like, soft-looking countenance. We do not use the latter term invidiously, but merely to denote a pair of smooth, plump, highly-coloured cheeks of capacious dimensions, and a mouth rather remarkable for the fresh hue of the lips than for any marked or striking expression it presented. His whole face was suffused with a crimson blush, and bore that downcast, timid, retiring look, which betokens a man ill at ease with himself.

There was nothing in these symptoms to attract more than a passing remark, but our attention had been originally drawn to the bashful young gentleman, on his first appearance in the drawing-room above-stairs, into which he was no sooner introduced, than making his way towards us who were standing in a window, and wholly neglecting several persons who warmly accosted him, he seized our hand with visible emotion, and pressed it with a convulsive grasp for a good couple of minutes, after which he dived in a nervous manner across the room, oversetting in his way a fine little girl of six years and a quarter old—and shrouding himself behind some hangings, was seen no more, until the eagle eye of the hostess detecting him in his concealment, on the announcement of dinner, he was requested to pair off with a lively single lady, of two or three and thirty.

This most flattering salutation from a perfect stranger, would have gratified us not a little as a token of his having held us in high respect, and for that reason been desirous of our acquaintance, if we had not suspected from the first, that the young gentleman, in making a desperate effort to get through the ceremony of introduction, had, in the bewilderment of his ideas, shaken hands with us at random. This impression was fully confirmed by the subsequent behaviour of the bashful young gentleman in question, which we noted particularly, with the view of ascertaining whether we were right in our conjecture.

The young gentleman seated himself at table with evident misgivings, and turning sharp round to pay attention to some observation of his loquacious neighbour, overset his bread. There was nothing very bad in this, and if he had had the presence of mind to let it go, and say nothing about it, nobody but the man who had laid the cloth would have been a bit the wiser; but the young gentleman in various semi-successful attempts to prevent its fall, played with it a little, as gentlemen in the streets may be seen to do with their hats on a windy day, and then giving the roll a smart rap in his anxiety to catch it, knocked it with great adroitness into a tureen of white soup at some distance, to the unspeakable terror and disturbance of a very amiable bald gentleman, who was dispensing the contents. We thought the bashful young gentleman would have gone off in an apoplectic fit, consequent upon the violent rush of blood to his face at the occurrence of this catastrophe.

From this moment we perceived, in the phraseology of the fancy, that it was ‘all up’ with the bashful young gentleman, and so indeed it was. Several benevolent persons endeavoured to relieve his embarrassment by taking wine with him, but finding that it only augmented his sufferings, and that after mingling sherry, champagne, hock, and moselle together, he applied the greater part of the mixture externally, instead of internally, they gradually dropped off, and left him to the exclusive care of the talkative lady, who, not noting the wildness of his eye, firmly believed she had secured a listener. He broke a glass or two in the course of the meal, and disappeared shortly afterwards; it is inferred that he went away in some confusion, inasmuch as he left the house in another gentleman’s coat, and the footman’s hat.

This little incident led us to reflect upon the most prominent characteristics of bashful young gentlemen in the abstract; and as this portable volume will be the great text-book of young ladies in all future generations, we record them here for their guidance and behoof.

If the bashful young gentleman, in turning a street corner, chance to stumble suddenly upon two or three young ladies of his acquaintance, nothing can exceed his confusion and agitation. His first impulse is to make a great variety of bows, and dart past them, which he does until, observing that they wish to stop, but are uncertain whether to do so or not, he makes several feints of returning, which causes them to do the same; and at length, after a great quantity of unnecessary dodging and falling up against the other passengers, he returns and shakes hands most affectionately with all of them, in doing which he knocks out of their grasp sundry little parcels, which he hastily picks up, and returns very muddy and disordered. The chances are that the bashful young gentleman then observes it is very fine weather, and being reminded that it has only just left off raining for the first time these three days, he blushes very much, and smiles as if he had said a very good thing. The young lady who was most anxious to speak, here inquires, with an air of great commiseration, how his dear sister Harriet is to-day; to which the young gentleman, without the slightest consideration, replies with many thanks, that she is remarkably well. ‘Well, Mr. Hopkins!’ cries the young lady, ‘why, we heard she was bled yesterday evening, and have been perfectly miserable about her.’ ‘Oh, ah,’ says the young gentleman, ‘so she was. Oh, she’s very ill, very ill indeed.’ The young gentleman then shakes his head, and looks very desponding (he has been smiling perpetually up to this time), and after a short pause, gives his glove a great wrench at the wrist, and says, with a strong emphasis on the adjective, ‘Good morning, good morning.’ And making a great number of bows in acknowledgment of several little messages to his sister, walks backward a few paces, and comes with great violence against a lamp-post, knocking his hat off in the contact, which in his mental confusion and bodily pain he is going to walk away without, until a great roar from a carter attracts his attention, when he picks it up, and tries to smile cheerfully to the young ladies, who are looking back, and who, he has the satisfaction of seeing, are all laughing heartily.

At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as near the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he smiles at the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps forward to shake hands with more intimate friends: a process which on each repetition seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before. He declines dancing the first set or two, observing, in a faint voice, that he would rather wait a little; but at length is absolutely compelled to allow himself to be introduced to a partner, when he is led, in a great heat and blushing furiously, across the room to a spot where half-a-dozen unknown ladies are congregated together.

‘Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next quadrille.’ Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously. Mr. Hopkins bows, and his fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he too well knows, to make himself agreeable. The young lady more than half expects that the bashful young gentleman will say something, and the bashful young gentleman feeling this, seriously thinks whether he has got anything to say, which, upon mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude he has not, since nothing occurs to him. Meanwhile, the young lady, after several inspections of her bouquet, all made in the expectation that the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her mamma, who is sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young gentleman immediately suspects (and possibly with very good reason) must be about him. In this comfortable condition he remains until it is time to ‘stand up,’ when murmuring a ‘Will you allow me?’ he gives the young lady his arm, and after inquiring where she will stand, and receiving a reply that she has no choice, conducts her to the remotest corner of the quadrille, and making one attempt at conversation, which turns out a desperate failure, preserves a profound silence until it is all over, when he walks her twice round the room, deposits her in her old seat, and retires in confusion.

A married bashful gentleman—for these bashful gentlemen do get married sometimes; how it is ever brought about, is a mystery to us—a married bashful gentleman either causes his wife to appear bold by contrast, or merges her proper importance in his own insignificance. Bashful young gentlemen should be cured, or avoided. They are never hopeless, and never will be, while female beauty and attractions retain their influence, as any young lady will find, who may think it worth while on this confident assurance to take a patient in hand.

THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Out-and-out young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—those who have something to do, and those who have nothing. I shall commence with the former, because that species come more frequently under the notice of young ladies, whom it is our province to warn and to instruct.

The out-and-out young gentleman is usually no great dresser, his instructions to his tailor being all comprehended in the one general direction to ‘make that what’s-a-name a regular bang-up sort of thing.’ For some years past, the favourite costume of the out-and-out young gentleman has been a rough pilot coat, with two gilt hooks and eyes to the velvet collar; buttons somewhat larger than crown-pieces; a black or fancy neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat, with a low crown; tightish inexpressibles, and iron-shod boots. Out of doors he sometimes carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, for he prefers keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He smokes at all hours, of course, and swears considerably.

The out-and-out young gentleman is employed in a city counting-house or solicitor’s office, in which he does as little as he possibly can: his chief places of resort are, the streets, the taverns, and the theatres. In the streets at evening time, out-and-out young gentlemen have a pleasant custom of walking six or eight abreast, thus driving females and other inoffensive persons into the road, which never fails to afford them the highest satisfaction, especially if there be any immediate danger of their being run over, which enhances the fun of the thing materially. In all places of public resort, the out-and-outers are careful to select each a seat to himself, upon which he lies at full length, and (if the weather be very dirty, but not in any other case) he lies with his knees up, and the soles of his boots planted firmly on the cushion, so that if any low fellow should ask him to make room for a lady, he takes ample revenge upon her dress, without going at all out of his way to do it. He always sits with his hat on, and flourishes his stick in the air while the play is proceeding, with a dignified contempt of the performance; if it be possible for one or two out-and-out young gentlemen to get up a little crowding in the passages, they are quite in their element, squeezing, pushing, whooping, and shouting in the most humorous manner possible. If they can only succeed in irritating the gentleman who has a family of daughters under his charge, they are like to die with laughing, and boast of it among their companions for a week afterwards, adding, that one or two of them were ‘devilish fine girls,’ and that they really thought the youngest would have fainted, which was the only thing wanted to render the joke complete.

If the out-and-out young gentleman have a mother and sisters, of course he treats them with becoming contempt, inasmuch as they (poor things!) having no notion of life or gaiety, are far too weak-spirited and moping for him. Sometimes, however, on a birth-day or at Christmas-time, he cannot very well help accompanying them to a party at some old friend’s, with which view he comes home when they have been dressed an hour or two, smelling very strongly of tobacco and spirits, and after exchanging his rough coat for some more suitable attire (in which however he loses nothing of the out-and-outer), gets into the coach and grumbles all the way at his own good nature: his bitter reflections aggravated by the recollection, that Tom Smith has taken the chair at a little impromptu dinner at a fighting man’s, and that a set-to was to take place on a dining-table, between the fighting man and his brother-in-law, which is probably ‘coming off’ at that very instant.

As the out-and-out young gentleman is by no means at his ease in ladies’ society, he shrinks into a corner of the drawing-room when they reach the friend’s, and unless one of his sisters is kind enough to talk to him, remains there without being much troubled by the attentions of other people, until he espies, lingering outside the door, another gentleman, whom he at once knows, by his air and manner (for there is a kind of free-masonry in the craft), to be a brother out-and-outer, and towards whom he accordingly makes his way. Conversation being soon opened by some casual remark, the second out-and-outer confidentially informs the first, that he is one of the rough sort and hates that kind of thing, only he couldn’t very well be off coming; to which the other replies, that that’s just his case—‘and I’ll tell you what,’ continues the out-and-outer in a whisper, ‘I should like a glass of warm brandy and water just now,’—‘Or a pint of stout and a pipe,’ suggests the other out-and-outer.

The discovery is at once made that they are sympathetic souls; each of them says at the same moment, that he sees the other understands what’s what: and they become fast friends at once, more especially when it appears, that the second out-and-outer is no other than a gentleman, long favourably known to his familiars as ‘Mr. Warmint Blake,’ who upon divers occasions has distinguished himself in a manner that would not have disgraced the fighting man, and who—having been a pretty long time about town—had the honour of once shaking hands with the celebrated Mr. Thurtell himself.

At supper, these gentlemen greatly distinguish themselves, brightening up very much when the ladies leave the table, and proclaiming aloud their intention of beginning to spend the evening—a process which is generally understood to be satisfactorily performed, when a great deal of wine is drunk and a great deal of noise made, both of which feats the out-and-out young gentlemen execute to perfection. Having protracted their sitting until long after the host and the other guests have adjourned to the drawing-room, and finding that they have drained the decanters empty, they follow them thither with complexions rather heightened, and faces rather bloated with wine; and the agitated lady of the house whispers her friends as they waltz together, to the great terror of the whole room, that ‘both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very nice sort of young men in their way, only they are eccentric persons, and unfortunately rather too wild!’

The remaining class of out-and-out young gentlemen is composed of persons, who, having no money of their own and a soul above earning any, enjoy similar pleasures, nobody knows how. These respectable gentlemen, without aiming quite so much at the out-and-out in external appearance, are distinguished by all the same amiable and attractive characteristics, in an equal or perhaps greater degree, and now and then find their way into society, through the medium of the other class of out-and-out young gentlemen, who will sometimes carry them home, and who usually pay their tavern bills. As they are equally gentlemanly, clever, witty, intelligent, wise, and well-bred, we need scarcely have recommended them to the peculiar consideration of the young ladies, if it were not that some of the gentle creatures whom we hold in such high respect, are perhaps a little too apt to confound a great many heavier terms with the light word eccentricity, which we beg them henceforth to take in a strictly Johnsonian sense, without any liberality or latitude of construction.

THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We know—and all people know—so many specimens of this class, that in selecting the few heads our limits enable us to take from a great number, we have been induced to give the very friendly young gentleman the preference over many others, to whose claims upon a more cursory view of the question we had felt disposed to assign the priority.

The very friendly young gentleman is very friendly to everybody, but he attaches himself particularly to two, or at most to three families: regulating his choice by their dinners, their circle of acquaintance, or some other criterion in which he has an immediate interest. He is of any age between twenty and forty, unmarried of course, must be fond of children, and is expected to make himself generally useful if possible. Let us illustrate our meaning by an example, which is the shortest mode and the clearest.

We encountered one day, by chance, an old friend of whom we had lost sight for some years, and who—expressing a strong anxiety to renew our former intimacy—urged us to dine with him on an early day, that we might talk over old times. We readily assented, adding, that we hoped we should be alone. ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ said our friend, ‘not a soul with us but Mincin.’ ‘And who is Mincin?’ was our natural inquiry. ‘O don’t mind him,’ replied our friend, ‘he’s a most particular friend of mine, and a very friendly fellow you will find him;’ and so he left us.

‘We thought no more about Mincin until we duly presented ourselves at the house next day, when, after a hearty welcome, our friend motioned towards a gentleman who had been previously showing his teeth by the fireplace, and gave us to understand that it was Mr. Mincin, of whom he had spoken. It required no great penetration on our part to discover at once that Mr. Mincin was in every respect a very friendly young gentleman.

‘I am delighted,’ said Mincin, hastily advancing, and pressing our hand warmly between both of his, ‘I am delighted, I am sure, to make your acquaintance—(here he smiled)—very much delighted indeed—(here he exhibited a little emotion)—I assure you that I have looked forward to it anxiously for a very long time:’ here he released our hands, and rubbing his own, observed, that the day was severe, but that he was delighted to perceive from our appearance that it agreed with us wonderfully; and then went on to observe, that, notwithstanding the coldness of the weather, he had that morning seen in the paper an exceedingly curious paragraph, to the effect, that there was now in the garden of Mr. Wilkins of Chichester, a pumpkin, measuring four feet in height, and eleven feet seven inches in circumference, which he looked upon as a very extraordinary piece of intelligence. We ventured to remark, that we had a dim recollection of having once or twice before observed a similar paragraph in the public prints, upon which Mr. Mincin took us confidentially by the button, and said, Exactly, exactly, to be sure, we were very right, and he wondered what the editors meant by putting in such things. Who the deuce, he should like to know, did they suppose cared about them? that struck him as being the best of it.

The lady of the house appeared shortly afterwards, and Mr. Mincin’s friendliness, as will readily be supposed, suffered no diminution in consequence; he exerted much strength and skill in wheeling a large easy-chair up to the fire, and the lady being seated in it, carefully closed the door, stirred the fire, and looked to the windows to see that they admitted no air; having satisfied himself upon all these points, he expressed himself quite easy in his mind, and begged to know how she found herself to-day. Upon the lady’s replying very well, Mr. Mincin (who it appeared was a medical gentleman) offered some general remarks upon the nature and treatment of colds in the head, which occupied us agreeably until dinner-time. During the meal, he devoted himself to complimenting everybody, not forgetting himself, so that we were an uncommonly agreeable quartette.

‘I’ll tell you what, Capper,’ said Mr. Mincin to our host, as he closed the room door after the lady had retired, ‘you have very great reason to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!’ ‘Nay, Mincin—I beg,’ interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper unquestionably was particularly sweet. ‘Pray, Mincin, don’t.’ ‘Why not?’ exclaimed Mr. Mincin, ‘why not? Why should you feel any delicacy before your old friend—our old friend, if I may be allowed to call you so, sir; why should you, I ask?’ We of course wished to know why he should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper was a very sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried ‘Bravo!’ and begged to propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our host said, ‘Thank you, Mincin,’ with deep feeling; and gave us, in a low voice, to understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper’s cousin’s life no less than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he considered no common circumstance—an opinion to which we most cordially subscribed.

Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation, Mr. Mincin’s extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he was so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about anything in which he had not the chief concern. We happened to allude to some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged nearly fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded of a joke which our friend had made on that day four years, which he positively must insist upon telling—and which he did tell accordingly, with many pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper said, and how he well remembered that they had been to the play with orders on the very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and the pantomime, and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the lobby, where she smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back again, with many other interesting and absorbing particulars: after which the friendly young gentleman went on to assure us, that our friend had experienced a marvellously prophetic opinion of that same pantomime, which was of such an admirable kind, that two morning papers took the same view next day: to this our friend replied, with a little triumph, that in that instance he had some reason to think he had been correct, which gave the friendly young gentleman occasion to believe that our friend was always correct; and so we went on, until our friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink one glass to his dear friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved the lives of his acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart. Finally, our friend having emptied his glass, said, ‘God bless you, Mincin,’—and Mr. Mincin and he shook hands across the table with much affection and earnestness.

But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased éclat. Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to mention. He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers; but how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin on the carpet riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so judiciously, and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the most punctilious old lady to consider herself neglected. If any young lady, being prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr. Mincin leads her tenderly into the next room, and restores her with port wine, which she must take medicinally. If any gentleman be standing by the piano during the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin seizes him by the arm at one point of the melody, and softly beating time the while with his head, expresses in dumb show his intense perception of the delicacy of the passage. If anybody’s self-love is to be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand. If anybody’s overweening vanity is to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit it. What wonder that people of all stations and ages recognise Mr. Mincin’s friendliness; that he is universally allowed to be handsome as amiable; that mothers think him an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a beau, and fathers a wonder! And who would not have the reputation of the very friendly young gentleman?

THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that military young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of the young ladies of this kingdom. We cannot think so lightly of them as to suppose that the mere circumstance of a man’s wearing a red coat ensures him a ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the case, it would be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance, because, although the analogy may in some degree hold good in the case of mail coachmen and guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and they are not to our knowledge better received than other men; nor are firemen either, who wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very resplendent and massive badges besides—much larger than epaulettes. Neither do the twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our inquiries be correct, find any peculiar favour in woman’s eyes, although they wear very bright red jackets, and have the additional advantage of constantly appearing in public on horseback, which last circumstance may be naturally supposed to be greatly in their favour.

We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king and country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the inferior classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a little gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure of the audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice spirits who consort with them. But we will not devote these pages to our speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the present moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched by her Majesty’s livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are turned by it. For ‘heads’ we had written ‘brains;’ but upon consideration, we think the former the more appropriate word of the two.

These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—young gentlemen who are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an intense and enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a military life, are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to wear out their existence in some ignoble counting-house. We will take this latter description of military young gentlemen first.

The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are concentrated in his favourite topic. There is nothing that he is so learned upon as uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an instant, what the habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with, what regiment wear stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction how many yards and odd inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign in the Guards; is deeply read in the comparative merits of different bands, and the apparelling of trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed in descanting upon ‘crack regiments,’ and the ‘crack’ gentlemen who compose them, of whose mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of telling.

We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day, after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion of half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the articles of kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly ‘cracked’ regiments would be an improvement upon ‘crack,’ as being a more expressive and appropriate designation, when he suddenly interrupted us by pulling out his watch, and observing that he must hurry off to the Park in a cab, or he would be too late to hear the band play. Not wishing to interfere with so important an engagement, and being in fact already slightly overwhelmed by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns afore-mentioned, we made no attempt to detain the military young gentleman, but parted company with ready good-will.

Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to one of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers mount guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless appearance and eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both man and horse with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind to all that was passing around him. We were not much surprised at the discovery that it was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we were a little astonished when we returned from a walk to South Lambeth to find him still there, looking on with the same intensity as before. As it was a very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young gentleman from his reverie, when he inquired of us with great enthusiasm, whether ‘that was not a glorious spectacle,’ and proceeded to give us a detailed account of the weight of every article of the spectacle’s trappings, from the man’s gloves to the horse’s shoes.

We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging twenty-five. We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour of a very promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the service, which cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a prolonged inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with great curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man were wax-work.

But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and at the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from the barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the way towards the high street. He wears his undress uniform, which somewhat mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how grand, he is! What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and carriage, and how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm, making no more ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella! The lion is sleeping: only think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he’d whip it out of the scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!

But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen, arm-in-arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should cause all peaceful men to quail at heart. They stop to talk. See how the flaxen-haired young gentleman with the weak legs—he who has his pocket-handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places his arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart, and clasps his hands behind him. Well may we inquire—not in familiar jest, but in respectful earnest—if you call that nothing. Oh! if some encroaching foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any of those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as they move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn’t he tremble a little!

And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison—what a splendid sight it is! How sternly the defenders of their country look round the house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may make themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they (the military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are ready for anything. And what a contrast between them, and that stage-box full of grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles about them, who have nothing at all in common with the military young gentlemen, and who—but for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in their looks and bearing—might be common hard-working soldiers for anything they take the pains to announce to the contrary!

Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too, only he doesn’t care to show it just now. Very well done indeed! He talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but one to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same ordeal of criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly inaudible tone, the majority of the female portion of the audience. Oh! a gentleman in the same box looks round as if he were disposed to resent this as an impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman sees his friends at once, and hurries away to them with the most charming cordiality.

Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he was walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young ladies and commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a triumphant bow upon a rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying any military young gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors from that moment three of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen in the whole world.

THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Once upon a time—not in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more recent period of our history—it was customary to banish politics when ladies were present. If this usage still prevailed, we should have had no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was. But as this good custom in common with many others has ‘gone out,’ and left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.

If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and there are political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he is wholly absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles communicate the same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so the political glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his mental vision, give to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling. The political young gentleman would as soon think of being struck with the beauty of a young lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream of marrying his sister to the opposite member.

If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be very easily got over by the other side. He has also some choice sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at intervals with surprising effect. But his great topic is the constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with much heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the subject, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church and state, and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the fellows on the other side say it isn’t, which is quite a sufficient reason for him to say it is, and to stick to it.

Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people. If a fight takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a few windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a triumphant air, and exclaims, ‘Here’s your precious people!’ If half-a-dozen boys run across the course at race time, when it ought to be kept clear, the young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs you to observe the conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman cries ‘No’ and ‘Shame’ till he is hoarse, and then inquires with a sneer what you think of popular moderation now; in short, the people form a never-failing theme for him; and when the attorney, on the side of his candidate, dwells upon it with great power of eloquence at election time, as he never fails to do, the young gentleman and his friends, and the body they head, cheer with great violence against the other people, with whom, of course, they have no possible connexion. In much the same manner the audience at a theatre never fail to be highly amused with any jokes at the expense of the public—always laughing heartily at some other public, and never at themselves.

If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical deductions therefrom. If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country, the position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance of power. Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of political economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great many parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of aphorisms, none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which will settle the toughest question and leave you nothing to say. He gives all the young ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the greatest woman that ever lived; and when they praise the good looks of Mr. Hawkins the new member, says he’s very well for a representative, all things considered, but he wants a little calling to account, and he is more than half afraid it will be necessary to bring him down on his knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. At this, the young ladies express much wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament is not to be brought upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the political young gentleman smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints regarding the speedy arrival of that day, when Members of Parliament will be paid salaries, and required to render weekly accounts of their proceedings, at which the young ladies utter many expressions of astonishment and incredulity, while their lady-mothers regard the prophecy as little else than blasphemous.

It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about chipping all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got into the Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the crown on their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms in the armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the Minories. Upon these, and many other momentous questions which agitate the public mind in these desperate days, they will discourse with great vehemence and irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving off precisely where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he has got the better of the other.

In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when, thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their favourite discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail. They have recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in churches, but as there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must not be contradicted, whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to hold their tongues until they reach the outer door, though at the imminent risk of bursting in the effort.

As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our advice to discountenance such talkers altogether.

THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon. We are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he will answer our purpose without another word of comment.

Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother, just within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St. Martin-le-Grand. He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries spectacles for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice, of which he makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady breathing.

The two chief subjects of Felix’s discourse, are himself and his mother, both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting persons. As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and his mother are scarcely ever separate in spirit. If you ask Felix how he finds himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute bulletin of his mother’s state of health; and the good lady in her turn, edifies her acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming account, how he sneezed four times and coughed once after being out in the rain the other night, but having his feet promptly put into hot water, and his head into a flannel-something, which we will not describe more particularly than by this delicate allusion, was happily brought round by the next morning, and enabled to go to business as usual.

Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon which Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought would have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite, for he continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix took out his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed out the fare in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he shut the street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of; and then, roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman knocking a double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he broke with uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl, and running into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at the coachman, and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon says, looking about her for a simile, as white as that ceiling. She never will forget his fury that night, Never!

To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking at you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end of it, adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks afterwards, in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs. Nixon, with an exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would have done to him if he had seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly and clenching his right fist, she exclaims, ‘Goodness gracious!’ with a distracted air, and insists upon extorting a promise that he never will on any account do anything so rash, which her dutiful son—it being something more than three years since the offence was committed—reluctantly concedes, and his mother, shaking her head prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit will lead him into something violent yet. The discourse then, by an easy transition, turns upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix, upon which point Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling anecdote of the time when he used to sit up till two o’clock in the morning reading French, and how his mother used to say, ‘Felix, you will make yourself ill, I know you will;’ and how he used to say, ‘Mother, I don’t care—I will do it;’ and how at last his mother privately procured a doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse, that if he had gone on reading one night more—only one night more—he must have put a blister on each temple, and another between his shoulders; and who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a prescription for a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he wouldn’t answer for the consequences. The recital of these and many other moving perils of the like nature, constantly harrows up the feelings of Mr. Nixon’s friends.

Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance, being a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the unmarried girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of her son, hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but that they must mind their P’s and Q’s, for he is very particular, and terribly severe upon young ladies. At this last caution the young ladies resident in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening there, put their pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are troubled with a short cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and his mother drawing the tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as he takes off his boots in the back parlour that he needn’t mind coming in in his slippers, for there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss Thompson, and she is quite sure they will excuse him, and nodding to the two Miss Greys, she adds, in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a great favourite with Felix, at which intelligence the short cough comes again, and Miss Thompson in particular is greatly troubled with it, till Felix coming in, very faint for want of his tea, changes the subject of discourse, and enables her to laugh out boldly and tell Amelia Grey not to be so foolish. Here they all three laugh, and Mrs. Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage of the proceedings, Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with the grateful herb that ‘cheers but not inebriates,’ removes his cup from his countenance and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are; whereat his admiring mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be sly, which calls forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another smile from Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly satisfied.

Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card. This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties, he brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest Miss Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed. Finally, after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson’s servant to run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her house, five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but one stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes back again, when they call out ‘Very well, Mr. Felix,’ and trip into the passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever played.

Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a thorough old bachelor. He is a favourite with them however, in a certain way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as his peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope that many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good word in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance of his harmless existence.

THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society, upon whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over of the subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above appellation. Young ladies mildly call him a ‘sarcastic’ young gentleman, or a ‘severe’ young gentleman. We, who know better, beg to acquaint them with the fact, that he is merely a censorious young gentleman, and nothing else.

The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars of a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer, accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but good-humour. This sets people about thinking what on earth the censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in this way—‘This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep meaning he must have if I can’t find it out!’ It is extraordinary how soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own small circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings accordingly.

As young ladies are generally—not curious, but laudably desirous to acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked about among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him. ‘I wonder,’ exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to turn up the lamp, ‘I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.’ ‘Bless me, dear,’ cries Miss Marshall, ‘what ever made you think of him?’ ‘Really I hardly know,’ replies Miss Greenwood; ‘he is such a very mysterious person, that I often wonder about him.’ ‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ replies Miss Marshall, ‘and so do I.’ Here two other young ladies profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all present appear in the same condition except one young lady, who, not scrupling to state that she considers Mr. Fairfax ‘a horror,’ draws down all the opposition of the others, which having been expressed in a great many ejaculatory passages, such as ‘Well, did I ever!’—and ‘Lor, Emily, dear!’ ma takes up the subject, and gravely states, that she must say she does not think Mr. Fairfax by any means a horror, but rather takes him to be a young man of very great ability; ‘and I am quite sure,’ adds the worthy lady, ‘he always means a great deal more than he says.’

The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the subject of conversation! ‘Well, it really is curious,’ cries ma, ‘we were at that very moment talking about you.’ ‘You did me great honour,’ replies Mr. Fairfax; ‘may I venture to ask what you were saying?’ ‘Why, if you must know,’ returns the eldest girl, ‘we were remarking what a very mysterious man you are.’ ‘Ay, ay!’ observes Mr. Fairfax, ‘Indeed!’ Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of somebody, which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young gentleman is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, ‘Oh, dear, no,’ in a tone, obviously intended to mean, ‘You have me there,’ and which gives them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the very centre of its head.

When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the censorious young gentleman’s behaviour, to the general topics of the day, he sustains his character to admiration. He considers the new tragedy well enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us—well, no matter; he could say a great deal on that point, but he would rather not, lest he should be thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be. ‘But is not Mr. So-and-so’s performance truly charming?’ inquires a young lady. ‘Charming!’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Oh, dear, yes, certainly; very charming—oh, very charming indeed.’ After this, he stirs the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a modest young gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a great thing it must be, to have such a critical judgment. Of music, pictures, books, and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an equally fine conception. As to men and women, he can tell all about them at a glance. ‘Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,’ says some great believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, ‘but don’t be too severe.’ ‘I never am severe,’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Well, never mind that now. She is very lady-like, is she not?’ ‘Lady-like!’ repeats the censorious young gentleman (for he always repeats when he is at a loss for anything to say). ‘Did you observe her manner? Bless my heart and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you observe her manner?—that’s all I ask.’ ‘I thought I had done so,’ rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; ‘I did not observe it very closely perhaps.’ ‘Oh, not very closely,’ rejoins the censorious young gentleman, triumphantly. ‘Very good; then I did. Let us talk no more about her.’ The censorious young gentleman purses up his lips, and nods his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith whispered about, that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced, must be admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker’s manner.

THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas that ever came.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an old-fashioned party, there was an urn, and a teapot besides—when there came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of—To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital, capital!’ as loud as any of them.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over, he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel jest we all roared once more. ‘You should consider yourself highly honoured, sir,’ said we. ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me proud.’ Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game, and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting other people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed, the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to ‘impertinence,’ and a ‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings in an angry tone—a turn of the conversation which might have been productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper, intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table, that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady, overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.

Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before, insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us that although he had known him since he was that high (something smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such excellent cue.

When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We observed that several young gentlemen—including the young gentleman with the pale countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that they were surprised at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a tiny volume as this, [429] to the very bottom of the outside cover. How he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children, and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr. Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins explained, and how everybody’s good-humour was restored but the child’s;—to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly, would occupy more of our room and our readers’ patience, than either they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject, merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young gentleman’s personal appearance, believing that almost every society has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their particular case.

THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

All gentlemen who love the drama—and there are few gentlemen who are not attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our amusements—do not come within this definition. As we have no mean relish for theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly anxious that this should be perfectly understood.

The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on all theatrical topics. ‘Well,’ says he, abruptly, when you meet him in the street, ‘here’s a pretty to-do. Flimkins has thrown up his part in the melodrama at the Surrey.’—‘And what’s to be done?’ you inquire with as much gravity as you can counterfeit. ‘Ah, that’s the point,’ replies the theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; ‘Boozle declines it; positively declines it. From all I am told, I should say it was decidedly in Boozle’s line, and that he would be very likely to make a great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been put up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to take the character. It’s a fine part, too—excellent business, I’m told. He has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over a bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be. Don’t mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first poisoned, and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the greatest thing that has been done these many years.’ With this piece of news, and laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to excite the town with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.

The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all. Thus Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the vic, and the Olympic the pic. Actresses, too, are always designated by their surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented and lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so on. In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions actors, as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford. When he is at a loss for a Christian name, the word ‘old’ applied indiscriminately answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at Vestris’s, old Harley, and old Braham. He has a great knowledge of the private proceedings of actresses, especially of their getting married, and can tell you in a breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names without avowing it. Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the playbills, he will remind you that he let you into the secret six months ago.

The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is connected with the stage department of the different theatres. He would, at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to omitting to pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a curious and searching eye. If he can only identify a popular actor in the street, he is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner meets him, than he hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him, so that he can turn round from time to time, and have a good stare at his features. He looks upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most enchanting festivities ever known; and thinks that to be a member of the Garrick Club, and see so many actors in their plain clothes, must be one of the highest gratifications the world can bestow.

The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one or other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces which display the fullest resources of the establishment. He likes to place implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a show-piece, and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not only to believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also. He considers that if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in any new play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds accordingly. He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an angel or a demon—they both do it occasionally) one of the most interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.

Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors, which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table. Thus he is advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery waiting at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to administer half a pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off, without which assistance he must infallibly have fainted. He knows for a fact, that, after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between two feather beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed, that Mr. Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm toast-and-water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters. He looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of the day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,—in proof whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently produced, of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny editions as fast as they appear.

The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of emotion and redundancy of action. If a father has to curse a child upon the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her face by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts the door behind him. He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young lady, when the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and accompanied by the usual conventional forms, which consist of the old gentleman looking anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it rains, and then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the young lady’s head—soft music playing all the while. Upon these, and other points of a similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a great critic indeed. He is likewise very acute in judging of natural expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod, or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love. If you venture to express a doubt of the accuracy of any of these portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman assures you, with a haughty smile, that it always has been done in that way, and he supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day to please you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose not.

There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom he is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no space to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with calling the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical young gentlemen of their own acquaintance.

THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars, and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats and dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public. These were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to be inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and too large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently passed away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the number of poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.

We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman. We do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he seldom has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and wanting a kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general observations in which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious impulses, and yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect gilding all earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it is clear to all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.

The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall. When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy, affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other, you may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent upon vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his pocket, puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply, paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful slap upon his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.

The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of things too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical obliquity of vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For instance, when the sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman was affording delicious food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable curiosity of the public, our friend the poetical young gentleman was in ecstasies—not of disgust, but admiration. ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical young gentleman, ‘how grand; how great!’ We ventured deferentially to inquire upon whom these epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts oscillating between the police officer who found the criminal, and the lock-keeper who found the head. ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical young gentleman in a frenzy of poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and thereupon it came out, in a fine torrent of eloquence, that the murderer was a great spirit, a bold creature full of daring and nerve, a man of dauntless heart and determined courage, and withal a great casuist and able reasoner, as was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies with the great and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly signified our indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because we were no match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and secondly, because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be plentifully expended.

This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or the ‘Poets’ Corner’ of some country newspaper; or which, in default of either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady’s album. These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating the Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul’s in a snow-storm; and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him inspiration, he pours forth his soul in a touching address to a violet, or a plaintive lament that he is no longer a child, but has gradually grown up.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that there is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand, however, that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the tiresome play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong desire to make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the reflection, that immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the other great spirits whom earth has chafed and wearied.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest, mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and most pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry; and who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? ‘Mr. Milkwash,’ says a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young gentleman’s original impromptu contribution, ‘how very silent you are! I think you must be in love.’ ‘Love!’ cries the poetical young gentleman, starting from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat who scampers off at full speed, ‘Love! that burning, consuming passion; that ardour of the soul, that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The withering, blighting influence of hope misplaced and affection slighted. Love did you say! Ha! ha! ha!’

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only to poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting, semi-atheistical demoniac style, which, like the poetical young gentleman himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is a certain kind of impostor—a bragging, vaunting, puffing young gentleman—against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours. And we are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of our subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen of this class of men. We had been urging all the absurdities of his conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he constantly recounted—to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters—when our fair friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly cried, ‘Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then—’ What then? Throw him off yourself, said we. And so she did, but not at our instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if she had done so at first.

The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of vast property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with some suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description of themselves. The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young gentleman was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the throwing-off young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only yesterday, the deceased baronet’s library, with its long rows of scarce and valuable books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases, reaching from the lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine antique chairs and tables, and the noble old castle of Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect of hill and dale, and wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting stables and the spacious court-yards, ‘and—and—everything upon the same magnificent scale,’ says the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘princely; quite princely. Ah!’ And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen fortunes of his noble house.

The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking, running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games of chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or amateur theatricals, no one can touch him—that is could not, because he gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any opportunity of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just now, and has been for some years. If you mention any beautiful girl of your common acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young gentleman starts, smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was quite involuntary: people do say indeed that they were once engaged, but no—although she is a very fine girl, he was so situated at that time that he couldn’t possibly encourage the—‘but it’s of no use talking about it!’ he adds, interrupting himself. ‘She has got over it now, and I firmly hope and trust is happy.’ With this benevolent aspiration he nods his head in a mysterious manner, and whistling the first part of some popular air, thinks perhaps it will be better to change the subject.

There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young gentleman, which is, that he ‘happens to be acquainted’ with a most extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world. Thus in all disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no argument to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with some distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose testimony decides the point against you, to the great—may we say it—to the great admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who consider the throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young man, and a most charming person.

Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the evening together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit of his glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to equal advantage in the presence of men as in the society of over-credulous young ladies, which is his proper element. It is delightful to hear the number of pretty things the throwing-off young gentleman gives utterance to, during tea, and still more so to observe the ease with which, from long practice and study, he delicately blends one compliment to a lady with two for himself. ‘Did you ever see a more lovely blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?’ asks a young lady who, truth to tell, is rather smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman. ‘Never,’ he replies, bending over the object of admiration, ‘never but in your eyes.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Caveton,’ cries the young lady, blushing of course. ‘Indeed I speak the truth,’ replies the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘I never saw any approach to them. I used to think my cousin’s blue eyes lovely, but they grow dim and colourless beside yours.’ ‘Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!’ replies the young lady, with that perfect artlessness which is the distinguishing characteristic of all young ladies; ‘an affair, of course.’ ‘No; indeed, indeed you wrong me,’ rejoins the throwing-off young gentleman with great energy. ‘I fervently hope that her attachment towards me may be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in childhood, and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon overcome it. I love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I beseech, as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence my choice. The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.’ Here the throwing-off young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper; and the young lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they go up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton’s relations are all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands, riches, and beauty.

We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when he had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an instrument within a mile of the house.

We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a note or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing out of tune, let him try as he would. We have lived to witness the unmasking of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after passing successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for his red whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride, turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small country town, and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we should not yet despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are often swindlers, and always fools. So pray you avoid them.

THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN

This young gentleman has several titles. Some young ladies consider him ‘a nice young man,’ others ‘a fine young man,’ others ‘quite a lady’s man,’ others ‘a handsome man,’ others ‘a remarkably good-looking young man.’ With some young ladies he is ‘a perfect angel,’ and with others ‘quite a love.’ He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.

The young ladies’ young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every possible opportunity. He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is vulgarly known as sandy, is not considered an objection. If his head and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly. Should his whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile constantly.

There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours last summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest. As we hold that such wild expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors of the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice sample of the young ladies’ young gentleman, whom we were very anxious to have an opportunity of meeting. This determined us, and we went.

We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a trifling company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to the projectors on the box—and to start from the residence of the projectors, Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely. We arrived at the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found the glass coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour blinds, who appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as we might have expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else. Observing that our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some disappointment, we ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we found from the hasty reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than the young ladies’ young gentleman.

‘I cannot imagine,’ said the mamma, ‘what has become of Mr. Balim—always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I am sure I can-not think.’ As these last words were uttered in that measured, emphatic manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not quite made up his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on nevertheless, the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no accident had happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general chorus of ‘Dear Mr. Balim!’ and one young lady, more adventurous than the rest, proposed that an express should be straightway sent to dear Mr. Balim’s lodgings. This, however, the papa resolutely opposed, observing, in what a short young lady behind us termed ‘quite a bearish way,’ that if Mr. Balim didn’t choose to come, he might stop at home. At this all the daughters raised a murmur of ‘Oh pa!’ except one sprightly little girl of eight or ten years old, who, taking advantage of a pause in the discourse, remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might have been married that morning—for which impertinent suggestion she was summarily ejected from the room by her eldest sister.

We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one of the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys usually run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the holidays, and keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of very deep trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced that Mr. Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a hackney-cab; and the intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a minute afterwards by the entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received with repeated cries of ‘Where have you been, you naughty creature?’ whereunto the naughty creature replied, that he had been in bed, in consequence of a late party the night before, and had only just risen. The acknowledgment awakened a variety of agonizing fears that he had taken no breakfast; which appearing after a slight cross-examination to be the real state of the case, breakfast for one was immediately ordered, notwithstanding Mr. Balim’s repeated protestations that he couldn’t think of it. He did think of it though, and thought better of it too, for he made a remarkably good meal when it came, and was assiduously served by a select knot of young ladies. It was quite delightful to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands poured out his coffee, and another put in the sugar, and another the milk; the rest of the company ever and anon casting angry glances at their watches, and the glass coaches,—and the little boys looking on in an agony of apprehension lest it should begin to rain before we set out; it might have rained all day, after we were once too far to turn back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.

However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being accommodated with a hamper between his legs something larger than a wheelbarrow; and the company being packed as closely as they possibly could in the carriages, ‘according,’ as one married lady observed, ‘to the immemorial custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.’ Thinking it very likely it might be (we have never been able to discover the other half), we submitted to be stowed away with a cheerful aspect, and were fortunate enough to occupy one corner of a coach in which were one old lady, four young ladies, and the renowned Mr. Balim the young ladies’ young gentleman.

We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies’ young gentleman hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire whether he had danced to that the night before. ‘By Heaven, then, I did,’ replied the young gentleman, ‘and with a lovely heiress; a superb creature, with twenty thousand pounds.’ ‘You seem rather struck,’ observed another young lady. ‘’Gad she was a sweet creature,’ returned the young gentleman, arranging his hair. ‘Of course she was struck too?’ inquired the first young lady. ‘How can you ask, love?’ interposed the second; ‘could she fail to be?’ ‘Well, honestly I think she was,’ observed the young gentleman. At this point of the dialogue, the young lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young gentleman’s right, struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud, and said he was a vain man—whereupon the young gentleman insisted on having the rosebud, and the young lady appealing for help to the other young ladies, a charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of the young gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud. This little skirmish over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud, smiled sweetly upon the young gentleman, and accused him of being a flirt; the young gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting discussion took place upon the important point whether the young gentleman was a flirt or not, which being an agreeable conversation of a light kind, lasted a considerable time. At length, a short silence occurring, the young ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell suddenly fast asleep; and the young gentleman, winking upon us to preserve silence, won a pair of gloves from each, thereby causing them to wake with equal suddenness and to scream very loud. The lively conversation to which this pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the remainder of the ride, and would have eked out a much longer one.

We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and the bread. The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly drunk at a respectful distance.

We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of young ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their plates and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from its excessive playfulness. His conversation, too, was exceedingly brilliant. In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of a little lively badinage on the subject of ladies’ dresses, he had evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.

As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after dinner entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone into a thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the greater part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes and the young ladies’ young gentleman among them. Nor were we disappointed, for we had not walked far, when, peeping through the trees, we discovered him before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing to contemplate his greatness.

The young ladies’ young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the feet of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so profusely decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty spoils, that he looked like a lamb—or perhaps a calf would be a better simile—adorned for the sacrifice. One young lady supported a parasol over his interesting head, another held his hat, and a third his neck-cloth, which in romantic fashion he had thrown off; the young gentleman himself, with his hand upon his breast, and his face moulded into an expression of the most honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth some choice specimens of vocal music in praise of female loveliness, in a style so exquisitely perfect, that we burst into an involuntary shout of laughter, and made a hasty retreat.

What charming fellows these young ladies’ young gentlemen are! Ducks, dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit. They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men.

CONCLUSION

As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust of the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do better than preserve and maintain—we say, as we have done all this, we feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of young gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.

Here we are at a loss. We look over our list, and can neither recommend the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor the very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman, nor the political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman, nor the censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor the theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor the throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies’ young gentleman.

As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a whole, our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a young gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and the worst weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal altar, whether he will or no. And to the young lady who secures him, we beg to tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from many sound passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

‘The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem of your husband. Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to esteem you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and perhaps contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and beauty with more durable qualities. You have but a very few years to be young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so in the eyes of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will, put a sudden end to.’

From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young gentleman to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than ourself. Without in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have merely to observe, that we are ready to receive sealed offers containing a full specification of age, temper, appearance, and condition; but we beg it to be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourself to accept the highest bidder.

These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested to be addressed.

SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES

AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, (being bachelors or widowers,) THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

Sheweth,—

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and pronounce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most Gracious intention of entering into the bonds of wedlock.

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use and employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’

That the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of marriage to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of the same, under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or satin dress of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or owed) for, by the gentleman.

That these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious communication, which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in this Realm with certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind, that never entered their imagination before.

That a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

That similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the capital and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that unless the excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained in their lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue therefrom; among which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in the population of the country, with which no efforts of the agricultural or manufacturing interest can possibly keep pace.

That there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most extensive plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast numbers of single ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and now extending its ramifications in every quarter of the land; the object and intent of which plainly appears to be the holding and solemnising of an enormous and unprecedented number of marriages, on the day on which the nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are performed.

That such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers, which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

That such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State, cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns. And in further proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here observed, that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the Protestant religion.

For all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import, an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors or widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with which they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap Year, and the additional sensation created among single ladies by the terms of Her Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures, without delay, for resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting their evil designs; And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present Ministers, and to summon to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honourable Professions who, by insulting on all occasions the only Lady in England who can be insulted with safety, have given a sufficient guarantee to Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at least, are qualified to make war with women, and are already expert in the use of those weapons which are common to the lowest and most abandoned of the sex.

THE YOUNG COUPLE

There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace. The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she would dress, if she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful. What day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one perpetual holiday, with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it—of every Sunday being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what pictures of happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in, under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking like the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s mamma in tears, and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be—and there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round her neck, and the other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister Emma should be taken away—and it is all so affecting, that the two servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so that she don’t know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she may be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake, glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully. They agree that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception, there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer. As they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says he knows, for he’s often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush and look confused. She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it’s being early in the morning, it won’t hurt her: so they shut the door and pour out the wine; and Anne drinking lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s wishing you yours, Mr. John,’ drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John, who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’ has the satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this all, for soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and shut the street-door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles, and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma’s papa is at the top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to be the handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All down both sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to possess unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has been very liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may call her an old maid, and so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and never know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of the same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’ The real bride and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention, and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose-leaves in her bosom with nature’s own coquettishness. They have dreamt of each other in their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest. When will there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and charm that hover round such fairy lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such members of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a particularly awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming farewell in every queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps are crowded with servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and they have left it far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh such a angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she ‘can’t tell how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’

THE FORMAL COUPLE

The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and unsatisfactory people on the face of the earth. Their faces, voices, dress, house, furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of formality, unrelieved by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness, or nature.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of form. They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to see how you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do honour to you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to theirs. If one of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as sure and punctual in sending to the house as the undertaker; if a friend’s family be increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive than they. The formal couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of testifying their good-breeding and precise observance of the little usages of society; and for you, who are the means to this end, they care as much as a man does for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a figure, or a woman for the milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from time to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited, and to which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time. Here his deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the exact pitch of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought to wear, the melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day. He is perfectly acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed in a mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in the white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head when the ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns home. ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’ ‘No feathers!’ cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere. Her husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. ‘All white wine!’ exclaims his wife. ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband. ‘What! no port?’ ‘Not a drop.’ No port, no plums, and no feathers! ‘You will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of stately reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead and gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly acquainted with the decencies of life. You have now had a good opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I trust you will never go to a funeral there again.’ ‘My dear,’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’ So the informal deceased is cut in his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings are made of, and what their notions of propriety can be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they are not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women; and so exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for anything that appeareth to the contrary. Indeed, they are so acquainted with forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such strict decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in some wild outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any visitor an unspeakable relief and consolation.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected. Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a perfect agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the stage; and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a double construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to express by their looks the great outrage which their feelings have sustained. Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves almost entirely from places of public amusement. They go sometimes to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking than the stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is high time Mr. Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture from certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely dried also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman, who, being highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his own way, and was in great spirits. It was at supper-time that this gentleman came out in full force. We—being of a grave and quiet demeanour—had been chosen to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and, sitting beside her, had a favourable opportunity of observing her emotions.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the first blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady had not felt quite certain whether the being present at such a ceremony, and encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby, was not an act involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but certain we are that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions were made, by a grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he had dandled in his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are that then the formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old gentleman as from a hoary profligate. Still she bore it; she fanned herself with an indignant air, but still she bore it. A comic song was sung, involving a confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had kissed a female, and yet the formal lady bore it. But when at last, the health of the godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather rose to return thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly hinted at babies yet unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of the subject of that festival having brothers and sisters, the formal lady could endure no more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping haughtily past the offender, left the room in tears, under the protection of the formal gentleman.

THE LOVING COUPLE

There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is presented by a loving couple. Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that two persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but there is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always in a loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal considerations. We grant that to that unfortunate class of society there may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in being compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste interchanges which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of life. But while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to which these unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their biassed evidence, nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered minds. Dispassionate experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays we seek no less to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a timely warning to all rising couples, and even to those who have not yet set forth upon their pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity. ‘You would suppose,’ says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged. Never was such happiness! They are so tender, so affectionate, so attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be more charming!’

‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs. Leaver. ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver. ‘Do, my dove,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and it’s very naughty of you to ask me.’ ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr. Leaver. ‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for you know I have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great pain. You’re a monster, and I hate you. Go away!’ Mrs. Leaver has said ‘go away,’ because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver not doing as he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her, Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs. Leaver, and it being now time for all persons present to look the other way, they look the other way, and hear a still small sound as of kissing, at which Mrs. Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers her neighbour that if all married couples were like that, what a heaven this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad. Indeed upon some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing in person.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly for the purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was our fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared galley, manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same pattern as their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same shade as the whiskers of the stroke oar. A coxswain being appointed, and all other matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into strong paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the compassionate remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it seemed an immense exertion—as indeed it did. At first we raced the other boat, which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found an unpleasant amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of splashing, and rendering the cold pies and other viands very moist, it was unanimously voted down, and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while the second boat followed ingloriously in our wake.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver. There were two firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted; and one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs, was heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her, number two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think you’re winning a boat.’ The greater part of the company had no doubt begun to wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood in need of such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver confirmed the doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still further disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be in a fearful perspiration, and failing visibly. Nor was the general consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’) plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the company, but two violently struggling legs. Mrs. Leaver shrieked again several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead? Tell me the worst. Is he dead?’

Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in a sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds of wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in his hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’ But Mrs. Leaver cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that if Mr. Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his proper share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took part with Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was not strong enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have undertaken it. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at Mrs. Leaver’s feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh Augustus, how could you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my sweet, I never meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are faint, my dear;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and they were very loving indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length Mr. Leaver came forth again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard something said about bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple you are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy together!’ To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of cousins,) observing that hearts beating in unison like that made life a paradise of sweets; and that when kindred creatures were drawn together by sympathies so fine and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did not our souls partake! To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very true,’ or merely sighed, as the case might be. At every new act of the loving couple, the widow’s admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs. Leaver would not permit Mr. Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun should strike to his head, and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually shed tears, and said it reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when we arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty and vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw stones at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the grass, in a most innocent and enchanting manner. At dinner, too, Mr. Leaver would steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver would retaliate upon Mr. Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to take some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying that it made her ill, and she was always sorry for it afterwards, which afforded Mrs. Leaver an opportunity of pretending to be cross, and showing many other prettinesses. But this was merely the smiling surface of their loves, not the mighty depths of the stream, down to which the company, to say the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from the following accident. It chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to propose the bachelors who had first originated the notion of that entertainment, in doing which, he affected to regret that he was no longer of their body himself, and pretended grievously to lament his fallen state. This Mrs. Leaver’s feelings could not brook, even in jest, and consequently, exclaiming aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me not!’ she fell in a very pitiable state into the arms of Mrs. Starling, and, directly becoming insensible, was conveyed by that lady and her husband into another room. Presently Mr. Leaver came running back to know if there was a medical gentleman in company, and as there was, (in what company is there not?) both Mr. Leaver and the medical gentleman hurried away together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his intimate friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as unmedical as might be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very solemn, and in answer to all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked that Augusta was far too sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which the widow subsequently confirmed. Finding that she was in no imminent peril, however, the rest of the party betook themselves to dancing on the green, and very merry and happy they were, and a vast quantity of flirtation there was; the last circumstance being no doubt attributable, partly to the fineness of the weather, and partly to the locality, which is well known to be favourable to all harmless recreations.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat, and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her head upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with great fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a melancholy and sympathetic aspect. The widow sat apart, feigning to be occupied with a book, but stealthily observing them from behind her fan; and the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard by, nudged each other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke. Very few of the party missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily congratulated each other on their disappearance.

THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE

One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other, could find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is more common than a contradictory couple?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction. They return home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite corner of the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have been seated for at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when the gentleman, raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks silence:

‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you will contradict, Charlotte!’ ‘I contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s just like you.’ ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply. ‘Saying that I contradict you,’ replies the lady. ‘Do you mean to say that you do not contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say that you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’ ‘Do you mean to tell me now, that you have not? I mean to tell you nothing of the kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I shall contradict you.’

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets down her back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to exasperate the gentleman—and does so.

‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’ ‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray. You see how much I contradict you,’ rejoins the lady. ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman. ‘Yes, I did,’ says the lady. ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’ ‘If you call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again, Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not your slave.’ ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’ ‘I mean to say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’ ‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the room with rapid strides. ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s intellect, and drive him mad!’

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand gloomily across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair. There is a long silence, and this time the lady begins. ‘I appealed to Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during tea—’ ‘Morgan, you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman. ‘I do not mean anything of the kind,’ answers the lady. ‘Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and looking upwards in agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it that Morgan is Jenkins!’ ‘Do you take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t know the one from the other? Do you suppose I don’t know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’ ‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in a blue coat! a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but brown!’ ‘Do you dare to charge me with telling an untruth?’ demands the lady, bursting into tears. ‘I charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a monster of contradiction, a monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a blue coat!—what have I done that I should be doomed to hear such statements!’

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr. Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the less contradictory on that account. Master James and Miss Charlotte present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary indulgences. But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon such prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether she is not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should think she was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.’ ‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not tell the child such preposterous nonsense. Six feet high!’ ‘Well,’ replies the lady, ‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my opinion is, that she is six feet high—at least six feet.’ ‘Now you know, Charlotte,’ retorts the gentleman sternly, ‘that that is not your opinion—that you have no such idea—and that you only say this for the sake of contradiction.’ ‘You are exceedingly polite,’ his wife replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry question as anybody’s height, would be no great crime; but I say again, that I believe Mrs. Parsons to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I believe you know her to be full six feet, and only say she is not, because I say she is.’ This taunt disposes the gentleman to become violent, but he cheeks himself, and is content to mutter, in a haughty tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha! Mrs. Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers, ‘Yes, six feet. I am sure I am glad you are amused, and I’ll say it again—six feet.’ Thus the subject gradually drops off, and the contradiction begins to be forgotten, when Master James, with some undefined notion of making himself agreeable, and putting things to rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what the moon’s made of; which gives her occasion to say that he had better not ask her, for she is always wrong and never can be right; that he only exposes her to contradiction by asking any question of her; and that he had better ask his papa, who is infallible, and never can be wrong. Papa, smarting under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the bell, and says, that if the conversation is to proceed in this way, the children had better be removed. Removed they are, after a few tears and many struggles; and Pa having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or two, with a baleful eye, draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face, and composes himself for his after-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time: observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles. But neither the friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.

THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN

The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case, they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’ friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds. They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all in red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday, for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart when she was in the family way with Georgiana. The movable feasts have no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be separated any more. Time was made, according to their creed, not for slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but little children at play.

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever underwent; or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a cast-iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some respect or other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To such an extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were obliged to forego their acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr. Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The slightest remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them. They will come uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been known to be lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out. Nothing can keep down the twins.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’ The friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’ ‘Your talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course, ‘reminds me of the twins. It’s a very extraordinary thing about those babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’ ‘Upon my word,’ the friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact being, that except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary. ‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’ ‘What should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The friend glances at him, and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, ‘I should say they were blue—a decided blue.’ ‘To be sure!’ cries Mr. Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would! But what should you say if I was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue and the girl’s hazel, eh?’ ‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be impossible. ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’ cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me tell you, Saunders, that’s not a common thing in twins, or a circumstance that’ll happen every day.’

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon the subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if he had heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children, closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by a ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all their heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, ‘Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’ A breathless silence ensues, and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said ‘No, thank you.’ Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders, begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or Ned’s nose, or Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s calves, or Fanny’s mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be. Whatever the attention of Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in consequence. At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr. Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders ‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who having drunk his father’s wine when he was looking another way, is found to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him. ‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’ Mr. Saunders feels this to be a reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks it in some confusion. ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children, Saunders, make one quite an old man.’ Mr. Saunders thinks that if they were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing. ‘And yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what can equal the engaging ways of children! Saunders, why don’t you get married?’ Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for ever. ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you are a bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit. Will you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’ Mr. Saunders is surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’ ‘I shall be proud and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it? really, I thought they were all christened; or—’ ‘Saunders,’ Mr. Whiffler interposes, ‘they are all christened; you are right. The fact is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’ ‘Not a ninth!’ cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr. Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health? Let us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which was a wrong one. The couple who dote upon their children are in the same predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond. They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every company with their prolixity and absurdity. Mr. Whiffler takes a friend by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a bon mot of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past sufferings and present expectations. In such cases the sins of the fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard them as predestined little bores. The couple who dote upon their children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own. If they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of. Self-love and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition, though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and unpleasant. Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best avoided.

THE COOL COUPLE

There is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other the figure of a lady. When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out and the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady goes in. They never seek each other’s society, are never elevated and depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common. They are the model of a cool couple, except that there is something of politeness and consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in the weather-glass, in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to participate.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing can exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most part drowsy, and the lady silent. If they enter into conversation, it is usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature. Thus, when the gentleman has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more snugly in his easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, ‘Well, I am sure, Charles! I hope you’re comfortable.’ To which the gentleman replies, ‘Oh yes, he’s quite comfortable quite.’ ‘There are not many married men, I hope,’ returns the lady, ‘who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do.’ ‘Nor many wives who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do, I hope,’ retorts the gentleman. ‘Whose fault is that?’ demands the lady. The gentleman becoming more sleepy, returns no answer. ‘Whose fault is that?’ the lady repeats. The gentleman still returning no answer, she goes on to say that she believes there never was in all this world anybody so attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so unwilling to seek a moment’s gratification or pleasure beyond her own fireside as she. God knows that before she was married she never thought or dreamt of such a thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to say again and again, almost every day of his life, ‘Oh, my dear Louisa, if you only marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to consider your happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your disposition, what a treasure he will find in you!’ She supposes her papa knew what her disposition was—he had known her long enough—he ought to have been acquainted with it, but what can she do? If her home is always dull and lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure in her society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is sure) to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine and mope to death, she hopes. ‘Then come, Louisa,’ says the gentleman, waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, ‘stop at home this evening, and so will I.’ ‘I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a pleasure in aggravating me,’ replies the lady; ‘but you know as well as I do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would be an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a seat in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to go.’ ‘Ah! there it is!’ says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I knew that perfectly well. I knew you couldn’t devote an evening to your own home. Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—recollect that I was quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of mine we are not oftener together.’

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his club, and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer’s; and neither thinks of the other until by some odd chance they find themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a quarrelsome one. Quite the contrary. These differences are only occasions for a little self-excuse,—nothing more. In general they are as easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common acquaintances may; for it is neither worth their while to put each other out of the way, nor to ruffle themselves.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in existence. The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady friends, one of whom exclaims, ‘Why, I vow and declare there is your husband, my dear!’ ‘Whose?—mine?’ she says, carelessly. ‘Ay, yours, and coming this way too.’ ‘How very odd!’ says the lady, in a languid tone, ‘I thought he had been at Dover.’ The gentleman coming up, and speaking to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned. ‘What a strange creature you are!’ cries his wife; ‘and what on earth brought you here, I wonder?’ ‘I came to look after you, of course,’ rejoins her husband. This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused, as are all the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing; and while they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again, turns upon his heel, and saunters away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in the very midst of their diversion. It is a hundred chances to one that he remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed by the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,—‘I am sure I never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me? It can scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a particular reason for not wishing him to come home, but he always comes. It’s very provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves me so much alone for his own pleasure, the least he could do would be to do as much for mine.’ Observing what passes in her mind, the gentleman, who has come home for his own accommodation, makes a merit of it with himself; arrives at the conclusion that it is the very last place in which he can hope to be comfortable; and determines, as he takes up his hat and cane, never to be so virtuous again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and the grave has closed over their folly and indifference. Loss of name, station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate their deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each other to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even in the best of times.

THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE

The plausible couple have many titles. They are ‘a delightful couple,’ an ‘affectionate couple,’ ‘a most agreeable couple, ‘a good-hearted couple,’ and ‘the best-natured couple in existence.’ The truth is, that the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew very little of the trade.

‘But is it really possible to please the world!’ says some doubting reader. It is indeed. Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy. The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low. What then? A man need but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and when his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the world is meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall please it, never fear.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its twistings and twinings, a plausible man and woman, or, in other words, a plausible couple, playing into each other’s hands, and acting in concert, have a manifest advantage. Hence it is that plausible couples scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and hence it is that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the next full stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of acquaintance, and to search particularly for some man and wife with a large connexion and a good name, not easily referable to their abilities or their wealth, he or she (that is, the male or female reader) will certainly find that gentleman or lady, on a very short reflection, to be a plausible couple.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most sensitive people—to merit—on the face of the earth. Nothing clever or virtuous escapes them. They have microscopic eyes for such endowments, and can find them anywhere. The plausible couple never fawn—oh no! They don’t even scruple to tell their friends of their faults. One is too generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all people like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a fourth is kind-hearted to a fault. ‘We never flatter, my dear Mrs. Jackson,’ say the plausible couple; ‘we speak our minds. Neither you nor Mr. Jackson have faults enough. It may sound strangely, but it is true. You have not faults enough. You know our way,—we must speak out, and always do. Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we repeat it,—you have not faults enough!’

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third parties. They are always loving and harmonious. The plausible gentleman calls his wife ‘darling,’ and the plausible lady addresses him as ‘dearest.’ If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is ‘Lavinia, darling,’ and Mr. Widger is ‘Bobtail, dearest.’ Speaking of each other, they observe the same tender form. Mrs. Widger relates what ‘Bobtail’ said, and Mr. Widger recounts what ‘darling’ thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of you—she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a flatterer. You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady immediately launches out in their praise. She quite loves the Clickits. Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people—such a gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank, unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in short, so little spoiled by the world as they are? ‘As who, darling?’ cries Mr. Widger, from the opposite side of the table. ‘The Clickits, dearest,’ replies Mrs. Widger. ‘Indeed you are right, darling,’ Mr. Widger rejoins; ‘the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable couple.’ Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent upon this subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly whenever such people as the Clickits and some other friends of his (here he glances at the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are an honour to human nature, and do one good to think of. ‘You know the Clickits, Mrs. Jackson?’ he says, addressing the lady of the house. ‘No, indeed; we have not that pleasure,’ she replies. ‘You astonish me!’ exclaims Mr. Widger: ‘not know the Clickits! why, you are the very people of all others who ought to be their bosom friends. You are kindred beings; you are one and the same thing:—not know the Clickits! Now will you know the Clickits? Will you make a point of knowing them? Will you meet them in a friendly way at our house one evening, and be acquainted with them?’ Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted; nothing would give her more pleasure. ‘Then, Lavinia, my darling,’ says Mr. Widger, ‘mind you don’t lose sight of that; now, pray take care that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know the Clickits without loss of time. Such people ought not to be strangers to each other.’ Mrs. Widger books both families as the centre of attraction for her next party; and Mr. Widger, going on to expatiate upon the virtues of the Clickits, adds to their other moral qualities, that they keep one of the neatest phaetons in town, and have two thousand a year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person, without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody, without turning their depreciation to the same account. Their friend, Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art, and made it thoroughly and completely his own;—Fithers, it is to be observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere. Is Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Why, there indeed you ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately. She is no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer, they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can’t help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time, perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt extremely handsome,—very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the features,—but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air altogether—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy and good will. The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned out a finer one than it promised to be. ‘Oh dear!’ cries the plausible lady, ‘you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor Mrs. Finching—she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby should be a fine child—and very naturally, because she was very much here at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among mothers—that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for her.’ ‘Is it weak or plain, or what?’ inquires the other. ‘Weak or plain, my love,’ returns the plausible lady, ‘it’s a fright—a perfect little fright; you never saw such a miserable creature in all your days. Positively you must not let her see one of these beautiful dears again, or you’ll break her heart, you will indeed.—Heaven bless this child, see how she is looking in my face! can you conceive anything prettier than that? If poor Mrs. Finching could only hope—but that’s impossible—and the gifts of Providence, you know—What did I do with my pocket-handkerchief!’

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her lord that evening on the plausible lady’s engaging qualities and feeling heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger an immediate invitation to dinner?

THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE

A custom once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the company with a story. As we find ourself in the predicament of not being able to describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in the abstract, we purpose telling in this place a little story about a nice little couple of our acquaintance.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question. Mr. Chirrup has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of a small bird. Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and has the prettiest little figure conceivable. She has the neatest little foot, and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile, and the tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the quietest little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most engaging of all little women, dead or alive. She is a condensation of all the domestic virtues,—a pocket edition of the young man’s best companion,—a little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing quantity of goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space. Little as she is, Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral equipment of a score of housewives, six feet high in their stockings—if, in the presence of ladies, we may be allowed the expression—and of corresponding robustness.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes on that he don’t. Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather fortunate in having her to wife. We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed toss of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in his mind as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a speaking-trumpet. Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup ‘my dear;’ and—for he is of a jocose turn—of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself. Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a marvellously contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and the sorrow of his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs. Chirrup—all of which circumstances combine to show the secret triumph and satisfaction of Mr. Chirrup’s soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an incomparable housewife. In all the arts of domestic arrangement and management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body. She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a special hand at marketing to the very best advantage. But if there be one branch of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly unparalleled and unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of carving. A roast goose is universally allowed to be the great stumbling-block in the way of young aspirants to perfection in this department of science; many promising carvers, beginning with legs of mutton, and preserving a good reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb, fowls, and even ducks, have sunk before a roast goose, and lost caste and character for ever. To Mrs. Chirrup the resolving a goose into its smallest component parts is a pleasant pastime—a practical joke—a thing to be done in a minute or so, without the smallest interruption to the conversation of the time. No handing the dish over to an unfortunate man upon her right or left, no wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint, no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off in despair; all is confidence and cheerfulness. The dish is set upon the table, the cover is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you observe that Mrs. Chirrup’s attention is distracted; she smiles, but heareth not. You proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife is slowly upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup’s wrists are slightly but not ungracefully agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then breaks into a smile, and all is over. The legs of the bird slide gently down into a pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the breast separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more complicated parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of stuffing is revealed, and the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in the world. Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his own days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached. Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend of Mrs. Chirrup’s, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend. It would put any reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup’s face, a bustling hospitality oozing as it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a patronising enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part of the bachelor friend, which is quite delightful. On these occasions Mr. Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on being single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married, at which moments some single young ladies present are like to die of laughter; and we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon the friend, which convinces us that his position is by no means a safe one, as, indeed, we hold no bachelor’s to be who visits married friends and cracks jokes on wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among traps and nets and pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down upon their knees at the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded wives, before they know anything about the matter.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup’s, who talks, and laughs, and drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time to repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs. Chirrup prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible little fish into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr. Chirrup to assist her, which Mr. Chirrup does. As they stand side by side, you find that Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade taller than Mrs. Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and best-matched little couple that can be, which the chances are ten to one against your observing with such effect at any other time, unless you see them in the street arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day trotting along under a very small umbrella. The round game (at which Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the party) being done and over, in course of time a nice little tray appears, on which is a nice little supper; and when that is finished likewise, and you have said ‘Good night,’ you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as you ride home, that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in small bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they are diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for use, we don’t know, but as a general rule,—strengthened like all other rules by its exceptions,—we hold that little people are sprightly and good-natured. The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and hope that they may increase and multiply.

THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE

Egotism in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by two examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or ill to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family at all. There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be known and avoided. They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding against them. No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against an egotistical couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is susceptible. You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple anything they don’t know, or describe to them anything they have not felt. They have been everything but dead. Sometimes we are tempted to wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments, which are few and far between.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to encounter an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in ignorance of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the house brought them into active and vigorous operation. The inquiry was of course touching the lady’s health, and the answer happened to be, that she had not been very well. ‘Oh, my dear!’ said the egotistical lady, ‘don’t talk of not being well. We have been in such a state since we saw you last!’—The lady of the house happening to remark that her lord had not been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in: ‘Never let Briggs complain of not being well—never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs. Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six weeks. He doesn’t know what it is to be ill, he hasn’t the least idea of it; not the faintest conception.’—‘My dear,’ interposed his wife smiling, ‘you talk as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to have been as ill as we have been, instead of feeling thankful to Providence that both he and our dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful ignorance of real suffering.’—‘My love,’ returned the egotistical gentleman, in a low and pious voice, ‘you mistake me;—I feel grateful—very grateful. I trust our friends may never purchase their experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they never may!’

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the Dowager Lady Snorflerer. On our replying in the negative, he presumed we had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on intimate terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Finding that we were equally unable to lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile, inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed potatoes. ‘Who, my dear?’ returned the egotistical lady, ‘why Sir Chipkins, of course; how can you ask! Don’t you remember his applying it to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?’ ‘To be sure, I remember that,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘but are you quite certain that didn’t apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of Austria and the pump?’ ‘Upon my word then, I think it did,’ replied his wife. ‘To be sure it did,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘it was Slang’s story, I remember now, perfectly.’ However, it turned out, a few seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman’s memory was rather treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had been told by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined there; but there appearing, on further consideration, strong circumstantial evidence tending to show that this couldn’t be, inasmuch as the Dowager Lady Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question, wholly engrossed by the egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman recanted this opinion; and after laying the story at the doors of a great many great people, happily left it at last with the Duke of Scuttlewig:—observing that it was not extraordinary he had forgotten his Grace hitherto, as it often happened that the names of those with whom we were upon the most familiar footing were the very last to present themselves to our thoughts.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but that scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for many years with which they had not been in some way or other connected. Thus we learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of George the Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the egotistical gentleman’s grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the first man who collared him; and that the egotistical lady’s aunt, sitting within a few boxes of the royal party, was the only person in the audience who heard his Majesty exclaim, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte, don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened; they’re letting off squibs, they’re letting off squibs.’ When the fire broke out, which ended in the destruction of the two Houses of Parliament, the egotistical couple, being at the time at a drawing-room window on Blackheath, then and there simultaneously exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole party—‘It’s the House of Lords!’ Nor was this a solitary instance of their peculiar discernment, for chancing to be (as by a comparison of dates and circumstances they afterwards found) in the same omnibus with Mr. Greenacre, when he carried his victim’s head about town in a blue bag, they both remarked a singular twitching in the muscles of his countenance; and walking down Fish Street Hill, a few weeks since, the egotistical gentleman said to his lady—slightly casting up his eyes to the top of the Monument—‘There’s a boy up there, my dear, reading a Bible. It’s very strange. I don’t like it.—In five seconds afterwards, Sir,’ says the egotistical gentleman, bringing his hands together with one violent clap—‘the lad was over!’

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the same kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of what weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet disagreed with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what time went to bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy too numerous to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their leave, and afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class, for all the lady’s egotism is about her husband, and all the gentleman’s about his wife. For example:—Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical gentleman, and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do. If you happen to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so engaged, Mrs. Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn whisper, as if there were at least three or four particular friends up-stairs, all upon the point of death, implores you to be very silent, for Mr. Sliverstone is composing, and she need not say how very important it is that he should not be disturbed. Unwilling to interrupt anything so serious, you hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but this Mrs. Sliverstone will by no means allow, observing, that she knows you would like to see him, as it is very natural you should, and that she is determined to make a trial for you, as you are a great favourite. So you are led up-stairs—still on tip-toe—to the door of a little back room, in which, as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr. Sliverstone always writes. No answer being returned to a couple of soft taps, the lady opens the door, and there, sure enough, is Mr. Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair, powdering away with pen, ink, and paper, at a rate which, if he has any power of sustaining it, would settle the longest sermon in no time. At first he is too much absorbed to be roused by this intrusion; but presently looking up, says faintly, ‘Ah!’ and pointing to his desk with a weary and languid smile, extends his hand, and hopes you’ll forgive him. Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down beside him, and taking his hand in hers, tells you how that Mr. Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine o’clock in the morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she knows it cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it. Unto this Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that ‘It must be done;’ which agonizes Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that such were Mr. Sliverstone’s labours last week—what with the buryings, marryings, churchings, christenings, and all together,—that when he was going up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on by the rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew. Mr. Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, ‘Not quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!’ he admits though, on cross-examination, that he was very near falling upon the verger who was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty as a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone, and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who launches into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone’s worth and excellence, to which he listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word of self-denial relative to some question of fact, as—‘Not seventy-two christenings that week, my dear. Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.’ At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink within him? Is it he alone who toils and suffers? What has she gone through, he should like to know? What does she go through every day for him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and thus the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not. The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits. Perhaps this is the worst kind of egotism. It has not even the poor excuse of being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice aforethought. Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust.

THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES

Mrs. Merrywinkle’s maiden name was Chopper. She was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Chopper. Her father died when she was, as the play-books express it, ‘yet an infant;’ and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head. Mrs. Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder. The venerable Mrs. Chopper—who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her marriage, which was some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who lurks behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease, respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say, ‘That’s my complaint.’ Indeed, the absence of authentic information upon the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper’s greatest ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and hearty gentlewoman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel, and have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural extent. They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds, and rub themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated spirits and other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism, or lumbago.

Mr. Merrywinkle’s leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet morning is a very elaborate affair. He puts on wash-leather socks over his stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under his waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin. Besides these precautions, he winds a thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a large silk handkerchief. Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a great-coat and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets; travelling in severe weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve the circulation, and bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath, but very seldom, and with the utmost caution. His office-door opened, he shoots past his clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own private room, closes the door, examines the window-fastenings, and gradually unrobes himself: hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the fender to air, and determining to write to the newspapers about the fog, which, he says, ‘has really got to that pitch that it is quite unbearable.’

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day. If anybody happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must assuredly be mad, and her first salutation is, ‘Why, what in the name of goodness can bring you out in such weather? You know you must catch your death.’ This assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who adds, in further confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual of her acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel circumstances, and being then in the best health and spirits, expired in forty-eight hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory disorders. The visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by this and other precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr. Merrywinkle, but by so doing brings about no change of the subject; for Mr. Merrywinkle’s name is inseparably connected with his complaints, and his complaints are inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle’s; and when these are done with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her time, cuts in with the chronic disorder—a subject upon which the amiable old lady never leaves off speaking until she is left alone, and very often not then.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner. He is received by Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel. Rubbed they are, one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had been smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient, provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner. Now, the dinner is always a good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls ‘tittivation;’ the secret of which is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and which process is so successfully performed in the present instance, that both Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and even the afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of the spirit and elasticity of youth. But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire to gratify his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a bottle of carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a little pair of scales in which to weigh it out. Neither in his anxiety to take care of his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal part, as he always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be made truly thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as possible, eats and drinks to the utmost.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of this constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two or three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed his eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise. It is on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms prevail; for then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly bound round with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as if she had made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs. Chopper as if cold water were running down her back, and oyster-knives with sharp points were plunging of their own accord into her ribs. Symptoms like these are enough to make people peevish, and no wonder that they remain so until supper-time, doing little more than doze and complain, unless Mr. Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant ‘to keep that draught out,’ or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist in the countenance of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a knock as he had just performed at the door of a private gentleman with nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative; and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and again—done honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and abetted by Mrs. Chopper. After supper, it is ten to one but the last-named old lady becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the chronic complaint in full vigour. Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having administered to her a warm cordial, which is something of the strongest, then repair to their own room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water, superintends the mulling of some wine which he is to drink at the very moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in garments whose nature is unknown to and unimagined by all but married men, takes four small pills with a spasmodic look between each, and finally comes to something hot and fragrant out of another little saucepan, which serves as her composing-draught for the night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at a cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their visitors too. It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:—that all couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,—that they charge upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every vapour that hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own imprudence or the gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,—and that all men and women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into exclusive habits of self-indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy and close connexion with everybody and everything in the world around them, not only neglect the first duty of life, but, by a happy retributive justice, deprive themselves of its truest and best enjoyment.

THE OLD COUPLE

They are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey, their step tottering and infirm. Is this the lightsome pair whose wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so soon!

It seems but yesterday—and yet what a host of cares and griefs are crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens out into a century! How many new associations have wreathed themselves about their hearts since then! The old time is gone, and a new time has come for others—not for them. They are but the rusting link that feebly joins the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday—and yet three of their children have sunk into the grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old. One was an infant—they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too delicate for earth—her loss was hard indeed to bear. The third, a man. That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday—and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground! Faint likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved. They are of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures. White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded. Do you wonder, child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate. It is the work of hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question. He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy—so they tell him. He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad, or died. It is a long while ago, and he don’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived servant with the old lady’s father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off. She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more. Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great deal of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over that, and is happy now—quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current. It has filled the void in the poor creature’s heart, and replaced the love of kindred. Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented. Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does, as well—as if it was only yesterday. You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as smart a young girl then as you’d wish to see. She recollects she took a friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name was—ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived—it has quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a bad husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house. Dear, dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

And the old couple—have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence? See them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls on points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of herself in her young days—how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a ‘barring-out’ achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help letting them know was very pleasant too—especially when he kissed the master’s niece. This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to talk about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing to observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful. So the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece said afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to posterity.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day—‘Eighty years old, Crofts, and never had a headache,’ he tells the barber who shaves him (the barber being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint). ‘That’s a great age, Crofts,’ says the old gentleman. ‘I don’t think it’s sich a wery great age, Sir,’ replied the barber. ‘Crofts,’ rejoins the old gentleman, ‘you’re talking nonsense to me. Eighty not a great age?’ ‘It’s a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active as you are,’ returns the barber; ‘but my grandfather, Sir, he was ninety-four.’ ‘You don’t mean that, Crofts?’ says the old gentleman. ‘I do indeed, Sir,’ retorts the barber, ‘and as wiggerous as Julius Caesar, my grandfather was.’ The old gentleman muses a little time, and then says, ‘What did he die of, Crofts?’ ‘He died accidentally, Sir,’ returns the barber; ‘he didn’t mean to do it. He always would go a running about the streets—walking never satisfied his spirit—and he run against a post and died of a hurt in his chest.’ The old gentleman says no more until the shaving is concluded, and then he gives Crofts half-a-crown to drink his health. He is a little doubtful of the barber’s veracity afterwards, and telling the anecdote to the old lady, affects to make very light of it—though to be sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in some parts of England, ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common age.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old times as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many passages in their past lives which the day brings to mind. The old lady reads aloud, in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old gentleman with his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect. When the book is closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards resume their conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead children, as a subject not unsuited to that they have just left. By degrees they are led to consider which of those who survive are the most like those dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less solemn strain, and become cheerful again.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest son’s to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns, is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old couple no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully attired, than there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the younger branches with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books, pencil-cases, pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles, worked-slippers, watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter article being presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who exhibits it in great triumph as an extraordinary variety. The old couple’s emotion at these tokens of remembrance occasions quite a pathetic scene, of which the chief ingredients are a vast quantity of kissing and hugging, and repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with small square pocket-handkerchiefs, which don’t come at all easily out of small pockets. Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as he presents the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from his own finger, that he’ll be de’ed if he doesn’t think he looks younger than he did ten years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on the table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are all gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then—the glasses being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast—that two great-grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return, dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and trembling with age and pleasure. Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse and story-teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as she, striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of pleasure steal down her withered cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday indeed. Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly again upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of those about them.

CONCLUSION

We have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on hand, open to the inspection of all comers. These samples are intended for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous deformities, only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those young ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the church, awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of attraction shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of addressing a few last words.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their hopes of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them cherish the faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the love of home engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity; let them believe that round the household gods, contentment and tranquillity cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and that many weary hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have learnt this truth too late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet mind only at home at last.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character may be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly—how much of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of vanishing every day—are questions too weighty for discussion here, but well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples nevertheless.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of nations are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for an example. From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they are, may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the splendour of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in their power of conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue. From that one young couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire, costly and jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a Queen to the plain gold ring that links her woman’s nature to that of tens of thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman’s heart one secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be that it knows no Royalty save Nature’s own, and no pride of birth but being the child of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth, when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts—

God bless them.

THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES

PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG

Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog—more than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country’s good.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to ‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of the country,’ and ‘productive power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain. The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour-all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated ‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a show.’

‘I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’ said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure to come.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.

‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed.

‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.

‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.’

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor.

‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned, ‘you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.’

‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.

‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor. ‘I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.’

‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit.

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.

‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor. ‘You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?’

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.

‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’

‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.

‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.

‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble; ‘perfectly sober.’ Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder!

The day—the Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback. This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.

On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble. ‘Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master in.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. ‘Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts.

‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, ‘go back.’

‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.’

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of ‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’

‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. ‘I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.’ Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature.

‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.

‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.’

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own.

‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be suffocated.’

‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; ‘but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it from the way he put it on.’

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.

‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.’ At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry him, they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.

What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’ He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings. If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed, bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog.

FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary exertions to place before our readers a complete and accurate account of the proceedings at the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the town of Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in the shape of various communications received from our able, talented, and graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the purpose, who has immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, and the association, all at one and the same time. We have been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who will transmit the greatest name to posterity; ourselves, who sent our correspondent down; our correspondent, who wrote an account of the matter; or the association, who gave our correspondent something to write about. We rather incline to the opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, inasmuch as the notion of an exclusive and authentic report originated with us; this may be prejudice: it may arise from a prepossession on our part in our own favour. Be it so. We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned in this mighty assemblage is troubled with the same complaint in a greater or less degree; and it is a consolation to us to know that we have at least this feeling in common with the great scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose speculations we record.

We give our correspondent’s letters in the order in which they reached us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful whole, would only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich vein of picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.

‘Mudfog, Monday night, seven o’clock.

‘We are in a state of great excitement here. Nothing is spoken of, but the approaching meeting of the association. The inn-doors are thronged with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals; and the numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses, intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very animated and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety of colours, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by every possible size and style of hand-writing. It is confidently rumoured that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have engaged three beds and a sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box. I give you the rumour as it has reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its accuracy. The moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain information upon this interesting point, you may depend upon receiving it.’

‘Half-past seven.

I have just returned from a personal interview with the landlord of the Pig and Tinder-box. He speaks confidently of the probability of Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at his house during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds have been yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the chambermaid—a girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance. The boots denies that it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put up here; but I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the opposition hotel. Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to arrive at the real truth; but you may depend upon receiving authentic information upon this point the moment the fact is ascertained. The excitement still continues. A boy fell through the window of the pastrycook’s shop at the corner of the High-street about half an hour ago, which has occasioned much confusion. The general impression is, that it was an accident. Pray heaven it may prove so!’

‘Tuesday, noon.

‘At an early hour this morning the bells of all the churches struck seven o’clock; the effect of which, in the present lively state of the town, was extremely singular. While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig, drawn by a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right eyelid, proceeded at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables; it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here for the purpose of attending the association, and, from what I have heard, I consider it extremely probable, although nothing decisive is yet known regarding him. You may conceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to the arrival of the four o’clock coach this afternoon.

‘Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no outrage has yet been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion of the police, who are nowhere to be seen. A barrel-organ is playing opposite my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale, parade the streets. With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I trust will continue so.’

‘Five o’clock.

‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This intelligence is exclusive; and I leave you and your readers to draw their own inferences from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world, should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and Tinder-box, it is not easy to conceive. The professor is a man who should be above all such petty feelings. Some people here openly impute treachery, and a distinct breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze; while others, again, are disposed to acquit them of any culpability in the transaction, and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with Professor Wheezy. I own that I incline to the latter opinion; and although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure or disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements, still I am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if all the reports which have reached my ears be true, I really do not well know what to make of the matter.

‘Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, arrived this afternoon by the four o’clock stage. His complexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing constantly. He looked extremely well, and appeared in high health and spirits. Mr. Woodensconce also came down in the same conveyance. The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep on his arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he had been so the whole way. He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching fatigues; but what gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a man when his body is in a state of torpidity!

‘The influx of visitors increases every moment. I am told (I know not how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the Original Pig within the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow, containing three carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and Tinder-box no longer ago than five minutes since. The people are still quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a wildness in their eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of their countenances, which shows to the observant spectator that their expectations are strained to the very utmost pitch. I fear, unless some very extraordinary arrivals take place to-night, that consequences may arise from this popular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling would deplore.’

‘Twenty minutes past six.

‘I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window last night has died of the fright. He was suddenly called upon to pay three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution, it seems, was not strong enough to bear up against the shock. The inquest, it is said, will be held to-morrow.’

‘Three-quarters part seven.

‘Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the hotel door; they at once ordered dinner with great condescension. We are all very much delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with which they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life. Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and privately requested him to purchase a live dog,—as cheap a one as he could meet with,—and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and fork, and a clean plate. It is conjectured that some experiments will be tried upon the dog to-night; if any particulars should transpire, I will forward them by express.’

‘Half-past eight.

‘The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog, of rather intelligent appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs. He has been tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.’

‘Ten minutes to nine.

‘The dog has just been rung for. With an instinct which would appear almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal seized the waiter by the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and made a desperate, though ineffectual resistance. I have not been able to procure admission to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentlemen; but, judging from the sounds which reached my ears when I stood upon the landing-place outside the door, just now, I should be disposed to say that the dog had retreated growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping the professors at bay. This conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of the ostler, who, after peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he distinctly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle of prussic acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair, obstinately declined to smell. You cannot imagine the feverish state of irritation we are in, lest the interests of science should be sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creature, who is not endowed with sufficient sense to foresee the incalculable benefits which the whole human race may derive from so very slight a concession on his part.’

‘Nine o’clock.

‘The dog’s tail and ears have been sent down-stairs to be washed; from which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more. His forelegs have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens the supposition.’

‘Half after ten.

‘My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place in the course of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength to detail the rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those who are cognizant of their occurrence. It appears that the pug-dog mentioned in my last was surreptitiously obtained,—stolen, in fact,—by some person attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resident in this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her favourite, the lady rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the most heart-rending and pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore her, her Augustus,—for so the deceased was named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover of his mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, which renders the circumstances additionally affecting. I am not yet in a condition to inform you what circumstance induced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to the hotel which had witnessed the last struggles of her protégé. I can only state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his detached members were passing through the passage on a small tray. Her shrieks still reverberate in my ears! I grieve to say that the expressive features of Professor Muff were much scratched and lacerated by the injured lady; and that Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several severe bites, has lost some handfuls of hair from the same cause. It must be some consolation to these gentlemen to know that their ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned these unpleasant consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful country will sufficiently reward them. The unfortunate lady remains at the Pig and Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious state.

‘I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catastrophe has cast a damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration; natural in any case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of the deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected by the whole of his acquaintance.’

‘Twelve o’clock.

‘I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to inform you that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window is not dead, as was universally believed, but alive and well. The report appears to have had its origin in his mysterious disappearance. He was found half an hour since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had been announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and where—a sufficient number of members not having been obtained at first—he had patiently waited until the list was completed. This fortunate discovery has in some degree restored our gaiety and cheerfulness. It is proposed to get up a subscription for him without delay.

‘Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow will bring forth. If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I have left strict directions to be called immediately. I should have sat up, indeed, but the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.

‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It is very strange!’

‘Wednesday afternoon.

‘All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am at length enabled to set the minds of your readers at rest. The three professors arrived at ten minutes after two o’clock, and, instead of taking up their quarters at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the course of yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the Pig and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and openly announced their intention of remaining. Professor Wheezy may reconcile this very extraordinary conduct with his notions of fair and equitable dealing, but I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he presumes too far upon his well-earned reputation. How such a man as Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary, such an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to be mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will naturally inquire. Upon this head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but forbear to give utterance to them just now.’

‘Four o’clock.

‘The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been offered for a bed and refused. Several gentlemen were under the necessity last night of sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which they were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed to prison as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I understand to be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill, who had forwarded a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical Science, on the construction of pipkins with copper bottoms and safety-values, of which report speaks highly. The incarceration of this gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any discussion on the subject.

‘The bills are being taken down in all directions, and lodgings are being secured on almost any terms. I have heard of fifteen shillings a week for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can scarcely believe it. The excitement is dreadful. I was informed this morning that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of popular feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be under arms; and that, with the view of not irritating the people unnecessarily by their presence, they had been requested to take up their position before daybreak in a turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile from the town. The vigour and promptness of these measures cannot be too highly extolled.

‘Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly female, in a state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her intention to “do” for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns compiled by that gentleman, relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this place, are supposed to be the cause of the wretch’s animosity. It is added that this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate Mr. Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of “Stick-in-the-mud!” It is earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that power which is vested in them by the constitution of our common country.’

‘Half-past ten.

‘The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been completely quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. She had a pail of cold water thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great contrition and uneasiness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of the association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having its illustrious members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go off peaceably. I shall send you a full report of to-morrow’s proceedings by the night coach.’

‘Eleven o’clock.

‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I folded it up.’

‘Thursday.

‘The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I did not observe anything particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except that he appeared to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened fancy) to shine with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent lustre upon the town, such as I had never observed before. This is the more extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At half-past nine o’clock the general committee assembled, with the last year’s president in the chair. The report of the council was read; and one passage, which stated that the council had corresponded with no less than three thousand five hundred and seventy-one persons, (all of whom paid their own postage,) on no fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics, was received with a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress. The various committees and sections having been appointed, and the more formal business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at eleven o’clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupying a most eligible position at that time, in

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

President—Professor Snore. Vice-Presidents—Professors Doze and Wheezy.

‘The scene at this moment was particularly striking. The sun streamed through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole scene with its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages of the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some with red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some with black heads, some with block heads, presented a coup d’oeil which no eye-witness will readily forget. In front of these gentlemen were papers and inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches extending as far as the forms could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole world. The contrast between their fair faces and the dark coats and trousers of the scientific gentlemen I shall never cease to remember while Memory holds her seat.

‘Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occasioned by the falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside, the president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication entitled, “Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations on the importance of establishing infant-schools among that numerous class of society; of directing their industry to useful and practical ends; and of applying the surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for them a comfortable and respectable maintenance in their old age.”

‘The author stated, that, having long turned his attention to the moral and social condition of these interesting animals, he had been induced to visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by the designation of “The Industrious Fleas.” He had there seen many fleas, occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could fail to regard with sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the level of a beast of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a particularly small effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden model of his great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte. Some, brought up as mountebanks and ballet-dancers, were performing a figure-dance (he regretted to observe, that, of the fleas so employed, several were females); others were in training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians,—mere sporting characters—and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded and barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity recoiled with horror and disgust. He suggested that measures should be immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and parcel of the productive power of the country, which might easily be done by the establishment among them of infant schools and houses of industry, in which a system of virtuous education, based upon sound principles, should be observed, and moral precepts strictly inculcated. He proposed that every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music, or dancing, or any species of theatrical entertainment, without a licence, should be considered a vagabond, and treated accordingly; in which respect he only placed him upon a level with the rest of mankind. He would further suggest that their labour should be placed under the control and regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits, a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, their widows and orphans. With this view, he proposed that liberal premiums should be offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; from which—as insect architecture was well known to be in a very advanced and perfect state—we might possibly derive many valuable hints for the improvement of our metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public edifices.

‘The President wished to be informed how the ingenious gentleman proposed to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first instance, so that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages they must necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and applying themselves to honest labour. This appeared to him, the only difficulty.

‘The Author submitted that this difficulty was easily overcome, or rather that there was no difficulty at all in the case. Obviously the course to be pursued, if Her Majesty’s government could be prevailed upon to take up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary the individual to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in Regent-street at the period of his visit. That gentleman would at once be able to put himself in communication with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct them in pursuance of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by Parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among them were advanced enough to officiate as teachers to the rest.

‘The President and several members of the section highly complimented the author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and important treatise. It was determined that the subject should be recommended to the immediate consideration of the council.

‘Mr. Wigsby produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than a chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means than the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure. He explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new and delicious species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in principle something similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at once obtained; the stalk of course being kept downwards. He added that he was perfectly willing to make a descent from a height of not less than three miles and a quarter; and had in fact already proposed the same to the proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in the handsomest manner at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an early day next summer for the undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the cauliflower should be previously broken in three or four places to ensure the safety of the descent.

‘The President congratulated the public on the grand gala in store for them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the establishment alluded to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety of human life, both of which did them the highest honour.

‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

‘Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional lamps.

‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

‘Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most interesting and valuable paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,” which produced a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The account stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby, but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives in the profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen victims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his indeed, had with very great labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles, and shortly afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to conjecture that he had been converted into sausages. The disorder of the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching dissolution, was recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable company with his performances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to point out the hour, deliberately passed his snout twice round the dial. In precisely four-and-twenty hours from that time he had ceased to exist!

‘Professor Wheezy inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal of his little property.

‘Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was accustomed to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood that he wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had accordingly been pawned by the same individual.

‘The President wished to know whether any Member of the section had ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a golden trough.

‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the sanctity of private life.

‘The President begged pardon. He had considered the pig-faced lady a public character. Would the honourable member object to state, with a view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way connected with the learned pig?

‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his half-brother, he must decline answering it.

‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

President—Dr. Toorell. Vice-Presidents—Professors Muff and Nogo.

Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the patient on the 1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular, his step firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit of eating three meals per diem, and of drinking at least one bottle of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the course of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful medicine, low diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for only one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruel, weak broth, and barley-water, led to their entire disappearance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the present moment he was restored so far as to walk about, with the slight assistance of a crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the section to learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honourable member upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient still bled freely?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee.—And you found that he bled freely during the whole course of the disorder?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.

‘Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen rejoined, certainly not.

‘Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated habits, being present at the post mortem examination, found means to escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character, who made a new key from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the medical student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently tried and executed.

‘The President wished to know what became of the original key after the lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually devoured it.

‘Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opinion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s stomach.

‘Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy of remark, perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a wine-cellar door.

‘Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill, and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months. This man was a hard drinker. He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink the whole. What was the result? Before he had drunk a quart, he was in a state of beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead drunk with the remainder.

‘The President wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of soda-water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that the twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each patient, would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked that this was a most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen would patronize it immediately.

‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same satisfying effect as their present allowance.

‘Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional reputation on the perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

‘Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a very extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide street, was at once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state. He was followed to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms of the hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without intermission for ten hours.

‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS. HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.

President—Mr. Woodensconce. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered.

‘Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calculations he had made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant education among the middle classes of London. He found that, within a circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:—

‘Jack the Giant-killer

7,943

Ditto and Bean-stalk

8,621

Ditto and Eleven Brothers

2,845

Ditto and Jill

1,998

Total

21,407

‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied, “Taint George of Ingling.” Another, a little boy of eight years old, was found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of dragons, and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up, to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses, and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the number interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring whether he was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and others whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park. They had not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager that the world had ever produced.

‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very outset of the tale, were depicted as going up a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the family linen was being washed, for instance.

‘Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was personally chastised by her mother

“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”

besides, the whole work had this one great fault, it was not true.

‘The President complimented the honourable member on the excellent distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very forcibly remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

‘Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respecting the dogs’-meat barrows of London. He found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each dogs’-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained. Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of London; which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use of her Majesty’s navy, to be called “The Royal Skewer,” and to become under that name the terror of all the enemies of this island.

‘Mr. X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, from which it appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. From this calculation it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person,—that ten thousand individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes.

‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE. COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.

President—Mr. Carter. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

‘Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway, neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket. By attaching this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

‘The President was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

‘Professor Queerspeck explained that City gentlemen would run in trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at eight, nine, and ten o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and various other places in which City gentlemen are accustomed to reside. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had provided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that the circumstances would admit of, should be taken through the sewers which undermine the streets of the metropolis, and which, well lighted by jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them, would form a pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the purposes to which these arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be allowed to interfere with so great an undertaking.

‘Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The instrument was in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of the company to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he had never once known it to fail.

‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty. He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement? Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be blown up, but that was the only objection to it.

‘Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was quite ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the escape without falling into the street. The Professor stated that the number of boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from houses which were not on fire, was almost incredible. Not a conflagration had occurred in the whole of London for many months past to which the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and put in action before a concourse of persons.

‘The President inquired whether there was not some difficulty in ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in cases of pressing emergency.

‘Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be expected to act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire; but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether the top were up or down.’

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit. It is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed; of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which they have elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to read, to consider, and to profit.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope at this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that we may be once more the means of placing his communications before the world. Until that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this number of our Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to the trade, without any advance upon our usual price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,—that Professors and Members have had balls, and soirées, and suppers, and great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next year!

Signed Boz.

FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held its first great half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire. We announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most remarkable Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society should take place, we should be found again at our post, renewing our gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once more making the world ring with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense remarkability of our account of its proceedings. In redemption of this pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th instant), the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former report, and who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself,—has forwarded a series of letters, which, for faithfulness of description, power of language, fervour of thought, happiness of expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal in the epistolary literature of any age or country. We give this gentleman’s correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached our office.

‘Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, half-past eight.

‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was leaving London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of loneliness and a sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts, and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence of my carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect nature composed!

‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I hear that he has got the steam up.

‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On Mr. Slug’s bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter, carefully closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful instrument of a new construction, doubtless.’

‘Ten minutes past nine.

‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again. I learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as opportunities arise.’

‘Half past nine.

‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a travelling carriage.’

‘A quarter to ten.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Half-past ten.

The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal distances down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs; but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He is a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or a mulatto, but I think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery. Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his humane efforts prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable, there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time, and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the passengers’ supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities. Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities!’

‘Half-past eleven.

‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed that gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.’

‘Twenty minutes to twelve.

‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

‘Twelve o’clock.

‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor Woodensconce ought to have come off victorious. There is an exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.’

‘A quarter past twelve.

‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he knew it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded in plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will do well to look to this.’

‘One o’clock.

‘I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide, the noise of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear. With these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr. Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest. What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

‘A quarter past one.

‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I am prepared for the worst.’

‘Five minutes later.

‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

‘Twenty minutes before two.

‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

‘Three o’clock.

‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under the impression that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I am assured that the scene which ensued baffles all description. There were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation, that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be situated, the machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the association.’

‘Half-past ten.

‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes. It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

‘Friday afternoon, six o’clock.

‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail. He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost immediately afterwards.’

‘Half-past six.

‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

‘Seven o’clock.

‘A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him. Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he will eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

‘Black Boy and Stomach-ache, Oldcastle, Saturday noon.

‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings and hotels are filled with savans of both sexes. The tremendous assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in the last degree overwhelming.

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements. Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw-dust with which the floors are sprinkled. The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

‘Half-past nine.

‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr. Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet through, and looked extremely intelligent.’

‘Sunday, two o’clock, p.m.

‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to ascertain the truth from him.’

‘Half-past six.

‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence, passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such event had recently occurred there. From this point I proceeded—passing the gas-works and tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to me as the beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed, that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police regulation, and added with peculiar significance “Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit. After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say, behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in italics) that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning at the Boot-jack and Countenance, to keep off the boys; and that he had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed, with the same object, at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle, without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn that a beadle can be called out by any civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor law regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of the street is not free and open to any man, boy, or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not.’

‘Nine o’clock.

‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian’s eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.’

‘Monday.

‘The great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears, nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies and proceed to the account.

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Sir William Joltered. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley.

‘Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the disappearance of dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace, gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until not one remained to create a taste for natural history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed. One bear, indeed,—a brown and ragged animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted to add that a similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to monkeys. These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to three organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments, and the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the deepest importance, in connection with national education, that the people should not lose such opportunities of making themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of two most interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly intellectual amusements.

‘The President inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to attain this most desirable end?

‘The Author submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘Professor Mull doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject. He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to which the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came by nature. He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed the want of encouragement the bears had met with to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of ability on the part of the bears themselves?

‘Mr. X. X. Misty replied, that he could not bring himself to believe but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.

‘Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity of calling the attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know whether it were possible that a constant outward application of bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly infused into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which, without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘The President highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity, which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly verging into a generation of bears.

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration of the council.

‘The President wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given to understand that since that period they had supported themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shakspeare, which has taken root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine Shakspeare, by which name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘The President wished to know what botanical definition the honourable gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a decided plant.

‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE. LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

President—Mr. Mallett. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the section buttoning their pockets,

‘The President narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction. Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘Mr. Crinkles stated that, after encountering some preliminary difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to its being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have the inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘The President hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘Professor Grime suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘Mr. Crinkles said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to recognise the utility of the invention.

‘The President observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement. His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant working.

‘Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a proposition of great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models, and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled “Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His proposition was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be further provided with whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night, and regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose, every day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when they were humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside any article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if they liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoyment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the event of their being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other, the inventor had turned his attention to the construction of an entirely new police force, composed exclusively of automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not stop even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds for noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they would repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic investigation would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite equal to life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they would be previously provided for the purpose. This office would be furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to very little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.

‘Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of automaton police force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘Mr. Coppernose replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘The President, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘Professor Muff.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials it is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘Mr. Coppernose.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can possibly be obtained.

‘Professor Muff.—I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

‘Professor Nogo.—I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that the magistrates ought to talk.

‘Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause that the invention was complete; and the President, much excited, retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his return,

‘Mr. Tickle displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance, and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was, he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the principle of the human eye.

‘The President required some information upon this point. He had yet to learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the President could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must know, too, with what quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour’s faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If the President differed from the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were made.

‘Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk and water.

‘Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to be so ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went on at all.

‘Mr. Blank.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.

‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Dr. Soemup. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting case of monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment, although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to the necessary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient’s appetite was affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the chest, and another on the back; having done which, and administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were removed. The next day she improved still further, and on the next again. On the fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel, and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred within two hours, the patient’s head should be immediately shaved to the very last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial change had been effected in her whole temperament and condition.

‘Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would occasion the disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a remarkable circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn employed a woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe), placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him. What was the obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which case, had his instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been brought to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith. But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry.

‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS. OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Mr. Slug. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious statistical inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world, and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that every member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating the exact amount of freehold property possessed by a column of legislators, in which he had included himself. It appeared from this table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore solemnly—of course as a mere matter of form. He argued from these data that it was wholly unnecessary for members of Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they had none the public could get them so much cheaper.

‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

President—Mr. Grub. Vice Presidents—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary appearance above described. The pony had one distinct eye, and it had been pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and whisked at the same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering; and the author proposed to constitute it of the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious. It certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony with one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the same moment.

‘Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his eye, and likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the mere question of his one organ of vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having been literally half asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed only one eye.

‘The President observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake, and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and, some difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of manner, “Walker!”

‘The President begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘Professor Ketch.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell you. It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has been a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’ down ’ere vile the ’sociation’s in the town. Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s, or a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble triumphs without repeating a bon mot of Professor Woodensconce’s, which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks—propitiatory sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury odours. “Ah!” said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is what we meet for; this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us onward; this is the spread of science, and a glorious spread it is.”’

THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to a chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally, although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is the secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman, comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly, and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob; how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic dramatis personae, we consider the pantaloon the most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain, constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until the affair has blown over. His amorous propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his mode of addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right improper, being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be) of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for years past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual attempts to be young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the Café de l’Europe in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he stops—’tis at the milliner’s window. He peeps through one of the large panes of glass; and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls, directs his attentions to the young girl with the band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window also. See! he draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and, retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr. Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far, and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith as did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says the young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the ‘Delphi.’ Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing shirt-collar, we do not mean either the performer who so grotesquely burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public, who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on earth it is we do mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory are those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler, the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured, kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine, baskets of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house of the Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the captain himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned, than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and assisted by the faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for, although the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all. After various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are both taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown; Do’em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well done either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best days, ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have been before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd, lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there, and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see it all, now. They are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been thrust into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over each other, and running their heads against all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it, he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do the corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden eye—the same unmeaning, vacant stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in at precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had not the slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table again and again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to class him with. How very odd that this never occurred to us before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin. We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away in light and trivial amusements. On reflection, however, we remembered that harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent property, generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours. On a more mature consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion that the harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or degree, on whom a certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances, confers the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime of public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then conclude—merely premising in this place that we decline any reference whatever to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of her connection with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any means clear that we should be justified in introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of ‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how frequently this speech is made, immediately after the change too, the parallel is quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at Sadler’s Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority either, because he had never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too, would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the faculty of speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he will become all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust. These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with whom we confess we have no fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just mentioned. The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the colour of a man’s coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who, having this wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from side to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity and dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions. Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of the temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—

‘All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players:’

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all actors in The Pantomime of Life.

SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker’s. But we have seen some under the influence of captivity, and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well; he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us! what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar, fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a lion coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear, Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’ from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again) was in such cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously. To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course, rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small, or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key, as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal’s mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact which is highly creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to his heart’s content on the first violin.

MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’

In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the press,’ which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert Bolton’s regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face, and never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill hem! The conversation sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character, and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse. ‘I lends nothing on the security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they’re cheats; as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I never have nothing to do with blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead bear’s about as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope, Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the hottergruff of Pope.

“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope; For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”

All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my son says, we’re bound to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the hairdresser’s grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I think, I says I think—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I think, you see, that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my master had the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don’t think I’m proud on it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I’ve no more respect for a Lord’s footman than I have for any respectable tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip! (bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope died. And it’s a logical interference to defer, that they neither of them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope never had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have ’eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to reward you for the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying anything more—partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just entered. I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’ said the object of the above remark, as he entered. ‘I never excuse a man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and mental excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were composed of an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity, newness, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the winter, the other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut, the D’Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while his tout ensemble was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short, spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation took place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first observation.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective emphasis; ‘boiled him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one looked at the baker present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being his son, also was necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the morrow’s dawn beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the reporter that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) ‘The son came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear maternal shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female. The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested the knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs, shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position he was found with a ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house, and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards. The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and, with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker was apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street, lighting his pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only broken after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of wonderments connected with the subject; among which not the least wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and information of Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question, when I took up my hat, and left.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD aged two years and two months

My Child,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,—to dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any company by talking politics—always assuring you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew older,—to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair appearance—your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel (when they travel at all) inside and in a portable stable invented for the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire—the glass of foaming ale—the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl—his pride in days of yore—the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate practical joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have given place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I, ‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his trained animals in a mock mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany, and never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, your guard is at home in his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you in loco parentis as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,

Boz.

Footnotes:

[122] This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of half-a-crown, was abolished.

[161] The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered-greatly for the better—since this sketch was first published. Even the construction of the prison itself has been changed.

[165] These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was respited during his Majesty’s pleasure.

[429] [In its original form.]

PREFACE

The whole of these Sketches were written and published, one by one, when I was a very young man. They were collected and republished while I was still a very young man; and sent into the world with all their imperfections (a good many) on their heads.

They comprise my first attempts at authorship—with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, and represented with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I am conscious of their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, and bearing obvious marks of haste and inexperience; particularly in that section of the present volume which is comprised under the general head of Tales.

But as this collection is not originated now, and was very leniently and favourably received when it was first made, I have not felt it right either to remodel or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here and there.

Prefazione

Tutti questi schizzi furono scritti e pubblicati, uno dopo l’altro, quando ero ancora molto giovane. Furono raccolti e ripubblicati mentre ero sempre molto giovane; e inviati al mondo con tutte le loro imperfezioni (molte, in realtà).

Rappresentano i miei primi tentativi di scrivere – ad eccezione di alcune tragedie scritte all’età matura di otto o dieci anni, che furono rappresentate con grande successo in asili pieni zeppi di bambini. Sono consapevole del fatto che siano spesso estremamente grezze e mal rifinite, e presentino evidenti segni di fretta ed inesperienza; soprattutto nella sezione di questo volume intitolata “Racconti”.

Ma poiché questa raccolta non è stata creata in tempi recenti, e fu accolta con grande indulgenza e favore quando venne pubblicata per la prima volta, non ho ritenuto giusto modificarla o cancellarne contenuti, se non aggiungendo qualche parola o frase qua e là.

OUR PARISH

CHAPTER I—THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER

How much is conveyed in those two short words—‘The Parish!’ And with how many tales of distress and misery, of broken fortune and ruined hopes, too often of unrelieved wretchedness and successful knavery, are they associated! A poor man, with small earnings, and a large family, just manages to live on from hand to mouth, and to procure food from day to day; he has barely sufficient to satisfy the present cravings of nature, and can take no heed of the future. His taxes are in arrear, quarter-day passes by, another quarter-day arrives: he can procure no more quarter for himself, and is summoned by—the parish. His goods are distrained, his children are crying with cold and hunger, and the very bed on which his sick wife is lying, is dragged from beneath her. What can he do? To whom is he to apply for relief? To private charity? To benevolent individuals? Certainly not—there is his parish. There are the parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish surgeon, the parish officers, the parish beadle. Excellent institutions, and gentle, kind-hearted men. The woman dies—she is buried by the parish. The children have no protector—they are taken care of by the parish. The man first neglects, and afterwards cannot obtain, work—he is relieved by the parish; and when distress and drunkenness have done their work upon him, he is maintained, a harmless babbling idiot, in the parish asylum.

The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps the most, important member of the local administration. He is not so well off as the churchwardens, certainly, nor is he so learned as the vestry-clerk, nor does he order things quite so much his own way as either of them. But his power is very great, notwithstanding; and the dignity of his office is never impaired by the absence of efforts on his part to maintain it. The beadle of our parish is a splendid fellow. It is quite delightful to hear him, as he explains the state of the existing poor laws to the deaf old women in the board-room passage on business nights; and to hear what he said to the senior churchwarden, and what the senior churchwarden said to him; and what ‘we’ (the beadle and the other gentlemen) came to the determination of doing. A miserable-looking woman is called into the boardroom, and represents a case of extreme destitution, affecting herself—a widow, with six small children. ‘Where do you live?’ inquires one of the overseers. ‘I rents a two-pair back, gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown’s, Number 3, Little King William’s-alley, which has lived there this fifteen year, and knows me to be very hard-working and industrious, and when my poor husband was alive, gentlemen, as died in the hospital’—‘Well, well,’ interrupts the overseer, taking a note of the address, ‘I’ll send Simmons, the beadle, to-morrow morning, to ascertain whether your story is correct; and if so, I suppose you must have an order into the House—Simmons, go to this woman’s the first thing to-morrow morning, will you?’ Simmons bows assent, and ushers the woman out. Her previous admiration of ‘the board’ (who all sit behind great books, and with their hats on) fades into nothing before her respect for her lace-trimmed conductor; and her account of what has passed inside, increases—if that be possible—the marks of respect, shown by the assembled crowd, to that solemn functionary. As to taking out a summons, it’s quite a hopeless case if Simmons attends it, on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of the Lord Mayor by heart; states the case without a single stammer: and it is even reported that on one occasion he ventured to make a joke, which the Lord Mayor’s head footman (who happened to be present) afterwards told an intimate friend, confidentially, was almost equal to one of Mr. Hobler’s.

See him again on Sunday in his state-coat and cocked-hat, with a large-headed staff for show in his left hand, and a small cane for use in his right. How pompously he marshals the children into their places! and how demurely the little urchins look at him askance as he surveys them when they are all seated, with a glare of the eye peculiar to beadles! The churchwardens and overseers being duly installed in their curtained pews, he seats himself on a mahogany bracket, erected expressly for him at the top of the aisle, and divides his attention between his prayer-book and the boys. Suddenly, just at the commencement of the communion service, when the whole congregation is hushed into a profound silence, broken only by the voice of the officiating clergyman, a penny is heard to ring on the stone floor of the aisle with astounding clearness. Observe the generalship of the beadle. His involuntary look of horror is instantly changed into one of perfect indifference, as if he were the only person present who had not heard the noise. The artifice succeeds. After putting forth his right leg now and then, as a feeler, the victim who dropped the money ventures to make one or two distinct dives after it; and the beadle, gliding softly round, salutes his little round head, when it again appears above the seat, with divers double knocks, administered with the cane before noticed, to the intense delight of three young men in an adjacent pew, who cough violently at intervals until the conclusion of the sermon.

Such are a few traits of the importance and gravity of a parish beadle—a gravity which has never been disturbed in any case that has come under our observation, except when the services of that particularly useful machine, a parish fire-engine, are required: then indeed all is bustle. Two little boys run to the beadle as fast as their legs will carry them, and report from their own personal observation that some neighbouring chimney is on fire; the engine is hastily got out, and a plentiful supply of boys being obtained, and harnessed to it with ropes, away they rattle over the pavement, the beadle, running—we do not exaggerate—running at the side, until they arrive at some house, smelling strongly of soot, at the door of which the beadle knocks with considerable gravity for half-an-hour. No attention being paid to these manual applications, and the turn-cock having turned on the water, the engine turns off amidst the shouts of the boys; it pulls up once more at the work-house, and the beadle ‘pulls up’ the unfortunate householder next day, for the amount of his legal reward. We never saw a parish engine at a regular fire but once. It came up in gallant style—three miles and a half an hour, at least; there was a capital supply of water, and it was first on the spot. Bang went the pumps—the people cheered—the beadle perspired profusely; but it was unfortunately discovered, just as they were going to put the fire out, that nobody understood the process by which the engine was filled with water; and that eighteen boys, and a man, had exhausted themselves in pumping for twenty minutes, without producing the slightest effect!

La nostra parrocchia

CAPITOLO I – IL CHIERICHINO. LA MACCHINA DELLA PARROCCHIA. L’INSEGNANTE DI SCUOLA

Quanto si esprime in quelle due brevi parole: “La parrocchia!” E con quante storie di sofferenza e miseria, di fortune rovinate e speranze distrutte, spesso anche di povertà insopportabile e comportamenti disonesti, sono associate! Un uomo povero, con scarsi guadagni e una grande famiglia, riesce a malapena a sopravvivere giorno dopo giorno, procurandosi il cibo necessario; ha appena abbastanza per soddisfare le esigenze immediate del proprio corpo, senza potersi preoccupare del futuro. Le tasse gli sono arretrate, un altro periodo di pagamento si avvicina: non riesce più a pagarle e viene chiamato dalla parrocchia. I suoi beni vengono sequestrati, i suoi figli piangono dal freddo e dalla fame, e persino il letto su cui giace sua moglie malata viene portato via. Cosa può fare? A chi può rivolgersi per chiedere aiuto? Alla carità privata? A individui benevoli? Certamente no, c’è la parrocchia. Ci sono il consiglio parrocchiale, l’ospedale parrocchiale, il chirurgo parrocchiale, gli ufficiali parrocchiali, istituzioni eccellenti e persone gentili e compassionevoli. La donna muore, viene sepolta dalla parrocchia. I bambini non hanno nessuno che si prenda cura di loro, la parrocchia lo fa. L’uomo, prima trascurato e poi incapace di trovare lavoro, riceve aiuto dalla parrocchia; e quando la povertà e l’alcolismo lo hanno distrutto, viene mantenuto nell’ospizio parrocchiale, come un idiota inoffensivo e balbettante.

Il campanaro della parrocchia è uno dei membri più importanti, forse addirittura il più importante, dell’amministrazione locale. Non è certo così benestante quanto i custodi della chiesa, né tanto istruito come il segretario del consiglio parrocchiale, e nemmeno prende decisioni in modo altrettanto autonomo di loro due. Tuttavia, il suo potere è molto grande; inoltre, la dignità della sua carica non viene mai compromessa dal fatto che lui stesso non si impegni attivamente per mantenerla. Il campanaro della nostra parrocchia è davvero un uomo eccezionale. È davvero piacevole ascoltarlo mentre spiega alle anziane donne sordomute, nelle serate dedicate agli affari parrocchiali, le disposizioni delle leggi di assistenza ai poveri; è interessante anche ascoltare ciò che dice al custode più anziano della chiesa, e ciò che quest’ultimo risponde a lui, nonché le decisioni che “noi” prendiamo insieme. Una donna dall’aspetto misero viene chiamata nella sala del consiglio; racconta di trovarsi in condizioni di estrema povertà: è una vedova con sei bambini piccoli. “Dove vive?” chiede uno dei funzionari incaricati delle indagini. “Affitto una stanza al numero 3 di Little King William’s Alley, presso la signora Brown; abito lì da quindici anni e tutti sanno che sono molto lavoratrice e diligente. Mio povero marito è morto in ospedale, ” “Bene, bene,” interrompe il funzionario, prendendo appunti dell’indirizzo. “Domani mattina manderò Simmons, il campanaro, a verificare se la sua storia corrisponde alla realtà; se è così, probabilmente sarà necessario presentare una richiesta presso l’ufficio competente. Simmons, vai da questa donna domani mattina, per favore.” Simmons annuisce e congeda la donna. La sua precedente ammirazione per quei funzionari che sedevano dietro grandi libri, con il cappello in testa, svanisce completamente di fronte al rispetto che ora prova per il suo “conduttore” incaricato delle procedure parrocchiali; inoltre, la sua descrizione di ciò che è accaduto nella sala del consiglio aumenta ancora di più il rispetto che la folla nutre verso quel funzionario solenne. Per quanto riguarda l’emissione di un mandato ufficiale, beh, se Simmons dovesse occuparsene a nome della parrocchia, probabilmente sarebbe una causa persa in partenza. Conosce a memoria tutti i titoli onorifici del Lord Mayor; esprime le cose senza mai balbettare. E si dice addirittura che una volta abbia osato fare una battuta, la quale, secondo quanto raccontato in seguito dal maggiordomo del Lord Mayor (che era presente), era quasi paragonabile a quelle di Mr. Hobler.

Rivedetelo di nuovo la domenica, con il suo abito ufficiale e il cappello a punta; nella mano sinistra tiene un grosso bastone da mostra, mentre nella destra impugna un piccolo bastone da uso quotidiano. Con quanta pompa dirige i bambini nei loro posti! E quanto timidamente quei piccoli monelli lo guardano di sottecchi mentre li ispeziona, dopo che sono tutti seduti, con uno sguardo tipico dei chierici addetti alle funzioni religiose. Una volta che i custodi della chiesa e gli sorveglianti si sono sistemati nelle loro panche coperte da tende, lui si siede su un piedistallo di mogano eretto appositamente per lui in fondo alla navata, dividendo la sua attenzione tra il suo libro di preghiere e i ragazzi. All’improvviso, proprio all’inizio della cerimonia dell’eucaristia, quando tutta la congregazione è immersa in un profondo silenzio, interrotto soltanto dalla voce del sacerdote che officia, si sente un penny cadere con straordinaria chiarezza sul pavimento di pietra della navata. Osservate l’abilità di quel chierico. Il suo espressione di orrore viene immediatamente sostituita da uno sguardo di totale indifferenza, come se fosse l’unica persona presente a non aver sentito il rumore. L’inganno ha successo: dopo aver mosso leggermente la gamba destra per “tastare” intorno, la persona che ha perso il penny tenta di raccoglierlo; il chierico, muovendosi silenziosamente, saluta quella piccola testa che riappare sopra il sedile, e con alcuni colpi del suo bastone, suscita l’intensa ilarità di tre giovani uomini seduti nelle panche adiacenti, i quali tossiscono violentemente a intervalli regolari fino alla fine del sermone.

Ecco alcuni degli aspetti che evidenziano l’importanza e la gravità del ruolo del sacrestano parrocchiale: una responsabilità che non è mai stata messa in discussione nelle situazioni che abbiamo osservato, tranne quando era necessario utilizzare quell’utilissimo strumento rappresentato dall’idrovora parrocchiale. In quei casi, infatti, tutto diventava un gran trambusto: due bambini correvano verso il sacrestano il più velocemente possibile per riferirgli che una vicina ciminiera era in fiamme; l’idrovora veniva prontamente messa in funzione e, con l’aiuto di molti ragazzi legati alle sue ruote con delle corde, si dirigeva verso l’edificio incendiato. Il sacrestano correva al loro fianco. Non esageriamo: correva davvero! Arrivati a destinazione, l’idrovora veniva spenta tra gli urli dei bambini; il giorno dopo, il sacrestano andava a riscuotere la ricompensa prevista dalla legge. Abbiamo visto un’idrovora parrocchiale utilizzata in modo regolare soltanto una volta, durante un incendio: è arrivata sul posto dopo almeno tre miglia e mezza di viaggio; c’era abbondante acqua a disposizione, ed è stata la prima ad intervenire. Le pompe sono state azionate con forza. La gente ha applaudito. Il sacrestano sudava profusamente. Ma purtroppo, proprio mentre stavano per spegnere l’incendio, si è scoperto che nessuno capiva il funzionamento dell’idrovora. Diciotto bambini e un uomo avevano pompato per venti minuti senza ottenere alcun risultato!

The personages next in importance to the beadle, are the master of the workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. The vestry-clerk, as everybody knows, is a short, pudgy little man, in black, with a thick gold watch-chain of considerable length, terminating in two large seals and a key. He is an attorney, and generally in a bustle; at no time more so, than when he is hurrying to some parochial meeting, with his gloves crumpled up in one hand, and a large red book under the other arm. As to the churchwardens and overseers, we exclude them altogether, because all we know of them is, that they are usually respectable tradesmen, who wear hats with brims inclined to flatness, and who occasionally testify in gilt letters on a blue ground, in some conspicuous part of the church, to the important fact of a gallery having being enlarged and beautified, or an organ rebuilt.

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish—nor is he usually in any other—one of that class of men the better part of whose existence has passed away, and who drag out the remainder in some inferior situation, with just enough thought of the past, to feel degraded by, and discontented with the present. We are unable to guess precisely to our own satisfaction what station the man can have occupied before; we should think he had been an inferior sort of attorney’s clerk, or else the master of a national school—whatever he was, it is clear his present position is a change for the better. His income is small certainly, as the rusty black coat and threadbare velvet collar demonstrate: but then he lives free of house-rent, has a limited allowance of coals and candles, and an almost unlimited allowance of authority in his petty kingdom. He is a tall, thin, bony man; always wears shoes and black cotton stockings with his surtout; and eyes you, as you pass his parlour-window, as if he wished you were a pauper, just to give you a specimen of his power. He is an admirable specimen of a small tyrant: morose, brutish, and ill-tempered; bullying to his inferiors, cringing to his superiors, and jealous of the influence and authority of the beadle.

Our schoolmaster is just the very reverse of this amiable official. He has been one of those men one occasionally hears of, on whom misfortune seems to have set her mark; nothing he ever did, or was concerned in, appears to have prospered. A rich old relation who had brought him up, and openly announced his intention of providing for him, left him 10,000_l._ in his will, and revoked the bequest in a codicil. Thus unexpectedly reduced to the necessity of providing for himself, he procured a situation in a public office. The young clerks below him, died off as if there were a plague among them; but the old fellows over his head, for the reversion of whose places he was anxiously waiting, lived on and on, as if they were immortal. He speculated and lost. He speculated again and won—but never got his money. His talents were great; his disposition, easy, generous and liberal. His friends profited by the one, and abused the other. Loss succeeded loss; misfortune crowded on misfortune; each successive day brought him nearer the verge of hopeless penury, and the quondam friends who had been warmest in their professions, grew strangely cold and indifferent. He had children whom he loved, and a wife on whom he doted. The former turned their backs on him; the latter died broken-hearted. He went with the stream—it had ever been his failing, and he had not courage sufficient to bear up against so many shocks—he had never cared for himself, and the only being who had cared for him, in his poverty and distress, was spared to him no longer. It was at this period that he applied for parochial relief. Some kind-hearted man who had known him in happier times, chanced to be churchwarden that year, and through his interest he was appointed to his present situation.

He is an old man now. Of the many who once crowded round him in all the hollow friendship of boon-companionship, some have died, some have fallen like himself, some have prospered—all have forgotten him. Time and misfortune have mercifully been permitted to impair his memory, and use has habituated him to his present condition. Meek, uncomplaining, and zealous in the discharge of his duties, he has been allowed to hold his situation long beyond the usual period; and he will no doubt continue to hold it, until infirmity renders him incapable, or death releases him. As the grey-headed old man feebly paces up and down the sunny side of the little court-yard between school hours, it would be difficult, indeed, for the most intimate of his former friends to recognise their once gay and happy associate, in the person of the Pauper Schoolmaster.

CHAPTER II—THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN

We commenced our last chapter with the beadle of our parish, because we are deeply sensible of the importance and dignity of his office. We will begin the present, with the clergyman. Our curate is a young gentleman of such prepossessing appearance, and fascinating manners, that within one month after his first appearance in the parish, half the young-lady inhabitants were melancholy with religion, and the other half, desponding with love. Never were so many young ladies seen in our parish church on Sunday before; and never had the little round angels’ faces on Mr. Tomkins’s monument in the side aisle, beheld such devotion on earth as they all exhibited. He was about five-and-twenty when he first came to astonish the parishioners. He parted his hair on the centre of his forehead in the form of a Norman arch, wore a brilliant of the first water on the fourth finger of his left hand (which he always applied to his left cheek when he read prayers), and had a deep sepulchral voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable were the calls made by prudent mammas on our new curate, and innumerable the invitations with which he was assailed, and which, to do him justice, he readily accepted. If his manner in the pulpit had created an impression in his favour, the sensation was increased tenfold, by his appearance in private circles. Pews in the immediate vicinity of the pulpit or reading-desk rose in value; sittings in the centre aisle were at a premium: an inch of room in the front row of the gallery could not be procured for love or money; and some people even went so far as to assert, that the three Miss Browns, who had an obscure family pew just behind the churchwardens’, were detected, one Sunday, in the free seats by the communion-table, actually lying in wait for the curate as he passed to the vestry! He began to preach extempore sermons, and even grave papas caught the infection. He got out of bed at half-past twelve o’clock one winter’s night, to half-baptise a washerwoman’s child in a slop-basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners knew no bounds—the very churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on the parish defraying the expense of the watch-box on wheels, which the new curate had ordered for himself, to perform the funeral service in, in wet weather. He sent three pints of gruel and a quarter of a pound of tea to a poor woman who had been brought to bed of four small children, all at once—the parish were charmed. He got up a subscription for her—the woman’s fortune was made. He spoke for one hour and twenty-five minutes, at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots—the enthusiasm was at its height. A proposal was set on foot for presenting the curate with a piece of plate, as a mark of esteem for his valuable services rendered to the parish. The list of subscriptions was filled up in no time; the contest was, not who should escape the contribution, but who should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver inkstand was made, and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate was invited to a public breakfast, at the before-mentioned Goat and Boots; the inkstand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. Gubbins, the ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which drew tears into the eyes of all present—the very waiters were melted.

I personaggi di importanza immediatamente inferiore al sagrestano sono il direttore dell’ospizio e l’insegnante della scuola parrocchiale. Il segretario della congregazione, come tutti sanno, è un uomo basso e paffuto, vestito di nero, con una lunga catena d’orologio dorata che termina in due grandi sigilli e una chiave. È un avvocato e generalmente molto impegnato; non c’è momento in cui sia più occupato di quando si affretta a partecipare a una riunione parrocchiale, con i guanti accartocciati in una mano e un grosso libro rosso sotto l’altro braccio. Per quanto riguarda i custodi della chiesa e gli ispettori, li escludiamo del tutto: di loro sappiamo soltanto che sono generalmente commercianti rispettabili, che indossano cappelli con tese piuttosto piatte, e che occasionalmente fanno pubblicare, in caratteri dorati su sfondo blu, in qualche parte ben visibile della chiesa, comunicazioni riguardanti l’ampliamento o il rinnovamento di strutture come la galleria o l’organo.

Il direttore dell’ospizio, nella nostra parrocchia – e di solito in qualsiasi altra – non appartiene a quella categoria di persone la cui maggior parte della vita è trascorsa in condizioni difficili, e che trascorrono il resto dei loro giorni in situazioni ancora più precarie, ricordando il passato con sufficiente amarezza da sentirsi umiliati dal presente e insoddisfatti di esso. Non riusciamo a indovinare con certezza quale posizione abbia occupato in precedenza; probabilmente era un impiegato subalterno in uno studio legale, o magari il direttore di una scuola pubblica. Comunque sia, è evidente che la sua attuale situazione rappresenti un miglioramento rispetto al passato. Il suo reddito è certamente modesto, come dimostrano il cappotto nero arrugginito e il colletto di velluto logoro; tuttavia non deve pagare l’affitto di una casa, riceve una piccola quantità di carbone e candele, e dispone di un potere quasi illimitato nel suo “piccolo regno”. È un uomo alto, magro e ossuto; indossa sempre scarpe e calze di cotone nero insieme al suo soprabito; quando passi davanti alla finestra del suo ufficio, ti guarda come se fossi un povero, solo per farti comprendere l’entità del suo potere. È un esempio rappresentativo di quel genere di “piccoli tiranni”: malinconico, brutale e irascibile; crudele con i subordinati, timido di fronte ai superiori, e geloso dell’influenza e dell’autorità del sagrestano.

Il nostro preside è esattamente l’opposto di questo gentile funzionario: è uno di quegli uomini di cui si sente parlare occasionalmente, su cui sembra che la sfortuna abbia messo il suo segno; nulla di ciò che ha mai fatto o in cui si è impegnato sembra essere andato per il meglio. Un ricco parente che lo aveva cresciuto e aveva apertamente annunciato l’intenzione di provvedere a lui, gli lasciò 10.000 sterline nel testamento, ma poi revocò la donazione in un codicillo. Così, ridotto improvvisamente alla necessità di provvedere da solo, riuscì a ottenere una posizione in un ufficio pubblico. I giovani impiegati sotto di lui morivano uno dopo l’altro, come se ci fosse stata una peste tra loro; mentre gli anziani che aspettavano con ansia il loro posto continuavano a vivere, come se fossero immortali. Provò a fare affari, ma perse; provò di nuovo e vinse, ma non riuscì mai a recuperare i suoi soldi. I suoi talenti erano grandi; il suo carattere era gentile, generoso e ospitale. I suoi amici approfittavano della sua generosità, o la sfruttavano a proprio vantaggio. Una perdita seguiva l’altra; la sfortuna si accumulava su di lui; ogni giorno lo avvicinava sempre di più al bordo della disperata povertà. E quegli amici che un tempo erano stati i più affettuosi, diventavano stranamente freddi e indifferenti. Aveva figli che amava e una moglie di cui andava pazzo. Ma entrambi lo abbandonarono; lei morì distrutta dal dolore. Lui seguì la corrente. Era sempre stato debole di fronte alle avversità, e non aveva mai avuto il coraggio di resistere a tante sconfitte. Non si era mai curato di se stesso. E l’unica persona che si era presa cura di lui, nella sua povertà e nel suo dolore, ormai non c’era più. Fu in quel periodo che chiese aiuto alle autorità parrocchiali. Un uomo gentile che lo conosceva dai tempi migliori, quell’anno fu nominato custode della chiesa. E grazie al suo intervento, lui ottenne la posizione attuale.

Ora è un vecchio uomo. Di quelli che un tempo si radunavano intorno a lui nella calorosa amicizia di compagni di viaggio, alcuni sono morti, altri sono caduti come lui, altri ancora hanno avuto successo, ma tutti lo hanno dimenticato. Il tempo e le sfortune hanno, per fortuna, offuscato la sua memoria; l’abitudine gli ha fatto accettare la sua attuale condizione. Umile, senza lamentele e diligente nel adempiere ai suoi doveri, è riuscito a mantenere quella situazione molto più a lungo del solito. E non dubita che continuerà così, finché la malattia non lo renderà incapace, o la >morte non lo libererà. Mentre il vecchio dai capelli grigi cammina lentamente avanti e indietro sul lato soleggiato del piccolo cortile, durante gli intervalli tra una lezione e l’altra, sarebbe davvero difficile per i suoi più cari amici di un tempo riconoscere in lui il loro un tempo allegro e felice compagno, sotto le sembianze dell’insegnante della scuola per poveri.

capitolo II – IL CURATO, LA DONNA ANZIANA E IL CAPITANO A MEZZA PAGA

I ragazzi erano paralizzati dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme of universal admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle of popularity. No such thing. The curate began to cough; four fits of coughing one morning between the Litany and the Epistle, and five in the afternoon service. Here was a discovery—the curate was consumptive. How interestingly melancholy! If the young ladies were energetic before, their sympathy and solicitude now knew no bounds. Such a man as the curate—such a dear—such a perfect love—to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous presents of black-currant jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom friends, and warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was as completely fitted out with winter clothing, as if he were on the verge of an expedition to the North Pole: verbal bulletins of the state of his health were circulated throughout the parish half-a-dozen times a day; and the curate was in the very zenith of his popularity.

About this period, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A very quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had officiated in our chapel-of-ease for twelve years previously, died one fine morning, without having given any notice whatever of his intention. This circumstance gave rise to counter-sensation the first; and the arrival of his successor occasioned counter-sensation the second. He was a pale, thin, cadaverous man, with large black eyes, and long straggling black hair: his dress was slovenly in the extreme, his manner ungainly, his doctrines startling; in short, he was in every respect the antipodes of the curate. Crowds of our female parishioners flocked to hear him; at first, because he was so odd-looking, then because his face was so expressive, then because he preached so well; and at last, because they really thought that, after all, there was something about him which it was quite impossible to describe. As to the curate, he was all very well; but certainly, after all, there was no denying that—that—in short, the curate wasn’t a novelty, and the other clergyman was. The inconstancy of public opinion is proverbial: the congregation migrated one by one. The curate coughed till he was black in the face—it was in vain. He respired with difficulty—it was equally ineffectual in awakening sympathy. Seats are once again to be had in any part of our parish church, and the chapel-of-ease is going to be enlarged, as it is crowded to suffocation every Sunday!

The best known and most respected among our parishioners, is an old lady, who resided in our parish long before our name was registered in the list of baptisms. Our parish is a suburban one, and the old lady lives in a neat row of houses in the most airy and pleasant part of it. The house is her own; and it, and everything about it, except the old lady herself, who looks a little older than she did ten years ago, is in just the same state as when the old gentleman was living. The little front parlour, which is the old lady’s ordinary sitting-room, is a perfect picture of quiet neatness; the carpet is covered with brown Holland, the glass and picture-frames are carefully enveloped in yellow muslin; the table-covers are never taken off, except when the leaves are turpentined and bees’-waxed, an operation which is regularly commenced every other morning at half-past nine o’clock—and the little nicknacks are always arranged in precisely the same manner. The greater part of these are presents from little girls whose parents live in the same row; but some of them, such as the two old-fashioned watches (which never keep the same time, one being always a quarter of an hour too slow, and the other a quarter of an hour too fast), the little picture of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold as they appeared in the Royal Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others of the same class, have been in the old lady’s possession for many years. Here the old lady sits with her spectacles on, busily engaged in needlework—near the window in summer time; and if she sees you coming up the steps, and you happen to be a favourite, she trots out to open the street-door for you before you knock, and as you must be fatigued after that hot walk, insists on your swallowing two glasses of sherry before you exert yourself by talking. If you call in the evening you will find her cheerful, but rather more serious than usual, with an open Bible on the table, before her, of which ‘Sarah,’ who is just as neat and methodical as her mistress, regularly reads two or three chapters in the parlour aloud.

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the little girls before noticed, each of whom has always a regular fixed day for a periodical tea-drinking with her, to which the child looks forward as the greatest treat of its existence. She seldom visits at a greater distance than the next door but one on either side; and when she drinks tea here, Sarah runs out first and knocks a double-knock, to prevent the possibility of her ‘Missis’s’ catching cold by having to wait at the door. She is very scrupulous in returning these little invitations, and when she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and the best china tea-service, and the Pope Joan board; and the visitors are received in the drawing-room in great state. She has but few relations, and they are scattered about in different parts of the country, and she seldom sees them. She has a son in India, whom she always describes to you as a fine, handsome fellow—so like the profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard, but the old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the head, that he has always been one of her greatest trials; and that indeed he once almost broke her heart; but it pleased God to enable her to get the better of it, and she would prefer your never mentioning the subject to her again. She has a great number of pensioners: and on Saturday, after she comes back from market, there is a regular levee of old men and women in the passage, waiting for their weekly gratuity. Her name always heads the list of any benevolent subscriptions, and hers are always the most liberal donations to the Winter Coal and Soup Distribution Society. She subscribed twenty pounds towards the erection of an organ in our parish church, and was so overcome the first Sunday the children sang to it, that she was obliged to be carried out by the pew-opener. Her entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for a little bustle in the side aisle, occasioned by a general rise among the poor people, who bow and curtsey until the pew-opener has ushered the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respectful curtsey, and shut the door: and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving church, when she walks home with the family next door but one, and talks about the sermon all the way, invariably opening the conversation by asking the youngest boy where the text was.

Si sarebbe potuto pensare che, a questo punto, l’argomento dell’ammirazione universale fosse ormai arrivato al culmine della popolarità. Ma non era affatto così. Una mattina, durante la cerimonia tra la Litania e la Lettera, il curato iniziò a tossire: quattro attacchi di tosse al mattino e cinque nel servizio pomeridiano. Fu una scoperta sorprendente. Il curato soffriva di tubercolosi. Che melanconia interessante! Se prima le giovani signore erano già molto premurose nei suoi confronti, ora la loro compassione e attenzione non conoscevano limiti. Un uomo come il curato, così caro, così perfetto nell’esprimere l’amore, eppure affetto da una malattia così grave. Era davvero troppo. Regali anonimi di marmellata di more nere, pastille, gilet elastici, amiche devote e calze calde arrivarono a fiumi per il curato; finì per essere completamente equipaggiato con indumenti invernali, come se stesse per partire per l’Artico. Rapporti verbali sulle sue condizioni di salute venivano diffusi in tutta la parrocchia sei volte al giorno. E il curato raggiunse davvero l’apice della sua popolarità.

In questo periodo, lo spirito della parrocchia subì un cambiamento. Un anziano signore molto tranquillo, rispettabile e apparentemente sonnolento, che aveva prestato servizio nella nostra cappella per dodici anni, morì una bella mattina senza aver dato alcun preavviso delle sue intenzioni. Questo evento suscitò inizialmente un certo scalpore; l’arrivo del suo successore ne provocò un altro ancora maggiore. Il nuovo pastore era un uomo pallido, magro, dall’aspetto cadaverico, con grandi occhi neri e lunghi capelli neri disordinati; il suo abbigliamento era estremamente trasandato, i suoi modi sgraziati, le sue dottrine scioccanti. In breve, era l’antitesi del precedente parroco. Gruppi di donne della nostra parrocchia accorrevano ad ascoltarlo: all’inizio perché aveva un aspetto così strano, poi perché il suo viso esprimeva emozioni intense, in seguito perché predicava davvero molto bene. E infine, perché pensavano davvero che in lui ci fosse qualcosa di indescrivibile. Per quanto riguarda il parroco precedente, tutto andava benissimo. Ma era innegabile che, insomma, il parroco precedente non rappresentava nulla di nuovo; mentre l’altro pastore sì. L’instabilità dell’opinione pubblica è un fatto noto: poco a poco, la gente smise di frequentare la cappella del nuovo pastore. Il parroco precedente tossiva fino a diventare pallido in viso. Ma invano; respirava con difficoltà. E anche questo non riuscì a suscitare alcuna simpatia da parte della gente. Ora, in qualsiasi angolo della nostra chiesa parrocchiale, ci sono posti disponibili. E la cappella verrà ampliata, perché ogni domenica è così affollata da risultare sovraffollata!

La più conosciuta e rispettata tra i nostri parrocchiani è una vecchia signora che viveva nella nostra parrocchia molto tempo prima che il nostro nome venisse registrato nell’elenco dei battesimi. La nostra parrocchia si trova in periferia, e la vecchia signora abita in una fila di case ordinate, nella parte più fresca e piacevole del quartiere. La casa appartiene a lei; essa, insieme a tutto ciò che la circonda – tranne la stessa vecchia signora, che sembra un po’ più anziana rispetto a dieci anni fa – è esattamente nella stessa condizione in cui si trovava quando il vecchio signore vi abitava. Il piccolo salotto d’ingresso, che è la stanza dove la vecchia signora trascorre le sue ore di riposo, rappresenta un esempio perfetto di ordine e pulizia: il tappeto è coperto con stoffe marroni olandesi, i vetri e i telai delle foto sono accuratamente avvolti in mussola gialla; le tovaglie non vengono mai rimosse, tranne quando vengono pulite con olio di terebinto e cera d’api, un’operazione che si svolge regolarmente ogni due mattine alle nove e mezza. E i piccoli oggetti decorativi sono sempre disposti nello stesso identico modo. La maggior parte di questi doni proviene da bambine i cui genitori abitano nella stessa fila di case; ma alcuni, come le due vecchie orologi che mai indicano la stessa ora – uno sempre un quarto d’ora indietro e l’altro un quarto d’ora avanti – o il piccolo ritratto della Principessa Charlotte e del Principe Leopold nel palco reale del Drury Lane Theatre, appartengono alla vecchia signora da molti anni. Qui, la vecchia signora siede con gli occhiali sul naso, impegnata nella sua attività di cucito, vicino alla finestra, durante le ore estive. E se vi vede avvicinare e vi trova simpatici, corre ad aprire la porta per voi prima che bussiate; dato che sicuramente siete stanchi dopo quella lunga camminata sotto il sole cocente, insiste perché beviate due bicchieri di sherry prima di iniziare a parlare. Se venite a trovarla la sera, la troverete allegra, ma un po’ più seria del solito; davanti a lei c’è una Bibbia aperta, e “Sarah”, che è altrettanto ordinata e meticolosa della sua padrona, legge regolarmente due o tre capitoli ad alta voce nel salotto.

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the little girls before noticed, each of whom has always a regular fixed day for a periodical tea-drinking with her, to which the child looks forward as the greatest treat of its existence. She seldom visits at a greater distance than the next door but one on either side; and when she drinks tea here, Sarah runs out first and knocks a double-knock, to prevent the possibility of her ‘Missis’s’ catching cold by having to wait at the door. She is very scrupulous in returning these little invitations, and when she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and the best china tea-service, and the Pope Joan board; and the visitors are received in the drawing-room in great state. She has but few relations, and they are scattered about in different parts of the country, and she seldom sees them. She has a son in India, whom she always describes to you as a fine, handsome fellow—so like the profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard, but the old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the head, that he has always been one of her greatest trials; and that indeed he once almost broke her heart; but it pleased God to enable her to get the better of it, and she would prefer your never mentioning the subject to her again. She has a great number of pensioners: and on Saturday, after she comes back from market, there is a regular levee of old men and women in the passage, waiting for their weekly gratuity. Her name always heads the list of any benevolent subscriptions, and hers are always the most liberal donations to the Winter Coal and Soup Distribution Society. She subscribed twenty pounds towards the erection of an organ in our parish church, and was so overcome the first Sunday the children sang to it, that she was obliged to be carried out by the pew-opener. Her entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for a little bustle in the side aisle, occasioned by a general rise among the poor people, who bow and curtsey until the pew-opener has ushered the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respectful curtsey, and shut the door: and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving church, when she walks home with the family next door but one, and talks about the sermon all the way, invariably opening the conversation by asking the youngest boy where the text was.

Thus, with the annual variation of a trip to some quiet place on the sea-coast, passes the old lady’s life. It has rolled on in the same unvarying and benevolent course for many years now, and must at no distant period be brought to its final close. She looks forward to its termination, with calmness and without apprehension. She has everything to hope and nothing to fear.

A very different personage, but one who has rendered himself very conspicuous in our parish, is one of the old lady’s next-door neighbours. He is an old naval officer on half-pay, and his bluff and unceremonious behaviour disturbs the old lady’s domestic economy, not a little. In the first place, he will smoke cigars in the front court, and when he wants something to drink with them—which is by no means an uncommon circumstance—he lifts up the old lady’s knocker with his walking-stick, and demands to have a glass of table ale, handed over the rails. In addition to this cool proceeding, he is a bit of a Jack of all trades, or to use his own words, ‘a regular Robinson Crusoe;’ and nothing delights him better than to experimentalise on the old lady’s property. One morning he got up early, and planted three or four roots of full-grown marigolds in every bed of her front garden, to the inconceivable astonishment of the old lady, who actually thought when she got up and looked out of the window, that it was some strange eruption which had come out in the night. Another time he took to pieces the eight-day clock on the front landing, under pretence of cleaning the works, which he put together again, by some undiscovered process, in so wonderful a manner, that the large hand has done nothing but trip up the little one ever since. Then he took to breeding silk-worms, which he would bring in two or three times a day, in little paper boxes, to show the old lady, generally dropping a worm or two at every visit. The consequence was, that one morning a very stout silk-worm was discovered in the act of walking up-stairs—probably with the view of inquiring after his friends, for, on further inspection, it appeared that some of his companions had already found their way to every room in the house. The old lady went to the seaside in despair, and during her absence he completely effaced the name from her brass door-plate, in his attempts to polish it with aqua-fortis.

But all this is nothing to his seditious conduct in public life. He attends every vestry meeting that is held; always opposes the constituted authorities of the parish, denounces the profligacy of the churchwardens, contests legal points against the vestry-clerk, will make the tax-gatherer call for his money till he won’t call any longer, and then he sends it: finds fault with the sermon every Sunday, says that the organist ought to be ashamed of himself, offers to back himself for any amount to sing the psalms better than all the children put together, male and female; and, in short, conducts himself in the most turbulent and uproarious manner. The worst of it is, that having a high regard for the old lady, he wants to make her a convert to his views, and therefore walks into her little parlour with his newspaper in his hand, and talks violent politics by the hour. He is a charitable, open-hearted old fellow at bottom, after all; so, although he puts the old lady a little out occasionally, they agree very well in the main, and she laughs as much at each feat of his handiwork when it is all over, as anybody else.

CHAPTER III—THE FOUR SISTERS

The row of houses in which the old lady and her troublesome neighbour reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, a greater number of characters within its circumscribed limits, than all the rest of the parish put together. As we cannot, consistently with our present plan, however, extend the number of our parochial sketches beyond six, it will be better perhaps, to select the most peculiar, and to introduce them at once without further preface.

The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish thirteen years ago. It is a melancholy reflection that the old adage, ‘time and tide wait for no man,’ applies with equal force to the fairer portion of the creation; and willingly would we conceal the fact, that even thirteen years ago the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. Our duty as faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is paramount to every other consideration, and we are bound to state, that thirteen years since, the authorities in matrimonial cases, considered the youngest Miss Willis in a very precarious state, while the eldest sister was positively given over, as being far beyond all human hope. Well, the Miss Willises took a lease of the house; it was fresh painted and papered from top to bottom: the paint inside was all wainscoted, the marble all cleaned, the old grates taken down, and register-stoves, you could see to dress by, put up; four trees were planted in the back garden, several small baskets of gravel sprinkled over the front one, vans of elegant furniture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the windows, carpenters who had been employed in the various preparations, alterations, and repairs, made confidential statements to the different maid-servants in the row, relative to the magnificent scale on which the Miss Willises were commencing; the maid-servants told their ‘Missises,’ the Missises told their friends, and vague rumours were circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in Gordon-place, had been taken by four maiden ladies of immense property.

At last, the Miss Willises moved in; and then the ‘calling’ began. The house was the perfection of neatness—so were the four Miss Willises. Everything was formal, stiff, and cold—so were the four Miss Willises. Not a single chair of the whole set was ever seen out of its place—not a single Miss Willis of the whole four was ever seen out of hers. There they always sat, in the same places, doing precisely the same things at the same hour. The eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the second to draw, the two others to play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no separate existence, but to have made up their minds just to winter through life together. They were three long graces in drapery, with the addition, like a school-dinner, of another long grace afterwards—the three fates with another sister—the Siamese twins multiplied by two. The eldest Miss Willis grew bilious—the four Miss Willises grew bilious immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew ill-tempered and religious—the four Miss Willises were ill-tempered and religious directly. Whatever the eldest did, the others did, and whatever anybody else did, they all disapproved of; and thus they vegetated—living in Polar harmony among themselves, and, as they sometimes went out, or saw company ‘in a quiet-way’ at home, occasionally icing the neighbours. Three years passed over in this way, when an unlooked for and extraordinary phenomenon occurred. The Miss Willises showed symptoms of summer, the frost gradually broke up; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible? one of the four Miss Willises was going to be married!

Così, con la variazione annuale di un viaggio in qualche luogo tranquillo sulla costa marittima, trascorre la vita della vecchia signora. È proseguita nello stesso corso costante e benevolo da molti anni ormai, e non manca molto al suo termine finale. Lei attende con calma e senza apprensione che tutto ciò si concluda. Ha tutto per cui >sperare e nulla di cui temere.

Un personaggio molto diverso, ma che si è fatto notare moltissimo nella nostra parrocchia, è uno dei vicini di casa della vecchia signora. È un ex ufficiale navale in congedo a metà stipendio, e il suo comportamento sfacciato e scortese disturba non poco l’ordine domestico della vecchia signora. Prima di tutto, fuma sigari nel cortile anteriore; quando desidera bere qualcosa insieme ai sigari – cosa che non è affatto rara – utilizza il suo bastone da passeggio per suonare alla porta della vecchia signora e chiede un bicchiere di birra, che gli viene consegnato attraverso le sbarre. Oltre a questo comportamento scortese, è anche un po’ un “uomo che sa fare di tutto”, o per usare le sue stesse parole, “un vero Robinson Crusoe”; non c’è nulla che lo diverta di più del mettere alla prova la proprietà della vecchia signora. Una mattina si alzò presto e piantò tre o quattro piante di margherite mature in ogni aiuola del suo giardino anteriore, lasciando la vecchia signora estremamente sorpresa; quando uscì dalla finestra, pensò davvero che si trattasse di una strana eruzione apparsa durante la notte. Un’altra volta smontò completamente l’orologio a muro dell’ingresso, fingendo di volerlo pulire; poi lo rimontò in qualche modo misterioso, tanto che da allora il grande quadrante continua a ostacolare il movimento del piccolo. Inoltre, iniziò anche ad allevare bachi da seta: li portava due o tre volte al giorno in piccole scatole di carta per mostrarli alla vecchia signora, lasciando cadere uno o due di loro ad ogni visita. Il risultato fu che una mattina si trovò un grosso baco da seta mentre cercava di salire le scale. Probabilmente voleva controllare come stessero i suoi “amici”; infatti, a un’ispezione più attenta, si scoprì che alcuni di loro erano già finiti in ogni stanza della casa. La vecchia signora, disperata, andò al mare. E durante la sua assenza, lui cancellò completamente il nome sulla sua targhetta di bronzo, nel tentativo di lucidarla con l’acido nitrico.

Ma tutto questo non è nulla rispetto al suo comportamento sovversivo nella vita pubblica. Partecipa a ogni riunione del consiglio parrocchiale; si oppone sempre alle autorità costituite della parrocchia, denuncia la dissolutezza dei custodi della chiesa, discute punti legali contro il segretario del consiglio, fa sì che l’incaricato delle tasse venga a chiedergli i suoi soldi fino a quando non smette più di farlo, e poi li invia. Trova sempre da ridire del sermone ogni domenica, dice che l’organista dovrebbe vergognarsi di sé stesso, si offre di pagare qualsiasi somma affinché qualcuno canti i salmi meglio di tutti i bambini messi insieme, maschi e femmine. Insomma, si comporta in modo estremamente turbolento e chiassoso. Il peggio è che, avendo grande stima per quella signora anziana, vuole convincerla ad adottare le sue idee; quindi entra nella sua stanza con il giornale in mano e parla di politica per ore intere. In fondo, però, è un uomo gentile e generoso; quindi, anche se a volte la mette un po’ a disagio, nel complesso andano molto d’accordo, e lei ride tanto quanto chiunque altro delle sue “imprese”.

capitolo III – LE QUATTRO SORELLE

La fila di case in cui vivono la vecchia signora e il suo vicino problematico comprende, senza alcun >dubbio, un numero maggiore di personaggi all’interno dei suoi confini limitati, rispetto a tutti gli altri abitanti dell’intera parrocchia messi insieme. Tuttavia, poiché non possiamo, in linea con il nostro piano attuale, aumentare il numero delle descrizioni parrocchiali oltre sei, forse sarà meglio scegliere i personaggi più particolari e presentarli subito, senza ulteriori preamboli.

Le quattro signorine Willis si stabilirono nella nostra parrocchia tredici anni fa. È una riflessione melanconica constatare che il vecchio detto “il tempo e la marea non aspettano nessuno” si applichi con uguale forza anche alla parte più bella della creazione umana; e saremmo volentieri disposti a nascondere il fatto che, già tredici anni fa, le signorine Willis erano tutt’altro che giovani. Tuttavia, il nostro dovere di fedeli cronisti parrocchiali ha la massima priorità su ogni altra considerazione, e dobbiamo dichiarare che, tredici anni dopo, le autorità incaricate dei casi matrimoniali ritenevano la più giovane delle signorine Willis in una situazione molto precaria, mentre la sorella maggiore era considerata irrimediabilmente fuori dalla portata di qualsiasi speranza umana. Comunque sia, le signorine Willis affittarono la casa: era stata completamente ridipinta e rivestita di carta da parati; i pavimenti interni erano stati rifiniti con listelli decorativi, il marmo pulito, le vecchie griglie rimosse e vennero installate stufe moderne; furono piantati quattro alberi nel giardino posteriore, sparse alcune pietre di ghiaia sul davanti, arrivarono carri pieni di mobili eleganti, alle finestre furono montate tende da sole primaverili; i carpentieri incaricati dei vari lavori di preparazione e riparazione riferirono alle domestiche presenti nella zona l’imponente entità degli investimenti effettuati dalle signorine Willis. Le domestiche ne parlarono alle loro padrone, le padrone ai loro amici, e in tutta la parrocchia iniziarono a circolare voci vaghe secondo cui il numero 25 di Gordon-place fosse stato preso da quattro giovani donne molto ricche.

Finalmente, le signorine Willis si trasferirono lì; e allora iniziò quella “vita regolare”. La casa era il perfetto esempio di ordine e pulizia, così come le quattro signorine Willis. Tutto era formale, rigido e freddo, proprio come loro. Nessuna sedia dell’intera mobilia veniva mai spostata dal suo posto; nessuna delle quattro signorine Willis usciva mai dai suoi limiti. Sedevano sempre nello stesso posto, facendo esattamente le stesse cose alla stessa ora: la più anziana lavorava a maglia, la seconda disegnava, le altre due suonavano il pianoforte in duetto. Sembrava che non avessero una vita propria, ma avessero deciso di trascorrere insieme tutta la loro esistenza. Erano tre donne eleganti e dignitose, come se fossero state unite da un legame indissolubile. Poi, come durante una cena scolastica, arrivò un’altra “donna”, le tre sorelle gemelle siamesi moltiplicate per due. La più anziana signorina Willis iniziò ad avere problemi di salute; immediatamente anche le altre quattro ne furono colpite. La più anziana divenne irascibile e devota, le altre quattro lo furono altrettanto. Qualunque cosa facesse la prima, le altre la imitavano; qualunque cosa facesse chiunque altro, loro la disapprovavano. Così trascorrevano la loro vita, in un’armonia “artificiale”, e quando uscivano o ricevevano visite a casa, a volte trattavano i vicini con freddezza. Tre anni passarono in questo modo, fino a quando non accadde qualcosa di inaspettato: le signorine Willis mostrarono segni di “primavera”, il gelo iniziò a sciogliersi, si verificò una vera e propria rinascita. Era possibile? Una delle quattro signorine Willis stava per sposarsi!

Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what feelings the poor man could have been actuated, or by what process of reasoning the four Miss Willises succeeded in persuading themselves that it was possible for a man to marry one of them, without marrying them all, are questions too profound for us to resolve: certain it is, however, that the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman in a public office, with a good salary and a little property of his own, besides) were received—that the four Miss Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr Robinson—that the neighbours were perfectly frantic in their anxiety to discover which of the four Miss Willises was the fortunate fair, and that the difficulty they experienced in solving the problem was not at all lessened by the announcement of the eldest Miss Willis,—‘We are going to marry Mr. Robinson.’

It was very extraordinary. They were so completely identified, the one with the other, that the curiosity of the whole row—even of the old lady herself—was roused almost beyond endurance. The subject was discussed at every little card-table and tea-drinking. The old gentleman of silk-worm notoriety did not hesitate to express his decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern descent, and contemplated marrying the whole family at once; and the row, generally, shook their heads with considerable gravity, and declared the business to be very mysterious. They hoped it might all end well;—it certainly had a very singular appearance, but still it would be uncharitable to express any opinion without good grounds to go upon, and certainly the Miss Willises were quite old enough to judge for themselves, and to be sure people ought to know their own business best, and so forth.

At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o’clock, a.m., two glass-coaches drove up to the Miss Willises’ door, at which Mr. Robinson had arrived in a cab ten minutes before, dressed in a light-blue coat and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white neckerchief, pumps, and dress-gloves, his manner denoting, as appeared from the evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, who was sweeping the door-steps at the time, a considerable degree of nervous excitement. It was also hastily reported on the same testimony, that the cook who opened the door, wore a large white bow of unusual dimensions, in a much smarter head-dress than the regulation cap to which the Miss Willises invariably restricted the somewhat excursive tastes of female servants in general.

The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. It was quite clear that the eventful morning had at length arrived; the whole row stationed themselves behind their first and second floor blinds, and waited the result in breathless expectation.

At last the Miss Willises’ door opened; the door of the first glass-coach did the same. Two gentlemen, and a pair of ladies to correspond—friends of the family, no doubt; up went the steps, bang went the door, off went the first class-coach, and up came the second.

The street door opened again; the excitement of the whole row increased—Mr. Robinson and the eldest Miss Willis. ‘I thought so,’ said the lady at No. 19; ‘I always said it was Miss Willis!’—‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady at No. 17.—‘Did you ever, dear!’ responded the young lady at No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. ‘It’s too ridiculous!’ exclaimed a spinster of an _un_certain age, at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall portray the astonishment of Gordon-place, when Mr. Robinson handed in all the Miss Willises, one after the other, and then squeezed himself into an acute angle of the glass-coach, which forthwith proceeded at a brisk pace, after the other glass-coach, which other glass-coach had itself proceeded, at a brisk pace, in the direction of the parish church! Who shall depict the perplexity of the clergyman, when all the Miss Willises knelt down at the communion-table, and repeated the responses incidental to the marriage service in an audible voice—or who shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when—even after the difficulties thus occasioned had been adjusted—all the Miss Willises went into hysterics at the conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred edifice resounded with their united wailings!

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to occupy the same house after this memorable occasion, and as the married sister, whoever she was, never appeared in public without the other three, we are not quite clear that the neighbours ever would have discovered the real Mrs. Robinson, but for a circumstance of the most gratifying description, which will happen occasionally in the best-regulated families. Three quarter-days elapsed, and the row, on whom a new light appeared to have been bursting for some time, began to speak with a sort of implied confidence on the subject, and to wonder how Mrs. Robinson—the youngest Miss Willis that was—got on; and servants might be seen running up the steps, about nine or ten o’clock every morning, with ‘Missis’s compliments, and wishes to know how Mrs. Robinson finds herself this morning?’ And the answer always was, ‘Mrs. Robinson’s compliments, and she’s in very good spirits, and doesn’t find herself any worse.’ The piano was heard no longer, the knitting-needles were laid aside, drawing was neglected, and mantua-making and millinery, on the smallest scale imaginable, appeared to have become the favourite amusement of the whole family. The parlour wasn’t quite as tidy as it used to be, and if you called in the morning, you would see lying on a table, with an old newspaper carelessly thrown over them, two or three particularly small caps, rather larger than if they had been made for a moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the shape of a horse-shoe, let in behind: or perhaps a white robe, not very large in circumference, but very much out of proportion in point of length, with a little tucker round the top, and a frill round the bottom; and once when we called, we saw a long white roller, with a kind of blue margin down each side, the probable use of which, we were at a loss to conjecture. Then we fancied that Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who displays a large lamp with a different colour in every pane of glass, at the corner of the row, began to be knocked up at night oftener than he used to be; and once we were very much alarmed by hearing a hackney-coach stop at Mrs. Robinson’s door, at half-past two o’clock in the morning, out of which there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and night-cap, with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the other, who looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for some very special purpose.

Ora, da dove diavolo provenisse quel marito, quali sentimenti potessero aver spinto quell’uomo povero ad agire in quel modo, o con quale processo di ragionamento le quattro signorine Willis riuscirono a convincersi che fosse possibile per un uomo sposare una di loro senza doverle sposare tutte. Queste sono domande troppo profonde per poter essere risolte da noi. Tuttavia, è certo che le visite del signor Robinson – un gentiluomo con un incarico pubblico, uno stipendio decente e anche una piccola proprietà personale – furono accolte con favore; che le quattro signorine Willis furono corteggiate in modo appropriato da quel signor Robinson; che i vicini erano letteralmente fuori di sé dall’ansia di scoprire quale delle quattro fosse la fortunata. E che la difficoltà nel risolvere questo enigma non diminuì affatto quando la più anziana delle signorine Willis annunciò: “Noi sposeremo il signor Robinson”.

Era davvero straordinario. Erano così completamente identificati l’uno con l’altro che la curiosità di tutta la fila – persino della vecchia signora stessa – era stata suscitata al punto di diventare quasi insopportabile. L’argomento veniva discusso a ogni tavolino da gioco e durante le pause del tè. Il vecchio gentiluomo, noto per la sua passione per i bachi da seta, non esitò ad esprimere con fermezza la sua opinione secondo cui il signor Robinson avesse origini orientali, e addirittura considerava l’idea di sposare l’intera famiglia; in generale, tutta la fila scuoteva la testa con grande serietà, dichiarando che la situazione fosse davvero misteriosa. Speravano che tutto finisse bene. Certo, l’aspetto della cosa era molto insolito, ma sarebbe stato ingiusto esprimere opinioni senza basi solide; inoltre, le signorine Willis erano abbastanza adulte da poter giudicare da sole. Dopotutto, ognuno dovrebbe conoscere meglio di chiunque altro i propri affari, non è vero?

Finalmente, una bella mattina, alle sette e quindici del mattino, due carrozze di vetro si fermarono davanti alla porta della signorina Willis; il signor Robinson era arrivato lì dieci minuti prima in cabina, vestito con un cappotto azzurro chiaro e pantaloni di lana bianca, cravatta bianca, scarpe con tacco alto e guanti da sera. Il suo comportamento, secondo quanto riferita dalla cameriera di casa numero 23 che in quel momento stava spazzando i gradini d’ingresso, denotava un notevole grado di nervosismo. Lo stesso testimone aveva anche riferito, in modo affrettato, che la cuoca che aprì la porta indossava un grande nastro bianco di dimensioni insolite, e un copricapo molto più elegante del solito cappello regolamentare che la signorina Willis imponeva sempre alle domestiche.

La notizia si diffuse rapidamente da una >casa all’altra. Era abbastanza chiaro che quella mattina piena di eventi fosse finalmente arrivata; tutta la fila di persone si nascose dietro le tende dei piani terra e primo piano, aspettando il risultato con ansia.

Finalmente si aprì la porta della signorina Willis; lo stesso accadde per la prima carrozza con finestrini di vetro. Due gentiluomini e una coppia di signore – amici della famiglia, senza alcun >dubbio – salirono i gradini; la porta si aprì con un colpo secco, la prima carrozza partì, e poi arrivò la seconda.

La porta di strada si aprì di nuovo; l’emozione di tutta la fila aumentò. Il signor Robinson e la più anziana delle signorine Willis. “Lo pensavo”, disse la signora del numero 19; “Ho sempre detto che fosse la signorina Willis!” “Beh, io mai!”, esclamò la giovane signorina del numero 18 rivolta a quella del numero 17. “Davvero?”, rispose la giovane signorina del numero 17. “È troppo ridicolo!”, aggiunse una zitella di età indefinita, dal numero 16, unendosi alla conversazione. Ma chi potrà descrivere lo stupore di Gordon-place quando il signor Robinson presentò tutte le signorine Willis, una dopo l’altra, e poi si infilò in un angolo stretto della vettura a vetri, che subito dopo partì a tutta velocità, seguendo un’altra vettura a vetri che a sua volta si era già mossa rapidamente in direzione della chiesa parrocchiale? Chi potrà rappresentare la confusione del clero quando tutte le signorine Willis si inginocchiarono davanti all’altare e ripeterono ad alta voce le risposte previste dal rito matrimoniale. E chi descriverà il caos che regnò quando, anche dopo che tutti questi problemi furono risolti, tutte le signorine Willis entrarono in isteria alla fine della cerimonia, fino a quando l’edificio sacro non risuonò dei loro pianti congiunti?

Le quattro sorelle e il signor Robinson continuarono ad abitare nella stessa >casa dopo quell’evento memorabile; poiché la sorella sposata, chiunque essa fosse, non compariva mai in pubblico senza le altre tre, non è del tutto certo che i vicini avrebbero mai scoperto chi fosse veramente la signora Robinson, se non per una circostanza davvero fortunata, quella che talvolta accade anche nelle famiglie più ben organizzate. Trascorsero tre quarti di settimana; le persone del vicinato, che sembravano aver iniziato a sospettare qualcosa, cominciarono a parlare dell’argomento con una certa confidenza e a chiedersi come se la stesse cavando la signora Robinson. La risposta era sempre la stessa: “I complimenti della signora Robinson; sta molto bene, non si sente affatto peggio”. Il pianoforte non veniva più suonato, le aguglie da maglia venivano messe da parte, il disegno veniva trascurato. E sembrava che la confezione di abiti e accessori, anche su piccola scala, fosse diventata l’occupazione preferita di tutta la famiglia. La sala non era più così ordinata come prima. Se si bussava alla porta al mattino, ci si imbatteva in due o tre cappellini particolarmente piccoli, un po’ più grandi del necessario per una bambola di dimensioni medie; oppure in un pezzo di pizzo a forma di scarpa da cavallo. O ancora in un abito bianco, di lunghezza sproporzionata rispetto alla circonferenza. Una volta, quando bussammo, vedemmo anche un lungo rotolo bianco, con bordi blu su entrambi i lati. Non riuscivamo proprio a immaginare a cosa potesse servire. Poi pensammo che il dottor Dawson, lo chirurgo del vicinato, che aveva una lampada con vetri di colore diverso in ogni finestra, cominciasse ad apparire più spesso la sera. Una volta, ci allarmammo molto quando sentimmo una carrozza fermarsi davanti alla casa della signora Robinson alle due e mezza del mattino: ne uscì una vecchia donna grassa, avvolta in un mantello e con un cappello da notte; aveva un fagotto in una mano e un paio di pattini nell’altra. Sembrava proprio che fosse stata svegliata all’improvviso per qualche motivo molto speciale.

When we got up in the morning we saw that the knocker was tied up in an old white kid glove; and we, in our innocence (we were in a state of bachelorship then), wondered what on earth it all meant, until we heard the eldest Miss Willis, in propriâ personâ say, with great dignity, in answer to the next inquiry, ‘My compliments, and Mrs. Robinson’s doing as well as can be expected, and the little girl thrives wonderfully.’ And then, in common with the rest of the row, our curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had never occurred to us what the matter was, before.

CHAPTER IV—THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

A great event has recently occurred in our parish. A contest of paramount interest has just terminated; a parochial convulsion has taken place. It has been succeeded by a glorious triumph, which the country—or at least the parish—it is all the same—will long remember. We have had an election; an election for beadle. The supporters of the old beadle system have been defeated in their stronghold, and the advocates of the great new beadle principles have achieved a proud victory.

Our parish, which, like all other parishes, is a little world of its own, has long been divided into two parties, whose contentions, slumbering for a while, have never failed to burst forth with unabated vigour, on any occasion on which they could by possibility be renewed. Watching-rates, lighting-rates, paving-rates, sewer’s-rates, church-rates, poor’s-rates—all sorts of rates, have been in their turns the subjects of a grand struggle; and as to questions of patronage, the asperity and determination with which they have been contested is scarcely credible.

The leader of the official party—the steady advocate of the churchwardens, and the unflinching supporter of the overseers—is an old gentleman who lives in our row. He owns some half a dozen houses in it, and always walks on the opposite side of the way, so that he may be able to take in a view of the whole of his property at once. He is a tall, thin, bony man, with an interrogative nose, and little restless perking eyes, which appear to have been given him for the sole purpose of peeping into other people’s affairs with. He is deeply impressed with the importance of our parish business, and prides himself, not a little, on his style of addressing the parishioners in vestry assembled. His views are rather confined than extensive; his principles more narrow than liberal. He has been heard to declaim very loudly in favour of the liberty of the press, and advocates the repeal of the stamp duty on newspapers, because the daily journals who now have a monopoly of the public, never give verbatim reports of vestry meetings. He would not appear egotistical for the world, but at the same time he must say, that there are speeches—that celebrated speech of his own, on the emoluments of the sexton, and the duties of the office, for instance—which might be communicated to the public, greatly to their improvement and advantage.

His great opponent in public life is Captain Purday, the old naval officer on half-pay, to whom we have already introduced our readers. The captain being a determined opponent of the constituted authorities, whoever they may chance to be, and our other friend being their steady supporter, with an equal disregard of their individual merits, it will readily be supposed, that occasions for their coming into direct collision are neither few nor far between. They divided the vestry fourteen times on a motion for heating the church with warm water instead of coals: and made speeches about liberty and expenditure, and prodigality and hot water, which threw the whole parish into a state of excitement. Then the captain, when he was on the visiting committee, and his opponent overseer, brought forward certain distinct and specific charges relative to the management of the workhouse, boldly expressed his total want of confidence in the existing authorities, and moved for ‘a copy of the recipe by which the paupers’ soup was prepared, together with any documents relating thereto.’ This the overseer steadily resisted; he fortified himself by precedent, appealed to the established usage, and declined to produce the papers, on the ground of the injury that would be done to the public service, if documents of a strictly private nature, passing between the master of the workhouse and the cook, were to be thus dragged to light on the motion of any individual member of the vestry. The motion was lost by a majority of two; and then the captain, who never allows himself to be defeated, moved for a committee of inquiry into the whole subject. The affair grew serious: the question was discussed at meeting after meeting, and vestry after vestry; speeches were made, attacks repudiated, personal defiances exchanged, explanations received, and the greatest excitement prevailed, until at last, just as the question was going to be finally decided, the vestry found that somehow or other, they had become entangled in a point of form, from which it was impossible to escape with propriety. So, the motion was dropped, and everybody looked extremely important, and seemed quite satisfied with the meritorious nature of the whole proceeding.

This was the state of affairs in our parish a week or two since, when Simmons, the beadle, suddenly died. The lamented deceased had over-exerted himself, a day or two previously, in conveying an aged female, highly intoxicated, to the strong room of the work-house. The excitement thus occasioned, added to a severe cold, which this indefatigable officer had caught in his capacity of director of the parish engine, by inadvertently playing over himself instead of a fire, proved too much for a constitution already enfeebled by age; and the intelligence was conveyed to the Board one evening that Simmons had died, and left his respects.

The breath was scarcely out of the body of the deceased functionary, when the field was filled with competitors for the vacant office, each of whom rested his claims to public support, entirely on the number and extent of his family, as if the office of beadle were originally instituted as an encouragement for the propagation of the human species. ‘Bung for Beadle. Five small children!’—‘Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small children!!’—‘Timkins for Beadle. Nine small children!!!’ Such were the placards in large black letters on a white ground, which were plentifully pasted on the walls, and posted in the windows of the principal shops. Timkins’s success was considered certain: several mothers of families half promised their votes, and the nine small children would have run over the course, but for the production of another placard, announcing the appearance of a still more meritorious candidate. ‘Spruggins for Beadle. Ten small children (two of them twins), and a wife!!!’ There was no resisting this; ten small children would have been almost irresistible in themselves, without the twins, but the touching parenthesis about that interesting production of nature, and the still more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must ensure success. Spruggins was the favourite at once, and the appearance of his lady, as she went about to solicit votes (which encouraged confident hopes of a still further addition to the house of Spruggins at no remote period), increased the general prepossession in his favour. The other candidates, Bung alone excepted, resigned in despair. The day of election was fixed; and the canvass proceeded with briskness and perseverance on both sides.

Quando ci siamo alzati la mattina, abbiamo visto che il batacchio era legato con un vecchio guanto bianco da bambino; e noi, nella nostra innocenza (all’epoca eravamo ancora single), ci siamo chiesti cosa significasse tutto ciò, fino a quando non abbiamo sentito la più anziana signorina Willis, di persona, dire con grande dignità, in risposta a una domanda: “I miei complimenti; la signora Robinson se la sta cavando il meglio possibile, e la bambina cresce meravigliosamente”. E così, come tutti gli altri, anche la nostra curiosità è stata soddisfatta, e abbiamo iniziato a chiederci perché prima non ci fosse mai venuto in mente di cosa si trattasse.

capitolo IV – L’ELEZIONE PER BELLISTA

Recentemente nella nostra parrocchia è avvenuto un grande evento: una competizione di estremo interesse si è appena conclusa; si è verificata una sorta di “convulsione” all’interno della comunità parrocchiale. A questa è seguito un trionfo glorioso, che il paese – o almeno la parrocchia – ricorderà a lungo. Abbiamo avuto delle elezioni: elezioni per l’incarico di “beadle”. I sostenitori dell’antico sistema dei beadle sono stati sconfitti nel loro bastione, mentre i promotori dei nuovi principi riguardanti questa carica hanno ottenuto una vittoria orgogliosa.

La nostra parrocchia, che, come tutte le altre parrocchie, è un piccolo mondo a sé stante, è da tempo divisa in due fazioni. Le loro contese, sebbene per un po’ si siano placate, non hanno mai smesso di scatenarsi con intensità ineguagliabile ogni volta che ne sorgeva l’occasione. I tassi di affitto delle case, i costi dell’illuminazione, quelli della pavimentazione, dei servizi fognari, della manutenzione della chiesa e degli aiuti per i poveri, tutte queste questioni sono state oggetto di aspre lotte. Per quanto riguarda le questioni relative alla gestione delle attività parrocchiali, l’acuità e la determinazione con cui vengono affrontate sono davvero difficili da credere.

Il leader del partito ufficiale – il fedele sostenitore dei supervisori parrocchiali e l’incondizionato difensore degli ispettori – è un anziano gentiluomo che vive nella nostra strada. Possiede circa mezza dozzina di case in quella zona, e cammina sempre sul lato opposto della strada, così da poter ammirare tutta la sua proprietà in un solo sguardo. È un uomo alto, magro, ossuto, con un naso appuntito e occhi irrequieti che sembrano essere stati dati esclusivamente per spiare nelle faccende altrui. È profondamente convinto dell’importanza degli affari parrocchiali e si vanta molto del modo in cui si rivolge ai parrocchiani durante le riunioni della sagrestia. Le sue idee sono piuttosto ristrette, i suoi principi più conservatori che progressisti. Si è sentito dire che esalta ad alta voce la libertà di stampa e sostiene l’abolizione dell’imposta sulla stampa dei giornali, poiché i quotidiani attualmente in possesso del monopolio sull’informazione pubblica non riportano mai fedelmente i contenuti delle riunioni della sagrestia. Non sembra affatto presuntuoso, ma allo stesso tempo ammette che ci sono discorsi – come il suo celebre intervento sui compensi del sacrista e sulle responsabilità di tale incarico – che potrebbero essere resi noti al pubblico, con grande beneficio per tutti.

Il suo principale avversario nella vita pubblica è il Capitano Purday, quel vecchio ufficiale navale in congedo a metà stipendio, che abbiamo già presentato ai nostri lettori. Poiché il capitano è un oppositore deciso delle autorità costituite, qualunque esse siano, e il nostro altro amico ne è un fedele sostenitore, senza tenere conto dei loro meriti individuali, è facile immaginare che le occasioni per uno scontro diretto tra di loro non siano affatto rare. Hanno diviso la congregazione quattordici volte a causa di una proposta volta ad utilizzare acqua calda invece di carbone per riscaldare la chiesa; hanno tenuto discorsi su libertà, spese, prodigalità e acqua calda, causando grande agitazione in tutta la parrocchia. In seguito, quando il capitano faceva parte del comitato di ispezione e il suo avversario era l’ispettore incaricato della gestione dell’ospizio, sono stati sollevati alcuni specifici problemi riguardanti la sua amministrazione; il capitano ha espresso apertamente la propria totale mancanza di fiducia nelle autorità esistenti e ha chiesto “una copia della ricetta utilizzata per preparare la zuppa dei poveri, insieme a eventuali documenti correlati”. L’ispettore si è opposto fermamente, facendo riferimento a precedenti e alle usanze consolidate, e ha rifiutato di produrre tali documenti, sostenendo che farlo avrebbe danneggiato il servizio pubblico. La proposta è stata bocciata con una maggioranza di due voti; allora il capitano, che non si arrende mai facilmente, ha chiesto la creazione di un comitato d’inchiesta sull’intera questione. L’affare è diventato sempre più serio: il problema è stato discusso in molte riunioni e da diverse congregazioni; sono stati tenuti discorsi, si sono scambiati attacchi personali e spiegazioni, fino a quando, proprio quando la questione stava per essere definitivamente risolta, si è scoperto che erano rimasti impigliati in una questione di forma dalla quale non era possibile uscire in modo appropriato. Così, la proposta è stata abbandonata e tutti hanno avuto l’aria di considerarsi molto importanti, sembrando pienamente soddisfatti della “natura meritoria” dell’intero processo.

Ecco lo stato delle cose nella nostra parrocchia una o due settimane fa, quando Simmons, il sacrestano, morì improvvisamente. Il povero defunto si era overesercitato un giorno o due prima, mentre aiutava una donna anziana e completamente ubriaca a raggiungere la stanza riservata agli inquilini indigenti dell’ospizio parrocchiale. L’eccitazione causata da questo compito, unita a un grave raffreddore contratto nell’esercitare le sue funzioni di addetto alla manutenzione della caldaia della parrocchia – poiché aveva accidentalmente azionato il sistema di riscaldamento invece del vero fuoco – risultò troppo pesante per una salute già indebolita dall’età. Una sera fu comunicato al consiglio parrocchiale che Simmons era morto, lasciando i suoi saluti alla comunità.

Il respiro del defunto funzionario non era ancora completamente uscito dal suo corpo, quando il campo si riempì di candidati che aspiravano a quella carica vacante. Ognuno di loro basava le proprie rivendicazioni sul sostegno pubblico esclusivamente sul numero e sulla grandezza della propria famiglia, come se la carica di beadle fosse stata originariamente istituita proprio per incoraggiare la riproduzione dell’umanità. “Bung per Beadle. Cinque bambini piccoli!” – “Hopkins per Beadle. Sette bambini piccoli!!” – “Timkins per Beadle. Nove bambini piccoli!!!” Questi erano i cartelli, scritti in grandi caratteri neri su fondo bianco, che venivano appesi ovunque sui muri e alle vetrine dei negozi principali. Il successo di Timkins sembrava certo: molte madri di famiglia gli avevano già promesso il proprio voto, e quei nove bambini piccoli avrebbero sicuramente garantito la sua elezione, se non fosse stato per l’apparizione di un altro cartello che presentava un candidato ancora più meritevole: “Spruggins per Beadle. Dieci bambini piccoli (due dei quali gemelli), e una moglie!!!” Non c’era modo di resistere a questo: anche senza i gemelli, quei dieci bambini avrebbero già rappresentato un argomento decisivo a favore di Spruggins; ma l’allusione commovente alla sua famiglia, e soprattutto al fatto che fosse sposato, aumentarono ulteriormente le sue possibilità di vittoria. Gli altri candidati, tranne Bung, si arresero in disperazione. Il giorno delle elezioni fu fissato; e la campagna elettorale proseguì con vigore da entrambe le parti.

The members of the vestry could not be supposed to escape the contagious excitement inseparable from the occasion. The majority of the lady inhabitants of the parish declared at once for Spruggins; and the quondam overseer took the same side, on the ground that men with large families always had been elected to the office, and that although he must admit, that, in other respects, Spruggins was the least qualified candidate of the two, still it was an old practice, and he saw no reason why an old practice should be departed from. This was enough for the captain. He immediately sided with Bung, canvassed for him personally in all directions, wrote squibs on Spruggins, and got his butcher to skewer them up on conspicuous joints in his shop-front; frightened his neighbour, the old lady, into a palpitation of the heart, by his awful denunciations of Spruggins’s party; and bounced in and out, and up and down, and backwards and forwards, until all the sober inhabitants of the parish thought it inevitable that he must die of a brain fever, long before the election began.

The day of election arrived. It was no longer an individual struggle, but a party contest between the ins and outs. The question was, whether the withering influence of the overseers, the domination of the churchwardens, and the blighting despotism of the vestry-clerk, should be allowed to render the election of beadle a form—a nullity: whether they should impose a vestry-elected beadle on the parish, to do their bidding and forward their views, or whether the parishioners, fearlessly asserting their undoubted rights, should elect an independent beadle of their own.

The nomination was fixed to take place in the vestry, but so great was the throng of anxious spectators, that it was found necessary to adjourn to the church, where the ceremony commenced with due solemnity. The appearance of the churchwardens and overseers, and the ex-churchwardens and ex-overseers, with Spruggins in the rear, excited general attention. Spruggins was a little thin man, in rusty black, with a long pale face, and a countenance expressive of care and fatigue, which might either be attributed to the extent of his family or the anxiety of his feelings. His opponent appeared in a cast-off coat of the captain’s—a blue coat with bright buttons; white trousers, and that description of shoes familiarly known by the appellation of ‘high-lows.’ There was a serenity in the open countenance of Bung—a kind of moral dignity in his confident air—an ‘I wish you may get it’ sort of expression in his eye—which infused animation into his supporters, and evidently dispirited his opponents.

The ex-churchwarden rose to propose Thomas Spruggins for beadle. He had known him long. He had had his eye upon him closely for years; he had watched him with twofold vigilance for months. (A parishioner here suggested that this might be termed ‘taking a double sight,’ but the observation was drowned in loud cries of ‘Order!’) He would repeat that he had had his eye upon him for years, and this he would say, that a more well-conducted, a more well-behaved, a more sober, a more quiet man, with a more well-regulated mind, he had never met with. A man with a larger family he had never known (cheers). The parish required a man who could be depended on (‘Hear!’ from the Spruggins side, answered by ironical cheers from the Bung party). Such a man he now proposed (‘No,’ ‘Yes’). He would not allude to individuals (the ex-churchwarden continued, in the celebrated negative style adopted by great speakers). He would not advert to a gentleman who had once held a high rank in the service of his majesty; he would not say, that that gentleman was no gentleman; he would not assert, that that man was no man; he would not say, that he was a turbulent parishioner; he would not say, that he had grossly misbehaved himself, not only on this, but on all former occasions; he would not say, that he was one of those discontented and treasonable spirits, who carried confusion and disorder wherever they went; he would not say, that he harboured in his heart envy, and hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness. No! He wished to have everything comfortable and pleasant, and therefore, he would say—nothing about him (cheers).

The captain replied in a similar parliamentary style. He would not say, he was astonished at the speech they had just heard; he would not say, he was disgusted (cheers). He would not retort the epithets which had been hurled against him (renewed cheering); he would not allude to men once in office, but now happily out of it, who had mismanaged the workhouse, ground the paupers, diluted the beer, slack-baked the bread, boned the meat, heightened the work, and lowered the soup (tremendous cheers). He would not ask what such men deserved (a voice, ‘Nothing a-day, and find themselves!’). He would not say, that one burst of general indignation should drive them from the parish they polluted with their presence (‘Give it him!’). He would not allude to the unfortunate man who had been proposed—he would not say, as the vestry’s tool, but as Beadle. He would not advert to that individual’s family; he would not say, that nine children, twins, and a wife, were very bad examples for pauper imitation (loud cheers). He would not advert in detail to the qualifications of Bung. The man stood before him, and he would not say in his presence, what he might be disposed to say of him, if he were absent. (Here Mr. Bung telegraphed to a friend near him, under cover of his hat, by contracting his left eye, and applying his right thumb to the tip of his nose). It had been objected to Bung that he had only five children (‘Hear, hear!’ from the opposition). Well; he had yet to learn that the legislature had affixed any precise amount of infantine qualification to the office of beadle; but taking it for granted that an extensive family were a great requisite, he entreated them to look to facts, and compare data, about which there could be no mistake. Bung was 35 years of age. Spruggins—of whom he wished to speak with all possible respect—was 50. Was it not more than possible—was it not very probable—that by the time Bung attained the latter age, he might see around him a family, even exceeding in number and extent, that to which Spruggins at present laid claim (deafening cheers and waving of handkerchiefs)? The captain concluded, amidst loud applause, by calling upon the parishioners to sound the tocsin, rush to the poll, free themselves from dictation, or be slaves for ever.

Non si poteva certo pensare che i membri del consiglio parrocchiale riuscissero a sfuggire all’agitazione contagiosa insita in quell’occasione. La maggior parte delle signore residenti nella parrocchia appoggiò immediatamente Spruggins; anche l’ex supervisore prese la stessa posizione, sostenendo che uomini con molte famiglie fossero sempre stati eletti a quell’incarico, e che, sebbene dovesse ammettere che, in altri aspetti, Spruggins fosse il candidato meno qualificato dei due, si trattava comunque di una vecchia tradizione, e non vedeva motivo per abbandonarla. Questo fu sufficiente per il capitano: si schierò immediatamente dalla parte di Bung, lo sostenne personalmente in ogni modo possibile, scrisse articoli diffamatori su Spruggins e fece appendere tali articoli nei punti più visibili del negozio del proprio macellaio; spaventò a morte la vicina anziana con le sue terribili denunce contro il partito di Spruggins, e continuò a muoversi avanti e indietro, su e giù, in ogni direzione, fino a quando tutti gli abitanti sobri della parrocchia pensarono che fosse inevitabile che morisse di febbre cerebrale, molto prima ancora che iniziasse l’elezione.

Il giorno delle elezioni arrivò. Non si trattava più di una lotta individuale, ma di una competizione tra fazioni diverse. La questione principale era: doveva essere permesso che l’influenza declinante degli ispettori, il dominio dei parroci e il dispotismo oppressivo del segretario della parrocchia rendessero le elezioni del beadle una semplice formalità priva di significato; oppure i parrocchiani, affrontando senza paura i propri diritti inalienabili, dovevano eleggere un beadle indipendente a loro piacimento.

La nomina era prevista per avere luogo nella sacrestia, ma la folla di spettatori ansiosi era così numerosa che si decise di trasferire la cerimonia in chiesa, dove essa ebbe inizio con la dovuta solennità. L’arrivo dei custodi e degli ispettori della chiesa, nonché degli ex-custodi ed ex-ispettori, insieme a Spruggins, attirò l’attenzione di tutti. Spruggins era un uomo magro, vestito di nero logoro; aveva il viso pallido e lungo, e un’espressione che denotava preoccupazione e stanchezza, dovuta probabilmente alle responsabilità familiari o all’ansia che provava. Il suo avversario indossava un vecchio cappotto del capitano: un abito blu con bottoni brillanti, pantaloni bianchi e scarpe chiamate comunemente “high-lows”. Sul viso aperto di Bung si leggeva una serenità, una sorta di dignità morale nel suo atteggiamento fiducioso; lo sguardo che aveva sembrava dire “Spero che tu la ottenga”, il che infondeva energia nei suoi sostenitori e, evidentemente, demoralizzava gli avversari.

L’ex custode della chiesa propose Thomas Spruggins per l’incarico di beadle. Lo conosceva da tempo; lo aveva osservato attentamente per anni, con doppia attenzione negli ultimi mesi. Un parrocchiano suggerì che ciò potesse essere definito “osservarlo con particolare attenzione”, ma il commento fu sommerso dai grida di “Ordine!”. Ripeté che non aveva mai incontrato una persona più perbene, più comportata correttamente, più sobria e tranquilla, con una mente più equilibrata. Non conosceva nessuno con una famiglia più numerosa. La parrocchia aveva bisogno di una persona di cui ci si potesse fidare, “Ascoltate!”, gridò dalla parte dei Spruggins, mentre dall’altra parte risuonarono risate ironiche. Propose proprio Thomas Spruggins, “No. Sì!”. Non fece alcuna allusione a individui specifici; non menzionò il gentiluomo che un tempo aveva ricoperto una posizione elevata al servizio del sovrano; non disse che quel gentiluomo non fosse tale; non affermò che non fosse affatto un uomo. Non disse nulla di negativo su di lui. Voleva soltanto che tutto andasse bene e in modo piacevole. Quindi, non disse nulla su di lui. (Risate.)

Il capitano rispose in uno stile simile a quello parlamentare. Non avrebbe detto di essere rimasto sorpreso dal discorso appena ascoltato; non avrebbe detto di essere disgustato (acclamazioni); non avrebbe ribattuto agli insulti rivoltigli (nuove acclamazioni); non avrebbe fatto riferimento a persone che, un tempo in carica ma ora felicemente lontane da essa, avevano gestito male l’ospizio, ridotto alla miseria i poveri, diluito la birra, cotto male il pane, privato la carne delle ossa, aumentato il lavoro e ridotto la quantità di zuppa (acclamazioni fragorose). Non avrebbe chiesto cosa meritassero tali persone (una voce gridò: “Niente a giorno, e che si trovino da sole!”). Non avrebbe detto che un’ondata di indignazione generale avrebbe dovuto scacciarle dalla parrocchia che avevano contaminato con la loro presenza (“Dateglielo!”). Non avrebbe fatto riferimento all’infelice uomo proposto per l’incarico: non lo avrebbe definito uno strumento del consiglio parrocchiale, ma semplicemente il beadle. Non avrebbe menzionato la famiglia di quell’uomo; non avrebbe detto che nove figli, gemelli e una moglie fossero esempi molto negativi da imitare per i poveri (acclamazioni sonore). Non avrebbe approfondito in dettaglio le qualifiche di Bung. L’uomo stava davanti a lui, e il capitano non avrebbe detto, in sua presenza, ciò che avrebbe potuto dire di lui se fosse stato assente, (In quel momento, il signor Bung inviò un messaggio a un amico vicino a lui, mimando con l’occhio sinistro e premendo il pollice destro sulla punta del naso). Si era obiettato che Bung avesse soltanto cinque figli (“Ascoltate, ascoltate!”, dall’opposizione). Beh, non aveva ancora saputo se il legislatore avesse stabilito un numero preciso di figli come requisito per l’incarico di beadle; ma supponendo che una famiglia numerosa fosse davvero necessaria, li esortò a guardare ai fatti e a confrontare dati su cui non potesse esserci alcun errore. Bung aveva 35 anni. Spruggins, di cui voleva parlare con tutto il rispetto possibile, ne aveva 50. Non era forse più che possibile, non era forse molto probabile che, quando Bung avesse raggiunto quell’età, avrebbe potuto vedere intorno a sé una famiglia ancora più numerosa e estesa di quella di cui Spruggins si vantava attualmente (acclamazioni assordanti e gesti con i fazzoletti)? Concludendo, tra grandi applausi, il capitano esortò i parrocchiani a suonare la campana d’allarme, recarsi alle urne, liberarsi dalla tirannia, o rimanere schiavi per sempre.

On the following day the polling began, and we never have had such a bustle in our parish since we got up our famous anti-slavery petition, which was such an important one, that the House of Commons ordered it to be printed, on the motion of the member for the district. The captain engaged two hackney-coaches and a cab for Bung’s people—the cab for the drunken voters, and the two coaches for the old ladies, the greater portion of whom, owing to the captain’s impetuosity, were driven up to the poll and home again, before they recovered from their flurry sufficiently to know, with any degree of clearness, what they had been doing. The opposite party wholly neglected these precautions, and the consequence was, that a great many ladies who were walking leisurely up to the church—for it was a very hot day—to vote for Spruggins, were artfully decoyed into the coaches, and voted for Bung. The captain’s arguments, too, had produced considerable effect: the attempted influence of the vestry produced a greater. A threat of exclusive dealing was clearly established against the vestry-clerk—a case of heartless and profligate atrocity. It appeared that the delinquent had been in the habit of purchasing six penn’orth of muffins, weekly, from an old woman who rents a small house in the parish, and resides among the original settlers; on her last weekly visit, a message was conveyed to her through the medium of the cook, couched in mysterious terms, but indicating with sufficient clearness, that the vestry-clerk’s appetite for muffins, in future, depended entirely on her vote on the beadleship. This was sufficient: the stream had been turning previously, and the impulse thus administered directed its final course. The Bung party ordered one shilling’s-worth of muffins weekly for the remainder of the old woman’s natural life; the parishioners were loud in their exclamations; and the fate of Spruggins was sealed.

It was in vain that the twins were exhibited in dresses of the same pattern, and night-caps, to match, at the church door: the boy in Mrs. Spruggins’s right arm, and the girl in her left—even Mrs. Spruggins herself failed to be an object of sympathy any longer. The majority attained by Bung on the gross poll was four hundred and twenty-eight, and the cause of the parishioners triumphed.

CHAPTER V—THE BROKER’S MAN

The excitement of the late election has subsided, and our parish being once again restored to a state of comparative tranquillity, we are enabled to devote our attention to those parishioners who take little share in our party contests or in the turmoil and bustle of public life. And we feel sincere pleasure in acknowledging here, that in collecting materials for this task we have been greatly assisted by Mr. Bung himself, who has imposed on us a debt of obligation which we fear we can never repay. The life of this gentleman has been one of a very chequered description: he has undergone transitions—not from grave to gay, for he never was grave—not from lively to severe, for severity forms no part of his disposition; his fluctuations have been between poverty in the extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own emphatic language, ‘between nothing to eat and just half enough.’ He is not, as he forcibly remarks, ‘one of those fortunate men who, if they were to dive under one side of a barge stark-naked, would come up on the other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for soup in the waistcoat-pocket:’ neither is he one of those, whose spirit has been broken beyond redemption by misfortune and want. He is just one of the careless, good-for-nothing, happy fellows, who float, cork-like, on the surface, for the world to play at hockey with: knocked here, and there, and everywhere: now to the right, then to the left, again up in the air, and anon to the bottom, but always reappearing and bounding with the stream buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before he was prevailed upon to stand a contested election for the office of beadle, necessity attached him to the service of a broker; and on the opportunities he here acquired of ascertaining the condition of most of the poorer inhabitants of the parish, his patron, the captain, first grounded his claims to public support. Chance threw the man in our way a short time since. We were, in the first instance, attracted by his prepossessing impudence at the election; we were not surprised, on further acquaintance, to find him a shrewd, knowing fellow, with no inconsiderable power of observation; and, after conversing with him a little, were somewhat struck (as we dare say our readers have frequently been in other cases) with the power some men seem to have, not only of sympathising with, but to all appearance of understanding feelings to which they themselves are entire strangers. We had been expressing to the new functionary our surprise that he should ever have served in the capacity to which we have just adverted, when we gradually led him into one or two professional anecdotes. As we are induced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in nearly his own words, than with any attempted embellishments of ours, we will at once entitle them.

Il giorno seguente iniziarono le votazioni, e nella nostra parrocchia non si era mai verificata tanta agitazione da quando avevamo presentato quella famosa petizione contro la schiavitù, così importante che la >Casa dei Comuni ne ordinò la stampa su proposta del deputato del distretto. Il capo della squadra noleggiò due carrozze e una cabina per le persone di Bung: la cabina per gli elettori ubriachi, e le due carrozze per le anziane signore, la maggior parte delle quali, a causa dell’impulsività del capo, fu portata al seggio elettorale e riportata a casa prima ancora che riuscissero a ricordare con chiarezza cosa avevano fatto. L’opposizione, invece, trascurò completamente queste precauzioni; di conseguenza, molte signore che si stavano recando tranquillamente alla chiesa per votare per Spruggins furono abilmente indotte a salire sulle carrozze e votarono invece per Bung. Anche gli argomenti utilizzati dal capo della squadra ebbero un notevole effetto; l’influenza tentata dalla congregazione locale ottenne risultati ancora più significativi. Fu minacciato apertamente il segretario della congregazione di non poter più fare affari con nessuno, in un esempio di crudeltà spietata e dissoluta. Si scoprì che il responsabile del problema aveva l’abitudine di acquistare ogni settimana sei penny di muffin da una vecchia signora che affittava una piccola casa nella parrocchia e viveva tra i primi coloni; durante la sua ultima visita settimanale, al cuoco fu trasmesso un messaggio in termini enigmatici, ma sufficientemente chiari per far capire che il desiderio del segretario della congregazione di mangiare muffin dipendeva interamente dal suo voto riguardo alla nomina del nuovo presidente della congregazione. Questo fu sufficiente: la corrente era già stata deviata in precedenza, e questo ulteriore impulso ne determinò il corso finale. Il gruppo di Bung ordinò quindi che ogni settimana venissero forniti sei penny di muffin alla vecchia signora per tutta la durata della sua vita; i parrocchiani esultarono ad alta voce, e così fu deciso il destino di Spruggins.

Fu inutile che i gemelli fossero vestiti con abiti dello stesso modello e portassero cappellini coordinati davanti alla porta della chiesa: il ragazzo era al braccio destro della signora Spruggins, la ragazza a quello sinistro. Nemmeno la signora Spruggins riusciva più ad essere oggetto di simpatia. Il risultato ottenuto da Bung nel voto generale fu di quattrocentoventotto voti, e la causa dei parrocchiani trionfò.

CAPITOLO V – L’UOMO DEL COMMESSARIO

L’entusiasmo suscitato dalle elezioni recenti si è placato, e ora che la nostra parrocchia è nuovamente tornata in uno stato di relativa tranquillità, possiamo dedicarci a coloro tra i parrocchiani che partecipano poco alle nostre attività politiche o al trambusto della vita pubblica. Sentiamo il dovere di ringraziare sinceramente il signor Bung per l’enorme aiuto che ci ha fornito nella raccolta dei materiali necessari a questo compito; gli siamo profondamente grati, anche se temiamo di non poter mai ripagare tale debito. La vita di questo gentiluomo è stata davvero molto avventurosa: ha vissuto molte trasformazioni, ma non da uno stato di grave povertà a uno di relativa agiatezza – poiché in realtà non è mai stato veramente povero – né da uno spirito vivace a uno cupo, poiché la severità non fa parte della sua natura. Le sue condizioni economiche sono state sempre molto instabili: da estrema povertà a una sorta di “povertà moderata”, o, per usare le sue stesse parole, “da niente da mangiare a appena abbastanza”. Non è certo uno di quegli uomini fortunati che, se si tuffassero nudi sotto un barca, ne emergerebbero con abiti nuovi e una tessera per il brodo in tasca; né appartiene a coloro la cui anima sia stata distrutta irrimediabilmente dalla sfortuna. È semplicemente uno di quei giovani negligenti e senza ambizioni che galleggiano sulla superficie della vita, come tappi di sughero, pronti ad essere utilizzati dagli altri: spinti da una parte, poi dall’altra, ora in alto, ora in basso, ma sempre riemergendo e continuando a muoversi con leggerezza e allegria lungo il corso delle cose. Qualche mese prima che venisse persuaso a candidarsi alle elezioni per l’incarico di beadle, la necessità lo costrinse ad assumere un lavoro come intermediario; durante questo periodo ebbe l’opportunità di conoscere meglio le condizioni di molti dei residenti più poveri della parrocchia, e fu proprio grazie a queste informazioni che il suo protettore riuscì a fondare le sue richieste di sostegno pubblico. Poco tempo fa, per caso, ci siamo imbattuti in lui. All’inizio ci è colpito la sua audacia durante le elezioni; dopo averlo conosciuto meglio, abbiamo scoperto che era un uomo astuto e osservatore. E, dopo aver conversato un po’ con lui, siamo rimasti sorpresi – proprio come spesso i nostri lettori sono stati in altri casi – dalla capacità di alcuni uomini di comprendere, quasi senza alcuno sforzo, sentimenti a cui loro stessi sono completamente estranei. Mentre esprimevamo la nostra sorpresa per il fatto che avesse mai ricoperto quell’incarico, abbiamo gradualmente iniziato a raccontargli alcune aneddoti legati al suo lavoro. E poiché riteniamo che queste storie siano più efficaci se raccontate con le sue stesse parole, anziché con eventuali aggiunte da parte nostra, le pubblicheremo subito.

MR BUNG’S NARRATIVE

‘It’s very true, as you say, sir,’ Mr. Bung commenced, ‘that a broker’s man’s is not a life to be envied; and in course you know as well as I do, though you don’t say it, that people hate and scout ’em because they’re the ministers of wretchedness, like, to poor people. But what could I do, sir? The thing was no worse because I did it, instead of somebody else; and if putting me in possession of a house would put me in possession of three and sixpence a day, and levying a distress on another man’s goods would relieve my distress and that of my family, it can’t be expected but what I’d take the job and go through with it. I never liked it, God knows; I always looked out for something else, and the moment I got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything wrong in being the agent in such matters—not the principal, mind you—I’m sure the business, to a beginner like I was, at all events, carries its own punishment along with it. I wished again and again that the people would only blow me up, or pitch into me—that I wouldn’t have minded, it’s all in my way; but it’s the being shut up by yourself in one room for five days, without so much as an old newspaper to look at, or anything to see out o’ the winder but the roofs and chimneys at the back of the house, or anything to listen to, but the ticking, perhaps, of an old Dutch clock, the sobbing of the missis, now and then, the low talking of friends in the next room, who speak in whispers, lest “the man” should overhear them, or perhaps the occasional opening of the door, as a child peeps in to look at you, and then runs half-frightened away—it’s all this, that makes you feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed of yourself; and then, if it’s wintertime, they just give you fire enough to make you think you’d like more, and bring in your grub as if they wished it ’ud choke you—as I dare say they do, for the matter of that, most heartily. If they’re very civil, they make you up a bed in the room at night, and if they don’t, your master sends one in for you; but there you are, without being washed or shaved all the time, shunned by everybody, and spoken to by no one, unless some one comes in at dinner-time, and asks you whether you want any more, in a tone as much to say, “I hope you don’t,” or, in the evening, to inquire whether you wouldn’t rather have a candle, after you’ve been sitting in the dark half the night. When I was left in this way, I used to sit, think, think, thinking, till I felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house copper with the lid on; but I believe the old brokers’ men who are regularly trained to it, never think at all. I have heard some on ’em say, indeed, that they don’t know how!

‘I put in a good many distresses in my time (continued Mr. Bung), and in course I wasn’t long in finding, that some people are not as much to be pitied as others are, and that people with good incomes who get into difficulties, which they keep patching up day after day and week after week, get so used to these sort of things in time, that at last they come scarcely to feel them at all. I remember the very first place I was put in possession of, was a gentleman’s house in this parish here, that everybody would suppose couldn’t help having money if he tried. I went with old Fixem, my old master, ’bout half arter eight in the morning; rang the area-bell; servant in livery opened the door: “Governor at home?”—“Yes, he is,” says the man; “but he’s breakfasting just now.” “Never mind,” says Fixem, “just you tell him there’s a gentleman here, as wants to speak to him partickler.” So the servant he opens his eyes, and stares about him all ways—looking for the gentleman, as it struck me, for I don’t think anybody but a man as was stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one; and as for me, I was as seedy as a cheap cowcumber. Hows’ever, he turns round, and goes to the breakfast-parlour, which was a little snug sort of room at the end of the passage, and Fixem (as we always did in that profession), without waiting to be announced, walks in arter him, and before the servant could get out, “Please, sir, here’s a man as wants to speak to you,” looks in at the door as familiar and pleasant as may be. “Who the devil are you, and how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house without leave?” says the master, as fierce as a bull in fits. “My name,” says Fixem, winking to the master to send the servant away, and putting the warrant into his hands folded up like a note, “My name’s Smith,” says he, “and I called from Johnson’s about that business of Thompson’s.”—“Oh,” says the other, quite down on him directly, “How is Thompson?” says he; “Pray sit down, Mr. Smith: John, leave the room.” Out went the servant; and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till they couldn’t look any longer, and then they varied the amusements by looking at me, who had been standing on the mat all this time. “Hundred and fifty pounds, I see,” said the gentleman at last. “Hundred and fifty pound,” said Fixem, “besides cost of levy, sheriff’s poundage, and all other incidental expenses.”—“Um,” says the gentleman, “I shan’t be able to settle this before to-morrow afternoon.”—“Very sorry; but I shall be obliged to leave my man here till then,” replies Fixem, pretending to look very miserable over it. “That’s very unfort’nate,” says the gentleman, “for I have got a large party here to-night, and I’m ruined if those fellows of mine get an inkling of the matter—just step here, Mr. Smith,” says he, after a short pause. So Fixem walks with him up to the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and a little chinking of suverins, and looking at me, he comes back and says, “Bung, you’re a handy fellow, and very honest I know. This gentleman wants an assistant to clean the plate and wait at table to-day, and if you’re not particularly engaged,” says old Fixem, grinning like mad, and shoving a couple of suverins into my hand, “he’ll be very glad to avail himself of your services.” Well, I laughed: and the gentleman laughed, and we all laughed; and I went home and cleaned myself, leaving Fixem there, and when I went back, Fixem went away, and I polished up the plate, and waited at table, and gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least idea I was in possession, though it very nearly came out after all; for one of the last gentlemen who remained, came down-stairs into the hall where I was sitting pretty late at night, and putting half-a-crown into my hand, says, “Here, my man,” says he, “run and get me a coach, will you?” I thought it was a do, to get me out of the house, and was just going to say so, sulkily enough, when the gentleman (who was up to everything) came running down-stairs, as if he was in great anxiety. “Bung,” says he, pretending to be in a consuming passion. “Sir,” says I. “Why the devil an’t you looking after that plate?”—“I was just going to send him for a coach for me,” says the other gentleman. “And I was just a-going to say,” says I—“Anybody else, my dear fellow,” interrupts the master of the house, pushing me down the passage to get out of the way—“anybody else; but I have put this man in possession of all the plate and valuables, and I cannot allow him on any consideration whatever, to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count those forks in the breakfast-parlour instantly.” You may be sure I went laughing pretty hearty when I found it was all right. The money was paid next day, with the addition of something else for myself, and that was the best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever got in that line.

Il racconto del signor Bung

“È vero, come dite, signore,” cominciò il signor Bung, “che la vita di un intermediario non è certo da invidiare; e naturalmente voi lo sapete tanto bene quanto me, anche se non lo dite apertamente: la gente li odia e li disprezza perché sono i responsabili della miseria delle persone povere. Ma cosa avrei potuto fare, signore? La situazione non sarebbe stata peggiore se fossi stato un altro ad occuparmene; e se ottenere una casa e guadagnare tre o sei penny al giorno significasse alleviare la mia e quella della mia famiglia, non avrei esitato a accettare quel lavoro. Dio sa quanto mi dispiacesse. Cercai sempre altre opportunità, e appena ne trovavo una, la coglievo subito. Se c’è qualcosa di sbagliato nel fare questo tipo di lavoro – non intendo dire essere il principale, ma semplicemente un intermediario – sono sicuro che per uno come me, alle prime armi, ci fosse inevitabilmente una conseguenza negativa. Avrei voluto tantissimo che la gente mi uccidesse o mi aggredisse. Non mi sarebbe importato nulla; ma essere rinchiuso in una stanza per cinque giorni, senza nemmeno un giornale da leggere, senza niente da vedere se non i tetti e le ciminiere della casa accanto, senza niente da ascoltare se non il ticchettio di un vecchio orologio o i singhiozzi della moglie. Tutto questo ti fa sentire in colpa, vergognoso di te stesso. E poi, se è inverno, ti danno appena abbastanza calore da farti desiderare di averne di più. E ti portano il cibo come se volessero soffocarti. Credo che lo facciano davvero, con tutto il cuore. Se sono particolarmente gentili, ti preparano un letto per la notte; altrimenti, il tuo padrone ne manda uno. Ma ti trovi lì, senza mai lavarti o radermi, evitato da tutti, senza che nessuno ti parli. A meno che qualcuno non entri a cena e ti chieda se vuoi altro cibo, con un tono che sembra dire “Spero proprio di no”; oppure, la sera, se preferisci una candela, dopo essere stato seduto al buio per metà della notte. Quando mi trovavo in questa situazione, me ne stavo lì a pensare, pensare, pensare, fino a sentirmi più solo di un gattino in una lavanderia con il coperchio chiuso. Ma credo che quegli intermediari esperti non pensino affatto a queste cose. Ho sentito alcuni di loro dire, anzi, che non sanno nemmeno come farlo, ”

Il ragazzo era paralizzato dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

‘But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after all,’ resumed Mr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look and flash air, with which he had repeated the previous anecdote—‘and I’m sorry to say, it’s the side one sees very, very seldom, in comparison with the dark one. The civility which money will purchase, is rarely extended to those who have none; and there’s a consolation even in being able to patch up one difficulty, to make way for another, to which very poor people are strangers. I was once put into a house down George’s-yard—that little dirty court at the back of the gas-works; and I never shall forget the misery of them people, dear me! It was a distress for half a year’s rent—two pound ten, I think. There was only two rooms in the house, and as there was no passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went through the room of the people of the house, as they passed in and out; and every time they did so—which, on the average, was about four times every quarter of an hour—they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had been seized too, and included in the inventory. There was a little piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window, and a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people’s use, but their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I’m certain they never could have plucked up courage to look themselves in the face a second time, if they survived the fright of doing so once. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs sticking out for you to knock your head against, or hang your hat upon; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack, by way of rug, before the fireplace, and four or five children were grovelling about, among the sand on the floor. The execution was only put in, to get ’em out of the house, for there was nothing to take to pay the expenses; and here I stopped for three days, though that was a mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all knew, they could never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the place where the fire ought to have been, was an old ’ooman—the ugliest and dirtiest I ever see—who sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, without once stopping, except for an instant now and then, to clasp together the withered hands which, with these exceptions, she kept constantly rubbing upon her knees, just raising and depressing her fingers convulsively, in time to the rocking of the chair. On the other side sat the mother with an infant in her arms, which cried till it cried itself to sleep, and when it ’woke, cried till it cried itself off again. The old ’ooman’s voice I never heard: she seemed completely stupefied; and as to the mother’s, it would have been better if she had been so too, for misery had changed her to a devil. If you had heard how she cursed the little naked children as was rolling on the floor, and seen how savagely she struck the infant when it cried with hunger, you’d have shuddered as much as I did. There they remained all the time: the children ate a morsel of bread once or twice, and I gave ’em best part of the dinners my missis brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid on the bedstead, nor was the room swept or cleaned all the time. The neighbours were all too poor themselves to take any notice of ’em, but from what I could make out from the abuse of the woman up-stairs, it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks before. When the time was up, the landlord and old Fixem too, got rather frightened about the family, and so they made a stir about it, and had ’em taken to the workhouse. They sent the sick couch for the old ’ooman, and Simmons took the children away at night. The old ’ooman went into the infirmary, and very soon died. The children are all in the house to this day, and very comfortable they are in comparison. As to the mother, there was no taming her at all. She had been a quiet, hard-working woman, I believe, but her misery had actually drove her wild; so after she had been sent to the house of correction half-a-dozen times, for throwing inkstands at the overseers, blaspheming the churchwardens, and smashing everybody as come near her, she burst a blood-vessel one mornin’, and died too; and a happy release it was, both for herself and the old paupers, male and female, which she used to tip over in all directions, as if they were so many skittles, and she the ball.

‘Now this was bad enough,’ resumed Mr. Bung, taking a half-step towards the door, as if to intimate that he had nearly concluded. ‘This was bad enough, but there was a sort of quiet misery—if you understand what I mean by that, sir—about a lady at one house I was put into, as touched me a good deal more. It doesn’t matter where it was exactly: indeed, I’d rather not say, but it was the same sort o’ job. I went with Fixem in the usual way—there was a year’s rent in arrear; a very small servant-girl opened the door, and three or four fine-looking little children was in the front parlour we were shown into, which was very clean, but very scantily furnished, much like the children themselves. “Bung,” says Fixem to me, in a low voice, when we were left alone for a minute, “I know something about this here family, and my opinion is, it’s no go.” “Do you think they can’t settle?” says I, quite anxiously; for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his head, and was just about to reply, when the door opened, and in come a lady, as white as ever I see any one in my days, except about the eyes, which were red with crying. She walked in, as firm as I could have done; shut the door carefully after her, and sat herself down with a face as composed as if it was made of stone. “What is the matter, gentlemen?” says she, in a surprisin’ steady voice. “Is this an execution?” “It is, mum,” says Fixem. The lady looked at him as steady as ever: she didn’t seem to have understood him. “It is, mum,” says Fixem again; “this is my warrant of distress, mum,” says he, handing it over as polite as if it was a newspaper which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman.

“Il lato positivo della situazione, signore,” riprese il signor Bung, mettendo da parte quell’aria complice e quel sorriso con cui aveva raccontato l’aneddoto precedente, “è che, e mi dispiace dirlo, è un aspetto che si vede molto raramente, rispetto a quello negativo. La cortesia che il denaro può comprare difficilmente viene estesa a coloro che non ne hanno; e c’è persino un certo conforto nel riuscire ad alleviare un problema solo per far posto a un altro, qualcosa di cui le persone molto povere sono completamente estranee. Una volta mi trovai in una casa situata in George’s-yard, quel piccolo cortile sporco dietro la fabbrica di gas. Non dimenticherò mai la miseria di quelle persone, davvero! Era un posto così squallido che il canone di affitto ammontava a due sterline e dieci scellini al mese. C’erano solo due stanze in quella casa, e poiché non c’era passaggio, gli inquilini al piano di sopra dovevano passare attraverso la stanza delle persone che vivevano al piano di sotto ogni volta che entravano o uscivano. E ogni volta che lo facevano – circa quattro volte ogni quarto d’ora – causavano un gran trambusto: le loro cose venivano confiscate e incluse nell’inventario. Davanti alla casa c’era un piccolo spazio coperto di polvere, con un sentiero di cenere che portava alla porta; su un lato c’era anche un secchio aperto per raccogliere l’acqua piovana. Una tenda sporca e strappata era appesa alla finestra, e sul davanzale interno c’era un pezzo di vetro rotto. Immagino fosse destinato all’uso delle persone che vivevano lì, ma il loro aspetto era così misero e desolato che sono certo che non avrebbero mai avuto il coraggio di guardarsi allo specchio, se solo fossero sopravvissute al terrore di farlo una volta. C’erano due o tre sedie che, nei loro giorni migliori, avrebbero potuto valere tra gli otto pence e lo scellino l’una; un piccolo tavolo da lavoro, un vecchio armadio senza nulla all’interno. E quel tipo di letto che si apre a metà, lasciando le gambe inferiori sporgenti. Nessun letto, nessuna coperta. Davanti al caminetto c’era un vecchio sacco usato come tappeto; quattro o cinque bambini strisciavano sul pavimento pieno di sabbia. La decisione di farli sloggiare fu presa soltanto per liberare la casa dalle spese. Rimasi lì per tre giorni, anche se era solo una formalità: sapevamo tutti che non avrebbero mai potuto pagare. In una delle sedie, accanto al posto dove avrebbe dovuto esserci il caminetto, c’era una vecchia donna. La più brutta e sporca che abbia mai visto. Sedeva lì, dondolando avanti e indietro senza sosta, tranne che di tanto in tanto per stringere insieme le sue mani secche e raggrinzite. Le strofinava continuamente sulle ginocchia, alzando e abbassando le dita convulsivamente, seguendo il movimento della sedia. Dall’altra parte c’era la madre con un bambino in braccio. Il bambino piangeva fino ad addormentarsi. E quando si svegliava, piangeva di nuovo. Non ho mai sentito la voce della vecchia donna: sembrava completamente stordita. Quanto alla madre, sarebbe stato meglio se anche lei fosse stata così. La miseria l’aveva trasformata in un demonio. Se aveste sentito come malediceva i bambini nudi che rotolavano per terra, o visto con quanta crudeltà colpiva il bambino quando piangeva di fame. Vi sareste spaventati quanto me. Lì rimasero per tutto il tempo. I bambini mangiavano un pezzetto di pane una o due volte al giorno. Io davo loro la maggior parte dei pasti che mia moglie mi portava. Ma quella donna non mangiava nulla. Non si mettevano nemmeno a letto. La stanza non veniva mai pulita. I vicini erano troppo poveri per preoccuparsi di loro. Ma dal modo in cui quella donna al piano di sopra trattava i suoi figli, sembrava che il marito fosse stato portato via qualche settimana prima. Quando il termine del soggiorno scadde, sia il proprietario della casa che quel vecchio Fixem iniziarono a preoccuparsi per quella famiglia. Così decisero di farli trasferire nella casa di accoglienza. Mandarono la vecchia donna all’ospedale e Simmons portò via i bambini la sera stessa. La vecchia donna finì in infermeria e morì poco dopo. I bambini sono ancora oggi in quella casa. E, rispetto a prima, vivono molto meglio. Quanto alla madre, non c’era modo di domarla. Era stata una donna tranquilla e laboriosa. Ma la miseria l’aveva completamente resa pazza. Dopo essere stata mandata sei o sette volte nella casa di correzione per aver lanciato inchiostro sugli ispettori, aver bestemmiato contro i funzionari della chiesa e aver distrutto tutto ciò che le si avvicinava. Una mattina le scoppiò un vaso sanguigno. E morì anche lei. Fu una liberazione, sia per lei che per quelle altre povere persone, uomini e donne, che lei spingeva dappertutto come se fossero semplici biglie da gioco, e lei la palla con cui le lanciava, ”

“Ora questa era davvero una situazione grave,” continuò il signor Bung, facendo un mezzo passo verso la porta, come per indicare che stava quasi per concludere. “Già questa era abbastanza grave, ma c’era anche una sorta di tristezza silenziosa, se capite cosa intendo, signore, riguardo a una signora in una certa casa dove sono stato mandato; questo mi ha colpito ancora di più. Non importa esattamente dove fosse: anzi, preferirei non dirlo, ma si trattava dello stesso tipo di lavoro. Sono andato lì con Fixem come al solito, c’era un anno di affitto arretrato; una ragazza serva molto giovane ha aperto la porta, e nella sala d’ingresso in cui ci hanno fatto entrare c’erano tre o quattro bambini molto carini. La casa era pulita, ma arredata molto semplicemente, proprio come i bambini stessi.”
“Bung,” mi disse Fixem a bassa voce, quando per un momento siamo rimasti soli, “so qualcosa su questa famiglia, e la mia opinione è che non sia una buona scelta.”
“Pensi che non riescano a risolvere i loro problemi?” chiesi, piuttosto ansioso; mi piacevano molto quei bambini. Fixem scosse la testa e stava per rispondere quando la porta si aprì ed entrò una signora, bianca come mai ne avevo vista in vita mia, tranne che per gli occhi, rossi per il pianto. Entrò con grande dignità, chiuse la porta con cura dietro di sé e si sedette con un viso così composto, da sembrare fatto di pietra. “Che cosa c’è, signori?” chiese con una voce sorprendentemente ferma. “È forse una esecuzione?”
“Sì, signora,” rispose Fixem. La signora lo guardò con la stessa calma di sempre, sembrava non aver capito. “Sì, signora, questo è il mio mandato di sequestro,” disse Fixem, porgendoglielo con la stessa cortesia con cui avrebbe consegnato un giornale ordinato per il giorno dopo.

‘The lady’s lip trembled as she took the printed paper. She cast her eye over it, and old Fixem began to explain the form, but saw she wasn’t reading it, plain enough, poor thing. “Oh, my God!” says she, suddenly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall, and hiding her face in her hands. “Oh, my God! what will become of us!” The noise she made, brought in a young lady of about nineteen or twenty, who, I suppose, had been a-listening at the door, and who had got a little boy in her arms: she sat him down in the lady’s lap, without speaking, and she hugged the poor little fellow to her bosom, and cried over him, till even old Fixem put on his blue spectacles to hide the two tears, that was a-trickling down, one on each side of his dirty face. “Now, dear ma,” says the young lady, “you know how much you have borne. For all our sakes—for pa’s sake,” says she, “don’t give way to this!”—“No, no, I won’t!” says the lady, gathering herself up, hastily, and drying her eyes; “I am very foolish, but I’m better now—much better.” And then she roused herself up, went with us into every room while we took the inventory, opened all the drawers of her own accord, sorted the children’s little clothes to make the work easier; and, except doing everything in a strange sort of hurry, seemed as calm and composed as if nothing had happened. When we came down-stairs again, she hesitated a minute or two, and at last says, “Gentlemen,” says she, “I am afraid I have done wrong, and perhaps it may bring you into trouble. I secreted just now,” she says, “the only trinket I have left in the world—here it is.” So she lays down on the table a little miniature mounted in gold. “It’s a miniature,” she says, “of my poor dear father! I little thought once, that I should ever thank God for depriving me of the original, but I do, and have done for years back, most fervently. Take it away, sir,” she says, “it’s a face that never turned from me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree.” I couldn’t say nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which I was filling up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so I ran my pen through the “Mini” I had just written, and left the miniature on the table.

‘Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in possession, and in possession I remained; and though I was an ignorant man, and the master of the house a clever one, I saw what he never did, but what he would give worlds now (if he had ’em) to have seen in time. I saw, sir, that his wife was wasting away, beneath cares of which she never complained, and griefs she never told. I saw that she was dying before his eyes; I knew that one exertion from him might have saved her, but he never made it. I don’t blame him: I don’t think he could rouse himself. She had so long anticipated all his wishes, and acted for him, that he was a lost man when left to himself. I used to think when I caught sight of her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked shabby even upon her, and would have been scarcely decent on any one else, that if I was a gentleman it would wring my very heart to see the woman that was a smart and merry girl when I courted her, so altered through her love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet, though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the best, during the whole three days, from morning to night, she was out of doors running about to try and raise the money. The money was raised and the execution was paid out. The whole family crowded into the room where I was, when the money arrived. The father was quite happy as the inconvenience was removed—I dare say he didn’t know how; the children looked merry and cheerful again; the eldest girl was bustling about, making preparations for the first comfortable meal they had had since the distress was put in; and the mother looked pleased to see them all so. But if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, I saw it in hers that night.

‘I was right, sir,’ continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly passing his coat-sleeve over his face; ‘the family grew more prosperous, and good fortune arrived. But it was too late. Those children are motherless now, and their father would give up all he has since gained—house, home, goods, money: all that he has, or ever can have, to restore the wife he has lost.’

CHAPTER VI—THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES

Our Parish is very prolific in ladies’ charitable institutions. In winter, when wet feet are common, and colds not scarce, we have the ladies’ soup distribution society, the ladies’ coal distribution society, and the ladies’ blanket distribution society; in summer, when stone fruits flourish and stomach aches prevail, we have the ladies’ dispensary, and the ladies’ sick visitation committee; and all the year round we have the ladies’ child’s examination society, the ladies’ bible and prayer-book circulation society, and the ladies’ childbed-linen monthly loan society. The two latter are decidedly the most important; whether they are productive of more benefit than the rest, it is not for us to say, but we can take upon ourselves to affirm, with the utmost solemnity, that they create a greater stir and more bustle, than all the others put together.

We should be disposed to affirm, on the first blush of the matter, that the bible and prayer-book society is not so popular as the childbed-linen society; the bible and prayer-book society has, however, considerably increased in importance within the last year or two, having derived some adventitious aid from the factious opposition of the child’s examination society; which factious opposition originated in manner following:—When the young curate was popular, and all the unmarried ladies in the parish took a serious turn, the charity children all at once became objects of peculiar and especial interest. The three Miss Browns (enthusiastic admirers of the curate) taught, and exercised, and examined, and re-examined the unfortunate children, until the boys grew pale, and the girls consumptive with study and fatigue. The three Miss Browns stood it out very well, because they relieved each other; but the children, having no relief at all, exhibited decided symptoms of weariness and care. The unthinking part of the parishioners laughed at all this, but the more reflective portion of the inhabitants abstained from expressing any opinion on the subject until that of the curate had been clearly ascertained.

La signora tremava mentre prendeva il foglio stampato; lo scorreva con gli occhi, ma era evidente che non riusciva a comprenderne il contenuto. Poverina. “Oh, mio Dio!”, esclamò all’improvviso, scoppiando in lacrime, lasciando cadere il documento e nascondendo il viso tra le mani. “Oh, mio Dio, cosa ne sarà di noi?” Il rumore che fece attirò l’attenzione di una giovane donna di circa diciannove o vent’anni; probabilmente aveva ascoltato tutto dalla porta e teneva in braccio un bambino piccolo. Lo mise sulle ginocchia della signora, senza dire una parola, lo abbracciò stretto a sé e pianse per lui. Anche il vecchio Fixem si mise gli occhiali blu per nascondere le lacrime che gli scorrevano lungo il viso sporco. “Ora, cara signora”, disse la giovane donna, “sa quanto ha sopportato. Per il nostro bene, per il bene di papà, non ceda!” “No, no, non lo farò!”, rispose la signora, riprendendosi in fretta e asciugandosi gli occhi. “Sono stata molto sciocca, ma ora sto meglio. Molto meglio.” Poi si alzò, ci accompagnò in tutte le stanze mentre facevamo l’inventario, aprì da sola tutti i cassetti, sistemò i vestiti dei bambini per rendere il lavoro più facile. E, a parte il suo comportamento un po’ frenetico, sembrava calma e composta, come se nulla fosse accaduto. Quando scendemmo di nuovo le scale, esitò per un momento, poi disse: “Signori, temo di aver commesso un errore. Forse vi causerà dei problemi. Poco fa ho nascosto l’unico oggetto prezioso che mi è rimasto al mondo. Ecco qui.” Posò sul tavolo una piccola miniatura incorniciata d’oro. “È un ritratto di mio povero padre. Non avrei mai pensato di ringraziare Dio per avermi privata dell’originale, ma lo faccio. Da anni. Prendetela pure”, disse, “È il volto che non mi ha mai abbandonata nei momenti di malattia e difficoltà. Ora non riesco nemmeno a separarmene, ” Non riuscii a dire nulla; alzai lo sguardo su Fixem, che annuì significativamente. Così cancellai la parola “Miniatura” che avevo appena scritto e lasciai la piccola immagine sul tavolo.

‘Beh, signore, per farla breve. Mi trovai nella posizione di dover occuparmene io, e così fu; e anche se ero un uomo ignorante, mentre il padrone di casa era una persona intelligente, io vidi cose che lui non aveva mai notato, ma che ora darebbe qualsiasi cosa al mondo per aver visto in passato. Vidi sua moglie consumarsi a causa di preoccupazioni di cui non si lamentava mai e di dolori che non confessava mai. La vidi morire davanti ai suoi occhi; sapevo che un solo sforzo da parte sua avrebbe potuto salvarla, ma lui non lo fece mai. Non gliene do la colpa. Penso semplicemente che non fosse in grado di farlo. Lei aveva per così tanto tempo anticipato tutti i suoi desideri e agito al suo posto, che quando rimase sola, divenne davvero una donna persa. Ogni volta che la vedevo, con quegli abiti logori che sembravano indecenti su chiunque altro, mi spezzava il cuore pensare a come fosse cambiata, da quella ragazza vivace e felice che era stata quando la corteggiavo. Per quanto facesse freddo e umido, nonostante i suoi vestiti sottili e le scarpe scadenti, per tutti e tre i giorni, dal mattino alla sera, lei era fuori casa a cercare di raccogliere i soldi necessari. Alla fine i soldi furono raccolti e l’esecuzione poté avvenire. Quando arrivarono, tutta la famiglia si riunì nella stanza dove mi trovavo. Il padre sembrava molto felice che quel problema fosse risolto. Probabilmente non sapeva nemmeno come; i bambini sembravano di nuovo felici e sorridenti; la figlia maggiore era impegnata a preparare il primo pasto decente che mangiavano da quando erano in difficoltà. E la madre sembrava contenta di vederli tutti così. Ma se mai ho visto la morte sul volto di una donna, è stato quella notte.’

“Ero nel giusto, signore,” continuò il signor Bung, passandosi frettolosamente la manica del cappotto sul viso; “la famiglia divenne più prospera e arrivò la fortuna. Ma era troppo tardi. Quei bambini ora sono orfani di madre, e loro padre sarebbe disposto a rinunciare a tutto ciò che ha guadagnato: la casa, i beni, i soldi. Tutto ciò che possiede, o potrà mai possedere, per riavere indietro la moglie che ha perso.”

capitolo VI – LE SOCIEITÀ DELLE DONNE

La nostra parrocchia è molto attiva nelle istituzioni di beneficenza femminili. In inverno, quando i piedi bagnati sono comuni e i raffreddori non mancano, abbiamo la società per la distribuzione della zuppa, la società per la distribuzione del carbone e la società per la distribuzione delle coperte; in estate, quando i frutti a polpa dura fioriscono e i mal di stomaco sono diffusi, abbiamo il dispensario femminile e il comitato per le visite ai malati. E tutto l’anno abbiamo la società per gli esami pediatrici, la società per la distribuzione della Bibbia e dei libri di preghiera, nonché la società che fornisce in prestito ogni mese lenzuola per il parto. Queste ultime due sono senza dubbio le più importanti; se producono maggior beneficio delle altre, non spetta a noi dirlo, ma possiamo affermare con la massima serietà che suscitano maggiore attività e movimento di tutte le altre insieme.

Dovremmo essere disposti ad affermare, a prima vista, che la società legata alla Bibbia e al libro delle preghiere non sia così popolare come quella legata ai lenzuola da neonato; tuttavia, negli ultimi uno o due anni, tale società ha acquisito una notevole importanza, grazie all’opposizione divisiva della società organizzata per gli esami dei bambini. Questa opposizione divisiva ebbe origine in questo modo: quando il giovane curato era popolare e tutte le signore single del paese si interessavano seriamente a lui, i bambini della carità divennero improvvisamente oggetto di un interesse particolare. Le tre signorine Brown (entusiastiche ammiratrici del curato) insegnavano, esercitavano, esaminavano e rieksaminatevano questi sfortunati bambini, fino a quando i ragazzi non impallidivano e le ragazze non diventavano malate a causa dello studio e della fatica. Le tre signorine Brown se la cavavano molto bene, perché si aiutavano a vicenda; ma i bambini, non avendo alcun tipo di aiuto, mostravano chiari segni di stanchezza e affaticamento. La parte meno riflessiva dei parrocchiani rideva di tutto ciò, mentre le persone più pensierose si astenevano dal dare qualsiasi opinione sull’argomento fino a quando non fosse stata chiarita quella del curato stesso.

The opportunity was not long wanting. The curate preached a charity sermon on behalf of the charity school, and in the charity sermon aforesaid, expatiated in glowing terms on the praiseworthy and indefatigable exertions of certain estimable individuals. Sobs were heard to issue from the three Miss Browns’ pew; the pew-opener of the division was seen to hurry down the centre aisle to the vestry door, and to return immediately, bearing a glass of water in her hand. A low moaning ensued; two more pew-openers rushed to the spot, and the three Miss Browns, each supported by a pew-opener, were led out of the church, and led in again after the lapse of five minutes with white pocket-handkerchiefs to their eyes, as if they had been attending a funeral in the churchyard adjoining. If any doubt had for a moment existed, as to whom the allusion was intended to apply, it was at once removed. The wish to enlighten the charity children became universal, and the three Miss Browns were unanimously besought to divide the school into classes, and to assign each class to the superintendence of two young ladies.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little patronage is more so; the three Miss Browns appointed all the old maids, and carefully excluded the young ones. Maiden aunts triumphed, mammas were reduced to the lowest depths of despair, and there is no telling in what act of violence the general indignation against the three Miss Browns might have vented itself, had not a perfectly providential occurrence changed the tide of public feeling. Mrs. Johnson Parker, the mother of seven extremely fine girls—all unmarried—hastily reported to several other mammas of several other unmarried families, that five old men, six old women, and children innumerable, in the free seats near her pew, were in the habit of coming to church every Sunday, without either bible or prayer-book. Was this to be borne in a civilised country? Could such things be tolerated in a Christian land? Never! A ladies’ bible and prayer-book distribution society was instantly formed: president, Mrs. Johnson Parker; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the Misses Johnson Parker: subscriptions were entered into, books were bought, all the free-seat people provided therewith, and when the first lesson was given out, on the first Sunday succeeding these events, there was such a dropping of books, and rustling of leaves, that it was morally impossible to hear one word of the service for five minutes afterwards.

The three Miss Browns, and their party, saw the approaching danger, and endeavoured to avert it by ridicule and sarcasm. Neither the old men nor the old women could read their books, now they had got them, said the three Miss Browns. Never mind; they could learn, replied Mrs. Johnson Parker. The children couldn’t read either, suggested the three Miss Browns. No matter; they could be taught, retorted Mrs. Johnson Parker. A balance of parties took place. The Miss Browns publicly examined—popular feeling inclined to the child’s examination society. The Miss Johnson Parkers publicly distributed—a reaction took place in favour of the prayer-book distribution. A feather would have turned the scale, and a feather did turn it. A missionary returned from the West Indies; he was to be presented to the Dissenters’ Missionary Society on his marriage with a wealthy widow. Overtures were made to the Dissenters by the Johnson Parkers. Their object was the same, and why not have a joint meeting of the two societies? The proposition was accepted. The meeting was duly heralded by public announcement, and the room was crowded to suffocation. The Missionary appeared on the platform; he was hailed with enthusiasm. He repeated a dialogue he had heard between two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of distribution societies; the approbation was tumultuous. He gave an imitation of the two negroes in broken English; the roof was rent with applause. From that period we date (with one trifling exception) a daily increase in the popularity of the distribution society, and an increase of popularity, which the feeble and impotent opposition of the examination party, has only tended to augment.

Now, the great points about the childbed-linen monthly loan society are, that it is less dependent on the fluctuations of public opinion than either the distribution or the child’s examination; and that, come what may, there is never any lack of objects on which to exercise its benevolence. Our parish is a very populous one, and, if anything, contributes, we should be disposed to say, rather more than its due share to the aggregate amount of births in the metropolis and its environs. The consequence is, that the monthly loan society flourishes, and invests its members with a most enviable amount of bustling patronage. The society (whose only notion of dividing time, would appear to be its allotment into months) holds monthly tea-drinkings, at which the monthly report is received, a secretary elected for the month ensuing, and such of the monthly boxes as may not happen to be out on loan for the month, carefully examined.

We were never present at one of these meetings, from all of which it is scarcely necessary to say, gentlemen are carefully excluded; but Mr. Bung has been called before the board once or twice, and we have his authority for stating, that its proceedings are conducted with great order and regularity: not more than four members being allowed to speak at one time on any pretence whatever. The regular committee is composed exclusively of married ladies, but a vast number of young unmarried ladies of from eighteen to twenty-five years of age, respectively, are admitted as honorary members, partly because they are very useful in replenishing the boxes, and visiting the confined; partly because it is highly desirable that they should be initiated, at an early period, into the more serious and matronly duties of after-life; and partly, because prudent mammas have not unfrequently been known to turn this circumstance to wonderfully good account in matrimonial speculations.

L’opportunità non tardò ad arrivare. Il curato tenne un sermone in onore della scuola di beneficenza, nel quale descrisse con parole lusinghiere gli sforzi encomiabili e instancabili di alcune persone stimabili. Si udirono singhiozzi provenire dal banco delle tre signorine Brown; la persona incaricata di aprire i banchi si affrettò verso l’uscita della chiesa, per poi tornare immediatamente con un bicchiere d’acqua in mano. Seguì un debole gemito; altre due persone accorsero sul posto e le tre signorine Brown, ognuna sostenuta da una di queste, furono condotte fuori dalla chiesa e poi rientrata dopo cinque minuti, con fazzoletti bianchi sugli occhi, come se avessero partecipato a un funerale nel cimitero adiacente. Se qualcuno avesse avuto anche solo il minimo dubbio su a chi si riferissero quelle parole, esso sarebbe stato immediatamente dissipato. Il desiderio di aiutare i bambini della scuola di beneficenza divenne generale; tutte chiesero alle tre signorine Brown di dividere la scuola in classi e di affidarne la guida a due giovani donne.

Un po’ di conoscenza può rivelarsi pericolosa, ma ancora più così un po’ di protezione o favoritismo da parte delle autorità; le tre signorine Brown nominarono tutte le vecchie domestiche, escludendo attentamente quelle giovani. Le zie zitelle trionfarono, mentre le madri furono gettate nelle profondità della disperazione; non si sa quali atti di violenza avrebbe potuto scatenare l’indignazione generale nei confronti delle tre signorine Brown, se non fosse stato per un evento del tutto fortuito che cambiò il corso dell’opinione pubblica. La signora Johnson Parker, madre di sette ragazze estremamente perbene e tutte nubili, riferì in fretta ad altre madri di famiglie con figli non sposati che cinque uomini anziani, sei donne anziane e innumerevoli bambini, seduti nelle panche libere vicino alla sua, avevano l’abitudine di andare in chiesa ogni )domenica senza nemmeno una >bibbia o un libro di preghiere. Si poteva tollerare una cosa del genere in un paese civile? Potevano essere accettate simili pratiche in una terra cristiana? Mai! Fu immediatamente costituita un’associazione per la distribuzione di bibbie e libri di preghiere tra le signore: presidente fu la signora Johnson Parker; tesoriere, revisori dei conti e segretaria furono le stesse signorine Johnson Parker. Furono raccolte le donazioni, acquistati i libri necessari, e tutti coloro che prima sedevano nelle panche libere ricevettero un esemplare ciascuno. Quando, il primo >domenica successivo a questi eventi, fu distribuito il libro di preghiere, si verificò un tale numero di persone che lo presero che il fruscio delle pagine impedì di sentire una parola del servizio religioso per ben cinque minuti.

Le tre signorine Brown e il loro gruppo videro avvicinarsi il pericolo e cercarono di evitarlo attraverso derisione e sarcasmo. “Né gli uomini né le donne anziane sanno leggere i libri che ora hanno”, dissero le tre signorine Brown. “Ma non importa; possono imparare”, rispose la signora Johnson Parker. “Anche i bambini non sanno leggere”, suggerirono le tre signorine Brown. “Nessun problema; possono essere istruiti”, ribatté la signora Johnson Parker. Si verificò quindi uno scambio di opinioni: le signorine Brown sostenevano apertamente l’iniziativa del bambino, mentre le signore Johnson Parker erano a favore della distribuzione dei libri di preghiera. Un dettaglio apparentemente insignificante fu invece decisivo: un missionario tornato dalle Indie Occidentali doveva essere presentato alla Società Missionaria dei Dissidenti al suo matrimonio con una ricca vedova. Le famiglie Johnson Parker fecero delle proposte ai Dissidenti; l’obiettivo comune era lo stesso. Perché non tenere un incontro congiunto tra le due società? L’idea fu accettata. L’incontro fu annunciato pubblicamente e la sala si riempì fino a straripare di persone. Il missionario salì sul palco e fu accolto con entusiasmo; ripeté un dialogo che aveva sentito tra due neri riguardante le società di distribuzione dei libri, suscitando un’approvazione tumultuosa. Riprodusse anche il modo in cui i due neri parlavano, usando un inglese stentato. Il soffitto fu scosso dagli applausi. Da quel momento in poi – con una sola piccola eccezione – la popolarità delle società di distribuzione aumentò giorno dopo giorno, e tale crescita fu soltanto alimentata dall’opposizione debole e inefficace del gruppo contrario all’iniziativa.

I principali vantaggi della società di prestiti mensili per la biancheria da culla sono che dipende molto meno dalle fluttuazioni dell’opinione pubblica rispetto alla distribuzione dei beni o agli esami dei bambini; inoltre, qualunque cosa accada, non mancano mai soggetti ai quali rivolgere la propria benevolenza. La nostra parrocchia è molto popolosa e, anzi, si potrebbe dire che contribuisca in misura superiore al suo dovuto al numero totale di nascite nella città e nelle zone circostanti. Di conseguenza, la società di prestiti prospera e garantisce ai suoi membri un flusso continuo di clientela molto interessante. La società (la cui unica concezione della suddivisione del tempo sembra essere quella in mesi) organizza ogni mese delle riunioni durante le quali viene presentato il rapporto mensile, viene eletto un segretario per il mese successivo e vengono attentamente esaminate tutte le scatole destinate ai prestiti di quel mese.

Noi non siamo mai stati presenti a nessuna di queste riunioni, e va detto senza alcun dubbio che gli uomini vengono attentamente esclusi; tuttavia il signor Bung è stato chiamato davanti al consiglio un paio di volte, e possiamo affermare, sulla sua autorità, che le procedure si svolgono con grande ordine e regolarità: non più di quattro membri sono autorizzati a parlare contemporaneamente, per qualsiasi motivo sia. Il comitato regolare è composto esclusivamente da signore sposate, ma un gran numero di giovani donne single, tra i diciotto e i venticinque anni, viene ammesso come membro onorario; in parte perché sono molto utili nel rifornire le scatole e nel visitare coloro che si trovano in condizioni particolari; in parte perché è assolutamente desiderabile che vengano introdotte fin da giovani alle responsabilità più serie e “matronili” della vita futura; e in parte, perché spesso le madri sagge sfruttano questa circostanza a proprio vantaggio nelle questioni matrimoniali.

In addition to the loan of the monthly boxes (which are always painted blue, with the name of the society in large white letters on the lid), the society dispense occasional grants of beef-tea, and a composition of warm beer, spice, eggs, and sugar, commonly known by the name of ‘candle,’ to its patients. And here again the services of the honorary members are called into requisition, and most cheerfully conceded. Deputations of twos or threes are sent out to visit the patients, and on these occasions there is such a tasting of candle and beef-tea, such a stirring about of little messes in tiny saucepans on the hob, such a dressing and undressing of infants, such a tying, and folding, and pinning; such a nursing and warming of little legs and feet before the fire, such a delightful confusion of talking and cooking, bustle, importance, and officiousness, as never can be enjoyed in its full extent but on similar occasions.

In rivalry of these two institutions, and as a last expiring effort to acquire parochial popularity, the child’s examination people determined, the other day, on having a grand public examination of the pupils; and the large school-room of the national seminary was, by and with the consent of the parish authorities, devoted to the purpose. Invitation circulars were forwarded to all the principal parishioners, including, of course, the heads of the other two societies, for whose especial behoof and edification the display was intended; and a large audience was confidently anticipated on the occasion. The floor was carefully scrubbed the day before, under the immediate superintendence of the three Miss Browns; forms were placed across the room for the accommodation of the visitors, specimens in writing were carefully selected, and as carefully patched and touched up, until they astonished the children who had written them, rather more than the company who read them; sums in compound addition were rehearsed and re-rehearsed until all the children had the totals by heart; and the preparations altogether were on the most laborious and most comprehensive scale. The morning arrived: the children were yellow-soaped and flannelled, and towelled, till their faces shone again; every pupil’s hair was carefully combed into his or her eyes, as the case might be; the girls were adorned with snow-white tippets, and caps bound round the head by a single purple ribbon: the necks of the elder boys were fixed into collars of startling dimensions.

The doors were thrown open, and the Misses Brown and Co. were discovered in plain white muslin dresses, and caps of the same—the child’s examination uniform. The room filled: the greetings of the company were loud and cordial. The distributionists trembled, for their popularity was at stake. The eldest boy fell forward, and delivered a propitiatory address from behind his collar. It was from the pen of Mr. Henry Brown; the applause was universal, and the Johnson Parkers were aghast. The examination proceeded with success, and terminated in triumph. The child’s examination society gained a momentary victory, and the Johnson Parkers retreated in despair.

A secret council of the distributionists was held that night, with Mrs. Johnson Parker in the chair, to consider of the best means of recovering the ground they had lost in the favour of the parish. What could be done? Another meeting! Alas! who was to attend it? The Missionary would not do twice; and the slaves were emancipated. A bold step must be taken. The parish must be astonished in some way or other; but no one was able to suggest what the step should be. At length, a very old lady was heard to mumble, in indistinct tones, ‘Exeter Hall.’ A sudden light broke in upon the meeting. It was unanimously resolved, that a deputation of old ladies should wait upon a celebrated orator, imploring his assistance, and the favour of a speech; and the deputation should also wait on two or three other imbecile old women, not resident in the parish, and entreat their attendance. The application was successful, the meeting was held; the orator (an Irishman) came. He talked of green isles—other shores—vast Atlantic—bosom of the deep—Christian charity—blood and extermination—mercy in hearts—arms in hands—altars and homes—household gods. He wiped his eyes, he blew his nose, and he quoted Latin. The effect was tremendous—the Latin was a decided hit. Nobody knew exactly what it was about, but everybody knew it must be affecting, because even the orator was overcome. The popularity of the distribution society among the ladies of our parish is unprecedented; and the child’s examination is going fast to decay.

CHAPTER VII—OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

We are very fond of speculating as we walk through a street, on the character and pursuits of the people who inhabit it; and nothing so materially assists us in these speculations as the appearance of the house doors. The various expressions of the human countenance afford a beautiful and interesting study; but there is something in the physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as characteristic, and nearly as infallible. Whenever we visit a man for the first time, we contemplate the features of his knocker with the greatest curiosity, for we well know, that between the man and his knocker, there will inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance and sympathy.

For instance, there is one description of knocker that used to be common enough, but which is fast passing away—a large round one, with the jolly face of a convivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist the sides of your hair into a curl or pull up your shirt-collar while you are waiting for the door to be opened; we never saw that knocker on the door of a churlish man—so far as our experience is concerned, it invariably bespoke hospitality and another bottle.

Oltre al noleggio delle scatole mensili (che sono sempre dipinte di blu, con il nome dell’associazione scritto in grandi lettere bianche sul coperchio), l’associazione fornisce occasionalmente ai suoi membri dei sussidi sotto forma di tè al manzo e di una miscela composta da birra calda, spezie, uova e zucchero, comunemente conosciuta con il nome di “candle”. Anche in questo caso, i servizi dei membri onorari vengono richiesti e offerti con grande disponibilità. Si inviano delegazioni composte da due o tre persone a visitare i pazienti; in queste occasioni si svolgono attività come assaggiare il tè al manzo, preparare piccole pietanze in pentole minuscole sul fornello, vestire e spogliare i bambini, legare, piegare e fissare le coperte. Insomma, si assiste a una serie di attività piacevoli e impegnative legate al prendersi cura dei pazienti, davanti al forno; un’atmosfera di conversazione, cucina, frenesia, importanza e sollecitudine che si può sperimentare appieno solo in occasioni del genere.

Nella rivalità tra queste due istituzioni, e come ultimo tentativo disperato per acquisire popolarità locale, i responsabili dell’esame per i bambini decisero, l’altro giorno, di organizzare un grande esame pubblico per gli alunni; e la vasta aula del seminario nazionale fu, con il consenso delle autorità parrocchiali, messa a disposizione per questo scopo. Furono inviate circolari di invito a tutti i principali abitanti della parrocchia, compresi naturalmente i responsabili delle altre due istituzioni per le quali tale manifestazione era destinata in particolare; si prevedeva quindi che l’evento avrebbe attirato un gran numero di spettatori. Il giorno prima il pavimento fu pulito con cura, sotto la diretta supervisione delle tre signorine Brown; furono preparati dei banchi per accogliere i visitatori, e gli esempi scritti vennero attentamente selezionati e sistemati; inoltre, le somme da calcolare furono ripetute più volte fino a quando tutti i bambini non le conoscevano a memoria. Le preparativi, insomma, furono estremamente meticolosi e approfonditi. Arrivò la mattina: i bambini furono lavati con sapone giallo, asciugati con panni morbidi fino a quando i loro volti non tornarono luminosi; i capelli di ogni alunno vennero pettinati con cura; le ragazze indossavano nastri bianchi come la neve e cappellini legati intorno alla testa con un’unica fascia viola; i ragazzi più grandi avevano colletti particolarmente elaborati.

Le porte furono spalancate, e le signorine Brown e compagne furono trovate indossanti semplici abiti di mussola bianca e cappelli dello stesso colore: l’uniforme ufficiale per gli esami del >bambino. La stanza si riempì di saluti calorosi e affettuosi da parte del gruppo. Le distributrici tremavano, poiché la loro popolarità era in gioco. Il ragazzo più anziano fece un discorso propiziatorio, scritto dal signor Henry Brown. L’applauso fu generale; i Johnson Parker rimasero sbalorditi. Gli esami proseguirono con successo e si conclusero in trionfo. La società incaricata degli esami del >bambino ottenne una vittoria momentanea, mentre i Johnson Parker si ritirarono nel dispero.

Quella notte si tenne un consiglio segreto dei membri della società di distribuzione, presieduto da Mrs. Johnson Parker, per discutere i migliori modi per riconquistare il terreno perso a favore della parrocchia. Cosa si poteva fare? Un’altra riunione. Ahimè, chi avrebbe potuto parteciparvi? Il Missionario non sarebbe mai più intervenuto; inoltre, gli schiavi erano stati emancipati. Era necessario intraprendere un passo audace. La parrocchia doveva essere sorpresa in qualche modo. Ma nessuno riusciva a suggerire quale fosse il passo da compiere. Alla fine, si udì una vecchissima signora mormorare con voce indistinta: “Exeter Hall”. All’improvviso, tutti capirono cosa fare. Si decise all’unanimità che un gruppo di anziane donne andasse a supplicare un famoso oratore di offrire il suo aiuto e di tenere un discorso. Inoltre, si chiese anche a due o tre altre vecchie donne, non residenti nella parrocchia, di partecipare. L’approccio ebbe successo: l’incontro si tenne, l’oratore (un irlandese) arrivò. Parlò di isole verdi, di altre coste, dell’immenso Oceano Atlantico, della carità cristiana, del >sangue e dell’estinzione, della misericordia nei cuori delle persone. Si asciugò gli occhi, si soffiò il naso e citò del latino. L’effetto fu straordinario. Nessuno capiva esattamente di cosa stesse parlando, ma tutti erano convinti che fosse molto commovente. Anche l’oratore stesso sembrava commosso. La popolarità della società di distribuzione tra le donne della nostra parrocchia è senza precedenti. E l’esame del bambino sta andando rapidamente verso il declino.

CAPITOLO VII – IL NOSSO VICINO DI CASA

Ci piace molto fare congetture mentre camminiamo per le strade, riguardo al carattere e alle attività delle persone che vi abitano; e nulla ci aiuta di più in queste speculazioni dell’aspetto delle porte delle case. Le varie espressioni del volto umano offrono uno studio bellissimo e interessante; ma c’è qualcosa, nella fisionomia dei bussoli delle porte delle strade, che è altrettanto caratteristico e quasi sempre affidabile. Ogni volta che visitiamo una persona per la prima volta, osserviamo con grande curiosità i tratti del suo bussolo, perché sappiamo bene che tra quella persona e il suo bussolo esiste inevitabilmente un certo grado di somiglianza e affinità.

Ad esempio, c’è una descrizione di un campanello che un tempo era abbastanza comune, ma che sta rapidamente scomparendo: uno grande e rotondo, con il sorriso allegro di un leone amichevole che ti guarda mentre sistemi i capelli o alzi il colletto dell’abito in attesa che si apra la porta; noi non abbiamo mai visto quel tipo di campanello sulla porta di una persona scortese. Per quanto ne sappiamo, rappresentava sempre ospitalità e l’offerta di un’altra bottiglia.

No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small attorney or bill-broker; they always patronise the other lion; a heavy ferocious-looking fellow, with a countenance expressive of savage stupidity—a sort of grand master among the knockers, and a great favourite with the selfish and brutal.

Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a long thin face, a pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin; he is most in vogue with your government-office people, in light drabs and starched cravats; little spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied with their own opinions, and consider themselves of paramount importance.

We were greatly troubled a few years ago, by the innovation of a new kind of knocker, without any face at all, composed of a wreath depending from a hand or small truncheon. A little trouble and attention, however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to reconcile the new system to our favourite theory. You will invariably find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, who always ask you why you don’t come, and never say do.

Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to suburban villas, and extensive boarding-schools; and having noticed this genus we have recapitulated all the most prominent and strongly-defined species.

Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a man’s brain by different passions, produces corresponding developments in the form of his skull. Do not let us be understood as pushing our theory to the full length of asserting, that any alteration in a man’s disposition would produce a visible effect on the feature of his knocker. Our position merely is, that in such a case, the magnetism which must exist between a man and his knocker, would induce the man to remove, and seek some knocker more congenial to his altered feelings. If you ever find a man changing his habitation without any reasonable pretext, depend upon it, that, although he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is because he and his knocker are at variance. This is a new theory, but we venture to launch it, nevertheless, as being quite as ingenious and infallible as many thousands of the learned speculations which are daily broached for public good and private fortune-making.

Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knockers, it will be readily imagined with what consternation we viewed the entire removal of the knocker from the door of the next house to the one we lived in, some time ago, and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity we had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able to exist without a knocker, appeared so wild and visionary, that it had never for one instant entered our imagination.

We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent our steps towards Eaton-square, then just building. What was our astonishment and indignation to find that bells were fast becoming the rule, and knockers the exception! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We hastened home; and fancying we foresaw in the swift progress of events, its entire abolition, resolved from that day forward to vent our speculations on our next-door neighbours in person. The house adjoining ours on the left hand was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, plenty of leisure to observe our next-door neighbours on the other side.

The house without the knocker was in the occupation of a city clerk, and there was a neatly-written bill in the parlour window intimating that lodgings for a single gentleman were to be let within.

It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of the way, with new, narrow floorcloth in the passage, and new, narrow stair-carpets up to the first floor. The paper was new, and the paint was new, and the furniture was new; and all three, paper, paint, and furniture, bespoke the limited means of the tenant. There was a little red and black carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of flooring all the way round; a few stained chairs and a pembroke table. A pink shell was displayed on each of the little sideboards, which, with the addition of a tea-tray and caddy, a few more shells on the mantelpiece, and three peacock’s feathers tastefully arranged above them, completed the decorative furniture of the apartment.

This was the room destined for the reception of the single gentleman during the day, and a little back room on the same floor was assigned as his sleeping apartment by night.

The bill had not been long in the window, when a stout, good-humoured looking gentleman, of about five-and-thirty, appeared as a candidate for the tenancy. Terms were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down immediately after his first visit. In a day or two the single gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his real character came out.

First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary partiality for sitting up till three or four o’clock in the morning, drinking whiskey-and-water, and smoking cigars; then he invited friends home, who used to come at ten o’clock, and begin to get happy about the small hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by singing songs with half-a-dozen verses of two lines each, and a chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted forth by the whole strength of the company, in the most enthusiastic and vociferous manner, to the great annoyance of the neighbours, and the special discomfort of another single gentleman overhead.

Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three times a week on the average, but this was not all; for when the company did go away, instead of walking quietly down the street, as anybody else’s company would have done, they amused themselves by making alarming and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of females in distress; and one night, a red-faced gentleman in a white hat knocked in the most urgent manner at the door of the powdered-headed old gentleman at No. 3, and when the powdered-headed old gentleman, who thought one of his married daughters must have been taken ill prematurely, had groped down-stairs, and after a great deal of unbolting and key-turning, opened the street door, the red-faced man in the white hat said he hoped he’d excuse his giving him so much trouble, but he’d feel obliged if he’d favour him with a glass of cold spring water, and the loan of a shilling for a cab to take him home, on which the old gentleman slammed the door and went up-stairs, and threw the contents of his water jug out of window—very straight, only it went over the wrong man; and the whole street was involved in confusion.

Nessuno aveva mai visto questo bussatore sulla porta di un piccolo avvocato o di un intermediario finanziario; loro preferivano sempre l’altro “leone”. Un individuo robusto, dall’aspetto feroce, il cui volto esprimeva una stupidità selvaggia. Una sorta di “gran maestro” tra i bussatori, molto apprezzato da coloro che erano egoisti e brutali.

Poi c’è quel piccolo e impertinente egiziano: ha il viso lungo e sottile, il naso schiacciato e un mento molto affilato; è molto di moda tra le persone che lavorano negli uffici del vostro governo, quelle vestite in abiti chiari e con cravatte inamidate. Uomini meschini, presuntuosi, che sono perfettamente soddisfatti delle proprie opinioni e si considerano di estrema importanza.

Qualche anno fa fummo molto turbati dall’invenzione di un nuovo tipo di campanello, privo completamente di qualsiasi forma riconoscibile, composto soltanto da un mazzo di fiori attaccato a una mano o a un piccolo bastone. Tuttavia, con un po’ di attenzione e impegno, riuscimmo a superare questa difficoltà e ad adattare il nuovo sistema alla nostra teoria preferita. Inevitabilmente troverete questo tipo di campanello alle porte delle persone fredde e formali, quelle che vi chiedono sempre perché non venite, senza mai dire “venite”.

Tutti sanno che il battente di bronzo è tipico delle ville suburbane e degli istituti scolastici residenziali; notando questa caratteristica, abbiamo riassunto tutte le specie più evidenti e ben definite.

Alcuni frenologi affermano che l’agitazione del cervello umano causata da diverse passioni produca sviluppi corrispondenti nella forma del cranio stesso. Non si debba intendere che noi estendiamo la nostra teoria al punto di sostenere che qualsiasi cambiamento nel carattere di una persona abbia un effetto visibile sulle sue sembianze fisiche. La nostra posizione è semplicemente questa: in tal caso, il “magnetismo” che deve esistere tra una persona e i suoi oggetti personali potrebbe spingerla a sostituire tali oggetti con altri più in linea con i suoi sentimenti modificati. Se mai vi capita di vedere qualcuno cambiare residenza senza alcun motivo plausibile, potete essere certi che, anche se lui stesso non ne è consapevole, ciò avviene perché il suo “magnetismo personale” è in disaccordo con l’ambiente circostante. Questa è una teoria nuova, ma osiamo presentarla comunque, poiché riteniamo che sia altrettanto ingegnosa e infallibile quanto molte altre speculazioni accademiche che vengono avanzate ogni giorno al fine di promuovere il bene pubblico o il proprio interesse personale.

Riflettendo su questi sentimenti riguardo ai campanelli d’ingresso, è facile immaginare con quale costernazione abbiamo visto rimuovere completamente il campanello dalla porta della casa successiva a quella in cui vivevamo, qualche tempo fa, e sostituirlo con una campanella. Questa fu una calamità che non avevamo mai previsto. L’idea stessa che qualcuno potesse vivere senza un campanello d’ingresso ci sembrava così assurda e irrealistica da non aver mai nemmeno sfiorato la nostra immaginazione.

Ci incamminammo lentamente, assorti nei nostri pensieri, dirigendoci verso Eaton-square, poi verso un edificio appena costruito. Quanto fu grande la nostra sorpresa e indignazione quando scoprimmo che le campane stavano diventando la regola, mentre i campanelli tradizionali rappresentavano l’eccezione! La nostra teoria vacillò di fronte a questa realtà. Ci affrettammo a tornare a casa; e, ritenendo che il rapido sviluppo degli eventi potesse portare alla completa abolizione delle campane tradizionali, decidemmo da quel giorno in poi di condividere le nostre speculazioni personalmente con i nostri vicini. La casa adiacente alla nostra, sul lato sinistro, era disabitata, quindi avevamo tutto il tempo necessario per osservare attentamente i nostri vicini dall’altra parte.

La casa, priva di campanello d’ingresso, era occupata da un impiegato della città; nella finestra del salotto c’era una nota scritta con cura che annunciava l’affitto di una stanza per un signore single.

Era una piccola casa ordinata e piuttosto semplice, situata sul lato ombreggiato della strada; il corridoio era rivestito da tappeti nuovi e stretti, così come le scale che portavano al primo piano. I muri erano dipinti di nuovo, così come i mobili; tuttavia, sia i muri che i mobili rivelavano chiaramente le modeste risorse del proprietario. Nel soggiorno c’era un piccolo tappeto rosso e nero, con una bordura lungo tutto il perimetro; alcune sedie colorate e un tavolo di legno massello completavano l’arredamento. Su ogni piccola credenza erano esposte con cura delle conchiglie; insieme a un vassoio da tè, altre conchiglie sul caminetto e tre piume di pavone disposte in modo elegante sopra di esse, questi oggetti completavano l’arredamento decorativo dell’appartamento.

Questa era la stanza destinata ad accogliere il signore single durante il giorno; mentre una piccola stanza sullo stesso piano veniva utilizzata come suo appartamento da letto di notte.

Il cartello era appena stato esposto quando apparve un signore robusto e di buon umore, sulla trentina, che si candidò per l’affitto. Gli accordi furono rapidamente raggiunti: il cartello fu ritirato subito dopo la sua prima visita. Un giorno o due dopo, quel signore tornò, e poco dopo la sua vera natura venne a galla.

Prima di tutto, mostrava una particolare predilezione per restare sveglio fino alle tre o quattro di notte, bevendo whisky e acqua e fumando sigari; poi invitava gli amici a casa sua, che arrivavano intorno alle dieci di sera e iniziavano a divertirsi con canzoni composte da mezza dozzina di strofe di due versi ciascuna, con un ritornello di dieci versi che veniva cantato tutti insieme con grande entusiasmo e a voce alta, causando notevole disturbo ai vicini e particolare disagio a un altro gentiluomo che abitava sopra di loro.

Ora, questo era già abbastanza grave, visto che accadeva in media tre volte a settimana, ma non era tutto: perché quando quelle persone se ne andavano, invece di camminare silenziosamente per strada come avrebbe fatto qualsiasi altra compagnia, si divertivano a fare rumori allarmanti e spaventosi, imitando anche i gridi di donne in pericolo; e una notte, un signore con il viso rosso e un cappello bianco bussò con estrema urgenza alla porta del vecchio gentiluomo dai capelli incipriati, che abitava al numero 3. Il vecchio, pensando che una delle sue figlie sposate fosse improvvisamente ammalata, scese le scale e, dopo molte difficoltà con chiavi e serrature, aprì la porta d’ingresso. Il signore dal viso rosso gli chiese scusa per il disturbo causato, ma gli sarebbe stato molto grato se gli avesse concesso un bicchiere d’acqua fredda e prestato una sterlina per prendere un taxi che lo portasse a casa. Il vecchio chiuse immediatamente la porta e salì di sopra, gettando il contenuto della sua brocca d’acqua fuori dalla finestra, ma colpì proprio la persona sbagliata. L’intera strada finì nel caos.

A joke’s a joke; and even practical jests are very capital in their way, if you can only get the other party to see the fun of them; but the population of our street were so dull of apprehension, as to be quite lost to a sense of the drollery of this proceeding: and the consequence was, that our next-door neighbour was obliged to tell the single gentleman, that unless he gave up entertaining his friends at home, he really must be compelled to part with him.

The single gentleman received the remonstrance with great good-humour, and promised from that time forward, to spend his evenings at a coffee-house—a determination which afforded general and unmixed satisfaction.

The next night passed off very well, everybody being delighted with the change; but on the next, the noises were renewed with greater spirit than ever. The single gentleman’s friends being unable to see him in his own house every alternate night, had come to the determination of seeing him home every night; and what with the discordant greetings of the friends at parting, and the noise created by the single gentleman in his passage up-stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get his boots off, the evil was not to be borne. So, our next-door neighbour gave the single gentleman, who was a very good lodger in other respects, notice to quit; and the single gentleman went away, and entertained his friends in other lodgings.

The next applicant for the vacant first floor, was of a very different character from the troublesome single gentleman who had just quitted it. He was a tall, thin, young gentleman, with a profusion of brown hair, reddish whiskers, and very slightly developed moustaches. He wore a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light grey trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had altogether rather a military appearance. So unlike the roystering single gentleman. Such insinuating manners, and such a delightful address! So seriously disposed, too! When he first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired most particularly whether he was sure to be able to get a seat in the parish church; and when he had agreed to take them, he requested to have a list of the different local charities, as he intended to subscribe his mite to the most deserving among them.

Our next-door neighbour was now perfectly happy. He had got a lodger at last, of just his own way of thinking—a serious, well-disposed man, who abhorred gaiety, and loved retirement. He took down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers.

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive from the country next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt, and a prayer-book, from our next-door neighbour, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting that he might be called punctually at ten o’clock next morning—not before, as he was much fatigued.

He was called, and did not answer: he was called again, but there was no reply. Our next-door neighbour became alarmed, and burst the door open. The serious man had left the house mysteriously; carrying with him the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the bedclothes.

Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregularities of his former lodger, gave our next-door neighbour an aversion to single gentlemen, we know not; we only know that the next bill which made its appearance in the parlour window intimated generally, that there were furnished apartments to let on the first floor. The bill was soon removed. The new lodgers at first attracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited our interest.

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow’s weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor—very poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned, by copying writings, and translating for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place and settled in London; partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances, and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work; and day after day, could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised; the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labours were unceasingly prolonged: and the mother attempted to procure needle-work, embroidery—anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us.

‘I was telling William,’ she said, ‘that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately.’ Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow’s cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us. At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother’s arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly in his mother’s face.

‘William, William!’ murmured the mother, after a long interval, ‘don’t look at me so—speak to me, dear!’

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

‘William, dear William! rouse yourself; don’t look at me so, love—pray don’t! Oh, my God! what shall I do!’ cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony—‘my dear boy! he is dying!’ The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together—‘Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields—anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck—’

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and muscle.

The boy was dead.

Una barzelletta è pur sempre una barzelletta; anche quelle pratiche, a modo loro, sono molto efficaci, se solo si riesce a far capire all’altra persona il lato divertente della situazione. Ma la gente del nostro quartiere era così poco incline ad apprezzare queste cose, da non riuscire affatto a comprendere l’umorismo di quella situazione. Di conseguenza, il nostro vicino fu costretto a dire a quel signore che, se non smetteva di invitare i suoi amici a casa sua, avrebbe davvero dovuto rinunciare alla sua compagnia.

Il gentiluomo ricevette le rimostranze con grande umorismo e promise, da quel momento in poi, di trascorrere le serate in una caffetteria; una decisione che suscitò generale e totale soddisfazione.

La seguente notte trascorse molto bene, tutti erano felici di questo cambiamento; ma la notte successiva i rumori ripresero, ancora più intensi del solito. Poiché gli amici del signore single non riuscivano a vederlo nella sua stessa >casa ogni seconda notte, decisero di andarlo a trovare a casa sua ogni notte. I saluti discordanti degli amici al momento della partenza, i rumori prodotti dal signore single mentre saliva le scale e gli sforzi che faceva per togliersi le scarpe rendevano la situazione insopportabile. Così, il nostro vicino di casa comunicò al signore single, che in ogni altro aspetto era un ottimo inquilino, che doveva andarsene; e lui se ne andò, continuando a ricevere i suoi amici in altri luoghi.

Il prossimo candidato per l’appartamento al primo piano era di carattere molto diverso dal fastidioso signor single che lo aveva appena lasciato. Era un giovane gentiluomo alto e snello, con una folta chioma castana, baffi rossastri e mustache leggermente sviluppati. Indossava un soprabito intrecciato con tasche posteriori, pantaloni di colore grigio chiaro e guanti di pelle; in tutto aveva un aspetto piuttosto militare. Era così diverso dal signor single frivolo. Maniere così gentili e modi di parlare così deliziosi! E anche molto serio, per di più. Quando venne a vedere l’appartamento per la prima volta, chiese con particolare insistenza se fosse sicuro di poter ottenere un posto nella chiesa parrocchiale; e una volta accettato l’offerta, richiese anche un elenco delle varie organizzazioni benefiche locali, poiché intendeva donare il proprio contributo a quelle più meritevoli.

Il nostro vicino di casa era ora perfettamente felice. Aveva finalmente trovato un inquilino che condivideva esattamente i suoi stessi ideali: un uomo serio, di buone intenzioni, che odiava la baldoria e amava la tranquillità. Pagò il conto con sollievo, immaginando una lunga serie di domeniche serene, durante le quali lui e il suo inquilino avrebbero scambiato saluti cortesi e letto i giornali della domenica.

L’uomo serio arrivò, e i suoi bagagli sarebbero arrivati dalla campagna il giorno dopo mattina. Prese in prestito una camicia pulita e un libro di preghiere dal nostro vicino di casa, poi andò a riposare presto, chiedendo che lo svegliassero puntualmente alle dieci del mattino seguente – non prima, poiché era molto stanco.

Fu chiamato, ma non rispose; fu chiamato di nuovo, ma non ci fu alcuna risposta. Il nostro vicino di casa si allarmò e sfondò la porta. L’uomo serio aveva lasciato la casa in modo misterioso, portando con sé la camicia, il libro delle preghiere, un cucchiaino e le lenzuola.

Se questo evento, unito alle irregolarità del precedente inquilino, abbia indotto il nostro vicino di casa ad avere avversione per i signori single, non lo sappiamo; sappiamo soltanto che il prossimo avviso apparso alla finestra dell’ingresso indicava chiaramente che al primo piano erano disponibili appartamenti in affitto. L’avviso fu presto rimosso. I nuovi inquilini, all’inizio, suscitarono la nostra curiosità e in seguito il nostro interesse.

Era un giovane di diciotto o diciannove anni, e sua madre, una signora di circa cinquant’anni, o forse meno. La madre indossava i vestiti del lutto, e anche il ragazzo era vestito a lutto stretto. Erano poveri, molto poveri; l’unica loro fonte di sostentamento derivava dalla misera somma che il ragazzo guadagnava copiando testi o traducendo per i librai.

Si erano trasferiti da una località rurale e si erano stabiliti a Londra; in parte perché lì il ragazzo aveva maggiori opportunità di lavoro, e forse anche per il desiderio naturale di lasciare un luogo dove avevano vissuto in condizioni migliori, ma dove la loro povertà era nota a tutti. Nonostante le difficoltà, erano orgogliosi e non permettevano mai agli estranei di conoscere le loro necessità e privazioni. Quanto fossero dure quelle privazioni, e quanto duramente il ragazzo lavorasse per superarle, lo sapevano solo loro stessi. Notte dopo notte, due, tre, quattro ore dopo la mezzanotte, si poteva sentire il rumore occasionale di quando ravvivavano il misero fuoco, o quel colpo di tosse secco e soffocato che indicava che il ragazzo era ancora al lavoro; giorno dopo giorno, si poteva notare sempre più chiaramente come la >natura avesse impresso sul suo volto pallido quell’aspetto cupo e desolato, segno dei suoi più gravi problemi.

Spinti, speriamo noi, da un sentimento più profondo della semplice curiosità, riuscimmo prima a stabilire un rapporto di conoscenza, e poi una stretta intimità con quegli sfortunati estranei. I nostri peggiori timori si avverarono: il ragazzo stava peggiorando rapidamente. Per tutta la durata dell’>Inverno e per l’intera Primavera e >Estate successive, i suoi sforzi continuarono senza sosta; la madre cercò in ogni modo di procurargli lavoro a maglia, ricami, qualsiasi cosa potesse aiutarlo a guadagnare del pane.

Di tanto in tanto, riusciva a guadagnare qualche scellino. Il ragazzo lavorava con costanza; moriva quasi ogni minuto, ma mai una volta si lamentò o mormorò qualcosa.

In una bella serata d’autunno, andammo a fare la nostra solita visita al malato. Le sue poche forze residue stavano diminuendo rapidamente da due o tre giorni; giaceva sul divano, accanto alla finestra aperta, fissando il sole al tramonto. Sua madre gli stava leggendo la Bibbia; quando entrammo, chiuse il libro e ci venne incontro.

“Stavo dicendo a William,” disse, “che dobbiamo riuscire a portarlo in campagna, in un posto dove possa riprendersi completamente. Non è malato, sai, ma non è molto forte, e di recente si è sforzato troppo.” Poverina! Le lacrime che le scorrevano lungo le dita, mentre si girava per sistemarsi il velo da vedova, dimostravano chiaramente quanto fosse inutile cercare di ingannarsi.

Ci sedemmo vicino alla testiera del divano, ma non dicemmo nulla, perché vedevamo che il soffio vitale stava lasciando lentamente ma rapidamente quel giovane corpo davanti a noi. Con ogni respiro, il suo cuore batteva sempre più lentamente.

Il ragazzo mise una mano nella nostra, afferrò l’altro braccio di sua madre, la tirò verso di sé con fretta e le baciò appassionatamente la guancia. Ci fu un momento di silenzio; poi si appoggiò di nuovo al cuscino e guardò a lungo e seriamente il viso di sua madre.

“William, William!” mormorò la madre, dopo un lungo silenzio, “non guardarmi in quel modo, parla con me, caro!”

Il ragazzo sorrise con indifferenza, ma un attimo dopo il suo volto assunse di nuovo quell’espressione fredda e solenne.

‘William, caro William! Svegliati; non guardarmi così, amore mio. Ti prego, non farlo! Oh, mio Dio. Cosa devo fare?’ gridò la vedova, stringendo le mani in preda all’angoscia. ‘Mio caro ragazzo. Sta morendo!’ Il ragazzo si sollevò con uno sforzo disperato e incrociò le mani. ‘Madre, cara, cara madre, seppelliscimi nei campi aperti, ovunque tranne che in queste terribili strade. Vorrei essere lì dove tu possa vedere la mia tomba, ma non in queste strade anguste e affollate. Mi hanno ucciso. Baciami ancora, madre. Metti il tuo braccio intorno al mio collo, ’

Si appoggiò all’indietro e un’espressione strana apparve sul suo volto: non di >dolore né di sofferenza, ma un’immobilità indescrivibile in ogni tratto del viso e di ogni muscolo.

Il ragazzo era morto.

SCENES

CHAPTER I—THE STREETS—MORNING

The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before sunrise, on a summer’s morning, is most striking even to the few whose unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits of business, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the day are swarming with life and bustle, that is very impressive.

The last drunken man, who shall find his way home before sunlight, has just staggered heavily along, roaring out the burden of the drinking song of the previous night: the last houseless vagrant whom penury and police have left in the streets, has coiled up his chilly limbs in some paved comer, to dream of food and warmth. The drunken, the dissipated, and the wretched have disappeared; the more sober and orderly part of the population have not yet awakened to the labours of the day, and the stillness of death is over the streets; its very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and lifeless as they look in the grey, sombre light of daybreak. The coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are deserted: the night-houses are closed; and the chosen promenades of profligate misery are empty.

An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the street corners, listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect before him; and now and then a rakish-looking cat runs stealthily across the road and descends his own area with as much caution and slyness—bounding first on the water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting on the flag-stones—as if he were conscious that his character depended on his gallantry of the preceding night escaping public observation. A partially opened bedroom-window here and there, bespeaks the heat of the weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant; and the dim scanty flicker of the rushlight, through the window-blind, denotes the chamber of watching or sickness. With these few exceptions, the streets present no signs of life, nor the houses of habitation.

An hour wears away; the spires of the churches and roofs of the principal buildings are faintly tinged with the light of the rising sun; and the streets, by almost imperceptible degrees, begin to resume their bustle and animation. Market-carts roll slowly along: the sleepy waggoner impatiently urging on his tired horses, or vainly endeavouring to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched on the top of the fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, his long-cherished curiosity to behold the wonders of London.

Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, something between ostlers and hackney-coachmen, begin to take down the shutters of early public-houses; and little deal tables, with the ordinary preparations for a street breakfast, make their appearance at the customary stations. Numbers of men and women (principally the latter), carrying upon their heads heavy baskets of fruit, toil down the park side of Piccadilly, on their way to Covent-garden, and, following each other in rapid succession, form a long straggling line from thence to the turn of the road at Knightsbridge.

Here and there, a bricklayer’s labourer, with the day’s dinner tied up in a handkerchief, walks briskly to his work, and occasionally a little knot of three or four schoolboys on a stolen bathing expedition rattle merrily over the pavement, their boisterous mirth contrasting forcibly with the demeanour of the little sweep, who, having knocked and rung till his arm aches, and being interdicted by a merciful legislature from endangering his lungs by calling out, sits patiently down on the door-step, until the housemaid may happen to awake.

Covent-garden market, and the avenues leading to it, are thronged with carts of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions, from the heavy lumbering waggon, with its four stout horses, to the jingling costermonger’s cart, with its consumptive donkey. The pavement is already strewed with decayed cabbage-leaves, broken hay-bands, and all the indescribable litter of a vegetable market; men are shouting, carts backing, horses neighing, boys fighting, basket-women talking, piemen expatiating on the excellence of their pastry, and donkeys braying. These and a hundred other sounds form a compound discordant enough to a Londoner’s ears, and remarkably disagreeable to those of country gentlemen who are sleeping at the Hummums for the first time.

Another hour passes away, and the day begins in good earnest. The servant of all work, who, under the plea of sleeping very soundly, has utterly disregarded ‘Missis’s’ ringing for half an hour previously, is warned by Master (whom Missis has sent up in his drapery to the landing-place for that purpose), that it’s half-past six, whereupon she awakes all of a sudden, with well-feigned astonishment, and goes down-stairs very sulkily, wishing, while she strikes a light, that the principle of spontaneous combustion would extend itself to coals and kitchen range. When the fire is lighted, she opens the street-door to take in the milk, when, by the most singular coincidence in the world, she discovers that the servant next door has just taken in her milk too, and that Mr. Todd’s young man over the way, is, by an equally extraordinary chance, taking down his master’s shutters. The inevitable consequence is, that she just steps, milk-jug in hand, as far as next door, just to say ‘good morning’ to Betsy Clark, and that Mr. Todd’s young man just steps over the way to say ‘good morning’ to both of ’em; and as the aforesaid Mr. Todd’s young man is almost as good-looking and fascinating as the baker himself, the conversation quickly becomes very interesting, and probably would become more so, if Betsy Clark’s Missis, who always will be a-followin’ her about, didn’t give an angry tap at her bedroom window, on which Mr. Todd’s young man tries to whistle coolly, as he goes back to his shop much faster than he came from it; and the two girls run back to their respective places, and shut their street-doors with surprising softness, each of them poking their heads out of the front parlour window, a minute afterwards, however, ostensibly with the view of looking at the mail which just then passes by, but really for the purpose of catching another glimpse of Mr. Todd’s young man, who being fond of mails, but more of females, takes a short look at the mails, and a long look at the girls, much to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.

Scene

capitolo I – LE STRADE – MATINA

L’aspetto delle strade di Londra un’ora prima dell’alba, in una mattina d’estate, è davvero impressionante anche per coloro che, a causa delle loro sfortunate attività ricreative o delle loro altrettanto sfortunate occupazioni lavorative, conoscono bene quella scena. C’è un’atmosfera di fredda desolazione nelle strade silenziose, abitualmente affollate in altre ore da una folla frenetica e attiva; anche sugli edifici tranquilli e chiusi a chiave, che durante il giorno sono pieni di vita e movimento, si percepisce un’impressione profonda.

L’ultimo uomo ubriaco che riuscirà a tornare a casa prima dell’alba barcolla pesantemente, cantando a squarciagola la canzone dell’ubriachezza della notte precedente; l’ultimo vagabondo senza fissa dimora, abbandonato dalla povertà e dalla polizia per le strade, si rannicchia in un angolo, cercando di sognare cibo e calore. Gli ubriachi, i dissoluti e i miseri sono scomparsi; la parte più sobria e ordinata della popolazione non si è ancora svegliata per affrontare le fatiche della giornata, e il silenzio della morte avvolge le strade; persino il loro colore sembra esserne stato assorbito, rendendole fredde e prive di vita nella luce grigia e cupa dell’alba. Le fermate degli omnibus sulle strade principali sono deserte; i locali notturni sono chiusi; e anche i luoghi solitamente frequentati dai disperati sono vuoti.

Di tanto in tanto, si può vedere un poliziotto da solo agli angoli delle strade, che osserva con indifferenza il panorama desolato davanti a sé; di quando in quando, poi, un gatto dall’aspetto dispettoso attraversa furtivamente la strada e ritorna nel suo territorio con grande cautela e astuzia: salta prima sul bordo dell’acqua, poi sulla buca piena di polvere, e infine atterra sui ciottoli, come se fosse consapevole che il proprio “carattere” dipendesse dalla capacità di sfuggire all’osservazione del pubblico la notte precedente. Una finestra della camera da letto parzialmente aperta rivela il caldo dell’aria e i sonni inquieti dei suoi occupanti; la debole luce tremolante della lampada, filtrata dalle tende, indica probabilmente una stanza dove qualcuno veglia o è malato. A parte queste poche eccezioni, le strade non mostrano alcun segno di vita, né le case sembrano abitate.

Un’ora passa; le guglie delle chiese e i tetti degli edifici principali sono leggermente illuminati dalla luce del sole nascente; e le strade, in modo quasi impercettibile, iniziano a riprendere il loro movimento e la loro vivacità. I carri del mercato avanzano lentamente; il sonnolento carrettiere spinge con impazienza i suoi cavalli stanchi, o tenta invano di svegliare il ragazzo che, sdraiato comodamente sopra i cesti di frutta, dimentica, in una felice ignoranza, la sua tanto desiderata curiosità di ammirare le meraviglie di Londra.

Animali ruvidi, dall’aspetto assonnolento e di forma strana, qualcosa a metà tra stallieri e cocchieri, iniziano ad abbassare le persiane delle prime osterie; piccoli banchetti, con gli ingredienti tipici per una colazione da strada, compaiono nei soliti luoghi. Numerose persone, soprattutto donne, che portano in testa pesanti cesti di frutta, faticosamente percorrono il lato del parco di Piccadilly dirigendosi verso Covent Garden; seguendosi a vicenda in rapida successione, formano una lunga fila che si estende da lì fino all’incrocio con la strada di Knightsbridge.

Qui e là, un operaio muratore, con la cena di quel giorno avvolta in un fazzoletto, cammina velocemente verso il suo lavoro; di tanto in tanto, anche un piccolo gruppo di tre o quattro ragazzi, partiti per una “spedizione segreta” al bagno, passa rumorosamente lungo il marciapiede. Il loro allegro chiasso contrasta fortemente con l’atteggiamento del giovane spazzino: dopo aver bussato e suonato fino a quando non gli fa male il braccio, e dopo essere stato vietato da una legge misericordiosa dal rischiare di danneggiarsi i polmoni gridando, si siede pazientemente sul gradino d’ingresso, in attesa che la cameriera si svegli.

Il mercato del Covent Garden, e le strade che vi conducono, sono affollati di carri di ogni tipo, dimensione e aspetto: dal pesante carro da trasporto trainato da quattro robusti cavalli al tintinnante carretto del venditore ambulante, munito del suo consumistico asino. Il marciapiede è già coperto di foglie di cavolo marce, strisce di paglia spezzate e tutta quella sporcizia tipica di un mercato ortofrutticolo; ci sono uomini che gridano, carri che si ritirano indietro, cavalli che nitriscono, ragazzi che litigano, donne che vendono cesti, panettieri che esaltano la bontà della loro pasticceria. E poi gli asini che ragliano. Tutti questi suoni, insieme ad altri centinaia, formano un caos assordante che deve risultare particolarmente sgradevole alle orecchie di un londinese. E ancora di più a quelle dei gentiluomini di campagna che, per la prima volta, dormono al Hummums.

Trascorre un’altra ora e la giornata inizia davvero. La serva, che aveva addotto come scusa il sonno profondo per ignorare completamente il campanello della padrona che suonava da mezz’ora prima, viene avvisata dal padrone (che la padrona aveva mandato di sopra, avvolto nei suoi vestiti, proprio a questo scopo) che sono le sei e mezza. Allora lei si sveglia all’improvviso, con un’aria di sorpresa ben simulata, e scende le scale in modo molto scontroso, augurandosi, mentre accende il fuoco, che il principio della combustione spontanea si estendesse anche ai carboni e al fornello della cucina. Quando il fuoco è acceso, apre la porta di casa per prendere il latte; per una coincidenza davvero strana, scopre che anche la serva del vicino ha appena preso il suo latte, e che il giovane signor Todd, dall’altra parte della strada, sta contemporaneamente abbassando le persiane del proprio negozio. La conseguenza inevitabile è che lei si avvicina alla casa accanto, con il secchio del latte in mano, solo per salutare Betsy Clark; e il giovane signor Todd fa lo stesso, per salutarle entrambe. Poiché il suddetto giovane signor Todd è quasi altrettanto attraente quanto il panettiere stesso, la conversazione diventa molto interessante. E probabilmente sarebbe ancora più interessante se la moglie di Betsy Clark, che non smette mai di seguirla dappertutto, non bussasse arrabbiata alla finestra della sua camera da letto; il giovane signor Todd, intanto, cerca di fischiare tranquillamente, mentre torna al suo negozio molto più in fretta di quanto ci sia arrivato. Le due ragazze corrono poi indietro alle rispettive case e chiudono le porte con estrema delicatezza; un minuto dopo, fingono di guardare la posta che passa proprio in quel momento. Ma in realtà lo fanno solo per dare un’altra occhiata al giovane signor Todd. Il quale, essendo più interessato alle donne che alla posta, dà una breve occhiata alla posta, e una lunga occhiata alle ragazze. A grande soddisfazione di tutte le parti coinvolte.

The mail itself goes on to the coach-office in due course, and the passengers who are going out by the early coach, stare with astonishment at the passengers who are coming in by the early coach, who look blue and dismal, and are evidently under the influence of that odd feeling produced by travelling, which makes the events of yesterday morning seem as if they had happened at least six months ago, and induces people to wonder with considerable gravity whether the friends and relations they took leave of a fortnight before, have altered much since they have left them. The coach-office is all alive, and the coaches which are just going out, are surrounded by the usual crowd of Jews and nondescripts, who seem to consider, Heaven knows why, that it is quite impossible any man can mount a coach without requiring at least sixpenny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a last year’s annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and a small series of caricatures.

Half an hour more, and the sun darts his bright rays cheerfully down the still half-empty streets, and shines with sufficient force to rouse the dismal laziness of the apprentice, who pauses every other minute from his task of sweeping out the shop and watering the pavement in front of it, to tell another apprentice similarly employed, how hot it will be to-day, or to stand with his right hand shading his eyes, and his left resting on the broom, gazing at the ‘Wonder,’ or the ‘Tally-ho,’ or the ‘Nimrod,’ or some other fast coach, till it is out of sight, when he re-enters the shop, envying the passengers on the outside of the fast coach, and thinking of the old red brick house ‘down in the country,’ where he went to school: the miseries of the milk and water, and thick bread and scrapings, fading into nothing before the pleasant recollection of the green field the boys used to play in, and the green pond he was caned for presuming to fall into, and other schoolboy associations.

Cabs, with trunks and band-boxes between the drivers’ legs and outside the apron, rattle briskly up and down the streets on their way to the coach-offices or steam-packet wharfs; and the cab-drivers and hackney-coachmen who are on the stand polish up the ornamental part of their dingy vehicles—the former wondering how people can prefer ‘them wild beast cariwans of homnibuses, to a riglar cab with a fast trotter,’ and the latter admiring how people can trust their necks into one of ‘them crazy cabs, when they can have a ’spectable ’ackney cotche with a pair of ’orses as von’t run away with no vun;’ a consolation unquestionably founded on fact, seeing that a hackney-coach horse never was known to run at all, ‘except,’ as the smart cabman in front of the rank observes, ‘except one, and he run back’ards.’

The shops are now completely opened, and apprentices and shopmen are busily engaged in cleaning and decking the windows for the day. The bakers’ shops in town are filled with servants and children waiting for the drawing of the first batch of rolls—an operation which was performed a full hour ago in the suburbs: for the early clerk population of Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and Pentonville, are fast pouring into the city, or directing their steps towards Chancery-lane and the Inns of Court. Middle-aged men, whose salaries have by no means increased in the same proportion as their families, plod steadily along, apparently with no object in view but the counting-house; knowing by sight almost everybody they meet or overtake, for they have seen them every morning (Sunday excepted) during the last twenty years, but speaking to no one. If they do happen to overtake a personal acquaintance, they just exchange a hurried salutation, and keep walking on either by his side, or in front of him, as his rate of walking may chance to be. As to stopping to shake hands, or to take the friend’s arm, they seem to think that as it is not included in their salary, they have no right to do it. Small office lads in large hats, who are made men before they are boys, hurry along in pairs, with their first coat carefully brushed, and the white trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared with dust and ink. It evidently requires a considerable mental struggle to avoid investing part of the day’s dinner-money in the purchase of the stale tarts so temptingly exposed in dusty tins at the pastry-cooks’ doors; but a consciousness of their own importance and the receipt of seven shillings a-week, with the prospect of an early rise to eight, comes to their aid, and they accordingly put their hats a little more on one side, and look under the bonnets of all the milliners’ and stay-makers’ apprentices they meet—poor girls!—the hardest worked, the worst paid, and too often, the worst used class of the community.

Eleven o’clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. The goods in the shop-windows are invitingly arranged; the shopmen in their white neckerchiefs and spruce coats, look as it they couldn’t clean a window if their lives depended on it; the carts have disappeared from Covent-garden; the waggoners have returned, and the costermongers repaired to their ordinary ‘beats’ in the suburbs; clerks are at their offices, and gigs, cabs, omnibuses, and saddle-horses, are conveying their masters to the same destination. The streets are thronged with a vast concourse of people, gay and shabby, rich and poor, idle and industrious; and we come to the heat, bustle, and activity of Noon.

CHAPTER II—THE STREETS—NIGHT

But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky winter’s night, when there is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy, without cleansing it of any of its impurities; and when the heavy lazy mist, which hangs over every object, makes the gas-lamps look brighter, and the brilliantly-lighted shops more splendid, from the contrast they present to the darkness around. All the people who are at home on such a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves as snug and comfortable as possible; and the passengers in the streets have excellent reason to envy the fortunate individuals who are seated by their own firesides.

La posta stessa arriva in seguito all’ufficio delle diligenze, e i passeggeri che partono con la prima diligenza del mattino guardano con stupore quelli che arrivano nello stesso modo: sembrano pallidi e sconsolati, evidentemente sotto l’influenza di quella strana sensazione che deriva dal viaggio. Questa sensazione fa sì che gli eventi della mattina precedente appaiano come se fossero accaduti almeno sei mesi prima, e spinge le persone a pensare con grande serietà se i loro amici e parenti, di cui si sono separati due settimane fa, siano cambiati molto da allora. L’ufficio delle diligenze è pieno di vita; le diligenze che stanno per partire sono circondate dalla solita folla di ebrei e persone di ogni tipo. Chissà perché, sembrano ritenere che sia assolutamente impossibile salire su una diligenza senza portare con sé almeno delle arance, un coltello a serramanico, un portafoglio, l’annuario dell’anno precedente, una scatola di matite, un pezzo di spugna, e anche alcune caricature.

Ancora mezz’ora, e il sole riversa i suoi raggi luminosi sulle strade ancora semi-deserte, illuminandole con tale intensità da scuotere la pigra indolenza dell’apprendista. Ogni due minuti, questi si ferma nel suo compito di spazzare il negozio e innaffiare il marciapiede davanti ad esso per raccontare a un altro apprendista che lavora allo stesso modo quanto farà caldo oggi, oppure si mette la mano destra sulla fronte per proteggersi dal sole, mentre con la sinistra si appoggia alla scopa, fissando il treno veloce che scompare all’orizzonte. Poi rientra nel negozio, invidiando i passeggeri a bordo di quel treno e ricordando quella vecchia casa di mattoni rossi “nel paese”, dove andava a scuola. Le difficoltà legate al latte, all’acqua, al pane grosso e alle briciole svaniscono davanti ai piacevoli ricordi del campo verde in cui giocavano con gli altri ragazzi, del laghetto nel quale fu punito per aver osato cadervici. E di tante altre esperienze della sua vita scolastica.

Le vetture a noleggio, con i bagagli e le casse musicali posizionate tra le gambe dei conducenti e all’esterno del paraurti, si muovono rapidamente su e giù per le strade dirigendosi verso gli uffici delle compagnie di trasporto o i moli dove attraccano i vaporetti; i conducenti di queste vetture puliscono con cura la parte decorativa dei loro mezzi, un po’ scoloriti. I primi si chiedono come le persone possano preferire quelle “carovane selvagge” costituite da autobus a una normale vettura a noleggio con cavalli veloci; i secondi, invece, non capiscono come qualcuno possa affidarsi a uno di quei “folli taxi”, quando potrebbe tranquillamente prendere un comune calesse con cavalli affidabili. Una consolazione, senza dubbio basata sulla realtà: infatti, non è mai successo che un cavallo da calesse scappasse via durante il viaggio, “Tranne uno,” osserva con saggezza il conducente di una vettura a noleggio davanti alla fila, “E lui, è corso indietro.”

I negozi sono ora completamente aperti, e apprendisti e commessi sono impegnati a pulire e decorare le vetrine per la giornata. I negozi di panettieri in città sono pieni di servitori e bambini che aspettano l’uscita del primo lotto di rotoli: questa operazione è stata effettuata un’ora fa nei sobborghi, poiché la popolazione lavorativa dei quartieri di Somers, Camden, Islington e Pentonville sta affluendo rapidamente nella città o si dirige verso Chancery-lane e le locande della >Corte. Uomini di mezza età, i cui salari non sono aumentati nella stessa misura delle loro famiglie, camminano con passo costante, apparentemente senza alcun obiettivo preciso, se non quello di raggiungere la banca; conoscono quasi tutti coloro che incontrano o superano, poiché li hanno visti ogni mattina (tranne il >Domenica) negli ultimi vent’anni, ma non parlano con nessuno. Se per caso incrociano un conoscente, si scambiano solo un rapido saluto e continuano a camminare, sia al suo fianco che davanti a lui, a seconda del ritmo con cui quest’ultimo procede. Quanto a fermarsi per stringersi la mano o prendere il braccio dell’amico, sembrano ritenere che, poiché questo non è incluso nel loro stipendio, non abbiano il diritto di farlo. Giovani impiegati in grandi cappelli, diventati “uomini” prima ancora di essere ragazzi, camminano in coppia, con il loro primo abito ben spazzolato e i pantaloni bianchi pieni di polvere e inchiostro. È evidente che richieda uno sforzo notevole evitare di spendere parte del denaro destinato al pranzo nell’acquisto di quei dolci stantii esposti in scatole polverose davanti ai negozi dei pasticceri; tuttavia, la consapevolezza della propria importanza e il fatto di ricevere sette scellini a settimana, con la prospettiva di guadagnare otto entro poco, li aiutano a resistere. E così inclinano leggermente i cappelli da un lato e guardano sotto i cappelli di tutte le apprendiste sartorie che incontrano: povere ragazze, la classe più sfruttata, la meno pagata, e spesso anche la più maltrattata della società.

Le undici in punto: un nuovo gruppo di persone riempie le strade. I prodotti esposti nei negozi sono disposti in modo attraente; i commessi, con i loro colletti bianchi e cappotti ordinati, sembrano pronti a pulire ogni finestra anche se ne dipendesse la loro vita; i carri hanno scomparso dal Covent Garden; i cocchieri sono tornati, e i venditori ambulanti riprendono le loro abituali attività nei sobborghi. I impiegati sono al lavoro, mentre calessini, taxi, omnibus e cavalli portano i loro padroni verso la stessa destinazione. Le strade sono piene di una folla vasta e varia: persone felici o misere, ricche o povere, pigre o laboriose. E così arriviamo al calore, al trambusto e all’attività del Mezzogiorno.

CAPITOLO II – LE STRADE – NOTTE

Ma le strade di Londra, viste nel pieno del loro splendore, si devono ammirare nelle fredde, cupe e nebbiose notti d’inverno, quando c’è abbastanza umidità che rende il marciapiede viscido, senza però pulirlo dalle sue impurità; e quando la fitta nebbia che avvolge ogni oggetto fa sembrare le luci dei lampioni ancora più brillanti e i negozi illuminati con maggiore splendore, a causa del contrasto con l’oscurità circostante. Tutti coloro che sono a >casa in una notte come questa sembrano volersi rendere il più comodi possibile; e i passanti per strada hanno tutte le ragioni di invidiare quelle fortunate persone che sono sedute accanto al proprio camino.

In the larger and better kind of streets, dining parlour curtains are closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury steams of hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin boy rings his way down the little street, much more slowly than he is wont to do; for Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner opened her little street-door, and screamed out ‘Muffins!’ with all her might, than Mrs. Walker, at No. 5, puts her head out of the parlour-window, and screams ‘Muffins!’ too; and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the words out of her lips, than Mrs. Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the street, with a velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in perspective could possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy trouble, and to say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same time, run over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow’s door, when it appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her ‘kittle’s jist a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid,’ and that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ doors, she’d made up her mind to have a nice, hot, comfortable cup o’ tea—a determination at which, by the most singular coincidence, the other two ladies had simultaneously arrived.

After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather and the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the viciousness of boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow as an exception, Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the street; and as he must want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the Docks, she instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same, and after a few words to Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little houses, and slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine o’clock ‘beer,’ who comes round with a lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he lends Mrs. Walker ‘Yesterday’s ‘Tiser,’ that he’s blessed if he can hardly hold the pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of the bitterest nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was frozen to death in the Brick-field.

After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o’clock beer returns to his master’s house, and employs himself for the remainder of the evening, in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking part in the conversation of the worthies assembled round it.

The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which the groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes, surmounted by a splendid design in variegated lamps, looks less gay than usual, and as to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite departed. The candle in the transparent lamp, manufactured of oil-paper, embellished with ‘characters,’ has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to the next wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the idea of illumination in despair, and the only signs of his ‘whereabout,’ are the bright sparks, of which a long irregular train is whirled down the street every time he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.

Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit vendors linger hopelessly in the kennel, in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged boys who usually disport themselves about the streets, stand crouched in little knots in some projecting doorway, or under the canvas blind of a cheesemonger’s, where great flaring gas-lights, unshaded by any glass, display huge piles of blight red and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy rolls of ‘best fresh.’

Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, arising out of their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the terrific combat, which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can ‘come the double monkey,’ or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe.

It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain which has been drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the baked-potato man has departed—the kidney-pie man has just walked away with his warehouse on his arm—the cheesemonger has drawn in his blind, and the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of pattens on the slippy and uneven pavement, and the rustling of umbrellas, as the wind blows against the shop-windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of the night; and the policeman, with his oilskin cape buttoned closely round him, seems as he holds his hat on his head, and turns round to avoid the gust of wind and rain which drives against him at the street-corner, to be very far from congratulating himself on the prospect before him.

The little chandler’s shop with the cracked bell behind the door, whose melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for quarterns of sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is shutting up. The crowds which have been passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly dwindling away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling which issues from the public-houses, is almost the only sound that breaks the melancholy stillness of the night.

There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice is all she has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her own pale face; the child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing adds to the misery of its wretched mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks despairingly down, on a cold damp door-step.

Nelle strade più grandi e meglio tenute, le tende delle sale da pranzo sono ben chiuse; i fuochi in cucina ardono vivacemente, e gli aromi del cibo caldo invadono il naso dei viandanti affamati che camminano stancamente lungo le ringhiere. Nei sobborghi, il ragazzo che vende i muffin suona il suo campanello lungo le strade, molto più lentamente del solito: infatti, non appena la signora Macklin, al numero 4, apre la porta e grida “Muffins!”, anche la signora Walker, al numero 5, sporge la testa dalla finestra e grida allo stesso modo. Appena la signora Walker ha finito di parlare, la signora Peplow, dall’altra parte della strada, manda fuori il figlio, che corre giù per la strada a una velocità tale da poter essere motivata soltanto dalla vista di muffin imburrati. La signora Macklin e la signora Walker, per evitare problemi al ragazzo e per scambiare qualche parola cordiale con la signora Peplow, corrono subito da lei a comprare i muffin. Secondo quanto racconta la signora Walker, quella notte era particolarmente fredda, quindi aveva deciso di prepararsi una tazza di tè caldo e confortante. Una decisione che, per una strana coincidenza, anche le altre due signore avevano preso contemporaneamente.

Dopo una breve conversazione sulla bruttezza del tempo e sui meriti del tè, con qualche digressione riguardo alla cattiveria dei ragazzi in generale e all’amichevolezza di Master Peplow come eccezione, la signora Walker vede suo marito scendere per la strada; sicuramente avrà bisogno del suo tè, poveretto, dopo quella lunga camminata fangosa dai Docks. Allora lei corre subito verso di lui, con i muffin in mano, e anche la signora Macklin fa lo stesso. Dopo aver scambiato qualche parola con la signora Walker, tutte e due rientrano nelle loro case e chiudono a chiave le porte, che non verranno riaperte per il resto della serata, tranne che alle nove, quando arriva il venditore di birra con una lanterna davanti al suo carrello. Mentre consegna alla signora Walker la “Tiser di ieri”, dice che è davvero una notte terribile, a parte quella volta in cui quell’uomo morì congelato nel campo di mattoni.

Dopo una breve conversazione “profetica” con il poliziotto all’angolo della strada, riguardante un probabile cambiamento del tempo e l’arrivo di una dura brina, la birra delle nove torna nella casa del suo padrone e, per il resto della serata, si dedica con impegno a ravvivare il fuoco nel locale, partecipando rispettosamente alle conversazioni dei gentiluomini riuniti intorno ad esso.

Le strade nei dintorni di Marsh-gate e del Victoria Theatre presentano un aspetto sporco e poco accogliente in una notte come questa, e i gruppi di persone che vi passeggiano non fanno assolutamente nulla per migliorare la situazione. Anche il piccolo negozio dedicato alle patatine fritte, decorato con bellissime luci colorate, sembra meno vivace del solito; quanto al chiosco che vende torte di fegato, la sua “gloria” è ormai completamente svanita. La candela all’interno della lampada trasparente, realizzata in carta oleata e decorata con simboli vari, si è spenta già cinquanta volte. Il venditore, stanco di correre avanti e indietro verso le cantine vicine per prendere la luce necessaria, ha ormai abbandonato del tutto l’idea di utilizzare illuminazione. Gli unici segni della sua presenza sono le scintille luminose che si sprigionano ogni volta che apre il suo forno portatile per consegnare una torta di fegato calda ai clienti.

I venditori di pesci piatti, ostriche e frutta stanno lì, senza speranza, nel loro angolo, cercando invano di attirare clienti; mentre i ragazzi stracciati che di solito scorrazzano per le strade si accovacciano in qualche angolo, sotto un portone sporgente o dietro una tenda di tela di un negozio di formaggi. Lì, grandi lampade a gas, senza alcuna protezione di vetro, illuminano enormi mucchi di formaggi di colore rosso scuro e giallo pallido, mescolati con piccoli pezzi di bacon poco appetitoso, varie confezioni di prodotti del Dorset e rotoli di pane “fresco e di qualità”.

Qui si divertono con conversazioni teatrali, nate dalla loro ultima visita alla galleria Victoria a metà prezzo; ammirano il spettacolare combattimento che viene ripetuto ogni sera e commentano in modo appassionato il modo unico in cui Bill Thompson riesce a “imitare il doppio della scimmia” o a eseguire le complesse melodie del flauto da marina.

Sono quasi le undici in punto; la fredda pioggia sottile che cadeva da tempo ha iniziato a scendere più intensamente. L’uomo che vendeva patate arrosto se n’è andato; quello che vendeva torte di fegato è appena sparito, portandosi via il suo “magazzino” sul braccio. Il caseario ha chiuso la sua vetrina, e i ragazzi si sono dispersi. Il continuo rumore prodotto dai tacchi sui marciapiedi scivolosi e irregolari, insieme al fruscio degli ombrelli spinti dal vento contro le vetrine dei negozi, testimoniano quanto sia inclemente questa notte. Il poliziotto, con il suo cappotto impermeabile ben chiuso intorno a sé e il cappello stretto sulla testa per proteggersi dal vento e dalla pioggia che lo investono all’angolo della strada, sembra tutt’altro che felice di fronte alla situazione in cui si trova.

Il piccolo negozio del candelaio, con la campanella crepata dietro la porta, il cui melancolico tintinnio era regolato dalla domanda di quarti di zucchero e mezzo oncia di caffè, sta chiudendo. Le folle che si muovevano avanti e indietro per tutto il giorno stanno rapidamente diminuendo; e il rumore delle grida e delle discussioni che proviene dai pub è quasi l’unico suono che rompe la melancolica quiete della notte.

C’era un’altra, ma ormai è cessata. Quella povera donna, con il bambino in braccio e avvolta nella triste reliquia del proprio scialle logoro, cercava di cantare qualche ballata popolare, nella speranza di raccogliere qualche penny da parte dei passanti compassionevoli. Tutto ciò che ottenne fu una risata crudele per la sua voce debole. Le lacrime scorrevano copiose sul suo pallido viso; il >bambino era freddo e affamato, e i suoi deboli pianti aumentavano ancora di più la miseria di sua madre, che gemeva ad alta voce prima di accasciarsi disperatamente su un gradino freddo e umido.

Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as this, think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and spirit, which the very effort of singing produces. Bitter mockery! Disease, neglect, and starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous ditty, that has enlivened your hours of feasting and merriment, God knows how often! It is no subject of jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a fearful tale of want and famishing; and the feeble singer of this roaring song may turn away, only to die of cold and hunger.

One o’clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney-coaches, carriages, and theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen with dim dirty lanterns in their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire to their watering-houses, to solace themselves with the creature comforts of pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box frequenters of the theatres throng to the different houses of refreshment; and chops, kidneys, rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and ‘goes’ innumerable, are served up amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering, perfectly indescribable.

The more musical portion of the play-going community betake themselves to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let us follow them thither for a few moments.

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were so many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just been executed by the three ‘professional gentlemen’ at the top of the centre table, one of whom is in the chair—the little pompous man with the bald head just emerging from the collar of his green coat. The others are seated on either side of him—the stout man with the small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The little man in the chair is a most amusing personage,—such condescending grandeur, and such a voice!

‘Bass!’ as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly remarks to his companion, ‘bass! I b’lieve you; he can go down lower than any man: so low sometimes that you can’t hear him.’ And so he does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till he can’t get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with which he pours forth his soul in ‘My ’art’s in the ’ighlands,’ or ‘The brave old Hoak.’ The stout man is also addicted to sentimentality, and warbles ‘Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me,’ or some such song, with lady-like sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable.

‘Pray give your orders, gen’l’m’n—pray give your orders,’—says the pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for ‘goes’ of gin and ‘goes’ of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness, are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The ‘professional gentlemen’ are in the very height of their glory, and bestow condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition, on the better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and patronising manner possible.

The little round-faced man, with the small brown surtout, white stockings and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of self-denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers, with which he acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying. ‘Gen’l’men,’ says the little pompous man, accompanying the word with a knock of the president’s hammer on the table—‘Gen’l’men, allow me to claim your attention—our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will oblige.’—‘Bravo!’ shout the company; and Smuggins, after a considerable quantity of coughing by way of symphony, and a most facetious sniff or two, which afford general delight, sings a comic song, with a fal-de-ral—tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every verse, much longer than the verse itself. It is received with unbounded applause, and after some aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says ‘Gen’l’men, we will attempt a glee, if you please.’ This announcement calls forth tumultuous applause, and the more energetic spirits express the unqualified approbation it affords them, by knocking one or two stout glasses off their legs—a humorous device; but one which frequently occasions some slight altercation when the form of paying the damage is proposed to be gone through by the waiter.

Scenes like these are continued until three or four o’clock in the morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the inquisitive novice. But as a description of all of them, however slight, would require a volume, the contents of which, however instructive, would be by no means pleasing, we make our bow, and drop the curtain.

CHAPTER III—SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

What inexhaustible food for speculation, do the streets of London afford! We never were able to agree with Sterne in pitying the man who could travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say that all was barren; we have not the slightest commiseration for the man who can take up his hat and stick, and walk from Covent-garden to St. Paul’s Churchyard, and back into the bargain, without deriving some amusement—we had almost said instruction—from his perambulation. And yet there are such beings: we meet them every day. Large black stocks and light waistcoats, jet canes and discontented countenances, are the characteristics of the race; other people brush quickly by you, steadily plodding on to business, or cheerfully running after pleasure. These men linger listlessly past, looking as happy and animated as a policeman on duty. Nothing seems to make an impression on their minds: nothing short of being knocked down by a porter, or run over by a cab, will disturb their equanimity. You will meet them on a fine day in any of the leading thoroughfares: peep through the window of a west-end cigar shop in the evening, if you can manage to get a glimpse between the blue curtains which intercept the vulgar gaze, and you see them in their only enjoyment of existence. There they are lounging about, on round tubs and pipe boxes, in all the dignity of whiskers, and gilt watch-guards; whispering soft nothings to the young lady in amber, with the large ear-rings, who, as she sits behind the counter in a blaze of adoration and gas-light, is the admiration of all the female servants in the neighbourhood, and the envy of every milliner’s apprentice within two miles round.

Cantando. Quanti di coloro che passano accanto a una creatura così miserabile pensano all’angoscia nel cuore, al declino dell’anima e dello spirito che lo stesso sforzo di cantare provoca? Amara ironia. Malattia, negligenza, fame: queste sono le condizioni in cui quella voce debole e tremante cerca di pronunciare le parole di una canzone gioiosa, che ha reso più vivaci i vostri momenti di festa e divertimento. Dio sa quante volte! Non è certo un argomento di derisione. La voce tremolante racconta storie terribili di povertà e fame; e il cantante debole che esegue questa canzone possa anche andarsene, per poi morire di freddo e fame.

Le una di ore! Le feste che tornano dai vari teatri si svolgono a piedi lungo le strade fangose; taxi, carrozze e omnibus teatrali passano velocemente; i barcaioli, con lanterne sporche e luminose in mano e grandi targhe di rame sul petto, che hanno urlato e corso per le ultime due ore, si ritirano nei loro bagni pubblici per consolarsi con il conforto offerto da pipe e birra; i frequentatori a metà prezzo dei teatri affollano le varie osterie; carne di maiale, reni, conigli, ostriche, birra forte, sigari, tutto viene servito in mezzo a un rumore e a una confusione indescrivibili: fumo, corse, clangori di coltelli e chiacchiere dei camerieri.

La parte più appassionata di musica all’interno della comunità teatrale si reca in qualche luogo dove si possono ascoltare concerti armoniosi. Per curiosità, seguiamoli lì per un momento.

In una stanza maestosa e spaziosa, sono seduti circa ottanta o cento ospiti che battono su piccoli bicchieri di piombo sulle tavole e martellano con il manico dei loro coltelli, come se fossero numerosi artigiani che lavorano il legno. Stanno applaudendo un numero appena eseguito dai tre “gentiluomini professionisti” seduti al centro della stanza: uno di loro è seduto in una sedia – quel piccolo uomo pomposo con la testa calva che spunta appena dal colletto del suo cappotto verde. Gli altri sono seduti ai suoi lati: l’uomo robusto dalla voce bassa e l’uomo magro dal viso scuro in abito nero. Quell’uomo seduto in sedia è davvero una figura molto divertente. Una tale aria di superiorità, e una voce del genere!

“Basso!” esclama con forza il giovane gentiluomo vicino a noi, con quella sua cravatta blu, rivolgendosi al suo compagno: “Basso! Credimi, lui riesce ad andare ancora più in basso di qualsiasi altro uomo. A volte così in basso che non si riesce nemmeno a sentirlo.” E infatti è proprio così. Ascoltarlo ringhiare sempre più giù, fino a quando non riesce più a tornare su, è la cosa più deliziosa al mondo. Ed è davvero impossibile rimanere indifferenti di fronte alla solennità commovente con cui esprime la propria “anima” in canzoni come “My Art’s in the Highlands” o “The Brave Old Hoak”. Anche quell’uomo robusto è incline al sentimentalismo: canta canzoni del genere, con una dolcezza da signora e nei toni più seducenti che si possano immaginare.

“Per favore, dia le sue ordini, generale. Per favore, dia le sue ordini,” dice l’uomo dal viso pallido e dalla testa rossa; e richieste di gin, brandy, pinte di birra forte e sigari particolarmente delicati vengono fatte ad alta voce da tutte le parti della stanza. I “gentiluomini professionisti” sono al culmine della loro gloria e rivolgono cenni di approvazione, o addirittura una parola o due di riconoscimento, ai frequentatori più noti della sala, nel modo più condiscendente e paternalistico possibile.

L’uomo dal viso rotondo, con il suo piccolo cappotto marrone, le calze e le scarpe bianche, appartiene al genere comico; quell’ambiguo atteggiamento di auto-negazione da un lato, e la consapevolezza delle proprie capacità dall’altro, unita al modo in cui risponde alla “chiamata” della sedia su cui deve sedersi, sono particolarmente divertenti.
“Generali,” dice quell’uomo pomposo, accompagnando le parole con un colpo del martello del presidente sul tavolo, “permettetemi di attirare la vostra attenzione: il nostro amico, il signor Smuggins, si esibirà per voi.” “Bravo!” esclama l’assemblea. E dopo aver tossito parecchio come parte dell’esibizione, e aver emesso alcuni singhiozzi molto spiritosi che suscitano generali risate, Smuggins canta una canzone comica, con un ritornello che si ripete più volte, molto più lungo del testo stesso della canzone. L’esibizione viene accolta con applausi scroscianti; dopo che alcuni aspiranti talenti hanno provato a recitare ma hanno fallito miseramente, quell’uomo pomposo batte di nuovo il martello e dice: “Generali, proveremo ora un brano di musica festosa, se vi va bene.” Questa proposta suscita ancora più applausi entusiasti, e i partecipanti esprimono la loro approvazione battendo giù uno o due bicchieri dalle loro gambe. Un gesto umoristico, ma che spesso scatena piccole discussioni quando si cerca di stabilire chi dovrà pagare i danni causati.

Scene come queste continuano fino alle tre o quattro di ore del mattino; e anche quando finiscono, ne aprono altre nuove per il curioso novizio. Ma poiché descrivere tutte queste scene, per quanto brevemente, richiederebbe un intero volume, e i suoi contenuti, per quanto istruttivi, non sarebbero certo piacevoli da leggere, ci ritiriamo e abbassiamo il “velo” della narrazione.

CAPITOLO III – LE ATTIVITÀ COMMERCIALI E I LORO AFFITTUATI

Che inesauribile materia per la speculazione offrono le strade di Londra! Non siamo mai riusciti ad essere d’accordo con Sterne nel provare compassione per colui che potesse viaggiare da Dan a Bersabea e dire che tutto fosse desolato; non proviamo la minima simpatia per chi possa prendere il cappello e andarsene, da Covent-Garden fino alla chiesa di St. Paul’s, senza trarne alcun divertimento, anzi, quasi un insegnamento. Eppure esistono davvero persone del genere: le incontriamo ogni giorno. Grandi occhiali neri, giacche leggere, bastoni di canna e volti scontenti sono le loro caratteristiche principali; altre persone ci passano accanto velocemente, impegnate nei propri affari o felici nell’inseguire i propri piaceri. Questi uomini, invece, camminano con indifferenza, sembrando altrettanto felici e attivi quanto un poliziotto di servizio. Niente sembra influenzare il loro umore: solo essere colpiti da un portiere o investiti da una carrozza potrebbe turbare la loro serenità. Li incontrerete in una bella giornata, in qualsiasi via principale di Londra: se riuscite a gettare uno sguardo attraverso le tende blu di una tabaccheria nel West End, li vedrete godersi l’unica cosa che hanno nella vita. Lì, sdraiati su tazze rotonde o scatole da pipa, con i loro baffi ben curati e gli orologi dorati, sussurrano cose dolci alla giovane donna dai grandi orecchini d’ambra. Lei, seduta dietro il bancone sotto la luce abbagliante delle lampade a gas, è l’oggetto dell’invidia di tutte le domestiche del quartiere e di ogni apprendista sarta nei dintorni.

One of our principal amusements is to watch the gradual progress—the rise or fall—of particular shops. We have formed an intimate acquaintance with several, in different parts of town, and are perfectly acquainted with their whole history. We could name off-hand, twenty at least, which we are quite sure have paid no taxes for the last six years. They are never inhabited for more than two months consecutively, and, we verily believe, have witnessed every retail trade in the directory.

There is one, whose history is a sample of the rest, in whose fate we have taken especial interest, having had the pleasure of knowing it ever since it has been a shop. It is on the Surrey side of the water—a little distance beyond the Marsh-gate. It was originally a substantial, good-looking private house enough; the landlord got into difficulties, the house got into Chancery, the tenant went away, and the house went to ruin. At this period our acquaintance with it commenced; the paint was all worn off; the windows were broken, the area was green with neglect and the overflowings of the water-butt; the butt itself was without a lid, and the street-door was the very picture of misery. The chief pastime of the children in the vicinity had been to assemble in a body on the steps, and to take it in turn to knock loud double knocks at the door, to the great satisfaction of the neighbours generally, and especially of the nervous old lady next door but one. Numerous complaints were made, and several small basins of water discharged over the offenders, but without effect. In this state of things, the marine-store dealer at the corner of the street, in the most obliging manner took the knocker off, and sold it: and the unfortunate house looked more wretched than ever.

We deserted our friend for a few weeks. What was our surprise, on our return, to find no trace of its existence! In its place was a handsome shop, fast approaching to a state of completion, and on the shutters were large bills, informing the public that it would shortly be opened with ‘an extensive stock of linen-drapery and haberdashery.’ It opened in due course; there was the name of the proprietor ‘and Co.’ in gilt letters, almost too dazzling to look at. Such ribbons and shawls! and two such elegant young men behind the counter, each in a clean collar and white neckcloth, like the lover in a farce. As to the proprietor, he did nothing but walk up and down the shop, and hand seats to the ladies, and hold important conversations with the handsomest of the young men, who was shrewdly suspected by the neighbours to be the ‘Co.’ We saw all this with sorrow; we felt a fatal presentiment that the shop was doomed—and so it was. Its decay was slow, but sure. Tickets gradually appeared in the windows; then rolls of flannel, with labels on them, were stuck outside the door; then a bill was pasted on the street-door, intimating that the first floor was to let unfurnished; then one of the young men disappeared altogether, and the other took to a black neckerchief, and the proprietor took to drinking. The shop became dirty, broken panes of glass remained unmended, and the stock disappeared piecemeal. At last the company’s man came to cut off the water, and then the linen-draper cut off himself, leaving the landlord his compliments and the key.

The next occupant was a fancy stationer. The shop was more modestly painted than before, still it was neat; but somehow we always thought, as we passed, that it looked like a poor and struggling concern. We wished the man well, but we trembled for his success. He was a widower evidently, and had employment elsewhere, for he passed us every morning on his road to the city. The business was carried on by his eldest daughter. Poor girl! she needed no assistance. We occasionally caught a glimpse of two or three children, in mourning like herself, as they sat in the little parlour behind the shop; and we never passed at night without seeing the eldest girl at work, either for them, or in making some elegant little trifle for sale. We often thought, as her pale face looked more sad and pensive in the dim candle-light, that if those thoughtless females who interfere with the miserable market of poor creatures such as these, knew but one-half of the misery they suffer, and the bitter privations they endure, in their honourable attempts to earn a scanty subsistence, they would, perhaps, resign even opportunities for the gratification of vanity, and an immodest love of self-display, rather than drive them to a last dreadful resource, which it would shock the delicate feelings of these charitable ladies to hear named.

But we are forgetting the shop. Well, we continued to watch it, and every day showed too clearly the increasing poverty of its inmates. The children were clean, it is true, but their clothes were threadbare and shabby; no tenant had been procured for the upper part of the house, from the letting of which, a portion of the means of paying the rent was to have been derived, and a slow, wasting consumption prevented the eldest girl from continuing her exertions. Quarter-day arrived. The landlord had suffered from the extravagance of his last tenant, and he had no compassion for the struggles of his successor; he put in an execution. As we passed one morning, the broker’s men were removing the little furniture there was in the house, and a newly-posted bill informed us it was again ‘To Let.’ What became of the last tenant we never could learn; we believe the girl is past all suffering, and beyond all sorrow. God help her! We hope she is.

We were somewhat curious to ascertain what would be the next stage—for that the place had no chance of succeeding now, was perfectly clear. The bill was soon taken down, and some alterations were being made in the interior of the shop. We were in a fever of expectation; we exhausted conjecture—we imagined all possible trades, none of which were perfectly reconcilable with our idea of the gradual decay of the tenement. It opened, and we wondered why we had not guessed at the real state of the case before. The shop—not a large one at the best of times—had been converted into two: one was a bonnet-shape maker’s, the other was opened by a tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks and Sunday newspapers; the two were separated by a thin partition, covered with tawdry striped paper.

Uno dei nostri principali passatempi è osservare il progresso graduale – l’ascesa o la caduta – di determinati negozi. Abbiamo stretto una conoscenza approfondita con diversi di essi, situati in varie parti della città, e conosciamo perfettamente tutta la loro storia. Potremmo menzionare, all’istante, almeno venti negozi di cui siamo certi che non abbiano pagato tasse negli ultimi sei anni. Non vengono mai utilizzati per più di due mesi consecutivi, e crediamo sinceramente che abbiano partecipato a ogni tipo di attività commerciale elencata nel registro ufficiale.

C’è una casa la cui storia rappresenta un esempio tipico di quelle circostanze; il suo destino ci ha suscitato particolare interesse, poiché abbiamo avuto la fortuna di conoscerla fin da quando è diventata un negozio. Si trova sul lato del Surrey del fiume, poco oltre Marsh-gate. In origine era una bella e solida casa privata; il proprietario però si trovò in difficoltà, la casa finì nelle mani dei tribunali, l’inquilino se ne andò e l’edificio andò in rovina. Fu in questo periodo che iniziammo a conoscere questa casa: la vernice era completamente scrostata, le finestre rotte, il terreno invaso dall’abbandono e dalle acque reflue del fiume; lo stesso pozzo non aveva più coperchio, e la porta d’ingresso rappresentava l’esempio perfetto di miseria. Il passatempo preferito dei bambini della zona era radunarsi sulle scale e, a turno, bussare forte alla porta, con grande divertimento dei vicini, soprattutto di quella vecchia signora nervosa che abitava poco più in là. Furono presentate numerose lamentele, e vennero persino versati alcuni secchi d’acqua sugli autori di questi scherzi, ma senza alcun effetto. In questa situazione, il negoziante di ferramenta all’angolo della strada, con grande gentilezza, prese via il battente della porta e lo vendette. E la sfortunata casa sembrò ancora più desolata di prima.

Abbiamo abbandonato il nostro amico per alcune settimane. Quale fu la nostra sorpresa, al ritorno, nel non trovare traccia della sua esistenza! Al suo posto c’era un bellissimo negozio, ormai quasi completato; sugli sportelli erano affissi grandi cartelli che annunciavano l’apertura imminente con “una vasta scelta di stoffe per lenzuola e abbigliamento”. L’apertura ebbe effettivamente luogo; il nome del proprietario, scritto in lettere dorate, era quasi abbagliante da guardare. Che nastri e sciarpe meravigliose! E due giovani così eleganti dietro al bancone, ognuno con colletto pulito e cravatta bianca. Come i “fidanzati” in una farsa. Per quanto riguarda il proprietario, non faceva altro che andare avanti e indietro nel negozio, offrire sedie alle signore e intrattenersi in conversazioni importanti con i giovani più attraenti. I vicini sospettavano che quel giovane fosse proprio il “proprietario”. Vedemmo tutto questo con tristezza; ebbero in noi un presentimento funesto: il negozio era destinato al fallimento. E infatti così fu. La sua decadenza fu lenta, ma inevitabile. Gradualmente apparvero biglietti sugli sportelli; poi rotoli di flanella con etichette attaccati alla porta; poi un cartello che annunciava la disponibilità del primo piano senza arredi. Poi uno dei giovani scomparve del tutto, l’altro iniziò a indossare una cravatta nera, e il proprietario prese l’abitudine di bere. Il negozio divenne sporco; i vetri rotti rimasero senza essere riparati, e le merci scomparvero poco a poco. Alla fine arrivò il funzionario incaricato di interrompere l’approvvigionamento idrico. Poi anche il proprietario del negozio di stoffe per lenzuola “si tolse di scena”, lasciando al padrone di casa solo i suoi complimenti e la chiave.

Il successivo inquilino era un negoziante di articoli da scrivania di lusso. Il negozio era dipinto in modo più sobrio rispetto al passato, ma comunque ordinato; tuttavia, ogni volta che lo superavamo, ci sembrava sempre un’attività difficile e poco prospera. Desideravamo il meglio per quell’uomo, ma temevamo per il suo successo. Era chiaramente un vedovo e lavorava altrove, poiché ogni mattina ci passava davanti lungo la strada che conduceva in città. L’attività era gestita dalla sua figlia maggiore. Povera ragazza! Non aveva certo bisogno di aiuto. Di tanto in tanto intravedevamo due o tre bambini, vestiti a lutto come lei, seduti nel piccolo salottino sul retro del negozio; e ogni sera li vedevamo ancora al lavoro, sia per prendersi cura dei bambini che per creare piccoli oggetti eleganti da vendere. Spesso pensavamo che, se quelle donne superficiali che interferiscono nella misera vita di persone così sfortunate conoscessero anche solo metà delle sofferenze e delle privazioni che devono sopportare nel loro nobile tentativo di guadagnarsi da vivere, forse rinuncerebbero persino alle opportunità di soddisfare la propria vanità o un amor proprio eccessivo, piuttosto che spingerle a ricorrere a mezzi disperati. Un pensiero che certamente scioccherebbe i sentimenti “caritatevoli” di queste signore.

Ma stiamo dimenticando quel negozio. Beh, abbiamo continuato a osservarlo, e ogni giorno si vedeva chiaramente l’aumentare della povertà dei suoi inquilini. I bambini erano puliti, è vero, ma i loro vestiti erano logori e stracciati; non era stato trovato nessun inquilino per la parte superiore della >casa, da cui avrebbero dovuto derivare alcune risorse per pagare l’affitto. E un consumo lento e progressivo impediva alla ragazza più anziana di continuare a lavorare sodo. Arrivò il giorno del pagamento dell’affitto. Il proprietario aveva sofferto a causa degli eccessi del precedente inquilino, e non provava alcuna compassione per le difficoltà del suo successore; quindi ordinò l’esecuzione dei patti di locazione. Una mattina, mentre passavamo di lì, i dipendenti dell’agente immobiliare stavano portando via gli pochi mobili presenti nella >casa, e un avviso appena affisso annunciava che era nuovamente “in affitto”. Di cosa sia stato fatto del precedente inquilino non abbiamo mai potuto saperlo. Crediamo che la ragazza sia ormai al di là di ogni >sofferenza e di ogni tristezza. Che Dio l’aiuti! Speriamo davvero che sia così.

Eravamo piuttosto curiosi di scoprire quale sarebbe stata la fase successiva: era infatti evidente che quel locale non avesse più alcuna possibilità di avere successo. La insegna fu presto rimossa e vennero apportati alcuni cambiamenti all’interno del negozio. Eravamo nel fiore dell’attesa; facemmo mille congetture, immaginando tutti i possibili tipi di attività commerciali, ma nessuna di esse sembrava conciliarsi perfettamente con la nostra idea riguardo al graduale declino di quel negozio. Quando finalmente si aprì, ci chiedemmo perché non avessimo indovinato prima la vera situazione. Il negozio – che in tempi migliori non era certo grande – era stato diviso in due parti: una era utilizzata da un artigiano che produceva cappelli a cono, l’altra era gestita da un tabaccaio che vendeva anche bastoni da passeggio e giornali domenicali; le due aree erano separate da una sottile parete rivestita di carta a strisce vistose.

The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any tenant within our recollection. He was a red-faced, impudent, good-for-nothing dog, evidently accustomed to take things as they came, and to make the best of a bad job. He sold as many cigars as he could, and smoked the rest. He occupied the shop as long as he could make peace with the landlord, and when he could no longer live in quiet, he very coolly locked the door, and bolted himself. From this period, the two little dens have undergone innumerable changes. The tobacconist was succeeded by a theatrical hair-dresser, who ornamented the window with a great variety of ‘characters,’ and terrific combats. The bonnet-shape maker gave place to a greengrocer, and the histrionic barber was succeeded, in his turn, by a tailor. So numerous have been the changes, that we have of late done little more than mark the peculiar but certain indications of a house being poorly inhabited. It has been progressing by almost imperceptible degrees. The occupiers of the shops have gradually given up room after room, until they have only reserved the little parlour for themselves. First there appeared a brass plate on the private door, with ‘Ladies’ School’ legibly engraved thereon; shortly afterwards we observed a second brass plate, then a bell, and then another bell.

When we paused in front of our old friend, and observed these signs of poverty, which are not to be mistaken, we thought as we turned away, that the house had attained its lowest pitch of degradation. We were wrong. When we last passed it, a ‘dairy’ was established in the area, and a party of melancholy-looking fowls were amusing themselves by running in at the front door, and out at the back one.

CHAPTER IV—SCOTLAND-YARD

Scotland-yard is a small—a very small-tract of land, bounded on one side by the river Thames, on the other by the gardens of Northumberland House: abutting at one end on the bottom of Northumberland-street, at the other on the back of Whitehall-place. When this territory was first accidentally discovered by a country gentleman who lost his way in the Strand, some years ago, the original settlers were found to be a tailor, a publican, two eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker; and it was also found to contain a race of strong and bulky men, who repaired to the wharfs in Scotland-yard regularly every morning, about five or six o’clock, to fill heavy waggons with coal, with which they proceeded to distant places up the country, and supplied the inhabitants with fuel. When they had emptied their waggons, they again returned for a fresh supply; and this trade was continued throughout the year.

As the settlers derived their subsistence from ministering to the wants of these primitive traders, the articles exposed for sale, and the places where they were sold, bore strong outward marks of being expressly adapted to their tastes and wishes. The tailor displayed in his window a Lilliputian pair of leather gaiters, and a diminutive round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately garnished with a model of a coal-sack. The two eating-house keepers exhibited joints of a magnitude, and puddings of a solidity, which coalheavers alone could appreciate; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed window-board large white compositions of flour and dripping, ornamented with pink stains, giving rich promise of the fruit within, which made their huge mouths water, as they lingered past.

But the choicest spot in all Scotland-yard was the old public-house in the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted-room of ancient appearance, cheered by the glow of a mighty fire, and decorated with an enormous clock, whereof the face was white, and the figures black, sat the lusty coalheavers, quaffing large draughts of Barclay’s best, and puffing forth volumes of smoke, which wreathed heavily above their heads, and involved the room in a thick dark cloud. From this apartment might their voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the very bank of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth the burden of a popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a strength and length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above them.

Here, too, would they tell old legends of what the Thames was in ancient times, when the Patent Shot Manufactory wasn’t built, and Waterloo-bridge had never been thought of; and then they would shake their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edification of the rising generation of heavers, who crowded round them, and wondered where all this would end; whereat the tailor would take his pipe solemnly from his mouth, and say, how that he hoped it might end well, but he very much doubted whether it would or not, and couldn’t rightly tell what to make of it—a mysterious expression of opinion, delivered with a semi-prophetic air, which never failed to elicit the fullest concurrence of the assembled company; and so they would go on drinking and wondering till ten o’clock came, and with it the tailor’s wife to fetch him home, when the little party broke up, to meet again in the same room, and say and do precisely the same things, on the following evening at the same hour.

About this time the barges that came up the river began to bring vague rumours to Scotland-yard of somebody in the city having been heard to say, that the Lord Mayor had threatened in so many words to pull down the old London-bridge, and build up a new one. At first these rumours were disregarded as idle tales, wholly destitute of foundation, for nobody in Scotland-yard doubted that if the Lord Mayor contemplated any such dark design, he would just be clapped up in the Tower for a week or two, and then killed off for high treason.

Il tabaccaio rimase in possesso del negozio per un periodo più lungo di qualsiasi altro inquilino che ricordiamo. Era un individuo dal viso rosso, impudente e inutile, chiaramente abituato ad accettare le cose così come venivano e a sfruttare al meglio anche le situazioni peggiori. Vendeva quante più sigarette riusciva e fumava il resto. Occupò il negozio finché poté mantenere buoni rapporti con il proprietario; quando però non fu più in grado di vivere in pace, chiuse la porta e se ne andò tranquillamente. Da quel momento, i due piccoli locali subirono innumerevoli cambiamenti: al tabaccaio succedette un parrucchiere teatrale che decorava la vetrina con una grande varietà di “personaggi” e scene di combattimento; il negozio del cappellaio fu sostituito da un verduriere, e a questo, a sua volta, seguì un sarto. I cambiamenti sono stati così numerosi che ormai ci limitiamo soltanto a notare quegli indizi particolari che rivelano che una casa è abitata in modo disordinato. Il negozio continua a subire trasformazioni quasi impercettibili: gli occupanti hanno gradualmente ceduto spazio, fino a riservarsi soltanto la piccola sala interna. Prima apparve una targa di rame sulla porta privata, su cui era chiaramente scritto “Scuola per signore”; poco dopo ne comparve un’altra, poi un campanello, e ancora un altro campanello.

Quando ci fermammo davanti al nostro vecchio amico e osservammo questi segni di povertà, che non potevano essere scambiati per altro, pensammo, mentre ce ne andavamo, che quella >casa avesse raggiunto il punto più basso della sua decadenza. Ci sbagliavamo: l’ultima volta che ci siamo passati, in quell’area era stata aperta una “lattiero-casearia”, e un gruppo di polli dall’aspetto melancolico si divertiva a correre dentro dalla porta d’ingresso e fuori da quella sul retro.

CAPITOLO IV – SCOTLAND-YARD

Scotland Yard è un piccolissimo tratto di terra: da un lato confina con il fiume Tamigi, dall’altro con i giardini della >Casa di Northumberland. Da un’estremità si affaccia sulla fine di Northumberland Street, dall’altra sul retro di Whitehall Place. Quando questo territorio fu scoperto per caso alcuni anni fa da un gentiluomo che si era perso nella zona di Strand, i primi insediati risultarono essere un sarto, un oste, due gestori di ristoranti e un produttore di torte di mele; inoltre, in quel luogo viveva anche una comunità di uomini forti e robusti che ogni mattina, verso le cinque o sei, si recavano regolarmente alle banchine di Scotland Yard per caricare i carri con il carbone, che poi portavano in zone remote della campagna per rifornire gli abitanti di combustibile. Una volta svuotati i carri, tornavano a prendere una nuova quantità di carbone; questo commercio proseguiva tutto l’anno.

Poiché i coloni si guadagnavano da vivere soddisfacendo le esigenze di questi commercianti primitivi, gli articoli esposti in vendita, così come i luoghi in cui venivano venduti, presentavano chiari segni di essere stati appositamente adattati ai loro gusti e desideri. Il sarto espose nella sua >vetrina un paio di calzamaglie di pelle delle dimensioni dei Lilliputiani, nonché una minuscola gonna rotonda; ogni porta era inoltre decorata con un modellino di sacco da carbone. I due gestori dei ristoranti esibivano pezzi di carne di dimensioni davvero ridotte e budini di consistenza tale da poter essere apprezzati soltanto da chi lavorava nel settore del carbone; il produttore di torte di frutta, invece, mostrò sulla sua >vetrina pulitissima composizioni di farina e panna bianche, decorate con macchie rosa, che promettevano un sapore delizioso. Questi spettacoli facevano venire l’acquolina in bocca a chi li osservava.

Ma il posto più incantevole in tutto lo Scotland Yard era l’antico pub pubblico nell’angolo. Lì, in una stanza dalle pareti scure e dall’aspetto antico, illuminata dal bagliore di un enorme fuoco e decorata da un’enorme orologio il cui quadrante era bianco e le lancette nere, sedevano i robusti lavoratori del carbone: bevevano grandi bicchieri del miglior whisky di Barclay e soffiavano fuori dense nuvole di fumo che si avvolgevano sopra le loro teste, immergendo l’intera stanza in una densa oscurità. Nelle notti d’inverno, le loro voci potevano essere sentite fino alle rive del fiume mentre cantavano cori vigorosi o intonavano canzoni popolari, soffermandosi sulle ultime parole con tale forza e enfasi da far tremare il soffitto sopra di loro.

Anche qui raccontavano antiche leggende su com’era il Tamigi in tempi antichi, quando non esisteva ancora la fabbrica di fucili Patent Shot e nessuno aveva mai pensato alla costruzione del ponte Waterloo; poi scuotevano la testa con sguardi solenni, suscitando grande interesse nella giovane generazione che li ascoltava attentamente, chiedendosi dove tutto ciò avrebbe portato. A quel punto il sarto prendeva seriamente la sua pipa e diceva di sperare che tutto finisse bene, ma nutriva grandi dubbi al riguardo e non riusciva a capire esattamente cosa ne sarebbe stato. Un’espressione misteriosa, pronunciata con un tono quasi profetico, che ogni volta suscitava l’approvazione totale di tutti i presenti. E così continuavano a bere e a chiedersi cosa sarebbe successo, fino alle dieci di sera, quando la moglie del sarto veniva a prenderlo per portarlo a casa. Dopo di che il piccolo gruppo si scioglieva, per riunirsi nuovamente nella stessa stanza la sera seguente, alla stessa ora, e ripetere esattamente le stesse cose.

Intorno a questa ora, le barche che risalivano il >fiume iniziarono a diffondere voci vaghe nel quartiere di Scotland Yard: si diceva che qualcuno nella >città avesse dichiarato pubblicamente che il >Lord Mayor aveva minacciato di demolire l’antica ponte di Londra e di costruirne uno nuovo. All’inizio queste voci furono ignorate, ritenute semplici storie prive di fondamento; nessuno a Scotland Yard dubitava infatti che, se il >Lord Mayor avesse davvero concepito un simile piano malvagio, sarebbe stato immediatamente imprigionato nella Torre per una o due settimane e poi giustiziato per alto tradimento.

By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and more frequent, and at last a barge, laden with numerous chaldrons of the best Wallsend, brought up the positive intelligence that several of the arches of the old bridge were stopped, and that preparations were actually in progress for constructing the new one. What an excitement was visible in the old tap-room on that memorable night! Each man looked into his neighbour’s face, pale with alarm and astonishment, and read therein an echo of the sentiments which filled his own breast. The oldest heaver present proved to demonstration, that the moment the piers were removed, all the water in the Thames would run clean off, and leave a dry gully in its place. What was to become of the coal-barges—of the trade of Scotland-yard—of the very existence of its population? The tailor shook his head more sagely than usual, and grimly pointing to a knife on the table, bid them wait and see what happened. He said nothing—not he; but if the Lord Mayor didn’t fall a victim to popular indignation, why he would be rather astonished; that was all.

They did wait; barge after barge arrived, and still no tidings of the assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it was done by a Duke—the King’s brother. Years passed away, and the bridge was opened by the King himself. In course of time, the piers were removed; and when the people in Scotland-yard got up next morning in the confident expectation of being able to step over to Pedlar’s Acre without wetting the soles of their shoes, they found to their unspeakable astonishment that the water was just where it used to be.

A result so different from that which they had anticipated from this first improvement, produced its full effect upon the inhabitants of Scotland-yard. One of the eating-house keepers began to court public opinion, and to look for customers among a new class of people. He covered his little dining-tables with white cloths, and got a painter’s apprentice to inscribe something about hot joints from twelve to two, in one of the little panes of his shop-window. Improvement began to march with rapid strides to the very threshold of Scotland-yard. A new market sprung up at Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners established their office in Whitehall-place. The traffic in Scotland-yard increased; fresh Members were added to the House of Commons, the Metropolitan Representatives found it a near cut, and many other foot passengers followed their example.

We marked the advance of civilisation, and beheld it with a sigh. The eating-house keeper who manfully resisted the innovation of table-cloths, was losing ground every day, as his opponent gained it, and a deadly feud sprung up between them. The genteel one no longer took his evening’s pint in Scotland-yard, but drank gin and water at a ‘parlour’ in Parliament-street. The fruit-pie maker still continued to visit the old room, but he took to smoking cigars, and began to call himself a pastrycook, and to read the papers. The old heavers still assembled round the ancient fireplace, but their talk was mournful: and the loud song and the joyous shout were heard no more.

And what is Scotland-yard now? How have its old customs changed; and how has the ancient simplicity of its inhabitants faded away! The old tottering public-house is converted into a spacious and lofty ‘wine-vaults;’ gold leaf has been used in the construction of the letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet’s art has been called into requisition, to intimate that if you drink a certain description of ale, you must hold fast by the rail. The tailor exhibits in his window the pattern of a foreign-looking brown surtout, with silk buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He wears a stripe down the outside of each leg of his trousers: and we have detected his assistants (for he has assistants now) in the act of sitting on the shop-board in the same uniform.

At the other end of the little row of houses a boot-maker has established himself in a brick box, with the additional innovation of a first floor; and here he exposes for sale, boots—real Wellington boots—an article which a few years ago, none of the original inhabitants had ever seen or heard of. It was but the other day, that a dress-maker opened another little box in the middle of the row; and, when we thought that the spirit of change could produce no alteration beyond that, a jeweller appeared, and not content with exposing gilt rings and copper bracelets out of number, put up an announcement, which still sticks in his window, that ‘ladies’ ears may be pierced within.’ The dress-maker employs a young lady who wears pockets in her apron; and the tailor informs the public that gentlemen may have their own materials made up.

Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innovation, there remains but one old man, who seems to mourn the downfall of this ancient place. He holds no converse with human kind, but, seated on a wooden bench at the angle of the wall which fronts the crossing from Whitehall-place, watches in silence the gambols of his sleek and well-fed dogs. He is the presiding genius of Scotland-yard. Years and years have rolled over his head; but, in fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or dry, hail, rain, or snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. Misery and want are depicted in his countenance; his form is bent by age, his head is grey with length of trial, but there he sits from day to day, brooding over the past; and thither he will continue to drag his feeble limbs, until his eyes have closed upon Scotland-yard, and upon the world together.

A few years hence, and the antiquary of another generation looking into some mouldy record of the strife and passions that agitated the world in these times, may glance his eye over the pages we have just filled: and not all his knowledge of the history of the past, not all his black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not all the dry studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have cost him a fortune, may help him to the whereabouts, either of Scotland-yard, or of any one of the landmarks we have mentioned in describing it.

Tuttavia, gradualmente, le notizie divennero sempre più concrete e frequenti. Alla fine, una barca carica di numerosi secchi del miglior vino di Wallsend portò la conferma ufficiale: alcuni degli archi del vecchio ponte erano stati bloccati e si stavano effettivamente facendo i preparativi per costruirne uno nuovo. Quella memorabile notte, nella vecchia taverna, l’agitazione era palpabile! Ogni uomo fissava il volto del vicino, pallido per lo spavento e la sorpresa, leggendo nei suoi occhi gli stessi sentimenti che provava lui stesso. Il più anziano dei presenti dimostrò con argomentazioni concrete che, non appena le fondamenta del ponte fossero state rimosse, tutta l’acqua del Tamigi si sarebbe riversata via, lasciando al suo posto un canale asciutto. Cosa ne sarebbe stato delle barche che trasportavano carbone, del commercio di Scotland Yard e persino dell’esistenza stessa della sua popolazione? Il sarto scosse la testa con maggiore saggezza del solito e, indicando minacciosamente un coltello sul tavolo, li esortò ad aspettare e vedere cosa sarebbe successo. Non disse nulla di più. Ma se il Lord Mayor non fosse diventato vittima dell’indignazione popolare, allora sì che si sarebbe davvero sorpreso. Ecco tutto.

Aspettarono davvero; una dopo l’altra arrivarono le barche, ma ancora nessuna notizia sull’assassinio del >Lord Mayor. La prima pietra fu posata: l’attacco fu compiuto da un Duca, fratello del >Re. Passarono gli anni, e il ponte fu inaugurato dallo stesso >Re. Col tempo, le pilastre furono rimosse; e quando la gente di Scotland Yard si alzò la mattina seguente, convinta di poter attraversare facilmente verso Pedlar’s Acre senza bagnarsi le scarpe, rimase sbalordita nello scoprire che l’>acqua era esattamente dove era sempre stata.

Un risultato così diverso da quello che avevano previsto da questo primo miglioramento produsse il suo pieno effetto sugli abitanti di Scotland Yard. Uno dei gestori delle mense iniziò a cercare di guadagnarsi l’opinione pubblica e a cercare clienti tra una nuova classe di persone. Coprì i suoi piccoli tavoli da pranzo con tovaglie bianche e fece dipingere a un apprendista pittore delle scritte che annunciavano la disponibilità di piatti caldi dalle dodici alle due, su uno dei piccoli vetri della vetrina del suo negozio. I miglioramenti iniziarono ad avanzare rapidamente, arrivando quasi fino ai confini di Scotland Yard. Nacque un nuovo mercato a Hungerford e i Commissari di Polizia stabilirono il loro ufficio in Whitehall Place. Il traffico in Scotland Yard aumentò; furono eletti nuovi membri della Casa dei Comuni, e molti altri pedoni seguirono il loro esempio.

Abbiamo seguito l’avanzamento della civiltà, e l’abbiamo osservato con un sospiro. Il gestore di quella “casa da mangiare” che aveva ostinatamente resistito all’introduzione dei tovaglioli, vedeva ogni giorno il proprio terreno cedere, mentre il suo avversario ne guadagnava; tra loro nacque così un conflitto mortale. Quelli di buona società non bevevano più la loro pinta serale in Scotland Yard, ma preferivano gin e acqua in una “salotto” situata in Parliament Street. Il produttore di torte di mele continuava a frequentare quella vecchia stanza, ma aveva preso l’abitudine di fumare sigari, si autodefiniva ora “pasticcere” e iniziò anche a leggere i giornali. Gli uomini robusti si riunivano ancora intorno al vecchio camino, ma le loro conversazioni erano ormai piene di tristezza; più non si udivano canzoni allegre né grida gioiose.

E che cos’è ora Scotland Yard? In che modo sono cambiate le sue antiche usanze; e come è svanita l’antica semplicità dei suoi abitanti! Quell’antico ed fatiscente edificio pubblico è stato trasformato in spaziosi e maestosi “magazzini per vini”; nella costruzione delle lettere che adornano la sua facciata è stata utilizzata la lamina d’oro, e l’arte del poeta è stata chiamata in aiuto per comunicare, in modo elegante, che se si beve un certo tipo di birra, bisogna tenersi saldamente alla ringhiera. Il sarto es mostra nella sua vetrina il modello di un cappotto marrone dall’aspetto straniero, con bottoni di seta, colletto e polsini in pelliccia; lui stesso indossa una striscia lungo l’esterno di ogni gamba dei suoi pantaloni. E abbiamo notato che i suoi assistenti (ora ne ha davvero) indossano la stessa uniforme mentre siedono sul banco del negozio.

Alla fine di quella piccola fila di case, un calzolaio si è stabilito in una struttura in mattoni; per rendere il locale più accogliente, ha anche aggiunto un piano superiore. Lì vende stivali – veri e propri stivali Wellington – un articolo di cui pochi anni fa nessuno degli abitanti originali aveva mai sentito parlare. Solo di recente, una sarta ha aperto un altro piccolo negozio nella stessa fila; e quando pensavamo che lo spirito del cambiamento non potesse produrre ulteriori innovazioni, è apparso anche un gioielliere, il quale, oltre a esporre un’infinità di anelli dorati e braccialetti di rame, ha anche affisso un cartello che ancora oggi si trova nella sua vetrina: “Le orecchie delle signore possono essere forate”. La sarta assume una giovane donna che indossa tasche sul grembiule; il sarto, invece, informa il pubblico che i gentiluomini possono farsi confezionare personalmente i propri materiali da cucito.

In mezzo a tutto questo cambiamento, inquietudine e innovazione, rimane ancora un vecchio uomo che sembra piangere la caduta di questo antico luogo. Non intrattiene alcun rapporto con gli esseri umani; seduto su una panchina di legno all’angolo del muro che si affaccia sulla strada di Whitehall-place, osserva in silenzio i giochi dei suoi cani lucidi e ben nutriti. È il genio che presiede a Scotland Yard. Anni e anni sono trascorsi; ma, sia nel bel tempo che nel cattivo, caldo o freddo, umido o secco, con grandine, pioggia o neve, è ancora al suo solito posto. Sulla sua faccia si leggono miseria e povertà; il suo corpo è curvo per l’età, i suoi capelli sono grigi a causa delle sofferenze subite. Ma lì rimane, giorno dopo giorno, immerso nei ricordi del passato; e lì continuerà ad trascinare le sue deboli gambe, fino a quando i suoi occhi non si chiuderanno per sempre su Scotland Yard, e sul mondo intero.

Tra qualche anno, un antiquario di un’altra generazione, esaminando qualche vecchio documento pieno di polvere che racconta delle lotte e delle passioni che agitarono il mondo in quei tempi, potrebbe dare un’occhiata alle pagine che abbiamo appena scritto. Ma tutta la sua conoscenza della storia del passato, tutte le sue nozioni erudite, la sua abilità nella raccolta di libri, tutti gli studi approfonditi di una lunga vita, e anche i volumi polverosi che gli sono costati una fortuna, potrebbero comunque non essere sufficienti a aiutarlo a scoprire dove si trovino ora Scotland Yard, o qualsiasi altro luogo di cui abbiamo parlato nella nostra descrizione.

CHAPTER V—SEVEN DIALS

We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman had not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have immortalised itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry—first effusions, and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of Catnach and of Pitts—names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown!

Look at the construction of the place. The Gordian knot was all very well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the maze at the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white neckcloths, when the difficulty of getting one on, was only to be equalled by the apparent impossibility of ever getting it off again. But what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials? Where is there such another maze of streets, courts, lanes, and alleys? Where such a pure mixture of Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have adverted. We can suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random—at a house with lodgers too—for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman in Seven Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King’s education had been neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn’t understand half the man said, he took it for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in ‘The Dials’ for the first time, and stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain and confined; and lounging at every corner, as if they came there to take a few gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is too much exhausted already, to be enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are groups of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but a regular Londoner’s with astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who having imbibed the contents of various ‘three-outs’ of gin and bitters in the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or other.

‘Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah?’ exclaims one half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. ‘Vy don’t you? if my ’usband had treated her with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I’d tear her precious eyes out—a wixen!’

‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ inquires another old woman, who has just bustled up to the spot.

‘Matter!’ replies the first speaker, talking at the obnoxious combatant, ‘matter! Here’s poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed children of her own, can’t go out a charing for one arternoon, but what hussies must be a comin’, and ’ticing avay her oun’ ’usband, as she’s been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, for I see the certificate ven I vas a drinkin’ a cup o’ tea vith her, only the werry last blessed Ven’sday as ever was sent. I ’appen’d to say promiscuously, “Mrs. Sulliwin,” says I—’

‘What do you mean by hussies?’ interrupts a champion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a branch fight on her own account (‘Hooroar,’ ejaculates a pot-boy in parenthesis, ‘put the kye-bosk on her, Mary!’), ‘What do you mean by hussies?’ reiterates the champion.

‘Niver mind,’ replies the opposition expressively, ‘niver mind; you go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, mend your stockings.’

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady’s habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the bystanders to ‘pitch in,’ with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with ‘arrival of the policemen, interior of the station-house, and impressive dénouement.’

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin-shops and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a regular bricklayer’s labourer take any other recreation, fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles’s in the evening of a week-day, there they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash, leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again, drab or light corduroy trousers, Blucher boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts. The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all day!

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through ‘the Dials’ finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling houses, with now and then an unexpected court composed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half-naked children that wallow in the kennels. Here and there, a little dark chandler’s shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door to announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age: others, as if for support, against some handsome lofty building, which usurps the place of a low dingy public-house; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants that may have flourished when ‘the Dials’ were built, in vessels as dirty as ‘the Dials’ themselves; and shops for the purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in cleanliness with the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come back again. Brokers’ shops, which would seem to have been established by humane individuals, as refuges for destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day-schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the ‘still life’ of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments.

CAPITOLO V – SETTE NUMERI DI TELEFONO

Abbiamo sempre ritenuto che, se Tom Re e il francese non avessero reso immortale Seven Dials, stesso Seven Diales si sarebbe reso immortale da solo. Seven Dials, quella zona di >canti e poesia: le prime espressioni d’affetto, gli ultimi discorsi appassionati; un luogo sacro per i nomi di Catnach e Pitts, nomi che si intrecceranno con quelli dei venditori ambulanti e degli organi a canne, quando le riviste a basso costo sostituiranno i locali dedicati alla musica, e la pena di morte diventerà qualcosa di sconosciuto!

Guardate la struttura di questo luogo: il nodo gordiano era davvero ben congegnato, così come il labirinto di Hampton Court e quello della Beulah Spa; allo stesso modo, i rigidi colletti bianchi presentavano difficoltà nell’indossarli, ma anche nell’toglierli sembrava impossibile. Ma quali complicazioni possono paragonarsi a quelle di Seven Dials? Dove esiste un altro labirinto di strade, cortili, vicoli e passaggi? Dove si trova una miscela così pura di inglesi e irlandesi, come in questa parte complessa di Londra? Osiamo dire che dubitiamo della veridicità della leggenda di cui abbiamo parlato. Possiamo immaginare un uomo abbastanza sconsiderato da chiedere casualmente, in una casa con inquilini, se ci sia un certo signor Thompson; è quasi certo che in qualsiasi casa di dimensioni moderate troverebbe almeno due o tre persone di nome Thompson. Ma un francese. Un francese a Seven Dials? Bah! Era irlandese. L’educazione di Tom King era stata trascurata da bambino, e poiché non riusciva a capire nemmeno la metà di ciò che gli veniva detto, pensava che si stesse parlando francese.

Lo sconosciuto che si trovi per la prima volta in “The Dials” e si fermi, come Belzoni, all’ingresso di sette oscure passaggi, incerto su quale scegliere, vedrà abbastanza intorno a sé da mantenere viva la propria curiosità e attenzione per un periodo non trascurabile. Dall’irregolare spazio in cui si è trovato, strade e cortili si diramano in tutte le direzioni, fino a scomparire nella nebbia malsana che avvolge le cime delle case, rendendo la vista confusa e limitata; ad ogni angolo, come se fossero lì per respirare un po’ d’aria fresca che è riuscita a raggiungere quel luogo, ma ormai troppo esausta per diffondersi nelle strette stradine circostanti, ci sono gruppi di persone il cui aspetto e i loro alloggi susciterebbero meraviglia in chiunque non fosse un abitante regolare di Londra.

Da un lato, un piccolo gruppo di persone si è radunato intorno a due signore che, durante la mattinata, avevano bevuto diversi bicchieri di gin e bitters; alla fine hanno iniziato a discutere su alcune questioni domestiche e ora sono sul punto di risolvere la loro disputa con le mani, a grande interesse delle altre signore che vivono nella stessa casa e negli appartamenti adiacenti, le quali sostengono tutte una parte o l’altra della controversia.

“Perché non le parli tu, Sarah?”, esclama una matrona semivestita, nel tentativo di incoraggiarla. “Perché non lo fai? Se mio marito l’avesse trattata in quel modo ieri sera, senza che io lo sapessi, le strapperei gli occhi. Una strega!”

“Che cosa c’è, signora?”, chiede un’altra anziana donna che è appena arrivata sul posto.

“È importante!” risponde il primo interlocutore, parlando direttamente a quel fastidioso combattente, “è molto importante! Ecco povera cara la signora Sulliwin: ha cinque adorabili figli propri, eppure non può nemmeno uscire una volta al pomeriggio per fare del bene. Che mascalzoni devono essere quelli che vengono a cercarla, tentando di allontanare suo marito. Sono sposati da dodici anni, il prossimo lunedì di Pasqua. L’ho visto sul certificato quando sono andato a bere una tazza di tè con lei, l’ultimo mercoledì santo che sia mai esistito. Ho detto per caso: ‘Signora Sulliwin, ’”

“Cosa intendi per ‘donne licenziose’?”, interrompe una sostenitrice dell’altra fazione, che fin dall’inizio ha mostrato un forte desiderio di scatenare una disputa personale (“Urrà!”, esclama inaspettatamente un ragazzo, “mettetele il guanto, Mary!”). “Cosa intendi per ‘donne licenziose’?”, ripete la sostenitrice.

“Non importa,” risponde l’opposizione con espressione significativa, “non importa; vai a casa e, quando sarai completamente sobrio, ripara le tue calze.”

Questo accenno piuttosto personale, non solo ai vizi di intemperanza della signora, ma anche allo stato del suo guardaroba, suscita in lei la massima ira; pertanto, acconsente con notevole sollecitudine alla richiesta urgente degli spettatori di intervenire. La rissa diventa generale e si conclude, per usare le parole tipiche dei comunicati stampa, con “l’arrivo della polizia, l’interno della stazione di polizia e un lieto fine impressionante”.

Oltre ai numerosi gruppi che passano il tempo nei bar e litigano nel centro della strada, ogni palo presente nello spazio aperto ha il suo occupante, che vi si appoggia per ore, con una perseveranza apatica. È davvero strano che una certa categoria di uomini a )Londra non abbia alcun altro modo per divertirsi se non quello di appoggiarsi ai pali. Non abbiamo mai visto un muratore prendersi qualche altra distrazione, se non quella di litigare. Passate per St. Giles nel tardo pomeriggio di un giorno feriale: li troverete lì, nei loro abiti di tela grezza, macchiati di polvere di mattoni e calce, appoggiati ai pali. Camminate per Seven Dials la mattina di una domenica: ci sono ancora loro, con pantaloni di velluto scuro o chiaro, stivali Blucher, cappotti blu e grandi gilet gialli, tutti appoggiati ai pali. L’idea che un uomo si vesta con i suoi abiti migliori solo per appoggiarsi a un palo tutto il giorno, è davvero incomprensibile!

Il carattere peculiare di queste strade, e la stretta somiglianza che ciascuna presenta con quella vicina, non contribuiscono affatto a ridurre lo sconcerto in cui si trova il viaggiatore inesperto che attraversa questi luoghi. Percorre vie fiancheggiate da case sporche e disordinate, dove di tanto in tanto si incontra un cortile improvviso, composto da edifici altrettanto squilibrati e deformi quanto i bambini seminudi che giacciono nei canili. Qui e là, una piccola bottega di candele, con una campanella rotta appesa dietro la porta per annunciare l’arrivo di un cliente. O altre botteghe, come se cercassero sostegno, addossate a qualche edificio imponente che occupa il posto di vecchi e fatiscenti edifici pubblici; lunghe file di finestre rotte e riparate mostrano piante che forse un tempo fiorirono quando queste strade furono costruite, in vasi altrettanto sporchi delle stesse strade. E poi negozi che vendono stracci, ossa, vecchio ferro e oggetti da cucina. La loro pulizia compete con quella dei negozi di uccelli e di conigli. Si potrebbe quasi immaginare che in questi luoghi esistano “arche” dove gli animali possano vivere. Se non fosse per la convinzione irrefutabile che nessun animale, se lasciato libero, tornerebbe mai indietro. Negozi di agenti immobiliari, che sembrano essere stati creati da persone compassionevoli come rifugi per insetti bisognosi. In mezzo a questi luoghi, annunci di scuole elementari, teatri a un penny, negozi che preparano petizioni, macchine per strappare documenti. E musica per balli o feste. Completano questa “still life”. Uomini sporchi, donne luride, bambini malnutriti, palline da tennis che volano dappertutto, giocatori rumorosi, pipe puzzolenti, frutta marcia, ostriche di dubbia qualità, gatti magri. E cani depressi. E polli “anatomici”. Costituiscono il loro allegro accompagnamento.

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one’s first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is, by the same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to ‘increase and multiply’ most marvellously, generally the head of a numerous family.

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked ‘jemmy’ line, or the fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts: and he and his family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then there is an Irish labourer and his family in the back kitchen, and a jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with his family in the front one. In the front one-pair, there’s another man with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there’s ‘a young ’oman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,’ who talks a good deal about ‘my friend,’ and can’t ‘a-bear anything low.’ The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a fireplace, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, ‘to prevent mistakes,’ customers will ‘please to pay on delivery.’ The shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha’porths of ink, his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems for Mr. Warren.

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer’s evening, and saw the different women of the house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the two-pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front’s) head, when he and his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen’s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. A. ‘smacks’ Mrs. B.’s child for ‘making faces.’ Mrs. B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs. A.’s child for ‘calling names.’ The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-officer the result.

CHAPTER VI—MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

We have always entertained a particular attachment towards Monmouth-street, as the only true and real emporium for second-hand wearing apparel. Monmouth-street is venerable from its antiquity, and respectable from its usefulness. Holywell-street we despise; the red-headed and red-whiskered Jews who forcibly haul you into their squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit of clothes, whether you will or not, we detest.

The inhabitants of Monmouth-street are a distinct class; a peaceable and retiring race, who immure themselves for the most part in deep cellars, or small back parlours, and who seldom come forth into the world, except in the dusk and coolness of the evening, when they may be seen seated, in chairs on the pavement, smoking their pipes, or watching the gambols of their engaging children as they revel in the gutter, a happy troop of infantine scavengers. Their countenances bear a thoughtful and a dirty cast, certain indications of their love of traffic; and their habitations are distinguished by that disregard of outward appearance and neglect of personal comfort, so common among people who are constantly immersed in profound speculations, and deeply engaged in sedentary pursuits.

We have hinted at the antiquity of our favourite spot. ‘A Monmouth-street laced coat’ was a by-word a century ago; and still we find Monmouth-street the same. Pilot great-coats with wooden buttons, have usurped the place of the ponderous laced coats with full skirts; embroidered waistcoats with large flaps, have yielded to double-breasted checks with roll-collars; and three-cornered hats of quaint appearance, have given place to the low crowns and broad brims of the coachman school; but it is the times that have changed, not Monmouth-street. Through every alteration and every change, Monmouth-street has still remained the burial-place of the fashions; and such, to judge from all present appearances, it will remain until there are no more fashions to bury.

We love to walk among these extensive groves of the illustrious dead, and to indulge in the speculations to which they give rise; now fitting a deceased coat, then a dead pair of trousers, and anon the mortal remains of a gaudy waistcoat, upon some being of our own conjuring up, and endeavouring, from the shape and fashion of the garment itself, to bring its former owner before our mind’s eye. We have gone on speculating in this way, until whole rows of coats have started from their pegs, and buttoned up, of their own accord, round the waists of imaginary wearers; lines of trousers have jumped down to meet them; waistcoats have almost burst with anxiety to put themselves on; and half an acre of shoes have suddenly found feet to fit them, and gone stumping down the street with a noise which has fairly awakened us from our pleasant reverie, and driven us slowly away, with a bewildered stare, an object of astonishment to the good people of Monmouth-street, and of no slight suspicion to the policemen at the opposite street corner.

Se l’aspetto esteriore delle case o un semplice sguardo ai loro abitanti non presentano grandi attrattive, una conoscenza più approfondita di entrambi difficilmente altererà la prima impressione ricevuta. Ogni stanza ha il suo inquilino, e ogni inquilino è, per qualche misteriosa legge del destino che fa sì che un curato di campagna “si moltiplichi” in modo straordinario, solitamente il capofamiglia di una numerosa famiglia.

L’uomo nel negozio, forse, lavora nella linea di produzione dei “jemmy” cotti al forno, oppure in quella relativa alla legna da ardere e ai mattoni per camini, o in qualsiasi altra attività che richieda un capitale circolante di circa diciotto penny. Lui e la sua famiglia vivono nel negozio stesso, insieme alla piccola stanza sul retro. Nella cucina posteriore vive un lavoratore irlandese con la sua famiglia; nella parte anteriore, invece, un artigiano che si occupa di lavori come battitura dei tappeti con la sua famiglia. Nella coppia di stanze anteriori c’è un altro uomo con moglie e figli; in quelle posteriori vive una giovane donna che accetta commesse di lavori a maglia e si veste in modo piuttosto elegante; parla spesso di “un mio amico” e non tollera assolutamente nulla di volgare. Al secondo piano, gli altri inquilini sono più o meno la stessa gente descritta sopra, tranne per un uomo dall’aspetto un po’ trasandato che vive nell’attico posteriore: ogni mattina beve mezzo pinta di caffè dal negozio accanto, il quale vanta anche una piccola sala da pranzo chiamata “caffetteria”, con un caminetto sopra cui è appesa un’iscrizione che invita gentilmente i clienti a pagare al momento della consegna, per evitare errori. Quest’uomo misterioso conduce una vita ritirata e non si è mai visto comprare nulla di più che qualche penna, mezzo pinta di caffè, panini da un penny e poche cartucce d’inchiostro; per questo i suoi coinquilini suppongono naturalmente che sia uno scrittore. E nei dintorni circolano voci secondo cui scriva poesie per il signor Warren.

Ora, chiunque passasse davanti ai Dials in una calda serata estiva e vedesse le diverse donne della casa chiacchierare sulle scale, sarebbe portato a pensare che tra loro regnasse l’armonia, e che non si potesse immaginare gente più primitiva dei residenti di quei luoghi. Ahimè. L’uomo nel negozio maltratta la sua famiglia; colui che batte i tappeti estende le sue attività professionali anche alla moglie; il tipo con i capelli divisi in una sola parte ha un conflitto perpetuo con chi li ha divisi in due parti, perché quest’ultimo insiste nel ballare sopra la sua testa quando lui e la sua famiglia si ritirano per la notte; il tipo con i capelli divisi in due parti interferisce anche con i bambini della cucina. L’irlandese torna a casa ubriaco ogni seconda sera e attacca tutti; il tipo con i capelli divisi in una sola parte urla contro qualsiasi cosa gli capiti davanti. Nascono inimicizie tra un piano e l’altro. Anche il seminterrato pretende di essere considerato allo stesso livello degli altri piani. La signora A “schiaffeggia” il figlio della signora B perché fa delle smorfie; la signora B, a sua volta, getta acqua fredda sul figlio della signora A perché lo insulta. I mariti si coinvolgono nella lite. La discussione diventa generale. Ne consegue un’aggressione. E poi arriva la polizia.

CAPITOLO VI – MEDITAZIONI IN MONMOUTH STREET

Abbiamo sempre provato un particolare affetto per Monmouth Street, poiché rappresenta l’unico vero e autentico mercato di abbigliamento di seconda mano. Monmouth Street è venerabile per la sua antichità e rispettabile per la sua utilità. Holywell Street, invece, la disprezziamo; quei ebrei dai capelli rossi e dalle barbe rosse che vi trascinano con la forza nelle loro case squallide e vi costringono a indossare abiti, che lo vogliate o no, li odiamo profondamente.

Gli abitanti di Monmouth-street costituiscono una classe a sé stante: un popolo pacifico e ritirato che, per lo più, si rinchiude in profondi sotterranei o piccoli locali posteriori delle case, e raramente esce nel mondo esterno, se non al crepuscolo, quando si può vederli seduti sul marciapiede, fumare le loro pipe o osservare i giochi dei loro bambini, che si divertono tra i rifiuti. I loro volti hanno un aspetto pensieroso e sporco, segno evidente del loro amore per il commercio; inoltre, le loro abitazioni sono caratterizzate da quel disinteresse per l’aspetto esteriore e da quella trascuratezza nei confronti del comfort personale, tipici di persone immerse costantemente in profonde riflessioni o impegnate in attività sedentarie.

Abbiamo accennato all’antichità del nostro luogo preferito. Un secolo fa, l’espressione “un cappotto con nastri di Monmouth Street” era un modo comune per descriverlo; eppure oggi Monmouth Street è ancora la stessa. I grandi cappotti con bottoni di legno hanno sostituito quelli pesanti con gonne voluminose; i gilet ricamati con ampie falde hanno lasciato il posto ai gilet a doppio petto con colletti a rotolo; e i cappelli a tre angoli, dal design originale, sono stati sostituiti dai cappelli bassi con bordi larghi tipici dei cocchieri. Ma sono i tempi che sono cambiati, non Monmouth Street. Nonostante tutte queste trasformazioni, Monmouth Street è sempre rimasta il luogo dove vengono sepolte le mode. E, a giudicare da tutto ciò che vediamo oggi, continuerà a esserlo fino a quando non ci saranno più mode da seppellire.

Amiamo camminare tra questi vasti boschi di illustri defunti e indulgere nelle speculazioni che essi suscitano: ora indossiamo un cappotto morto, poi un paio di pantaloni defunti, e poco dopo i resti mortali di una giacca vistosa. Su alcuni di questi “fantasmi” immaginari, cercando di ricostruire l’aspetto del loro precedente proprietario attraverso la forma e il taglio degli abiti stessi. Abbiamo continuato a fare queste speculazioni, fino a quando intere file di cappotti hanno iniziato da sole ad allacciarsi intorno ai fianchi di immaginari indossatori; file di pantaloni si sono unite a loro. Le giacche sembravano quasi esplodere dall’impazienza di essere indossate. E mezzo acro di scarpe ha improvvisamente trovato piedi adatte a sé, iniziando a camminare per strada con un rumore così forte da svegliarci dalla nostra piacevole fantasticheria. E ci ha costretto ad allontanarci lentamente, con uno sguardo confuso. Un vero spettacolo di meraviglia per la gente di Monmouth-street. E, senza dubbio, motivo di sospetto per i poliziotti all’angolo della strada opposta.

We were occupied in this manner the other day, endeavouring to fit a pair of lace-up half-boots on an ideal personage, for whom, to say the truth, they were full a couple of sizes too small, when our eyes happened to alight on a few suits of clothes ranged outside a shop-window, which it immediately struck us, must at different periods have all belonged to, and been worn by, the same individual, and had now, by one of those strange conjunctions of circumstances which will occur sometimes, come to be exposed together for sale in the same shop. The idea seemed a fantastic one, and we looked at the clothes again with a firm determination not to be easily led away. No, we were right; the more we looked, the more we were convinced of the accuracy of our previous impression. There was the man’s whole life written as legibly on those clothes, as if we had his autobiography engrossed on parchment before us.

The first was a patched and much-soiled skeleton suit; one of those straight blue cloth cases in which small boys used to be confined, before belts and tunics had come in, and old notions had gone out: an ingenious contrivance for displaying the full symmetry of a boy’s figure, by fastening him into a very tight jacket, with an ornamental row of buttons over each shoulder, and then buttoning his trousers over it, so as to give his legs the appearance of being hooked on, just under the armpits. This was the boy’s dress. It had belonged to a town boy, we could see; there was a shortness about the legs and arms of the suit; and a bagging at the knees, peculiar to the rising youth of London streets. A small day-school he had been at, evidently. If it had been a regular boys’ school they wouldn’t have let him play on the floor so much, and rub his knees so white. He had an indulgent mother too, and plenty of halfpence, as the numerous smears of some sticky substance about the pockets, and just below the chin, which even the salesman’s skill could not succeed in disguising, sufficiently betokened. They were decent people, but not overburdened with riches, or he would not have so far outgrown the suit when he passed into those corduroys with the round jacket; in which he went to a boys’ school, however, and learnt to write—and in ink of pretty tolerable blackness, too, if the place where he used to wipe his pen might be taken as evidence.

A black suit and the jacket changed into a diminutive coat. His father had died, and the mother had got the boy a message-lad’s place in some office. A long-worn suit that one; rusty and threadbare before it was laid aside, but clean and free from soil to the last. Poor woman! We could imagine her assumed cheerfulness over the scanty meal, and the refusal of her own small portion, that her hungry boy might have enough. Her constant anxiety for his welfare, her pride in his growth mingled sometimes with the thought, almost too acute to bear, that as he grew to be a man his old affection might cool, old kindnesses fade from his mind, and old promises be forgotten—the sharp pain that even then a careless word or a cold look would give her—all crowded on our thoughts as vividly as if the very scene were passing before us.

These things happen every hour, and we all know it; and yet we felt as much sorrow when we saw, or fancied we saw—it makes no difference which—the change that began to take place now, as if we had just conceived the bare possibility of such a thing for the first time. The next suit, smart but slovenly; meant to be gay, and yet not half so decent as the threadbare apparel; redolent of the idle lounge, and the blackguard companions, told us, we thought, that the widow’s comfort had rapidly faded away. We could imagine that coat—imagine! we could see it; we had seen it a hundred times—sauntering in company with three or four other coats of the same cut, about some place of profligate resort at night.

We dressed, from the same shop-window in an instant, half a dozen boys of from fifteen to twenty; and putting cigars into their mouths, and their hands into their pockets, watched them as they sauntered down the street, and lingered at the corner, with the obscene jest, and the oft-repeated oath. We never lost sight of them, till they had cocked their hats a little more on one side, and swaggered into the public-house; and then we entered the desolate home, where the mother sat late in the night, alone; we watched her, as she paced the room in feverish anxiety, and every now and then opened the door, looked wistfully into the dark and empty street, and again returned, to be again and again disappointed. We beheld the look of patience with which she bore the brutish threat, nay, even the drunken blow; and we heard the agony of tears that gushed from her very heart, as she sank upon her knees in her solitary and wretched apartment.

A long period had elapsed, and a greater change had taken place, by the time of casting off the suit that hung above. It was that of a stout, broad-shouldered, sturdy-chested man; and we knew at once, as anybody would, who glanced at that broad-skirted green coat, with the large metal buttons, that its wearer seldom walked forth without a dog at his heels, and some idle ruffian, the very counterpart of himself, at his side. The vices of the boy had grown with the man, and we fancied his home then—if such a place deserve the name.

We saw the bare and miserable room, destitute of furniture, crowded with his wife and children, pale, hungry, and emaciated; the man cursing their lamentations, staggering to the tap-room, from whence he had just returned, followed by his wife and a sickly infant, clamouring for bread; and heard the street-wrangle and noisy recrimination that his striking her occasioned. And then imagination led us to some metropolitan workhouse, situated in the midst of crowded streets and alleys, filled with noxious vapours, and ringing with boisterous cries, where an old and feeble woman, imploring pardon for her son, lay dying in a close dark room, with no child to clasp her hand, and no pure air from heaven to fan her brow. A stranger closed the eyes that settled into a cold unmeaning glare, and strange ears received the words that murmured from the white and half-closed lips.

Un giorno ci trovavamo impegnati in questo compito: cercavamo di far aderire un paio di stivali con lacci a una figura ideale, che, a dire il vero, erano di un paio di taglie troppo piccoli per lei. Proprio in quel momento i nostri occhi si posarono su alcuni abiti esposti fuori da una vetrina: ci sembrò subito evidente che dovevano essere appartenuti, e indossati, dalla stessa persona in momenti diversi. E ora, per qualche strana coincidenza del destino, erano stati messi in vendita nello stesso negozio. L’idea ci parve assurda; guardammo di nuovo quegli abiti con la ferma determinazione di non lasciarci ingannare facilmente. No: avevamo ragione. Più li osservavamo, più ne eravamo convinti. Su quegli abiti era “scritta” l’intera vita di quell’uomo, come se avessimo davanti a noi la sua autobiografia trascritta su pergamena.

Il primo era un abito da scheletro, rattoppato e molto sporco; uno di quei costumi fatti di stoffa blu rigida in cui i bambini venivano rinchiusi un tempo, prima che venissero introdotti cinture e tuniche, e che quelle vecchie abitudini andassero perdute. Un’invenzione ingegnosa per mostrare appieno la simmetria del corpo di un ragazzo: lo si legava in una giacca molto stretta, con una fila decorativa di bottoni su ogni spalla, e poi si abbottonavano i pantaloni sopra di essa, in modo che le gambe sembrassero essere “attaccate” proprio sotto le ascelle. Questo era l’abito tipico di un ragazzo. Si poteva capire che appartenesse a un bambino di città: le gambe e le braccia dell’abito erano troppo corte, e i pantaloni si gonfiavano alle ginocchia, caratteristica tipica dei giovani delle strade di Londra. Ovviamente frequentava una scuola elementare. Se fosse stata una scuola normale per ragazzi, non gli avrebbero permesso di giocare così tanto sul pavimento e di rovinarsi le ginocchia. Aveva anche una madre troppo indulgente, e parecchi penny in tasca. Ciò era evidente dai numerosi segni lasciati da sostanze appiccicose sui suoi pantaloni e sotto il mento. Erano persone perbene, ma non particolarmente ricche. Altrimenti quell’abito non sarebbe stato ormai troppo piccolo per lui quando aveva iniziato a indossare quei pantaloni di velluto a coste con la giacca rotonda. Comunque, frequentava davvero una scuola per ragazzi, e lì aveva imparato a scrivere. Anche se la qualità dell’inchiostro usato era piuttosto scarsa. A meno che non si potesse considerare come prova il posto dove si puliva la penna.

Un abito nero e la giacca si erano trasformati in un cappotto minuscolo. Suo padre era morto, e sua madre aveva trovato per il ragazzo un lavoro come messaggero in un ufficio. Quell’abito, così logoro, arrugginito e stracciato prima di essere messo da parte, ma pulito e privo di polvere fino all’ultima piega. Povera donna. Possiamo immaginare la sua forzata allegria durante i pasti scarsi, il suo rifiuto di prendersi una porzione per sé pur di far mangiare abbastanza al proprio figlio affamato. La sua costante preoccupazione per il suo benessere, il suo orgoglio per la sua crescita, a volte si mescolavano con il pensiero, quasi insopportabile da sopportare, che, man mano che lui diventava un uomo, l’affetto di una volta potesse spegnersi, le vecchie gentilezze dimenticate e le promesse fatte in passato scordate. Il dolore acuto che anche solo una parola indifferente o uno sguardo freddo potevano causarle. Tutto questo affollava i nostri pensieri con tale vividezza, come se quella scena si stesse realmente svolgendo davanti ai nostri occhi.

Queste cose accadono ogni ora, e lo sappiamo tutti; eppure provammo la stessa tristezza quando vedemmo, o pensammo di aver visto – non fa differenza quale dei due – quel cambiamento che aveva iniziato a verificarsi, come se avessimo appena concepito per la prima volta l’idea stessa che una cosa del genere potesse accadere. Quel vestito, elegante ma trasandato; destinato ad apparire gioioso, eppure nemmeno lontanamente decente rispetto agli abiti logori di prima; che emanava l’odore delle oziose serate trascorse con compagnie disoneste, ci fece pensare che il conforto di quella vedova fosse rapidamente svanito. Riuscivamo a immaginare quel vestito, sì, riuscivamo a vederlo; l’avevamo visto centinaia di volte, mentre camminava insieme ad altri tre o quattro vestiti dello stesso stile, in qualche luogo di dissolutezza, di notte.

Ci vestimmo, tutti dallo stesso negozio, in un attimo: sei ragazzi tra i quindici e i vent’anni; mettemmo i sigari in bocca e le mani in tasca, poi li osservammo mentre camminavano con noncuranza per la strada, soffermandosi all’angolo con battute volgari e imprese ripetute. Non li perdemmo mai di vista, finché non si sistemarono i cappelli da un lato e entrarono in quel locale pubblico. Poi entrammo in quella casa desolata, dove la madre sedeva fino a tardi nella notte, sola. La osservammo mentre camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, con ansia febbrile; di tanto in tanto apriva la porta, guardava con tristezza la strada buia e deserta, per poi ritirarsi delusa ancora una volta. Vedemmo l’atteggiamento di pazienza con cui sopportava quelle minacce brutali, persino quei colpi causati dall’alcol. E sentimmo il dolore delle lacrime che sgorgavano dal suo cuore, mentre si inginocchiava nella sua solitaria e misera dimora.

Era trascorso molto tempo, e si erano verificati grandi cambiamenti quando arrivò il momento di gettare via quell’abito che pendeva sopra di lui. Ora era un uomo robusto, dalle spalle larghe e dal petto possente; e chiunque, guardando quel mantello verde con i grandi bottoni metallici, avrebbe subito capito che colui che lo indossava raramente usciva senza un cane al suo seguito e, accanto a lui, qualche teppista inutile, la sua stessa immagine negativa. I vizi di quel ragazzo erano cresciuti insieme a lui; e noi pensavamo, alla sua >casa, se così si poteva chiamare un posto del genere.

Vedemmo quella stanza spoglia e misera, priva di mobili, affollata dalla sua moglie e dai suoi figli: pallidi, affamati ed emaciati; l’uomo malediceva i loro lamenti, barcollando verso la taverna da cui era appena tornato, seguito dalla moglie e da un bambino malaticcio che chiedevano disperatamente del pane; udimmo inoltre le grida e le liti che il suo comportamento scatenava per strada. Poi la immaginazione ci portò in qualche ospizio metropolitano, situato nel mezzo di strade e vicoli affollati, pieno di vapori nocivi e risuonante di grida tumultuose: lì una donna anziana e debole, che implorava perdono per suo figlio, giaceva morente in una stanza buia e angusta, senza nessun bambino a tenere la sua mano, né aria pura dal cielo a rinfrescare il suo viso. Un estraneo chiuse quegli occhi che si fissarono in uno sguardo freddo e vuoto; orecchie straniere ascoltarono le parole che mormoravano dalle sue labbra pallide e semi-chiuse.

A coarse round frock, with a worn cotton neckerchief, and other articles of clothing of the commonest description, completed the history. A prison, and the sentence—banishment or the gallows. What would the man have given then, to be once again the contented humble drudge of his boyish years; to have been restored to life, but for a week, a day, an hour, a minute, only for so long a time as would enable him to say one word of passionate regret to, and hear one sound of heartfelt forgiveness from, the cold and ghastly form that lay rotting in the pauper’s grave! The children wild in the streets, the mother a destitute widow; both deeply tainted with the deep disgrace of the husband and father’s name, and impelled by sheer necessity, down the precipice that had led him to a lingering death, possibly of many years’ duration, thousands of miles away. We had no clue to the end of the tale; but it was easy to guess its termination.

We took a step or two further on, and by way of restoring the naturally cheerful tone of our thoughts, began fitting visionary feet and legs into a cellar-board full of boots and shoes, with a speed and accuracy that would have astonished the most expert artist in leather, living. There was one pair of boots in particular—a jolly, good-tempered, hearty-looking pair of tops, that excited our warmest regard; and we had got a fine, red-faced, jovial fellow of a market-gardener into them, before we had made their acquaintance half a minute. They were just the very thing for him. There was his huge fat legs bulging over the tops, and fitting them too tight to admit of his tucking in the loops he had pulled them on by; and his knee-cords with an interval of stocking; and his blue apron tucked up round his waist; and his red neckerchief and blue coat, and a white hat stuck on one side of his head; and there he stood with a broad grin on his great red face, whistling away, as if any other idea but that of being happy and comfortable had never entered his brain.

This was the very man after our own heart; we knew all about him; we had seen him coming up to Covent-garden in his green chaise-cart, with the fat, tubby little horse, half a thousand times; and even while we cast an affectionate look upon his boots, at that instant, the form of a coquettish servant-maid suddenly sprung into a pair of Denmark satin shoes that stood beside them, and we at once recognised the very girl who accepted his offer of a ride, just on this side the Hammersmith suspension-bridge, the very last Tuesday morning we rode into town from Richmond.

A very smart female, in a showy bonnet, stepped into a pair of grey cloth boots, with black fringe and binding, that were studiously pointing out their toes on the other side of the top-boots, and seemed very anxious to engage his attention, but we didn’t observe that our friend the market-gardener appeared at all captivated with these blandishments; for beyond giving a knowing wink when they first began, as if to imply that he quite understood their end and object, he took no further notice of them. His indifference, however, was amply recompensed by the excessive gallantry of a very old gentleman with a silver-headed stick, who tottered into a pair of large list shoes, that were standing in one corner of the board, and indulged in a variety of gestures expressive of his admiration of the lady in the cloth boots, to the immeasurable amusement of a young fellow we put into a pair of long-quartered pumps, who we thought would have split the coat that slid down to meet him, with laughing.

We had been looking on at this little pantomime with great satisfaction for some time, when, to our unspeakable astonishment, we perceived that the whole of the characters, including a numerous corps de ballet of boots and shoes in the background, into which we had been hastily thrusting as many feet as we could press into the service, were arranging themselves in order for dancing; and some music striking up at the moment, to it they went without delay. It was perfectly delightful to witness the agility of the market-gardener. Out went the boots, first on one side, then on the other, then cutting, then shuffling, then setting to the Denmark satins, then advancing, then retreating, then going round, and then repeating the whole of the evolutions again, without appearing to suffer in the least from the violence of the exercise.

Nor were the Denmark satins a bit behindhand, for they jumped and bounded about, in all directions; and though they were neither so regular, nor so true to the time as the cloth boots, still, as they seemed to do it from the heart, and to enjoy it more, we candidly confess that we preferred their style of dancing to the other. But the old gentleman in the list shoes was the most amusing object in the whole party; for, besides his grotesque attempts to appear youthful, and amorous, which were sufficiently entertaining in themselves, the young fellow in the pumps managed so artfully that every time the old gentleman advanced to salute the lady in the cloth boots, he trod with his whole weight on the old fellow’s toes, which made him roar with anguish, and rendered all the others like to die of laughing.

We were in the full enjoyment of these festivities when we heard a shrill, and by no means musical voice, exclaim, ‘Hope you’ll know me agin, imperence!’ and on looking intently forward to see from whence the sound came, we found that it proceeded, not from the young lady in the cloth boots, as we had at first been inclined to suppose, but from a bulky lady of elderly appearance who was seated in a chair at the head of the cellar-steps, apparently for the purpose of superintending the sale of the articles arranged there.

A barrel-organ, which had been in full force close behind us, ceased playing; the people we had been fitting into the shoes and boots took to flight at the interruption; and as we were conscious that in the depth of our meditations we might have been rudely staring at the old lady for half an hour without knowing it, we took to flight too, and were soon immersed in the deepest obscurity of the adjacent ‘Dials.’

Un semplice abito rotondo, un fazzoletto di cotone logoro e altri indumenti del genere più comune completavano questa storia. Una prigione, e la pena: l’esilio o la forca. Quanto avrebbe dato quell’uomo, in quel momento, per tornare ancora una volta a essere quella persona umile e soddisfatta di un tempo; per rivivere, anche solo per una settimana, un giorno, un’ora, un minuto. Solo il tempo necessario per dire una parola di sincero rimorso e ascoltare un suono di vero perdono da quella figura fredda e orribile che giaceva in decomposizione nella tomba del povero! I bambini che vagavano per le strade, la madre una vedova senza mezzi di sussistenza. Entrambi macchiati dal disonore causato dal nome del marito e padre, spinti dalla pura necessità verso quel baratro che lo aveva condotto a una morte lenta e probabilmente duratura per molti anni, migliaia di chilometri lontano da casa. Non conoscevamo la fine di questa storia; ma era facile immaginarla.

Facciamoci ancora un passo avanti: nel tentativo di ripristinare il tono naturalmente allegramente spensierato dei nostri pensieri, iniziammo ad “infilare” piedi e gambe immaginarie all’interno di una mensola piena di stivali e scarpe, con una velocità e precisione tali da stupire anche il più esperto artigiano del cuoio vivente. C’era in particolare un paio di stivali: allegri, dal look robusto e cordiale, che suscitarono la nostra massima simpatia; e prima ancora di conoscerli davvero, avevamo già “infilato” dentro di loro un simpatico giardiniere dal viso rosso e dall’aria gioiosa. Quel paio di stivali gli si adattava perfettamente: le sue gambe robuste spuntavano fuori dai tacchi, che erano troppo stretti per permettergli di infilare i lacci; i suoi polpacci apparivano chiaramente attraverso le calze. Il grembiule blu era legato intorno alla vita, il fazzoletto rosso e il cappotto blu completavano il suo abbigliamento. Lì stava, con un sorriso radioso sul viso rosso, a fischiare felice, come se nella sua mente non esistesse altro pensiero se non quello di essere felice e a proprio agio.

Era proprio l’uomo che faceva al caso nostro; lo conoscevamo bene; lo avevamo visto mille volte arrivare a Covent Garden nella sua carrozza verde, con quel piccolo cavallo grassoccio e tozzo. E anche mentre guardavamo con affetto le sue scarpe, in quell’istante l’immagine di una serva civettuola apparve improvvisamente accanto a esse, indossando un paio di scarpe di seta danese. Riconoscemmo subito quella stessa ragazza che aveva accettato il suo invito a fare un giro in carrozza, proprio quel martedì mattina, poco dopo aver attraversato il ponte sospeso di Hammersmith, mentre tornavamo in città da Richmond.

Una donna molto intelligente, con un cappello vistoso, indossò un paio di stivali di tela grigia, con frange e bordature nere; questi stivali, in modo evidente, lasciavano vedere le dita dei piedi dall’altra parte. Sembrava davvero desiderosa attirare l’attenzione di quell’uomo, ma noi notammo che il nostro amico, il giardiniere del mercato, non sembrava affatto interessato a queste attrazioni; anzi, dopo aver dato un cenno d’intesa all’inizio, come per far capire di comprendere perfettamente lo scopo di quelle mozioni, non vi prestò più attenzione. Tuttavia, la sua indifferenza fu ampiamente compensata dall’eccessiva galanteria di un anziano gentiluomo con un bastone d’argento: quest’ultimo indossò un paio di grandi scarpe e si dedicò a gesti che esprimevano il suo apprezzamento per la donna in stivali di tela, suscitando l’inimmensa ilarità di un giovane che, secondo noi, avrebbe rischiato di strapparsi il cappotto a forza di ridere.

Eravamo da un po’ a osservare con grande soddisfazione questa piccola pantomima, quando, per nostra inesprimibile sorpresa, notammo che tutti i personaggi, compresi numerosi “corpi di balletto” formati da scarpe e stivali sullo sfondo, nei quali avevamo frettolosamente inserito quante più gambe riuscivamo a trovare, si stavano disponendo in formazione per danzare. Non appena suonò della musica, iniziarono immediatamente a muoversi seguendone il ritmo. Fu davvero delizioso assistere all’agilità di quel “giardiniere di mercato”: gli stivali uscivano da una parte, poi dall’altra; alcuni si muovevano velocemente, altri più lentamente; a un certo punto iniziarono a eseguire movimenti simili a quelli dei danzatori in seta danesi, avanzavano, indietreggiavano, giravano in cerchio, e ripetevano tutto daccapo, senza mostrare minimamente segni di affaticamento per tanta attività.

Nemmeno i satini danesi erano da meno: saltavano e si muovevano in tutte le direzioni; e sebbene non fossero né così regolari né così sincroni con il ritmo della musica rispetto alle scarpe di pelle, tuttavia, poiché sembrava che lo facessero con sincerità e con grande divertimento, ammettiamo onestamente di preferire il loro stile di danza agli altri. Ma l’anziano signore con le scarpe a tacco alto era davvero l’elemento più divertente dell’intera compagnia: oltre ai suoi tentativi grotteschi di sembrare giovane e affettuoso, che di per sé erano già abbastanza esilaranti, il giovane in scarpe con i tacchi alti riusciva a far sì che, ogni volta che l’anziano signore si avvicinava per salutare la donna con le scarpe di pelle, calpestasse con tutto il proprio peso le dita del vecchio, facendolo urlare dal dolore, e facendo ridere a crepapelle tutti gli altri.

Stavamo godendo appieno di queste festività quando sentimmo una voce stridula e assolutamente non musicale esclamare: “>Spero che mi riconoscerete ancora, arroganti!” E guardando attentamente nella direzione da cui proveniva il suono, scoprimmo che non era la giovane donna con gli stivali di tela, come avevamo inizialmente pensato, ma una signora robusta e dall’aspetto anziano seduta su una sedia all’inizio della scala del seminterrato, apparentemente per supervisionare la vendita degli oggetti esposti lì.

L’organo a barile, che aveva suonato a tutto volume proprio dietro di noi, smise di suonare; le persone alle quali avevamo cercato di far indossare scarpe e stivali presero la fuga a causa di quell’interruzione; e poiché ci rendemmo conto che, immersi nelle nostre meditazioni, avremmo potuto fissare senza saperlo quella vecchia signora per mezz’ora, anche noi fuggimmo via, finendo presto immersi nell’oscurità più profonda dei vicini “Dials”.

CHAPTER VII—HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

We maintain that hackney-coaches, properly so called, belong solely to the metropolis. We may be told, that there are hackney-coach stands in Edinburgh; and not to go quite so far for a contradiction to our position, we may be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester, ‘and other large towns’ (as the Parliamentary phrase goes), have their hackney-coach stands. We readily concede to these places the possession of certain vehicles, which may look almost as dirty, and even go almost as slowly, as London hackney-coaches; but that they have the slightest claim to compete with the metropolis, either in point of stands, drivers, or cattle, we indignantly deny.

Take a regular, ponderous, rickety, London hackney-coach of the old school, and let any man have the boldness to assert, if he can, that he ever beheld any object on the face of the earth which at all resembles it, unless, indeed, it were another hackney-coach of the same date. We have recently observed on certain stands, and we say it with deep regret, rather dapper green chariots, and coaches of polished yellow, with four wheels of the same colour as the coach, whereas it is perfectly notorious to every one who has studied the subject, that every wheel ought to be of a different colour, and a different size. These are innovations, and, like other miscalled improvements, awful signs of the restlessness of the public mind, and the little respect paid to our time-honoured institutions. Why should hackney-coaches be clean? Our ancestors found them dirty, and left them so. Why should we, with a feverish wish to ‘keep moving,’ desire to roll along at the rate of six miles an hour, while they were content to rumble over the stones at four? These are solemn considerations. Hackney-coaches are part and parcel of the law of the land; they were settled by the Legislature; plated and numbered by the wisdom of Parliament.

Then why have they been swamped by cabs and omnibuses? Or why should people be allowed to ride quickly for eightpence a mile, after Parliament had come to the solemn decision that they should pay a shilling a mile for riding slowly? We pause for a reply;—and, having no chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph.

Our acquaintance with hackney-coach stands is of long standing. We are a walking book of fares, feeling ourselves, half bound, as it were, to be always in the right on contested points. We know all the regular watermen within three miles of Covent-garden by sight, and should be almost tempted to believe that all the hackney-coach horses in that district knew us by sight too, if one-half of them were not blind. We take great interest in hackney-coaches, but we seldom drive, having a knack of turning ourselves over when we attempt to do so. We are as great friends to horses, hackney-coach and otherwise, as the renowned Mr. Martin, of costermonger notoriety, and yet we never ride. We keep no horse, but a clothes-horse; enjoy no saddle so much as a saddle of mutton; and, following our own inclinations, have never followed the hounds. Leaving these fleeter means of getting over the ground, or of depositing oneself upon it, to those who like them, by hackney-coach stands we take our stand.

There is a hackney-coach stand under the very window at which we are writing; there is only one coach on it now, but it is a fair specimen of the class of vehicles to which we have alluded—a great, lumbering, square concern of a dingy yellow colour (like a bilious brunette), with very small glasses, but very large frames; the panels are ornamented with a faded coat of arms, in shape something like a dissected bat, the axletree is red, and the majority of the wheels are green. The box is partially covered by an old great-coat, with a multiplicity of capes, and some extraordinary-looking clothes; and the straw, with which the canvas cushion is stuffed, is sticking up in several places, as if in rivalry of the hay, which is peeping through the chinks in the boot. The horses, with drooping heads, and each with a mane and tail as scanty and straggling as those of a worn-out rocking-horse, are standing patiently on some damp straw, occasionally wincing, and rattling the harness; and now and then, one of them lifts his mouth to the ear of his companion, as if he were saying, in a whisper, that he should like to assassinate the coachman. The coachman himself is in the watering-house; and the waterman, with his hands forced into his pockets as far as they can possibly go, is dancing the ‘double shuffle,’ in front of the pump, to keep his feet warm.

The servant-girl, with the pink ribbons, at No. 5, opposite, suddenly opens the street-door, and four small children forthwith rush out, and scream ‘Coach!’ with all their might and main. The waterman darts from the pump, seizes the horses by their respective bridles, and drags them, and the coach too, round to the house, shouting all the time for the coachman at the very top, or rather very bottom of his voice, for it is a deep bass growl. A response is heard from the tap-room; the coachman, in his wooden-soled shoes, makes the street echo again as he runs across it; and then there is such a struggling, and backing, and grating of the kennel, to get the coach-door opposite the house-door, that the children are in perfect ecstasies of delight. What a commotion! The old lady, who has been stopping there for the last month, is going back to the country. Out comes box after box, and one side of the vehicle is filled with luggage in no time; the children get into everybody’s way, and the youngest, who has upset himself in his attempts to carry an umbrella, is borne off wounded and kicking. The youngsters disappear, and a short pause ensues, during which the old lady is, no doubt, kissing them all round in the back parlour. She appears at last, followed by her married daughter, all the children, and both the servants, who, with the joint assistance of the coachman and waterman, manage to get her safely into the coach. A cloak is handed in, and a little basket, which we could almost swear contains a small black bottle, and a paper of sandwiches. Up go the steps, bang goes the door, ‘Golden-cross, Charing-cross, Tom,’ says the waterman; ‘Good-bye, grandma,’ cry the children, off jingles the coach at the rate of three miles an hour, and the mamma and children retire into the house, with the exception of one little villain, who runs up the street at the top of his speed, pursued by the servant; not ill-pleased to have such an opportunity of displaying her attractions. She brings him back, and, after casting two or three gracious glances across the way, which are either intended for us or the potboy (we are not quite certain which), shuts the door, and the hackney-coach stand is again at a standstill.

capitolo VII – GLI STANZI DEI COCHIERI DI HACKNEY

Sosteniamo fermamente che i cosiddetti “hackney-coach”, propriamente detti, appartengano esclusivamente alla metropoli. Ci si potrebbe obiettare che anche a Edimburgo ci siano fermate per questi veicoli; e per non andare troppo lontani nell’affermare il contrario della nostra posizione, ci si potrebbe ricordare che anche Liverpool, Manchester e “altre grandi città” (secondo la formulazione parlamentare) dispongono delle loro fermate per hackney-coach. Riconosciamo volentieri che in questi luoghi possano esistere veicoli quasi altrettanto sporchi e persino quasi altrettanto lenti dei hackney-coach di Londra; ma neghiamo con indignazione che abbiano anche solo il minimo diritto di competere con la metropoli, sia per quanto riguarda le fermate, i conducenti che i veicoli stessi.

Prendete un comune, pesante, traballante omnibus londinese di vecchia fattura, e provate a dire, se vi è possibile, che abbiate mai visto qualcosa sulla faccia della terra che gli assomigli anche solo in minima parte. A meno che non si tratti di un altro omnibus dello stesso periodo. Di recente abbiamo notato, su alcune fermate, carrozze verdi piuttosto eleganti e omnibus gialli lucidi, con tutte e quattro le ruote dello stesso colore; ma chiunque abbia studiato l’argomento sa perfettamente che ogni ruota dovrebbe essere di un colore diverso e di dimensioni diverse. Queste sono innovazioni. E, come altre cosiddette “migliorazioni”, rappresentano terribili segni dell’inquietudine dello spirito pubblico e del poco rispetto riservato alle nostre istituzioni, onorate da secoli. Perché gli omnibus dovrebbero essere puliti? I nostri antenati li trovavano sporchi. E li hanno lasciati così. Perché noi, con un desiderio febbrile di “muoverci sempre”, vorremmo viaggiare a una velocità di sei miglia all’ora, mentre loro si accontentavano di procedere lentamente, sobbalzando sulle pietre? Queste sono considerazioni serie. Gli omnibus fanno parte delle leggi della nazione; sono stati stabiliti dal Parlamento stesso e dotati di targhe numerate per ordine del governo.

Allora perché sono stati sommersi da taxi e autobus? O perché dovrebbe essere permesso alle persone di viaggiare velocemente pagando otto penny a miglia, dopo che il Parlamento aveva preso la solenne decisione che dovessero pagare uno scellino a miglia se viaggiavano lentamente? Aspettiamo una risposta, ma, non avendone alcuna possibilità, iniziamo un nuovo paragrafo.

La nostra conoscenza delle fermate degli omnibus è di lunga data. Siamo praticamente un “libro vivente” dei prezzi dei biglietti; ci sentiamo, in qualche modo, obbligati a sempre avere ragione nelle questioni contese. Riconosciamo a prima vista tutti i barcaioli abituali entro un raggio di tre miglia da Covent Garden, e saremmo quasi tentati di credere che anche metà dei cavalli degli omnibus di quella zona ci conoscesse a vista, se solo non fossero tutti ciechi. Ci interessano molto gli omnibus, ma raramente li guidiamo, poiché abbiamo la tendenza a cadere ogni volta che proviamo a farlo. Siamo grandi amici dei cavalli, sia quelli degli omnibus che di altro genere, proprio come il famoso signor Martin, noto per le sue attività nel settore del commercio ambulante, eppure non andiamo mai a cavallo. Non possediamo alcun cavallo; ci piace molto più un “cavallo da vestiti” che una sella. E, seguendo i nostri gusti personali, non abbiamo mai partecipato alle cacce. Lasciando questi mezzi di trasporto più veloci a coloro che li preferiscono, noi ci fermiamo alle fermate degli omnibus.

C’è una fermata di diligenze sotto proprio quella finestra davanti alla quale stiamo scrivendo; al momento c’è solo un’unica diligenza lì, ma rappresenta bene quel tipo di veicolo di cui abbiamo parlato: un grosso e goffo mezzo di trasporto di colore giallo smorto (simile a una bionda con i capelli ingrigiti), con finestrini molto piccoli e montature molto grandi; le pareti sono decorate da stemmi sbiaditi, dalla forma simile a quella di un pipistrello sezionato; l’asse è rosso e la maggior parte delle ruote è verde. L’interno della diligenza è parzialmente coperto da un vecchio mantello, insieme a molte altre vesti dall’aspetto stravagante; la paglia con cui è imbottito il sedile spunta in più punti, come se competesse con l’erba che si intravede attraverso le fessure del veicolo. I cavalli, con la testa abbassata e criniere e coda molto scarse e disordinate, stanno pazientemente fermo su un po’ di paglia umida, sobbalzando di tanto in tanto; di quando in quando uno di loro avvicina la bocca all’orecchio del compagno, come se sussurrasse che vorrebbe assassinare il cocchiere. Il cocchiere stesso si trova nella stalla per abbeverare i cavalli; l’acquaiolo, con le mani infilate nelle tasche fino al massimo possibile, sta ballando davanti alla pompa per scaldarsi i piedi.

La servetta, con i nastri rosa, al numero 5 di fronte, apre all’improvviso la porta d’ingresso; quattro bambini escono di corsa gridando “Cocchio!”. Il barcaiolo si precipita dalla pompa, afferra i cavalli per le redini e li trascina insieme al cocchio verso la casa, urlando a squarciagola. La risposta arriva dal locale interno; il cocchiere, con i suoi stivali di legno, fa echeggiare la strada mentre corre avanti e indietro. Si sente poi un gran trambusto: i bambini si mettono dappertutto nel tentativo di aiutare. Il più piccolo, cercando di portare un ombrello, finisce per cadere e inizia a piangere e a scalciare. I ragazzi scompaiono; dopo una breve pausa, la vecchia signora bacia tutti i bambini nel salotto posteriore. Finalmente appare, seguita dalla figlia sposata, da tutti i bambini e dai domestici; insieme al cocchiere e al barcaiolo, riescono a farla salire sul cocchio in sicurezza. Viene consegnato un mantello, una piccola cesta che probabilmente contiene una bottiglietta nera e del pane imbottito. Salgono i gradini; la porta si chiude con un tonfo, “Golden-Cross, Charing-Cross, Tom!”, dice il barcaiolo; “Addio, nonna!”, gridano i bambini. Il cocchio parte a tutta velocità verso casa. La mamma e i bambini rientrano in casa. Tranne per un piccolo “cattivo” che corre per strada a tutta velocità, inseguito dalla serva. Non sembra affatto dispiaciuta di avere l’opportunità di mostrare le sue attrazioni. La serva lo riporta indietro; dopo avergli lanciato due o tre sguardi gentili, probabilmente rivolti a noi o al ragazzo che aiutava nel trasporto dei bagagli, chiude la porta. E il posto dove si fermano i cocchi torna di nuovo silenzioso.

We have been frequently amused with the intense delight with which ‘a servant of all work,’ who is sent for a coach, deposits herself inside; and the unspeakable gratification which boys, who have been despatched on a similar errand, appear to derive from mounting the box. But we never recollect to have been more amused with a hackney-coach party, than one we saw early the other morning in Tottenham-court-road. It was a wedding-party, and emerged from one of the inferior streets near Fitzroy-square. There were the bride, with a thin white dress, and a great red face; and the bridesmaid, a little, dumpy, good-humoured young woman, dressed, of course, in the same appropriate costume; and the bridegroom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow waist-coats, white trousers, and Berlin gloves to match. They stopped at the corner of the street, and called a coach with an air of indescribable dignity. The moment they were in, the bridesmaid threw a red shawl, which she had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently over the number on the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into the belief that the hackney-coach was a private carriage; and away they went, perfectly satisfied that the imposition was successful, and quite unconscious that there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a plate as large as a schoolboy’s slate. A shilling a mile!—the ride was worth five, at least, to them.

What an interesting book a hackney-coach might produce, if it could carry as much in its head as it does in its body! The autobiography of a broken-down hackney-coach, would surely be as amusing as the autobiography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist; and it might tell as much of its travels with the pole, as others have of their expeditions to it. How many stories might be related of the different people it had conveyed on matters of business or profit—pleasure or pain! And how many melancholy tales of the same people at different periods! The country-girl—the showy, over-dressed woman—the drunken prostitute! The raw apprentice—the dissipated spendthrift—the thief!

Talk of cabs! Cabs are all very well in cases of expedition, when it’s a matter of neck or nothing, life or death, your temporary home or your long one. But, besides a cab’s lacking that gravity of deportment which so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach, let it never be forgotten that a cab is a thing of yesterday, and that he never was anything better. A hackney-cab has always been a hackney-cab, from his first entry into life; whereas a hackney-coach is a remnant of past gentility, a victim to fashion, a hanger-on of an old English family, wearing their arms, and, in days of yore, escorted by men wearing their livery, stripped of his finery, and thrown upon the world, like a once-smart footman when he is no longer sufficiently juvenile for his office, progressing lower and lower in the scale of four-wheeled degradation, until at last it comes to—a stand!

CHAPTER VIII—DOCTORS’ COMMONS

Walking without any definite object through St. Paul’s Churchyard, a little while ago, we happened to turn down a street entitled ‘Paul’s-chain,’ and keeping straight forward for a few hundred yards, found ourself, as a natural consequence, in Doctors’ Commons. Now Doctors’ Commons being familiar by name to everybody, as the place where they grant marriage-licenses to love-sick couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones; register the wills of people who have any property to leave, and punish hasty gentlemen who call ladies by unpleasant names, we no sooner discovered that we were really within its precincts, than we felt a laudable desire to become better acquainted therewith; and as the first object of our curiosity was the Court, whose decrees can even unloose the bonds of matrimony, we procured a direction to it; and bent our steps thither without delay.

Crossing a quiet and shady court-yard, paved with stone, and frowned upon by old red brick houses, on the doors of which were painted the names of sundry learned civilians, we paused before a small, green-baized, brass-headed-nailed door, which yielding to our gentle push, at once admitted us into an old quaint-looking apartment, with sunken windows, and black carved wainscoting, at the upper end of which, seated on a raised platform, of semicircular shape, were about a dozen solemn-looking gentlemen, in crimson gowns and wigs.

At a more elevated desk in the centre, sat a very fat and red-faced gentleman, in tortoise-shell spectacles, whose dignified appearance announced the judge; and round a long green-baized table below, something like a billiard-table without the cushions and pockets, were a number of very self-important-looking personages, in stiff neckcloths, and black gowns with white fur collars, whom we at once set down as proctors. At the lower end of the billiard-table was an individual in an arm-chair, and a wig, whom we afterwards discovered to be the registrar; and seated behind a little desk, near the door, were a respectable-looking man in black, of about twenty-stone weight or thereabouts, and a fat-faced, smirking, civil-looking body, in a black gown, black kid gloves, knee shorts, and silks, with a shirt-frill in his bosom, curls on his head, and a silver staff in his hand, whom we had no difficulty in recognising as the officer of the Court. The latter, indeed, speedily set our mind at rest upon this point, for, advancing to our elbow, and opening a conversation forthwith, he had communicated to us, in less than five minutes, that he was the apparitor, and the other the court-keeper; that this was the Arches Court, and therefore the counsel wore red gowns, and the proctors fur collars; and that when the other Courts sat there, they didn’t wear red gowns or fur collars either; with many other scraps of intelligence equally interesting. Besides these two officers, there was a little thin old man, with long grizzly hair, crouched in a remote corner, whose duty, our communicative friend informed us, was to ring a large hand-bell when the Court opened in the morning, and who, for aught his appearance betokened to the contrary, might have been similarly employed for the last two centuries at least.

Siamo spesso stati divertiti dal grande piacere con cui una “serva di tutti i lavori”, inviata a prendere una carrozza, vi sale al suo interno; e dall’incommensurabile soddisfazione che sembrano provare i ragazzi mandati a svolgere compiti simili nel salire sul veicolo. Tuttavia, non ricordiamo di essere mai stati così divertiti da un gruppo che prendesse una carrozza pubblica come quello che abbiamo visto quella mattina presto in Tottenham-Court-Road. Si trattava di una comitiva nuziale che uscì da una strada secondaria vicino a Fitzroy Square. C’era la sposa, con un vestito bianco sottile e il viso molto rosso; la damigella d’onore, una giovane donna piccola, paffuta e di buon umore, ovviamente vestita allo stesso modo appropriato; e lo sposo con il suo amico, entrambi in abiti blu, gilet gialli, pantaloni bianchi e guanti bianchi. Si fermarono all’angolo della strada e chiamarono una carrozza con un’aria di dignità indescrivibile. Non appena vi furono saliti, la damigella d’onore gettò negligentemente su il numero di porta uno scialle rosso – che sicuramente aveva portato apposta – al fine di ingannare i passanti, facendoli credere che si trattasse di una carrozza privata. Partirono quindi, completamente convinti che l’inganno fosse riuscito, senza nemmeno rendersi conto che dietro di loro c’era un grande cartello con il prezzo della corsa: uno scellino a miglio. Per loro, quella corsa valeva almeno cinque scellini.

Che libro interessante potrebbe scrivere un cocchiere di risciò, se solo fosse in grado di portare nella sua testa tutto ciò che porta nel suo corpo. L’autobiografia di un cocchiere di risciò rovinato sarebbe sicuramente altrettanto divertente quanto quella di un drammaturgo fallito; e potrebbe raccontare, con gli stessi dettagli, dei suoi viaggi “con” il palo su cui trainava i risciò, così come altri raccontano delle loro spedizioni verso quel palo stesso. Quante storie si potrebbero raccontare sulle persone diverse che ha trasportato, per affari o guadagni, per piacere o dolore. E quante storie malinconiche su quelle stesse persone in momenti diversi della loro vita! La ragazza di campagna, la donna vistosa e troppo truccata, la prostituta ubriaca. L’apprendista inesperto, lo spendaccione dissoluto, il ladro.

Parliamo di taxi. I taxi sono davvero molto utili in situazioni di emergenza, quando si tratta di una questione vitale, della vita o della morte, del proprio “rifugio temporaneo” o di qualcosa che ci riguarda profondamente. Tuttavia, oltre al fatto che i taxi manchino di quella dignità e compostezza tipiche dei fiacre tradizionali, non bisogna mai dimenticare che il taxi rappresenta semplicemente un retaggio del passato. Non è mai stato nulla di più di ciò che è oggi. Un fiacre, invece, è sempre stato un fiacre fin dal suo primo giorno di esistenza; mentre il taxi è soltanto un residuo della gentilezza d’altri tempi, una vittima delle mode, un “appendice” di antiche famiglie inglesi. Privato dei suoi ornamenti, gettato nel mondo come un ex servitore ormai troppo anziano per il proprio ruolo, scende sempre più in basso nella scala della degradazione. Fino a diventare, semplicemente una “stazione di taxi”!

CAPITOLO VIII – I GIORNI DI LAVORO DEI MEDICI

Camminando senza una meta precisa per il cimitero della Chiesa di San Paolo, poco fa ci imbattemmo in una strada chiamata “Paul’s-chain”. Proseguendo dritti per alcune centinaia di metri, ci trovammo, come conseguenza naturale, nel quartiere dei medici. Ora, poiché il nome di Doctors’ Commons è noto a tutti – essendo il luogo dove vengono rilasciate licenze di matrimonio alle coppie innamorate e permessi di divorzio a quelle infedeli; dove vengono registrati i testamenti delle persone che lasciano proprietà e dove vengono puniti quegli uomini impazienti che chiamano le donne con nomi offensivi – non appena ci rendemmo conto di trovarci effettivamente in quel quartiere, provammo il desiderio legittimo di conoscerlo meglio. Poiché l’oggetto principale della nostra curiosità era la Corte, la cui autorità può persino annullare i vincoli del matrimonio, procurammo indicazioni per raggiungerla e ci dirigemmo subito verso di essa.

Attraversando un tranquillo e ombreggiato cortile, lastricato di pietra e circondato da vecchie case in mattoni rossi le cui porte recavano i nomi di diversi civili eruditi, ci fermammo davanti a una piccola porta dipinta di verde, con maniglie di bronzo. Appena la spingemmo dolcemente, ci fu aperta l’accesso a un appartamento dall’aspetto antico e caratteristico: finestre incassate nel muro, cornici intagliate in legno nero. All’estremità superiore dell’appartamento, su una piattaforma semicircolare, sedevano circa una dozzina di gentiluomini dall’aspetto solenne, vestiti con abiti cremisi e parrucche.

All’estremità superiore di un tavolo posizionato al centro, sedeva un gentiluomo molto grasso e dal viso rosso, con occhiali da tartaruga; il suo aspetto dignitoso lo identificava chiaramente come il giudice. Intorno a un lungo tavolo rivestito di verde, simile a un biliardo ma privo di cuscini e tasche, erano seduti diversi individui dall’aria molto importante, vestiti con colletti rigidi e abiti neri con colletti di pelliccia bianca; li riconoscemmo immediatamente come procuratori. All’estremità inferiore del tavolo c’era una persona seduta in una poltrona, con una parrucca; in seguito scoprimmo che si trattava del cancelliere. Dietro un piccolo banco, vicino alla porta, erano seduti un uomo dall’aspetto rispettabile in abito nero, pesante circa venti stone, e un individuo dal viso grasso, sorridente e dall’aria cortese, anch’egli vestito di nero con guanti di pelliccia nera, pantaloncini corti e abiti eleganti; lo riconoscemmo senza difficoltà come l’ufficiale del Tribunale. Quest’ultimo ci chiarì rapidamente la situazione: avvicinandosi a noi e iniziando subito a parlare, ci disse in meno di cinque minuti che lui era l’apparitore e l’altro il custode del tribunale; che quello era l’Arches Tribunale, motivo per cui gli avvocati indossavano abiti rossi e i procuratori colletti di pelliccia; inoltre, quando si tenevano riunioni in altri tribunali, nessuno indossava abiti rossi o colletti di pelliccia. Ci fornì anche molte altre informazioni altrettanto interessanti. Oltre a questi due ufficiali, c’era un vecchio magro con i capelli grigi lunghi, seduto in un angolo remoto; il nostro informatore ci spiegò che il suo compito era suonare una grande campanella al mattino, quando il Tribunale iniziava le sue attività. E, a giudicare dall’aspetto, sembrava che svolgesse lo stesso incarico da almeno due secoli.

The red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles had got all the talk to himself just then, and very well he was doing it, too, only he spoke very fast, but that was habit; and rather thick, but that was good living. So we had plenty of time to look about us. There was one individual who amused us mightily. This was one of the bewigged gentlemen in the red robes, who was straddling before the fire in the centre of the Court, in the attitude of the brazen Colossus, to the complete exclusion of everybody else. He had gathered up his robe behind, in much the same manner as a slovenly woman would her petticoats on a very dirty day, in order that he might feel the full warmth of the fire. His wig was put on all awry, with the tail straggling about his neck; his scanty grey trousers and short black gaiters, made in the worst possible style, imported an additional inelegant appearance to his uncouth person; and his limp, badly-starched shirt-collar almost obscured his eyes. We shall never be able to claim any credit as a physiognomist again, for, after a careful scrutiny of this gentleman’s countenance, we had come to the conclusion that it bespoke nothing but conceit and silliness, when our friend with the silver staff whispered in our ear that he was no other than a doctor of civil law, and heaven knows what besides. So of course we were mistaken, and he must be a very talented man. He conceals it so well though—perhaps with the merciful view of not astonishing ordinary people too much—that you would suppose him to be one of the stupidest dogs alive.

The gentleman in the spectacles having concluded his judgment, and a few minutes having been allowed to elapse, to afford time for the buzz of the Court to subside, the registrar called on the next cause, which was ‘the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple against Sludberry.’ A general movement was visible in the Court, at this announcement, and the obliging functionary with silver staff whispered us that ‘there would be some fun now, for this was a brawling case.’

We were not rendered much the wiser by this piece of information, till we found by the opening speech of the counsel for the promoter, that, under a half-obsolete statute of one of the Edwards, the court was empowered to visit with the penalty of excommunication, any person who should be proved guilty of the crime of ‘brawling,’ or ‘smiting,’ in any church, or vestry adjoining thereto; and it appeared, by some eight-and-twenty affidavits, which were duly referred to, that on a certain night, at a certain vestry-meeting, in a certain parish particularly set forth, Thomas Sludberry, the party appeared against in that suit, had made use of, and applied to Michael Bumple, the promoter, the words ‘You be blowed;’ and that, on the said Michael Bumple and others remonstrating with the said Thomas Sludberry, on the impropriety of his conduct, the said Thomas Sludberry repeated the aforesaid expression, ‘You be blowed;’ and furthermore desired and requested to know, whether the said Michael Bumple ‘wanted anything for himself;’ adding, ‘that if the said Michael Bumple did want anything for himself, he, the said Thomas Sludberry, was the man to give it him;’ at the same time making use of other heinous and sinful expressions, all of which, Bumple submitted, came within the intent and meaning of the Act; and therefore he, for the soul’s health and chastening of Sludberry, prayed for sentence of excommunication against him accordingly.

Upon these facts a long argument was entered into, on both sides, to the great edification of a number of persons interested in the parochial squabbles, who crowded the court; and when some very long and grave speeches had been made pro and con, the red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles took a review of the case, which occupied half an hour more, and then pronounced upon Sludberry the awful sentence of excommunication for a fortnight, and payment of the costs of the suit. Upon this, Sludberry, who was a little, red-faced, sly-looking, ginger-beer seller, addressed the court, and said, if they’d be good enough to take off the costs, and excommunicate him for the term of his natural life instead, it would be much more convenient to him, for he never went to church at all. To this appeal the gentleman in the spectacles made no other reply than a look of virtuous indignation; and Sludberry and his friends retired. As the man with the silver staff informed us that the court was on the point of rising, we retired too—pondering, as we walked away, upon the beautiful spirit of these ancient ecclesiastical laws, the kind and neighbourly feelings they are calculated to awaken, and the strong attachment to religious institutions which they cannot fail to engender.

We were so lost in these meditations, that we had turned into the street, and run up against a door-post, before we recollected where we were walking. On looking upwards to see what house we had stumbled upon, the words ‘Prerogative-Office,’ written in large characters, met our eye; and as we were in a sight-seeing humour and the place was a public one, we walked in.

The room into which we walked, was a long, busy-looking place, partitioned off, on either side, into a variety of little boxes, in which a few clerks were engaged in copying or examining deeds. Down the centre of the room were several desks nearly breast high, at each of which, three or four people were standing, poring over large volumes. As we knew that they were searching for wills, they attracted our attention at once.

It was curious to contrast the lazy indifference of the attorneys’ clerks who were making a search for some legal purpose, with the air of earnestness and interest which distinguished the strangers to the place, who were looking up the will of some deceased relative; the former pausing every now and then with an impatient yawn, or raising their heads to look at the people who passed up and down the room; the latter stooping over the book, and running down column after column of names in the deepest abstraction.

Il gentiluomo dal viso rosso, con quegli occhiali a montatura di tartaruga, aveva monopolizzato tutta la conversazione in quel momento; e devo dire che se la cavava davvero bene, solo che parlava molto velocemente, ma questo era un’abitudine; inoltre, il suo modo di esprimersi era piuttosto rozzo, ma forse ciò derivava da una vita agiata. Quindi abbiamo avuto tutto il tempo necessario per osservare intorno a noi. C’era uno in particolare che ci divertiva molto: si trattava di uno di quei gentiluomini con parrucche e abiti rossi, che stava seduto davanti al fuoco, nel centro della sala, assumendo l’atteggiamento del Colosso di bronzo, ignorando completamente tutti gli altri. Aveva raccolto il proprio abito dietro la schiena, proprio come una donna disordinata avrebbe fatto con le sue sottogonne in un giorno molto sporco, per poter godere appieno del calore del fuoco. La sua parrucca era messa storta, con la parte posteriore che gli penzolava intorno al collo; i suoi pantaloni grigi e i gambieri neri, di scarsa qualità e realizzati in modo molto scadente, aggiungevano ulteriore disinvoltura al suo aspetto poco elegante. Il colletto della sua camicia, stinto e rigido, gli copriva quasi completamente gli occhi. Non potremo mai più vantarci di essere esperti in fisiognomica. Dopo aver esaminato attentamente il suo viso, eravamo giunti alla conclusione che riflettesse soltanto presunzione e stupidità. Quando però il nostro amico con il bastone d’argento ci sussurrò all’orecchio che non era altro che un dottore in diritto civile, beh, ovviamente ci eravamo sbagliati. Dev’essere davvero una persona molto talentuosa. Solo che lo nasconde così bene, forse con l’intenzione di non spaventare troppo le persone comuni, da far credere che sia uno degli esseri più stupidi al mondo.

Il gentiluomo con gli occhiali, dopo aver espresso il proprio giudizio e lasciato trascorrere alcuni minuti affinché il clamore della Corte si placasse, chiamò all’ordine il caso successivo, che era “la causa presentata da Bumple contro Sludberry”. Alla notizia di questo caso, si osservò un certo movimento nella Corte, e l’ufficiale incaricato ci sussurrò che “adesso sarebbe stato divertente, perché si trattava di una causa molto litigiosa”.

Questa informazione non ci aiutò molto a capire la situazione, fino a quando non scoprimmo, attraverso il discorso iniziale dell’avvocato del promotore, che, secondo una legge ormai semi-obsoleta degli Edwards, il tribunale aveva il potere di infliggere l’espulsione dalla chiesa a chiunque fosse ritenuto colpevole di atti violenti o di aggressioni all’interno di una chiesa o in un’aula parrocchiale ad essa annessa. Inoltre, su base di circa ventotto dichiarazioni presentate e verificate, risultò che, in una certa notte, durante una riunione parrocchiale in una specifica parrocchia, Thomas Sludberry aveva rivolto a Michael Bumple le parole “Vai al diavolo”; quando Bumple e altri gli fecero notare l’inappropriatezza del suo comportamento, Thomas Sludberry ripeté quella frase e chiese addirittura se Michael Bumple desiderasse qualcosa da lui, aggiungendo che, in tal caso, lui stesso sarebbe stato disposto a darglielo. Nel frattempo, utilizzò altre espressioni oscene e peccaminose; tutte queste, secondo quanto sostenne Bumple, rientravano nell’ambito delle intenzioni della legge in questione. Pertanto, per il bene spirituale di Sludberry, chiese che venisse emessa una sentenza di espulsione contro di lui.

Sulla base di questi fatti, si scatenò una lunga discussione da entrambe le parti, con grande interesse da parte di molte persone interessate a queste beghe parrocchiali che affollavano la >corte; e dopo che furono pronunciati alcuni discorsi molto lunghi e seri sia a favore che contro, il gentiluomo dal viso rosso e gli occhiali a conchiglia fece un riepilogo della situazione, il quale richiese ancora mezz’ora; infine pronunciò contro Sludberry la terribile sentenza di scomunica per due settimane, oltre al pagamento delle spese legali. A questo punto, Sludberry – un piccolo venditore di birra rossastra, dal viso rosso e dall’aspetto astuto – si rivolse alla >corte dicendo che sarebbe stato molto più conveniente per lui se gli avessero rimborsato le spese e lo avessero scomunicato a vita, poiché in realtà non andava mai in chiesa. Alla sua richiesta, il gentiluomo dagli occhiali non rispose altro che con un’espressione di virtuosa indignazione; Sludberry e i suoi amici se ne andarono quindi. Poiché l’uomo con il bastone d’argento ci informò che la >corte stava per concludere, anche noi ce ne andammo, riflettendo lungo la strada sul bellissimo spirito di queste antiche leggi ecclesiastiche, sui sentimenti di gentilezza e solidarietà che sono destinati a suscitare, nonché sull’affetto profondo per le istituzioni religiose che esse inevitabilmente contribuiscono a generare.

Eravamo così immersi in queste riflessioni che, senza accorgercene, ci eravamo ritrovati in strada e ci siamo scontrati con un palo della porta, prima di ricordare dove stavamo camminando. Alzando lo sguardo per vedere su quale casa fossimo inciampati, i caratteri grandi “Ufficio delle Prerogative” ci colpirono gli occhi; e poiché eravamo in vena di curiosità e il luogo era pubblico, entrammo.

La stanza nella quale entrammo era lunga e sembrava molto impegnata: su entrambi i lati era divisa in diverse piccole sezioni, nelle quali alcuni impiegati erano impegnati a copiare o esaminare atti legali. Al centro della stanza c’erano diversi banchi alti quasi quanto il petto di una persona; davanti a ciascuno di essi stavano tre o quattro persone che studiavano attentamente grandi volumi. Poiché sapevamo che stavano cercando testamenti, attirarono immediatamente la nostra attenzione.

Era curioso confrontare l’indifferenza pigra dei segretari degli avvocati, che cercavano qualcosa per scopi legali, con l’aria di serietà e interesse che caratterizzava quegli sconosciuti che cercavano il testamento di un parente deceduto; i primi si fermavano di tanto in tanto con uno sbadiglio impaziente o alzavano lo sguardo verso le persone che passavano avanti e indietro nella stanza; gli ultimi, invece, si chinavano sul libro e scorrevano riga dopo riga i nomi, immersi in profonda concentrazione.

There was one little dirty-faced man in a blue apron, who after a whole morning’s search, extending some fifty years back, had just found the will to which he wished to refer, which one of the officials was reading to him in a low hurried voice from a thick vellum book with large clasps. It was perfectly evident that the more the clerk read, the less the man with the blue apron understood about the matter. When the volume was first brought down, he took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, smiled with great self-satisfaction, and looked up in the reader’s face with the air of a man who had made up his mind to recollect every word he heard. The first two or three lines were intelligible enough; but then the technicalities began, and the little man began to look rather dubious. Then came a whole string of complicated trusts, and he was regularly at sea. As the reader proceeded, it was quite apparent that it was a hopeless case, and the little man, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his face, looked on with an expression of bewilderment and perplexity irresistibly ludicrous.

A little further on, a hard-featured old man with a deeply-wrinkled face, was intently perusing a lengthy will with the aid of a pair of horn spectacles: occasionally pausing from his task, and slily noting down some brief memorandum of the bequests contained in it. Every wrinkle about his toothless mouth, and sharp keen eyes, told of avarice and cunning. His clothes were nearly threadbare, but it was easy to see that he wore them from choice and not from necessity; all his looks and gestures down to the very small pinches of snuff which he every now and then took from a little tin canister, told of wealth, and penury, and avarice.

As he leisurely closed the register, put up his spectacles, and folded his scraps of paper in a large leathern pocket-book, we thought what a nice hard bargain he was driving with some poverty-stricken legatee, who, tired of waiting year after year, until some life-interest should fall in, was selling his chance, just as it began to grow most valuable, for a twelfth part of its worth. It was a good speculation—a very safe one. The old man stowed his pocket-book carefully in the breast of his great-coat, and hobbled away with a leer of triumph. That will had made him ten years younger at the lowest computation.

Having commenced our observations, we should certainly have extended them to another dozen of people at least, had not a sudden shutting up and putting away of the worm-eaten old books, warned us that the time for closing the office had arrived; and thus deprived us of a pleasure, and spared our readers an infliction.

We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked homewards, upon the curious old records of likings and dislikings; of jealousies and revenges; of affection defying the power of death, and hatred pursued beyond the grave, which these depositories contain; silent but striking tokens, some of them, of excellence of heart, and nobleness of soul; melancholy examples, others, of the worst passions of human nature. How many men as they lay speechless and helpless on the bed of death, would have given worlds but for the strength and power to blot out the silent evidence of animosity and bitterness, which now stands registered against them in Doctors’ Commons!

CHAPTER IX—LONDON RECREATIONS

The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life, to ape the manners and customs of those whom fortune has placed above them, is often the subject of remark, and not unfrequently of complaint. The inclination may, and no doubt does, exist to a great extent, among the small gentility—the would-be aristocrats—of the middle classes. Tradesmen and clerks, with fashionable novel-reading families, and circulating-library-subscribing daughters, get up small assemblies in humble imitation of Almack’s, and promenade the dingy ‘large room’ of some second-rate hotel with as much complacency as the enviable few who are privileged to exhibit their magnificence in that exclusive haunt of fashion and foolery. Aspiring young ladies, who read flaming accounts of some ‘fancy fair in high life,’ suddenly grow desperately charitable; visions of admiration and matrimony float before their eyes; some wonderfully meritorious institution, which, by the strangest accident in the world, has never been heard of before, is discovered to be in a languishing condition: Thomson’s great room, or Johnson’s nursery-ground, is forthwith engaged, and the aforesaid young ladies, from mere charity, exhibit themselves for three days, from twelve to four, for the small charge of one shilling per head! With the exception of these classes of society, however, and a few weak and insignificant persons, we do not think the attempt at imitation to which we have alluded, prevails in any great degree. The different character of the recreations of different classes, has often afforded us amusement; and we have chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the hope that it may possess some amusement for our readers.

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd’s at five o’clock, and drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-hill, or elsewhere, can be said to have any daily recreation beyond his dinner, it is his garden. He never does anything to it with his own hands; but he takes great pride in it notwithstanding; and if you are desirous of paying your addresses to the youngest daughter, be sure to be in raptures with every flower and shrub it contains. If your poverty of expression compel you to make any distinction between the two, we would certainly recommend your bestowing more admiration on his garden than his wine. He always takes a walk round it, before he starts for town in the morning, and is particularly anxious that the fish-pond should be kept specially neat. If you call on him on Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before dinner, you will find him sitting in an arm-chair, on the lawn behind the house, with a straw hat on, reading a Sunday paper. A short distance from him you will most likely observe a handsome paroquet in a large brass-wire cage; ten to one but the two eldest girls are loitering in one of the side walks accompanied by a couple of young gentlemen, who are holding parasols over them—of course only to keep the sun off—while the younger children, with the under nursery-maid, are strolling listlessly about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions, his delight in his garden appears to arise more from the consciousness of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When he drives you down to dinner on a week-day, he is rather fatigued with the occupations of the morning, and tolerably cross into the bargain; but when the cloth is removed, and he has drank three or four glasses of his favourite port, he orders the French windows of his dining-room (which of course look into the garden) to be opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over his head, and leaning back in his arm-chair, descants at considerable length upon its beauty, and the cost of maintaining it. This is to impress you—who are a young friend of the family—with a due sense of the excellence of the garden, and the wealth of its owner; and when he has exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep.

C’era un ometto dal viso sporco, con un grembiule blu; dopo aver cercato per tutta la mattina – un’operazione che risaliva a circa cinquanta anni prima – aveva finalmente trovato il testamento di cui voleva fare riferimento. Uno degli ufficiali gli lo stava leggendo ad alta voce, in fretta, da un grosso libro rilegato in pergamena con robuste lacci. Era evidente che più l’ufficiale leggeva, meno l’ometto con il grembiule blu capiva di cosa si trattasse. Quando il volume fu finalmente aperto, l’ometto si tolse il cappello, si sistemò i capelli e sorrise con grande soddisfazione, guardando il lettore con l’espressione di chi fosse deciso a ricordare ogni singola parola udita. Le prime due o tre righe erano abbastanza comprensibili; ma poi iniziarono le parti tecniche, e l’ometto cominciò ad apparire perplesso. Poi arrivarono una serie di disposizioni legali complicate, e lui fu completamente perso. Man mano che il lettore proseguiva nella lettura, divenne evidente che si trattava di un caso senza speranza; l’ometto, con la bocca aperta e lo sguardo fisso sul libro, sembrava davvero confuso e perplesso, in modo decisamente ridicolo.

Un po’ più avanti, un vecchio dall’aspetto duro, con il viso profondamente rugoso, esaminava attentamente un lungo testamento con l’aiuto di un paio di occhiali a montatura di corno: di tanto in tanto si fermava e prendeva appunti riguardo alle disposizioni contenute nel documento. Ogni ruga sul suo viso privo di denti, così come i suoi occhi acuti e penetranti, rivelavano avarizia e astuzia. I suoi vestiti erano quasi logori, ma era evidente che li indossasse per scelta e non per necessità; ogni suo gesto, fino ai piccoli pizzichi di tabacco che di tanto in tanto estraeva da una piccola scatola di latta, testimoniava della sua ricchezza, povertà, e avarizia.

Mentre chiudeva con calma la cassa, si metteva gli occhiali e riponeva i suoi fogli di carta in un grande portafoglio di pelle, pensammo a quanto fosse stata una bella affare quella che aveva concluso con quel legatario colpito dalla povertà: quest’ultimo, stanco di aspettare anno dopo anno che qualche bene gli venisse lasciato in eredità, vendeva la sua opportunità proprio quando cominciava a diventare davvero preziosa, per soltanto un dodicesimo del suo valore reale. Era una speculazione vantaggiosa, e molto sicura. L’uomo mise con cura il portafoglio nella tasca del suo cappotto e se ne andò con un sorriso di trionfo. Quella volontà di vincere gli aveva fatto sembrare dieci anni più giovane, nel peggiore dei casi.

Dopo aver iniziato le nostre osservazioni, avremmo sicuramente dovuto estenderle ad almeno un altro dozzina di persone, se non fosse stato per il improvviso silenzio e il riporre di quei vecchi libri consumati dai vermi, che ci avvertirono che era arrivato il momento di chiudere l’ufficio; e così ci privarono di un piacere, risparmiando ai nostri lettori un fastidio.

Camminando verso casa, ci trovammo naturalmente immersi in una serie di riflessioni su quegli antichi e curiosi resoconti di preferenze e avversioni, gelosie e vendette, affetti che sfidavano il potere della morte e odii che proseguivano anche oltre la >tomba. Quei documenti contenevano segni silenziosi ma eloquenti: alcuni testimoniavano l’eccellenza del cuore e la nobiltà dell’‘anima; altri, invece, rappresentavano le peggiori passioni della natura umana. Quanti uomini, giacenti immobili e impotenti sul letto della morte, avrebbero dato qualunque cosa pur di cancellare quelle silenziose prove d’animosità e amarezza che ora sono registrate contro di loro nei documenti medici!

CAPITOLO IX – DIVERTIMENTI A LONDRA

Il desiderio delle persone appartenenti alle classi sociali più umili di imitare i modi e le abitudini di coloro che la fortuna ha posto al loro di sopra è spesso oggetto di commenti, e non di rado anche di lamentele. Questa tendenza esiste, e senza alcun >dubbio, in misura considerevole tra i membri della piccola nobiltà – quei che aspirano a diventare aristocratici – appartenenti alle classi medie. Commercianti e impiegati, insieme a famiglie che amano leggere romanzi alla moda e a figlie abbonate alle biblioteche circolanti, organizzano piccoli raduni in una sorta di umile imitazione degli ambienti eleganti frequentati dalla alta società; percorrono poi con grande compiacimento le stanze poco accoglienti di hotel di second’ordine, proprio come quei pochi fortunati che hanno il privilegio di mostrare la loro opulenza in quei luoghi esclusivi di moda e vanità. Giovani donne ambiziose, che leggono descrizioni appassionate di qualche “festa elegante nell’alta società”, improvvisamente diventano estremamente caritatevoli; immagini di ammirazione e matrimoni iniziano a balenare davanti ai loro occhi; scoprono allora che un’istituzione apparentemente meritoria, di cui prima non si era mai sentito parlare, è in realtà in condizioni precarie. Allora affittano immediatamente spazi come la “grande sala” di Thomson o il “giardino d’infanzia” di Johnson, e per pura carità si esibiscono per tre giorni, dalle dodici alle quattro del pomeriggio, al prezzo modesto di uno scellino a testa! Tuttavia, ad eccezione di queste classi sociali e di alcune persone deboli e insignificanti, non crediamo che questo tentativo di imitazione sia realmente diffuso su larga scala. La diversità dei divertimenti proposti dalle varie classi sociali ci ha spesso fornito motivo di divertimento; per questo abbiamo scelto questo argomento per il nostro presente sketch, nella speranza che possa essere gradito ai nostri lettori.

Il solito cittadino che lascia Lloyd’s alle cinque in punto del pomeriggio e si dirige a casa, nel quartiere di Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-Hill o altrove, se possiede qualche forma di svago quotidiano oltre alla cena, questa è sicuramente il suo giardino. Lui stesso non vi fa mai nulla con le sue mani; tuttavia ne è estremamente orgoglioso. Se desiderate fare la conoscenza della sua figlia minore, assicuratevi di essere davvero entusiasti di ogni fiore e arbusto che vi troverete lì. Se la vostra scarsa capacità espressiva vi costringe a fare qualche distinzione tra i due aspetti della sua vita, vi consigliamo senz’altro di mostrare maggiore ammirazione per il suo giardino che per il suo vino. Lui fa sempre un giro attorno ad esso prima di partire per la città al mattino, e si preoccupa particolarmente che lo stagno dei pesci sia tenuto in ordine. Se lo andate a trovare una domenica d’estate, circa un’ora prima di cena, lo troverete seduto su una poltrona nel prato dietro la casa, con un cappello di paglia in testa e intento a leggere un giornale domenicale. Non lontano da lui, molto probabilmente noterete un bellissimo pappagallo in una grande gabbia di filo di rame; con ogni probabilità le due figlie maggiori si trovino nei vialetti laterali, accompagnate da alcuni giovani signori che tengono loro gli ombrelli, ovviamente solo per proteggerle dal sole. I bambini più piccoli, insieme alla tata, passeggiano pigramente all’ombra degli alberi. Al di fuori di queste occasioni, il suo piacere nel possedere quel giardino sembra derivare più dalla consapevolezza di averlo che dal vero godimento che ne trae. Nei giorni feriali, quando vi accompagna a cena, è piuttosto stanco per le attività della mattina e anche abbastanza irritabile; ma non appena viene servita la cena e beve tre o quattro bicchieri del suo vino preferito, ordina che vengano aperte le finestre del soggiorno che danno sul giardino. Si mette un fazzoletto di seta in testa, si appoggia allo schienale della poltrona e inizia a parlare a lungo della bellezza del giardino e dei costi necessari per mantenerlo, tutto questo per farvi comprendere, voi che siete un giovane amico della famiglia, quanto sia eccezionale quel giardino e quanto sia ricco il suo proprietario. Una volta esaurito l’argomento, va a dormire.

There is another and a very different class of men, whose recreation is their garden. An individual of this class, resides some short distance from town—say in the Hampstead-road, or the Kilburn-road, or any other road where the houses are small and neat, and have little slips of back garden. He and his wife—who is as clean and compact a little body as himself—have occupied the same house ever since he retired from business twenty years ago. They have no family. They once had a son, who died at about five years old. The child’s portrait hangs over the mantelpiece in the best sitting-room, and a little cart he used to draw about, is carefully preserved as a relic.

In fine weather the old gentleman is almost constantly in the garden; and when it is too wet to go into it, he will look out of the window at it, by the hour together. He has always something to do there, and you will see him digging, and sweeping, and cutting, and planting, with manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no end to the sowing of seeds, and sticking little bits of wood over them, with labels, which look like epitaphs to their memory; and in the evening, when the sun has gone down, the perseverance with which he lugs a great watering-pot about is perfectly astonishing. The only other recreation he has, is the newspaper, which he peruses every day, from beginning to end, generally reading the most interesting pieces of intelligence to his wife, during breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the hyacinth-glasses in the parlour-window, and geranium-pots in the little front court, testify. She takes great pride in the garden too: and when one of the four fruit-trees produces rather a larger gooseberry than usual, it is carefully preserved under a wine-glass on the sideboard, for the edification of visitors, who are duly informed that Mr. So-and-so planted the tree which produced it, with his own hands. On a summer’s evening, when the large watering-pot has been filled and emptied some fourteen times, and the old couple have quite exhausted themselves by trotting about, you will see them sitting happily together in the little summerhouse, enjoying the calm and peace of the twilight, and watching the shadows as they fall upon the garden, and gradually growing thicker and more sombre, obscure the tints of their gayest flowers—no bad emblem of the years that have silently rolled over their heads, deadening in their course the brightest hues of early hopes and feelings which have long since faded away. These are their only recreations, and they require no more. They have within themselves, the materials of comfort and content; and the only anxiety of each, is to die before the other.

This is no ideal sketch. There used to be many old people of this description; their numbers may have diminished, and may decrease still more. Whether the course female education has taken of late days—whether the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty nothings, has tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life, in which they show far more beautifully than in the most crowded assembly, is a question we should feel little gratification in discussing: we hope not.

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London population, whose recreations present about as strong a contrast as can well be conceived—we mean the Sunday pleasurers; and let us beg our readers to imagine themselves stationed by our side in some well-known rural ‘Tea-gardens.’

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of whom there are additional parties arriving every moment, look as warm as the tables which have been recently painted, and have the appearance of being red-hot. What a dust and noise! Men and women—boys and girls—sweethearts and married people—babies in arms, and children in chaises—pipes and shrimps—cigars and periwinkles—tea and tobacco. Gentlemen, in alarming waistcoats, and steel watch-guards, promenading about, three abreast, with surprising dignity (or as the gentleman in the next box facetiously observes, ‘cutting it uncommon fat!’)—ladies, with great, long, white pocket-handkerchiefs like small table-cloths, in their hands, chasing one another on the grass in the most playful and interesting manner, with the view of attracting the attention of the aforesaid gentlemen—husbands in perspective ordering bottles of ginger-beer for the objects of their affections, with a lavish disregard of expense; and the said objects washing down huge quantities of ‘shrimps’ and ‘winkles,’ with an equal disregard of their own bodily health and subsequent comfort—boys, with great silk hats just balanced on the top of their heads, smoking cigars, and trying to look as if they liked them—gentlemen in pink shirts and blue waistcoats, occasionally upsetting either themselves, or somebody else, with their own canes.

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, but they are all clean, and happy, and disposed to be good-natured and sociable. Those two motherly-looking women in the smart pelisses, who are chatting so confidentially, inserting a ‘ma’am’ at every fourth word, scraped an acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago: it originated in admiration of the little boy who belongs to one of them—that diminutive specimen of mortality in the three-cornered pink satin hat with black feathers. The two men in the blue coats and drab trousers, who are walking up and down, smoking their pipes, are their husbands. The party in the opposite box are a pretty fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These are the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young man and woman, and an individual addressed by the euphonious title of ‘Uncle Bill,’ who is evidently the wit of the party. They have some half-dozen children with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice the fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman in ‘the gardens,’ who has been married for any length of time, must have had twins on two or three occasions; it is impossible to account for the extent of juvenile population in any other way.

Esiste un’altra e molto diversa categoria di uomini, il cui passatempo è il loro >jardino. Un individuo appartenente a questa categoria vive a una certa distanza dalla città – diciamo sulla Hampstead-road, o sulla Kilburn-road, o su qualsiasi altra strada dove le case siano piccole e ordinate, e dotate di piccoli giardini posteriori. Lui e sua moglie – che è altrettanto pulita e ordinata di lui – abitano nella stessa casa da quando si sono ritirati dagli affari vent’anni fa. Non hanno famiglia: un tempo avevano un figlio, ma è morto all’età di circa cinque anni. Il ritratto del bambino è appeso sopra il caminetto nel salotto principale, e una piccola carriola che usava per giocare viene gelosamente conservata come ricordo.

In tempo sereno, il vecchio signore trascorre quasi tutto il suo tempo nel giardino; e quando fa troppo freddo per entrarvi, si affaccia alla finestra a osservarlo per ore intere. Lì ha sempre qualcosa da fare: scava, spazza, taglia, pianta, con evidente piacere. Durante la primavera, non c’è fine alle semine e all’applicazione di piccoli pezzi di legno sopra i semi, accompagnati da etichette che sembrano epitaffi per ricordarli; alla sera, quando il sole tramonta, è davvero sorprendente vedere con quale perseveranza trasporta un enorme vaso da annaffiare avanti e indietro. L’unica altra distrazione che si concede è leggere il giornale ogni giorno, dall’inizio alla fine; di solito legge ad alta voce le notizie più interessanti per sua moglie durante la colazione. La vecchia signora ama molto i >fiori, come dimostrano i vasi di gigli nella sala e quelli di gerani nel piccolo cortile anteriore; è anche molto orgogliosa del loro giardino: quando uno dei quattro alberi da frutto produce delle more più grandi del solito, viene conservato con cura sotto un bicchiere da vino sul comò, a disposizione degli ospiti, i quali vengono sempre informati che è stato il signor tal-de-tale ad piantarlo personalmente. In una serata estiva, dopo aver riempito e svuotato quell’enorme vaso per ben quattordici volte, e dopo essersi stancati a morte correndo avanti e indietro nel giardino, li si vedrà seduti felicemente nella piccola veranda estiva, godendosi la tranquillità del crepuscolo e osservando le ombre che cadono sui fiori, un ottimo simbolo degli anni che silenziosamente sono trascorsi sopra di loro, attenuando gradualmente i colori più vivaci delle speranze e dei sentimenti di un tempo. Queste sono le loro uniche distrazioni, e non ne hanno bisogno di altre. Hanno tutto ciò che serve per essere felici; l’unica preoccupazione di entrambi è morire prima dell’altro.

Questo non è certo uno sketch ideale. Un tempo esistevano molte persone anziane di questo tipo; il loro numero potrebbe essere diminuito, e probabilmente continuerà ad assottigliarsi. Se l’educazione femminile degli ultimi tempi abbia contribuito a rendere le donne meno adatte a quella vita domestica tranquilla e serena, nella quale dimostrano di possedere qualità molto più belle di quanto non facciano nelle assemblee più affollate, questa è una questione di cui discutere non ci dovrebbe procurare alcuna soddisfazione; speriamo proprio di no.

Ora rivolgiamoci a un’altra parte della popolazione di Londra, la cui forma di divertimento presenta un contrasto altrettanto marcato – intendiamo i piaceri legati alle domeniche; e invitiamo i nostri lettori a immaginare di trovarsi al nostro fianco in alcuni ben noti “giardini da tè” rurali.

Il caldo di questo pomeriggio è intenso; le persone, tra cui continuano ad arrivare nuovi gruppi a ogni momento, sembrano altrettanto accaldate dei tavoli appena verniciati, che hanno l’aspetto di essere roventi. Che polvere e rumore! Uomini e donne, ragazzi e ragazze, innamorati e coniugi, bambini in braccio e piccoli nelle carrozzine, pippe e gamberetti, sigari e vongole, tè e tabacco. Signori, con gilet allarmanti e custodie di orologi d’acciaio, che camminano fianco a fianco con una dignità sorprendente (o, come osserva scherzosamente un signore nella fila accanto, “con grande ostentazione”); signorelle, con grandi fazzoletti bianchi in mano, che si rincorrono sull’erba in modo molto giocoso e interessante, nel tentativo di attirare l’attenzione dei suddetti signori; mariti che ordinano bottiglie di birra al ginepro per le loro amate, con totale disprezzo per le spese; e queste stesse donne che ingoiano enormi quantità di gamberetti e vongole, senza curarsi minimamente della propria salute o del proprio comfort. Ragazzi con grandi cappelli di seta in equilibrio sulla testa, che fumano sigari cercando di sembrare contenti. Signori in camicie rosa e gilet blu, che a volte rovinano se stessi o qualcun altro con i loro bastoni.

Alcune delle affettazioni di queste persone suscitano un sorriso, ma sono tutte pulite, felici e disposte ad essere gentili e socievoli. Quelle due donne dall’aspetto materno, vestite con pellicce eleganti e che chiacchierano in modo così confidenziale, aggiungendo “signora” ogni quarta parola, si sono conosciute circa un quarto d’ora fa: l’incontro è nato dall’ammirazione per il bambino di una di loro, quel piccolo esempio di mortalità con il cappellino rosa a tre angoli e le piume nere. I due uomini in abiti blu e pantaloni scuri, che camminano avanti e indietro fumando la pipa, sono i loro mariti. Il gruppo nell’angolo opposto rappresenta bene la tipica clientela di questo luogo: si tratta del padre, della madre e della nonna; di una giovane coppia, e di un uomo chiamato affettuosamente “Zio Bill”, che evidentemente è il personaggio più spiritoso del gruppo. Hanno con loro anche una mezza dozzina di bambini, ma quasi non c’è bisogno di sottolineare questo fatto: qui è del tutto normale. Ogni donna che sia sposata da un certo periodo di tempo deve aver avuto gemelli almeno due o tre volte. Non si può spiegare in altro modo l’elevato numero di bambini presenti in questo luogo.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle Bill’s splendid joke of ‘tea for four: bread-and-butter for forty;’ and the loud explosion of mirth which follows his wafering a paper ‘pigtail’ on the waiter’s collar. The young man is evidently ‘keeping company’ with Uncle Bill’s niece: and Uncle Bill’s hints—such as ‘Don’t forget me at the dinner, you know,’ ‘I shall look out for the cake, Sally,’ ‘I’ll be godfather to your first—wager it’s a boy,’ and so forth, are equally embarrassing to the young people, and delightful to the elder ones. As to the old grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the ‘gin-and-water warm with,’ of which Uncle Bill ordered ‘glasses round’ after tea, ‘just to keep the night air out, and to do it up comfortable and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot day!’

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field leading to town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are dragged wearily along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves and the company generally by crying, or resort to the much more pleasant expedient of going to sleep—the mothers begin to wish they were at home again—sweethearts grow more sentimental than ever, as the time for parting arrives—the gardens look mournful enough, by the light of the two lanterns which hang against the trees for the convenience of smokers—and the waiters who have been running about incessantly for the last six hours, think they feel a little tired, as they count their glasses and their gains.

CHAPTER X—THE RIVER

‘Are you fond of the water?’ is a question very frequently asked, in hot summer weather, by amphibious-looking young men. ‘Very,’ is the general reply. ‘An’t you?’—‘Hardly ever off it,’ is the response, accompanied by sundry adjectives, expressive of the speaker’s heartfelt admiration of that element. Now, with all respect for the opinion of society in general, and cutter clubs in particular, we humbly suggest that some of the most painful reminiscences in the mind of every individual who has occasionally disported himself on the Thames, must be connected with his aquatic recreations. Who ever heard of a successful water-party?—or to put the question in a still more intelligible form, who ever saw one? We have been on water excursions out of number, but we solemnly declare that we cannot call to mind one single occasion of the kind, which was not marked by more miseries than any one would suppose could be reasonably crowded into the space of some eight or nine hours. Something has always gone wrong. Either the cork of the salad-dressing has come out, or the most anxiously expected member of the party has not come out, or the most disagreeable man in company would come out, or a child or two have fallen into the water, or the gentleman who undertook to steer has endangered everybody’s life all the way, or the gentlemen who volunteered to row have been ‘out of practice,’ and performed very alarming evolutions, putting their oars down into the water and not being able to get them up again, or taking terrific pulls without putting them in at all; in either case, pitching over on the backs of their heads with startling violence, and exhibiting the soles of their pumps to the ‘sitters’ in the boat, in a very humiliating manner.

We grant that the banks of the Thames are very beautiful at Richmond and Twickenham, and other distant havens, often sought though seldom reached; but from the ‘Red-us’ back to Blackfriars-bridge, the scene is wonderfully changed. The Penitentiary is a noble building, no doubt, and the sportive youths who ‘go in’ at that particular part of the river, on a summer’s evening, may be all very well in perspective; but when you are obliged to keep in shore coming home, and the young ladies will colour up, and look perseveringly the other way, while the married dittos cough slightly, and stare very hard at the water, you feel awkward—especially if you happen to have been attempting the most distant approach to sentimentality, for an hour or two previously.

Although experience and suffering have produced in our minds the result we have just stated, we are by no means blind to a proper sense of the fun which a looker-on may extract from the amateurs of boating. What can be more amusing than Searle’s yard on a fine Sunday morning? It’s a Richmond tide, and some dozen boats are preparing for the reception of the parties who have engaged them. Two or three fellows in great rough trousers and Guernsey shirts, are getting them ready by easy stages; now coming down the yard with a pair of sculls and a cushion—then having a chat with the ‘Jack,’ who, like all his tribe, seems to be wholly incapable of doing anything but lounging about—then going back again, and returning with a rudder-line and a stretcher—then solacing themselves with another chat—and then wondering, with their hands in their capacious pockets, ‘where them gentlemen’s got to as ordered the six.’ One of these, the head man, with the legs of his trousers carefully tucked up at the bottom, to admit the water, we presume—for it is an element in which he is infinitely more at home than on land—is quite a character, and shares with the defunct oyster-swallower the celebrated name of ‘Dando.’ Watch him, as taking a few minutes’ respite from his toils, he negligently seats himself on the edge of a boat, and fans his broad bushy chest with a cap scarcely half so furry. Look at his magnificent, though reddish whiskers, and mark the somewhat native humour with which he ‘chaffs’ the boys and ’prentices, or cunningly gammons the gen’lm’n into the gift of a glass of gin, of which we verily believe he swallows in one day as much as any six ordinary men, without ever being one atom the worse for it.

Osservate la gioia inesprimibile della vecchia nonna di fronte alla splendida battuta di zio Bill: “Tè per quattro; pane e burro per quaranta, ”, e l’esplosione di risate che segue quando lui attacca con un pezzo di carta una “coda di maiale” al colletto del cameriere. Il giovane, evidentemente, sta “frequentando” la nipote di zio Bill; e gli indiretti di zio Bill – tipo “Non dimenticarti di me a cena, sai, ”, “Mi occuperò io della torta, Sally, ”, “Sarò il padrino del tuo primo figlio, scommetto che sarà un maschio, ” – sono altrettanto imbarazzanti per i giovani, ma deliziosi per gli anziani. Quanto alla vecchia nonna, è in estasi totale: ride fino a scoppiare in accessi di tosse, finché non hanno terminato quel “gin e acqua calda” che zio Bill ha ordinato servito in bicchieri dopo cena, “solo per tenere fuori l’aria fredda della notte, e per godersela davvero comodamente, dopo una giornata così terribilmente calda!”

Sta facendo buio, e la gente inizia a muoversi. Il campo che conduce in città è piuttosto affollato; le piccole carrozzine vengono trascinate stancamente lungo il cammino, i bambini sono stanchi e si divertono, o meglio, si intrattengono piangendo, oppure ricorrono all’alternativa molto più gradevole di andare a dormire. Le madri iniziano a desiderare di essere di nuovo a >casa. Gli innamorati diventano ancora più sentimentali, man mano che arriva l’ora di separarsi. I giardini sembrano davvero tristi, alla luce delle due lanterne appese agli alberi per comodità dei fumatori. E i camerieri, che hanno corso senza sosta nelle ultime sei ore, pensano di essere un po’ stanchi, mentre contano i loro bicchieri e i propri guadagni.

CAPITOLO X — IL >Fiume

“Ti piace l’acqua?”, è una domanda che viene posta molto spesso, durante il caldo estate, da giovani dall’aspetto anfibio. “Molto sì”, è la risposta generale. “Anche tu?” – “Raramente mi allontano da essa”, è la risposta, accompagnata da vari aggettivi che esprimono l’ammirazione sincera del parlante per quell’elemento. Ora, con tutto il rispetto per l’opinione della società in generale e dei club nautici in particolare, suggeriamo umilmente che alcune delle ricordi più dolorosi nella mente di chiunque si sia occasionalmente divertito sul Tamigi siano sicuramente legati a quelle attività acquatiche. Chi ha mai sentito parlare di una “festa riuscita” sull’acqua? O, per porre la domanda in modo ancora più chiaro, chi ne ha mai vista una? Abbiamo partecipato a innumerevoli escursioni sul fiume, ma dichiariamo solennemente di non ricordare nemmeno un singolo caso del genere che non fosse caratterizzato da molte disgrazie, più di quante si possa ragionevolmente immaginare che possano concentrarsi in otto o nove ore. Qualcosa andava sempre storto: o il tappo del condimento per la insalata si apriva, oppure il membro della compagnia atteso con più ansia non arrivava; o compariva la persona più sgradevole tra i presenti. O uno o due bambini cadevano nell’acqua, oppure il signore incaricato di guidare metteva a rischio la vita di tutti durante il viaggio; o i signori che si erano offerti volontari per remare erano “fuori allenamento” e compivano manovre molto pericolose, immergendo le pale nell’acqua senza riuscire a riportarle su. In ogni caso, finivano tutti per ribaltarsi all’indietro con violenza sorprendente, mostrando così la parte inferiore delle loro scarpe agli altri passeggeri della barca, in modo molto umiliante.

Ammettiamo che le rive del Tamigi siano davvero molto belle a Richmond e Twickenham, nonché in altri luoghi lontani spesso ricercati ma raramente raggiunti; ma dal “Red-us” fino al ponte di Blackfriars, il paesaggio cambia completamente. Il Penitentiary è sicuramente un edificio nobile, e i giovani che vi si recano in quella particolare zona del fiume, nelle serate estive, possono certamente offrire uno spettacolo piacevole; ma quando si è costretti a seguire la riva per tornare a casa, le giovani signore assumono un’espressione imbarazzata e guardano ostinatamente nella direzione opposta, mentre gli uomini sposati tossiscono leggermente e fissano intensamente l’acqua. Si finisce per sentirsi a disagio, soprattutto se poco prima si è cercato di provare qualche sentimento più profondo.

Sebbene l’esperienza e la sofferenza abbiano formato nella nostra mente quella percezione che abbiamo appena espresso, non siamo affatto ciechi riguardo al divertimento che un osservatore può trarre dagli amanti della vela. Cosa potrebbe essere più divertente di Searle’s Yard in una bella mattina di )domenica? La marea è favorevole, e una dozzina di barche si stanno preparando ad accogliere le persone che le hanno noleggiate. Due o tre individui, con pantaloni grossolani e camicie di Guernsey, si occupano della loro manutenzione: ora scendono in cortile con una coppia di remi e un cuscino, poi chiacchierano con il “caposquadra”, che, come tutti i suoi simili, sembra del tutto incapace di fare qualsiasi cosa se non rilassarsi; dopo tornano indietro con una corda per il timone e una barella, si intrattengono ancora un po’ in chiacchiere, e poi, con le mani nelle tasche dei loro pantaloni, si chiedono “dove diavolo siano finiti quei signori”. Uno di loro, il caposquadra, con i pantaloni ben arrotolati sul fondo per lasciare passare l’acqua – poiché in quell’ambiente si sente molto più a suo agio che sulla terraferma – è davvero un personaggio interessante. Condivide lo stesso celebre nome di “Dando” dell’ex mangiatore di ostriche. Guardatelo: dopo essersi preso qualche minuto di riposo, si siede con noncuranza sul bordo di una barca e si soffia sulla propria folta barba con un cappello appena meno peloso del suo corpo. Osservate le sue magnifiche, sebbene rossastre, basette. E notate quel senso dell’umorismo un po’ “primitivo” con cui scherza con i ragazzi e i giovani apprendisti, o come riesce abilmente a convincere gli altri a regalargli un bicchiere di gin. Crediamo davvero che in un solo giorno ne inghiotta tanto quante ne berrebbero sei uomini normali, senza mai risentirne negativamente.

But the party arrives, and Dando, relieved from his state of uncertainty, starts up into activity. They approach in full aquatic costume, with round blue jackets, striped shirts, and caps of all sizes and patterns, from the velvet skull-cap of French manufacture, to the easy head-dress familiar to the students of the old spelling-books, as having, on the authority of the portrait, formed part of the costume of the Reverend Mr. Dilworth.

This is the most amusing time to observe a regular Sunday water-party. There has evidently been up to this period no inconsiderable degree of boasting on everybody’s part relative to his knowledge of navigation; the sight of the water rapidly cools their courage, and the air of self-denial with which each of them insists on somebody else’s taking an oar, is perfectly delightful. At length, after a great deal of changing and fidgeting, consequent upon the election of a stroke-oar: the inability of one gentleman to pull on this side, of another to pull on that, and of a third to pull at all, the boat’s crew are seated. ‘Shove her off!’ cries the cockswain, who looks as easy and comfortable as if he were steering in the Bay of Biscay. The order is obeyed; the boat is immediately turned completely round, and proceeds towards Westminster-bridge, amidst such a splashing and struggling as never was seen before, except when the Royal George went down. ‘Back wa’ater, sir,’ shouts Dando, ‘Back wa’ater, you sir, aft;’ upon which everybody thinking he must be the individual referred to, they all back water, and back comes the boat, stern first, to the spot whence it started. ‘Back water, you sir, aft; pull round, you sir, for’ad, can’t you?’ shouts Dando, in a frenzy of excitement. ‘Pull round, Tom, can’t you?’ re-echoes one of the party. ‘Tom an’t for’ad,’ replies another. ‘Yes, he is,’ cries a third; and the unfortunate young man, at the imminent risk of breaking a blood-vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the boat fairly lies in the direction of Vauxhall-bridge. ‘That’s right—now pull all on you!’ shouts Dando again, adding, in an under-tone, to somebody by him, ‘Blowed if hever I see sich a set of muffs!’ and away jogs the boat in a zigzag direction, every one of the six oars dipping into the water at a different time; and the yard is once more clear, until the arrival of the next party.

A well-contested rowing-match on the Thames, is a very lively and interesting scene. The water is studded with boats of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions; places in the coal-barges at the different wharfs are let to crowds of spectators, beer and tobacco flow freely about; men, women, and children wait for the start in breathless expectation; cutters of six and eight oars glide gently up and down, waiting to accompany their protégés during the race; bands of music add to the animation, if not to the harmony of the scene; groups of watermen are assembled at the different stairs, discussing the merits of the respective candidates; and the prize wherry, which is rowed slowly about by a pair of sculls, is an object of general interest.

Two o’clock strikes, and everybody looks anxiously in the direction of the bridge through which the candidates for the prize will come—half-past two, and the general attention which has been preserved so long begins to flag, when suddenly a gun is heard, and a noise of distant hurra’ing along each bank of the river—every head is bent forward—the noise draws nearer and nearer—the boats which have been waiting at the bridge start briskly up the river, and a well-manned galley shoots through the arch, the sitters cheering on the boats behind them, which are not yet visible.

‘Here they are,’ is the general cry—and through darts the first boat, the men in her, stripped to the skin, and exerting every muscle to preserve the advantage they have gained—four other boats follow close astern; there are not two boats’ length between them—the shouting is tremendous, and the interest intense. ‘Go on, Pink’—‘Give it her, Red’—‘Sulliwin for ever’—‘Bravo! George’—‘Now, Tom, now—now—now—why don’t your partner stretch out?’—‘Two pots to a pint on Yellow,’ &c., &c. Every little public-house fires its gun, and hoists its flag; and the men who win the heat, come in, amidst a splashing and shouting, and banging and confusion, which no one can imagine who has not witnessed it, and of which any description would convey a very faint idea.

One of the most amusing places we know is the steam-wharf of the London Bridge, or St. Katharine’s Dock Company, on a Saturday morning in summer, when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are usually crowded to excess; and as we have just taken a glance at the river above bridge, we hope our readers will not object to accompany us on board a Gravesend packet.

Coaches are every moment setting down at the entrance to the wharf, and the stare of bewildered astonishment with which the ‘fares’ resign themselves and their luggage into the hands of the porters, who seize all the packages at once as a matter of course, and run away with them, heaven knows where, is laughable in the extreme. A Margate boat lies alongside the wharf, the Gravesend boat (which starts first) lies alongside that again; and as a temporary communication is formed between the two, by means of a plank and hand-rail, the natural confusion of the scene is by no means diminished.

‘Gravesend?’ inquires a stout father of a stout family, who follow him, under the guidance of their mother, and a servant, at the no small risk of two or three of them being left behind in the confusion. ‘Gravesend?’

‘Pass on, if you please, sir,’ replies the attendant—‘other boat, sir.’

Hereupon the stout father, being rather mystified, and the stout mother rather distracted by maternal anxiety, the whole party deposit themselves in the Margate boat, and after having congratulated himself on having secured very comfortable seats, the stout father sallies to the chimney to look for his luggage, which he has a faint recollection of having given some man, something, to take somewhere. No luggage, however, bearing the most remote resemblance to his own, in shape or form, is to be discovered; on which the stout father calls very loudly for an officer, to whom he states the case, in the presence of another father of another family—a little thin man—who entirely concurs with him (the stout father) in thinking that it’s high time something was done with these steam companies, and that as the Corporation Bill failed to do it, something else must; for really people’s property is not to be sacrificed in this way; and that if the luggage isn’t restored without delay, he will take care it shall be put in the papers, for the public is not to be the victim of these great monopolies. To this, the officer, in his turn, replies, that that company, ever since it has been St. Kat’rine’s Dock Company, has protected life and property; that if it had been the London Bridge Wharf Company, indeed, he shouldn’t have wondered, seeing that the morality of that company (they being the opposition) can’t be answered for, by no one; but as it is, he’s convinced there must be some mistake, and he wouldn’t mind making a solemn oath afore a magistrate that the gentleman’ll find his luggage afore he gets to Margate.

Ma arriva la festa, e Dando, liberato dal suo stato di incertezza, inizia ad essere molto attivo. Si avvicinano tutti indossando abiti acquatici completi: giacche blu a righe, camicie a strisce, e cappelli di tutte le dimensioni e i motivi possibili, dal cappello di velluto con il teschio, prodotto in Francia, fino al semplice copricapo che era familiare agli studenti degli antichi libri di ortografia, poiché, secondo quanto indicato nel ritratto, faceva parte del costume del Reverendo Signor Dilworth.

Questo è il momento più divertente per osservare una regolare festa sul lago ogni domenica. Fino ad ora, evidentemente, tutti si sono vantati in modo considerevole delle loro conoscenze di navigazione; ma la vista dell’acqua che si raffredda rapidamente smorza immediatamente il loro “coraggio”, e l’atteggiamento di auto-sacrificio con cui ognuno insiste affinché sia un altro a remare è davvero delizioso. Dopo molte discussioni e tentativi falliti – alcuni non riescono a remare da questa parte, altri da quella, e alcuni addirittura non riescono nemmeno a muovere la barca – finalmente l’equipaggio si sistema al proprio posto. “Spingetela via!”, grida il timoniere, che sembra altrettanto a suo agio mentre dirige la barca nella Baia di Biscaglia. L’ordine viene eseguito: la barca si gira immediatamente e inizia a muoversi verso Westminster Bridge, tra schizzi d’acqua e movimenti disordinati, come mai visto prima, tranne quando il Royal George affondò. “Indietro con l’acqua, signore!”, grida Dando; tutti pensano che si riferisca a loro stessi e iniziano a remare all’indietro, e la barca torna indietro, con la poppa avanti, al punto di partenza. “Remate ancora, signori, girate la barca!”, grida Dando, eccitato; “Tom, riesci a girarla?”, chiede qualcuno; “No, non ci riesce”, risponde un altro; “Sì, invece!”, insiste un terzo. E il povero giovane, rischiando di rompersi un vaso sanguigno, continua a remare fino a quando la prua della barca non si dirige verso Vauxhall Bridge. “Bene, ora remate con tutte le forze!”, grida Dando di nuovo, aggiungendo sottovoce a qualcuno vicino a lui: “Maledetti idioti, ” Poi spinge la barca in direzione zigzagante; tutte e sei le pagaie entrano nell’acqua in momenti diversi. E il molo torna di nuovo libero, fino al prossimo arrivo di un altro gruppo.

Una regata di canottaggio molto concorrenziosa sul Tamigi è davvero una scena vivace e interessante. L’acqua è piena di barche di ogni tipo; i posti disponibili sulle chiatte a carbone, nei vari moli, sono occupati da folle di spettatori; birra e tabacco vengono distribuiti liberamente; uomini, donne e bambini attendono con ansia l’inizio della regata; barche a sei o otto remi si muovono dolcemente avanti e indietro, pronte ad accompagnare i loro “protetti” durante la gara; gruppi di musicisti contribuiscono all’atmosfera vivace, anche se non necessariamente all’armonia della scena; gruppi di barcaioli si riuniscono nei vari punti, discutendo dei meriti dei diversi concorrenti; e la barca che porta il premio, spinta lentamente da due rematori, rappresenta un oggetto di interesse generale per tutti.

Alle due in punto, tutti guardano ansiosamente nella direzione del ponte da cui arriveranno i candidati al premio. Le due e mezza: l’attenzione generale, che era stata mantenuta fino ad allora, inizia a vacillare. Improvvisamente si sente uno sparo, seguito dal rumore di grida lontane lungo entrambe le rive del fiume. Tutti abbassano lo sguardo. Il rumore si avvicina sempre di più. Le barche che avevano atteso al ponte iniziano a muoversi rapidamente lungo il fiume. Una galea ben equipaggiata supera l’arco del ponte; coloro che vi sono a bordo incitano le altre barche, ancora invisibili.

“Eccole qui,” è l’esclamazione generale; e attraverso i dardi, la prima barca arriva per prima: gli uomini a bordo sono nudi fino alla pelle e fanno appello a ogni muscolo per mantenere il vantaggio ottenuto. Altre quattro barche la seguono da vicino, a meno di due lunghezze di barca di distanza l’una dall’altra; gli urli sono terribili e l’atmosfera è intensa. “Forza, Pink!” “Dai il massimo, Red!” “Sulliwin per sempre!” “Bravo, George!” “Ora, Tom, perché il tuo compagno non si sforza di più?” “Due pinte a testa per chi vince, ” E così via. Ogni piccola taverna pubblica spara i suoi cannoni e alza la propria bandiera; gli uomini che vincono la gara entrano tra schizzi d’acqua, grida, rumori e confusione. Qualcuno che non abbia mai assistito a una scena del genere non potrebbe nemmeno immaginarla, e qualsiasi descrizione ne darebbe solo un’idea molto vaga.

Uno dei luoghi più divertenti che conosciamo è il molo a vapore del London Bridge, o la St. Katharine’s Dock Company, in una mattina di sabato d’estate, quando i vapori di Gravesend e Margate sono solitamente strapieni; e poiché abbiamo appena dato un’occhiata al fiume sopra il ponte, speriamo che i nostri lettori non si oppongano ad accompagnarci a bordo di uno di questi vapori.

I facchini si fermano continuamente all’ingresso del molo, e lo sguardo di stupore e perplessità con cui i passeggeri affidano loro sé stessi e i propri bagagli è davvero esilarante. I facchini afferrano tutti i pacchi senza alcuna esitazione e se ne vanno chissà dove. Una barca di Margate è ormeggiata accanto al molo, mentre un’altra di Gravesend si trova poco più in là; nonostante esista una sorta di ponte temporaneo creato con una tavola e una ringhiera, il caos generale nella scena non diminuisce affatto.

“Gravesend?”, chiede un padre robusto, con una famiglia altrettanto robusta; loro lo seguono, sotto la guida di loro madre e di un servitore, con il notevole rischio che due o tre di loro rimangano indietro nel caos. “Gravesend?”

“Si prega di passare avanti, signore,” risponde l’assistente, “l’altra barca è pronta per lei.”

A questo punto, il padre robusto, piuttosto perplesso, e la madre robusta, un po’ distratta dall’ansia materna, tutti insieme salirono sulla barca di Margate. Dopo essersi rallegrato di aver trovato posti molto comodi, il padre robusto andò a cercare i suoi bagagli; ricordava vagamente di aver dato qualcosa a qualcuno perché lo portasse da qualche parte. Ma non c’era alcun bagaglio che assomigliasse anche solo lontanamente al suo, né per forma né per dimensioni. Allora il padre robusto chiamò ad alta voce un funzionario e gli spiegò la situazione, davanti a un altro padre di un’altra famiglia – un uomo piuttosto magro – che era completamente d’accordo con lui nel ritenere che fosse arrivato il momento di intervenire riguardo a queste compagnie ferroviarie. Dissero tutti che la proprietà delle persone non poteva essere sacrificata in questo modo, e che se i bagagli non venivano restituiti immediatamente, avrebbero fatto in modo che venissero denunciati ufficialmente, perché il pubblico non doveva diventare vittima di questi grandi monopoli. Il funzionario rispose che quella compagnia, da quando era diventata la St. Kat’rine’s Dock Company, aveva sempre protetto la vita e la proprietà delle persone. Ma se fosse stata la London Bridge Wharf Company, beh, allora non ci sarebbe stato da meravigliarsi, visto che la “morale” di quella compagnia (essendo loro l’opposizione) non poteva essere affatto giustificata. Comunque, era convinto che ci fosse qualche errore, e non avrebbe esitato a giurare davanti a un magistrato che il signore avrebbe trovato i suoi bagagli prima di arrivare a Margate.

Here the stout father, thinking he is making a capital point, replies, that as it happens, he is not going to Margate at all, and that ‘Passenger to Gravesend’ was on the luggage, in letters of full two inches long; on which the officer rapidly explains the mistake, and the stout mother, and the stout children, and the servant, are hurried with all possible despatch on board the Gravesend boat, which they reached just in time to discover that their luggage is there, and that their comfortable seats are not. Then the bell, which is the signal for the Gravesend boat starting, begins to ring most furiously: and people keep time to the bell, by running in and out of our boat at a double-quick pace. The bell stops; the boat starts: people who have been taking leave of their friends on board, are carried away against their will; and people who have been taking leave of their friends on shore, find that they have performed a very needless ceremony, in consequence of their not being carried away at all. The regular passengers, who have season tickets, go below to breakfast; people who have purchased morning papers, compose themselves to read them; and people who have not been down the river before, think that both the shipping and the water, look a great deal better at a distance.

When we get down about as far as Blackwall, and begin to move at a quicker rate, the spirits of the passengers appear to rise in proportion. Old women who have brought large wicker hand-baskets with them, set seriously to work at the demolition of heavy sandwiches, and pass round a wine-glass, which is frequently replenished from a flat bottle like a stomach-warmer, with considerable glee: handing it first to the gentleman in the foraging-cap, who plays the harp—partly as an expression of satisfaction with his previous exertions, and partly to induce him to play ‘Dumbledumbdeary,’ for ‘Alick’ to dance to; which being done, Alick, who is a damp earthy child in red worsted socks, takes certain small jumps upon the deck, to the unspeakable satisfaction of his family circle. Girls who have brought the first volume of some new novel in their reticule, become extremely plaintive, and expatiate to Mr. Brown, or young Mr. O’Brien, who has been looking over them, on the blueness of the sky, and brightness of the water; on which Mr. Brown or Mr. O’Brien, as the case may be, remarks in a low voice that he has been quite insensible of late to the beauties of nature, that his whole thoughts and wishes have centred in one object alone—whereupon the young lady looks up, and failing in her attempt to appear unconscious, looks down again; and turns over the next leaf with great difficulty, in order to afford opportunity for a lengthened pressure of the hand.

Telescopes, sandwiches, and glasses of brandy-and-water cold without, begin to be in great requisition; and bashful men who have been looking down the hatchway at the engine, find, to their great relief, a subject on which they can converse with one another—and a copious one too—Steam.

‘Wonderful thing steam, sir.’ ‘Ah! (a deep-drawn sigh) it is indeed, sir.’ ‘Great power, sir.’ ‘Immense—immense!’ ‘Great deal done by steam, sir.’ ‘Ah! (another sigh at the immensity of the subject, and a knowing shake of the head) you may say that, sir.’ ‘Still in its infancy, they say, sir.’ Novel remarks of this kind, are generally the commencement of a conversation which is prolonged until the conclusion of the trip, and, perhaps, lays the foundation of a speaking acquaintance between half-a-dozen gentlemen, who, having their families at Gravesend, take season tickets for the boat, and dine on board regularly every afternoon.

CHAPTER XI—ASTLEY’S

We never see any very large, staring, black Roman capitals, in a book, or shop-window, or placarded on a wall, without their immediately recalling to our mind an indistinct and confused recollection of the time when we were first initiated in the mysteries of the alphabet. We almost fancy we see the pin’s point following the letter, to impress its form more strongly on our bewildered imagination; and wince involuntarily, as we remember the hard knuckles with which the reverend old lady who instilled into our mind the first principles of education for ninepence per week, or ten and sixpence per quarter, was wont to poke our juvenile head occasionally, by way of adjusting the confusion of ideas in which we were generally involved. The same kind of feeling pursues us in many other instances, but there is no place which recalls so strongly our recollections of childhood as Astley’s. It was not a ‘Royal Amphitheatre’ in those days, nor had Ducrow arisen to shed the light of classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus; but the whole character of the place was the same, the pieces were the same, the clown’s jokes were the same, the riding-masters were equally grand, the comic performers equally witty, the tragedians equally hoarse, and the ‘highly-trained chargers’ equally spirited. Astley’s has altered for the better—we have changed for the worse. Our histrionic taste is gone, and with shame we confess, that we are far more delighted and amused with the audience, than with the pageantry we once so highly appreciated.

We like to watch a regular Astley’s party in the Easter or Midsummer holidays—pa and ma, and nine or ten children, varying from five foot six to two foot eleven: from fourteen years of age to four. We had just taken our seat in one of the boxes, in the centre of the house, the other night, when the next was occupied by just such a party as we should have attempted to describe, had we depicted our beau idéal of a group of Astley’s visitors.

First of all, there came three little boys and a little girl, who, in pursuance of pa’s directions, issued in a very audible voice from the box-door, occupied the front row; then two more little girls were ushered in by a young lady, evidently the governess. Then came three more little boys, dressed like the first, in blue jackets and trousers, with lay-down shirt-collars: then a child in a braided frock and high state of astonishment, with very large round eyes, opened to their utmost width, was lifted over the seats—a process which occasioned a considerable display of little pink legs—then came ma and pa, and then the eldest son, a boy of fourteen years old, who was evidently trying to look as if he did not belong to the family.

Ecco il padre robusto, pensando di aver fatto una grande scoperta, risponde che in realtà non sta affatto andando a Margate, e che l’etichetta “Passenger to Gravesend” si trovava sul bagaglio, scritta su lettere lunghe ben due pollici; l’ufficiale spiega rapidamente l’errore, e la madre robusta, i bambini robusti e il servitore si affrettano a salire sulla barca per Gravesend, arrivando giusto in tempo per scoprire che il loro bagaglio c’è, ma che i loro comodi posti a sedere no. A quel punto suona la campanella che segnala la partenza della barca: le persone corrono avanti e indietro sulla nostra imbarcazione a un ritmo doppio del normale. La campanella smette di suonare; la barca parte: coloro che si stavano salutando dai loro amici a bordo vengono portati via contro la loro volontà; mentre quelli che si erano salutati dai loro amici sulla riva scoprono di aver compiuto una cerimonia del tutto inutile, visto che non sono stati affatto portati via. I passeggeri abituali, che possiedono biglietti stagionali, scendono sottocoperta per colazione; coloro che hanno comprato i giornali del mattino si preparano a leggerli; e quelli che non sono mai stati sul fiume prima pensano che sia molto più bello osservare il traffico fluviale da lontano.

Quando arriviamo più o meno vicino a Blackwall e iniziamo a muoverci più velocemente, l’entusiasmo dei passeggeri sembra aumentare di conseguenza. Le anziane donne, che hanno portato con sé grandi cestini di vimini, si mettono seriamente all’opera per smontare quei pesanti panini e passano in giro un bicchiere di vino, che viene spesso rifornito da una bottiglia piatta, con grande allegria: lo passano prima al signore con il cappello da cacciatore, che suona l’arpa. In parte come espressione di soddisfazione per i propri sforzi precedenti, e in parte per incoraggiarlo a suonare “Dumbledumbdeary”, affinché Alick potesse ballarci sopra; una volta fatto ciò, Alick, un bambino pallido e un po’ rozzo con calzini di lana rossa, fa alcuni piccoli salti sul ponte, procurando grande gioia a tutta la sua famiglia. Le ragazze che hanno portato con sé il primo volume di qualche nuovo romanzo diventano estremamente malinconiche e si lamentano con il signor Brown o con il giovane signor O’Brien, che le stava osservando, del colore blu del cielo e della luminosità dell’acqua; a cui il signor Brown o il signor O’Brien rispondono sottovoce che ultimamente non ha affatto notato le bellezze della natura, che tutti i suoi pensieri e desideri sono concentrati su un solo oggetto. Allora la giovane donna alza lo sguardo, ma fallendo nel tentativo di sembrare indifferente, lo abbassa di nuovo; poi sfoglia con grande difficoltà la pagina successiva, per dare modo a chi le tiene la mano di esercitare ancora un po’ più a lungo la sua pressione.

Telescopi, panini e bicchieri di brandy mescolato con acqua fredda iniziano ad essere molto richiesti; e gli uomini timidi che fino ad ora avevano solo osservato l’ingranaggio del motore dal basso, scoprono, con grande sollievo, un argomento su cui possono conversare tra loro, e anzi, un argomento molto ricco di dettagli: il vapore.

“Che cosa meravigliosa sia la steam, signore, ” “Ah! (un sospiro profondo) Davvero lo è, signore.” “Un potere enorme, signore. Immenso!” “Tante cose sono state realizzate grazie alla steam, signore, ” “Ah! (un altro sospiro di fronte all’immensità dell’argomento, accompagnato da un cenno di comprensione) Può dirlo senz’altro, signore.” “Tuttavia, si dice che sia ancora in una fase iniziale, signore, ” Questi tipi di commenti nuovi sono solitamente l’inizio di conversazioni che durano per tutta la durata del viaggio e che, forse, gettano le basi per un’amicizia tra un paio di dozzine di gentiluomini i quali, avendo le loro famiglie a Gravesend, acquistano biglietti stagionali per la barca e pranzano regolarmente a bordo ogni pomeriggio.

capitolo XI—ASTLEY’S

Non vediamo mai, in un libro, in una vetrina di negozio o su un cartello appeso al muro, caratteri romani grandi, neri e ben visibili, senza che immediatamente ci venga in mente un ricordo vago e confuso del momento in cui per la prima volta abbiamo imparato i segreti dell’alfabeto. Sembra quasi di vedere il punto focale del carattere che ne evidenzia la forma nella nostra immaginazione ancora acerba; e involontariamente trasaliamo, ricordando le nocche dure con cui quella rispettabile anziana signora, che ci insegnava i primi principi dell’educazione per nove penny a settimana o dieci e sei penny al trimestre, talvolta ci pungolava la testa per aiutarci a schiarire le idee confuse che avevamo in mente. Lo stesso tipo di sensazione ci assale in molte altre occasioni, ma nessun luogo ricorda con tanta forza i nostri ricordi d’infanzia quanto Astley’s. All’epoca non era ancora un “Teatro Reale”; Ducrow non aveva ancora portato il lusso del gusto classico e del gas portatile nel mondo del circo; ma l’atmosfera generale di quel posto era la stessa: gli spettacoli erano gli stessi, le barzellette dei clown ugualmente divertenti, gli istruttori di equitazione altrettanto competenti, gli artisti comici altrettanto spiritosi, i tragediografi altrettanto rochi. E anche i “carri armati ben addestrati” erano altrettanto energici. Astley’s è migliorato; noi, invece, siamo peggiorati. Il nostro gusto per gli spettacoli teatrali è scomparso; e con vergogna ammettiamo che ora ci divertiamo molto di più a guardare il pubblico che non gli spettacoli stessi, che un tempo apprezzavamo così tanto.

Ci piace assistere alle solite feste di Astley durante le festività di Pasqua o di Mezza Estate: papà e mamma, e nove o dieci bambini, con altezze che vanno dai cinque piedi sei ai due piedi undici; età compresa tra i quattordici e i quattro anni. Quella sera ci eravamo appena seduti in una delle poltrone, al centro della >casa, quando un’altra poltrona fu occupata da una famiglia proprio come quella che avremmo cercato di descrivere, se avessimo voluto rappresentare il nostro ideale perfetto di gruppo di visitatori ad Astley.

Prima di tutto, arrivarono tre bambini e una bambina che, seguendo le istruzioni del padre, uscirono dalla porta della scatola e presero posto nella prima fila; poi altre due bambine furono fatte entrare da una giovane donna, evidentemente l’insegnante. Poi arrivarono altri tre bambini, vestiti come i primi, con giacche blu e pantaloni, e colletti della camicia rialzati; poi un bambino in un abito intrecciato, con uno sguardo di grande stupore e occhi molto grandi e spalancati al massimo, fu sollevato sopra i sedili. Un gesto che fece vedere bene le sue piccole gambe rosa. Poi arrivarono i genitori, e infine il figlio maggiore, un ragazzo di quattordici anni che cercava chiaramente di sembrare non appartenere a quella famiglia.

The first five minutes were occupied in taking the shawls off the little girls, and adjusting the bows which ornamented their hair; then it was providentially discovered that one of the little boys was seated behind a pillar and could not see, so the governess was stuck behind the pillar, and the boy lifted into her place. Then pa drilled the boys, and directed the stowing away of their pocket-handkerchiefs, and ma having first nodded and winked to the governess to pull the girls’ frocks a little more off their shoulders, stood up to review the little troop—an inspection which appeared to terminate much to her own satisfaction, for she looked with a complacent air at pa, who was standing up at the further end of the seat. Pa returned the glance, and blew his nose very emphatically; and the poor governess peeped out from behind the pillar, and timidly tried to catch ma’s eye, with a look expressive of her high admiration of the whole family. Then two of the little boys who had been discussing the point whether Astley’s was more than twice as large as Drury Lane, agreed to refer it to ‘George’ for his decision; at which ‘George,’ who was no other than the young gentleman before noticed, waxed indignant, and remonstrated in no very gentle terms on the gross impropriety of having his name repeated in so loud a voice at a public place, on which all the children laughed very heartily, and one of the little boys wound up by expressing his opinion, that ‘George began to think himself quite a man now,’ whereupon both pa and ma laughed too; and George (who carried a dress cane and was cultivating whiskers) muttered that ‘William always was encouraged in his impertinence;’ and assumed a look of profound contempt, which lasted the whole evening.

The play began, and the interest of the little boys knew no bounds. Pa was clearly interested too, although he very unsuccessfully endeavoured to look as if he wasn’t. As for ma, she was perfectly overcome by the drollery of the principal comedian, and laughed till every one of the immense bows on her ample cap trembled, at which the governess peeped out from behind the pillar again, and whenever she could catch ma’s eye, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appeared, as in duty bound, to be in convulsions of laughter also. Then when the man in the splendid armour vowed to rescue the lady or perish in the attempt, the little boys applauded vehemently, especially one little fellow who was apparently on a visit to the family, and had been carrying on a child’s flirtation, the whole evening, with a small coquette of twelve years old, who looked like a model of her mamma on a reduced scale; and who, in common with the other little girls (who generally speaking have even more coquettishness about them than much older ones), looked very properly shocked, when the knight’s squire kissed the princess’s confidential chambermaid.

When the scenes in the circle commenced, the children were more delighted than ever; and the wish to see what was going forward, completely conquering pa’s dignity, he stood up in the box, and applauded as loudly as any of them. Between each feat of horsemanship, the governess leant across to ma, and retailed the clever remarks of the children on that which had preceded: and ma, in the openness of her heart, offered the governess an acidulated drop, and the governess, gratified to be taken notice of, retired behind her pillar again with a brighter countenance: and the whole party seemed quite happy, except the exquisite in the back of the box, who, being too grand to take any interest in the children, and too insignificant to be taken notice of by anybody else, occupied himself, from time to time, in rubbing the place where the whiskers ought to be, and was completely alone in his glory.

We defy any one who has been to Astley’s two or three times, and is consequently capable of appreciating the perseverance with which precisely the same jokes are repeated night after night, and season after season, not to be amused with one part of the performances at least—we mean the scenes in the circle. For ourself, we know that when the hoop, composed of jets of gas, is let down, the curtain drawn up for the convenience of the half-price on their ejectment from the ring, the orange-peel cleared away, and the sawdust shaken, with mathematical precision, into a complete circle, we feel as much enlivened as the youngest child present; and actually join in the laugh which follows the clown’s shrill shout of ‘Here we are!’ just for old acquaintance’ sake. Nor can we quite divest ourself of our old feeling of reverence for the riding-master, who follows the clown with a long whip in his hand, and bows to the audience with graceful dignity. He is none of your second-rate riding-masters in nankeen dressing-gowns, with brown frogs, but the regular gentleman-attendant on the principal riders, who always wears a military uniform with a table-cloth inside the breast of the coat, in which costume he forcibly reminds one of a fowl trussed for roasting. He is—but why should we attempt to describe that of which no description can convey an adequate idea? Everybody knows the man, and everybody remembers his polished boots, his graceful demeanour, stiff, as some misjudging persons have in their jealousy considered it, and the splendid head of black hair, parted high on the forehead, to impart to the countenance an appearance of deep thought and poetic melancholy. His soft and pleasing voice, too, is in perfect unison with his noble bearing, as he humours the clown by indulging in a little badinage; and the striking recollection of his own dignity, with which he exclaims, ‘Now, sir, if you please, inquire for Miss Woolford, sir,’ can never be forgotten. The graceful air, too, with which he introduces Miss Woolford into the arena, and, after assisting her to the saddle, follows her fairy courser round the circle, can never fail to create a deep impression in the bosom of every female servant present.

I primi cinque minuti furono dedicati a togliere i scialli alle bambine e ad aggiustare i nastri che adornavano i loro capelli; poi si scoprì, per fortuna, che uno dei bambini era seduto dietro un pilastro e non riusciva a vedere nulla, quindi la governante fu costretta a rimanere nascosta dietro quel pilastro, mentre il bambino venne messo al suo posto. Poi papà insegnò ai ragazzi come riporre i fazzoletti di tasca e, dopo aver fatto un cenno e ammiccato alla governante perché tirasse giù un po’ di più le gonne delle ragazze dai loro fianchi, si alzò per ispezionare l’intero gruppo. L’ispezione sembrò concludersi molto a suo soddisfazione, poiché guardò con aria compiaciuta papà, che stava in piedi all’estremità opposta del posto dove si trovavano. Papà le restituì lo sguardo e soffiò il naso con grande enfasi; la povera governante sbirciò fuori dal pilastro e cercò timidamente di incrociare lo sguardo di mamma, con un’espressione che mostrava il suo profondo ammiramento per tutta la famiglia. Poi due dei bambini, che avevano discusso se il negozio di Astley fosse più grande del doppio rispetto a quello di Drury Lane, decisero di chiedere a “George” di decidere la questione; a questo “George”, che non era altro che il giovane gentiluomo menzionato prima, si arrabbiò molto e rimproverò in termini piuttosto scortesi l’improprietà di far ripetere il proprio nome ad alta voce in un luogo pubblico. Tutti i bambini risero molto, e uno di loro commentò che “George ora cominciava davvero a considerarsi un uomo”; anche papà e mamma risero. George (che portava un bastone da passeggio e si stava facendo crescere le basette) mormorò che “William veniva sempre incoraggiato nella sua impertinenza” e assunse un’espressione di profondo disprezzo, che durò per tutta la sera.

Lo spettacolo iniziò e l’interesse dei bambini non conosceva limiti. Anche il padre sembrava molto interessato, anche se cercava invano di nasconderlo. Quanto alla madre, era completamente conquistata dall’umorismo del comico principale; rideva così tanto che ogni singola piega del suo ampio cappello tremava. La governante, intanto, sbirciava di nuovo da dietro la colonna e, ogni volta che riusciva a incrociare lo sguardo della madre, si copriva la bocca con un fazzoletto, fingendo anche lei di essere sopraffatta dalle risate. Quando poi l’uomo in armature splendide giurò di salvare la principessa o di morire nel tentativo, i bambini applaudirono con entusiasmo. Specialmente uno di loro, che apparentemente era ospite in quella casa e aveva passato tutta la serata a corteggiare una ragazzina di dodici anni, molto carina e che assomigliava in miniatura alla sua madre. Anche le altre bambine, del resto, sono solitamente molto più civettuose delle ragazze più grandi. E tutte sembrarono davvero scioccate quando lo scudiero del cavaliere baciò la cameriera personale della principessa.

Quando iniziarono le esibizioni nel cerchio, i bambini furono ancora più felici del solito; e il desiderio di vedere cosa sarebbe successo vinse completamente sulla dignità della mamma, che si alzò dalla sua poltrona e applaudì ad alta voce come tutti gli altri. Tra una performance e l’altra, la tata si chinava verso la mamma per riferirle le osservazioni intelligenti dei bambini riguardo a ciò che era appena avvenuto; e la mamma, con la sua schiettezza, offrì alla tata un bicchiere di liquido acidulo. La tata, lusingata dal fatto che qualcuno si fosse accorto di lei, tornò dietro il suo pilastro con un’espressione ancora più radiosa. Tutti sembravano davvero felici, tranne quel signore dall’angolo della sala: troppo nobile per interessarsi ai bambini, e troppo insignificante perché qualcun altro si accorgesse di lui, passava il tempo strofinandosi la zona dove avrebbero dovuto esserci le sue basette. E così, completamente solo nella sua “gloria”, continuava a fare ciò che faceva.

Defiamo chiunque sia stato ad Astley due o tre volte e quindi in grado di apprezzare la perseveranza con cui gli stessi scherzi vengono ripetuti notte dopo notte, stagione dopo stagione: non possiamo credere che qualcuno non si diverta almeno per una parte di questi spettacoli. Intendiamo soprattutto le scene che avvengono nel cerchio centrale. Per quanto ci riguarda, sappiamo bene che quando il “cerchio” formato dai getti di gas viene abbassato, la tenda viene sollevata per facilitare l’uscita degli spettatori dal ring a metà prezzo, i residui vengono rimossi e la polvere di legno viene distribuita con precisione matematica in un cerchio perfetto. Ci sentiamo così rinvigoriti quanto il più giovane dei presenti; anzi, partecipiamo davvero alla risata che segue lo strillo del clown “Eccoci qua!”, solo per vecchia abitudine. Non possiamo nemmeno scartare quel senso di reverenza che proviamo verso l’istruttore di equitazione: lui segue il clown con un lungo frustino in mano e si inchina davanti al pubblico con dignità elegante. Non è uno di quegli istruttori di seconda categoria, vestiti con abiti da casa di tela grigiastra e con scarpe marroni. È un vero gentiluomo, addetto ai cavalieri principali; indossa sempre un’uniforme militare, con una piega bianca sul petto del giubbotto. In quell’abito, ricorda davvero un pollo pronto per essere arrostito. Ma perché dovremmo cercare di descriverlo? Tutti lo conoscono: ricordano le sue scarpe lucide, il suo portamento elegante, e quella splendida chioma nera, divisa in alto sulla fronte, che conferisce al suo viso un’aria di profonda riflessione e malinconia poetica. Anche la sua voce dolce e piacevole si abbina perfettamente al suo comportamento nobile. Quando scherza con il clown, lo fa con gentilezza. E non possiamo dimenticare mai l’impressione che ci lascia quando esclama: “Ora, signore, se vuole, chieda di Miss Woolford, ” Il modo elegante con cui la presenta sul palco, e poi la segue mentre sale a cavallo, lascia sempre un profondo impatto nel cuore di ogni donna presente.

When Miss Woolford, and the horse, and the orchestra, all stop together to take breath, he urbanely takes part in some such dialogue as the following (commenced by the clown): ‘I say, sir!’—‘Well, sir?’ (it’s always conducted in the politest manner.)—‘Did you ever happen to hear I was in the army, sir?’—‘No, sir.’—‘Oh, yes, sir—I can go through my exercise, sir.’—‘Indeed, sir!’—‘Shall I do it now, sir?’—‘If you please, sir; come, sir—make haste’ (a cut with the long whip, and ‘Ha’ done now—I don’t like it,’ from the clown). Here the clown throws himself on the ground, and goes through a variety of gymnastic convulsions, doubling himself up, and untying himself again, and making himself look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme of human agony, to the vociferous delight of the gallery, until he is interrupted by a second cut from the long whip, and a request to see ‘what Miss Woolford’s stopping for?’ On which, to the inexpressible mirth of the gallery, he exclaims, ‘Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come for to go, for to fetch, for to bring, for to carry, for to do, for you, ma’am?’ On the lady’s announcing with a sweet smile that she wants the two flags, they are, with sundry grimaces, procured and handed up; the clown facetiously observing after the performance of the latter ceremony—‘He, he, oh! I say, sir, Miss Woolford knows me; she smiled at me.’ Another cut from the whip, a burst from the orchestra, a start from the horse, and round goes Miss Woolford again on her graceful performance, to the delight of every member of the audience, young or old. The next pause affords an opportunity for similar witticisms, the only additional fun being that of the clown making ludicrous grimaces at the riding-master every time his back is turned; and finally quitting the circle by jumping over his head, having previously directed his attention another way.

Did any of our readers ever notice the class of people, who hang about the stage-doors of our minor theatres in the daytime? You will rarely pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of three or four men conversing on the pavement, with an indescribable public-house-parlour swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar to people of this description. They always seem to think they are exhibiting; the lamps are ever before them. That young fellow in the faded brown coat, and very full light green trousers, pulls down the wristbands of his check shirt, as ostentatiously as if it were of the finest linen, and cocks the white hat of the summer-before-last as knowingly over his right eye, as if it were a purchase of yesterday. Look at the dirty white Berlin gloves, and the cheap silk handkerchief stuck in the bosom of his threadbare coat. Is it possible to see him for an instant, and not come to the conclusion that he is the walking gentleman who wears a blue surtout, clean collar, and white trousers, for half an hour, and then shrinks into his worn-out scanty clothes: who has to boast night after night of his splendid fortune, with the painful consciousness of a pound a-week and his boots to find; to talk of his father’s mansion in the country, with a dreary recollection of his own two-pair back, in the New Cut; and to be envied and flattered as the favoured lover of a rich heiress, remembering all the while that the ex-dancer at home is in the family way, and out of an engagement?

Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, with a very long face, in a suit of shining black, thoughtfully knocking that part of his boot which once had a heel, with an ash stick. He is the man who does the heavy business, such as prosy fathers, virtuous servants, curates, landlords, and so forth.

By the way, talking of fathers, we should very much like to see some piece in which all the dramatis personae were orphans. Fathers are invariably great nuisances on the stage, and always have to give the hero or heroine a long explanation of what was done before the curtain rose, usually commencing with ‘It is now nineteen years, my dear child, since your blessed mother (here the old villain’s voice falters) confided you to my charge. You were then an infant,’ &c., &c. Or else they have to discover, all of a sudden, that somebody whom they have been in constant communication with, during three long acts, without the slightest suspicion, is their own child: in which case they exclaim, ‘Ah! what do I see? This bracelet! That smile! These documents! Those eyes! Can I believe my senses?—It must be!—Yes—it is, it is my child!’—‘My father!’ exclaims the child; and they fall into each other’s arms, and look over each other’s shoulders, and the audience give three rounds of applause.

To return from this digression, we were about to say, that these are the sort of people whom you see talking, and attitudinising, outside the stage-doors of our minor theatres. At Astley’s they are always more numerous than at any other place. There is generally a groom or two, sitting on the window-sill, and two or three dirty shabby-genteel men in checked neckerchiefs, and sallow linen, lounging about, and carrying, perhaps, under one arm, a pair of stage shoes badly wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper. Some years ago we used to stand looking, open-mouthed, at these men, with a feeling of mysterious curiosity, the very recollection of which provokes a smile at the moment we are writing. We could not believe that the beings of light and elegance, in milk-white tunics, salmon-coloured legs, and blue scarfs, who flitted on sleek cream-coloured horses before our eyes at night, with all the aid of lights, music, and artificial flowers, could be the pale, dissipated-looking creatures we beheld by day.

We can hardly believe it now. Of the lower class of actors we have seen something, and it requires no great exercise of imagination to identify the walking gentleman with the ‘dirty swell,’ the comic singer with the public-house chairman, or the leading tragedian with drunkenness and distress; but these other men are mysterious beings, never seen out of the ring, never beheld but in the costume of gods and sylphs. With the exception of Ducrow, who can scarcely be classed among them, who ever knew a rider at Astley’s, or saw him but on horseback? Can our friend in the military uniform ever appear in threadbare attire, or descend to the comparatively un-wadded costume of every-day life? Impossible! We cannot—we will not—believe it.

Quando Miss Woolford, il cavallo e l’orchestra si fermano tutti insieme per riprendere fiato, lui partecipa con garbo a dialoghi del genere (iniziati sempre dal clown): “Dico, signore, ”, “Beh, signore?”, “Le è mai capitato di sentire che ero nell’esercito, signore?”, “No, signore. Oh sì, signore: posso eseguire l’esercizio per lei, signore. Davvero? Allora lo faccio ora, signore? Se le piace. Venga, si sbrighi, ” (Un colpo di frusta lunga, e il clown commenta: “Ah, ora basta. Non mi piace più.”) A quel punto il clown si getta a terra e inizia una serie di movimenti ginnici assurdi, raddoppiandosi, sciogliendosi di nuovo, facendo sembrare di essere un uomo sottoposto all’estrema sofferenza. Per grande divertimento del pubblico, fino a quando non viene interrotto da un altro colpo di frusta e si chiede “Perché Miss Woolford si ferma?”. Allora, con grande ilarità della folla, esclama: “Ora, signorina Woolford. Per cosa dovrei venire, prendere, portare, fare qualcosa per lei, mia cara?” Quando la signora risponde sorridendo che le servono le due bandiere, queste vengono procurate e consegnate con varie smorfie. Dopo questa cerimonia, il clown commenta scherzosamente: “Ecco. Miss Woolford mi riconosce; mi ha sorriso, ” Un altro colpo di frusta, un nuovo suono dell’orchestra. E Miss Woolford riprende la sua esibizione, per il divertimento di tutti i presenti, giovani o anziani. La pausa successiva offre altre occasioni per battute simili; l’unica nota divertente in più è quando il clown fa smorfie ridicole ogni volta che il maestro di equitazione si gira. Alla fine lascia il cerchio saltando sopra la propria testa, dopo aver distratto l’attenzione del pubblico in un’altra direzione.

Qualcuno dei nostri lettori ha mai notato quella categoria di persone che, durante il giorno, si aggirano davanti alle porte dei teatri minori? Raramente si passa accanto a uno di questi ingressi senza vedere un gruppo di tre o quattro uomini che chiacchierano sul marciapiede, con un’aria di arroganza tipica delle persone del loro ambiente e un atteggiamento compiaciuto. Sembrano sempre considerarsi dei “dandy” in mostra: le luci sono sempre puntate direttamente su di loro. Quel giovane, con il cappotto marrone sbiadito e i pantaloni verde chiaro, si abbassa le maniche della camicia a quadri in modo molto vistoso, come se fossero fatte di lino pregiato; inclina il cappello bianco in modo studiato sopra l’occhio destro, come se fosse un oggetto appena acquistato. Guardate anche quei guanti bianchi sporchi e quel fazzoletto di seta scadente infilato nel petto del suo cappotto logoro. È possibile guardarlo anche solo per un istante senza concludere che si tratti di quel tipo che, durante il giorno, indossa abiti eleganti, ma che la sera si ritira nei suoi vestiti vecchi e stracciati; di colui che, notte dopo notte, si vanta della sua presunta fortuna, pur sapendo di guadagnare appena una sterlina a settimana e di dover cercarsi da solo le scarpe; di colui che parla con orgoglio della villa di suo padre in campagna, mentre ricorda con amarezza i propri due paia di pantaloni nuovi. E che, infine, viene invidiato e lusingato come il favorito di una ricca ereditiera, pur sapendo benissimo che l’ex ballerina della sua famiglia è incinta e ha rotto un fidanzamento.

Accanto a lui, forse, vedrete un uomo magro e pallido, con un viso molto lungo, vestito in un abito nero lucido; pensierosamente batte con un bastone di legno quella parte del suo stivale che un tempo aveva la suola. È l’uomo che si occupa di affari “pesanti”: padri noiosi, servitori virtuosi, curatori, proprietari terrieri, e così via.

A proposito, parlando di padri. Ci piacerebbe molto vedere un’opera in cui tutti i personaggi principali siano orfani. I padri, sul palco, sono inevitabilmente una grande scocciatura: devono sempre fornire al protagonista spiegazioni lunghe e noiose su ciò che è accaduto prima dell’inizio dell’opera, di solito a partire da frasi del tipo “Sono passati diciannove anni, mio caro figlio. Da quando tua madre ti affidò alle mie cure. Eri ancora un bambino, ” Oppure, all’improvviso, scoprono che qualcuno con cui hanno avuto continui contatti per tre interi atti, senza mai sospettarlo, è in realtà loro stesso figlio. In quel caso esclamano: “Ah! Che cosa vedo? Questo braccialetto. Quel sorriso. Quei documenti. Quegli occhi. Posso credere ai miei occhi? Deve essere vero. Sì, è proprio mio figlio!” “Mio padre!” esclama il figlio. E si abbracciano, si guardano intorno con emozione. E il pubblico applaude tre volte.

Tornando a questo discorso, stavamo per dire che si tratta proprio di quel tipo di persone che si vedono parlare e comportarsi fuori dalle porte dei nostri teatri minori. Ad Astley’s ne sono sempre molti più che in qualsiasi altro posto: di solito ci sono uno o due giovani seduti sul davanzale delle finestre, e due o tre uomini dall’aspetto trasandato, con cravatte a quadri e abiti di lino logori, che se ne stanno sdraiati in giro, portando forse sotto un braccio un paio di scarpe da teatro mal avvolte in un pezzo di vecchio giornale. Alcuni anni fa, restavamo a guardarli a bocca aperta, provando una curiosità misteriosa. Il solo ricordo di tutto ciò ci fa sorridere mentre lo scriviamo. Non riuscivamo a credere che quelle figure eleganti e luminose, vestite con tuniche bianche come il latte, gambe color salmone e sciarpe blu, che apparivano davanti ai nostri occhi di notte su cavalli lucidi e color crema, con l’aiuto di luci, musica e fiori artificiali, potessero essere le stesse creature pallide e trasandate che vedevamo di giorno.

Ora faticiamo a crederci. Tra gli attori di classe inferiore che abbiamo visto, non è necessario molto immaginare per riconoscere in quel gentiluomo dall’aspetto distinto il “tipaccio sporco”, nel cantante comico il presidente di un teatro pubblico, o nel grande attore tragico l’uomo ubriaco e disperato; ma questi altri uomini sono esseri misteriosi, mai visti al di fuori del palcoscenico, sempre nei costumi di dei e fate. Ad eccezione di Ducrow, che a malapena può essere considerato tra loro: chi ha mai conosciuto un cavaliere ad Astley’s, o lo ha visto se non a cavallo? Il nostro amico in uniforme militare potrebbe mai apparire in abiti logori, o scendere al livello delle vesti comuni della vita quotidiana? Impossibile! Non possiamo, e non vogliamo crederci.

CHAPTER XII—GREENWICH FAIR

If the Parks be ‘the lungs of London,’ we wonder what Greenwich Fair is—a periodical breaking out, we suppose, a sort of spring-rash: a three days’ fever, which cools the blood for six months afterwards, and at the expiration of which London is restored to its old habits of plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever happened to disturb them.

In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich Fair, for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in almost every description of vehicle. We cannot conscientiously deny the charge of having once made the passage in a spring-van, accompanied by thirteen gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited number of children, and a barrel of beer; and we have a vague recollection of having, in later days, found ourself the eighth outside, on the top of a hackney-coach, at something past four o’clock in the morning, with a rather confused idea of our own name, or place of residence. We have grown older since then, and quiet, and steady: liking nothing better than to spend our Easter, and all our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of whom we shall never tire; but we think we still remember something of Greenwich Fair, and of those who resort to it. At all events we will try.

The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday, is in a state of perpetual bustle and noise. Cabs, hackney-coaches, ‘shay’ carts, coal-waggons, stages, omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-chaises—all crammed with people (for the question never is, what the horse can draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at their utmost speed; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer corks go off in volleys, the balcony of every public-house is crowded with people, smoking and drinking, half the private houses are turned into tea-shops, fiddles are in great request, every little fruit-shop displays its stall of gilt gingerbread and penny toys; turnpike men are in despair; horses won’t go on, and wheels will come off; ladies in ‘carawans’ scream with fright at every fresh concussion, and their admirers find it necessary to sit remarkably close to them, by way of encouragement; servants-of-all-work, who are not allowed to have followers, and have got a holiday for the day, make the most of their time with the faithful admirer who waits for a stolen interview at the corner of the street every night, when they go to fetch the beer—apprentices grow sentimental, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anxious to get on, and actuated by the common wish to be at the fair, or in the park, as soon as possible.

Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to resist the allurements of the stout proprietress of the ‘Jack-in-the-box, three shies a penny,’ or the more splendid offers of the man with three thimbles and a pea on a little round board, who astonishes the bewildered crowd with some such address as, ‘Here’s the sort o’ game to make you laugh seven years arter you’re dead, and turn ev’ry air on your ed gray vith delight! Three thimbles and vun little pea—with a vun, two, three, and a two, three, vun: catch him who can, look on, keep your eyes open, and niver say die! niver mind the change, and the expense: all fair and above board: them as don’t play can’t vin, and luck attend the ryal sportsman! Bet any gen’lm’n any sum of money, from harf-a-crown up to a suverin, as he doesn’t name the thimble as kivers the pea!’ Here some greenhorn whispers his friend that he distinctly saw the pea roll under the middle thimble—an impression which is immediately confirmed by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by, and who, in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet, in consequence of having unfortunately left his purse at home, but strongly urges the stranger not to neglect such a golden opportunity. The ‘plant’ is successful, the bet is made, the stranger of course loses: and the gentleman with the thimbles consoles him, as he pockets the money, with an assurance that it’s ‘all the fortin of war! this time I vin, next time you vin: niver mind the loss of two bob and a bender! Do it up in a small parcel, and break out in a fresh place. Here’s the sort o’ game,’ &c.—and the eloquent harangue, with such variations as the speaker’s exuberant fancy suggests, is again repeated to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession of several new-comers.

The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the public-houses, is the park, in which the principal amusement is to drag young ladies up the steep hill which leads to the Observatory, and then drag them down again, at the very top of their speed, greatly to the derangement of their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the edification of lookers-on from below. ‘Kiss in the Ring,’ and ‘Threading my Grandmother’s Needle,’ too, are sports which receive their full share of patronage. Love-sick swains, under the influence of gin-and-water, and the tender passion, become violently affectionate: and the fair objects of their regard enhance the value of stolen kisses, by a vast deal of struggling, and holding down of heads, and cries of ‘Oh! Ha’ done, then, George—Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary—Well, I never!’ and similar Lucretian ejaculations. Little old men and women, with a small basket under one arm, and a wine-glass, without a foot, in the other hand, tender ‘a drop o’ the right sort’ to the different groups; and young ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of the aforesaid right sort, display a pleasing degree of reluctance to taste it, and cough afterwards with great propriety.

The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a penny, exhibit the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, the place where the men used to hang in chains, and other interesting sights, through a telescope, are asked questions about objects within the range of the glass, which it would puzzle a Solomon to answer; and requested to find out particular houses in particular streets, which it would have been a task of some difficulty for Mr. Horner (not the young gentleman who ate mince-pies with his thumb, but the man of Colosseum notoriety) to discover. Here and there, where some three or four couple are sitting on the grass together, you will see a sun-burnt woman in a red cloak ‘telling fortunes’ and prophesying husbands, which it requires no extraordinary observation to describe, for the originals are before her. Thereupon, the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and ultimately buries her face in an imitation cambric handkerchief, and the gentleman described looks extremely foolish, and squeezes her hand, and fees the gipsy liberally; and the gipsy goes away, perfectly satisfied herself, and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied also: and the prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater importance, fulfils itself in time.

CAPITOLO XII – LA FIERA DI GREENWICH

Se i parchi sono “i polmoni di Londra,” ci chiediamo allora cos’è la Fiera di Greenwich: un evento che si verifica periodicamente, una sorta di “febbre primaverile”; una fase di intensa attività che rinfresca il “sangue” della città per sei mesi, e al termine della quale Londra riprende le sue abitudini quotidiane, come se nulla fosse mai accaduto a disturbarle.

Nei nostri tempi passati, eravamo frequentatori assidui della Fiera di Greenwich, per molti anni. Ci siamo recati lì e ne siamo tornati usando quasi ogni tipo di veicolo possibile. Non possiamo negare onestamente di essere un giorno viaggiati in una carrozza da viaggio, accompagnati da tredici gentiluomini, quattordici signore, un numero infinito di bambini e una botte di birra; inoltre, ricordiamo vagamente di esserci, in un’altra occasione, trovati all’esterno di quella carrozza, in cima a un calesino, dopo le quattro del mattino, con una vaga idea del nostro nome e del nostro indirizzo. Da allora siamo invecchiati, diventando più tranquilli e stabili; non c’è nulla che ci piaccia di più che trascorrere la Pasqua e tutte le altre feste in un angolo tranquillo, con persone di cui non ci stancheremo mai. Comunque sia, cercheremo di ricordare qualcosa riguardo alla Fiera di Greenwich, e a coloro che vi si recano.

La strada che conduce a Greenwich, per l’intera durata di lunedì di Pasqua, è in uno stato costante di movimento e rumore. Taxis, carrozze a noleggio, carri per il trasporto del carbone, omnibus, tutti pieni zeppi di persone (poiché la domanda non riguarda mai quanto un cavallo possa trascinare, ma quanto il veicolo riesca a contenere); questi mezzi viaggiano alla massima velocità; la polvere si alza a nuvole, i tappi delle bottiglie di birra esplodono uno dopo l’altro; i balconi di ogni edificio pubblico sono affollati di persone che fumano e bevono; metà delle case private è stata trasformata in caffè o negozi di dolci; le chitarre sono molto richieste. Ogni piccolo negozio di frutta espone vetrine piene di pan di zenzero dorato e giocattoli a buon mercato; i controllori dei pedaggi sono nel dispero: i cavalli rifiutano di andare avanti, le ruote si staccano. Le signore urlano per paura ogni volta che si verifica un sobbalzo; i loro ammiratori trovano necessario sedersi molto vicino a loro, come forma di incoraggiamento. I servitori, che non hanno il permesso di portare con sé accompagnatori e che hanno ottenuto una giornata libera, ne approfittano al massimo per trascorrere del tempo con l’ammiratore fedele che aspetta, ogni notte, all’angolo della strada, il momento in cui le ragazze vanno a prendere la birra. Gli apprendisti diventano sentimentali. E così via. Tutti sono ansiosi di arrivare il prima possibile al mercato o nel parco.

I pedoni si soffermano a gruppi sul ciglio della strada, incapaci di resistere alle tentazioni della robusta proprietaria del “Jack-in-the-box, tre tiri per un penny”, o alle offerte più allettanti dell’uomo con i tre pollici e un pisello su un piccolo tavolino rotondo, che stupisce la folla confusa con frasi del tipo: “Ecco il gioco che vi farà ridere per sette anni dopo morte, e che trasformerà ogni momento della vostra vita in gioia! Tre pollici e un piccolo pisello. Chi riesce a prenderlo? Guardate bene, tenete gli occhi aperti e non dite mai ‘morta’. Non pensate nemmeno al cambio o alle spese: tutto è onesto e trasparente. Quelli che non giocano non possono vincere. E la fortuna aiuti il vero giocatore! Scommettete qualsiasi somma, da mezza corona fino a un sovrano. Non importa quale pollice nasconda il pisello!” Qui, qualcuno sussurra al proprio amico di aver visto chiaramente il pisello rotolare sotto il terzo pollice. Un’impressione immediatamente confermata da un signore con gli stivali alti che si trova lì vicino e che, a bassa voce, si rammarica di non poter scommettere, avendo purtroppo dimenticato il portafoglio a casa. Ma incoraggia vivamente lo straniero a non perdere un’opportunità così preziosa. Il “gioco” ha successo: si fanno le scommesse. E naturalmente lo straniero perde. Il signore con i pollici lo consola, intascando i soldi, e gli assicura che “è solo questione di fortuna. Questa volta ho vinto io, la prossima volta vincete voi. Non pensate nemmeno alla perdita di due penny, ” Poi riprende il suo eloquente discorso, arricchendolo di nuove varianti suggerite dall’immaginazione fervida del narratore. E la folla, sempre più numerosa, ascolta attentamente.

Il luogo principale di svago durante il giorno, dopo le osterie, è il parco; l’attrazione principale consiste nel trascinare giovani signore su per la ripida collina che conduce all’Osservatorio, per poi farle scendere di nuovo, al massimo della loro velocità, causando notevoli danni ai loro riccioli e ai cappelli, e grande divertimento agli spettatori presenti in basso. Giocchi come “Baciare nel Cerchio” o “Infilare l’ago nella criniera di mia nonna” godono anch’essi di grande popolarità. Giovani innamorati, sotto l’influenza del gin e dell’acqua tonica, diventano estremamente appassionati; le belle donne oggetto dei loro desideri aumentano ancora di più il valore di quei baci rubati, con tanto lottare, tenersi la testa giù, gridi come “Oh! George. Ah, Mary, grattugliamelo per me. No, mai!” e simili esclamazioni. Vecchietti e vecchie, con un cestino sotto un braccio e un bicchiere di vino nell’altro, offrono gentilmente “una goccia del giusto tipo” ai vari gruppi presenti nel parco; mentre le giovani signore, se convinte a provarlo, mostrano una piacevole riluttanza, per poi tossire con grande dignità dopo averlo assaggiato.

Quei vecchi pensionati, che per una modica tariffa di un penny mostrano, attraverso un telescopio, il faro, il Tamigi e le navi, il luogo dove un tempo gli uomini venivano impiccati in catene, nonché altre attrazioni interessanti, vengono spesso interpellati su oggetti visibili attraverso lo strumento; domande a cui nemmeno un Salomone riuscirebbe a rispondere. Vengono anche chiesti di individuare specifiche case in particolari strade, compito che persino il signor Horner (non quel giovane gentiluomo che mangiava torte con il pollice, ma l’uomo noto per il Colosseo) avrebbe difficoltà ad eseguire. Qui e là, dove tre o quattro coppie sono sedute sull’erba, si può vedere una donna abbronzata da sole, vestita di un mantello rosso, che “legge il futuro” e profetizza riguardo ai mariti delle persone presenti; descrizioni del genere non richiedono alcuna particolare osservazione, poiché le stesse persone sono lì davanti a lei. La donna in questione ride, arrossisce e alla fine si nasconde il viso in un fazzoletto di cambric; il gentiluomo sembra molto perplesso, le stringe la mano e paga generosamente la “veggente”. La zingara se ne va completamente soddisfatta, lasciando anche coloro che sono rimasti indietro altrettanto contenti. E quella profezia, come molte altre di maggior importanza, si avvera nel tempo previsto.

But it grows dark: the crowd has gradually dispersed, and only a few stragglers are left behind. The light in the direction of the church shows that the fair is illuminated; and the distant noise proves it to be filling fast. The spot, which half an hour ago was ringing with the shouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet as if nothing could ever disturb its serenity: the fine old trees, the majestic building at their feet, with the noble river beyond, glistening in the moonlight, appear in all their beauty, and under their most favourable aspect; the voices of the boys, singing their evening hymn, are borne gently on the air; and the humblest mechanic who has been lingering on the grass so pleasant to the feet that beat the same dull round from week to week in the paved streets of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the scene before him, that he belongs to the country which has selected such a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best defenders in the decline of their lives.

Five minutes’ walking brings you to the fair; a scene calculated to awaken very different feelings. The entrance is occupied on either side by the vendors of gingerbread and toys: the stalls are gaily lighted up, the most attractive goods profusely disposed, and unbonneted young ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their employers, seize you by the coat, and use all the blandishments of ‘Do, dear’—‘There’s a love’—‘Don’t be cross, now,’ &c., to induce you to purchase half a pound of the real spice nuts, of which the majority of the regular fair-goers carry a pound or two as a present supply, tied up in a cotton pocket-handkerchief. Occasionally you pass a deal table, on which are exposed pen’orths of pickled salmon (fennel included), in little white saucers: oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates, and divers specimens of a species of snail (wilks, we think they are called), floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green liquid. Cigars, too, are in great demand; gentlemen must smoke, of course, and here they are, two a penny, in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted tallow candle in the centre.

Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which swings you to and fro, and in and out, and every way but the right one; add to this the screams of women, the shouts of boys, the clanging of gongs, the firing of pistols, the ringing of bells, the bellowings of speaking-trumpets, the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a dozen bands, with three drums in each, all playing different tunes at the same time, the hallooing of showmen, and an occasional roar from the wild-beast shows; and you are in the very centre and heart of the fair.

This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so brightly illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of burning fat, is ‘Richardson’s,’ where you have a melodrama (with three murders and a ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some incidental music, all done in five-and-twenty minutes.

The company are now promenading outside in all the dignity of wigs, spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See with what a ferocious air the gentleman who personates the Mexican chief, paces up and down, and with what an eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes on the crowd below, or converses confidentially with the harlequin! The four clowns, who are engaged in a mock broadsword combat, may be all very well for the low-minded holiday-makers; but these are the people for the reflective portion of the community. They look so noble in those Roman dresses, with their yellow legs and arms, long black curly heads, bushy eyebrows, and scowl expressive of assassination, and vengeance, and everything else that is grand and solemn. Then, the ladies—were there ever such innocent and awful-looking beings; as they walk up and down the platform in twos and threes, with their arms round each other’s waists, or leaning for support on one of those majestic men! Their spangled muslin dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a leetle the worse for wear) are the admiration of all beholders; and the playful manner in which they check the advances of the clown, is perfectly enchanting.

‘Just a-going to begin! Pray come for’erd, come for’erd,’ exclaims the man in the countryman’s dress, for the seventieth time: and people force their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly strikes up, the harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are formed in less than no time, the Roman heroes place their arms a-kimbo, and dance with considerable agility; and the leading tragic actress, and the gentleman who enacts the ‘swell’ in the pantomime, foot it to perfection. ‘All in to begin,’ shouts the manager, when no more people can be induced to ‘come for’erd,’ and away rush the leading members of the company to do the dreadful in the first piece.

A change of performance takes place every day during the fair, but the story of the tragedy is always pretty much the same. There is a rightful heir, who loves a young lady, and is beloved by her; and a wrongful heir, who loves her too, and isn’t beloved by her; and the wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws him into a dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, for which purpose he hires a couple of assassins—a good one and a bad one—who, the moment they are left alone, get up a little murder on their own account, the good one killing the bad one, and the bad one wounding the good one. Then the rightful heir is discovered in prison, carefully holding a long chain in his hands, and seated despondingly in a large arm-chair; and the young lady comes in to two bars of soft music, and embraces the rightful heir; and then the wrongful heir comes in to two bars of quick music (technically called ‘a hurry’), and goes on in the most shocking manner, throwing the young lady about as if she was nobody, and calling the rightful heir ‘Ar-recreant—ar-wretch!’ in a very loud voice, which answers the double purpose of displaying his passion, and preventing the sound being deadened by the sawdust. The interest becomes intense; the wrongful heir draws his sword, and rushes on the rightful heir; a blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a tall white figure (who has been all this time, behind the arm-chair, covered over with a table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune of ‘Oft in the stilly night.’ This is no other than the ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was killed by the wrongful heir’s father, at sight of which the wrongful heir becomes apoplectic, and is literally ‘struck all of a heap,’ the stage not being large enough to admit of his falling down at full length. Then the good assassin staggers in, and says he was hired in conjunction with the bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the rightful heir; and he’s killed a good many people in his time, but he’s very sorry for it, and won’t do so any more—a promise which he immediately redeems, by dying off hand without any nonsense about it. Then the rightful heir throws down his chain; and then two men, a sailor, and a young woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in, and the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by supernatural interference, understand—for no one else can; and the ghost (who can’t do anything without blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young lady, by half suffocating them with smoke: and then a muffin-bell rings, and the curtain drops.

Ma sta facendo buio: la folla si è gradualmente dispersa, e rimangono solo pochi ritardatari. La luce che proviene dalla direzione della chiesa indica che il mercato è illuminato; i rumori in lontananza dimostrano che sta diventando sempre più animato. Quel luogo, mezz’ora fa ancora pieno di grida e risate, ora è così tranquillo e silenzioso che sembra impossibile disturbare la sua serenità: gli antichi alberi maestosi, l’imponente edificio ai loro piedi, il nobile fiume in lontananza, che brillano alla luce della luna, appaiono nella loro massima bellezza; le voci dei ragazzi che cantano il loro —inno serale risuonano dolcemente nell’aria; e persino il più umile artigiano che si è soffermato su quella erba così piacevole da calpestare, nelle strade lastricate di Londra, prova orgoglio nel pensare di appartenere a quel paese che ha scelto un luogo del genere come rifugio per i suoi più anziani e migliori difensori, nel momento in cui la loro vita sta volgendo al termine.

A soli cinque minuti di cammino si arriva al mercato; una scena davvero capace di suscitare emozioni molto diverse. All’ingresso, su entrambi i lati, ci sono venditori di pan di zenzero e giocattoli: gli stand sono illuminati a festa, i prodotti più attraenti sono disposti in modo accattivante, e giovani donne, animate dal desiderio di aiutare i propri datori di lavoro, vi afferrano per il cappotto e utilizzano ogni sorta di lusinghe (“Per favore, ”, “C’è davvero amore, ”, “Non essere arrabbiato, ”) per convincervi ad acquistare mezzo chilo di quelle noci aromatiche; la maggior parte dei visitatori regolari porta con sé uno o due chili di queste noci, avvolte in un fazzoletto di cotone. Di tanto in tanto si incontra anche un banco dove sono esposti file intere di salmone in scatola (con finocchio incluso), in piccoli piattini bianchi; ostriche con gusci grandi quanto piatti di formaggio, e diversi esemplari di una specie di lumaca che galleggiano in un liquido verde dall’aspetto poco invitante. Anche i sigari sono molto richiesti; naturalmente, gli uomini devono fumare. Eccoli qui: due per penny, in scatole autentiche, con una candela di strutto accesa al centro.

Immagina di trovarti in una folla estremamente densa che ti spinge avanti e indietro, dentro e fuori, in tutte le direzioni tranne quella giusta; aggiungi a questo i gridi delle donne, gli urli dei ragazzi, il suono dei gong, lo sparo delle pistole, il rintocco delle campane, i boati delle trombe, il fruscio dei grammofoni, il rumore di una dozzina di orchestre, ognuna con tre tamburi che suonano melodie diverse nello stesso tempo, gli incitamenti degli intrattenitori e, di tanto in tanto, i ruggiti delle esibizioni con animali selvatici; ed eccoti proprio al centro, nel cuore del mercato.

Questo enorme padiglione, con il grande palco davanti che è così luminoso grazie a lampade di vario tipo e ai bracieri con la grassa ardente, appartiene a “Richardson”. Qui si presentano un melodramma (con tre omicidi e uno fantasma), una pantomima, una canzone comica, un’ouverture e alcuna musica di accompagnamento; tutto viene rappresentato in venti minuti.

La compagnia ora si aggira all’aperto con tutta la dignità che derivano dai parrucchi, dagli strass, dal rosso ocra e dal trucco bianchente. Guardate con quale aria feroce il gentiluomo che interpreta il capo messicano cammina avanti e indietro, e con quale sguardo calmo e dignitoso il protagonista della tragedia osserva la folla sotto di sé o conversa in modo confidenziale con l’arlecchino! I quattro clown, impegnati in una simulata battaglia con spade, possono essere molto divertenti per i turisti di basso livello; ma sono proprio queste rappresentazioni ad attirare l’attenzione della parte più riflessiva del pubblico. Sembrano così nobili nei loro costumi romani, con le gambe e le braccia gialle, i lunghi capelli neri ricci, le sopracciglia folte, e quell’espressione cupa che evoca assassinio, vendetta e tutto ciò che è grandioso e solenne. E poi le signore. Esistono davvero esseri così innocenti e allo stesso tempo così affascinanti? Mentre camminano avanti e indietro sul palco a coppie o in gruppi, tenendosi per la vita o appoggiandosi a quegli uomini maestosi. I loro abiti di mussola decorati con strass, le scarpe e le sandali di raso blu (un po’ logori, forse, ) suscitano l’invidia di tutti; e il modo giocoso con cui respingono le avance dei clown è davvero incantevole.

“Stiamo per iniziare! Pregate, venite pure,” esclama l’uomo vestito da contadino, per la settantesima volta; la folla si affretta a salire i gradini. All’improvviso la banda inizia a suonare, il pagliaccio e la colombina danno l’esempio: le file si formano in un attimo, gli “eroi romani” assumono la posizione giusta e iniziano a danzare con notevole agilità; anche l’attrice protagonista e il gentiluomo che interpreta il ruolo del “protagonista” nella pantomima si esibiscono alla perfezione. “Tutti pronti, possiamo iniziare!” grida il direttore, quando più nessuno sembra voler partecipare. E allora i membri principali della compagnia si precipitano a eseguire la parte più difficile del primo atto.

Ogni giorno, durante la fiera, si verifica un cambiamento nella sceneggiatura degli eventi, ma la storia della tragedia rimane sostanzialmente sempre la stessa. C’è un erede legittimo che ama una giovane donna e che è ricambiato; c’è inoltre un erede illegittimo che anch’egli la ama, ma non è ricambiato. L’erede illegittimo cattura l’erede legittimo e lo getta in una prigione, con l’intenzione di ucciderlo al momento più opportuno; per questo scopo assume due assassini: uno buono e uno cattivo. Non appena rimangono soli, i due assassini iniziano a litigare tra loro: il buono uccide il cattivo, mentre quest’ultimo ferisce il buono. Poi l’erede legittimo viene scoperto nella prigione, con una lunga catena in mano e seduto in un grande divano, con aria desolata; la giovane donna entra su musica dolce e abbraccia l’erede legittimo. Subito dopo, l’erede illegittimo entra su musica veloce e si comporta in modo estremamente offensivo, trattando la giovane donna con disprezzo e chiamando l’erede legittimo “disperato” ad alta voce, così da dimostrare apertamente il proprio odio e impedire che il suono delle sue parole venga soffocato dal rumore. L’atmosfera diventa sempre più tesa: l’erede illegittimo sguaina la spada e attacca l’erede legittimo; appare del fumo blu, si sente un gong e una figura alta e bianca (che tutto il tempo è stata nascosta dietro al divano, coperta da un tappeto) si alza lentamente, accompagnata dalla musica “Oft in the stilly night”. Si tratta del fantasma del padre dell’erede legittimo, ucciso dall’altro padre dell’erede illegittimo. Alla vista di questo fantasma, l’erede illegittimo ha un colpo apoplettico e cade a terra; la scena non è abbastanza grande per permettere che cada completamente. Poi entra l’assassino buono, ammettendo di essere stato assunto dall’erede illegittimo insieme all’assassino cattivo per uccidere l’erede legittimo; dice di aver già ucciso molte persone in passato, ma che ora si pente e non lo farà più. Promessa che mantiene immediatamente, morendo senza alcuna esitazione. L’erede legittimo getta via la catena; poi entrano due uomini, un marinaio e una giovane donna (i “inquilini” dell’erede legittimo), e il fantasma fa loro dei gesti misteriosi che loro, grazie a una forza sovrannaturale, riescono a comprendere. Nessun altro potrebbe farlo. Il fantasma (che non può fare nulla senza fumo blu) benedice l’erede legittimo e la giovane donna, soffocandoli leggermente con il fumo. Poi suona una campanella e si chiude il sipario.

The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant theatres are the travelling menageries, or, to speak more intelligibly, the ‘Wild-beast shows,’ where a military band in beef-eater’s costume, with leopard-skin caps, play incessantly; and where large highly-coloured representations of tigers tearing men’s heads open, and a lion being burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop his victim, are hung up outside, by way of attracting visitors.

The principal officer at these places is generally a very tall, hoarse man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, with which he occasionally raps the pictures we have just noticed, by way of illustrating his description—something in this way. ‘Here, here, here; the lion, the lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the canvas outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no deception. The fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gentleman’s head last Cambervel vos a twelvemonth, and has killed on the awerage three keepers a-year ever since he arrived at matoority. No extra charge on this account recollect; the price of admission is only sixpence.’ This address never fails to produce a considerable sensation, and sixpences flow into the treasury with wonderful rapidity.

The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as a dwarf, a giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, ‘a young lady of singular beauty, with perfectly white hair and pink eyes,’ and two or three other natural curiosities, are usually exhibited together for the small charge of a penny, they attract very numerous audiences. The best thing about a dwarf is, that he has always a little box, about two feet six inches high, into which, by long practice, he can just manage to get, by doubling himself up like a boot-jack; this box is painted outside like a six-roomed house, and as the crowd see him ring a bell, or fire a pistol out of the first-floor window, they verily believe that it is his ordinary town residence, divided like other mansions into drawing-rooms, dining-parlour, and bedchambers. Shut up in this case, the unfortunate little object is brought out to delight the throng by holding a facetious dialogue with the proprietor: in the course of which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) pledges himself to sing a comic song inside, and pays various compliments to the ladies, which induce them to ‘come for’erd’ with great alacrity. As a giant is not so easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most capacious dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out, into which two or three stout men get all at once, to the enthusiastic delight of the crowd, who are quite satisfied with the solemn assurance that these habiliments form part of the giant’s everyday costume.

The grandest and most numerously-frequented booth in the whole fair, however, is ‘The Crown and Anchor’—a temporary ball-room—we forget how many hundred feet long, the price of admission to which is one shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you enter, after paying your money, is a refreshment place, at which cold beef, roast and boiled, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue, ham, even fowls, if we recollect right, are displayed in tempting array. There is a raised orchestra, and the place is boarded all the way down, in patches, just wide enough for a country dance.

There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial Eden—all is primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. The dust is blinding, the heat insupportable, the company somewhat noisy, and in the highest spirits possible: the ladies, in the height of their innocent animation, dancing in the gentlemen’s hats, and the gentlemen promenading ‘the gay and festive scene’ in the ladies’ bonnets, or with the more expensive ornaments of false noses, and low-crowned, tinder-box-looking hats: playing children’s drums, and accompanied by ladies on the penny trumpet.

The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, the shouting, the ‘scratchers,’ and the dancing, is perfectly bewildering. The dancing, itself, beggars description—every figure lasts about an hour, and the ladies bounce up and down the middle, with a degree of spirit which is quite indescribable. As to the gentlemen, they stamp their feet against the ground, every time ‘hands four round’ begins, go down the middle and up again, with cigars in their mouths, and silk handkerchiefs in their hands, and whirl their partners round, nothing loth, scrambling and falling, and embracing, and knocking up against the other couples, until they are fairly tired out, and can move no longer. The same scene is repeated again and again (slightly varied by an occasional ‘row’) until a late hour at night: and a great many clerks and ’prentices find themselves next morning with aching heads, empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how it was they did not get home.

CHAPTER XIII—PRIVATE THEATRES

‘Richard the Third.—Duke of Glo’ster 2_l.; Earl of Richmond, 1_l; Duke of Buckingham, 15_s.; Catesby, 12_s.; Tressel, 10_s._ 6_d.; Lord Stanley, 5_s.; Lord Mayor of London, 2_s._ 6_d._’

Such are the written placards wafered up in the gentlemen’s dressing-room, or the green-room (where there is any), at a private theatre; and such are the sums extracted from the shop-till, or overcharged in the office expenditure, by the donkeys who are prevailed upon to pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable ignorance and boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This they do, in proportion to the scope afforded by the character for the display of their imbecility. For instance, the Duke of Glo’ster is well worth two pounds, because he has it all to himself; he must wear a real sword, and what is better still, he must draw it, several times in the course of the piece. The soliloquies alone are well worth fifteen shillings; then there is the stabbing King Henry—decidedly cheap at three-and-sixpence, that’s eighteen-and-sixpence; bullying the coffin-bearers—say eighteen-pence, though it’s worth much more—that’s a pound. Then the love scene with Lady Ann, and the bustle of the fourth act can’t be dear at ten shillings more—that’s only one pound ten, including the ‘off with his head!’—which is sure to bring down the applause, and it is very easy to do—‘Orf with his ed’ (very quick and loud;—then slow and sneeringly)—‘So much for Bu-u-u-uckingham!’ Lay the emphasis on the ’uck;’ get yourself gradually into a corner, and work with your right hand, while you’re saying it, as if you were feeling your way, and it’s sure to do. The tent scene is confessedly worth half-a-sovereign, and so you have the fight in, gratis, and everybody knows what an effect may be produced by a good combat. One—two—three—four—over; then, one—two—three—four—under; then thrust; then dodge and slide about; then fall down on one knee; then fight upon it, and then get up again and stagger. You may keep on doing this, as long as it seems to take—say ten minutes—and then fall down (backwards, if you can manage it without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing like it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley’s and Sadler’s Wells, and if they don’t know how to do this sort of thing, who in the world does? A small child, or a female in white, increases the interest of a combat materially—indeed, we are not aware that a regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be done without; but it would be rather difficult, and somewhat unusual, to introduce this effect in the last scene of Richard the Third, so the only thing to be done, is, just to make the best of a bad bargain, and be as long as possible fighting it out.

Le mostre che seguono per popolarità questi teatri itineranti sono le gallerie zoologiche itineranti, o, per esprimerlo in modo più comprensibile, i “spettacoli di animali selvatici”. In questi spettacoli, una banda militare vestita con abiti da predatori, con cappelli di pelle di leopardo, suona senza sosta; inoltre, all’esterno vengono esposte grandi rappresentazioni a colori vivaci di tigri che strappano la testa alle persone, e di un leone che viene bruciato con ferri roventi per farlo abbandonare la sua vittima, al fine di attirare i visitatori.

L’ufficiale responsabile in questi luoghi è generalmente un uomo molto alto e raucoso, vestito con un mantello scarlatto e munito di un bastone; di tanto in tanto lo usa per battere sulle immagini che abbiamo appena visto, come modo per illustrare le sue descrizioni. “Ecco, ecco: il leone, il leone (tre colpi); esattamente così com’è raffigurato sulla tela là fuori. Niente attese, ricordatevelo; nessuna truffa. Quel feroce leone che l’anno scorso ha morso la testa a un gentiluomo e da allora uccide in media tre custodi all’anno. Non ci sono spese aggiuntive, ricordatevelo: il prezzo d’ingresso è soltanto sei pence.” Questi discorsi suscitano sempre grande interesse, e i sei pence affluiscono nelle casse con incredibile rapidità.

I nani sono anch’essi oggetti di grande curiosità; un nano, una gigantessa, uno scheletro vivente, un indiano selvaggio, “una giovane signora di straordinaria bellezza, con capelli perfettamente bianchi e occhi rosa”, insieme ad altre due o tre curiosità naturali, vengono solitamente esposti al pubblico a un piccolo prezzo di una penna; attirano così un numero molto grande di spettatori. La cosa più interessante riguardo ai nani è che hanno sempre con sé una piccola scatola alta circa due piedi e sei pollici; grazie a lunga pratica, riescono a infilarvisi dentro ripiegandosi su se stessi come un mantice da calzature. Questa scatola viene dipinta all’esterno in modo da sembrare una casa di sei stanze; quando la folla lo vede suonare una campanella o sparare una pistola dalla finestra del primo piano, crede davvero che si tratti della sua abitazione normale, divisa come tutte le altre dimore in salotti, sala da pranzo e camere da letto. Chiuso dentro questa scatola, il poverino viene fatto uscire per intrattenere la folla con dialoghi scherzosi; nel corso di questi dialoghi, il nano (che è sempre particolarmente ubriaco) promette di cantare una canzone comica all’interno e fa vari complimenti alle signore, il che le induce ad avvicinarsi con grande entusiasmo. Poiché un gigante non è così facilmente commosso, vengono solitamente fatti uscire anche due oggetti di dimensioni incredibili e un enorme paio di scarpe; dentro questi oggetti entrano contemporaneamente due o tre uomini robusti, per grande gioia della folla, che si convince facilmente che tali indumenti facciano parte del costume quotidiano del gigante.

La bancarella più imponente e frequentata di tutta la fiera è senz’altro “La Corona e l’Ancora”: una sala da ballo temporanea. Dimentichiamo quanto sia lunga, ma il prezzo d’ingresso è di un scellino. Appena entri e paghi, subito a destra troverai un punto vendita di bevande e cibi; lì sono esposti manzo freddo, carne arrostita o bollita, rotoli francesi, birra forte, vino, persino polli, se ricordiamo bene. C’è anche un palco rialzato, e l’intera area è rivestita di assi, in modo da creare spazi sufficientemente larghi per le danze tradizionali contadine.

In questo Eden artificiale non c’è alcun “maestro di cerimonie”: tutto è primitivo, spontaneo e privo di ogni calcolo. La polvere è accecante, il caldo insopportabile, la compagnia un po’ rumorosa. Ma l’atmosfera è al massimo del divertimento: le signore, nel pieno della loro innocente vivacità, danzano sotto i cappelli dei gentiluomini; questi, a loro volta, si aggirano in mezzo alle acconciature delle signore, o con ornamenti più costosi come nasi finti e cappelli dal bordo basso. Suonano tamburi da bambino, accompagnati dalle signore che suonano la tromba da un penny.

Il rumore di questi vari strumenti, dell’orchestra, degli urli, dei movimenti di danza, è davvero confondente. La danza stessa è indescrivibile: ogni esibizione dura circa un’ora; le signore saltano su e giù al centro della pista con un entusiasmo davvero inesprimibile. Per quanto riguarda gli uomini, battono i piedi a terra ad ogni inizio di danza, scendono al centro e poi risalgono, con i sigari in bocca e fazzoletti di seta in mano; girano le loro partner senza esitazione, inciampando, cadendo, abbracciandosi, fino a quando non sono completamente stanchi e non riescono più a muoversi. La stessa scena si ripete ancora e ancora, con qualche variazione occasionale, fino a tarda notte. E molti impiegati e apprendisti si ritrovano la mattina dopo con mal di testa, tasche vuote, cappelli rovinati, e una memoria molto vaga di come siano riusciti a non tornare a casa.

CAPITOLO XIII – TEATRI PRIVATI

‘Richard III – Duca di Gloucester, 2ª parte; Conte di Richmond, 1ª parte; Duca di Buckingham, 15ª parte; Catesby, 12ª parte; Tressel, 10ª parte e 6ª parte; Lord Stanley, 5ª parte; Lord Mayor di Londra, 2ª parte e 6ª parte.’

Ecco i cartelli scritti che vengono esposti nei bagni degli uomini o nelle sale d’attesa dei teatri privati; ed ecco le somme sottratte dal registratore di cassa o gli sprechi causati negli spazi amministrativi da coloro che, convinti a pagare per ottenere il permesso di esibire la propria ignoranza e stupidità sul palco di un teatro privato, lo fanno in proporzione all’opportunità offerta dal ruolo che interpretano. Ad esempio, il Duca di Gloucester vale davvero due sterline: ha tutto per sé, deve indossare una vera spada e, cosa ancora migliore, deve usarla più volte durante l’intera rappresentazione. I monologhi da soli valgono ben quindici scellini; poi c’è il Re Enrico che viene pugnalato, decisamente a buon mercato: tre penny e sei, ovvero diciotto penny e sei; intimidire i portatori del feretro, diciotto penny, anche se in realtà vale molto di più, una sterlina. Poi c’è la scena d’amore con Lady Ann, e l’agitazione del quarto atto, non possono costare più di dieci scellini in totale: quindi solo una sterlina e dieci, compresa quella frase “Tagliategli la testa!”, che sicuramente farà calare gli applausi, ed è molto facile da recitare. La scena nella tenda vale chiaramente mezzo sovrano, quindi anche la lotta viene inclusa gratuitamente, e tutti sanno quanto effetto possa avere una buona battaglia. Uno, due, tre, quattro, finito; poi di nuovo uno, due, tre, quattro, attacco; poi schivare e muoversi rapidamente; poi cadere in ginocchio; continuare a combattere da lì, poi rialzarsi barcollando. Si può continuare così per tutto il tempo necessario, diciamo dieci minuti, poi cadere all’indietro, se si riesce senza farsi male, e “morire” in modo convincente, niente è meglio di questo per creare effetto. Lo fanno sempre ad Astley’s e Sadler’s Wells, e se non sanno come fare queste cose, chi altro lo sa? Un bambino piccolo o una donna vestita di bianco aumentano notevolmente il fascino di una battaglia, in realtà, non ci rendiamo conto che una vera e propria battaglia con spade possa svolgersi senza di loro, ma sarebbe piuttosto difficile e insolito introdurre questo elemento nella scena finale di “Richard III”, quindi l’unica cosa da fare è approfittare al meglio della situazione e continuare a combattere il più a lungo possibile.

The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty boys, low copying-clerks, in attorneys’ offices, capacious-headed youths from city counting-houses, Jews whose business, as lenders of fancy dresses, is a sure passport to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now and then mistake their masters’ money for their own; and a choice miscellany of idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a private theatre may be an ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate actor, a retired smuggler, or uncertificated bankrupt. The theatre itself may be in Catherine-street, Strand, the purlieus of the city, the neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane, or the vicinity of Sadler’s Wells; or it may, perhaps, form the chief nuisance of some shabby street, on the Surrey side of Waterloo-bridge.

The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, and it is needless to add, are usually selected from one class of society; the audiences are necessarily of much the same character as the performers, who receive, in return for their contributions to the management, tickets to the amount of the money they pay.

All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, constitute the centre of a little stage-struck neighbourhood. Each of them has an audience exclusively its own; and at any you will see dropping into the pit at half-price, or swaggering into the back of a box, if the price of admission be a reduced one, divers boys of from fifteen to twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat and turn up their wristbands, after the portraits of Count D’Orsay, hum tunes and whistle when the curtain is down, by way of persuading the people near them, that they are not at all anxious to have it up again, and speak familiarly of the inferior performers as Bill Such-a-one, and Ned So-and-so, or tell each other how a new piece called The Unknown Bandit of the Invisible Cavern, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is to play The Unknown Bandit; how Charley Scarton is to take the part of an English sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with six unknown bandits, at one and the same time (one theatrical sailor is always equal to half a dozen men at least); how Mister Palmer and Charley Scarton are to go through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second act; how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the whole extent of the stage; and other town-surprising theatrical announcements. These gentlemen are the amateurs—the Richards, Shylocks, Beverleys, and Othellos—the Young Dorntons, Rovers, Captain Absolutes, and Charles Surfaces—a private theatre.

See them at the neighbouring public-house or the theatrical coffee-shop! They are the kings of the place, supposing no real performers to be present; and roll about, hats on one side, and arms a-kimbo, as if they had actually come into possession of eighteen shillings a-week, and a share of a ticket night. If one of them does but know an Astley’s supernumerary he is a happy fellow. The mingled air of envy and admiration with which his companions will regard him, as he converses familiarly with some mouldy-looking man in a fancy neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows, and half-rouged face, testify to the fact of his having just left the stage or the circle, sufficiently shows in what high admiration these public characters are held.

With the double view of guarding against the discovery of friends or employers, and enhancing the interest of an assumed character, by attaching a high-sounding name to its representative, these geniuses assume fictitious names, which are not the least amusing part of the play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so forth, are among the humblest; and the less imposing titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, &c., are completely laid aside. There is something imposing in this, and it is an excellent apology for shabbiness into the bargain. A shrunken, faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers—nay, even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances are very uncommon among the members of the corps dramatique), may be worn for the purpose of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition. Then it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations about employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for the occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere. As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their society—for of course they know that none but strictly respectable persons would be admitted into that close fellowship with them, which acting engenders. They place implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt; and as to the manager, he is all affability when he knows you well,—or, in other words, when he has pocketed your money once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so again.

A quarter before eight—there will be a full house to-night—six parties in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five overtures since seven o’clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty of it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to last six hours at least.

That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is Mr. Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel comedy—his father’s, coal and potato. He does Alfred Highflier in the last piece, and very well he’ll do it—at the price. The party of gentlemen in the opposite box, to whom he has just nodded, are friends and supporters of Mr. Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the Macbeth of the night. You observe their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, each member of the party, with his feet cocked upon the cushion in front of the box! They let them do these things here, upon the same humane principle which permits poor people’s children to knock double knocks at the door of an empty house—because they can’t do it anywhere else. The two stout men in the centre box, with an opera-glass ostentatiously placed before them, are friends of the proprietor—opulent country managers, as he confidentially informs every individual among the crew behind the curtain—opulent country managers looking out for recruits; a representation which Mr. Nathan, the dresser, who is in the manager’s interest, and has just arrived with the costumes, offers to confirm upon oath if required—corroborative evidence, however, is quite unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once.

I principali clienti dei teatri privati sono ragazzi disonesti, impiegati di basso rango negli uffici legali, giovani dal cervello vuoto provenienti dalle contabilità delle banche della città, ebrei il cui mestiere – quello di prestare abiti eleganti – rappresenta un passaporto sicuro per salire sul palco amatoriale; inoltre, ci sono commessi che a volte confondono i soldi dei loro padroni con i propri. E poi, naturalmente, una varietà di vagabondi oziosi. Il proprietario di un teatro privato può essere un ex pittore di scenografie, il gestore di un modesto caffè, un attore di secondo ordine deluso dalle sue aspirazioni, un contrabbandiere in pensione, o semplicemente un fallito senza alcun titolo ufficiale. Il teatro stesso può trovarsi in Catherine Street, nel quartiere di Strand, nei dintorni di Gray’s Inn Lane o vicino a Sadler’s Wells. Oppure può rappresentare il principale problema di una strada squallida, sul lato sud del ponte Waterloo.

Le attrici non ricevono alcun compenso per i loro ruoli, e va detto che di solito vengono selezionate da una determinata classe sociale; il pubblico è necessariamente simile alle attrici stesse, le quali, in cambio del loro contributo alla gestione dell’evento, ricevono biglietti del valore esatto della somma pagata.

Tutti i teatri più piccoli di Londra, soprattutto quelli di livello più basso, costituiscono il centro di quartieri appassionati di teatro. Ognuno di essi ha un pubblico esclusivamente proprio; in qualsiasi di questi teatri si possono vedere, a metà prezzo, ragazzi tra i quindici e i ventun anni che si tolgono il cappotto e si arrotolano le maniche, che, dopo aver visto i ritratti del Conte D’Orsay, cantano canzoni e fischiano quando cala il sipario, nel tentativo di far credere alle persone intorno a loro che non abbiano affatto voglia che il sipario si alzi di nuovo. Parlano in modo informale degli attori meno talentuosi, chiamandoli con nomi come “Bill Questo-uno” o “Ned Quello-altro”, e si raccontano a vicenda come sia in fase di prova un’opera nuova intitolata Il Bandito Sconosciuto della Grotta Invisibile, chi interpreterà il ruolo del bandito, come Charley Scarton dovrà interpretare un marinaio inglese e combattere con sei banditi sconosciuti nello stesso momento (un solo attore che interpreta un marinaio equivale comunque ad almeno sei uomini), e ancora molte altre informazioni sorprendenti legate al mondo del teatro. Questi ragazzi sono gli appassionati di teatro, gli amatori che animano questi piccoli teatri privati.

Vedeteli nel vicino teatro o nel caffè-teatro! Sono i veri re di quel posto, soprattutto quando non ci sono artisti veri e propri; si muovono avanti e indietro, con il cappello storto e le braccia incrociate, come se davvero guadagnassero diciotto scellini a settimana e una parte dei proventi delle vendite dei biglietti ogni sera. Se uno di loro conosce anche solo un attore supplente dell’Astley’s, è davvero fortunato. L’aria mista di invidia e ammirazione con cui i suoi compagni lo guardano, mentre conversa familiarmente con qualche uomo dall’aspetto trasandato che indossa un fazzoletto elegante, il cui sopracciglio incollato e il viso truccato a metà testimoniano il fatto che abbia appena lasciato il palco. Tutto questo dimostra fino a che punto questi personaggi “pubblici” siano considerati importanti.

Con questa doppia strategia: da un lato prevenire che amici o datori di lavoro scoprissero la vera identità delle persone coinvolte, dall’altro aumentare il fascino di un personaggio fittizio attribuendogli un nome sonoro e prestigioso, questi geni si servivano di nomi inventati; e questo rappresentava senz’altro una delle parti più divertenti del “programma” di questo teatro privato. Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, erano tra i nomi più eleganti; mentre nomi meno imponenti come Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons venivano completamente ignorati. C’era qualcosa di autorevole in tutto ciò, e questo rappresentava anche una scusa eccellente per un aspetto esteriore trasandato: un cappotto logoro, un cappello in rovina, un paio di pantaloni rattoppati e sporchi, persino una camicia molto sporca (e nessuno di questi aspetti era affatto insolito tra i membri del “corpo drammatico”) poteva essere indossato a scopo di camuffamento, per evitare qualsiasi possibilità di riconoscimento. In questo modo si evitavano anche domande o spiegazioni scomode riguardo al lavoro e alle attività delle persone coinvolte; in quella circostanza, tutti erano “gentiluomini”, e non c’erano quelle distinzioni sgradevoli e superflue a cui anche i geni dovevano talvolta sottomettersi altrove. Per quanto riguarda le signore, be’, loro sono decisamente al di sopra di qualsiasi assurdità formale; il semplice fatto di trovarsi “dietro le quinte” rappresentava già un’introduzione sufficiente per entrare nel loro ambiente, perché ovviamente sapevano che solo persone estremamente rispettabili avrebbero potuto essere ammesse a quel rapporto stretto che il teatro crea tra attori e spettatori. Confidavano ciecamente nel direttore del teatro; e questo direttore, quando ti conosceva bene, o, in altre parole, quando aveva già intascato i tuoi soldi una volta e nutriva grandi speranze di farlo di nuovo, si comportava sempre con grande affabilità.

Quaranta minuti prima delle otto. Ci sarà un’intera casa piena di gente per tutta la notte: sei feste già in corso nelle sale private; quattro bambini e una donna nella zona riservata al pubblico; e due violini con una flauta nell’orchestra, che hanno già eseguito cinque sinfonie da quando erano le sette (l’ora fissata per l’inizio dei concerti) e stanno appena iniziando la sesta. Comunque, ci sarà abbastanza da divertirsi, perché il programma prevede materiale sufficiente per almeno sei ore di spettacoli.

Quel signore con il cappello bianco e la camicia a quadri, il cappotto marrone e i bottoni di ottone, che si trova appoggiato dietro la cabina lirica sul lato O.P., è il signor Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. Il suo ruolo appartiene al genere della commedia raffinata; quello di suo padre, invece, era legato al mondo del carbone e delle patate. Nell’ultima opera interpreta il personaggio di Alfred Highflier, e lo fa davvero molto bene, a un certo prezzo, naturalmente. I signori seduti nella cabina opposta, verso cui ha appena fatto un cenno con la testa, sono amici e sostenitori del signor Beverley (alias Loggins), l’interprete di Macbeth della serata. Si notano i loro tentativi di apparire rilassati e gentiluomini, ognuno di loro ha le gambe appoggiate sui cuscini davanti alla cabina! Lasciano che facciano queste cose qui, seguendo lo stesso principio umano che permette ai bambini poveri di bussare due volte alla porta di una casa vuota, perché non possono farlo altrove. I due uomini robusti seduti nella cabina centrale, con un binocolo da teatro posizionato in modo vistoso davanti a loro, sono amici del proprietario del teatro: ricchi dirigenti agricoli che cercano nuovi talenti. Un’informazione che il signor Nathan, addetto alle costumi e interessato agli interessi del direttore, è pronto a confermare sotto giuramento, se necessario. Tuttavia, prove ulteriori sono del tutto inutili: quegli uomini ci credono immediatamente.

The stout Jewess who has just entered, is the mother of the pale, bony little girl, with the necklace of blue glass beads, sitting by her; she is being brought up to ‘the profession.’ Pantomime is to be her line, and she is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after the tragedy. The short thin man beside Mr. St. Julien, whose white face is so deeply seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-front is inlaid with open-work, and embossed with coral studs like ladybirds, is the low comedian and comic singer of the establishment. The remainder of the audience—a tolerably numerous one by this time—are a motley group of dupes and blackguards.

The foot-lights have just made their appearance: the wicks of the six little oil lamps round the only tier of boxes, are being turned up, and the additional light thus afforded serves to show the presence of dirt, and absence of paint, which forms a prominent feature in the audience part of the house. As these preparations, however, announce the speedy commencement of the play, let us take a peep ‘behind,’ previous to the ringing-up.

The little narrow passages beneath the stage are neither especially clean nor too brilliantly lighted; and the absence of any flooring, together with the damp mildewy smell which pervades the place, does not conduce in any great degree to their comfortable appearance. Don’t fall over this plate basket—it’s one of the ‘properties’—the caldron for the witches’ cave; and the three uncouth-looking figures, with broken clothes-props in their hands, who are drinking gin-and-water out of a pint pot, are the weird sisters. This miserable room, lighted by candles in sconces placed at lengthened intervals round the wall, is the dressing-room, common to the gentlemen performers, and the square hole in the ceiling is the trap-door of the stage above. You will observe that the ceiling is ornamented with the beams that support the boards, and tastefully hung with cobwebs.

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their own clothes are scattered in hurried confusion over the wooden dresser which surrounds the room. That snuff-shop-looking figure, in front of the glass, is Banquo: and the young lady with the liberal display of legs, who is kindly painting his face with a hare’s foot, is dressed for Fleance. The large woman, who is consulting the stage directions in Cumberland’s edition of Macbeth, is the Lady Macbeth of the night; she is always selected to play the part, because she is tall and stout, and looks a little like Mrs. Siddons—at a considerable distance. That stupid-looking milksop, with light hair and bow legs—a kind of man whom you can warrant town-made—is fresh caught; he plays Malcolm to-night, just to accustom himself to an audience. He will get on better by degrees; he will play Othello in a month, and in a month more, will very probably be apprehended on a charge of embezzlement. The black-eyed female with whom he is talking so earnestly, is dressed for the ‘gentlewoman.’ It is her first appearance, too—in that character. The boy of fourteen who is having his eyebrows smeared with soap and whitening, is Duncan, King of Scotland; and the two dirty men with the corked countenances, in very old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, are the ‘army.’

‘Look sharp below there, gents,’ exclaims the dresser, a red-headed and red-whiskered Jew, calling through the trap, ‘they’re a-going to ring up. The flute says he’ll be blowed if he plays any more, and they’re getting precious noisy in front.’ A general rush immediately takes place to the half-dozen little steep steps leading to the stage, and the heterogeneous group are soon assembled at the side scenes, in breathless anxiety and motley confusion.

‘Now,’ cries the manager, consulting the written list which hangs behind the first P. S, wing, ‘Scene 1, open country—lamps down—thunder and lightning—all ready, White?’ [This is addressed to one of the army.] ‘All ready.’—‘Very well. Scene 2, front chamber. Is the front chamber down?’—‘Yes.’—‘Very well.’—‘Jones’ [to the other army who is up in the flies]. ‘Hallo!’—‘Wind up the open country when we ring up.’—‘I’ll take care.’—‘Scene 3, back perspective with practical bridge. Bridge ready, White? Got the tressels there?’—‘All right.’

‘Very well. Clear the stage,’ cries the manager, hastily packing every member of the company into the little space there is between the wings and the wall, and one wing and another. ‘Places, places. Now then, Witches—Duncan—Malcolm—bleeding officer—where’s the bleeding officer?’—‘Here!’ replies the officer, who has been rose-pinking for the character. ‘Get ready, then; now, White, ring the second music-bell.’ The actors who are to be discovered, are hastily arranged, and the actors who are not to be discovered place themselves, in their anxiety to peep at the house, just where the audience can see them. The bell rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledgment of the call, play three distinct chords. The bell rings—the tragedy (!) opens—and our description closes.

CHAPTER XIV—VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

There was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Vauxhall-gardens would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision at the absurdity of the idea. Vauxhall by daylight! A porter-pot without porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp without the gas—pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be thought of. It was rumoured, too, in those times, that Vauxhall-gardens by day, were the scene of secret and hidden experiments; that there, carvers were exercised in the mystic art of cutting a moderate-sized ham into slices thin enough to pave the whole of the grounds; that beneath the shade of the tall trees, studious men were constantly engaged in chemical experiments, with the view of discovering how much water a bowl of negus could possibly bear; and that in some retired nooks, appropriated to the study of ornithology, other sage and learned men were, by a process known only to themselves, incessantly employed in reducing fowls to a mere combination of skin and bone.

Quella robusta ebrea che è appena entrata è la madre della bambina pallida e magra, con il collare di perle di vetro blu seduta accanto a lei; viene educata per intraprendere quella “professione”. La pantomima sarà la sua specialità, e stasera salirà sul palco dopo una tragedia per esibirsi con un flauto. L’uomo basso e magro accanto a Mr. St. Julien, il cui viso bianco è profondamente segnato dal vaiolo, e la cui camicia sporca presenta motivi intrecciati e decorazioni in corallo simili a quelle delle farfalle, è il comico di basso rango e cantante comico del teatro. Il resto del pubblico – abbastanza numeroso ormai – è un gruppo eterogeneo di ingannatori e individui disonesti.

I faretti da pavimento sono appena stati accesi: le candele delle sei piccole lampade ad olio disposte intorno al unico livello di box vengono accese, e la luce aggiuntiva che ne deriva permette di vedere la presenza di polvere e l’assenza di vernice, caratteristiche evidenti nella parte riservata al pubblico della casa. Tuttavia, poiché queste preparazioni annunciano l’inizio imminente dello spettacolo, diamo un’occhiata “dietro le quinte”, prima che inizi la rappresentazione.

I piccoli passaggi stretti sotto il palco non sono né particolarmente puliti né troppo ben illuminati; inoltre, l’assenza di qualsiasi pavimento, unita all’odore umido e muffito che pervade l’ambiente, non contribuisce affatto a rendere quei luoghi confortevoli. Fate attenzione a non inciampare in questo cesto: è uno dei “mobili” presenti nella grotta delle streghe. Le tre figure dall’aspetto strano, con costumi logori in mano e che bevono gin e acqua da una pentola, sono le sorelle streghe. Questa stanza misera, illuminata da candele disposte a distanze regolari lungo il muro, è lo spogliatoio condiviso dai performer. Il foro quadrato nel soffitto rappresenta la botola del palco sopra di noi. Noterete che il soffitto è decorato dalle travi che sostengono le assi del tetto, e abbellito, in modo “estetico”, da ragnatele.

I personaggi della tragedia sono tutti vestiti, e i loro abiti propri sono sparsi in disordine sul comò di legno che circonda la stanza. Quella figura dall’aspetto simile a quello di un negozio di tabacchi, davanti al vetro, è Banquo; mentre la giovane donna con le gambe visibilmente esposte, che gentilmente gli dipinge il viso con il piede di lepre, è vestita da Fleance. Quella donna robusta, che consulta le indicazioni sceniche nell’edizione di Cumberland de Macbeth, è la Lady Macbeth di quella notte; viene sempre scelta per questo ruolo perché è alta e robusta, e sembra un po’ la signora Siddons, da una certa distanza, almeno. Quel tipo dall’aspetto sciocco, con i capelli biondi e le gambe storte – un uomo che sicuramente proviene dalla città – è appena stato ingaggiato; interpreterà Malcolm questa notte, solo per abituarsi al pubblico. Col tempo andrà meglio: tra un mese interpreterà Othello, e ancora un mese dopo probabilmente verrà arrestato con l’accusa di appropriazione indebita. Quella donna dai capelli neri con cui sta parlando così seriamente è vestita da “dama gentiluoma”; anche per lei è la prima volta che interpreta questo ruolo. Il ragazzo di quattordici anni, a cui stanno spalmando il sapone sulle sopracciglia per renderle bianche, è Duncan, Re di Scozia; mentre quei due uomini sporchi, con i volti tristi e indossando tuniche verdi molto vecchie e stivali logori, rappresentano l’“esercito”.

“State attenti laggiù, signori,” esclama il costumista, un ebreo con i capelli rossi e la barba rossa, gridando attraverso la botola, “stanno per suonare. La flauta dice che lui verrà ucciso se continuerà a suonare, e stanno facendo un gran baccano davanti al palco.” Subito si scatena una corsa verso i sei piccoli gradini ripidi che portano sul palco, e il gruppo eterogeneo si riunisce rapidamente ai lati del palcoscenico, in preda all’ansia e alla confusione.

“Ora,” grida il manager, consultando l’elenco scritto appeso dietro la prima indicazione, “Scena 1, campagna aperta – luci spente – tuoni e fulmini. Tutto pronto, White?” [Si rivolge a uno dei membri dell’équipe militare.] “Tutto pronto.” “Molto bene. Scena 2, sala d’ingresso. La sala d’ingresso è pronta?” “Sì.” “Molto bene. Jones, ” [Si rivolge all’altro membro dell’équipe militare che si trova al piano di sopra.] “Pronto!” “Wind, prepara la scena della campagna aperta quando suoneremo.” “Me ne occuperò io.” “Scena 3, prospettiva posteriore con il ponte. Il ponte è pronto, White? Hai sistemato le strutture necessarie?” “Tutto a posto.”

“Molto bene,” grida il manager, impilando frettolosamente tutti i membri della compagnia nello spazio ristretto tra le ali e il muro. “Posti, posti. Ora, streghe—Duncan—Malcolm. Dove diavolo è quell’ufficiale?” “Eccomi!” risponde l’ufficiale, che per quel ruolo si era truccato con il rossetto. “Allora preparatevi. Ora, White, suona il secondo campanello.” Gli attori che dovranno apparire vengono sistemati in fretta e furia; quelli che non devono comparire si posizionano, nell’ansia di dare un’occhiata alla scena, proprio dove il pubblico può vederli. Il campanello suona. L’orchestra risponde con tre accordi distinti. Il campanello suona ancora. E la tragedia inizia. La nostra descrizione, invece, finisce qui.

CAPITOLO XIV – I GIARDINI DI VAUXHALL DI GIORNO

C’era un tempo in cui, se qualcuno osava chiedersi com’essero i Vauxhall Gardens di giorno, veniva subito deriso per l’assurdità dell’idea. I Vauxhall Gardens alla luce del sole. Un vaso senza il suo contenuto, la Camera dei Comuni senza il Presidente, una lampada a gas senza il gas stesso: sciocchezze, cose a cui nemmeno pensare. In quei tempi si diceva anche che nei Vauxhall Gardens di giorno avvenissero esperimenti segreti e nascosti; che lì scultori si esercitassero nell’arte misteriosa di tagliare un prosciutto di dimensioni medie in fette così sottili da poter coprire l’intero terreno; che, all’ombra degli alberi alti, uomini studiosi conducessero continui esperimenti chimici per scoprire quanta acqua potesse contenere una ciotola di “negus”; e che in alcuni angoli appartati dedicati allo studio dell’ornitologia, altri saggi e eruditi si impegnassero in processi noti solo a loro stessi per ridurre gli uccelli a semplici combinazioni di pelle e ossa.

Vague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar nature, cast over Vauxhall-gardens an air of deep mystery; and as there is a great deal in the mysterious, there is no doubt that to a good many people, at all events, the pleasure they afforded was not a little enhanced by this very circumstance.

Of this class of people we confess to having made one. We loved to wander among these illuminated groves, thinking of the patient and laborious researches which had been carried on there during the day, and witnessing their results in the suppers which were served up beneath the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night. The temples and saloons and cosmoramas and fountains glittered and sparkled before our eyes; the beauty of the lady singers and the elegant deportment of the gentlemen, captivated our hearts; a few hundred thousand of additional lamps dazzled our senses; a bowl or two of punch bewildered our brains; and we were happy.

In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vauxhall-gardens took to opening them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly disturbing that veil of mystery which had hung about the property for many years, and which none but the noonday sun, and the late Mr. Simpson, had ever penetrated. We shrunk from going; at this moment we scarcely know why. Perhaps a morbid consciousness of approaching disappointment—perhaps a fatal presentiment—perhaps the weather; whatever it was, we did not go until the second or third announcement of a race between two balloons tempted us, and we went.

We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for the first time, that the entrance, if there had been any magic about it at all, was now decidedly disenchanted, being, in fact, nothing more nor less than a combination of very roughly-painted boards and sawdust. We glanced at the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried past—we just recognised them, and that was all. We bent our steps to the firework-ground; there, at least, we should not be disappointed. We reached it, and stood rooted to the spot with mortification and astonishment. That the Moorish tower—that wooden shed with a door in the centre, and daubs of crimson and yellow all round, like a gigantic watch-case! That the place where night after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore make his terrific ascent, surrounded by flames of fire, and peals of artillery, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we forget even her name now), who nobly devoted her life to the manufacture of fireworks, had so often been seen fluttering in the wind, as she called up a red, blue, or party-coloured light to illumine her temple! That the—but at this moment the bell rung; the people scampered away, pell-mell, to the spot from whence the sound proceeded; and we, from the mere force of habit, found ourself running among the first, as if for very life.

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal men in cocked hats were ‘executing’ the overture to Tancredi, and a numerous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, with their families, had rushed from their half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes, and crowded to the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration when a particularly small gentleman, in a dress coat, led on a particularly tall lady in a blue sarcenet pelisse and bonnet of the same, ornamented with large white feathers, and forthwith commenced a plaintive duet.

We knew the small gentleman well; we had seen a lithographed semblance of him, on many a piece of music, with his mouth wide open as if in the act of singing; a wine-glass in his hand; and a table with two decanters and four pine-apples on it in the background. The tall lady, too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures of admiration, many and many a time—how different people do look by daylight, and without punch, to be sure! It was a beautiful duet: first the small gentleman asked a question, and then the tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman and the tall lady sang together most melodiously; then the small gentleman went through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got very tenor indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall lady responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a shake or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they both merged imperceptibly into the original air: and the band wound themselves up to a pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed the tall lady out, and the applause was rapturous.

The comic singer, however, was the especial favourite; we really thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a pocket-handkerchief, who stood near us, would have fainted with excess of joy. A marvellously facetious gentleman that comic singer is; his distinguishing characteristics are, a wig approaching to the flaxen, and an aged countenance, and he bears the name of one of the English counties, if we recollect right. He sang a very good song about the seven ages, the first half-hour of which afforded the assembly the purest delight; of the rest we can make no report, as we did not stay to hear any more.

We walked about, and met with a disappointment at every turn; our favourite views were mere patches of paint; the fountain that had sparkled so showily by lamp-light, presented very much the appearance of a water-pipe that had burst; all the ornaments were dingy, and all the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt at rope-dancing in the little open theatre. The sun shone upon the spangled dresses of the performers, and their evolutions were about as inspiriting and appropriate as a country-dance in a family vault. So we retraced our steps to the firework-ground, and mingled with the little crowd of people who were contemplating Mr. Green.

Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was ‘going up,’ the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There was one little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round his neck, who entered into conversation with everybody, and had something to say upon every remark that was made within his hearing. He was standing with his arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and then vented his feelings of reverence for the aëronaut, by saying, as he looked round to catch somebody’s eye, ‘He’s a rum ’un is Green; think o’ this here being up’ards of his two hundredth ascent; ecod, the man as is ekal to Green never had the toothache yet, nor won’t have within this hundred year, and that’s all about it. When you meets with real talent, and native, too, encourage it, that’s what I say;’ and when he had delivered himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a sort of admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond himself and Green, that impressed the crowd with the opinion that he was an oracle.

Vaghi pettegolezzi di questo tipo, insieme a molti altri di natura simile, creavano un’atmosfera di profondo mistero nei giardini di Vauxhall; e poiché ciò che è misterioso suscita sempre grande interesse, non c’è dubbio che per molte persone il piacere che questi luoghi offrivano fosse notevolmente aumentato proprio a causa di questa caratteristica.

Di questa categoria di persone, ammettiamo di averne fatto parte. Amavamo vagare tra questi giardini illuminati, pensando alle ricerche pazienti e laboriose che vi venivano svolte durante il giorno, e osservandone i risultati nelle cene servite sotto la luce delle lampade e al suono della musica di notte. I templi, i saloni, i cosmoportali e le fontane brillavano e scintillavano davanti ai nostri occhi; la bellezza delle cantanti e l’elegante comportamento dei gentiluomini incantavano i nostri cuori; alcune centinaia di migliaia di lampade in più abbagliavano i nostri sensi; un paio di bicchieri di punch confondevano le nostre menti. E eravamo felici.

In un momento nefasto, i proprietari dei Vauxhall Gardens iniziarono ad aprirli di giorno. Ne rimanemmo rammaricati, poiché questo interrompeva bruscamente quella cortina di mistero che avvolgeva quel luogo da molti anni e che soltanto il sole di mezzogiorno e il defunto signor Simpson erano mai riusciti a penetrare. Evitavamo di andarci; in quel momento, non sappiamo nemmeno perché. Forse per una sorta di premonizione di delusione imminente, forse a causa del tempo, comunque sia, non ci recammo fino a quando la seconda o la terza notifica riguardante una gara tra due palloni aerostatici non ci tentò, e allora andammo.

Pagammo il nostro biglietto all’ingresso e poi, per la prima volta, vedemmo che l’entrata, se mai aveva avuto qualche traccia di magia, ora era decisamente priva di qualsiasi incanto: non era altro che una combinazione di assi mal dipinti e polvere di legno. Gettammo un’occhiata alla sala dell’orchestra e a quella dove si serviva la cena mentre ci affrettavamo ad andare via. Le riconoscemmo appena, e basta. Ci dirigemmo verso il campo dei fuochi d’artificio: lì, almeno, non saremmo stati delusi. Arrivammo, e rimanemmo pietrificati dallo shock e dall’orrore. Quella torre moresca, quel capanno di legno con una porta al centro, e macchie di rosso e giallo dappertutto, come un’enorme cassa da orologi! Quel luogo dove, notte dopo notte, avevamo visto il coraggioso signor Blackmore compiere la sua spaventosa ascesa, circondato da fiamme e rumori di artiglieria. E dove i vestiti bianchi di Madame Qualcuno (ora abbiamo dimenticato persino il suo nome) – che aveva dedicato la sua vita alla produzione di fuochi d’artificio – spesso fluttuavano al vento mentre accendeva luci rosse, blu o colorate per illuminare il proprio tempio. Quello. Ma in quel momento suonò la campana; la gente si precipitò verso il luogo da cui proveniva il suono. E noi, per semplice abitudine, ci ritrovammo tra i primi a correre, come se ne andasse della nostra vita.

Era per il concerto nell’orchestra. Un piccolo gruppo di uomini dall’aspetto triste, con cappelli inclinati, stava “eseguendo” l’ouverture de Tancredi, e un numeroso gruppo di signore e signori, insieme alle loro famiglie, si era affrettato a lasciare le loro tazze di birra mezze vuote e si era radunato lì. Un intenso mormorio di ammirazione si alzò quando un gentiluomo particolarmente basso, in abito da sera, guidò una signora particolarmente alta, vestita con un mantello blu e un cappello dello stesso colore ornato con grandi piume bianche; subito dopo iniziarono a eseguire un duetto malinconico.

Conoscevamo bene quel piccolo gentiluomo; avevamo visto la sua immagine litografata su molti dischi musicali: con la bocca spalancata come se stesse cantando, un bicchiere di vino in mano, e sullo sfondo un tavolo con due decanter e quattro ananas. Anche quella signora alta l’avevamo osservata molte volte, perduta in estasi ammirative. Che diversi siano le persone alla luce del giorno, e senza alcol, naturalmente! Era davvero un bellissimo duetto: prima il piccolo gentiluomo poneva una domanda, poi la signora alta rispondeva; poi insieme cantavano in modo molto melodioso; dopo il piccolo gentiluomo esprimeva con fervore alcune emozioni, raggiungendo tonalità davvero alte, e la signora alta rispondeva allo stesso modo; infine entrambi tornavano al brano originale. La banda si scatenava in un crescendo frenetico, il piccolo gentiluomo accompagnava la signora alta alla fine del brano, e l’applauso era entusiasta.

Il cantante comico, tuttavia, era il nostro preferito assoluto; pensavamo davvero che un gentiluomo, con la cena in un fazzoletto da tasca e che stava vicino a noi, sarebbe svenuto per l’eccesso di gioia. Che uomo straordinariamente spiritoso quel cantante comico. Le sue caratteristiche principali sono una parrucca di colore biondo chiaro e un aspetto anziano; inoltre, se ricordiamo bene, il suo nome fa riferimento a uno dei contee d’Inghilterra. Cantò una canzone molto bella sulle sette età della vita; la prima mezzora del suo spettacolo procurò al pubblico un vero piacere indescrivibile. Per quanto riguarda il resto, non possiamo fare alcun commento, poiché non abbiamo continuato ad ascoltare.

Camminammo avanti e indietro, ma incontrammo delusione ad ogni svolta: i paesaggi che amavamo di più erano in realtà solo macchie di vernice; la fontana che brillava così intensamente alla luce delle lanterne sembrava piuttosto un tubo d’acqua rotto; tutti gli ornamenti erano opachi e i viali cupi. Nel piccolo teatro aperto si tentò goffamente di eseguire una performance di danza con le corde. Il sole illuminava gli abiti scintillanti dei performer, ma le loro mosse risultavano altrettanto poco ispiratrici e inappropriate quanto una danza country in un mausoleo familiare. Così tornammo sul luogo dove si erano esibiti i fuochi d’artificio e ci mescolammo alla piccola folla che osservava il signor Green.

Circa una mezza dozzina di uomini cercavano di contenere l’impetuosità di uno dei palloni, che era completamente riempito e aveva già il carico attaccato; e poiché si erano diffuse voci secondo cui un lord stava per “salire in cielo”, la folla era più ansiosa e loquace del solito. C’era un ometto vestito di nero sbiadito, con il viso sporco e un fazzoletto nero arrugginito con bordi rossi, legato strettamente intorno al collo; parlava con tutti e aveva sempre qualcosa da dire su qualsiasi commento gli venisse fatto. Stava lì con le braccia incrociate, fissando il pallone, e di tanto in tanto esprimeva la sua ammirazione per l’aeronauta, dicendo, mentre cercava lo sguardo di qualcuno: “Quell’uomo, Green, pensate un po’: essere a duecentesima ascensione. Ehi, un tipo come Green non ha mai avuto mal di denti, e probabilmente non ne avrà nemmeno in questo secolo. Questo sì che è talento vero, naturale. Bisogna incoraggiarlo, ve lo dico io”. Dopo aver espresso queste opinioni, incrociava le braccia ancora più deciso di prima e fissava il pallone con un’aria di ammirazione e sfida nei confronti di qualsiasi altro uomo al mondo, oltre a sé stesso e a Green. Il che faceva sì che la folla lo considerasse quasi un oracolo.

‘Ah, you’re very right, sir,’ said another gentleman, with his wife, and children, and mother, and wife’s sister, and a host of female friends, in all the gentility of white pocket-handkerchiefs, frills, and spencers, ‘Mr. Green is a steady hand, sir, and there’s no fear about him.’

‘Fear!’ said the little man: ‘isn’t it a lovely thing to see him and his wife a going up in one balloon, and his own son and his wife a jostling up against them in another, and all of them going twenty or thirty mile in three hours or so, and then coming back in pochayses? I don’t know where this here science is to stop, mind you; that’s what bothers me.’

Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the spencers.

‘What’s the ladies a laughing at, sir?’ inquired the little man, condescendingly.

‘It’s only my sister Mary,’ said one of the girls, ‘as says she hopes his lordship won’t be frightened when he’s in the car, and want to come out again.’

‘Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,’ replied the little man. ‘If he was so much as to move a inch without leave, Green would jist fetch him a crack over the head with the telescope, as would send him into the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun him till they come down again.’

‘Would he, though?’ inquired the other man.

‘Yes, would he,’ replied the little one, ‘and think nothing of it, neither, if he was the king himself. Green’s presence of mind is wonderful.’

Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the preparations which were being made for starting. The car was attached to the second balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a military band commenced playing, with a zeal and fervour which would render the most timid man in existence but too happy to accept any means of quitting that particular spot of earth on which they were stationed. Then Mr. Green, sen., and his noble companion entered one car, and Mr. Green, jun., and his companion the other; and then the balloons went up, and the aërial travellers stood up, and the crowd outside roared with delight, and the two gentlemen who had never ascended before, tried to wave their flags, as if they were not nervous, but held on very fast all the while; and the balloons were wafted gently away, our little friend solemnly protesting, long after they were reduced to mere specks in the air, that he could still distinguish the white hat of Mr. Green. The gardens disgorged their multitudes, boys ran up and down screaming ‘bal-loon;’ and in all the crowded thoroughfares people rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road, and having stared up in the air at two little black objects till they almost dislocated their necks, walked slowly in again, perfectly satisfied.

The next day there was a grand account of the ascent in the morning papers, and the public were informed how it was the finest day but four in Mr. Green’s remembrance; how they retained sight of the earth till they lost it behind the clouds; and how the reflection of the balloon on the undulating masses of vapour was gorgeously picturesque; together with a little science about the refraction of the sun’s rays, and some mysterious hints respecting atmospheric heat and eddying currents of air.

There was also an interesting account how a man in a boat was distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, ‘My eye!’ which Mr. Green, jun., attributed to his voice rising to the balloon, and the sound being thrown back from its surface into the car; and the whole concluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next Wednesday, all of which was very instructive and very amusing, as our readers will see if they look to the papers. If we have forgotten to mention the date, they have only to wait till next summer, and take the account of the first ascent, and it will answer the purpose equally well.

CHAPTER XV—EARLY COACHES

We have often wondered how many months’ incessant travelling in a post-chaise it would take to kill a man; and wondering by analogy, we should very much like to know how many months of constant travelling in a succession of early coaches, an unfortunate mortal could endure. Breaking a man alive upon the wheel, would be nothing to breaking his rest, his peace, his heart—everything but his fast—upon four; and the punishment of Ixion (the only practical person, by-the-bye, who has discovered the secret of the perpetual motion) would sink into utter insignificance before the one we have suggested. If we had been a powerful churchman in those good times when blood was shed as freely as water, and men were mowed down like grass, in the sacred cause of religion, we would have lain by very quietly till we got hold of some especially obstinate miscreant, who positively refused to be converted to our faith, and then we would have booked him for an inside place in a small coach, which travelled day and night: and securing the remainder of the places for stout men with a slight tendency to coughing and spitting, we would have started him forth on his last travels: leaving him mercilessly to all the tortures which the waiters, landlords, coachmen, guards, boots, chambermaids, and other familiars on his line of road, might think proper to inflict.

Who has not experienced the miseries inevitably consequent upon a summons to undertake a hasty journey? You receive an intimation from your place of business—wherever that may be, or whatever you may be—that it will be necessary to leave town without delay. You and your family are forthwith thrown into a state of tremendous excitement; an express is immediately dispatched to the washerwoman’s; everybody is in a bustle; and you, yourself, with a feeling of dignity which you cannot altogether conceal, sally forth to the booking-office to secure your place. Here a painful consciousness of your own unimportance first rushes on your mind—the people are as cool and collected as if nobody were going out of town, or as if a journey of a hundred odd miles were a mere nothing. You enter a mouldy-looking room, ornamented with large posting-bills; the greater part of the place enclosed behind a huge, lumbering, rough counter, and fitted up with recesses that look like the dens of the smaller animals in a travelling menagerie, without the bars. Some half-dozen people are ‘booking’ brown-paper parcels, which one of the clerks flings into the aforesaid recesses with an air of recklessness which you, remembering the new carpet-bag you bought in the morning, feel considerably annoyed at; porters, looking like so many Atlases, keep rushing in and out, with large packages on their shoulders; and while you are waiting to make the necessary inquiries, you wonder what on earth the booking-office clerks can have been before they were booking-office clerks; one of them with his pen behind his ear, and his hands behind him, is standing in front of the fire, like a full-length portrait of Napoleon; the other with his hat half off his head, enters the passengers’ names in the books with a coolness which is inexpressibly provoking; and the villain whistles—actually whistles—while a man asks him what the fare is outside, all the way to Holyhead!—in frosty weather, too! They are clearly an isolated race, evidently possessing no sympathies or feelings in common with the rest of mankind. Your turn comes at last, and having paid the fare, you tremblingly inquire—‘What time will it be necessary for me to be here in the morning?’—‘Six o’clock,’ replies the whistler, carelessly pitching the sovereign you have just parted with, into a wooden bowl on the desk. ‘Rather before than arter,’ adds the man with the semi-roasted unmentionables, with just as much ease and complacency as if the whole world got out of bed at five. You turn into the street, ruminating as you bend your steps homewards on the extent to which men become hardened in cruelty, by custom.

“Ah, avete perfettamente ragione, signore,” disse un altro gentiluomo, insieme alla moglie, ai figli, alla madre, alla cognata della moglie e a un intero gruppo di amiche donne, tutte vestite con la massima eleganza, con fazzoletti da tasca bianchi, volantini e gilet. “Il signor Green è una persona affidabile, signore. Non c’è alcuna >paura a riguardo di lui.”

“‘Paura!’ disse il piccolo uomo: ‘Non è meraviglioso vederlo lui e sua moglie salire su un unico pallone aerostatico, mentre loro stesso figlio e la sua moglie si scontrano con loro in un altro pallone? E tutti insieme viaggiano per venti o trenta miglia in circa tre ore, per poi tornare indietro. Non so fino a dove possa arrivare questa scienza; è proprio questo che mi preoccupa.’”

Lì, tra le femmine presenti negli spencer, c’era un notevole chiacchiericcio.

“Di cosa stanno ridendo le signore, signore?”, chiese il piccolo uomo con tono condiscendente.

“È solo mia sorella Mary,” disse una delle ragazze, “e dice che spera che Sua Signoria non si spaventi quando sarà dentro la carrozza e voglia uscire di nuovo.”

“Non preoccuparti per questo, cara mia,” rispose il piccolo uomo.
“Se solo si muovesse di un centimetro senza permesso, Green gli darebbe subito una botta in testa con il telescopio. Lo manderebbe dritto nel fondo del cesto in un attimo, e lo stordirebbe fino a quando non tornassero giù.”

“Ma lo farà davvero?”, chiese l’altro uomo.

“Sì, certo che lo farebbe,” rispose il piccolo, “e non ci penserebbe nemmeno se fosse lui stesso il re. L’aplomb di Green è davvero meraviglioso.”

Proprio in quel momento tutti gli sguardi si rivolsero alle preparazioni in corso per il decollo. L’aerostato fu agganciato al secondo pallone; i due vennero avvicinati l’uno all’altro, e una banda militare iniziò a suonare con tale entusiasmo che anche l’uomo più timido avrebbe accettato qualsiasi mezzo pur di non lasciare quel luogo. Poi il signor Green senior e il suo nobile compagno salirono su un aerostato, mentre il signor Green junior e il suo compagno ne presero un altro; infine i palloni si alzarono in cielo. I viaggiatori aerei si alzarono in piedi, la folla fuori esultò di gioia, e i due gentiluomini che non avevano mai fatto un’ascensione prima cercarono di sventolare le loro bandiere, come se non fossero nervosi, ma tennero saldamente le maniglie per tutto il tempo. Gli aerostati si allontanarono dolcemente; il nostro piccolo amico, anche molto dopo che erano diventati semplici puntini nel cielo, continuò a sostenere di riuscire ancora a distinguere il cappello bianco del signor Green. I giardini si svuotarono della folla; i ragazzi correvano su e giù gridando “aerostato!”, e nelle strade affollate la gente usciva dalle botteghe per guardare in alto verso quei due piccoli oggetti neri, finché quasi non si slogavano il collo, poi rientravano dentro soddisfatti.

Il giorno seguente, al mattino, furono pubblicati dettagliatissimi resoconti sull’ascesa in pallone; si informava il pubblico che era stato il quarto giorno più splendido nella memoria del signor Green; si descriveva come avessero continuato a vedere la terra fino a quando questa non era scomparsa dietro le nuvole; si raccontava anche come il riflesso della pallone sulle onde di vapore fosse stato davvero suggestivo e pittoresco; inoltre venivano forniti alcuni spiegamenti scientifici riguardanti la rifrazione dei raggi solari, nonché alcune ipotesi misteriose sui fenomeni legati al calore atmosferico e alle correnti d’aria.

C’era anche un resoconto interessante su come il signor Green, Jr. avesse chiaramente sentito un uomo su una barca esclamare: “Mio Dio!”, attribuendo questo grido al fatto che la voce dell’uomo fosse risuonata sulla superficie del pallone aerostatico e poi riflessa indietro verso l’interno della cabina; tutto ciò si concludeva con una leggera allusione a un’altra ascensione prevista per il prossimo mercoledì. Un racconto davvero istruttivo e divertente, come i nostri lettori potranno constatare se lo leggono sui giornali. Se ci siamo dimenticati di menzionare la data, basterà attendere il prossimo estate per leggere il resoconto della prima ascensione: sarà altrettanto utile e interessante.

CAPITOLO XV – I PRIMI COCHIERI

Ci siamo spesso chiesti quanti mesi di viaggi incessanti in una posta sarebbero bastati per uccidere un uomo; e, facendo un’analogia, ci piacerebbe molto sapere quanti mesi di viaggi continui in una serie di carrozze antiche un essere umano sfortunato potrebbe sopportare. Frantumare un uomo vivo sotto le ruote di una carrozza non sarebbe nulla rispetto al distruggere il suo riposo, la sua pace, il suo cuore, tutto tranne il suo corpo stesso. La punizione inflitta a Ixione (l’unica persona concreta che abbia scoperto il segreto del movimento perpetuo) sembrerebbe insignificante al confronto di quella che abbiamo proposto noi. Se fossimo stati un potente ecclesiastico in quei tempi in cui il sangue veniva versato con la stessa facilità dell’acqua, e le persone venivano uccise come erba per una causa sacra come la religione, saremmo rimasti tranquillamente in attesa fino a quando non avessimo trovato qualche miscredente particolarmente ostinato che si rifiutasse assolutamente di convertirsi alla nostra fede. Poi lo avremmo fatto viaggiare costantemente, giorno e notte, in una piccola carrozza; avremmo riservato gli altri posti a uomini robusti ma con tendenze al tossire e allo sputare, e l’avremmo lasciato esposto a tutte le torture che i servitori, i proprietari delle locande, i cocchieri, le guardie, i camerieri e tutti gli altri individui lungo il suo percorso avrebbero potuto infliggergli.

Chi non ha mai sperimentato le miserie inevitabilmente derivanti da un richiamo a intraprendere una frettolosa viaggio? Ricevi una comunicazione dal tuo luogo di lavoro – qualunque esso sia, o quale che sia la tua posizione – che ti informa della necessità di lasciare immediatamente la città. Tu e la tua famiglia vi trovate improvvisamente in uno stato di grande agitazione; viene subito inviato un treno espresso alla lavandaia; tutti sono nel caos, e tu stesso, con un senso di dignità che non riesci a nascondere del tutto, ti rechi all’ufficio di biglietteria per prenotare il tuo posto. Lì, per la prima volta, ti rendi conto dolorosamente della tua insignificanza: le persone sono calme e composte, come se nessuno stesse lasciando la città, o come se un viaggio di oltre cento miglia fosse qualcosa di del tutto trascurabile. Entri in una stanza dall’aspetto umido e muffito, decorata con grandi avvisi pubblicitari; la maggior parte dello spazio è racchiusa dietro un enorme bancone massiccio e grezzo, con nicchie che sembrano le tane di piccoli animali in uno zoo itinerante. Senza sbarre. Un paio di persone stanno “prenotando” pacchi avvolti in carta marrone; uno dei impiegati li getta con noncuranza nelle suddette nicchie, il che ti infastidisce molto, soprattutto pensando al nuovo borsone che hai comprato quella mattina. Portieri dall’aspetto imponente entrano e escono continuamente, portando grandi pacchi sulle spalle; mentre aspetti di fare le tue domande, ti chiedi quale possa essere stata la vita precedente di questi impiegati. Uno di loro, con la penna dietro l’orecchio e le mani dietro la schiena, sta in piedi davanti al forno, come un ritratto a grandezza naturale di Napoleone; l’altro, con il cappello mezzo calato, registra i nomi dei passeggeri con una freddezza estremamente irritante. E il “malvagio” impiegato, fischia davvero mentre qualcuno gli chiede quanto costi il biglietto per Holyhead, in tempo di gelo, per giunta! Chiaramente appartengono a una razza isolata, priva di qualsiasi empatia o sentimento in comune con il resto dell’umanità. Alla fine arriva il tuo turno: dopo aver pagato il biglietto, chiedi tremando: “A che ora dovrò essere qui domattina?” “Alle sei,” risponde l’impiegato, gettando con noncuranza la moneta che hai appena pagato in una ciotola di legno sul bancone, “Meglio prima che dopo,” aggiunge l’altro con lo stesso tono indifferente, come se tutto il mondo si alzasse alle cinque del mattino. Usci in strada, riflettendo mentre torni a casa: fino a che punto gli esseri umani possano diventare crudeli, a causa delle abitudini.

If there be one thing in existence more miserable than another, it most unquestionably is the being compelled to rise by candlelight. If you have ever doubted the fact, you are painfully convinced of your error, on the morning of your departure. You left strict orders, overnight, to be called at half-past four, and you have done nothing all night but doze for five minutes at a time, and start up suddenly from a terrific dream of a large church-clock with the small hand running round, with astonishing rapidity, to every figure on the dial-plate. At last, completely exhausted, you fall gradually into a refreshing sleep—your thoughts grow confused—the stage-coaches, which have been ‘going off’ before your eyes all night, become less and less distinct, until they go off altogether; one moment you are driving with all the skill and smartness of an experienced whip—the next you are exhibiting à la Ducrow, on the off-leader; anon you are closely muffled up, inside, and have just recognised in the person of the guard an old schoolfellow, whose funeral, even in your dream, you remember to have attended eighteen years ago. At last you fall into a state of complete oblivion, from which you are aroused, as if into a new state of existence, by a singular illusion. You are apprenticed to a trunk-maker; how, or why, or when, or wherefore, you don’t take the trouble to inquire; but there you are, pasting the lining in the lid of a portmanteau. Confound that other apprentice in the back shop, how he is hammering!—rap, rap, rap—what an industrious fellow he must be! you have heard him at work for half an hour past, and he has been hammering incessantly the whole time. Rap, rap, rap, again—he’s talking now—what’s that he said? Five o’clock! You make a violent exertion, and start up in bed. The vision is at once dispelled; the trunk-maker’s shop is your own bedroom, and the other apprentice your shivering servant, who has been vainly endeavouring to wake you for the last quarter of an hour, at the imminent risk of breaking either his own knuckles or the panels of the door.

You proceed to dress yourself, with all possible dispatch. The flaring flat candle with the long snuff, gives light enough to show that the things you want, are not where they ought to be, and you undergo a trifling delay in consequence of having carefully packed up one of your boots in your over-anxiety of the preceding night. You soon complete your toilet, however, for you are not particular on such an occasion, and you shaved yesterday evening; so mounting your Petersham great-coat, and green travelling shawl, and grasping your carpet-bag in your right hand, you walk lightly down-stairs, lest you should awaken any of the family, and after pausing in the common sitting-room for one moment, just to have a cup of coffee (the said common sitting-room looking remarkably comfortable, with everything out of its place, and strewed with the crumbs of last night’s supper), you undo the chain and bolts of the street-door, and find yourself fairly in the street.

A thaw, by all that is miserable! The frost is completely broken up. You look down the long perspective of Oxford-street, the gas-lights mournfully reflected on the wet pavement, and can discern no speck in the road to encourage the belief that there is a cab or a coach to be had—the very coachmen have gone home in despair. The cold sleet is drizzling down with that gentle regularity, which betokens a duration of four-and-twenty hours at least; the damp hangs upon the house-tops and lamp-posts, and clings to you like an invisible cloak. The water is ‘coming in’ in every area, the pipes have burst, the water-butts are running over; the kennels seem to be doing matches against time, pump-handles descend of their own accord, horses in market-carts fall down, and there’s no one to help them up again, policemen look as if they had been carefully sprinkled with powdered glass; here and there a milk-woman trudges slowly along, with a bit of list round each foot to keep her from slipping; boys who ‘don’t sleep in the house,’ and are not allowed much sleep out of it, can’t wake their masters by thundering at the shop-door, and cry with the cold—the compound of ice, snow, and water on the pavement, is a couple of inches thick—nobody ventures to walk fast to keep himself warm, and nobody could succeed in keeping himself warm if he did.

It strikes a quarter past five as you trudge down Waterloo-place on your way to the Golden Cross, and you discover, for the first time, that you were called about an hour too early. You have not time to go back; there is no place open to go into, and you have, therefore, no resource but to go forward, which you do, feeling remarkably satisfied with yourself, and everything about you. You arrive at the office, and look wistfully up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for aught you can see, may have flown away altogether, for preparations appear to be on foot for the departure of any vehicle in the shape of a coach. You wander into the booking-office, which with the gas-lights and blazing fire, looks quite comfortable by contrast—that is to say, if any place can look comfortable at half-past five on a winter’s morning. There stands the identical book-keeper in the same position as if he had not moved since you saw him yesterday. As he informs you, that the coach is up the yard, and will be brought round in about a quarter of an hour, you leave your bag, and repair to ‘The Tap’—not with any absurd idea of warming yourself, because you feel such a result to be utterly hopeless, but for the purpose of procuring some hot brandy-and-water, which you do,—when the kettle boils! an event which occurs exactly two minutes and a half before the time fixed for the starting of the coach.

Se esiste qualcosa di più miserabile dell’altro in questo mondo, allora senza dubbio è essere costretti a alzarsi al chiaro di luna. Se avete mai dubitato di questa verità, vi renderete dolorosamente conto del vostro errore la mattina seguente. Avete dato ordini precisi di essere svegliati alle quattro e mezza del mattino, ma per tutta la notte non avete fatto altro che dormicchiare per brevi periodi, per poi svegliarvi improvvisamente da terribili sogni in cui una grande campana dell’orologio della chiesa aveva il piccolo quadrante che girava a velocità incredibile intorno a tutte le cifre del display. Alla fine, completamente esausto, vi addormentate di nuovo. I treni che sembravano partire davanti ai vostri occhi per tutta la notte diventano sempre più indistinti, fino a scomparire del tutto; un momento siete alla guida con tutta l’abilità di un esperto cocchiere, il momento dopo vi trovate a fare esercizi di equitazione. Poi vi ritrovate avvolto in coperte calde e riconoscete nel guardiano un vecchio compagno di scuola; ricordate che diciotto anni prima avevate partecipato al suo funerale, anche se in sogno. Alla fine cadete in uno stato di totale oblio, fino a quando non vi svegliate, come se foste entrati in un nuovo stato di esistenza, a causa di un’illusione strana. Vi ritrovate apprendista di un falegname che realizza bauli; non vi chiedete come, perché o dove, ma eccovi lì, che incollate la fodera all’interno di una valigia. Maledetto quell’altro apprendista nella bottega accanto, quanto batte il martello! Che lavoratore instancabile deve essere. Lo avete sentito lavorare per mezz’ora senza sosta. Batte, batte, batte. Ora sta parlando. Cosa ha detto? Le cinque. Fate uno sforzo e vi alzate dal letto. Quella visione svanisce all’istante: la bottega del falegname è in realtà la vostra camera da letto, e quell’altro apprendista è il vostro tremante servitore che ha cercato invano di svegliarvi per l’ultima mezz’ora, rischiando di rompersi le nocche o i pannelli della porta.

Ti vesti il più rapidamente possibile. La candela piatta, con la sua lunga punta, fornisce abbastanza luce per constatare che le cose di cui hai bisogno non sono dove dovrebbero essere; a causa della tua eccessiva premura la scorsa notte, uno dei tuoi stivali è stato impacchettato in modo errato, causandoti un piccolo ritardo. Comunque, finisci presto di prepararti: in occasioni del genere non sei particolarmente meticoloso, e ieri sera ti sei già rasato. Indossi quindi il tuo grande cappotto di Petersham, un scialle da viaggio verde e, tenendo la tua borsa di stoffa nella mano destra, esci silenziosamente dalle scale per non svegliare nessuno in famiglia. Dopo esserti fermato per un momento nel soggiorno comune – che appare davvero molto disordinato, con tutto sparpagliato dappertutto e pieno di briciole della cena della scorsa notte – apri la porta d’ingresso e ti trovi finalmente in strada.

A disgelo, per tutto ciò che è misero. La brina si è completamente sciolta. Guardando lungo la strada di >Oxford, le luci a gas si riflettono tristemente sul selciato bagnato; non si vede nemmeno l’ombra di un taxi o di una carrozza. Gli stessi cocchieri sono tornati a casa, nel dispero. La pioggia gelata cade con quella regolarità che presagisce almeno altre ventiquattro ore di freddo intenso; l’umidità si attacca ai tetti delle case e ai lampioni, come un mantello invisibile. L’acqua invade ogni angolo: i tubi sono scoppiati, le grondaie traboccano. I cani sembrano competere con il tempo nella loro frenesia; le maniglie delle pompe si abbassano da sole, i cavalli nei carri del mercato cadono a terra senza che nessuno li aiuti a rialzarsi. Gli agenti di polizia sembrano essere stati spruzzati di vetro in polvere. Qui e là, una donna che porta il latte cammina lentamente, con difficoltà, per non scivolare. I ragazzi che “non dormono in casa” e a cui non è permesso dormire molto all’aperto non riescono nemmeno a svegliare i loro padroni bussando forte alla porta. Piangono dal freddo. Il composto di ghiaccio, neve e acqua sul selciato ha uno spessore di diversi centimetri. Nessuno osa camminare velocemente per scaldarsi. E nemmeno riuscirebbe a scaldarsi, anche se lo facesse.

Sono le cinque e un quarto quando cammini lentamente lungo Waterloo-place, diretto verso il Golden Cross, e scopri, per la prima volta, di essere stato chiamato circa un’ora troppo presto. Non hai tempo di tornare indietro; non c’è nessun posto aperto dove andare, quindi non ti resta altra scelta se non proseguire, cosa che fai, sentendoti stranamente soddisfatto di te stesso e di tutto ciò che ti circonda. Arrivi in ufficio e guardi con malinconia verso il cortile, nella speranza di vedere arrivare il Birmingham High-flier, ma non si vede traccia di esso; sembrano invece essere in corso i preparativi per la partenza di qualche veicolo, magari un calesse. Entri nell’ufficio delle prenotazioni: con le luci a gas e il fuoco che arde, l’ambiente appare piuttosto confortevole, almeno, se esiste davvero un posto che possa sembrarlo alle cinque e un quarto di una mattina invernale. Lì c’è lo stesso impiegato contabile, fermo nello stesso posto di ieri. Ti dice che il calesse si trova nel cortile e arriverà tra circa quindici minuti. Lasci quindi la tua borsa e ti rechi al “The Tap”, non con l’idea assurda di riscaldarmi, perché so bene che è del tutto impossibile, ma per prendere un po’ di brandy caldo con acqua, il che riesci a fare esattamente due minuti e mezzo prima dell’orario previsto per la partenza del calesse.

The first stroke of six, peals from St. Martin’s church steeple, just as you take the first sip of the boiling liquid. You find yourself at the booking-office in two seconds, and the tap-waiter finds himself much comforted by your brandy-and-water, in about the same period. The coach is out; the horses are in, and the guard and two or three porters, are stowing the luggage away, and running up the steps of the booking-office, and down the steps of the booking-office, with breathless rapidity. The place, which a few minutes ago was so still and quiet, is now all bustle; the early vendors of the morning papers have arrived, and you are assailed on all sides with shouts of ‘Times, gen’lm’n, Times,’ ‘Here’s Chron—Chron—Chron,’ ‘Herald, ma’am,’ ‘Highly interesting murder, gen’lm’n,’ ‘Curious case o’ breach o’ promise, ladies.’ The inside passengers are already in their dens, and the outsides, with the exception of yourself, are pacing up and down the pavement to keep themselves warm; they consist of two young men with very long hair, to which the sleet has communicated the appearance of crystallised rats’ tails; one thin young woman cold and peevish, one old gentleman ditto ditto, and something in a cloak and cap, intended to represent a military officer; every member of the party, with a large stiff shawl over his chin, looking exactly as if he were playing a set of Pan’s pipes.

‘Take off the cloths, Bob,’ says the coachman, who now appears for the first time, in a rough blue great-coat, of which the buttons behind are so far apart, that you can’t see them both at the same time. ‘Now, gen’lm’n,’ cries the guard, with the waybill in his hand. ‘Five minutes behind time already!’ Up jump the passengers—the two young men smoking like lime-kilns, and the old gentleman grumbling audibly. The thin young woman is got upon the roof, by dint of a great deal of pulling, and pushing, and helping and trouble, and she repays it by expressing her solemn conviction that she will never be able to get down again.

‘All right,’ sings out the guard at last, jumping up as the coach starts, and blowing his horn directly afterwards, in proof of the soundness of his wind. ‘Let ’em go, Harry, give ’em their heads,’ cries the coachman—and off we start as briskly as if the morning were ‘all right,’ as well as the coach: and looking forward as anxiously to the termination of our journey, as we fear our readers will have done, long since, to the conclusion of our paper.

CHAPTER XVI—OMNIBUSES

It is very generally allowed that public conveyances afford an extensive field for amusement and observation. Of all the public conveyances that have been constructed since the days of the Ark—we think that is the earliest on record—to the present time, commend us to an omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but there you have only six insides, and the chances are, that the same people go all the way with you—there is no change, no variety. Besides, after the first twelve hours or so, people get cross and sleepy, and when you have seen a man in his nightcap, you lose all respect for him; at least, that is the case with us. Then on smooth roads people frequently get prosy, and tell long stories, and even those who don’t talk, may have very unpleasant predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, inside a stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass of rum-and-water, warm, handed in at the window at every place where we changed horses. This was decidedly unpleasant. We have also travelled occasionally, with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair, and no perceptible neck, coming up to town from school under the protection of the guard, and directed to be left at the Cross Keys till called for. This is, perhaps, even worse than rum-and-water in a close atmosphere. Then there is the whole train of evils consequent on a change of the coachman; and the misery of the discovery—which the guard is sure to make the moment you begin to doze—that he wants a brown-paper parcel, which he distinctly remembers to have deposited under the seat on which you are reposing. A great deal of bustle and groping takes place, and when you are thoroughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding your legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while he is looking behind them, it suddenly occurs to him that he put it in the fore-boot. Bang goes the door; the parcel is immediately found; off starts the coach again; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud as he can play it, as if in mockery of your wretchedness.

Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an omnibus; sameness there can never be. The passengers change as often in the course of one journey as the figures in a kaleidoscope, and though not so glittering, are far more amusing. We believe there is no instance on record, of a man’s having gone to sleep in one of these vehicles. As to long stories, would any man venture to tell a long story in an omnibus? and even if he did, where would be the harm? nobody could possibly hear what he was talking about. Again; children, though occasionally, are not often to be found in an omnibus; and even when they are, if the vehicle be full, as is generally the case, somebody sits upon them, and we are unconscious of their presence. Yes, after mature reflection, and considerable experience, we are decidedly of opinion, that of all known vehicles, from the glass-coach in which we were taken to be christened, to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make our last earthly journey, there is nothing like an omnibus.

We will back the machine in which we make our daily peregrination from the top of Oxford-street to the city, against any ‘buss’ on the road, whether it be for the gaudiness of its exterior, the perfect simplicity of its interior, or the native coolness of its cad. This young gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion; his somewhat intemperate zeal on behalf of his employers, is constantly getting him into trouble, and occasionally into the house of correction. He is no sooner emancipated, however, than he resumes the duties of his profession with unabated ardour. His principal distinction is his activity. His great boast is, ‘that he can chuck an old gen’lm’n into the buss, shut him in, and rattle off, afore he knows where it’s a-going to’—a feat which he frequently performs, to the infinite amusement of every one but the old gentleman concerned, who, somehow or other, never can see the joke of the thing.

Il primo rintocco dei sei colpi risuona dal campanile della chiesa di San Martino, proprio nel momento in cui si fa il primo sorso del liquido bollente. In due secondi si arriva all’ufficio di biglietteria, e il cameriere, intorno allo stesso lasso di tempo, trova grande conforto nel vostro brandy con acqua. Il calesse è pronto; i cavalli sono attaccati, e il guardiano insieme a due o tre facchini caricano rapidamente i bagagli su e giù dalle scale dell’ufficio. Il luogo, pochi minuti fa così tranquillo e silenzioso, ora è pieno di movimento: gli ambulanti che vendono i giornali del mattino sono già arrivati, e si viene assaliti da continue grida come “Times, signore”, “Ecco il Chronicle”, “Herald, signora”, “Un omicidio molto interessante, signore”, “Un caso curioso di mancata promessa, signore, ” I passeggeri all’interno del calesse sono già al loro posto, mentre quelli all’esterno, ad eccezione di voi, camminano avanti e indietro sul marciapiede per scaldarsi; tra questi ci sono due giovani con i capelli molto lunghi, sui quali la neve ha lasciato l’impronta di code di ratto cristallizzate; una giovane donna magra e irritabile; un anziano signore dello stesso umore. E poi c’è qualcuno avvolto in un mantello e con un cappello, che sembra proprio un ufficiale militare. Ogni membro del gruppo indossa uno scialle rigido sul mento, e ha l’aspetto esatto di chi stia suonando una serie di flauti.

“Toglietevi quegli stracci, Bob,” dice il cocchiere, che ora appare per la prima volta in un grosso cappotto blu scuro; i bottoni sul retro sono così distanziati l’uno dall’altro che è impossibile vederli entrambi contemporaneamente. “Ora, forza!” grida il guardiano, tenendo in mano il biglietto di viaggio. “Siamo già cinque minuti in ritardo!” I passeggeri si alzano in piedi: i due giovani fumano come se fossero fornaci; l’anziano signore borbotta ad alta voce. La giovane donna magra, dopo molti tentativi di salire sul tetto, finalmente ci riesce, ma subito esprime la sua profonda convinzione che non riuscirà mai più a scendere.

“Bene,” esclama finalmente la guardia, alzandosi non appena il calesse inizia a muoversi e soffiando subito dopo nel suo fischio, per dimostrare la buona funzionalità del suo >fisico. “Lasciali andare, Harry, dategli spazio,” grida il cocchiere. E via partiamo, veloci come se la mattina fosse davvero “perfetta”, proprio come il calesse stesso. Aspettiamo con ansia la fine del nostro Viaggio, proprio come i nostri lettori, sicuramente, aspettano da tempo la conclusione di questo racconto.

capitolo XVI – AUTOBUS

È generalmente ammesso che i mezzi di trasporto pubblico offrano un’ampia opportunità per divertimento e osservazione. Tra tutti i mezzi di trasporto costruiti a partire dai tempi dell’Arca – riteniamo che sia il più antico di cui si abbia memoria – fino ai giorni nostri, l’omnibus rappresenta senz’altro una valida alternativa. Anche un lungo viaggio in carrozza non va disprezzato, ma all’interno ci sono soltanto sei posti a sedere, e c’è alta probabilità che le stesse persone viaggino per tutta la durata del viaggio: nessun cambiamento, nessuna varietà. Inoltre, dopo circa dodici ore, le persone iniziano ad annoiarsi e a sonnecchiare; quando si vede qualcuno con il berretto da notte, si perde ogni rispetto per lui, almeno questo è ciò che accade a noi. Su strade lisce, inoltre, le persone spesso diventano noiose e raccontano storie lunghe; anche coloro che non parlano possono avere preferenze molto sgradevoli. Una volta abbiamo viaggiato per quattrocento miglia all’interno di una carrozza, insieme a un uomo robusto che, ad ogni fermata, riceveva al finestrino un bicchiere di rum e acqua calda. Questo è stato decisamente sgradevole. Alcune volte abbiamo anche viaggiato con un ragazzino pallido, dai capelli biondi e senza quasi collo, che arrivava in città dalla scuola sotto la protezione della guardia e veniva lasciato alla locanda Cross Keys fino al momento del suo ritiro. Questo è forse ancora peggio di bere rum e acqua in un ambiente chiuso. Inoltre, ci sono tutti i problemi derivanti dal cambio del cocchiere; e poi c’è l’umiliazione di scoprire che lui cerca un pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone, che ricorda chiaramente di aver messo sotto il sedile su cui si è sdraiati. Si scatena un gran trambusto, e quando finalmente ci si sveglia, con le gambe strette in una posizione quasi innaturale mentre lui cerca il pacchetto dietro di noi, all’improvviso gli viene in mente che l’ha messo nel baule davanti. La porta della carrozza si apre, il pacchetto viene trovato immediatamente, la carrozza riparte, e la guardia suona la tromba con tutte le sue forze, come per deridere la nostra sfortuna.

Ora, non si incontra mai nessuna di queste difficoltà su un omnibus: la monotonia, infatti, lì è assolutamente impossibile. I passeggeri cambiano continuamente durante il corso di un’unica viaggio, proprio come le immagini in un caleidoscopio; e anche se non sono così “scintillanti”, sono certamente molto più divertenti. Non esiste, a quanto ne sappiamo, alcun caso in cui qualcuno abbia dormito su un omnibus. Per quanto riguarda i racconti lunghi, chi oserebbe mai raccontarne uno su un omnibus? E anche se lo facesse, quale danno potrebbe derivarne? Nessuno riuscirebbe comunque a capire di cosa sta parlando. Inoltre, i bambini sono rari sugli omnibus; e quando ci sono, se il veicolo è pieno – come succede spesso – qualcuno si siede sopra di loro, e noi non ce ne accorgiamo nemmeno. Sì, dopo molta riflessione ed esperienza, siamo assolutamente convinti che, tra tutti i veicoli conosciuti – dal carrozzone di vetro in cui siamo stati portati al battesimo fino a quella cupa carovana con cui un giorno compieremo il nostro ultimo viaggio terreno – non esista nulla di paragonabile all’omnibus.

Sosterremo questa macchina con la quale compiamo ogni giorno il nostro percorso dalla cima di Oxford Street fino alla città, a discapito di qualsiasi “autobus” che si trovi sulla strada, sia per l’aspetto vistoso della sua esterna, per la perfetta semplicità della sua interna o per il carattere “rinfrescante” del suo design. Questo giovane gentiluomo rappresenta un esempio straordinario di dedizione verso se stesso; il suo zelo eccessivo nel servire i suoi datori di lavoro lo mette costantemente nei guai, portandolo talvolta persino nella prigione. Tuttavia, non appena viene rilasciato, riprende immediatamente le sue mansioni con lo stesso ardore di sempre. La sua principale caratteristica è l’attività; il suo grande vanto è “quello di essere in grado di gettare un vecchio gentiluomo dentro un autobus, chiuderlo lì dentro e partire senza che quest’ultimo nemmeno sappia dove stia andando”. Un’impresa che compie spesso, con grande divertimento di tutti tranne il vecchio gentiluomo stesso, il quale, per qualche motivo, non riesce mai a capire la battuta.

We are not aware that it has ever been precisely ascertained, how many passengers our omnibus will contain. The impression on the cad’s mind evidently is, that it is amply sufficient for the accommodation of any number of persons that can be enticed into it. ‘Any room?’ cries a hot pedestrian. ‘Plenty o’ room, sir,’ replies the conductor, gradually opening the door, and not disclosing the real state of the case, until the wretched man is on the steps. ‘Where?’ inquires the entrapped individual, with an attempt to back out again. ‘Either side, sir,’ rejoins the cad, shoving him in, and slamming the door. ‘All right, Bill.’ Retreat is impossible; the new-comer rolls about, till he falls down somewhere, and there he stops.

As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five of our party are regular passengers. We always take them up at the same places, and they generally occupy the same seats; they are always dressed in the same manner, and invariably discuss the same topics—the increasing rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral obligations evinced by omnibus men. There is a little testy old man, with a powdered head, who always sits on the right-hand side of the door as you enter, with his hands folded on the top of his umbrella. He is extremely impatient, and sits there for the purpose of keeping a sharp eye on the cad, with whom he generally holds a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping people in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a poke with his umbrella, when any one wants to alight. He usually recommends ladies to have sixpence ready, to prevent delay; and if anybody puts a window down, that he can reach, he immediately puts it up again.

‘Now, what are you stopping for?’ says the little man every morning, the moment there is the slightest indication of ‘pulling up’ at the corner of Regent-street, when some such dialogue as the following takes place between him and the cad:

‘What are you stopping for?’

Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question.

‘I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?’

‘For passengers, sir. Ba—nk.—Ty.’

‘I know you’re stopping for passengers; but you’ve no business to do so. Why are you stopping?’

‘Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is because we perfer stopping here to going on.’

‘Now mind,’ exclaims the little old man, with great vehemence, ‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow; I’ve often threatened to do it; now I will.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ replies the cad, touching his hat with a mock expression of gratitude;—‘werry much obliged to you indeed, sir.’ Here the young men in the omnibus laugh very heartily, and the old gentleman gets very red in the face, and seems highly exasperated.

The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the other end of the vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says that something must shortly be done with these fellows, or there’s no saying where all this will end; and the shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses his entire concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regularly every morning for the last six months.

A second omnibus now comes up, and stops immediately behind us. Another old gentleman elevates his cane in the air, and runs with all his might towards our omnibus; we watch his progress with great interest; the door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears—he has been spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon the driver of the opposition taunts our people with his having ‘regularly done ’em out of that old swell,’ and the voice of the ‘old swell’ is heard, vainly protesting against this unlawful detention. We rattle off, the other omnibus rattles after us, and every time we stop to take up a passenger, they stop to take him too; sometimes we get him; sometimes they get him; but whoever don’t get him, say they ought to have had him, and the cads of the respective vehicles abuse one another accordingly.

As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, Bedford-row, and other legal haunts, we drop a great many of our original passengers, and take up fresh ones, who meet with a very sulky reception. It is rather remarkable, that the people already in an omnibus, always look at newcomers, as if they entertained some undefined idea that they have no business to come in at all. We are quite persuaded the little old man has some notion of this kind, and that he considers their entry as a sort of negative impertinence.

Conversation is now entirely dropped; each person gazes vacantly through the window in front of him, and everybody thinks that his opposite neighbour is staring at him. If one man gets out at Shoe-lane, and another at the corner of Farringdon-street, the little old gentleman grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had got out at Shoe-lane too, he would have saved them the delay of another stoppage; whereupon the young men laugh again, and the old gentleman looks very solemn, and says nothing more till he gets to the Bank, when he trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the same, and to wish, as we walk away, that we could impart to others any portion of the amusement we have gained for ourselves.

CHAPTER XVII—THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD

Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and gratification of knowing by sight—and our acquaintance in this way has been most extensive—there is one who made an impression on our mind which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a fatal presentiment will never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose was generally red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw—slight, but, to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a taste for botany.

Non sappiamo con certezza quante persone possa contenere il nostro omnibus. L’impressione che ha l’autista è chiaramente che sia più che sufficiente per ospitare qualsiasi numero di persone possa essere convinte ad entrarvi. “C’è abbastanza spazio?”, chiede un pedone ansioso. “Certo, signore”, risponde l’autista, aprendo gradualmente la porta senza rivelare la vera situazione, fino a quando quel poveretto non si trova sui gradini dell’omnibus. “Dove?”, domanda ancora il nuovo arrivato, cercando di tornare indietro. “Da entrambi i lati, signore”, replica l’autista, spingendolo dentro e chiudendo la porta con forza. “Bene, Bill, ”, pensa il nuovo venuto. È impossibile ritirarsi; si rotola qua e là fino a cadere da qualche parte, e lì rimane fermo.

Mentre entriamo in città poco prima delle dieci, quattro o cinque membri del nostro gruppo sono passeggeri abituali. Li prendiamo sempre negli stessi posti e di solito occupano gli stessi sedili; si vestono sempre allo stesso modo e discutono invariabilmente degli stessi argomenti: la crescente velocità dei taxi e la mancanza di rispetto verso le obbligazioni morali da parte degli autisti degli omnibus. C’è poi un vecchio uomo piuttosto irascibile, con i capelli truccati con la polvere, che si siede sempre sul lato destro della porta quando entri, con le mani incrociate sopra l’ombrello. È estremamente impaziente e si siede lì apposta per tenere d’occhio quel farabutto con cui di solito intrattiene un “dialogo” continuo. Si occupa con grande zelo di aiutare le persone ad entrare e uscire dall’auto, e non manca mai di pungere quel farabutto con l’ombrello ogni volta che qualcuno vuole scendere. Di solito consiglia alle signore di tenere sempre pronti sei penny per evitare ritardi; inoltre, se qualcuno abbassa un finestrino che lui può raggiungere, lo riabbassa immediatamente.

“Ora, perché ti fermi?” dice il piccolo uomo ogni mattina, non appena si nota anche solo il minimo segno di intenzione di fermarsi all’angolo di Regent Street; in quei momenti scatta sempre un dialogo del genere tra lui e quel farabutto.

“Perché ti fermi?”

Qui il cad suona il fischietto, fingendo di non sentire la domanda.

“Dico ‘dai un pizzicotto’, perché ti fermi?”

“Per i passeggeri, signore. Banca. Treno.”

“So so che ti fai fermare per prendere i passeggeri; ma non hai il diritto di farlo. Perché ti fai fermare?”

“Mio signore, questa è una domanda difficile. Penso che sia perché preferiamo fermarci qui piuttosto che continuare.”

“Ora ascolta bene,” esclama il vecchietto con grande veemenza, “domani ti tirerò su in aria; l’ho minacciato spesso di farlo. Ora lo farò davvero.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” risponde il soldato, toccandosi il cappello con un’espressione di falsa gratitudine; “sono davvero molto obbligato a voi, signore.” A questo punto i giovani nell’omnibus ridono molto forte, mentre il vecchio gentiluomo diventa rosso in viso e sembra estremamente infastidito.

Il robusto signore con il fazzoletto da collo bianco, dall’altra parte del veicolo, sembra davvero profetico: afferma che presto bisognerà fare qualcosa riguardo a questi individui, altrimenti non si può sapere dove tutto questo possa finire; l’uomo di modi un po’ volgari con la borsa verde concorda pienamente con questa opinione, proprio come fa ogni mattina da sei mesi.

Un altro omnibus arriva e si ferma immediatamente dietro di noi. Un altro vecchio signore alza il suo bastone in aria e corre con tutte le sue forze verso il nostro omnibus; lo osserviamo con grande interesse. La porta si apre per accoglierlo, ma lui scompare all’improvviso: è stato “rapito” dall’altro gruppo. A questo punto, l’autista dell’altro gruppo deride la nostra gente, dicendo di averli “regolarmente sconfitti” con quel vecchio trucco. Si sente poi la voce di quel “vecchio truffatore” che protesta invano contro questa detenzione illegale. Noi continuiamo il nostro percorso, l’altro omnibus ci segue. Ogni volta che ci fermiamo per prendere un passeggero, anche loro si fermano; a volte riusciamo ad accoglierlo noi, a volte lo prendono loro. Ma chi non riesce ad ottenerlo sostiene di averne diritto. E i membri dei due gruppi si insultano a vicenda.

Man mano che ci avviciniamo alle zone di Lincoln’s-inn-fields, Bedford-row e ad altri luoghi frequentati da avvocati, molti dei nostri passeggeri iniziali scendono dall’omnibus e ne salgono di nuovi, che vengono accolti con estrema freddezza. È piuttosto strano che le persone già presenti nell’omnibus guardino sempre con disapprovazione i nuovi arrivati, come se avessero l’impressione che non abbiano alcun diritto di salire a bordo. Siamo quasi certi che quel vecchietto abbia proprio questa idea e consideri il loro ingresso una sorta di scortesia inaccettabile.

Ora la conversazione è completamente cessata; ognuno guarda vuotamente attraverso la finestra di fronte a sé, e tutti pensano che il vicino di fronte li stia fissando. Se uno esce da Shoe-lane e un altro dall’angolo di Farringdon-street, il vecchio gentiluomo borbotta e suggerisce all’altro che, se anche lui fosse uscito da Shoe-lane, avrebbero potuto evitare quel ritardo; i giovani ridono di nuovo, mentre il vecchio assume un’espressione molto seria e non dice più nulla fino a quando non arriva alla Banca, dove si allontana il più velocemente possibile, lasciandoci fare lo stesso. Mentre ci allontaniamo, desideriamo poter condividere con gli altri parte di quel divertimento che abbiamo trovato per noi stessi.

capitolo XVII – L’ULTIMO TAXISTA E IL PRIMO AUTOBUS A CORTO PERcorso

Di tutti i conducenti di cabriolet che abbiamo avuto l’onore e il piacere di conoscere di persona – e la nostra conoscenza in questo senso è stata molto vasta – c’è uno che ha lasciato un’impressione indelebile nella nostra mente, suscitando in noi sentimenti di ammirazione e rispetto. Abbiamo la tragica premonizione che nessun altro essere umano riuscirà mai più a suscitarli in noi. Era un uomo dall’aspetto molto semplice, ma dal fascino immediato. Aveva le guance barbute, indossava un cappello bianco e non portava giacca; il suo naso era generalmente rosso, e i suoi occhi azzurri brillanti spiccavano su un contorno nero, probabilmente realizzato artificialmente. I suoi stivali erano del tipo Wellington, sollevati fino alle ginocchia, dove terminavano i suoi pantaloni di velluto; intorno al collo portava sempre un fazzoletto giallo brillante. In estate teneva un fiore in bocca; in inverno, una cannuccia, piccoli dettagli che, per chi li osservasse attentamente, rappresentavano chiaramente un amore per la natura e un interesse per la botanica.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted—a bright red; and wherever we went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley’s! Our life upon it, that it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in reply—quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a seat: the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.

The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have studied the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to throw yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, you will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the event of your contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account make the tender, or show the money, until you are safely on the pavement. It is very bad policy attempting to save the fourpence. You are very much in the power of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do you any wilful damage. Any instruction, however, in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly unnecessary if you are going any distance, because the probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before you have completed the third mile.

We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of the nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to pay handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a cheaper rate?

But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to walk down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal thoroughfares in which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two, lying on the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box, a portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very picturesque manner: a horse in a cab standing by, looking about him with great unconcern; and a crowd, shouting and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed faces against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop.—‘What’s the matter here, can you tell me?’—‘O’ny a cab, sir.’—‘Anybody hurt, do you know?’—‘O’ny the fare, sir. I see him a turnin’ the corner, and I ses to another gen’lm’n “that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s a comin’ along rayther sweet, an’t he?”—“He just is,” ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.’ Need we say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in his mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s shop and philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at full gallop, was the red cab’s licensed driver?

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over the risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing. You walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole court resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every vein in Mr. Hobler’s countenance was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor’s facetiousness, but more at his own; the constables and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at the beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his speech, would be endeavouring to state a case of imposition against the red cab’s driver; and the red cab’s driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler, would be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, justice would be so tickled with the red cab-driver’s native humour, that the fine would be mitigated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to impose on somebody else without loss of time.

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own moral principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the feelings and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally speaking, perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he would upset him—sooner, perhaps, because in that case he not only got the money, but had the additional amusement of running a longer heat against some smart rival. But society made war upon him in the shape of penalties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. This was the reasoning of the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look upon the fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had gone half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth eightpence, out he went.

La sua cabriolet era dipinta in un rosso brillante; ovunque andassimo, nella Città o nel West End, a Paddington o a Holloway, a nord, est, ovest o sud, c’era sempre quella cabriolet rossa: si schiantava contro i pilastri agli angoli delle strade, svoltava dentro e fuori tra fiacre, carri, carrozze e omnibus, riuscendo in qualche modo misterioso a uscire da luoghi in cui nessun altro veicolo avrebbe mai potuto entrare. Il nostro affetto per quella cabriolet rossa era infinito. Che bello sarebbe stato vederla al circo di Astley! La nostra vita su di essa. Quante acrobazie avrebbe potuto eseguire, facendo vergognare l’intera compagnia: capi indiani, cavalieri, contadini svizzeri, e tutti gli altri.

Alcune persone si oppongono al fatto di dover salire nei taxi, altre si lamentano della difficoltà nel scenderne; noi riteniamo che entrambe queste obiezioni derivino da menti perverse e maladatte. Salire in un taxi è un processo davvero grazioso e aggraziato: quando eseguito con maestria, assume quasi i tratti di una vera e propria scenetta melodrammatica. Prima di tutto, c’è la pantomima espressiva di tutti e diciotto i tassisti in attesa; poi c’è la tua stessa reazione, che assomiglia molto a un piccolo balletto. Quattro taxi si allontanano immediatamente dal marciapiede per accoglierti; le movenze dei cavalli che li trainano sono estremamente belle da vedere, mentre i loro zoccoli stridono contro i bordi del marciapiede e si muovono giocosamente. Scegli un taxi in particolare e ti avvicini velocemente; con un balzo sei già sul primo gradino; giri leggermente a destra e sei già dentro il taxi. Non c’è alcuna difficoltà nel trovare un posto a sedere: l’apron del taxi ti spinge dolcemente verso il sedile, e via sei.

Uscire da un taxi è, forse, teoricamente più complicato e praticamente un po’ più difficile da realizzare. Abbiamo studiato molto la questione e riteniamo che il modo migliore sia gettarsi fuori dal taxi e affidarsi alla fortuna per atterrare in piedi. Se fate scendere prima l’autista e poi vi gettate su di lui, scoprirete che questo vi aiuterà notevolmente a ridurre l’impatto dell’atterraggio. Nel caso in cui pensiate di offrire otto penny all’autista, per nessuna ragione fate questa proposta o mostrategli i soldi finché non siete al sicuro sul marciapiede. Tentare di risparmiare quei quattro penny è una scelta molto sbagliata: siete completamente in potere dell’autista, che considera tale offerta come una sorta di compenso per non farvi del male intenzionalmente. Tuttavia, qualsiasi consiglio riguardo al modo di uscire da un taxi è del tutto superfluo se avete intenzione di percorrere una lunga distanza, perché molto probabilmente verrete spinti fuori dal taxi prima ancora di aver completato i primi trecento metri.

Non siamo a conoscenza di alcun caso registrato in cui un cavallo da cabina abbia percorso tre miglia consecutive senza mai fermarsi. E allora? È tutto solo eccitazione. In questi tempi di squilibrio del sistema nervoso e di generale apatia, le persone sono disposte a pagare molto per provare emozioni; dove altro si potrebbe trovarle a un prezzo più conveniente?

Ma tornando alla cabina rossa. Era onnipresente. Bastava camminare lungo Holborn, Fleet-street o qualsiasi altra strada principale trafficata per rendersene conto. Appena si entrava in una di queste strade, si vedevano borse e valigie sparse sul terreno: un palo sradicato, una scatola da cappelli, un baule. Un cavallo nella cabina attendeva tranquillamente; una folla gridava e rideva, rinfrescandosi il viso contro le vetrine di una farmacia. “Che cosa sta succedendo qui?”, si chiedevano, “Solo una cabina, signore, ”, rispondevano. “C’è qualcuno ferito?”, “Solo il prezzo della corsa, signore. L’ho visto girare l’angolo. E ho detto a un altro uomo: ‘Quello è davvero un tipo tosto. Arriverà sicuramente in fretta, vero?’ ‘Proprio così’, ha risposto l’altro. Appena si sono scontrati di nuovo con quel palo, il prezzo della corsa è volato fuori come pietre, ” Non c’è bisogno di dire che si trattava proprio della cabina rossa. E che il signore con il cannuccio in bocca, che uscì così tranquillamente dalla farmacia e salì filosoficamente nella piccola cabina, partì subito al galoppo. Era proprio il conducente autorizzato di quella cabina rossa.

L’ubiquità di questa carrozza rossa, e l’influenza che esercitava sui cosiddetti “muscoli della giustizia”, erano davvero sorprendenti. Entravi nell’aula di giustizia della residenza ufficiale; l’intero tribunale risuonava di risate. Il Lord Mayor si abbandonava sulla sedia, in preda a un’estrema gioia per la sua stessa battuta; ogni linea sul viso del signor Hobler era contratta dal ridere: in parte per l’umorismo del Lord Mayor, ma soprattutto per il proprio. Gli agenti di polizia, per dovere, condividevano anch’essi quell’allegria; persino i poveri, guardando con rispetto il volto del funzionario incaricato delle procedure legali, cercavano di sorridere, visto che anche lui sembrava divertirsi. Un uomo alto e dal viso magro, con qualche difficoltà nel parlare, cercava di spiegare un caso di truffa riguardante il conducente della carrozza rossa; mentre quest’ultimo, insieme al Lord Mayor e al signor Hobler, si divertivano a vicenda, procurando grande gioia a tutti, tranne che al querelante. Alla fine, la giustizia veniva talmente divertita dall’umorismo naturale del conducente della carrozza rossa che la multa veniva ridotta; e lui se ne andava subito, sulla sua carrozza rossa, per cercare di ingannare qualcun altro, senza perdere un minuto.

Il conducente della cabina rossa, fiducioso nella forza dei propri principi morali, come molti altri filosofi, era abituato a sfidare completamente i sentimenti e le opinioni della società. In generale, forse avrebbe preferito portare il passeggero sano e salvo a destinazione, piuttosto che causargli problemi. Anzi, probabilmente lo avrebbe fatto ancora di più in quel caso, perché non solo avrebbe ottenuto i soldi, ma avrebbe anche goduto dell’emozione di sfidare un astuto rivale. Ma la società gli dichiarava guerra attraverso sanzioni, e lui doveva combattere contro di essa a modo suo. Questo era il ragionamento del conducente della cabina rossa. Così, quando si avvicinava alla metà del percorso per prendere i soldi, lanciava uno sguardo attento al passeggero; e se tirava fuori otto pence, partiva immediatamente.

The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him: he had not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and consequently laboured under a great deal of very natural indignation. The dispute had attained a pretty considerable height, when at last the loquacious little gentleman, making a mental calculation of the distance, and finding that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his unalterable determination to ‘pull up’ the cabman in the morning.

‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, ‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow morning.’

‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer.

‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, that’s all. If I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.’

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about the little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after this last declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind of the red cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for an instant; his resolve was soon taken.

‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend.

‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater vehemence an before.

‘Very well,’ said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very calmly. ‘There’ll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that’ll bring me up to the middle o’ next month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may as well get board, lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of the county, as pay for it myself; consequently here goes!’

So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little gentleman down, and then called the police to take himself into custody, with all the civility in the world.

A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state, that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were all provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it came to our knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction for the county of Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation of the silent system; and looked on all the ‘wheels’ with the greatest anxiety, in search of our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and we began to think that the little gentleman in the green coat must have relented, when, as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice, which apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the plaintive air of ‘All round my hat,’ which was then just beginning to form a recognised portion of our national music.

We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook his head.

‘Sad fellow,’ he replied, ‘very sad. He positively refused to work on the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him into solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though, and I am afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings comic songs all day!’

Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-driver?

We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect that this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of our acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to see a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was all over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat, asked, as a matter of course, for ‘a copper for the waterman.’ Now, the fare was by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very indignant at the demand, he replied—‘Money! What for? Coming up and looking at me, I suppose!’—‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, ‘that’s worth twopence.’

The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station in society; and as we know something of his life, and have often thought of telling what we do know, perhaps we shall never have a better opportunity than the present.

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman’s name, Mr. William Barker was born—but why need we relate where Mr. William Barker was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial ledgers, or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in hospitals? Mr. William Barker was born, or he had never been. There is a son—there was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary course? Impossible.

We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period, or by what particular process, this gentleman’s patronymic, of William Barker, became corrupted into ‘Bill Boorker.’ Mr. Barker acquired a high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the members of that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted his energies; and to them he was generally known, either by the familiar appellation of ‘Bill Boorker,’ or the flattering designation of ‘Aggerawatin Bill,’ the latter being a playful and expressive sobriquet, illustrative of Mr. Barker’s great talent in ‘aggerawatin’ and rendering wild such subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker’s disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.

L’ultima volta che abbiamo visto il nostro amico è stata una sera umida, nel cortile di Tottenham Road, quando era coinvolto in un’accesa e piuttosto personale discussione con un piccolo signore loquace vestito con un cappotto verde. Povero ragazzo, ci erano molte ragioni per scusarlo: non aveva ricevuto più di diciotto penny, il prezzo del viaggio, e quindi provava una grande indignazione, del tutto naturale. La discussione era arrivata a un punto piuttosto critico quando, alla fine, il piccolo signore loquace, calcolando la distanza percorsa e rendendosi conto di aver già pagato di più del dovuto, dichiarò con fermezza che l’indomani avrebbe “affrontato” quel tassista.

“Ora, basta che tu segni questo, giovane,” disse il piccolo gentiluomo, “ti verrò a prendere domani mattina.”

“No! Ma davvero lo farai?” disse il nostro amico, con un sorriso beffardo.

“Lo farò,” rispose il piccolo gentiluomo, “fidatevi delle mie parole, è tutto ciò che posso promettere. Se sopravviverò fino a domani mattina, vi pentirete di questo.”

C’era una determinazione ferma e un tono indignato nelle parole di quel piccolo gentiluomo, mentre dopo quell’ultima dichiarazione si soffiava rabbiosamente il naso con il tabacco; questo ebbe chiaramente un impatto sul cervello del conducente della cabina rossa. Sembrò esitare per un istante. Ma fu solo un istante: presto prese la sua decisione.

“Mi tirerai su, vero?”, disse il nostro amico.

“Lo farò,” ripeté il piccolo gentiluomo con ancora maggiore veemenza di prima.

“Molto bene,” disse il nostro amico, arrotolando le maniche della camicia con grande calma. “Ci vorranno tre settimane per questo. Ottimo: mi porterà a metà del mese prossimo. Altre tre settimane e arriverò al mio compleanno, e poi avrò dieci sterline da incassare. Potrei benissimo permettermi vitto, alloggio e lavanderia, finché non ricevo quei soldi. Quindi, ecco che parte!”

Allora, senza ulteriori indugi, il tassista rosso fece cadere il piccolo gentiluomo a terra e poi chiamò la polizia per farsi arrestare, con tutta la cortesia del mondo.

Una storia non è nulla senza il seguito; pertanto possiamo affermare che, per quanto ne sappiamo con certezza, vitto, alloggio e pulizie venivano forniti tempestivamente. Sappiamo questo fatto perché ci è stato riferito in questo modo: poco dopo siamo andati a visitare la Casa di Correzione della contea di Middlesex per assistere al funzionamento del sistema silenzioso; abbiamo osservato con grande attenzione tutti i “meccanismi” in atto, nella speranza di trovare il nostro amico scomparso da tempo. Tuttavia non lo abbiamo trovato da nessuna parte, e abbiamo cominciato a pensare che quel gentiluomo in abito verde avesse probabilmente cambiato idea. Quando però stavamo attraversando il giardino della cucina, situato in una zona isolata della prigione, siamo stati colpiti da una voce che sembrava provenire dal muro; quella voce esprimeva tutta la sua tristezza cantando “All round my hat”, una canzone che all’epoca stava appena iniziando a diventare parte della nostra musica nazionale.

Abbiamo iniziato. — “Che voce è quella?” abbiamo chiesto. Il Governatore scosse la testa.

“Povero diavolo,” rispose, “davvero molto triste. Si è rifiutato assolutamente di lavorare alla Ruota; quindi, dopo molti tentativi, sono stato costretto a mandarlo in isolamento. Però dice che gli piace molto. Temo proprio che sia così, perché passa tutto il giorno sdraiato per terra a cantare canzoni buffe!”

Dovremmo aggiungere che il nostro cuore non ci aveva ingannati e che quel cantante comico non era altri che il nostro amico tanto cercato, il tassista rosso?

Non l’abbiamo più visto da allora, ma abbiamo forti motivi per sospettare che questo nobile individuo fosse un lontano parente di un barcaiolo che conosciamo; in un’occasione, mentre passavamo accanto al posto dove lavorava quel barcaiolo, quest’ultimo, dopo essersi fermato in silenzio per osservare un uomo alto che cercava di salire su una vettura a noleggio, corse subito verso di noi non appena tutto fu finito (come fanno sempre i suoi colleghi) e, toccandosi il cappello, chiese, come se fosse la cosa più naturale del mondo, “Un penny per il barcaiolo”. Ora, la tariffa richiesta da quel barcaiolo non era affatto elevata; quindi, molto indignato da quella richiesta, l’uomo rispose: “Denaro? E a che scopo? Venite qui a guardarmi, suppongo, ” “Beh, signore”, ribatté il barcaiolo con un sorriso di compiacimento immutabile, “questo vale senz’altro due penny.”

Quell’uomo, che era un semplice barcaiolo, raggiunse in seguito una posizione molto importante nella società; e poiché sappiamo qualcosa della sua vita, e spesso abbiamo pensato di raccontare ciò che sappiamo, forse non avremo mai un’altra opportunità migliore di questa.

Il signor William Barker, poiché tale era il nome di quel gentiluomo, nacque. Ma perché dovremmo raccontare dove o quando sia nato il signor William Barker? Perché esaminare attentamente gli registri parrocchiali o cercare di comprendere i misteri legati agli ospedali per partorienti? Il signor William Barker nacque, oppure non è mai esistito. C’è un figlio, c’era un padre. C’è un effetto, c’era una causa. Sicuramente queste informazioni sono sufficienti per soddisfare anche la curiosità più insaziabile; e, se non lo fossero, ci rammarichiamo di non poter fornire ulteriori prove al riguardo. Esiste forse un modo più soddisfacente, o più conforme alle regole parlamentari, per affrontare questa questione? Impossibile.

Ammettiamo sin dall’inizio di non essere in grado di indicare con precisione in quale periodo esatto, o attraverso quale processo specifico, il cognome di questo signore, William Barker, abbia preso a deformarsi in “Bill Boorker”. Il signor Barker raggiunse una posizione elevata e una notevole reputazione tra i membri della professione a cui dedicò interamente le sue energie; essi lo conoscevano generalmente sia con l’affettuoso soprannome di “Bill Boorker”, sia con il lusinghiero titolo di “Aggerawatin Bill”: quest’ultimo era un nomignolo scherzoso e significativo, che evidenziava il grande talento del signor Barker nel “manipolare” argomenti di ogni genere, soprattutto quelli relativi alle comunicazioni pubbliche attraverso gli autobus. Di vita precoce del signor Barker si sa molto poco, e ciò che si conosce è avvolto in notevoli dubbi e incertezze. Una mancanza di impegno, un’irrequietezza di intenti, una passione per tutto ciò che aveva un carattere errante o ambulante sembrano essere state le sue principali caratteristiche. Né il frenetico ambiente di una scuola parrocchiale né la tranquilla atmosfera di una prigione riuscirono a modificare minimamente il suo temperamento. La sua febbrile sete di cambiamento e varietà non poteva essere soppressa da nulla; la sua intrinseca audacia non conosceva punizioni capaci di domarla.

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one—love; love in its most comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions, which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No; it was a nobler love—a general principle. It extended itself with equal force to the property of other people.

There is something very affecting in this. It is still more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded. Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country, with the consent, and at the expense, of its Government; proceeded to a distant shore; and there employed himself, like another Cincinnatus, in clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away.

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the British Government required Mr. Barker’s presence here, or did not require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later life.

Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches from going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopting some more profitable profession; and his active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ransomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, ‘till they was rig’larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.’

An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon presented itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road, encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the proper quarters. The report was correct; the ‘Royal William’ was to make its first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three scrunched children, and just ‘worked out’ his fine for knocking down an old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr. Barker’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary man into the omnibus system—gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great man.

Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has not? But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all.

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, some time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been, who honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind.

Se si può dire che il signor Barker abbia avuto qualche debolezza negli anni precedenti, essa era di natura affettuosa: amore, nell’accezione più completa del termine, un amore per le donne, i liquidi e i fazzoletti da tasca. Non si trattava di un sentimento egoistico; non era limitato alle sue proprietà personali, che troppi uomini considerano con un compiacimento esclusivo. No: era un amore più nobile, un principio universale. Si estendeva con uguale forza anche alla proprietà altrui.

C’è qualcosa di davvero commovente in questo. È ancora più toccante sapere che una tale filantropia viene ricompensata in modo imperfetto. Bow-street, Newgate e Millbank rappresentano una povera ricompensa per la benevolenza generale dimostrata con un amore irrefrenabile verso tutte le creature viventi. Anche il signor Barker la pensava così. Dopo lunghe discussioni con le più alte autorità legali, lasciò il suo paese ingrato, con il consenso e a spese del suo Governo; si recò in una terra lontana e lì, come un altro Cincinnato, si dedicò al disboscamento e alla coltivazione della terra: un’attività pacifica nella quale sette anni trascorsero quasi impercettibilmente.

Se, alla scadenza del periodo che abbiamo appena menzionato, il governo britannico abbia richiesto la presenza di Mr. Barker qui o meno, non disponiamo di informazioni precise per poterlo stabilire. Tuttavia, tendremmo a favore della seconda ipotesi, poiché non risulta che, al suo ritorno, gli sia stato assegnato alcun altro incarico pubblico, se non quello presso l’angolo di Haymarket, dove svolgeva la funzione di assistente addetto ai taxi a cavalli. Seduto in questa veste su due secchi vicino al marciapiede, con una targa di rame e un numero appeso al collo tramite una pesante catena, e i polpacci avvolti in strisce di paglia, si dice che abbia formulato quelle osservazioni sulla natura umana che ebbero un’influenza così significativa su tutte le sue azioni nella vita successiva.

Il signor Barker non esercitava questa funzione da molti mesi quando l’apparizione del primo omnibus fece deviare completamente l’attenzione del pubblico in una nuova direzione, impedendo a molte carrozze di poter circolare affatto. Il genio del signor Barker comprese immediatamente tutta la gravità dei danni che il progresso di questo sistema avrebbe causato alle stazioni di taxi e carrozze, e di conseguenza anche ai barcaioli. Capì inoltre l’urgenza di adottare un’attività più redditizia; con la sua mente attiva, individuò subito come fosse possibile indurre giovani inesperti a salire sulle carrozze sbagliate e portarli via, fino a quando, ridotti alla disperazione, non fossero costretti a pagare sei pence a testa per essere liberati. O, per usare le sue stesse parole, “fino a quando non venissero completamente sfruttati”.

Un’opportunità per realizzare i suoi desideri più ardenti si presentò presto. Nei pressi delle fermate degli omnibus circolavano voci secondo cui stava per essere costruito un nuovo autobus che avrebbe collegato Lisson-grove alla zona della Banca, passando per Oxford Street e Holborn; inoltre, la crescente diffusione di autobus lungo la strada di Paddington alimentava questa idea. Il signor Barker indagò in modo discreto e attento nelle fonti appropriate: le informazioni erano corrette: l’“Royal William” avrebbe effettuato il suo primo viaggio il lunedì seguente. Si trattava davvero di un’impresa promettente. Il conducente era un giovane e intraprendente autista di cab, con una buona reputazione come guidatore abile, anche se aveva avuto dei problemi con i genitori di tre bambini piccoli, e aveva appena pagato la multa per aver urtato una vecchia signora. Il proprietario dell’autobus, conoscendo le qualifiche del signor Barker, lo assunse immediatamente per il posto vacante. L’autobus iniziò a circolare, e il signor Barker si comprò un nuovo abito, entrando così in una nuova fase della sua vita professionale.

Per riassumere tutti i miglioramenti introdotti da quest’uomo straordinario nel sistema degli autobus – gradualmente, certo, ma con sicurezza – ci vorrebbe uno spazio molto più ampio di quello che possiamo dedicare a questi ricordi imperfetti. A lui viene universalmente attribuita l’idea originale di quella pratica che in seguito divenne così diffusa: ovvero che il conducente del secondo autobus si tenesse costantemente dietro al primo, inserendo il palo del proprio veicolo sia nella porta dell’altro autobus ogni volta che questa si apriva, sia attraverso il corpo di qualsiasi signora o signore tentasse di salire a bordo; un’invenzione umoristica e piacevole, che dimostra tutta quella originalità di idee e quel nobile, audace spirito che caratterizzavano ogni azione di questo grande uomo.

Certo, il signor Barker aveva dei nemici; quale uomo nella vita pubblica non ne ha? Ma nemmeno i suoi peggiori avversari possono negare che abbia accompagnato più anziane signore e gentiluomini a Paddington, dove volevano andare in banca, e altrettanti anziani signori e gentiluomini in banca, dove volevano andare a Paddington, di qualsiasi altro gruppo di sei persone. E per quanto alcuni possano cercare di mettere in dubbio l’accuratezza di queste affermazioni, sanno benissimo che si tratta di un fatto accertato: lui ha effettivamente accompagnato, con determinazione, molte persone anziane, di entrambi i sessi, in entrambe le destinazioni, anche se queste non avevano la minima intenzione di andare da nessuna parte.

Il signor Barker era proprio quel farabutto che, qualche tempo fa, si era distinto in modo “nobile” tenendo un commerciante fermo sul gradino dell’edificio mentre l’omnibus procedeva a tutta velocità, finché non lo aveva picchiato a sazietà e poi lo aveva gettato via una volta terminata la sua “vendetta”. Il signor Barker doveva essere stato lui: indignato per essere stato cacciato in modo ignominioso da un locale di intrattenimento pubblico, gli aveva calciato il ginocchio, causandone la morte. Diciamo che doveva essere stato lui, perché quell’atto non era affatto comune e non poteva provenire da una mente ordinaria.

It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring heroism to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it was not performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that it was achieved by his brother!

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr. Barker’s knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed. He could tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the real destination of the vehicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady that would be too much flurried by the process of pushing in and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she had been put down, until too late; had an intuitive perception of what was passing in a passenger’s mind when he inwardly resolved to ‘pull that cad up to-morrow morning;’ and never failed to make himself agreeable to female servants, whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the way.

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally happen that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was, on more than one occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not in the power of trifles such as these, however, to subdue the freedom of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties of his profession with unabated ardour.

We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the class of men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing. Improvement has peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated to the very innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustian will vanish before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be forgotten when civility becomes general: and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound body, the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their amusement, and half their occupation.

CHAPTER XVIII—A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

We hope our readers will not be alarmed at this rather ominous title. We assure them that we are not about to become political, neither have we the slightest intention of being more prosy than usual—if we can help it. It has occurred to us that a slight sketch of the general aspect of ‘the House,’ and the crowds that resort to it on the night of an important debate, would be productive of some amusement: and as we have made some few calls at the aforesaid house in our time—have visited it quite often enough for our purpose, and a great deal too often for our personal peace and comfort—we have determined to attempt the description. Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all that feeling of awe, which vague ideas of breaches of privilege, Serjeant-at-Arms, heavy denunciations, and still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken, we enter at once into the building, and upon our subject.

Half-past four o’clock—and at five the mover of the Address will be ‘on his legs,’ as the newspapers announce sometimes by way of novelty, as if speakers were occasionally in the habit of standing on their heads. The members are pouring in, one after the other, in shoals. The few spectators who can obtain standing-room in the passages, scrutinise them as they pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of great importance. Every now and then you hear earnest whispers of ‘That’s Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Which? him with the gilt order round his neck?’ ‘No, no; that’s one of the messengers—that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Here’s Mr. Smith.’ ‘Lor!’ ‘Yes, how d’ye do, sir?—(He is our new member)—How do you do, sir?’ Mr. Smith stops: turns round with an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning); seizes both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the lobby with an extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause, leaving an immense impression in his favour on the mind of his ‘fellow-townsman.’

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in very unpleasant proportion. The livery servants form a complete lane on either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest possible space to avoid being turned out. You see that stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, and great boots, who has been talking incessantly for half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned no small quantity of mirth among the strangers. That is the great conservator of the peace of Westminster. You cannot fail to have remarked the grace with which he saluted the noble Lord who passed just now, or the excessive dignity of his air, as he expostulates with the crowd. He is rather out of temper now, in consequence of the very irreverent behaviour of those two young fellows behind him, who have done nothing but laugh all the time they have been here.

‘Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. ---’ timidly inquires a little thin man in the crowd, hoping to conciliate the man of office.

‘How can you ask such questions, sir?’ replies the functionary, in an incredibly loud key, and pettishly grasping the thick stick he carries in his right hand. ‘Pray do not, sir. I beg of you; pray do not, sir.’ The little man looks remarkably out of his element, and the uninitiated part of the throng are in positive convulsions of laughter.

Just at this moment some unfortunate individual appears, with a very smirking air, at the bottom of the long passage. He has managed to elude the vigilance of the special constable downstairs, and is evidently congratulating himself on having made his way so far.

Ora è diventato un fatto storico; è registrato nel Newgate Calendar. Vorremmo poter attribuire questo atto di audace eroismo al signor Barker. Purtroppo dobbiamo dichiarare che non è stato lui a compierlo. Per il bene della sua famiglia, potremmo aggiungere che è stato suo fratello a farlo!

Era proprio nell’esercizio di quei dettagli più raffinati della sua professione che la conoscenza della >natura umana da parte del signor Barker si manifestava in modo davvero eccezionale. Riusciva a capire al volo dove un passeggero volesse andare, e pronunciava immediatamente il nome della destinazione, senza mai fare riferimento alla vera meta del veicolo. Conosceva perfettamente quel tipo di anziana signora che, nel corso dei movimenti per salire o scendere dal pullman, finiva per non ricordare dove fosse stata sistemata, fino a quando non era troppo tardi; aveva anche un’intuizione immediata di ciò che passava nella mente di un passeggero quando quest’ultimo decideva mentalmente di “parlare con quella persona la mattina dopo”; inoltre, riusciva sempre a essere molto piacevole con le cameriere, sistemandole vicino alla porta e conversando con loro per tutto il tragitto.

Il giudizio umano non è mai infallibile, e occasionalmente accadeva che il signor Barker sperimentasse sulla timidezza o sulla tolleranza della persona sbagliata; in tali casi, una convocazione in commissariato veniva spesso seguita da un ricovero in prigione. Tuttavia, cose del genere non erano in grado di soffocare la libertà del suo spirito. Non appena tali episodi finivano, riprendeva immediatamente le sue attività professionali con lo stesso entusiasmo di sempre.

Abbiamo parlato di Mr. Barker e del conducente di taxi rosso al passato. Ahimè! Mr. Barker è di nuovo assente; e la categoria di persone a cui entrambi appartenevano sta scomparendo rapidamente. Il progresso ha fatto la sua comparsa sotto i grembiuli dei nostri taxi e si è diffuso anche nelle parti più interne dei nostri autobus. Sporcizia e abiti logori scompariranno davanti alla pulizia e all’eleganza. Lo slang verrà dimenticato quando la cortesia diventerà la norma; e quella istituzione illuminata, eloquente, saggia e profonda che è il Magistrato di Londra, perderà metà del proprio divertimento, e metà delle proprie occupazioni.

CAPITOLO XVIII – UN abbozzo PARLAMENTARE

Speriamo che i nostri lettori non si allarmino di fronte a questo titolo piuttosto inquietante. Li assicuriamo che non abbiamo intenzione di diventare politici, né abbiamo la minima volontà di essere più noiosi del solito, se possiamo evitarlo. Ci è venuta l’idea che un breve schizzo dell’aspetto generale di quella “casa” e delle folle che vi si radunano la notte di un importante debatto possa essere piuttosto divertente. E poiché abbiamo avuto l’opportunità di visitare più volte quella casa nel corso del nostro lavoro, e anche troppo spesso, a dire il vero, per il nostro comfort personale, abbiamo deciso di tentare questa descrizione. Quindi, mettendo da parte ogni senso di timore – che idee vaghe riguardo a violazioni dei privilegi, accuse gravi e tariffe esorbitanti potrebbero suscitare – entriamo subito nell’edificio e iniziamo il nostro racconto.

Le quattro e mezza del pomeriggio. E alle cinque, l’oratore che pronuncerà il discorso sarà già “in piedi”, come a volte i giornali annunciano per divertimento, come se gli oratori avessero davvero l’abitudine di stare in piedi sulla testa. I membri stanno arrivando uno dopo l’altro, a gruppi. I pochi spettatori che riescono a trovare posto nei corridoi li osservano con grande interesse; chi riesce a riconoscere un membro diventa immediatamente una persona molto importante. Di tanto in tanto si sentono sussurri seri del tipo: “Quello è Sir John Thomson. Quello con l’ordine d’onore dorato al collo? No, no. Quello con i guanti gialli è Sir John Thomson. Ecco il signor Smith. Oh! Come state, signore? (È il nostro nuovo membro, ) Come state, signore?” Il signor Smith si ferma, si gira con un’aria di squisita cortesia (poiché questa mattina si è diffusa ampiamente la voce di una possibile dissoluzione del gruppo), afferra entrambe le mani del suo elettoro soddisfatto, lo saluta con grande calore e poi si dirige verso l’atrio con un’enorme passione per la causa pubblica, lasciando un’impressione molto positiva nel cuore del proprio “conterraneo”.

Il numero degli arrivi aumenta, e il caldo e il rumore crescono in proporzioni molto sgradevoli. I servitori delle stalle formano una lunga fila su entrambi i lati del passaggio, e tu ti riduci allo spazio più piccolo possibile per evitare di essere cacciato via. Vedi quel uomo robusto con la voce rauca, il cappotto blu, il cappello a tesa larga, i pantaloni di velluto bianco e gli stivali grandi. Parla senza sosta da mezz’ora, e la sua “importanza” ha suscitato non poco divertimento tra gli estranei. Lui è il grande garante della pace a Westminster. Non puoi non aver notato la grazia con cui ha salutato il nobile signore che è appena passato, o l’eccessiva dignità del suo atteggiamento mentre si rivolge alla folla. In questo momento, però, sembra piuttosto arrabbiato, a causa del comportamento estremamente irrispettoso di quei due giovani dietro di lui, che non hanno fatto altro che ridere tutto il tempo in cui sono stati lì.

“Divideranno durante la notte, secondo lei, signor ---?”, chiede timidamente un uomo magro tra la folla, nella speranza di placare quell’uomo in carica.

“Come può lei porre domande del genere, signore?” risponde l’ufficiale, con un tono incredibilmente alto, afferrando con irritazione il grosso bastone che porta nella mano destra. “Per favore, non lo faccia, signore. La prego, non lo faccia.” Quell’uomo sembra davvero fuori posto in quella situazione, e coloro che non conoscevano la storia scoppiavano a ridere senza riuscire a trattenersi.

Proprio in questo momento appare qualche sfortunato individuo, con un’espressione molto compiaciuta, alla fine del lungo corridoio. È riuscito a eludere la vigilanza del poliziotto di servizio al piano di sotto ed evidentemente si sta congratulando per essere arrivato fin lì.

‘Go back, sir—you must not come here,’ shouts the hoarse one, with tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the offender catches his eye.

The stranger pauses.

‘Do you hear, sir—will you go back?’ continues the official dignitary, gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards.

‘Come, don’t push me,’ replies the stranger, turning angrily round.

‘I will, sir.’

‘You won’t, sir.’

‘Go out, sir.’

‘Take your hands off me, sir.’

‘Go out of the passage, sir.’

‘You’re a Jack-in-office, sir.’

‘A what?’ ejaculates he of the boots.

‘A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,’ reiterates the stranger, now completely in a passion.

‘Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,’ retorts the other—‘pray do not—my instructions are to keep this passage clear—it’s the Speaker’s orders, sir.’

‘D-n the Speaker, sir!’ shouts the intruder.

‘Here, Wilson!—Collins!’ gasps the officer, actually paralysed at this insulting expression, which in his mind is all but high treason; ‘take this man out—take him out, I say! How dare you, sir?’ and down goes the unfortunate man five stairs at a time, turning round at every stoppage, to come back again, and denouncing bitter vengeance against the commander-in-chief, and all his supernumeraries.

‘Make way, gentlemen,—pray make way for the Members, I beg of you!’ shouts the zealous officer, turning back, and preceding a whole string of the liberal and independent.

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a complexion almost as sallow as his linen, and whose large black moustache would give him the appearance of a figure in a hairdresser’s window, if his countenance possessed the thought which is communicated to those waxen caricatures of the human face divine. He is a militia-officer, and the most amusing person in the House. Can anything be more exquisitely absurd than the burlesque grandeur of his air, as he strides up to the lobby, his eyes rolling like those of a Turk’s head in a cheap Dutch clock? He never appears without that bundle of dirty papers which he carries under his left arm, and which are generally supposed to be the miscellaneous estimates for 1804, or some equally important documents. He is very punctual in his attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied ‘He-ar-He-ar,’ is not unfrequently the signal for a general titter.

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a messenger up to the Strangers’ gallery in the old House of Commons, to inquire the name of an individual who was using an eye-glass, in order that he might complain to the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing him! On another occasion, he is reported to have repaired to Bellamy’s kitchen—a refreshment-room, where persons who are not Members are admitted on sufferance, as it were—and perceiving two or three gentlemen at supper, who, he was aware, were not Members, and could not, in that place, very well resent his behaviour, he indulged in the pleasantry of sitting with his booted leg on the table at which they were supping! He is generally harmless, though, and always amusing.

By dint of patience, and some little interest with our friend the constable, we have contrived to make our way to the Lobby, and you can just manage to catch an occasional glimpse of the House, as the door is opened for the admission of Members. It is tolerably full already, and little groups of Members are congregated together here, discussing the interesting topics of the day.

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and cuffs, who wears his D’Orsay hat so rakishly, is ‘Honest Tom,’ a metropolitan representative; and the large man in the cloak with the white lining—not the man by the pillar; the other with the light hair hanging over his coat collar behind—is his colleague. The quiet gentlemanly-looking man in the blue surtout, gray trousers, white neckerchief and gloves, whose closely-buttoned coat displays his manly figure and broad chest to great advantage, is a very well-known character. He has fought a great many battles in his time, and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other arms than those the gods gave him. The old hard-featured man who is standing near him, is really a good specimen of a class of men, now nearly extinct. He is a county Member, and has been from time whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary. Look at his loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious pockets on each side; the knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long waistcoat, and silver watch-chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed brown hat, and the white handkerchief tied in a great bow, with straggling ends sticking out beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume one seldom sees nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off, it will be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was managed in those times, when they used to get up at eight or nine o’clock, except on regular field-days, of which everybody was apprised beforehand. He has a great contempt for all young Members of Parliament, and thinks it quite impossible that a man can say anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House for fifteen years at least, without saying anything at all. He is of opinion that ‘that young Macaulay’ was a regular impostor; he allows, that Lord Stanley may do something one of these days, but ‘he’s too young, sir—too young.’ He is an excellent authority on points of precedent, and when he grows talkative, after his wine, will tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was whipper-in for the Government, brought four men out of their beds to vote in the majority, three of whom died on their way home again; how the House once divided on the question, that fresh candles be now brought in; how the Speaker was once upon a time left in the chair by accident, at the conclusion of business, and was obliged to sit in the House by himself for three hours, till some Member could be knocked up and brought back again, to move the adjournment; and a great many other anecdotes of a similar description.

“Tornate indietro, signore – non dovete assolutamente venire qui,” grida quella voce rauca, con grande enfasi nella voce e nei gesti, non appena l’uomo che ha commesso il reato entra nel suo campo visivo.

Lo sconosciuto fa una pausa.

“La sente, signore? Tornerà indietro?” continua il funzionario di alto rango, spingendo dolcemente l’intruso di circa mezzo metro.

“Ma che fai, non spingermi,” risponde lo sconosciuto, girandosi con rabbia.

“Lo farò, signore.”

“Non lo farà, signore.”

“Vada fuori, signore.”

“Togliete le mani da me, signore.”

“Uscite dal passaggio, signore.”

“Lei è solo un fantoccio al potere, signore.”

“Ad cosa?” esclama lui riguardo a quelle scarpe.

“Un individuo arrogante e molto insolenzo, signore,” ripete lo sconosciuto, ormai completamente preso dalla passione.

“Per favore, non costringetemi a farvi uscire, signore,” ribatte l’altro. “Per favore. Le mie istruzioni sono di mantenere questo passaggio libero; sono gli ordini del Presidente, signore.”

“Per favore, parlamentare, signore!” grida l’intruso.

“Ecco qui, Wilson! — Collins!” esclama l’ufficiale, letteralmente paralizzato da questa offensiva espressione che, nella sua mente, equivale quasi a alto tradimento; “Portate via quest’uomo. Portatelo via immediatamente! Come osate, signore?” E così l’infortunato viene spinto giù per cinque gradini di una volta, girandosi ad ogni sosta per poi tornare indietro e minacciare vendetta implacabile contro il comandante in capo e tutti i suoi subordinati.

“Fate spazio, signori. Vi prego, fate posto ai membri del parlamento!” gridava l’ufficiale zelante, voltandosi e precedendo un intero gruppo di persone liberali e indipendenti.

Vedete questo signore dall’aspetto feroce, con una pelle quasi altrettanto giallastra del suo abito di lino, e il cui grande mustacchio nero gli dà l’aspetto di una figura appesa alla vetrina di un parrucchiere, se solo il suo volto esprimesse quei pensieri che vengono comunicati da quelle caricature di cera del viso umano. È un ufficiale della milizia e la persona più divertente in tutta la >Casa. C’è qualcosa di più squisitamente assurdo della maestosità burlesca del suo portamento, quando si avvicina all’atrio con gli occhi che “rotolano” come quelli di una testa turca in un orologio olandese di scarsa qualità? Non appare mai senza quel mazzo di fogli sporchi che porta sotto il braccio sinistro. Si presume generalmente che siano delle stime varie per l’anno 1804, o documenti altrettanto importanti. È molto puntuale nelle sue apparizioni in >Casa, e il suo tono compiaciuto “Eeeeh, ”, spesso, scatena un generale ridacchiare tra i presenti.

Questo è il gentiluomo che una volta mandò davvero un messaggero nella galleria riservata agli estranei nell’antica Casa dei Comuni per chiedere il nome di una persona che indossava occhiali, al fine di poter lamentarsi con il Presidente del Parlamento del fatto che quella persona lo stesse mettendo alla prova! In un’altra occasione, si dice che sia entrato nella cucina di Bellamy – un locale dove alle persone non iscritte ai parlamenti viene concesso l’ingresso su concessione speciale – e, vedendo due o tre gentiluomini a cena, che sapeva non essere membri del Parlamento e quindi non avrebbero potuto rimproverare troppo il suo comportamento in quel luogo, si divertì a sedersi con la gamba calzata nella scarpa sul tavolo dove stavano mangiando! In generale, però, è innocuo e sempre divertente.

Grazie alla pazienza e a un po’ di interesse da parte del nostro amico il poliziotto, siamo riusciti ad arrivare nel Salone d’Aspetto; è possibile intravedere occasionalmente l’Camera quando le porte vengono aperte per l’ammissione dei membri. È già abbastanza piena, e piccoli gruppi di membri si riuniscono qui per discutere degli argomenti interessanti del giorno.

Quell’uomo dall’aspetto distinto, con il cappotto nero dai bordi di velluto e i polsini alti, che indossa quel cappello D’Orsay in modo così disinvolto, è “Honest Tom”, un rappresentante tipico della società metropolitana; l’uomo alto con il mantello a righe bianche – non quello vicino al pilastro, ma l’altro con i capelli biondi che gli ricadono sul colletto del cappotto – è suo collega. Quell’uomo dall’aspetto tranquillo e gentile, in giacca blu, pantaloni grigi, fazzoletto bianco al collo e guanti, il cui cappotto abbottonato stretto mette in risalto la sua figura virile e il suo petto ampio, è una persona molto conosciuta. Ha combattuto molte battaglie nel corso della sua vita e ha vinto, come gli eroi antichi, senza utilizzare altre armi se non quelle che gli avevano dato gli dei. Quell’uomo dall’aspetto rude che sta accanto a lui rappresenta davvero bene una classe di persone ormai quasi estinta: è un membro del parlamento della contea e appartiene a quella generazione la cui memoria ancora sopravvive. Guardate il suo cappotto marrone, largo e con tasche capienti su entrambi i lati; i pantaloni fino al ginocchio e le scarpe, il gilet estremamente lungo e la catena dell’orologio d’argento che pende sotto di esso, il cappello a tesa larga marrone e il fazzoletto bianco annodato in un grande fiocco, con i bordi che sporgono oltre il colletto della camicia. È un abbigliamento che oggi si vede raramente; quando anche gli ultimi che lo indossano saranno morti, scomparirà del tutto. Può raccontarvi lunghe storie su Fox, Pitt, Sheridan e Canning, e spiegarvi quanto meglio fosse gestita la Casa in quei tempi, quando le persone si alzavano alle otto o alle nove di mattina. A meno che non ci fossero giornate dedicate alle discussioni pubbliche, delle quali tutti erano informati in anticipo. Disprezza profondamente tutti i giovani membri del parlamento e ritiene assolutamente impossibile che un uomo possa dire qualcosa di interessante se non ha trascorso almeno quindici anni nella Casa senza aver mai detto nulla. Credete davvero che quel giovane Macaulay fosse un impostore? Ammette che Lord Stanley possa riuscire in qualcosa in futuro, ma “è troppo giovane, signore, troppo giovane”. È una fonte eccellente di informazioni sui precedenti storici; quando diventa loquace, dopo aver bevuto vino, vi racconterà come Sir Qualcuno, quando lavorava per il Governo, abbia fatto alzare quattro uomini dal letto perché votassero a favore della maggioranza, tre dei quali sono morti lungo la strada del ritorno; come la Casa si sia divisa una volta sulla questione di utilizzare candele fresche durante le sessioni, come il presidente sia stato lasciato da solo nella sua poltrona alla fine delle sedute, costringendolo a rimanere lì da solo per tre ore, fino a quando non è riuscito a trovare qualcuno che lo sostituisse per proporre la sospensione della sessione. E molte altre storie simili.

There he stands, leaning on his stick; looking at the throng of Exquisites around him with most profound contempt; and conjuring up, before his mind’s eye, the scenes he beheld in the old House, in days gone by, when his own feelings were fresher and brighter, and when, as he imagines, wit, talent, and patriotism flourished more brightly too.

You are curious to know who that young man in the rough great-coat is, who has accosted every Member who has entered the House since we have been standing here. He is not a Member; he is only an ‘hereditary bondsman,’ or, in other words, an Irish correspondent of an Irish newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second frank from a Member whom he never saw in his life before. There he goes again—another! Bless the man, he has his hat and pockets full already.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers’ gallery, though the nature of the debate encourages very little hope of success. What on earth are you about? Holding up your order as if it were a talisman at whose command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense. Just preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at all, and make your appearance at the door with your thumb and forefinger expressively inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the door-keeper. ‘Any room?’ ‘Not an inch—two or three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the chance of somebody’s going out.’ Pull out your purse—‘Are you quite sure there’s no room?’—‘I’ll go and look,’ replies the door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, ‘but I’m afraid there’s not.’ He returns, and with real feeling assures you that it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers’ gallery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed. [122]

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descending the stairs, and crossing Palace-yard, we halt at a small temporary doorway adjoining the King’s entrance to the House of Lords. The order of the serjeant-at-arms will admit you into the Reporters’ gallery, from whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the House. Take care of the stairs, they are none of the best; through this little wicket—there. As soon as your eyes become a little used to the mist of the place, and the glare of the chandeliers below you, you will see that some unimportant personage on the Ministerial side of the House (to your right hand) is speaking, amidst a hum of voices and confusion which would rival Babel, but for the circumstance of its being all in one language.

The ‘hear, hear,’ which occasioned that laugh, proceeded from our warlike friend with the moustache; he is sitting on the back seat against the wall, behind the Member who is speaking, looking as ferocious and intellectual as usual. Take one look around you, and retire! The body of the House and the side galleries are full of Members; some, with their legs on the back of the opposite seat; some, with theirs stretched out to their utmost length on the floor; some going out, others coming in; all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing, oh-ing, questioning, or groaning; presenting a conglomeration of noise and confusion, to be met with in no other place in existence, not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or a cock-pit in its glory.

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy’s kitchen, or, in other words, the refreshment-room, common to both Houses of Parliament, where Ministerialists and Oppositionists, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers, and Destructives, strangers from the gallery, and the more favoured strangers from below the bar, are alike at liberty to resort; where divers honourable members prove their perfect independence by remaining during the whole of a heavy debate, solacing themselves with the creature comforts; and whence they are summoned by whippers-in, when the House is on the point of dividing; either to give their ‘conscientious votes’ on questions of which they are conscientiously innocent of knowing anything whatever, or to find a vent for the playful exuberance of their wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts of ‘Divide,’ occasionally varied with a little howling, barking, crowing, or other ebullitions of senatorial pleasantry.

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, in the present temporary House of Commons, leads to the place we are describing, you will probably observe a couple of rooms on your right hand, with tables spread for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although they are both devoted to the same purpose; the kitchen is further on to our left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before we ascend the staircase, however, we must request you to pause in front of this little bar-place with the sash-windows; and beg your particular attention to the steady, honest-looking old fellow in black, who is its sole occupant. Nicholas (we do not mind mentioning the old fellow’s name, for if Nicholas be not a public man, who is?—and public men’s names are public property)—Nicholas is the butler of Bellamy’s, and has held the same place, dressed exactly in the same manner, and said precisely the same things, ever since the oldest of its present visitors can remember. An excellent servant Nicholas is—an unrivalled compounder of salad-dressing—an admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon—a special mixer of cold grog and punch—and, above all, an unequalled judge of cheese. If the old man have such a thing as vanity in his composition, this is certainly his pride; and if it be possible to imagine that anything in this world could disturb his impenetrable calmness, we should say it would be the doubting his judgment on this important point.

Eccolo lì, appoggiato al suo bastone; guarda con profondo disprezzo la folla di persone raffinate che lo circonda, e richiama nella sua mente le scene vissute nell’antica >Casa, in tempi passati, quando i suoi sentimenti erano più freschi e vivaci, e quando, come immagina, intelligenza, talento e patriottismo fiorivano ancora più rigogliosamente.

Siete curiosi di sapere chi sia quel giovane uomo con il grande cappotto ruvido che si avvicina a ogni membro che entra nella Casa da quando ci troviamo qui. Non è un membro; è soltanto un “servo ereditario”, o in altre parole, un corrispondente irlandese di un giornale irlandese che ha appena ottenuto il suo quarantaduesimo franco da un membro che non ha mai visto in vita sua. Ecco che arriva di nuovo. Ancora uno! Benedetto quell’uomo: i suoi pantaloni e le sue tasche sono già pieni.

Proveremo fortuna alla galleria degli “Stranieri”, anche se la natura della discussione lascia poche speranze di successo. Ma che cosa state facendo? Tenete in mano quell’ordine come se fosse un talismano capace di aprire da solo le porte. Assurdità. Conservatelo semplicemente per l’autografo, se vale davvero la pena, e presentatevi alla porta con il pollice e l’indice infilati nella tasca del gilet in modo significativo. Quell’uomo alto e robusto in nero è il portiere: “C’è qualche stanza libera?” “Nemmeno un centimetro. Ci sono due o tre dozzine di signori che aspettano al piano di sotto, nella speranza che qualcuno esca, ” Tirate fuori la borsa, “Siete davvero sicuri che non ci sia posto?” “Vado a controllare”, risponde il portiere, lanciando uno sguardo desolato alla vostra borsa, “Ma temo proprio di no.” Torna e vi assicura con sincera convinzione che è moralmente impossibile avvicinarsi alla galleria. Non ha senso aspettare. Quando vi viene rifiutata l’ingresso alla galleria degli “Stranieri” alla Camera dei Comuni, in circostanze del genere, potete tornare a casa assolutamente convinti che il posto debba essere davvero stracolmo. [122]

Tornando indietro lungo il lungo corridoio, scendendo le scale e attraversando la Piazza del Palazzo, ci fermiamo davanti a una piccola porta temporanea adiacente all’ingresso del Re nella >Casa dei Lord. Il sergente di guardia vi farà entrare nella galleria dei giornalisti, da dove potrete godere di una vista abbastanza buona sulla >Casa dei Lord. Fate attenzione alle scale: non sono delle migliori. Attraverso questa piccola apertura, lì. Non appena i vostri occhi si saranno abituati alla nebbia che avvolge il luogo e al bagliore degli lampadari sottostanti, vedrete che qualcuno di poco rilievo, sul lato ministeriale della >Casa dei Lord (a destra), sta parlando, in mezzo a un rumore e a una confusione che potrebbero competere con quelle di Babele, se non fosse per il fatto che tutto avviene nella stessa lingua.

Quei “sentite, sentite” che hanno provocato quella risata provenivano dal nostro amico guerriero con la barba; è seduto sul sedile posteriore, appoggiato al muro, dietro il membro che sta parlando, e sembra tanto feroce quanto intellettuale come al solito. Guardatevi intorno un attimo, e andatevene! L’aula della Casa e le gallerie laterali sono piene di membri: alcuni con le gambe appoggiate sul sedile di fronte, altri distesi completamente a terra; alcuni escono, altri entrano; tutti parlano, ridono, si rilassano, tossiscono, fanno domande o emettono gemiti. Un vero e proprio caos di rumori e confusione, che non si trova in nessun altro posto al mondo, nemmeno a Smithfield nei giorni di mercato o in un’arena da combattimento nel suo momento di massimo splendore.

Ma non dimentichiamo di menzionare la cucina di Bellamy, o, in altre parole, la sala ristoro comune a entrambe le Camere del Parlamento, dove sia i ministri che gli oppositori, i Whigs che i Tories, i radicali e i nobili, così come gli spettatori presenti nella galleria e coloro che hanno accesso al piano inferiore dell’edificio, possono recarsi liberamente. In questo luogo, diversi membri onorabili dimostrano la propria totale indipendenza rimanendo, durante intere e lunghe debattite, a godersi i piaceri della vita quotidiana; vengono poi chiamati dai camerieri quando la Camera è sul punto di prendere una decisione: sia per esprimere il proprio “voto consapevole” su questioni di cui, in realtà, non sanno assolutamente nulla, sia per sfogare l’allegria scatenata dal vino con grida tumultuose di “Dividete!”, a volte accompagnate da ululati, abbaiamenti o altri segni di vivace scherzosità senatoriale.

Quando avrete salito la stretta scala che, nell’attuale e temporanea Casa dei Comuni, conduce al luogo che stiamo descrivendo, probabilmente noterete un paio di stanze a destra, con tavoli imbanditi per il pasto. Nessuna delle due è la cucina, anche se entrambe sono destinate allo stesso scopo; la cucina si trova più avanti, a sinistra, salendo queste sei o sette scale. Prima di salire, tuttavia, vi chiediamo di fermarvi davanti a questo piccolo bar con le finestre a grata: rivolgete in particolare attenzione all’uomo anziano, vestito di nero e dall’aspetto onesto e serio, che è l’unico cliente. Nicholas, (non ci dispiace menzionare il suo nome, perché se Nicholas non è una persona pubblica, chi lo è? E i nomi delle persone pubbliche sono proprietà comune, ) Nicholas è il maggiordomo della casa di Bellamy; ricopre questa stessa posizione, indossa esattamente gli stessi abiti e dice esattamente le stesse cose da quando i visitatori più anziani di oggi possono ricordare. Un servitore eccellente. Nicholas è un insuperabile preparatore di condimenti per insalate, un ottimo produttore di acqua tonica al limone, un esperto nel mescolare bevande fredde come grog e punch. E soprattutto, un giudice ineguagliabile per quanto riguarda il formaggio. Se nell’anima di quest’uomo esiste qualcosa chiamato vanità, allora questa è sicuramente la sua orgoglio; e se si potesse immaginare che qualcosa al mondo potesse turbare la sua calma imperturbabile, diremmo che sarebbe il dubitare della sua capacità di giudicare in questo importante ambito.

We needn’t tell you all this, however, for if you have an atom of observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing-looking head and face—his prim white neckerchief, with the wooden tie into which it has been regularly folded for twenty years past, merging by imperceptible degrees into a small-plaited shirt-frill—and his comfortable-looking form encased in a well-brushed suit of black—would give you a better idea of his real character than a column of our poor description could convey.

Nicholas is rather out of his element now; he cannot see the kitchen as he used to in the old House; there, one window of his glass-case opened into the room, and then, for the edification and behoof of more juvenile questioners, he would stand for an hour together, answering deferential questions about Sheridan, and Percival, and Castlereagh, and Heaven knows who beside, with manifest delight, always inserting a ‘Mister’ before every commoner’s name.

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a great idea of the degeneracy of the times. He seldom expresses any political opinions, but we managed to ascertain, just before the passing of the Reform Bill, that Nicholas was a thorough Reformer. What was our astonishment to discover shortly after the meeting of the first reformed Parliament, that he was a most inveterate and decided Tory! It was very odd: some men change their opinions from necessity, others from expediency, others from inspiration; but that Nicholas should undergo any change in any respect, was an event we had never contemplated, and should have considered impossible. His strong opinion against the clause which empowered the metropolitan districts to return Members to Parliament, too, was perfectly unaccountable.

We discovered the secret at last; the metropolitan Members always dined at home. The rascals! As for giving additional Members to Ireland, it was even worse—decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir, an Irish Member would go up there, and eat more dinner than three English Members put together. He took no wine; drank table-beer by the half-gallon; and went home to Manchester-buildings, or Millbank-street, for his whiskey-and-water. And what was the consequence? Why, the concern lost—actually lost, sir—by his patronage. A queer old fellow is Nicholas, and as completely a part of the building as the house itself. We wonder he ever left the old place, and fully expected to see in the papers, the morning after the fire, a pathetic account of an old gentleman in black, of decent appearance, who was seen at one of the upper windows when the flames were at their height, and declared his resolute intention of falling with the floor. He must have been got out by force. However, he was got out—here he is again, looking as he always does, as if he had been in a bandbox ever since the last session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have described him: and, as characters are scarce, and faithful servants scarcer, long may he be there, say we!

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, and duly noticed the large fire and roasting-jack at one end of the room—the little table for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other—the clock over the window opposite St. Margaret’s Church—the deal tables and wax candles—the damask table-cloths and bare floor—the plate and china on the tables, and the gridiron on the fire; and a few other anomalies peculiar to the place—we will point out to your notice two or three of the people present, whose station or absurdities render them the most worthy of remark.

It is half-past twelve o’clock, and as the division is not expected for an hour or two, a few Members are lounging away the time here in preference to standing at the bar of the House, or sleeping in one of the side galleries. That singularly awkward and ungainly-looking man, in the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black trousers which reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, who is leaning against the meat-screen, apparently deluding himself into the belief that he is thinking about something, is a splendid sample of a Member of the House of Commons concentrating in his own person the wisdom of a constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark hue but indescribable colour, for if it be naturally brown, it has acquired a black tint by long service, and if it be naturally black, the same cause has imparted to it a tinge of rusty brown; and remark how very materially the great blinker-like spectacles assist the expression of that most intelligent face. Seriously speaking, did you ever see a countenance so expressive of the most hopeless extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so strangely put together? He is no great speaker: but when he does address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible.

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just saluted him, is a Member of Parliament, an ex-Alderman, and a sort of amateur fireman. He, and the celebrated fireman’s dog, were observed to be remarkably active at the conflagration of the two Houses of Parliament—they both ran up and down, and in and out, getting under people’s feet, and into everybody’s way, fully impressed with the belief that they were doing a great deal of good, and barking tremendously. The dog went quietly back to his kennel with the engine, but the gentleman kept up such an incessant noise for some weeks after the occurrence, that he became a positive nuisance. As no more parliamentary fires have occurred, however, and as he has consequently had no more opportunities of writing to the newspapers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures he cut them out of their frames, and performed other great national services, he has gradually relapsed into his old state of calmness.

That female in black—not the one whom the Lord’s-Day-Bill Baronet has just chucked under the chin; the shorter of the two—is ‘Jane:’ the Hebe of Bellamy’s. Jane is as great a character as Nicholas, in her way. Her leading features are a thorough contempt for the great majority of her visitors; her predominant quality, love of admiration, as you cannot fail to observe, if you mark the glee with which she listens to something the young Member near her mutters somewhat unintelligibly in her ear (for his speech is rather thick from some cause or other), and how playfully she digs the handle of a fork into the arm with which he detains her, by way of reply.

Tuttavia, non è necessario che vi raccontiamo tutto questo: se solo avete un minimo di osservazione attenta, basta uno sguardo alla sua testa e al suo viso dall’aspetto elegante e astuto, al suo colletto bianco immacolato, alla cravatta di seta che è stata sempre piegata nello stesso modo negli ultimi vent’anni, fondendosi quasi impercettibilmente con il bordo della camicia, e al suo aspetto comodo e ordinato, avvolto in un abito nero ben curato. Questi dettagli vi daranno una idea più chiara del suo vero carattere di quanto possano farlo le nostre povere descrizioni.

Nicholas ora si sente piuttosto fuori dal suo ambiente naturale; non riesce più a vedere la cucina come faceva nell’antica Casa. Lì, una finestra della sua vetrinetta si apriva direttamente nella stanza, e spesso, per il divertimento di molti giovani curiosi, restava lì per un’ora intera a rispondere alle loro domande su Sheridan, Percival, Castlereagh, e chissà chi altro; faceva sempre del suo meglio, aggiungendo con evidente piacere “Signore” davanti al nome di ogni persona comune.

Nicholas, come tutti gli uomini della sua età e posizione sociale, aveva una chiara consapevolezza del declino dei tempi. Raramente esprimeva opinioni politiche, ma prima dell’approvazione del Progetto di Riforma riuscimmo a scoprire che era un convinto sostenitore delle riforme. Quanto rimanemmo sorpresi quando, poco dopo la riunione del primo Parlamento riformato, scoprimmo che in realtà era un acceso e deciso sostenitore dei conservatori! Era davvero strano: alcune persone cambiano opinione per necessità, altre per convenienza, altre ancora per ispirazione; ma che Nicholas potesse subire qualche cambiamento in qualsiasi ambito era qualcosa che non avevamo mai preso in considerazione e che ritenevamo impossibile. Anche la sua ferma opposizione alla clausola che permetteva ai distretti metropolitani di eleggere deputati al Parlamento rimaneva del tutto inspiegabile.

Finalmente abbiamo scoperto il segreto: i membri della Camera Metropolitana pranzavano sempre a >casa. Quei furfanti. Quanto all’idea di assegnare altri membri all’Irlanda, era ancora peggio: decisamente incostituzionale. Un membro irlandese, infatti, avrebbe mangiato più del totale delle cene consumate da tre membri inglesi! Non beveva vino, ma birra in quantità enormi; poi tornava a casa, nei quartieri di Manchester o di Millbank Street, per bere whisky e acqua. E qual ne era la conseguenza? L’intera organizzazione ne risentiva, davvero, signori, ne risentiva. Nicholas è un tipo strano: fa letteralmente parte di quell’edificio, proprio come la casa stessa. Ci chiediamo se abbia mai lasciato quel posto. E ci aspettavamo davvero di leggere, il giorno dopo l’-incendio, qualche triste notizia su un anziano gentiluomo in nero, dall’aspetto rispettabile, visto alle finestre superiori mentre le fiamme erano al loro apice. Si diceva che fosse deciso a morire insieme all’edificio. Devono averlo tratto in salvo con la forza. Comunque sia, è di nuovo lì, proprio come sempre, come se fosse rimasto chiuso in quell’edificio da quando si è tenuta l’ultima sessione. Ogni notte è al suo solito posto, esattamente come lo abbiamo descritto. E poiché i personaggi fedeli sono davvero rari, che possa rimanerci per molto tempo!

Ora, quando vi sarete seduti in cucina e avrete notato adeguatamente il grande forno e la griglia per arrostire all’estremità della stanza; il piccolo tavolo per lavare i bicchieri e scolare le giare dall’altra parte; l’orologio sopra la finestra di fronte alla chiesa di Santa Margherita; i tavoli da lavoro e le candele di cera; i tovaglioli di damasco e il pavimento nudo; i piatti e la porcellana sui tavoli, nonché la griglia sopra il forno; e alcune altre caratteristiche particolari di quel luogo, allora vi indicheremo due o tre delle persone presenti, le cui condizioni sociali o le loro azioni assurde rendono loro davvero degne di nota.

Sono le dodici e mezza; poiché la divisione non è prevista per un’ora o due, alcuni membri stanno passando il tempo qui, invece di stare al bar della >Casa o dormire nelle gallerie laterali. Quell’uomo dall’aspetto particolarmente goffo e sgraziato, con il cappello marrone chiaro e i pantaloni neri che arrivano a metà delle sue scarpe, appoggiato al divisorio di legno, apparentemente si illude di essere impegnato in qualche riflessione profonda. È davvero un esempio rappresentativo di un membro della Casa dei Comuni] che, nella sua persona, incarna tutta la “saggezza” del proprio elettorato. Notate quella parrucca: di colore scuro ma indescrivibile; se è naturalmente marrone, il tempo l’ha resa nera; se invece è naturalmente nera, lo stesso fattore le ha conferito una tonalità marrone rossastro. E osservate anche quegli occhiali grandi e sporgenti, quanto contribuiscano efficacemente all’espressione di quel volto apparentemente così intelligente. Sul serio: avete mai visto un viso che esprima un’apatia così estrema, o una figura così stranamente composta? Non è certo un grande oratore, ma quando si rivolge alla >Casa, l’effetto che produce è assolutamente irresistibile.

Il piccolo gentiluomo con il naso affilato, che gli ha appena fatto il saluto, è un membro del Parlamento, un ex assessore comunale e, in qualche modo, anche un vigile del fuoco dilettante. Lui e il famoso cane dei vigili del fuoco furono notati per essere particolarmente attivi durante l’incendio delle due Camere del Parlamento: correvano su e giù, dentro e fuori, intralciando tutti, convinti di stare compiendo un’impresa davvero importante, e abbaiavano senza sosta. Il cane tornò tranquillamente nel suo canile insieme all’idrante, ma il gentiluomo continuò a fare un rumore incessante per diverse settimane dopo l’incidente, diventando davvero una scocciatura. Tuttavia, poiché non si sono verificati altri incendi parlamentari e quindi non ha più avuto l’opportunità di scrivere sui giornali raccontando come, ad esempio, avesse salvato delle foto tagliandole fuori dai loro telai o compiuto altre “grandi imprese per la nazione”, è gradualmente tornato al suo solito stato di tranquillità.

Quella donna in nero – non quella che il Baronetto del Lord’s-Day-Bill ha appena afferrato per il mento; la più bassa delle due – è “Jane”: l’Hebe di Bellamy. Jane è, a suo modo, un personaggio altrettanto significativo quanto Nicholas. Le sue caratteristiche principali sono un profondo disprezzo per la stragrande maggioranza dei suoi visitatori; la sua qualità predominante, però, è l’amore per l’ammirazione: non potete fare a meno di notare la gioia con cui ascolta ciò che il giovane membro del parlamento mormora sommessamente nel suo orecchio (poiché il suo modo di parlare è piuttosto incomprensibile, per qualche motivo), e come, in modo giocoso, conficchi l’impugnatura di una forchetta nell’avambraccio con cui lui la trattiene, come risposta.

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them about, with a degree of liberality and total absence of reserve or constraint, which occasionally excites no small amazement in the minds of strangers. She cuts jokes with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him with a great deal of respect—the immovable stolidity with which Nicholas receives the aforesaid jokes, and looks on, at certain pastoral friskings and rompings (Jane’s only recreations, and they are very innocent too) which occasionally take place in the passage, is not the least amusing part of his character.

The two persons who are seated at the table in the corner, at the farther end of the room, have been constant guests here, for many years past; and one of them has feasted within these walls, many a time, with the most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He has gone up to the other House since then; the greater part of his boon companions have shared Yorick’s fate, and his visits to Bellamy’s are comparatively few.

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour can he possibly have dined! A second solid mass of rump-steak has disappeared, and he eat the first in four minutes and three quarters, by the clock over the window. Was there ever such a personification of Falstaff! Mark the air with which he gloats over that Stilton, as he removes the napkin which has been placed beneath his chin to catch the superfluous gravy of the steak, and with what gusto he imbibes the porter which has been fetched, expressly for him, in the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse sound of that voice, kept down as it is by layers of solids, and deep draughts of rich wine, and tell us if you ever saw such a perfect picture of a regular gourmand; and whether he is not exactly the man whom you would pitch upon as having been the partner of Sheridan’s parliamentary carouses, the volunteer driver of the hackney-coach that took him home, and the involuntary upsetter of the whole party?

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that of the spare, squeaking old man, who sits at the same table, and who, elevating a little cracked bantam sort of voice to its highest pitch, invokes damnation upon his own eyes or somebody else’s at the commencement of every sentence he utters. ‘The Captain,’ as they call him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy’s; much addicted to stopping ‘after the House is up’ (an inexpiable crime in Jane’s eyes), and a complete walking reservoir of spirits and water.

The old Peer—or rather, the old man—for his peerage is of comparatively recent date—has a huge tumbler of hot punch brought him; and the other damns and drinks, and drinks and damns, and smokes. Members arrive every moment in a great bustle to report that ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s up,’ and to get glasses of brandy-and-water to sustain them during the division; people who have ordered supper, countermand it, and prepare to go down-stairs, when suddenly a bell is heard to ring with tremendous violence, and a cry of ‘Di-vi-sion!’ is heard in the passage. This is enough; away rush the members pell-mell. The room is cleared in an instant; the noise rapidly dies away; you hear the creaking of the last boot on the last stair, and are left alone with the leviathan of rump-steaks.

CHAPTER XIX—PUBLIC DINNERS

All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor’s annual banquet at Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers’ anniversary at White Conduit House; from the Goldsmiths’ to the Butchers’, from the Sheriffs’ to the Licensed Victuallers’; are amusing scenes. Of all entertainments of this description, however, we think the annual dinner of some public charity is the most amusing. At a Company’s dinner, the people are nearly all alike—regular old stagers, who make it a matter of business, and a thing not to be laughed at. At a political dinner, everybody is disagreeable, and inclined to speechify—much the same thing, by-the-bye; but at a charity dinner you see people of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions. The wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure, and we have heard some hardhearted monsters grumble at the collection; but we really think the amusement to be derived from the occasion, sufficient to counterbalance even these disadvantages.

Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this description—‘Indigent Orphans’ Friends’ Benevolent Institution,’ we think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer, but never mind the rest. You have a distinct recollection, however, that you purchased a ticket at the solicitation of some charitable friend: and you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach, the driver of which—no doubt that you may do the thing in style—turns a deaf ear to your earnest entreaties to be set down at the corner of Great Queen-street, and persists in carrying you to the very door of the Freemasons’, round which a crowd of people are assembled to witness the entrance of the indigent orphans’ friends. You hear great speculations as you pay the fare, on the possibility of your being the noble Lord who is announced to fill the chair on the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it eventually decided that you are only a ‘wocalist.’

The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is the astonishing importance of the committee. You observe a door on the first landing, carefully guarded by two waiters, in and out of which stout gentlemen with very red faces keep running, with a degree of speed highly unbecoming the gravity of persons of their years and corpulency. You pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, and thinking, in your innocence, that two or three people must have been carried out of the dining-room in fits, at least. You are immediately undeceived by the waiter—‘Up-stairs, if you please, sir; this is the committee-room.’ Up-stairs you go, accordingly; wondering, as you mount, what the duties of the committee can be, and whether they ever do anything beyond confusing each other, and running over the waiters.

Jane è davvero abile nelle risposte argute; le lancia con generosità, senza alcuna riserva o imbarazzo, il che a volte suscita notevole meraviglia negli occhi degli estranei. Scherza anche con Nicholas, ma lo guarda con grande rispetto. L’immota serietà con cui Nicholas accetta questi scherzi, e il modo in cui osserva quelle occasionali schermaglie e giochi innocenti che avvengono nel corridoio (le uniche distrazioni di Jane, e per di più molto innocenti), rappresentano senza dubbio una parte molto divertente del suo carattere.

Le due persone sedute al tavolo nell’angolo, all’estremità più lontana della stanza, sono ospiti abituali da molti anni; una di loro ha mangiato in queste stanze molte volte, insieme alle figure più illustri di un’epoca straordinaria. Da allora è passata anche nell’altra casa; la maggior parte dei suoi compagni d’un tempo hanno condiviso la stessa sorte di Yorick, e le sue visite a Bellamy sono ormai piuttosto rare.

Se davvero sta mangiando la sua cena in questo momento, a che ora potrebbe aver pranzato! Un’altra porzione di bistecca è già scomparsa. Mangia la prima in quattro minuti e tre quarti, secondo l’orologio sopra la finestra. Esiste davvero una personificazione così perfetta di Falstaff? Notate con quale soddisfazione si compiace di quel formaggio Stilton. E con quale gusto beve il porto che gli è stato portato appositamente in una pentola di piombo. Ascoltate quel suono rauco della sua voce, soffocato da strati di cibo e da abbondanti sorsi di vino. Diteci: avete mai visto un esempio così perfetto di vero gourmand? E non è forse proprio lui l’uomo che avreste scelto come compagno delle baldorie parlamentari di Sheridan, il conducente volontario della carrozza che lo riportava a casa, e insieme allo “scompiglione involontario” di tutta la compagnia?

Che contrasto divertente tra la sua voce e il suo aspetto, rispetto a quelli di quel vecchio magro e stridulo che siede allo stesso tavolo: lui, alzando la propria voce roca fino al massimo livello, maledice se stesso o qualcun altro all’inizio di ogni frase che pronuncia. “Il Capitano”, come lo chiamano, è un frequentatore assiduo del locale di Bellamy; è molto abituato a fermarsi dopo che “la casa è stata ristrutturata” (un crimine imperdonabile agli occhi di Jane), e rappresenta davvero una fonte inesauribile di spirito e, “acqua”.

Il vecchio nobile – o meglio, l’uomo anziano, poiché il suo titolo nobiliare risale a tempi relativamente recenti – fa portare una enorme coppa di punch caldo; intanto gli altri continuano a bere, a fumare. I membri arrivano uno dopo l’altro in gran fretta per annunciare che “il Cancelliere dello Scacchiere è arrivato” e per chiedere bicchieri di brandy con acqua per sostenerli durante la votazione; persone che avevano ordinato la cena la annullano subito, pronte a scendere le scale. Quando all’improvviso si sente suonare una campana con grande violenza e si ode un grido “Votazione!”, tutti corrono via in disordine. La stanza si svuota in un istante; il rumore si placa rapidamente. Si sente solo lo scricchiolio dell’ultima scarpa sulle ultime scale. E si rimane soli, con quel gigantesco piatto di bistecche.

CAPITOLO XIX – CENE PUBLICHE

Tutti i banchetti pubblici a Londra, dal banchetto annuale del Lord Mayor presso la Guildhall fino all’anniversario dei spazzacamini alla White Conduit House; dai Goldsmiths ai Butchers, dai Sheriffs ai Licensed Victuallers, sono scene davvero divertenti. Tuttavia, tra tutti questi eventi, riteniamo che il banchetto annuale di qualche organizzazione di carità sia il più divertente. Ai banchetti aziendali, le persone presenti sono quasi tutte uguali: vecchi habitués che considerano parteciparvi un dovere professionale, e non qualcosa da prendere in giro. Ai banchetti politici, invece, tutti sono sgradevoli e inclini a tenere discorsi noiosi. Ma ai banchetti di beneficenza si incontrano persone di ogni tipo e provenienza. Certo, il vino potrebbe non essere eccezionale, e abbiamo sentito alcuni individui spietati lamentarsi delle donazioni raccolte; ma crediamo davvero che l’atmosfera particolare di questi eventi compensi ampiamente queste eventuali mancanze.

Supponiamo che siate stati invitati a partecipare a una cena organizzata da questa “Istituzione di Beneficenza per gli Orfani Poveri”. Il nome dell’organizzazione è piuttosto lungo, ma non importa. Ricordate bene di aver acquistato un biglietto su esortazione di un amico benefattore; salite quindi in una vettura a noleggio. Il conducente, senza alcun dubbio desideroso che l’evento abbia luogo con dignità, ignora le vostre insistenti richieste di fermarsi all’angolo di Great Queen Street e vi porta direttamente alla porta dell’edificio dove si terrà la cena. Intorno a essa si è radunata una folla per assistere all’arrivo degli “amici degli orfani poveri”. Mentre pagate il prezzo del viaggio, sentite circolare molte congetture riguardo alla possibilità che siate proprio voi il nobile signore annunciato come ospite d’onore. Ma alla fine scoprite di essere soltanto un “cantante”.

La prima cosa che colpisce non appena si entra è l’importanza straordinaria di questo comitato. Si nota una porta al primo piano, attentamente sorvegliata da due camerieri; uomini robusti con facce molto rosse entrano e escono continuamente da quella porta, con una velocità assai inappropriata alla gravità delle loro età e corporature. Ci si ferma, piuttosto allarmati da tutto questo trambusto, pensando, nella propria innocenza, che sicuramente due o tre persone siano state portate fuori dalla sala da pranzo in preda a convulsioni. Ma il cameriere ci smentisce immediatamente: “Al piano di sopra, per favore, signore; questa è la sala del comitato.” Saliamo quindi al piano di sopra, chiedendoci quali possano essere i compiti di questo comitato, e se facciano mai qualcosa di concreto, oltre a confondersi a vicenda e dare fastidio ai camerieri.

Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a remarkably small scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, as a matter of course, you lose, before you require it again), you enter the hall, down which there are three long tables for the less distinguished guests, with a cross table on a raised platform at the upper end for the reception of the very particular friends of the indigent orphans. Being fortunate enough to find a plate without anybody’s card in it, you wisely seat yourself at once, and have a little leisure to look about you. Waiters, with wine-baskets in their hands, are placing decanters of sherry down the tables, at very respectable distances; melancholy-looking salt-cellars, and decayed vinegar-cruets, which might have belonged to the parents of the indigent orphans in their time, are scattered at distant intervals on the cloth; and the knives and forks look as if they had done duty at every public dinner in London since the accession of George the First. The musicians are scraping and grating and screwing tremendously—playing no notes but notes of preparation; and several gentlemen are gliding along the sides of the tables, looking into plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the expression of their countenances growing more and more dismal as they meet with everybody’s card but their own.

You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, and—not being in the habit of attending public dinners—are somewhat struck by the appearance of the party on which your eyes rest. One of its principal members appears to be a little man, with a long and rather inflamed face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in front; he wears a wisp of black silk round his neck, without any stiffener, as an apology for a neckerchief, and is addressed by his companions by the familiar appellation of ‘Fitz,’ or some such monosyllable. Near him is a stout man in a white neckerchief and buff waistcoat, with shining dark hair, cut very short in front, and a great, round, healthy-looking face, on which he studiously preserves a half sentimental simper. Next him, again, is a large-headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers; and opposite them are two or three others, one of whom is a little round-faced person, in a dress-stock and blue under-waistcoat. There is something peculiar in their air and manner, though you could hardly describe what it is; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that they have come for some other purpose than mere eating and drinking. You have no time to debate the matter, however, for the waiters (who have been arranged in lines down the room, placing the dishes on table) retire to the lower end; the dark man in the blue coat and bright buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks up to the gallery, and calls out ‘band’ in a very loud voice; out burst the orchestra, up rise the visitors, in march fourteen stewards, each with a long wand in his hand, like the evil genius in a pantomime; then the chairman, then the titled visitors; they all make their way up the room, as fast as they can, bowing, and smiling, and smirking, and looking remarkably amiable. The applause ceases, grace is said, the clatter of plates and dishes begins; and every one appears highly gratified, either with the presence of the distinguished visitors, or the commencement of the anxiously-expected dinner.

As to the dinner itself—the mere dinner—it goes off much the same everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied with awful rapidity—waiters take plates of turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring back plates of lobster-sauce without turbot; people who can carve poultry, are great fools if they own it, and people who can’t have no wish to learn. The knives and forks form a pleasing accompaniment to Auber’s music, and Auber’s music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if you could hear anything besides the cymbals. The substantials disappear—moulds of jelly vanish like lightning—hearty eaters wipe their foreheads, and appear rather overcome by their recent exertions—people who have looked very cross hitherto, become remarkably bland, and ask you to take wine in the most friendly manner possible—old gentlemen direct your attention to the ladies’ gallery, and take great pains to impress you with the fact that the charity is always peculiarly favoured in this respect—every one appears disposed to become talkative—and the hum of conversation is loud and general.

‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for Non nobis!’ shouts the toast-master with stentorian lungs—a toast-master’s shirt-front, waistcoat, and neckerchief, by-the-bye, always exhibit three distinct shades of cloudy-white.—‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, for Non nobis!’ The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the very party that excited your curiosity at first, after ‘pitching’ their voices immediately begin _too-too_ing most dismally, on which the regular old stagers burst into occasional cries of—‘Sh—Sh—waiters!—Silence, waiters—stand still, waiters—keep back, waiters,’ and other exorcisms, delivered in a tone of indignant remonstrance. The grace is soon concluded, and the company resume their seats. The uninitiated portion of the guests applaud Non nobis as vehemently as if it were a capital comic song, greatly to the scandal and indignation of the regular diners, who immediately attempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation, by cries of ‘Hush, hush!’ whereupon the others, mistaking these sounds for hisses, applaud more tumultuously than before, and, by way of placing their approval beyond the possibility of doubt, shout ‘Encore!’ most vociferously.

The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast-master:—‘Gentlemen, charge your glasses, if you please!’ Decanters having been handed about, and glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds, in a regular ascending scale:—‘Gentlemen—air—you—all charged? Pray—silence—gentlemen—for—the cha-i-r!’ The chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it quite unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to propose, with any observations whatever, wanders into a maze of sentences, and flounders about in the most extraordinary manner, presenting a lamentable spectacle of mystified humanity, until he arrives at the words, ‘constitutional sovereign of these realms,’ at which elderly gentlemen exclaim ‘Bravo!’ and hammer the table tremendously with their knife-handles. ‘Under any circumstances, it would give him the greatest pride, it would give him the greatest pleasure—he might almost say, it would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that toast. What must be his feelings, then, when he has the gratification of announcing, that he has received her Majesty’s commands to apply to the Treasurer of her Majesty’s Household, for her Majesty’s annual donation of 25_l._ in aid of the funds of this charity!’ This announcement (which has been regularly made by every chairman, since the first foundation of the charity, forty-two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause; the toast is drunk with a great deal of cheering and knocking; and ‘God save the Queen’ is sung by the ‘professional gentlemen;’ the unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the national anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice, describe as ‘perfectly electrical.’

Dopo aver depositato cappello e mantello e ricevuto in cambio un pezzetto di cartone molto piccolo (che, naturalmente, si perde prima che ne si abbia nuovamente bisogno), si entra nella sala dove ci sono tre lunghi tavoli riservati agli ospiti meno importanti; all’estremità superiore, su una piattaforma rialzata, c’è un tavolo con una croce per accogliere gli amici particolari degli orfani poveri. Avendo la fortuna di trovare un piatto senza alcuna carta al suo interno, ci si siede immediatamente e si ha il tempo di guardarsi intorno. I camerieri, con cesti di vino in mano, stanno posizionando i decanter di sherry sui tavoli, mantenendo delle distanze rispettabili; saliere dall’aspetto melancolico e barattoli di aceto ammuffito, che probabilmente appartenevano ai genitori degli orfani poveri in passato, sono sparsi qua e là sulle tovaglie; coltelli e forchette sembrano essere stati utilizzati in ogni banchetto pubblico a Londra sin dall’ascesa al trono di Giorgio I. I musicisti stanno suonando con grande rumore, producendo soltanto suoni preparatori; diversi signori si muovono lungo i bordi dei tavoli, esaminando freneticamente ogni piatto. Il loro viso assume un’espressione sempre più desolata ogni volta che trovano la carta di qualcun altro tranne la propria.

Ti giri per dare un’occhiata al tavolo dietro di te, e – non essendo abituato a partecipare a cene pubbliche – rimani piuttosto sorpreso dall’aspetto della compagnia che hai davanti agli occhi. Uno dei suoi membri principali sembra essere un uomo piccolo, con il viso lungo e leggermente arrossito e i capelli grigi pettinati dritti in avanti; indossa intorno al collo un filo di seta nera, senza alcun supporto rigido, come se fosse un fazzoletto, e i suoi compagni lo chiamano con l’affettuoso soprannome di “Fitz” o qualcosa del genere. Vicino a lui c’è un uomo robusto, con un fazzoletto bianco al collo e una giacca gialla; ha i capelli scuri e molto corti sulla fronte, e un viso grande, rotondo e sano, sul quale cerca di mantenere un’espressione semisentimentale. Accanto a lui c’è ancora un uomo dalla testa grossa, con i capelli neri e le basette folte; di fronte a loro ci sono altri due o tre uomini, uno dei quali ha il viso rotondo e indossa una cravatta e una giacca blu sotto. C’è qualcosa di particolare nel loro atteggiamento e nel loro modo di comportarsi, anche se fatici a descrivere esattamente cosa sia; non riesci a scacciare l’impressione che siano venuti per uno scopo diverso dal semplice mangiare e bere. Tuttavia non hai il tempo di rifletterci sopra, perché i camerieri (disposti in fila lungo la stanza per servire i piatti) si ritirano verso l’estremità del locale; l’uomo con il cappotto blu e i bottoni lucidi, che dirige l’orchestra, alza lo sguardo verso il palco e grida “Orchestra!”, e subito l’orchestra inizia a suonare. Gli ospiti si alzano in piedi; quattordici camerieri avanzano uno dopo l’altro, ognuno con un lungo bastone in mano, come il genio malvagio in una pantomima; poi arriva il presidente della serata, seguito dagli altri ospiti di rango. Tutti si affrettano verso la sala, inchinandosi, sorridendo e mostrando un’aria estremamente amichevole. Gli applausi cessano, viene pronunciato il discorso di ringraziamento, inizia il rumore dei piatti che vengono serviti. E tutti sembrano molto soddisfatti, sia per la presenza degli ospiti d’onore che per l’inizio della cena tanto attesa.

Per quanto riguarda la cena stessa, semplicemente la cena, procede più o meno allo stesso modo ovunque. I piatti di zuppa vengono svuotati con una velocità incredibile; i camerieri portano via i piatti di turbota per prendere la salsa di aragosta, e poi tornano con i piatti di salsa di aragosta senza turbota; le persone che sanno preparare la carne di pollame sono davvero sciocche se ne possiedono, mentre quelle che non sanno farlo desiderano ardentemente imparare. Forchette e coltelli costituiscono un piacevole accompagnamento alla musica di Auber, e la musica di Auber, a sua volta, potrebbe essere un ottimo sottofondo per la cena, se si riuscisse ad ascoltare qualcos’altro oltre ai cimbali. I piatti principali scompaiono rapidamente; i mucchi di gelatina svaniscono come il fulmine, coloro che mangiano con appetito si asciugano la fronte, sembrando davvero esausti dalle fatiche appena sostenute, le persone che poco prima sembravano molto scortesi diventano improvvisamente molto gentili e vi invitano cordialmente a bere vino, gli anziani signori attirano la vostra attenzione verso il palco delle signore, facendo ogni sforzo per farvi notare che in questo ambito la carità riceve sempre particolare favore, tutti sembrano disposti a diventare loquaci, e il chiacchiericcio diventa incessante e diffuso.

“Pregate, signori, per favore, in silenzio, ‘Non nobis’!”, grida il maestro di cerimonia con voce tonante; tra l’altro, la camicia, il gilet e il fazzoletto del maestro di cerimonia presentano sempre e solo tre diverse tonalità di bianco opaco. “Pregate, signori, in silenzio, ‘Non nobis’!” I cantanti, che in realtà sono proprio la stessa compagnia che all’inizio aveva suscitato la vostra curiosità, dopo aver alzato le voci iniziano immediatamente a cantare in modo molto scadente; di fronte a questo, i vecchi frequentatori del locale esplodono in grida di “Attenti, camerieri! Silenzio, camerieri. Fermatevi!” e altri rimproveri indignati. La cerimonia si conclude presto e tutti tornano ai loro posti. Gli ospiti che non conoscono bene la situazione applaudiscono “Non nobis” con grande entusiasmo, come se si trattasse di una canzone comica davvero divertente; questo suscita lo scandalo e l’indignazione dei clienti abituali, i quali cercano immediatamente di soffocare queste manifestazioni di approvazione sacrilega gridando “Zitti! Zitti!”, ma gli altri, scambiando questi suoni per fischi, applaudiscono ancora più rumorosamente e, per dimostrare ulteriormente la loro approvazione, gridano “Ancora!” con grande forza.

Non appena il rumore si placa, il responsabile dei brindisi inizia: “Signori, per favore riempite i vostri bicchieri!” Dopo che i decanter sono stati distribuiti e i bicchieri riempiti, l’uomo prosegue con un ordine ben definito: “Signori, tutti pronti? Per favore. [silenzio], signori, al brindisi!” Il presidente si alza e, dopo aver dichiarato che ritiene del tutto inutile introdurre alcuna prefazione al brindisi che sta per proporre, inizia a parlare in modo confuso e disordinato, offrendo uno spettacolo davvero deplorevole. Fino a quando non arriva alle parole “sovrano costituzionale di questi regni”; allora gli anziani signori esclamano “Bravo!” e battono forte sul tavolo con il manico dei loro coltelli. “In qualsiasi caso, proporre quel brindisi gli darebbe la massima soddisfazione. Potrebbe persino dire che gli procurerebbe grande gioia. Quindi, quale deve essere la sua emozione quando ha l’onore di annunciare di aver ricevuto l’ordine di Sua Maestà di rivolgersi al tesoriere della Casa Reale per chiedere il dono annuale di 25 sterline a sostegno di questa [carità]?” Questo annuncio, che viene ripetuto regolarmente da ogni presidente sin dalla fondazione della [carità] quarantadue anni fa, suscita applausi fragorosi; tutti bevono il brindisi tra grida e battiti di mani. E i “signori professionisti” cantano “Dio salvi la Regina”; anche gli “uomini non professionisti” si uniscono al coro, rendendo l’inno nazionale davvero straordinario. Come i giornali definiscono con grande giustizia.

The other ‘loyal and patriotic’ toasts having been drunk with all due enthusiasm, a comic song having been well sung by the gentleman with the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second of the party, we come to the most important toast of the evening—‘Prosperity to the charity.’ Here again we are compelled to adopt newspaper phraseology, and to express our regret at being ‘precluded from giving even the substance of the noble lord’s observations.’ Suffice it to say, that the speech, which is somewhat of the longest, is rapturously received; and the toast having been drunk, the stewards (looking more important than ever) leave the room, and presently return, heading a procession of indigent orphans, boys and girls, who walk round the room, curtseying, and bowing, and treading on each other’s heels, and looking very much as if they would like a glass of wine apiece, to the high gratification of the company generally, and especially of the lady patronesses in the gallery. Exeunt children, and re-enter stewards, each with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a lively air; the majority of the company put their hands in their pockets and look rather serious; and the noise of sovereigns, rattling on crockery, is heard from all parts of the room.

After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, the secretary puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read the report and list of subscriptions, the latter being listened to with great attention. ‘Mr. Smith, one guinea—Mr. Tompkins, one guinea—Mr. Wilson, one guinea—Mr. Hickson, one guinea—Mr. Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Charles Nixon, one guinea—[hear, hear!]—Mr. James Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Thomas Nixon, one pound one [tremendous applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman of the day, in addition to an annual donation of fifteen pounds—thirty guineas [prolonged knocking: several gentlemen knock the stems off their wine-glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady, Fitz Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten pound—twenty pound’ [protracted knocking and shouts of ‘Bravo!’] The list being at length concluded, the chairman rises, and proposes the health of the secretary, than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable individual. The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that he knows no more excellent individual than the chairman—except the senior officer of the charity, whose health he begs to propose. The senior officer, in returning thanks, observes that he knows no more worthy man than the secretary—except Mr. Walker, the auditor, whose health he begs to propose. Mr. Walker, in returning thanks, discovers some other estimable individual, to whom alone the senior officer is inferior—and so they go on toasting and lauding and thanking: the only other toast of importance being ‘The Lady Patronesses now present!’ on which all the gentlemen turn their faces towards the ladies’ gallery, shouting tremendously; and little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than usual, kiss their hands and exhibit distressing contortions of visage.

We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, that we have hardly time to add one word by way of grace. We can only entreat our readers not to imagine, because we have attempted to extract some amusement from a charity dinner, that we are at all disposed to underrate, either the excellence of the benevolent institutions with which London abounds, or the estimable motives of those who support them.

CHAPTER XX—THE FIRST OF MAY

‘Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you please!’

Young Lady with Brass Ladle.

‘Sweep—sweep—sw-e-ep!’

Illegal Watchword.

The first of May! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling to our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant in nature and beautiful in her most delightful form. What man is there, over whose mind a bright spring morning does not exercise a magic influence—carrying him back to the days of his childish sports, and conjuring up before him the old green field with its gently-waving trees, where the birds sang as he has never heard them since—where the butterfly fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees him now, in all his ramblings—where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone more brightly—where the air blew more freshly over greener grass, and sweeter-smelling flowers—where everything wore a richer and more brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now! Such are the deep feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions which every lovely object stamps upon its heart! The hardy traveller wanders through the maze of thick and pathless woods, where the sun’s rays never shone, and heaven’s pure air never played; he stands on the brink of the roaring waterfall, and, giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it leaps from stone to stone, and from crag to crag; he lingers in the fertile plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the luxury of their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous nature ever spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate the senses of man, compared with the recollection of the old scenes of his early youth? Magic scenes indeed; for the fancies of childhood dressed them in colours brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!

In former times, spring brought with it not only such associations as these, connected with the past, but sports and games for the present—merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with emblems of the season, and reared in honour of its coming. Where are they now! Pillars we have, but they are no longer rustic ones; and as to dancers, they are used to rooms, and lights, and would not show well in the open air. Think of the immorality, too! What would your sabbath enthusiasts say, to an aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York’s column in Carlton-terrace—a grand poussette of the middle classes, round Alderman Waithman’s monument in Fleet-street,—or a general hands-four-round of ten-pound householders, at the foot of the Obelisk in St. George’s-fields? Alas! romance can make no head against the riot act; and pastoral simplicity is not understood by the police.

Dopo che gli altri brindisi “leali e patriottici” furono bevuti con grande entusiasmo, dopo che una canzone comica fu cantata molto bene dal gentiluomo con il piccolo fazzoletto al collo, e dopo che un brindisi sentimentale fu pronunciato dal secondo partecipante alla festa, arrivammo al brindisi più importante della serata: “Prosperità per la carità”. Ancora una volta fummo costretti ad utilizzare la terminologia tipica dei giornali e a esprimere il nostro rammarico per non essere in grado di “esprimere nemmeno l’essenza delle nobili osservazioni del signore”. Basterà dire che il discorso, uno dei più lunghi della serata, fu accolto con grande entusiasmo; dopo che il brindisi fu bevuto, i camerieri (che sembravano ancora più importanti del solito) lasciarono la sala e poco dopo tornarono guidando una processione di orfani, ragazzi e ragazze poveri. Questi girarono per la sala inchinandosi e facendo le riverenze, camminando uno dietro l’altro e con un aspetto che faceva pensare che desiderassero tutti un bicchiere di vino a testa. Il che procurò grande divertimento a tutta la compagnia, soprattutto alle signore presenti in galleria. Escono i bambini; rientrano i camerieri, ognuno con un piatto blu in mano. La banda suona una melodia vivace; la maggior parte dei presenti mette le mani in tasca e assume un’espressione piuttosto seria. Da tutte le parti della sala si sente il rumore delle monete che sbattono contro i piatti di ceramica.

Dopo un breve intervallo trascorso a cantare e brindare, il segretario indossa gli occhiali e inizia a leggere il rapporto nonché l’elenco delle donazioni; quest’ultimo viene ascoltato con grande attenzione. “Signor Smith, una ghinea. Signor Tompkins, una ghinea. Signor Wilson, una ghinea. Signor Hickson, una ghinea. Signor Nixon, una ghinea. Signor Charles Nixon, una ghinea. [Ascoltate, ascoltate!]. Signor James Nixon, una ghinea. Signor Thomas Nixon, un paio di sterline e una ghinea [applausi scroscianti]. Lord Fitz Binkle, presidente della riunione, oltre a una donazione annuale di quindici sterline, trenta ghinee [colpi ripetuti sui bicchieri: diversi signori rompono i gambi dei loro calici per esprimere il proprio apprezzamento]. Lady Fitz Binkle, inoltre, dona dieci o venti sterline all’anno, ” Una volta terminato l’elenco, il presidente si alza e propone di brindare alla salute del segretario, che considera la persona più zelante ed estimabile che conosca. Il segretario, ringraziando, afferma di non conoscere nessuno migliore del presidente, tranne l’ufficiale responsabile dell’organizzazione benefica, il cui benessere chiede di brindare. Quest’ultimo, ricambiando i complimenti, dichiara di non conoscere nessun uomo più degno del segretario, tranne il signor Walker, l’auditor, il cui benessere anch’egli propone di brindare. Il signor Walker, nel ringraziamento, menziona un altro individuo stimabile, ma poi tutti continuano a brindare, lodare e ringraziarsi a vicenda; l’unico altro brindisi importante riguarda “Le Signore Patrocinatrici presenti oggi!”, e in quell’istante tutti i signori si girano verso la galleria delle dame, esultando rumorosamente. Mentre alcuni giovani, avendo bevuto più del solito, baciano le mani delle donne e compiono gesti teatralmente commoventi.

Abbiamo prolungato la nostra cena per un periodo così lungo che a malapena abbiamo il tempo di aggiungere una parola in segno di ringraziamento. Possiamo soltanto chiedere ai nostri lettori di non pensare, solo perché abbiamo cercato di trarre qualche momento di divertimento da una cena di beneficenza, che siamo minimamente disposti a sottovalutare l’eccellenza delle istituzioni caritatevoli che Londra offre in abbondanza, né i nobili motivi di coloro che le sostengono.

capitolo XX – IL PRIMO DI MAGGIO

“Ora signore e signori, salite nel salone del cielo: solo una volta all’anno, per favore!”

giovane signorina con un mestolo di ottone.

“Spazzare, spazzare, spaz-zare!”

Parola d’ordine illegale.

Il primo maggio! In quel suono c’è una freschezza gioiosa che evoca mille pensieri di tutto ciò che è piacevole nella >natura e bello nelle sue forme più incantevoli. Esiste forse un uomo il cui cuore non sia colpito da un’effetto “magico” al risveglio di una luminosa mattina primaverile? Quel ricordo lo riporta ai giorni delle sue giovanili attività, gli rievoca quel vecchio prato verde con gli alberi che ondeggiavano dolcemente, dove gli uccelli cantavano come non li ha più sentiti da allora; dove la farfalla svolazzava con maggiore grazia di quanto lo faccia ora. Dove il cielo sembrava più azzurro, il sole più luminoso, l’aria più fresca su erba più verde e fiori dal profumo più dolce. Dove tutto aveva colori più intensi e brillanti rispetto a oggi. Questi sono i sentimenti profondi della infanzia, queste le impressioni che ogni bello oggetto lascia nel cuore dell’uomo. Il viaggiatore coraggioso può vagare attraverso foreste fitte e inaccessibili, dove mai hanno brillato i raggi del sole né ha soffiato l’aria pura del cielo; può stare sul bordo di una cascata tumultuosa, osservando con meraviglia le onde schiumose che si infrangono su rocce e scogliere; può soggiornare nelle fertili pianure di una terra sempre illuminata dal sole, godendo della loro brezza fresca e profumata. Ma quali sono, rispetto a questi ricordi d’infanzia, le foreste più impenetrabili, le acque più tumultuose o i paesaggi più incantevoli che la generosa >natura possa offrire? Davvero scene “magiche”: perché l’immaginazione della infanzia le veste di colori ancora più brillanti del arcobaleno, e quasi altrettanto effimeri.

In tempi passati, la primavera portava con sé non solo associazioni legate al passato, ma anche sport e giochi per il presente: danze gioiose intorno a pilastri rustici adornati con simboli della stagione, celebrati in onore del suo arrivo. Dove sono ora? Ci sono ancora i pilastri, ma non sono più rustici; quanto ai ballerini, sono abituati alle stanze e alla luce artificiale, e non si esibirrebbero bene all’aperto. Pensate anche all’immoralità che ne deriverebbe! Cosa direbbero i vostri fanatici del sabato a un gruppo aristocratico riunito intorno al pilastro del >Duca di York in Carlton-Terrace, o a una folla di persone della classe media intorno al monumento dell’Alderman Waithman in Fleet-street, o ancora a un gruppo di cittadini comuni sotto l’Obelisco in St. George’s Fields? Ahimè, la romantica non può nulla contro il caos e la follia umana; la semplicità pastorale, poi, non è affatto compresa dalla polizia.

Well; many years ago we began to be a steady and matter-of-fact sort of people, and dancing in spring being beneath our dignity, we gave it up, and in course of time it descended to the sweeps—a fall certainly, because, though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and moreover very useful in a civilised community, they are not exactly the sort of people to give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps, however, got the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up, and handed it down. This was a severe blow to the romance of spring-time, but, it did not entirely destroy it, either; for a portion of it descended to the sweeps with the dancing, and rendered them objects of great interest. A mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends were in existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost children, and who, after many years of sorrow and suffering, had found them in the character of sweeps. Stories were related of a young boy who, having been stolen from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the occupation of chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his professional career, to sweep the chimney of his mother’s bedroom; and how, being hot and tired when he came out of the chimney, he got into the bed he had so often slept in as an infant, and was discovered and recognised therein by his mother, who once every year of her life, thereafter, requested the pleasure of the company of every London sweep, at half-past one o’clock, to roast beef, plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence.

Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air of mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of those good effects which animals derive from the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. No one (except the masters) thought of ill-treating a sweep, because no one knew who he might be, or what nobleman’s or gentleman’s son he might turn out. Chimney-sweeping was, by many believers in the marvellous, considered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or later period of which, divers young noblemen were to come into possession of their rank and titles: and the profession was held by them in great respect accordingly.

We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about our own age, with curly hair and white teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely believed to be the lost son and heir of some illustrious personage—an impression which was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our infant mind, by the subject of our speculations informing us, one day, in reply to our question, propounded a few moments before his ascent to the summit of the kitchen chimney, ‘that he believed he’d been born in the vurkis, but he’d never know’d his father.’ We felt certain, from that time forth, that he would one day be owned by a lord: and we never heard the church-bells ring, or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without thinking that the happy event had at last occurred, and that his long-lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to Grosvenor-square. He never came, however; and, at the present moment, the young gentleman in question is settled down as a master sweep in the neighbourhood of Battle-bridge, his distinguishing characteristics being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and the possession of a pair of legs very inadequate to the support of his unwieldy and corpulent body.

The romance of spring having gone out before our time, we were fain to console ourselves as we best could with the uncertainty that enveloped the birth and parentage of its attendant dancers, the sweeps; and we did console ourselves with it, for many years. But, even this wicked source of comfort received a shock from which it has never recovered—a shock which has been in reality its death-blow. We could not disguise from ourselves the fact that whole families of sweeps were regularly born of sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers Town and Camden Town—that the eldest son succeeded to the father’s business, that the other branches assisted him therein, and commenced on their own account; that their children again, were educated to the profession; and that about their identity there could be no mistake whatever. We could not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, but we could not bring ourselves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some years in a state of voluntary ignorance. We were roused from our pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations thrown out by a friend of ours, to the effect that children in the lower ranks of life were beginning to choose chimney-sweeping as their particular walk; that applications had been made by various boys to the constituted authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of their ambition with the full concurrence and sanction of the law; that the affair, in short, was becoming one of mere legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to these rumours at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. Month after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, did we meet with accounts of similar applications. The veil was removed, all mystery was at an end, and chimney-sweeping had become a favourite and chosen pursuit. There is no longer any occasion to steal boys; for boys flock in crowds to bind themselves. The romance of the trade has fled, and the chimney-sweeper of the present day, is no more like unto him of thirty years ago, than is a Fleet-street pickpocket to a Spanish brigand, or Paul Pry to Caleb Williams.

This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble youths into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, was a severe blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney-sweeping, and to the romance of spring at the same time. But even this was not all, for some few years ago the dancing on May-day began to decline; small sweeps were observed to congregate in twos or threes, unsupported by a ‘green,’ with no ‘My Lord’ to act as master of the ceremonies, and no ‘My Lady’ to preside over the exchequer. Even in companies where there was a ‘green’ it was an absolute nothing—a mere sprout—and the instrumental accompaniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a set of Panpipes, better known to the many, as a ‘mouth-organ.’

Beh; molti anni fa abbiamo iniziato a diventare persone serie e pragmatiche, e poiché ballare in primavera era considerato al di sotto della nostra dignità, abbiamo smesso di farlo. Nel corso del tempo, questa abitudine è finita nelle mani dei spazzacamini. Un vero declino, perché, anche se gli spazzacamini sono persone perbene e molto utili in una società civile, non sono certo il tipo adatto a conferire un tocco di eleganza alla vita sociale. Tuttavia, gli spazzacamini hanno continuato a praticare questa attività e l’hanno tramandata alle generazioni future. Questo è stato un duro colpo per la “romantica” atmosfera della primavera, ma non l’ha del tutto distrutta: una parte di quella tradizione è rimasta con loro, rendendoli oggetto di grande interesse. In quei tempi, c’erano molte leggende riguardo a gentiluomini ricchi che avevano perso i propri figli e, dopo anni di dolore, li ritrovavano sotto le sembianze di spazzacamini. Si raccontavano anche storie di bambini rapiti in tenera età e costretti a fare il lavoro di spazzacamino; uno di questi, essendo stanco e sudato dopo aver pulito la canna fumaria della camera da letto di sua madre, si addormentò nel lettino dove aveva dormito da piccolo. Fu scoperto e riconosciuto dalla madre, che da allora invitava ogni anno tutti gli spazzacamini di Londra a partecipare a una cena con roast beef, budino di prugne, birra e sei penny, alle due e mezza del pomeriggio.

Storie del genere, e ne esistevano molte, creavano un’atmosfera di mistero attorno ai spazzacamini e producevano quegli effetti positivi che gli animali traggono dalla dottrina della reincarnazione delle anime. Nessuno (ad eccezione dei loro padroni) pensava di trattare male uno spazzacamino, perché nessuno sapeva chi potesse essere o quale nobile o gentiluomo avrebbe potuto diventare in futuro. Per molti che credevano in queste meraviglie, il mestiere di spazzacamino era considerato una sorta di periodo di prova: al termine di esso, diversi giovani nobili avrebbero ereditato i loro titoli e ranghi sociali; per questo motivo, quel mestiere veniva rispettato moltissimo.

Ricordiamo, nei nostri primi anni, un piccolo ragazzo della nostra età, con i capelli ricci e i denti bianchi; lo credevamo sinceramente e devotamente il figlio perduto ed erede di qualche personaggio illustre. Questa impressione si trasformò in una convinzione irrevocabile nella nostra mente infantile, quando un giorno, in risposta alla nostra domanda posta poco prima che salisse sulla cima del camino della cucina, ci disse: “Credo di essere nato nei vurkis, ma non ho mai conosciuto mio padre”. Da quel momento fummo certi che un giorno sarebbe stato posseduto da un lord. E ogni volta che sentivamo suonare le campane della chiesa o vedevamo sventolare una bandiera nelle vicinanze, pensavamo che quell’evento felice fosse finalmente avvenuto e che il suo genitore perduto fosse arrivato in carrozza per riportarlo a Grosvenor Square. Tuttavia, non arrivò mai. Oggi, quel giovane signore lavora come spazzino nel quartiere di Battle-bridge; le sue caratteristiche principali sono un’aperta avversione al lavarsi e due gambe assolutamente inadeguate a sostenere il suo corpo ingombrante e corpulento.

La romanza legata a questa professione era già svanita prima del nostro tempo; quindi ci consolavamo come potevamo con l’incertezza riguardante l’origine e le condizioni di vita di coloro che la esercitavano. E per molti anni ci consolammo davvero così. Ma anche questa fonte apparentemente confortevole subì un colpo dal quale non si è mai ripresa: un colpo che, in realtà, rappresentò il suo vero e proprio “colpo di morte”. Non potevamo negare che intere famiglie di spazzacamini nascevano da altri spazzacamini, nelle zone rurali di Somers Town e Camden Town; che il figlio maggiore ereditava l’attività del padre, mentre gli altri fratelli lo aiutavano e iniziavano a lavorare per conto proprio; che anche i loro figli venivano educati a questa professione. E che riguardo alla loro identità non poteva esserci alcun dubbio. Non potevamo ignorare questa triste verità, ma non eravamo disposti ad ammetterla. E così continuammo a vivere in uno stato di volontaria ignoranza per alcuni anni. Fu un nostro amico a svegliarci da questo confortevole sonno, con insinuazioni oscure: che i ragazzi delle classi più basse iniziavano a scegliere volontariamente la professione di spazzacamino; che diversi giovani avevano presentato domande alle autorità competenti per poter perseguire questo loro obiettivo, con il pieno consenso della legge. In breve, la cosa stava diventando semplicemente un accordo legale. All’inizio ignorammo queste voci, ma lentamente si diffusero tra noi. Mese dopo mese, settimana dopo settimana, finché non iniziammo a ricevere notizie di altre domande simili. Il velo fu sollevato: ogni mistero era ormai chiarito. La professione di spazzacamino era diventata una scelta volontaria, senza più bisogno di “rubare” ragazzi. I giovani si arruolavano in massa. Quella romantica immagine legata a questa attività era svanita per sempre. Il moderno spazzacamino non assomiglia affatto a quello di trent’anni fa. Proprio come un borseggiatore di Fleet Street non assomiglia a un brigante spagnolo, o Paul Pry a Caleb Williams.

Questo graduale degrado e abbandono della pratica di portare giovani nobili in cattività e costringerli ad arrampicarsi sulle grondaie rappresentò un duro colpo, per così dire, al “romanzo” legato alle attività dei spazzacamini, nonché alla tradizione delle feste primaverili. Ma non era tutto: alcuni anni fa anche le danze del Primo Maggio iniziarono a declinare; i piccoli gruppi di spazzacamini si riunivano in piccoli gruppi di due o tre persone, senza alcuna guida “verde” che coordinasse le celebrazioni, né una “dama” incaricata della gestione delle risorse economiche. Anche nelle compagnie che disponevano di una guida “verde”, questa era soltanto una figura simbolica; l’accompagnamento musicale consisteva raramente in altro che il suono di pale e un set di flauti, meglio conosciuti dal grande pubblico come “organi a bocca”.

These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a coming change; and what was the result which they shadowed forth? Why, the master sweeps, influenced by a restless spirit of innovation, actually interposed their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and substituted a dinner—an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House—where clean faces appeared in lieu of black ones smeared with rose pink; and knee cords and tops superseded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes.

Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses; and steady-going people who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this alteration to the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was described beyond the reach of praise. But how stands the real fact? Let any man deny, if he can, that when the cloth had been removed, fresh pots and pipes laid upon the table, and the customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed, the celebrated Mr. Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority not the most malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed himself in a manner following: ‘That now he’d cotcht the cheerman’s hi, he vished he might be jolly vell blessed, if he worn’t a goin’ to have his innings, vich he vould say these here obserwashuns—that how some mischeevus coves as know’d nuffin about the consarn, had tried to sit people agin the mas’r swips, and take the shine out o’ their bis’nes, and the bread out o’ the traps o’ their preshus kids, by a makin’ o’ this here remark, as chimblies could be as vell svept by ‘sheenery as by boys; and that the makin’ use o’ boys for that there purpuss vos barbareous; vereas, he ’ad been a chummy—he begged the cheerman’s parding for usin’ such a wulgar hexpression—more nor thirty year—he might say he’d been born in a chimbley—and he know’d uncommon vell as ‘sheenery vos vus nor o’ no use: and as to kerhewelty to the boys, everybody in the chimbley line know’d as vell as he did, that they liked the climbin’ better nor nuffin as vos.’ From this day, we date the total fall of the last lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among the élite of the profession: and from this period we commence a new era in that portion of our spring associations which relates to the first of May.

We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will meet us here, with the assertion, that dancing on May-day still continues—that ‘greens’ are annually seen to roll along the streets—that youths in the garb of clowns, precede them, giving vent to the ebullitions of their sportive fancies; and that lords and ladies follow in their wake.

Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in outward show, these processions have greatly improved: we do not deny the introduction of solos on the drum; we will even go so far as to admit an occasional fantasia on the triangle, but here our admissions end. We positively deny that the sweeps have art or part in these proceedings. We distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse scavengers, brickmakers, and gentlemen who devote their energies to the costermongering line, with obtaining money once a-year, under false pretences. We cling with peculiar fondness to the custom of days gone by, and have shut out conviction as long as we could, but it has forced itself upon us; and we now proclaim to a deluded public, that the May-day dancers are not sweeps. The size of them, alone, is sufficient to repudiate the idea. It is a notorious fact that the widely-spread taste for register-stoves has materially increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men, who, under a fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first of May nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to say nothing of the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, but we have positive proof—the evidence of our own senses. And here is our testimony.

Upon the morning of the second of the merry month of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went out for a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something or other which might induce us to believe that it was really spring, and not Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen House, without meeting anything calculated to dispel our impression that there was a mistake in the almanacks, we turned back down Maidenlane, with the intention of passing through the extensive colony lying between it and Battle-bridge, which is inhabited by proprietors of donkey-carts, boilers of horse-flesh, makers of tiles, and sifters of cinders; through which colony we should have passed, without stoppage or interruption, if a little crowd gathered round a shed had not attracted our attention, and induced us to pause.

When we say a ‘shed,’ we do not mean the conservatory sort of building, which, according to the old song, Love tenanted when he was a young man, but a wooden house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a few shovels, and little heaps of cinders, and fragments of china and tiles, scattered about it. Before this inviting spot we paused; and the longer we looked, the more we wondered what exciting circumstance it could be, that induced the foremost members of the crowd to flatten their noses against the parlour window, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of what was going on inside. After staring vacantly about us for some minutes, we appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a gentleman in a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right hand; but as the only answer we obtained was a playful inquiry whether our mother had disposed of her mangle, we determined to await the issue in silence.

Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-door of the shed opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and emulating the appearance, of May-day sweeps!

Questi erano segni dei tempi, presagi di un imminente cambiamento; e qual fu il risultato che essi preannunciavano? Il padrone, ispirato da uno spirito inquieto di innovazione, intervenne effettivamente, opponendosi a quelle pratiche tradizionali, e sostituì tutto con una cena commemorativa presso la casa di White Conduit: volti puliti presero il posto di quelli truccati con il rosso della rosa; e calzoni di seta sostituirono i pantaloni di cotone e le scarpe a fiore.

Signori abituati a montare cavalli timidi; persone stabili e oneste, prive di qualsiasi inclinazione alla vagabondia, lodarono senza limiti questo cambiamento. E il comportamento del caposquadra fu descritto come qualcosa al di là di ogni lode. Ma qual è la verità? Che chiunque possa negare, se ne ha il coraggio, che quando venne rimosso quel tessuto, nuove pentole e pipe furono messe sul tavolo, e si fecero i soliti brindisi leali e patriottici. Il famoso signor Sluffen, dell’Adam-and-Eve-Court – la cui autorità nemmeno i nostri avversari più ostili possono mettere in dubbio – esprimersi così: “Ora che ho ottenuto ciò che desideravo, vorrei essere davvero benedetto. Se solo non dovessi subire nuovamente quelle umiliazioni. Quei maledetti individui, che non sanno nulla di queste cose, hanno cercato di ostacolare le nostre attività, di rovinarci gli affari. Di privare i nostri bambini del loro pane. Facendo simili commenti, come se i camini potessero essere puliti da ragazzi. Usare dei ragazzi a scopi così barbari è davvero crudele. In verità, ero un amico. Chiedo scusa per l’espressione volgare. Non ho più di trent’anni. Posso dire di essere nato in un camino. So molto bene che i camini non servono a nulla. E riguardo ai ragazzi. Tutti quelli della mia famiglia sanno quanto a loro piaccia arrampicarsi, ” Da quel giorno, si può considerare la fine definitiva dell’ultima traccia delle danze di May Day tra l’élite di questa professione. E da quel momento inizia una nuova era nelle nostre attività primaverili legate al primo maggio.

Sappiamo che quella parte della popolazione meno riflessiva verrà qui a sostenere che ballare il Primo Maggio continui ancora, che ogni anno si possano vedere persone vestite di verde percorrere le strade, che giovani travestiti da clown li precedano, dando sfogo alle loro fantasie sportive, e che poi seguano signori e signore.

Benissimo. Siamo pronti ad ammettere che, in apparenza, queste processioni siano molto migliorate: non neghiamo l’introduzione di solisti al tamburo, anzi siamo disposti ad ammettere anche l’uso occasionale della fantasia sul triangolo. Ma qui finiscono le nostre concessioni. Neghiamo categoricamente che i “pulitori” abbiano alcun ruolo in queste manifestazioni. Accusiamo apertamente gli spazzini di gettare ciò che dovrebbero eliminare direttamente negli occhi del pubblico; accusiamo inoltre i raccoglitori di rifiuti, i produttori di mattoni e quegli individui che si dedicano al commercio ambulante di ottenere denaro una volta all’anno con false pretese. Ci attacchiamo con particolare ostinazione alle usanze del passato, cercando in tutti i modi di ignorare la verità. Ma questa ci è stata imposta contro la nostra volontà; e ora proclamiamo davanti a un pubblico ingannato che i ballerini di Maggio non sono affatto “pulitori”. Solo la loro stessa dimensione è sufficiente per confutare questa idea. È un fatto noto che la crescente popolarità dei forni a gas abbia aumentato notevolmente la domanda di bambini piccoli; mentre quegli uomini che, sotto una falsa identità, danzano per le strade il primo di maggio oggi in giorno non riuscirebbero nemmeno a stare dentro un camino da cucina, per non parlare del salotto. Questo è un forte indizio probatorio. Ma abbiamo anche prove concrete: le prove fornite dai nostri stessi sensi. E questa è la nostra testimonianza.

La mattina del secondo giorno del gioioso mese di maggio, nell’anno del Signore milleottocentoventisei, uscimmo a fare una passeggiata, con una sorta di vana speranza di vedere qualcosa che potesse convincerci che fosse davvero la primavera, e non Natale. Dopo aver girovagato fino alla casa di Copenhagen senza incontrare nulla che potesse confutare l’impressione che gli almanacchi si sbagliassero, tornammo indietro lungo Maidenlane, con l’intenzione di attraversare la vasta colonia situata tra quella strada e Battle-bridge: una zona abitata da proprietari di carri a cavallo, produttori di carne equina, fabbricanti di tegole e setacciatori di ceneri. Avremmo potuto passarci senza fermarci o essere disturbati, se non fosse stato per un piccolo gruppo di persone radunate intorno a un capanno che attirò la nostra attenzione e ci fece fermare.

Quando parliamo di una “capanna”, non intendiamo quel tipo di edificio simile a un serra, che, secondo l’antica -canzone, fu utilizzato da Amore quando era giovane. Ma piuttosto una casa in legno, con finestre riempite di stracci e carta, e un piccolo cortile sul lato: dentro c’erano un carretto pieno di polvere, due cesti, alcune pale, piccoli mucchi di cenere, frammenti di porcellana e piastrelle, sparsi ovunque. Di fronte a questo luogo così accogliente ci fermammo; più lo osservavamo, più ci chiedevamo quale circostanza eccitante potesse aver indotto i membri più importanti della folla ad appoggiare il naso contro le finestre, nella vana speranza di intravedere cosa stesse succedendo all’interno. Dopo esserci guardati intorno per qualche minuto senza capire nulla, chiedemmo spiegazioni a un signore in abiti di tela impermeabile, che fumava la pipa proprio accanto a noi. Ma l’unica risposta che ottenemmo fu una domanda scherzosa riguardo al fatto che nostra madre avesse “smaltito” il suo macinacarte. Così decidemmo di aspettare in silenzio per scoprire cosa sarebbe successo.

Giudicate la nostra virtuosa indignazione: quando la porta della baracca si aprì e ne uscì un gruppo di persone vestite con l’abbigliamento tipico delle pulizie del Primo Maggio, imitando appunto l’aspetto delle persone impegnate in tali compiti!

The first person who appeared was ‘my lord,’ habited in a blue coat and bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the seams, yellow knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat, ornamented with shreds of various-coloured paper, on his head, a bouquet the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left. A murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which was chiefly composed of his lordship’s personal friends), when this graceful figure made his appearance, which swelled into a burst of applause as his fair partner in the dance bounded forth to join him. Her ladyship was attired in pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low body and short sleeves. The symmetry of her ankles was partially concealed by a very perceptible pair of frilled trousers; and the inconvenience which might have resulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few sizes too large, was obviated by their being firmly attached to her legs with strong tape sandals.

Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers; and in her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive what she figuratively denominated ‘the tin.’ The other characters were a young gentleman in girl’s clothes and a widow’s cap; two clowns who walked upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable delight of all the spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a flageolet; a dirty woman in a large shawl, with a box under her arm for the money,—and last, though not least, the ‘green,’ animated by no less a personage than our identical friend in the tarpaulin suit.

The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the shovels rattled, the ‘green’ rolled about, pitching first on one side and then on the other; my lady threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her left foot over her right ankle, alternately; my lord ran a few paces forward, and butted at the ‘green,’ and then a few paces backward upon the toes of the crowd, and then went to the right, and then to the left, and then dodged my lady round the ‘green;’ and finally drew her arm through his, and called upon the boys to shout, which they did lustily—for this was the dancing.

We passed the same group, accidentally, in the evening. We never saw a ‘green’ so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (no: not even in the house of peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a lady so muddy, or a party so miserable.

How has May-day decayed!

CHAPTER XXI—BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

When we affirm that brokers’ shops are strange places, and that if an authentic history of their contents could be procured, it would furnish many a page of amusement, and many a melancholy tale, it is necessary to explain the class of shops to which we allude. Perhaps when we make use of the term ‘Brokers’ Shop,’ the minds of our readers will at once picture large, handsome warehouses, exhibiting a long perspective of French-polished dining-tables, rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany wash-hand-stands, with an occasional vista of a four-post bedstead and hangings, and an appropriate foreground of dining-room chairs. Perhaps they will imagine that we mean an humble class of second-hand furniture repositories. Their imagination will then naturally lead them to that street at the back of Long-acre, which is composed almost entirely of brokers’ shops; where you walk through groves of deceitful, showy-looking furniture, and where the prospect is occasionally enlivened by a bright red, blue, and yellow hearth-rug, embellished with the pleasing device of a mail-coach at full speed, or a strange animal, supposed to have been originally intended for a dog, with a mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which conjecture has likened to a basket of flowers.

This, by-the-bye, is a tempting article to young wives in the humbler ranks of life, who have a first-floor front to furnish—they are lost in admiration, and hardly know which to admire most. The dog is very beautiful, but they have a dog already on the best tea-tray, and two more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is something so genteel about that mail-coach; and the passengers outside (who are all hat) give it such an air of reality!

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of cheap purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful looking Pembroke tables that were ever beheld: the wood as green as the trees in the Park, and the leaves almost as certain to fall off in the course of a year. There is also a most extensive assortment of tent and turn-up bedsteads, made of stained wood, and innumerable specimens of that base imposition on society—a sofa bedstead.

A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furniture; it may be slightly disguised with a sham drawer; and sometimes a mad attempt is even made to pass it off for a book-case; ornament it as you will, however, the turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to insist on having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up bedstead, and nothing else—that he is indispensably necessary, and that being so useful, he disdains to be ornamental.

How different is the demeanour of a sofa bedstead! Ashamed of its real use, it strives to appear an article of luxury and gentility—an attempt in which it miserably fails. It has neither the respectability of a sofa, nor the virtues of a bed; every man who keeps a sofa bedstead in his house, becomes a party to a wilful and designing fraud—we question whether you could insult him more, than by insinuating that you entertain the least suspicion of its real use.

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that neither of these classes of brokers’ shops, forms the subject of this sketch. The shops to which we advert, are immeasurably inferior to those on whose outward appearance we have slightly touched. Our readers must often have observed in some by-street, in a poor neighbourhood, a small dirty shop, exposing for sale the most extraordinary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder at their ever having been bought, is only to be equalled by our astonishment at the idea of their ever being sold again. On a board, at the side of the door, are placed about twenty books—all odd volumes; and as many wine-glasses—all different patterns; several locks, an old earthenware pan, full of rusty keys; two or three gaudy chimney-ornaments—cracked, of course; the remains of a lustre, without any drops; a round frame like a capital O, which has once held a mirror; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle joint; a pair of curling-irons; and a tinder-box. In front of the shop-window, are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with spinal complaints and wasted legs; a corner cupboard; two or three very dark mahogany tables with flaps like mathematical problems; some pickle-jars, some surgeons’ ditto, with gilt labels and without stoppers; an unframed portrait of some lady who flourished about the beginning of the thirteenth century, by an artist who never flourished at all; an incalculable host of miscellanies of every description, including bottles and cabinets, rags and bones, fenders and street-door knockers, fire-irons, wearing apparel and bedding, a hall-lamp, and a room-door. Imagine, in addition to this incongruous mass, a black doll in a white frock, with two faces—one looking up the street, and the other looking down, swinging over the door; a board with the squeezed-up inscription ‘Dealer in marine stores,’ in lanky white letters, whose height is strangely out of proportion to their width; and you have before you precisely the kind of shop to which we wish to direct your attention.

La prima persona ad apparire fu “il mio signore”: indossava un mantello blu con bottoni luminosi, le cuciture erano rivestite di carta dorata; portava pantaloni gialli fino al ginocchio, calze di cotone rosa e scarpe; in testa aveva un cappello a cilindro decorato con strisce di carta di vari colori; nel taschino del suo abito era infilato un mazzo di fiori grande quanto una cavolfiore premiata; nella mano destra teneva un lungo fazzoletto da collo, mentre nella sinistra impugnava un bastone sottile. Un mormorio di applausi si diffuse tra la folla (composta principalmente dagli amici personali del signore), quando questa figura elegante fece la sua apparizione; l’applauso divenne ancora più intenso quando la sua compagna nel danza uscì di scena per unirsi a lui. La signora indossava un abito di crêpe rosa, con una gonna corta e maniche corte; la simmetria dei suoi polpacci era parzialmente nascosta da un paio di pantaloni frangiati molto evidenti; l’inconveniente derivante dal fatto che le sue scarpe di raso bianco erano di qualche taglia troppo grandi veniva compensato dal fatto che erano fissate saldamente alle sue gambe con robuste sandali di velcro.

La sua testa era adornata da una profusione di fiori artificiali; e in mano portava un grande mestolo di bronzo, con il quale raccoglieva ciò che chiamava metaforicamente “il metallo”. Gli altri personaggi erano un giovane gentiluomo vestito da ragazza e un cappello da vedova; due clown che camminavano sulle mani nel fango, per grande divertimento di tutti gli spettatori; un uomo con un tamburo; un altro con un flauto dolce; una donna sporca avvolta in un grande scialle, con una scatola sotto il braccio per raccogliere i soldi. E infine, sebbene non meno importante degli altri, il “personaggio verde”, interpretato da nientemeno che il nostro amico dall’uniforme di tela cerata.

L’uomo continuava a battere sul tamburo; il flauto stridulo emetteva suoni acuti; le pale rumoreggiavano mentre il “tappeto verde” si muoveva avanti e indietro, inclinandosi da un lato all’altro. La mia signora alternava di posizione i piedi, mettendo prima il destro sopra il sinistro e poi il sinistro sopra il destro; mio signore faceva alcuni passi in avanti per colpire il “tappeto verde”, poi indietreggiava rapidamente tra la folla, girando a destra e a sinistra, evitando così di essere colpito dalla mia signora. Alla fine intrecciò le loro braccia e chiamò i ragazzi a gridare; loro obbedirono con entusiasmo. Questo era il ballo.

Quella sera abbiamo incrociato per caso lo stesso gruppo di persone. Non avevamo mai visto un “uomo ubriaco” fino a quel punto, un nobile così litigioso (no: nemmeno nelle sale dei nobili dopo cena), una coppia di buffoni così melanconici, una signora in tale stato di disordine, o una festa così miserabile.

Com’è decaduta la festa di Maggio.

CAPITOLO XXI – NEGOCIANTI E MAGAZINI NAVALE

Quando affermiamo che le botteghe dei rivenditori di mobili siano luoghi strani, e che se si potesse ottenere una vera e propria “storia” dei loro contenuti, essa fornirebbe molte pagine di divertimento e anche molte storie malinconiche, è necessario spiegare a quale tipo di botteghe ci riferiamo. Forse, quando usiamo il termine “bottega di rivenditori”, i nostri lettori immagineranno immediatamente grandi e imponenti magazzini, pieni di tavoli da pranzo lucidissimi, comò in legno di rosa e lavandini in mogano; forse penseranno che ci riferiamo a semplici negozi di mobili usati. La loro immaginazione li porterà naturalmente in quella strada situata alla fine di Long-acre, composta quasi interamente da botteghe del genere: un luogo dove si trovano mobili appariscenti ma spesso ingannevoli; talvolta il panorama viene ravvivato da tappeti da camino colorati in rosso, blu e giallo, o da rappresentazioni di carrozze postali in movimento, o ancora da strani animali che, secondo alcune congetture, sarebbero stati originariamente destinati a fungere da cani, con mucchi di tessuto lavorato a maglia nella bocca.

A proposito, questo è un articolo davvero allettante per le giovani mogli delle classi sociali più umili, che devono arredare il soggiorno al primo piano. Rimangono incantate e faticano a decidere cosa ammirare di più. Il cane è molto bello, ma già ne hanno uno sul tavolino da tè, e altri due sopra la mensola del camino. Inoltre, quel calesse postale ha qualcosa di davvero elegante. E i passeggeri all’esterno (che indossano tutti cappello) gli conferiscono un’aria di autenticità!

I prodotti qui presenti sono adattati ai gusti, o meglio, ai mezzi finanziari dei compratori più modesti. Ci sono alcuni dei tavoli Pembroke di aspetto più bello che si siano mai visti: il legno è verde come gli alberi del parco, e le foglie sembrano destinate a cadere entro l’arco di un anno. Inoltre, c’è una vasta selezione di tende e letti trasformabili, realizzati in legno tinto, nonché innumerevoli esempi di quella vera e propria truffa nei confronti della società: i letti-sofà.

Il letto ribaltabile è un pezzo di mobili semplice e schietto; può essere leggermente camuffato con un cassetto finto; a volte si tenta persino in modo ridicolo di farlo passare per una libreria. Ma qualunque decorazione venga applicata, il letto ribaltabile sembra sfidare ogni tentativo di nascondere la sua vera natura: insiste nel far capire chiaramente che è soltanto un letto ribaltabile, e nient’altro. Insiste anche sul fatto di essere indispensabile. E poiché è così utile, disdegna di essere considerato un oggetto decorativo.

Quanto diverso è l’atteggiamento di un divano-letto! Imbarazzato dal suo vero uso, cerca disperatamente di apparire un oggetto di lusso e raffinatezza. Un tentativo che fallisce miserabilmente. Non ha né la dignità di un divano, né le qualità di un letto; chiunque tenga un divano-letto nella propria casa diventa complice di una frode deliberata e calcolata. Ci chiediamo se si possa insultare qualcuno in modo più grave che insinuando che si abbia anche solo il minimo sospetto sul suo vero uso.

Per tornare a questa digressione, dobbiamo precisare che nessuna di queste categorie di negozi di broker è oggetto di questo sketch. I negozi di cui parliamo sono di gran lunga inferiori a quelli di cui abbiamo accennato brevemente. I nostri lettori devono aver spesso notato, in qualche vicolo povero, un piccolo negozio sporco che vende una confusa e incredibile miscela di oggetti vecchi, logori e inutilizzabili. La nostra meraviglia per il fatto che qualcuno possa comprarli è pari alla nostra sorpresa nel pensare che qualcuno possa venderli di nuovo. Sulla parete accanto alla porta sono esposti circa venti libri, tutti volumi strani; altrettanti bicchieri da vino, di modelli diversi; alcune serrature, un vecchio pentolone di terracotta pieno di chiavi arrugginite; due o tre ornamenti per camini, ovviamente rotti; i resti di uno smalto, senza una goccia; un cerchio simile a una “O” che un tempo conteneva uno specchio; una flauta, completa tranne che per la parte centrale; una coppia di arricciacapelli; e una scatola di esca. Davanti alla vetrina del negozio ci sono alcune sedie con schienali alti, tutte malandate; un armadietto angolare; due o tre tavoli di mogano molto scuro, con superfici irregolari come problemi matematici; alcuni barattoli di sottaceti, altri contenitori simili a quelli utilizzati dai chirurghi, con etichette dorate e senza tappi; un ritratto non incorniciato di una signora vissuta all’inizio del XIII secolo, realizzato da un artista che in realtà non ebbe mai successo. E poi, naturalmente, un’infinità di oggetti di ogni tipo: bottiglie e armadietti, stracci e ossa, paracolpi e campanelli per porte. Immaginate, in aggiunta a tutto questo disordine, una bambola nera vestita con un abito bianco, con due facce una rivolta verso l’alto e l’altra verso il basso, appesa sopra la porta; un cartello con la scritta “Venditore di articoli per la nautica”, in caratteri bianchi e sottili. E avrete davanti esattamente il tipo di negozio a cui vogliamo attirare la vostra attenzione.

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things will be found at all these places, it is curious to observe how truly and accurately some of the minor articles which are exposed for sale—articles of wearing apparel, for instance—mark the character of the neighbourhood. Take Drury-Lane and Covent-garden for example.

This is essentially a theatrical neighbourhood. There is not a potboy in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or less extent, a dramatic character. The errand-boys and chandler’s-shop-keepers’ sons, are all stage-struck: they ‘gets up’ plays in back kitchens hired for the purpose, and will stand before a shop-window for hours, contemplating a great staring portrait of Mr. Somebody or other, of the Royal Coburg Theatre, ‘as he appeared in the character of Tongo the Denounced.’ The consequence is, that there is not a marine-store shop in the neighbourhood, which does not exhibit for sale some faded articles of dramatic finery, such as three or four pairs of soiled buff boots with turn-over red tops, heretofore worn by a ‘fourth robber,’ or ‘fifth mob;’ a pair of rusty broadswords, a few gauntlets, and certain resplendent ornaments, which, if they were yellow instead of white, might be taken for insurance plates of the Sun Fire-office. There are several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty courts, of which there are so many near the national theatres, and they all have tempting goods of this description, with the addition, perhaps, of a lady’s pink dress covered with spangles; white wreaths, stage shoes, and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They have been purchased of some wretched supernumeraries, or sixth-rate actors, and are now offered for the benefit of the rising generation, who, on condition of making certain weekly payments, amounting in the whole to about ten times their value, may avail themselves of such desirable bargains.

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to the same test. Look at a marine-store dealer’s, in that reservoir of dirt, drunkenness, and drabs: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and pickled salmon—Ratcliff-highway. Here, the wearing apparel is all nautical. Rough blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons, oil-skin hats, coarse checked shirts, and large canvas trousers that look as if they were made for a pair of bodies instead of a pair of legs, are the staple commodities. Then, there are large bunches of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, in colour and pattern unlike any one ever saw before, with the exception of those on the backs of the three young ladies without bonnets who passed just now. The furniture is much the same as elsewhere, with the addition of one or two models of ships, and some old prints of naval engagements in still older frames. In the window, are a few compasses, a small tray containing silver watches in clumsy thick cases; and tobacco-boxes, the lid of each ornamented with a ship, or an anchor, or some such trophy. A sailor generally pawns or sells all he has before he has been long ashore, and if he does not, some favoured companion kindly saves him the trouble. In either case, it is an even chance that he afterwards unconsciously repurchases the same things at a higher price than he gave for them at first.

Again: pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of London, as unlike both of these as they are to each other. Cross over to the Surrey side, and look at such shops of this description as are to be found near the King’s Bench prison, and in ‘the Rules.’ How different, and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of the unfortunate residents in this part of the metropolis! Imprisonment and neglect have done their work. There is contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtor’s prison; old friends have fallen off; the recollection of former prosperity has passed away; and with it all thoughts for the past, all care for the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all the more expensive articles of dress, have found their way to the pawnbroker’s. That miserable resource has failed at last, and the sale of some trifling article at one of these shops, has been the only mode left of raising a shilling or two, to meet the urgent demands of the moment. Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old to pawn but too good to keep; guns, fishing-rods, musical instruments, all in the same condition; have first been sold, and the sacrifice has been but slightly felt. But hunger must be allayed, and what has already become a habit, is easily resorted to, when an emergency arises. Light articles of clothing, first of the ruined man, then of his wife, at last of their children, even of the youngest, have been parted with, piecemeal. There they are, thrown carelessly together until a purchaser presents himself, old, and patched and repaired, it is true; but the make and materials tell of better days; and the older they are, the greater the misery and destitution of those whom they once adorned.

CHAPTER XXII—GIN-SHOPS

It is a remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially liable, and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The great distinction between the animals and the trades, is, that the former run mad with a certain degree of propriety—they are very regular in their irregularities. We know the period at which the emergency will arise, and provide against it accordingly. If an elephant run mad, we are all ready for him—kill or cure—pills or bullets, calomel in conserve of roses, or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look unpleasantly warm in the summer months, and to trot about the shady side of the streets with a quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of his mouth, a thick leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared in compliance with the thoughtful injunctions of the Legislature, is instantly clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he either looks remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes legally insane, and goes mad, as it were, by Act of Parliament. But these trades are as eccentric as comets; nay, worse, for no one can calculate on the recurrence of the strange appearances which betoken the disease. Moreover, the contagion is general, and the quickness with which it diffuses itself, almost incredible.

Sebbene in tutti questi luoghi si possa trovare la stessa miscela eterogenea di oggetti, è curioso osservare quanto fedelmente e accuratamente alcuni degli articoli minori esposti in vendita – ad esempio, capi d’abbigliamento – riflettano il carattere del quartiere. Prendiamo, per esempio, Drury-Lane e Covent-Garden.

In sostanza, questo è un quartiere teatrale: non esiste nessun ragazzo di servizio nelle vicinanze che non sia, in misura maggiore o minore, un personaggio drammatico. I figli dei ragazzi incaricati di portare messaggi e dei proprietari delle botteghe di candele sono tutti ossessionati dal teatro: mettono in scena opere nelle cucine degli appartamenti affittati apposta per questo scopo, e stanno ore davanti alle vetrine delle botteghe a contemplare grandi ritratti di attori del Royal Coburg Theatre, “dipinti nel ruolo di Tongo il Denunciato”. Di conseguenza, non esiste nessuna negozio di ferramenta nel quartiere che non esponga in vendita oggetti teatrali ormai logori: tre o quattro paia di stivali marroni sporchi con tomaie rosse, precedentemente indossati da qualche “quarto ladro” o “quinto membro della banda”; un paio di spade arrugginite, alcune maniche di protezione e alcuni ornamenti luccicanti. Se questi oggetti fossero gialli invece che bianchi, potrebbero essere scambiati per targhe assicurative dell’ufficio antincendio. Ci sono diversi di questi negozi nelle strade strette e nei cortili sporchi, soprattutto vicino ai teatri nazionali; tutti offrono merci del genere, magari aggiungendo anche un abito rosa da signora ricoperto di brillantini, ghirlande bianche, scarpe da scena e una tiara simile a un riflettore di luce in metallo. Questi oggetti vengono acquistati da attori di secondo piano o semplicemente comparse e ora sono messi in vendita al beneficio della giovane generazione. A condizione che si paghino determinate somme settimanali, per un totale pari a circa dieci volte il loro valore reale.

Prendiamo un quartiere molto diverso e applichiamolo allo stesso test. Guardate un negozio di articoli da marina: in quel ambiente pieno di sporcizia, ubriachezza e cianfrusaglie varie – ladri, ostriche, patate arrosto, salmone in scatola, – l’abbigliamento dominante è di tipo nautico. Giacche blu ruvide con bottoni di perla madre, cappelli di cuoio oleato, camicie a quadri grezzi e pantaloni di canapa grandi, che sembrano fatti per due corpi anziché per due gambe. Ci sono anche grandi mazzi di fazzoletti di cotone, dai colori e dai disegni mai visti prima, ad eccezione di quelli sulle spalle delle tre giovani donne senza cappello che sono appena passate. Gli arredi sono più o meno gli stessi di altrove, con l’aggiunta di uno o due modellini di navi e alcune vecchie stampe di battaglie navali in cornici ancora più antiche. Nella vetrina ci sono alcune bussole, un piccolo vassoio contenente orologi d’argento in custodie ingombranti; e scatole da tabacco, la cui copertura è decorata con una nave, un’ancora o qualche altro simbolo nautico. Un marinaio di solito paga i suoi debiti prima ancora di rimanere a terra per molto tempo; se non lo fa, qualche amico comprensivo gli evita questa incombenza. In entrambi i casi, c’è una buona probabilità che in seguito riacquisti gli stessi oggetti a un prezzo più alto di quello con cui li aveva venduti.

Ancora una volta: visitate un luogo simile, in una parte di Londra, che sia diverso da entrambi questi esempi. Andate sul lato del Surrey e osservate quei negozi descritti, quelli situati vicino alla prigione del Re e nelle zone indicate come “the Rules”. Quanto sono diversi, e quanto evidenziano chiaramente il degrado di alcuni degli sfortunati residenti di questa parte della metropoli! La prigione e l’abbandono hanno fatto il loro lavoro: c’è contaminazione in quegli ambienti disperati; vecchi amici sono scomparsi; il ricordo di un tempo di prosperità è svanito, insieme a ogni pensiero per il passato e ogni cura per il futuro. Prima sono andate via gli orologi e i anelli, poi i mantelli, i cappotti e tutti gli altri oggetti di abbigliamento più costosi; infine, valigie e scrivanie troppo vecchie per essere pignorate ma troppo buone per essere tenute. Sono state vendute, e la perdita di quegli oggetti è stata appena avvertita. Ma la fame deve essere saziata. E ciò che ormai è diventato un’abitudine viene facilmente ricorso a quando sorge un’emergenza. Primi vengono venduti i capi di abbigliamento leggeri: prima del marito distrutto, poi della moglie, infine dei figli, persino dei più piccoli. Lì stanno, ammucchiati in modo disordinato, in attesa che arrivi un compratore, vecchi, rattoppati e riparati, è vero, ma il loro taglio e i loro materiali ricordano tempi migliori. E più sono vecchi, maggiore è la miseria di coloro che un tempo sono stati adornati da essi.

capitolo XXII – LE BARE DEL GIN

È una circostanza notevole il fatto che diversi mestieri sembrino essere soggetti alla stessa malattia di cui elefanti e >cani sono particolarmente predisposti; questi animali impazziscono in modo regolare, con comportamenti strani e incoerenti. La grande differenza tra questi animali e i mestieri umani sta nel fatto che gli animali mostrano una certa “regolarità” nelle loro manifestazioni folli, sappiamo infatti quando tali episodi si verificheranno e possiamo prepararci di conseguenza. Se un elefante impazzisce, siamo pronti ad affrontarlo: lo uccidiamo o lo curiamo, con pillole, proiettili, sostanze chimiche, oppure utilizzando qualsiasi mezzo disponibile. Se un cane, nei mesi estivi, mostra segni di malessere (ad esempio la lingua penzolante fuori dalla bocca), gli viene immediatamente messo un collare di pelle spessa per farlo “rinfrescare”; in questo modo, o sembra molto infelice per le prossime sei settimane, oppure, diventa legalmente pazzo, per così dire! Ma questi mestieri umani sono altrettanto imprevedibili delle comete, anzi, ancora peggio: nessuno può prevedere quando si ripeteranno queste strane manifestazioni che segnalano l’insorgenza della malattia. Inoltre, la contagiosità è generale e la velocità con cui si diffonde quasi incredibile.

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning. Six or eight years ago, the epidemic began to display itself among the linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were an inordinate love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and gilding. The disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a fearful height. Quiet, dusty old shops in different parts of town, were pulled down; spacious premises with stuccoed fronts and gold letters, were erected instead; floors were covered with Turkey carpets; roofs supported by massive pillars; doors knocked into windows; a dozen squares of glass into one; one shopman into a dozen; and there is no knowing what would have been done, if it had not been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Commissioners of Bankruptcy were as competent to decide such cases as the Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little confinement and gentle examination did wonders. The disease abated. It died away. A year or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it burst out again amongst the chemists; the symptoms were the same, with the addition of a strong desire to stick the royal arms over the shop-door, and a great rage for mahogany, varnish, and expensive floor-cloth. Then, the hosiers were infected, and began to pull down their shop-fronts with frantic recklessness. The mania again died away, and the public began to congratulate themselves on its entire disappearance, when it burst forth with tenfold violence among the publicans, and keepers of ‘wine vaults.’ From that moment it has spread among them with unprecedented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the previous symptoms; onward it has rushed to every part of town, knocking down all the old public-houses, and depositing splendid mansions, stone balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated clocks, at the corner of every street.

The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest among them is divided into branches, is amusing. A handsome plate of ground glass in one door directs you ‘To the Counting-house;’ another to the ‘Bottle Department; a third to the ‘Wholesale Department;’ a fourth to ‘The Wine Promenade;’ and so forth, until we are in daily expectation of meeting with a ‘Brandy Bell,’ or a ‘Whiskey Entrance.’ Then, ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the different descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of the community as they gaze upon the gigantic black and white announcements, which are only to be equalled in size by the figures beneath them, are left in a state of pleasing hesitation between ‘The Cream of the Valley,’ ‘The Out and Out,’ ‘The No Mistake,’ ‘The Good for Mixing,’ ‘The real Knock-me-down,’ ‘The celebrated Butter Gin,’ ‘The regular Flare-up,’ and a dozen other, equally inviting and wholesome liqueurs. Although places of this description are to be met with in every second street, they are invariably numerous and splendid in precise proportion to the dirt and poverty of the surrounding neighbourhood. The gin-shops in and near Drury-Lane, Holborn, St. Giles’s, Covent-garden, and Clare-market, are the handsomest in London. There is more of filth and squalid misery near those great thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.

We will endeavour to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as may not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the chance of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drury-Lane, through the narrow streets and dirty courts which divide it from Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the initiated as the ‘Rookery.’

The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London can hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not witnessed it. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper: every room let out to a different family, and in many instances to two or even three—fruit and ‘sweet-stuff’ manufacturers in the cellars, barbers and red-herring vendors in the front parlours, cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three families on the second, starvation in the attics, Irishmen in the passage, a ‘musician’ in the front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry children in the back one—filth everywhere—a gutter before the houses and a drain behind—clothes drying and slops emptying, from the windows; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and in white great-coats, almost their only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling, fighting, and swearing.

You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy. The hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which forms the commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are two side-aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within a light brass rail, and bearing such inscriptions, as ‘Old Tom, 549;’ ‘Young Tom, 360;’ ‘Samson, 1421’—the figures agreeing, we presume, with ‘gallons,’ understood. Beyond the bar is a lofty and spacious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at top with wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it, are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits and ‘compounds.’ They are assisted by the ostensible proprietor of the concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur cap, put on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, and to display his sandy whiskers to the best advantage.

Citeremo due o tre casi a dimostrazione di ciò che intendiamo. Sei o otto anni fa, l’epidemia iniziò a diffondersi tra i negozianti di stoffe da letto e abbigliamento. I sintomi principali erano un’eccessiva passione per il vetro temperato, nonché un grande interesse per le luci a gas e gli ornamenti dorati. La malattia progredì gradualmente, raggiungendo infine un livello davvero preoccupante: vecchi negozi silenziosi e polverosi furono demoliti; al loro posto ne furono costruiti di nuovi, con facciate intonacate e lettere dorate; i pavimenti vennero coperti di tappeti turchi, i tetti sostenuti da colonne massicce, le porte sostituite dalle finestre. Non si sa cosa sarebbe successo se, per fortuna, non fosse stato scoperto in tempo che anche i commissari fallimentari erano altrettanto competenti nel gestire casi del genere quanto i commissari per le malattie mentali; un po’ di restrizioni e un esame accurato produssero effetti miracolosi: la malattia si attenuò e poi scomparve del tutto. Un anno o due di relativa tranquillità seguirono. Poi, all’improvviso, riemergette tra i chimici; i sintomi erano gli stessi, con l’aggiunta di un forte desiderio di esporre gli stemmi reali sulle vetrine dei negozi, nonché una grande passione per il mogano, la vernice e i tappeti costosi. Poi furono colpiti anche i negozianti di calzamaglie, che iniziarono a demolire le proprie vetrine con frenesia. La mania scomparve nuovamente, e la gente cominciò a rallegrarsi della sua completa scomparsa. Ma poi scoppiò con dieci volte più violenza tra i pub e i gestori dei “magazzini di vino”. Da quel momento in poi si è diffusa tra di loro con una rapidità senza precedenti, mostrando tutti i sintomi osservati in precedenza; ha invaso ogni angolo della città, demolendo tutti gli antichi pub e lasciando al loro posto splendide residenze, balaustrate di pietra, arredi in legno di rosa, lampade enormi e orologi illuminati.

L’ampia scala su cui questi locali sono sorti, e il modo ostentatizio con cui anche le attività più piccole vengono suddivise in diverse sezioni, sono davvero divertenti. Una bella targa di vetro fuso all’interno di un negozio ti indirizza “All’Ufficio Contabile”; un’altra verso il “Settore delle Bottiglie”, una terza al “Settore All’Ingrosso”, una quarta alla “Vita Notturna dedicata ai Vini”, e così via, fino a quando non ci aspettiamo quasi quotidianamente di incontrare indicazioni come “L’ingresso per i Brandy” o “L’ingresso per il Whiskey”. Poi, l’inventiva si esaurisce nel creare titoli attraenti per descrivere i diversi tipi di gin; e coloro che amano bere alcolici, mentre fissano quegli enormi cartelloni in bianco e nero – le cui dimensioni sono solo paragonabili a quelle delle immagini sottostanti – rimangono incerti tra nomi come “La Crema della Valle”, “Il Migliore di Tutti”, “Senza Errori”, “Adatto per Mescolare”, “Il vero Knock-me-down”, “Il famoso Butter Gin”, “Il regolare Flare-up”, e una dozzina di altri liquori altrettanto allettanti. Anche se questi locali si trovano in ogni strada, il loro numero e la loro magnificenza sono sempre proporzionali alla sporcizia e povertà dei quartieri circostanti. I bar che vendono gin situati in Drury-Lane, Holborn, St. Giles’s, Covent Garden e Clare-market sono senz’altro i più belli di Londra. Tuttavia, nelle vicinanze di queste grandi arterie c’è molto più sporcizia e miseria di qualsiasi altra parte di questa immensa città.

Ci impegneremo a descrivere in modo sommario l’ambiente di un grande negozio di gin e i suoi clienti abituali, al fine di fornire informazioni a quei lettori che forse non hanno avuto l’opportunità di osservare simili scene. Se dovessimo trovare un luogo particolarmente adatto ai nostri scopi, ci dirigeremo verso Drury-Lane, attraverso le strade strette e i cortili sporchi che lo separano da Oxford-Street, fino a quel luogo classico situato vicino alla birreria, in fondo a Tottenham-Court-Road: un posto ben noto agli addetti ai lavori come “Rookery”.

L’aspetto sporco e misero di questa parte di Londra è difficile da immaginare per coloro (e ne sono molti) che non l’hanno mai visto con i propri occhi. Case miserabili, con finestre rotte riparate con stracci e carta; ogni stanza affittata a una famiglia diversa, in alcuni casi addirittura a due o tre famiglie: produttori di frutta e dolci nei seminterrati, barbieri e venditori di cibi nella parte anteriore delle case, calzolai in quella posteriore; un appassionato di uccelli al primo piano, tre famiglie al secondo, fame negli attici, irlandesi nel corridoio, un “musicista” nella cucina anteriore, e una donna che si occupa della pulizia insieme a cinque bambini affamati in quella posteriore. Sporcizia ovunque: canali di scolo davanti alle case e fogne dietro di esse; vestiti stesi ad asciugare e rifiuti gettati dalle finestre; ragazze di quattordici o quindici anni, con i capelli arruffati, che camminano a piedi nudi e indossando soltanto grandi cappotti bianchi, quasi l’unica copertura possibile; ragazzi di tutte le età, in abiti di ogni dimensione o addirittura senza alcun abito; uomini e donne, in ogni sorta di vestiti stracciati e sporchi, che si sdraiano, rimproverano, bevono, fumano, litigano, combattono e imprecano.

Superi l’angolo. Che cambiamento! Tutto è luce e splendore. Il rumore di molte voci proviene da quel magnifico bar che segna l’inizio delle due strade opposte; l’edificio, con il suo parapetto fantasticamente decorato, l’orologio illuminato, le vetrate incorniciate da rosette di stucco e la profusione di lampade a gas nei bruciatori dorati, è davvero abbagliante rispetto all’oscurità e alla sporcizia che abbiamo appena lasciato. L’interno è ancora più vivace dell’esterno: un bancone di mogano lucidato con cura si estende per tutta la larghezza del locale; ai lati ci sono due file di grandi barili, dipinti in verde e oro, racchiusi da una ringhiera di ottone chiaro, su cui sono scritte indicazioni come “Old Tom, 549”; “Young Tom, 360”; “Samson, 1421” – si presume che queste cifre rappresentino i galloni contenuti nei barili. Dietro il bancone c’è una sala ampia e spaziosa, piena di stessi bicchieri attraenti; intorno corre anche un corridoio ben arredato. Sul bancone, oltre agli strumenti per servire gli alcolici, ci sono due o tre cestini con torte e biscotti, chiusi con cura in modo che il loro contenuto non venga rubato. Dietro il bancone ci sono due ragazze ben vestite, con grandi collane, che servono gli alcolici; le assiste il presunto proprietario del locale, un uomo robusto e grossolano, con un cappello di pelliccia inclinato da una parte per dare un’aria complice e per far risaltare al meglio i suoi baffi biondi.

The two old washerwomen, who are seated on the little bench to the left of the bar, are rather overcome by the head-dresses and haughty demeanour of the young ladies who officiate. They receive their half-quartern of gin and peppermint, with considerable deference, prefacing a request for ‘one of them soft biscuits,’ with a ‘Jist be good enough, ma’am.’ They are quite astonished at the impudent air of the young fellow in a brown coat and bright buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and walking up to the bar in as careless a manner as if he had been used to green and gold ornaments all his life, winks at one of the young ladies with singular coolness, and calls for a ‘kervorten and a three-out-glass,’ just as if the place were his own. ‘Gin for you, sir?’ says the young lady when she has drawn it: carefully looking every way but the right one, to show that the wink had no effect upon her. ‘For me, Mary, my dear,’ replies the gentleman in brown. ‘My name an’t Mary as it happens,’ says the young girl, rather relaxing as she delivers the change. ‘Well, if it an’t, it ought to be,’ responds the irresistible one; ‘all the Marys as ever I see, was handsome gals.’ Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how blushes are managed in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by addressing the female in the faded feathers who has just entered, and who, after stating explicitly, to prevent any subsequent misunderstanding, that ‘this gentleman pays,’ calls for ‘a glass of port wine and a bit of sugar.’

Those two old men who came in ‘just to have a drain,’ finished their third quartern a few seconds ago; they have made themselves crying drunk; and the fat comfortable-looking elderly women, who had ‘a glass of rum-srub’ each, having chimed in with their complaints on the hardness of the times, one of the women has agreed to stand a glass round, jocularly observing that ‘grief never mended no broken bones, and as good people’s wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on ’em, and that’s all about it!’ a sentiment which appears to afford unlimited satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay.

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or three occasional stragglers—cold, wretched-looking creatures, in the last stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish labourers at the lower end of the place, who have been alternately shaking hands with, and threatening the life of each other, for the last hour, become furious in their disputes, and finding it impossible to silence one man, who is particularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort to the expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him afterwards. The man in the fur cap, and the potboy rush out; a scene of riot and confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the other half get shut in; the potboy is knocked among the tubs in no time; the landlord hits everybody, and everybody hits the landlord; the barmaids scream; the police come in; the rest is a confused mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats, shouting, and struggling. Some of the party are borne off to the station-house, and the remainder slink home to beat their wives for complaining, and kick the children for daring to be hungry.

We have sketched this subject very slightly, not only because our limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued farther, it would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen, and charitable ladies, would alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description of the drunken besotted men, and wretched broken-down miserable women, who form no inconsiderable portion of the frequenters of these haunts; forgetting, in the pleasant consciousness of their own rectitude, the poverty of the one, and the temptation of the other. Gin-drinking is a great vice in England, but wretchedness and dirt are a greater; and until you improve the homes of the poor, or persuade a half-famished wretch not to seek relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery, with the pittance which, divided among his family, would furnish a morsel of bread for each, gin-shops will increase in number and splendour. If Temperance Societies would suggest an antidote against hunger, filth, and foul air, or could establish dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution of bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be numbered among the things that were.

CHAPTER XXIII—THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP

Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress with which the streets of London unhappily abound, there are, perhaps, none which present such striking scenes as the pawnbrokers’ shops. The very nature and description of these places occasions their being but little known, except to the unfortunate beings whose profligacy or misfortune drives them to seek the temporary relief they offer. The subject may appear, at first sight, to be anything but an inviting one, but we venture on it nevertheless, in the hope that, as far as the limits of our present paper are concerned, it will present nothing to disgust even the most fastidious reader.

There are some pawnbrokers’ shops of a very superior description. There are grades in pawning as in everything else, and distinctions must be observed even in poverty. The aristocratic Spanish cloak and the plebeian calico shirt, the silver fork and the flat iron, the muslin cravat and the Belcher neckerchief, would but ill assort together; so, the better sort of pawnbroker calls himself a silver-smith, and decorates his shop with handsome trinkets and expensive jewellery, while the more humble money-lender boldly advertises his calling, and invites observation. It is with pawnbrokers’ shops of the latter class, that we have to do. We have selected one for our purpose, and will endeavour to describe it.

The pawnbroker’s shop is situated near Drury-Lane, at the corner of a court, which affords a side entrance for the accommodation of such customers as may be desirous of avoiding the observation of the passers-by, or the chance of recognition in the public street. It is a low, dirty-looking, dusty shop, the door of which stands always doubtfully, a little way open: half inviting, half repelling the hesitating visitor, who, if he be as yet uninitiated, examines one of the old garnet brooches in the window for a minute or two with affected eagerness, as if he contemplated making a purchase; and then looking cautiously round to ascertain that no one watches him, hastily slinks in: the door closing of itself after him, to just its former width. The shop front and the window-frames bear evident marks of having been once painted; but, what the colour was originally, or at what date it was probably laid on, are at this remote period questions which may be asked, but cannot be answered. Tradition states that the transparency in the front door, which displays at night three red balls on a blue ground, once bore also, inscribed in graceful waves, the words ‘Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every description of property,’ but a few illegible hieroglyphics are all that now remain to attest the fact. The plate and jewels would seem to have disappeared, together with the announcement, for the articles of stock, which are displayed in some profusion in the window, do not include any very valuable luxuries of either kind. A few old china cups; some modern vases, adorned with paltry paintings of three Spanish cavaliers playing three Spanish guitars; or a party of boors carousing: each boor with one leg painfully elevated in the air, by way of expressing his perfect freedom and gaiety; several sets of chessmen, two or three flutes, a few fiddles, a round-eyed portrait staring in astonishment from a very dark ground; some gaudily-bound prayer-books and testaments, two rows of silver watches quite as clumsy and almost as large as Ferguson’s first; numerous old-fashioned table and tea spoons, displayed, fan-like, in half-dozens; strings of coral with great broad gilt snaps; cards of rings and brooches, fastened and labelled separately, like the insects in the British Museum; cheap silver penholders and snuff-boxes, with a masonic star, complete the jewellery department; while five or six beds in smeary clouded ticks, strings of blankets and sheets, silk and cotton handkerchiefs, and wearing apparel of every description, form the more useful, though even less ornamental, part, of the articles exposed for sale. An extensive collection of planes, chisels, saws, and other carpenters’ tools, which have been pledged, and never redeemed, form the foreground of the picture; while the large frames full of ticketed bundles, which are dimly seen through the dirty casement up-stairs—the squalid neighbourhood—the adjoining houses, straggling, shrunken, and rotten, with one or two filthy, unwholesome-looking heads thrust out of every window, and old red pans and stunted plants exposed on the tottering parapets, to the manifest hazard of the heads of the passers-by—the noisy men loitering under the archway at the corner of the court, or about the gin-shop next door—and their wives patiently standing on the curb-stone, with large baskets of cheap vegetables slung round them for sale, are its immediate auxiliaries.

Le due vecchie lavandaie, sedute sul piccolo banco a sinistra del bancone, sono piuttosto sopraffatte dai copricapo e dal comportamento arrogante delle giovani signore che servono. Ricevono il loro mezzo quartino di gin al pepe con notevole rispetto, ma prima chiedono, con un “Per favore, signora”, di avere anche alcuni biscotti morbidi. Sono davvero sorprese dall’aria impudente del giovane in abito marrone con bottoni lucidi: dopo aver fatto entrare i suoi due compagni, si avvicina al bancone con tale noncuranza, come se fosse abituato a oggetti di lusso per tutta la vita; fa l’occhiolino a una delle giovani signore con estrema freddezza e ordina un “kervorten e un bicchiere da tre”, come se quel posto fosse suo. “Gin per lei, signore?”, chiede la ragazza mentre lo serve, guardando attentamente in tutte le direzioni tranne quella giusta, per dimostrare che l’occhiolino non l’aveva affatto turbata. “Per me, Mary, mia cara, ”, risponde il gentiluomo in marrone. “Il mio nome non è Mary, in realtà, ”, dice la ragazza, un po’ rilassata mentre gli restituisce il resto. “Beh, se non è Mary, allora dovrebbe esserlo. Tutte le Mary che ho conosciuto erano ragazze bellissime, ”, replica lui con un sorriso irresistibile. A quel punto, la ragazza, non ricordando esattamente come si debba comportare in queste situazioni, interrompe bruscamente il flirtando rivolgendosi alla donna dai vestiti logori appena entrata; questa, per evitare qualsiasi malinteso futuro, precisa subito che “è questo signore a pagare” e chiede quindi “un bicchiere di vino porto con un po’ di zucchero”.

Quei due vecchi uomini che erano entrati “solo per bere qualcosa”, hanno finito il loro terzo bicchiere di alcol pochi secondi fa; si sono ubriacati completamente. Le donne anziane, grasse e dall’aspetto confortevole, che avevano bevuto ognuna un bicchiere di rum, si sono unite alle loro lamentele sulla difficoltà dei tempi. Una di loro ha accettato di offrire ancora da bere, osservando scherzosamente: “Il dolore non guarisce mai le ossa rotte, e poiché le persone buone sono davvero rare, tanto vale godersi al massimo quelle che ci sono. E basta!” Un punto di vista che sembra fornire una soddisfazione illimitata a coloro che non hanno nulla da pagare.

Sta facendo tardi, e la folla di uomini, donne e bambini che continuavano ad entrare ed uscire si riduce a due o tre persone isolate: creature fredde, malandate, allo stadio finale dell’emaciazione e della malattia. Il gruppo di lavoratori irlandesi, che per l’ultima ora si erano alternatamente stretti la mano e minacciati a vicenda, diventa furioso nelle sue dispute; non riuscendo a zittire nemmeno uno di loro, decidono di picchiarlo e poi calpestarlo. L’uomo con il cappello di pelliccia e il cameriere corrono fuori; scatta una scenata di violenza e caos: metà degli irlandesi viene sbattuta fuori, l’altra metà rinchiusa dentro; il cameriere viene colpito tra le pentole in un istante; il proprietario del locale colpisce tutti, e tutti colpiscono lui; le bariste gridano; arriva la polizia. Il resto è una confusa miscela di braccia, gambe, bastoni, cappotti strappati, urla e lotta. Alcuni vengono portati alla stazione di polizia, gli altri se ne tornano a casa a picchiare le mogli per aver protestato o i figli per aver osato avere fame.

Abbiamo trattato questo argomento in modo molto sommario, non solo perché i nostri limiti ce lo impongono, ma anche perché, se approfondissimo l’analisi, ciò risulterebbe doloroso e ripugnante. Gentiluomini di buone intenzioni e signore caritatevoli respingerebbero con freddo disprezzo qualsiasi descrizione di quegli uomini ubriachi e perduti, di quelle donne misere e distrutte, che rappresentano una parte non trascurabile dei frequentatori di questi luoghi; dimenticando, nella piacevole consapevolezza della propria rettitudine, la povertà di alcuni e le tentazioni degli altri. Il consumo di gin è un grande vizio in Inghilterra, ma la miseria e la sporcizia sono ancora peggiori; finché non miglioreremo le condizioni di vita dei poveri o non convinceremo quelle persone affamate a non cercare sollievo nell’oblio temporaneo della propria sofferenza, con quella misera quantità di denaro che, se divisa tra tutta la famiglia, potrebbe fornire appena un pezzo di pane per ciascuno, i bar dove si beve gin aumenteranno sia in numero che in splendore. Se le associazioni per la temperanza proponessero rimedi contro la fame, la sporcizia e l’aria viziata, o se potessero istituire dispensari per distribuire gratuitamente acqua lenitiva, i locali dove si beve gin finirebbero per essere considerati semplicemente cose del passato.

capitolo XXIII – IL NEGOCIO DEL PRESTATORE DI DENARO

Tra i numerosi luoghi di sofferenza e miseria che, purtroppo, abbondano per le strade di Londra, forse nessuno presenta scene così drammatiche quanto le botteghe dei pegni. La stessa natura e descrizione di questi posti ne fanno sì che siano poco conosciuti, tranne che dalle persone sfortunate il cui sperperio o la cui disgrazia li spingono a cercare nel loro interno un sollievo temporaneo. A prima vista, l’argomento potrebbe sembrare tutt’altro che attraente, ma ci avventuriamo comunque ad affrontarlo, nella speranza che, entro i limiti di questo articolo, non offra nulla che possa disgustare anche il lettore più esigente.

Esistono negozi di pegni di qualità molto superiore. Come in tutto il resto, anche nel campo del pegno ci sono gradi diversi, e le distinzioni vanno rispettate anche nella povertà. Un mantello aristocratico spagnolo e una camicia di cotone plebea, un forchetta d’argento e una piastra da stirare piatta, una cravatta di mussola e uno sciarpa di lana grossolana non starebbero affatto bene insieme; per questo motivo, i negozi di pegni di qualità si autodefiniscono “argentieri” e decorano i loro locali con oggetti pregiati e gioielli costosi, mentre i prestatori più umili pubblicizzano apertamente la propria attività, invitando chiunque a osservarla. È proprio di questi ultimi negozi che dobbiamo parlare. Ne abbiamo selezionato uno per i nostri scopi e cercheremo di descriverlo in dettaglio.

Il negozio dell’usuraio si trova vicino a Drury-Lane, all’angolo di un >cortile che offre un ingresso secondario per quei clienti desiderosi di evitare l’attenzione dei passanti o il rischio di essere riconosciuti in strada. È un negozio basso, dall’aspetto sporco e polveroso; la porta è sempre lasciata leggermente aperta, invitando ma allo stesso tempo allontanando il visitatore esitante. Se quest’ultimo non conosce ancora bene l’ambiente, osserva per un momento o due uno dei vecchi broccati di granato esposti nella >vetrina, fingendo interesse per l’acquisto; poi, guardandosi intorno con cautela per assicurarsi che nessuno lo stia osservando, si infila rapidamente dentro, e la porta si chiude alle sue spalle, tornando alla sua larghezza originale. La facciata del negozio e i telai delle >vetrine presentano evidenti tracce di verniciatura; tuttavia, quale fosse il colore originale o in quale periodo sia stata applicata la vernice, sono domande ormai irrilevanti. Si dice che la porta anteriore, che di notte mostra tre palline rosse su uno sfondo blu, un tempo recasse anche le parole “Denaro prestato per argenti, gioielli, abiti e ogni tipo di proprietà”, ma ora rimangono solo alcune scritte illeggibili a testimonianza di ciò. Gli oggetti esposti nella >vetrina non includono beni di grande valore; ci sono soltanto alcune vecchie tazze di porcellana, vasi moderni decorati con dipinti banali raffiguranti tre cavalieri spagnoli che suonano la chitarra, o gruppi di persone che si divertono in modo rozzo. Ogni personaggio in questi dipinti ha una gamba sollevata in aria, a simboolo della propria “libertà” e gioia. Ci sono anche diversi set di scacchi, due o tre flauti, alcune violine, un ritratto con occhi rotondi che sembra fissare il nulla con sorpresa, alcuni libri di preghiere e testamenti rilegati in modo vistoso, due file di orologi d’argento goffi e grandi quasi quanto quelli prodotti da Ferguson. Innumerevoli cucchiai da tavola e da tè vecchio stile sono esposti a gruppi; catene di corallo con elementi dorati; cartoline con immagini di anelli e broccati, etichettate separatamente come gli insetti nel British Museum. Penne d’argento economiche e scatole da tabacco, decorate con una stella massonica, completano la sezione dedicata ai gioielli. Il resto degli oggetti in vendita consiste in letti vecchio stile coperti di polvere, mucchi di coperte e lenzuola, fazzoletti di seta e cotone, abiti di ogni tipo. In primo piano si vedono una vasta collezione di seghe, scalpelli, lame da taglio e altri attrezzi da carpentiere, tutti dati in pegno e mai riscattati. Dietro il negozio, i grandi scaffali pieni di pacchi sigillati sono appena visibili attraverso la vetrina sporca; il quartiere circostante è squallido e fatiscente: finestre luride da cui sporgono facce sporche e malaticce, vecchie pentole rosse e piante stentate esposte sui parapetti. Uomini rumorosi che oziano sotto l’arco all’angolo del cortile o intorno al negozio di gin accanto. Le loro mogli, pazientemente in piedi sul marciapiede con grandi cesti di verdure economiche pronte per la vendita. Questo è il quadro completo di questo negozio.

If the outside of the pawnbroker’s shop be calculated to attract the attention, or excite the interest, of the speculative pedestrian, its interior cannot fail to produce the same effect in an increased degree. The front door, which we have before noticed, opens into the common shop, which is the resort of all those customers whose habitual acquaintance with such scenes renders them indifferent to the observation of their companions in poverty. The side door opens into a small passage from which some half-dozen doors (which may be secured on the inside by bolts) open into a corresponding number of little dens, or closets, which face the counter. Here, the more timid or respectable portion of the crowd shroud themselves from the notice of the remainder, and patiently wait until the gentleman behind the counter, with the curly black hair, diamond ring, and double silver watch-guard, shall feel disposed to favour them with his notice—a consummation which depends considerably on the temper of the aforesaid gentleman for the time being.

At the present moment, this elegantly-attired individual is in the act of entering the duplicate he has just made out, in a thick book: a process from which he is diverted occasionally, by a conversation he is carrying on with another young man similarly employed at a little distance from him, whose allusions to ‘that last bottle of soda-water last night,’ and ‘how regularly round my hat he felt himself when the young ’ooman gave ’em in charge,’ would appear to refer to the consequences of some stolen joviality of the preceding evening. The customers generally, however, seem unable to participate in the amusement derivable from this source, for an old sallow-looking woman, who has been leaning with both arms on the counter with a small bundle before her, for half an hour previously, suddenly interrupts the conversation by addressing the jewelled shopman—‘Now, Mr. Henry, do make haste, there’s a good soul, for my two grandchildren’s locked up at home, and I’m afeer’d of the fire.’ The shopman slightly raises his head, with an air of deep abstraction, and resumes his entry with as much deliberation as if he were engraving. ‘You’re in a hurry, Mrs. Tatham, this ev’nin’, an’t you?’ is the only notice he deigns to take, after the lapse of five minutes or so. ‘Yes, I am indeed, Mr. Henry; now, do serve me next, there’s a good creetur. I wouldn’t worry you, only it’s all along o’ them botherin’ children.’ ‘What have you got here?’ inquires the shopman, unpinning the bundle—‘old concern, I suppose—pair o’ stays and a petticut. You must look up somethin’ else, old ’ooman; I can’t lend you anything more upon them; they’re completely worn out by this time, if it’s only by putting in, and taking out again, three times a week.’ ‘Oh! you’re a rum un, you are,’ replies the old woman, laughing extremely, as in duty bound; ‘I wish I’d got the gift of the gab like you; see if I’d be up the spout so often then! No, no; it an’t the petticut; it’s a child’s frock and a beautiful silk ankecher, as belongs to my husband. He gave four shillin’ for it, the werry same blessed day as he broke his arm.’—‘What do you want upon these?’ inquires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the articles, which in all probability are old acquaintances. ‘What do you want upon these?’—‘Eighteenpence.’—‘Lend you ninepence.’—‘Oh, make it a shillin’; there’s a dear—do now?’—‘Not another farden.’—‘Well, I suppose I must take it.’ The duplicate is made out, one ticket pinned on the parcel, the other given to the old woman; the parcel is flung carelessly down into a corner, and some other customer prefers his claim to be served without further delay.

The choice falls on an unshaven, dirty, sottish-looking fellow, whose tarnished paper-cap, stuck negligently over one eye, communicates an additionally repulsive expression to his very uninviting countenance. He was enjoying a little relaxation from his sedentary pursuits a quarter of an hour ago, in kicking his wife up the court. He has come to redeem some tools:—probably to complete a job with, on account of which he has already received some money, if his inflamed countenance and drunken staggers may be taken as evidence of the fact. Having waited some little time, he makes his presence known by venting his ill-humour on a ragged urchin, who, being unable to bring his face on a level with the counter by any other process, has employed himself in climbing up, and then hooking himself on with his elbows—an uneasy perch, from which he has fallen at intervals, generally alighting on the toes of the person in his immediate vicinity. In the present case, the unfortunate little wretch has received a cuff which sends him reeling to this door; and the donor of the blow is immediately the object of general indignation.

‘What do you strike the boy for, you brute?’ exclaims a slipshod woman, with two flat irons in a little basket. ‘Do you think he’s your wife, you willin?’ ‘Go and hang yourself!’ replies the gentleman addressed, with a drunken look of savage stupidity, aiming at the same time a blow at the woman which fortunately misses its object. ‘Go and hang yourself; and wait till I come and cut you down.’—‘Cut you down,’ rejoins the woman, ‘I wish I had the cutting of you up, you wagabond! (loud.) Oh! you precious wagabond! (rather louder.) Where’s your wife, you willin? (louder still; women of this class are always sympathetic, and work themselves into a tremendous passion on the shortest notice.) Your poor dear wife as you uses worser nor a dog—strike a woman—you a man! (very shrill;) I wish I had you—I’d murder you, I would, if I died for it!’—‘Now be civil,’ retorts the man fiercely. ‘Be civil, you wiper!’ ejaculates the woman contemptuously. ‘An’t it shocking?’ she continues, turning round, and appealing to an old woman who is peeping out of one of the little closets we have before described, and who has not the slightest objection to join in the attack, possessing, as she does, the comfortable conviction that she is bolted in. ‘Ain’t it shocking, ma’am? (Dreadful! says the old woman in a parenthesis, not exactly knowing what the question refers to.) He’s got a wife, ma’am, as takes in mangling, and is as ’dustrious and hard-working a young ’ooman as can be, (very fast) as lives in the back parlour of our ’ous, which my husband and me lives in the front one (with great rapidity)—and we hears him a beaten’ on her sometimes when he comes home drunk, the whole night through, and not only a beaten’ her, but beaten’ his own child too, to make her more miserable—ugh, you beast! and she, poor creater, won’t swear the peace agin him, nor do nothin’, because she likes the wretch arter all—worse luck!’ Here, as the woman has completely run herself out of breath, the pawnbroker himself, who has just appeared behind the counter in a gray dressing-gown, embraces the favourable opportunity of putting in a word:—‘Now I won’t have none of this sort of thing on my premises!’ he interposes with an air of authority. ‘Mrs. Mackin, keep yourself to yourself, or you don’t get fourpence for a flat iron here; and Jinkins, you leave your ticket here till you’re sober, and send your wife for them two planes, for I won’t have you in my shop at no price; so make yourself scarce, before I make you scarcer.’

Se l’esterno del negozio dell’usuraio è progettato per attirare l’attenzione o suscitare l’interesse dei passanti curiosi, il suo interno non può che produrre lo stesso effetto, ma in misura ancora maggiore. La porta d’ingresso, di cui abbiamo già parlato, conduce nel negozio principale, frequentato da quei clienti abituati a simili scene e quindi indifferenti alle osservazioni altrui riguardo alla loro povertà. La porta laterale conduce in un piccolo corridoio dal quale si aprono una mezza dozzina di porte (che possono essere chiuse dall’interno con lucchetti), che danno accesso a altrettante stanzette o ripostigli situati di fronte al bancone. Qui, la parte più timida o rispettabile della folla si nasconde alla vista degli altri e aspetta pazientemente che il signore dietro il bancone – con i suoi capelli neri ricci, l’anello di diamante e l’orologio d’argento a doppia cassa – sia disposto ad accorgersi di loro. Un risultato che, in quel momento, dipende molto dal suo umore.

In questo momento, quest’uomo vestito con eleganza sta appunto inserendo nel libro un duplicato di ciò che ha appena preparato; talvolta, però, viene distratto da una conversazione che intrattiene con un altro giovane che svolge lo stesso lavoro a poca distanza da lui. Le allusioni di quest’ultimo riguardo a “quella ultima bottiglia di soda acqua di ieri sera” e al fatto che “si sentiva molto meglio quando la giovane donna gliene aveva affidato la cura”, sembrano riferirsi alle conseguenze di qualche scherzo un po’ troppo audace della serata precedente. Tuttavia, la maggior parte dei clienti non sembra in grado di partecipare a questa sorta di divertimento. All’improvviso, infatti, una vecchia donna dall’aspetto pallido e segnato dal tempo, che da mezz’ora si appoggiava al bancone con un piccolo fagotto davanti a sé, interrompe la conversazione rivolgendosi al commesso: “Ora, signor Henry, si sbrighi. Ci sono i miei due nipoti chiusi in casa, e ho paura dell’incendio, ” Il commesso solleva leggermente lo sguardo, con aria assorta, e riprende il suo lavoro con la stessa meticolosità di chi stesse eseguendo un compito molto importante. “Ha fretta stasera, signora Tatham, vero?” è l’unica osservazione che si degna di fare dopo circa cinque minuti, “Sì, davvero. Ora mi serva subito. Quei bambini continuano a dare solo problemi, ” “Cosa ha qui?” chiede il commesso, aprendo il fagotto. “Roba vecchia, immagino. Un paio di gonne e un fazzoletto di seta. Deve cercare qualcos’altro, signora. Non posso prestarle nulla di più. Sono completamente logori, ” “Oh! Lei è davvero un originale, ” risponde la vecchia, ridendo come se fosse suo dovere farlo, “Vorrei avere il suo talento nel parlare. Allora non mi troverei mai nei guai, vero? No. Non si tratta del fazzoletto di seta. Ma della gonna di una bambina e di un bell’ankecher di seta. Appartenevano a mio marito. Ne ha pagati quattro scellini proprio il giorno in cui si è rotto il braccio, ” “Cosa vuole che faccia con queste cose?” chiede il commesso, dando un’occhiata ai capi di abbigliamento, che molto probabilmente sono già stati clienti del negozio in passato, “Voglio che mi costino diciotto penny, ” “Le presterò nove penny, ” “Oh, faccia pure dieci scellini. Per favore, ” “Nemmeno un altro penny, ” “Beh. Immagino che dovrò accontentarmi, ” Il duplicato viene preparato: un biglietto viene attaccato al pacco, l’altro viene dato alla vecchia donna; il pacco viene gettato con noncuranza in un angolo del negozio, e qualche altro cliente preferisce che la sua richiesta venga soddisfatta senza ulteriori ritardi.

La scelta cade su un individuo barbuto, sporco e dall’aspetto poco presentabile; il suo cappello di carta logoro, appoggiato con noncuranza su un occhio, conferisce al suo volto già poco attraente un’espressione ancora più repellente. Un quarto d’ora prima si stava rilassando dopo una lunga giornata seduto, a calciare sua moglie nel giardino. Ora è venuto a prendere alcuni attrezzi, probabilmente per completare un lavoro per il quale ha già ricevuto del denaro; il suo viso arrossato e i suoi passi incerti sembrano confermare questa ipotesi. Dopo aver aspettato per un po’, esprime la sua cattiva umore su un ragazzino malandato: quest’ultimo, non riuscendo in alcun modo ad avvicinarsi al bancone, ha cercato di arrampicarsi e poi di aggrapparsi con i gomiti, un percorso instabile che lo ha fatto cadere più volte, finendo solitamente sui piedi delle persone intorno a lui. In questo caso, il povero bambino riceve uno schiaffo che lo fa barcollare fino a questa porta; e l’autore di quel colpo diventa immediatamente oggetto dell’indignazione generale.

“Perché picchiate quel ragazzo, brutto animale?” esclama una donna con le scarpe slacciate, tenendo due ferri da stiro piatti in un cestino. “Pensate forse che sia vostra moglie, per poterla trattare così?” “Andatevene e impiccatevi!” risponde l’uomo, con uno sguardo ubriaco e stupido, colpendo contemporaneamente la donna; fortunatamente il colpo non la raggiunge. “Andatevene e impiccatevi. Aspettate solo che vi venga a tagliare giù!” “Tagliarvi giù?” ribatte la donna. “Vorrei davvero potervi smembrare, voi vagabondo! (Ad alta voce.) Oh, caro mio vagabondo, ” “Dove è vostra moglie?” insiste lei. (Ancora più ad alta voce; le donne di questa classe sono sempre solidarie e si infiammano facilmente.) “Vostra povera moglie. Lui la tratta peggio di un cane. Picchiare una donna, voi, un uomo! (Con voce stridula.) Vorrei avervi io. Vi ucciderei, se per questo dovessi morire, ” “Ora siate gentili,” ribatte l’uomo con rabbia. “Gentili, voi maledetti!” esclama lei con disprezzo. “Non è disgustoso?” continua, rivolgendosi a una vecchia donna che sta spiando da uno degli angoli della stanza. La vecchia non ha alcuna obiezione ad unirsi all’attacco, convinta com’è di essere al sicuro lì dentro. “Non è disgustoso, signora?” “Terribile, ” dice la vecchia, senza capire esattamente a cosa si riferisca la domanda. “Lui ha una moglie. Una donna che lavora sodo. Vive nella stanza sul retro della nostra casa. E noi sentiamo lui picchiarla ogni notte, quando torna ubriaco. Non solo lei, ma anche suo figlio. Per renderla ancora più infelice. Ugh, bestia!” “E lei, poveretta. Non osa più ribellarsi. Perché, in fondo, lo ama, ” Qui, mentre la donna ha completamente esaurito il fiato, arriva il peggiore creditore, che appare dietro al bancone in una vestaglia grigia. E approfitta dell’occasione per intervenire: “Non voglio che succedano queste cose nel mio negozio!” dice con autorità. “Signora Mackin, comportatevi decentemente. Altrimenti non vi darò nemmeno quattro penny per un ferro da stiro. E Jinkins, lasciate qui il vostro biglietto finché non vi sarete ripresi. Andatevene, prima che vi cacci via io, ”

This eloquent address produces anything but the effect desired; the women rail in concert; the man hits about him in all directions, and is in the act of establishing an indisputable claim to gratuitous lodgings for the night, when the entrance of his wife, a wretched, worn-out woman, apparently in the last stage of consumption, whose face bears evident marks of recent ill-usage, and whose strength seems hardly equal to the burden—light enough, God knows!—of the thin, sickly child she carries in her arms, turns his cowardly rage in a safer direction. ‘Come home, dear,’ cries the miserable creature, in an imploring tone; ‘do come home, there’s a good fellow, and go to bed.’—‘Go home yourself,’ rejoins the furious ruffian. ‘Do come home quietly,’ repeats the wife, bursting into tears. ‘Go home yourself,’ retorts the husband again, enforcing his argument by a blow which sends the poor creature flying out of the shop. Her ‘natural protector’ follows her up the court, alternately venting his rage in accelerating her progress, and in knocking the little scanty blue bonnet of the unfortunate child over its still more scanty and faded-looking face.

In the last box, which is situated in the darkest and most obscure corner of the shop, considerably removed from either of the gas-lights, are a young delicate girl of about twenty, and an elderly female, evidently her mother from the resemblance between them, who stand at some distance back, as if to avoid the observation even of the shopman. It is not their first visit to a pawnbroker’s shop, for they answer without a moment’s hesitation the usual questions, put in a rather respectful manner, and in a much lower tone than usual, of ‘What name shall I say?—Your own property, of course?—Where do you live?—Housekeeper or lodger?’ They bargain, too, for a higher loan than the shopman is at first inclined to offer, which a perfect stranger would be little disposed to do; and the elder female urges her daughter on, in scarcely audible whispers, to exert her utmost powers of persuasion to obtain an advance of the sum, and expatiate on the value of the articles they have brought to raise a present supply upon. They are a small gold chain and a ‘Forget me not’ ring: the girl’s property, for they are both too small for the mother; given her in better times; prized, perhaps, once, for the giver’s sake, but parted with now without a struggle; for want has hardened the mother, and her example has hardened the girl, and the prospect of receiving money, coupled with a recollection of the misery they have both endured from the want of it—the coldness of old friends—the stern refusal of some, and the still more galling compassion of others—appears to have obliterated the consciousness of self-humiliation, which the idea of their present situation would once have aroused.

In the next box, is a young female, whose attire, miserably poor, but extremely gaudy, wretchedly cold, but extravagantly fine, too plainly bespeaks her station. The rich satin gown with its faded trimmings, the worn-out thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the summer bonnet in winter, and the sunken face, where a daub of rouge only serves as an index to the ravages of squandered health never to be regained, and lost happiness never to be restored, and where the practised smile is a wretched mockery of the misery of the heart, cannot be mistaken. There is something in the glimpse she has just caught of her young neighbour, and in the sight of the little trinkets she has offered in pawn, that seems to have awakened in this woman’s mind some slumbering recollection, and to have changed, for an instant, her whole demeanour. Her first hasty impulse was to bend forward as if to scan more minutely the appearance of her half-concealed companions; her next, on seeing them involuntarily shrink from her, to retreat to the back of the box, cover her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

There are strange chords in the human heart, which will lie dormant through years of depravity and wickedness, but which will vibrate at last to some slight circumstance apparently trivial in itself, but connected by some undefined and indistinct association, with past days that can never be recalled, and with bitter recollections from which the most degraded creature in existence cannot escape.

There has been another spectator, in the person of a woman in the common shop; the lowest of the low; dirty, unbonneted, flaunting, and slovenly. Her curiosity was at first attracted by the little she could see of the group; then her attention. The half-intoxicated leer changed to an expression of something like interest, and a feeling similar to that we have described, appeared for a moment, and only a moment, to extend itself even to her bosom.

Who shall say how soon these women may change places? The last has but two more stages—the hospital and the grave. How many females situated as her two companions are, and as she may have been once, have terminated the same wretched course, in the same wretched manner! One is already tracing her footsteps with frightful rapidity. How soon may the other follow her example! How many have done the same!

CHAPTER XXIV—CRIMINAL COURTS

We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our schoolboy days. How dreadful its rough heavy walls, and low massive doors, appeared to us—the latter looking as if they were made for the express purpose of letting people in, and never letting them out again. Then the fetters over the debtors’ door, which we used to think were a bonâ fide set of irons, just hung up there, for convenience’ sake, ready to be taken down at a moment’s notice, and riveted on the limbs of some refractory felon! We were never tired of wondering how the hackney-coachmen on the opposite stand could cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and drink pots of half-and-half so near the last drop.

Questo eloquente discorso produce esattamente l’effetto opposto a quello desiderato: le donne si lamentano all’unisono; l’uomo colpisce in tutte le direzioni, e proprio mentre sta cercando di stabilire un diritto indiscutibile a una sistemazione gratuita per la notte, l’arrivo di sua moglie – una donna misera, consumata, chiaramente allo stadio finale di una malattia grave, il cui viso presenta evidenti segni di recenti maltrattamenti e la cui forza sembra appena sufficiente a sopportare il peso del fragile e malaticcio bambino che tiene in braccio – fa deviare la sua rabbia verso una direzione più “sicura”.
“Torna a >casa, caro”, grida quella povera creatura con voce supplicante; “Per favore, torna a casa, c’è un brav’uomo lì, vai a letto”. “Vai tu a casa”, ribatte il furioso bruto. “Torna a casa in silenzio”, insiste la moglie, scoppiando in lacrime. “Vai tu a casa”, ripete ancora il marito, colpendola con un pugno che la fa cadere fuori dal negozio. Il suo “protettore naturale” la segue per la strada, sfogando la sua rabbia sia accelerandone il passo che facendo cadere il fragile cappellino blu del bambino sul suo viso ancora più pallido e logoro.

Nell’ultima vetrina, situata nell’angolo più buio e oscuro del negozio, piuttosto lontana da entrambe le lampade a gas, ci sono una giovane ragazza delicata di circa vent’anni e una donna anziana, chiaramente sua madre a giudicare dalla somiglianza tra loro. Stanno in piedi a qualche distanza, come se volessero evitare anche l’attenzione del negoziante. Non è la loro prima visita in un negozio di pegni: rispondono senza esitazione alle solite domande, poste con modi piuttosto rispettosi e a tono molto più basso del solito (“Qual nome devo indicare? – Ovviamente è sua proprietà. Dove vive? – È casalinga o in affitto?”). Negoziano anche per ottenere un prestito più alto di quello che il negoziante era inizialmente disposto ad offrire, cosa che un perfetto estraneo probabilmente non farebbe. La donna anziana incoraggia la figlia con sussurri appena percettibili a usare tutte le sue capacità di persuasione per ottenere l’importo desiderato, sottolineando il valore degli oggetti che hanno portato per garantire il prestito. Si tratta di una piccola catena d’oro e un anello con la scritta “Non dimenticarmi”: proprietà della ragazza, poiché entrambi gli oggetti sono troppo piccoli per la madre. Forse un tempo quegli oggetti erano apprezzati per il donatore, ma ora vengono ceduti senza alcuna esitazione: la povertà ha reso dura sia la madre che la figlia, e la prospettiva di ricevere denaro, unita al ricordo della miseria che entrambe hanno sofferto a causa della mancanza di esso – il rifiuto freddo di alcuni amici, l’indifferenza di altri ancora – sembra aver cancellato ogni senso di umiliazione personale.

Nella scatola successiva c’è una giovane donna il cui abbigliamento, miseramente povero ma estremamente vistoso, orribilmente freddo ma eccessivamente elegante, rivela in modo troppo evidente la sua condizione sociale. L’abito di seta ricco con i suoi bordi sbiaditi, le scarpe sottili logore, le calze di seta rosa, il cappello estivo indossato d’inverno, e quel viso scavato, sul quale un tocco di rossetto non fa che evidenziare i danni causati da una salute sprecata e da una felicità perduta per sempre. Il sorriso forzato che esprime è soltanto una misera parodia della sofferenza nel suo cuore. Qualcosa, nel fugace sguardo che ha gettato sulla sua giovane vicina e nei piccoli oggetti che ha offerto in pegno, sembra aver risvegliato nella sua mente qualche ricordo sopito, cambiando per un istante tutto il suo comportamento. Il suo primo impulso è stato quello di avvicinarsi per osservare più attentamente l’aspetto delle sue compagne semi-nascoste; quando le ha viste ritrarsi involontariamente da lei, si è ritirata nell’angolo della scatola, si è coperta il viso con le mani e ha scoppiato in lacrime.

Nel cuore umano esistono strane “armonie” che rimangono inattive per anni di depravazione e malvagità, ma che alla fine si risvegliano a causa di circostanze apparentemente banali; queste circostanze, tuttavia, sono collegate, in modo indefinito e indistinto, a giorni passati che non possono mai essere ricordati, e a amari ricordi dai quali nemmeno la creatura più degradata non può sfuggire.

C’era un altro spettatore: una donna che si trovava in un negozio comune; la più umile tra le umili, sporca, senza cappello, appariscente e trasandata. All’inizio, la sua curiosità era stata attirata da ciò che riusciva a vedere del gruppo; poi la sua attenzione si concentrò completamente su di loro. Lo sguardo inebriato di quella donna si trasformò in un’espressione simile all’interesse, e per un momento – soltanto per un momento – emerse in lei un sentimento simile a quello che abbiamo descritto, un sentimento che sembrava persino toccarle il cuore.

Chi può dire quanto presto queste donne possano scambiare i loro ruoli? L’ultima di loro ha ancora solo due tappe davanti a sé: l’ospedale e la tomba. Quante donne, nella stessa situazione delle sue due compagne, o come lei un tempo, hanno concluso lo stesso tragico percorso, nello stesso modo disperato! Una sta già seguendo le sue orme con terribile rapidità. Quanto presto anche l’altra seguirà il suo esempio? Quante altre hanno già fatto la stessa cosa!

CAPITOLO XXIV – TORTUARI GIUDIZIARI

Non dimenticheremo mai i sentimenti di ammirazione e rispetto che provavamo ogni volta che guardavamo l’esterno di Newgate ai tempi della scuola. Quanto terribili ci sembravano quelle sue mura ruvide e massicce, e quelle porte basse e imponenti. Sembrava proprio che fossero state costruite apposta per far entrare le persone, ma mai più farle uscire. E poi c’erano quelle catene appese alla porta dei debitori: pensavamo davvero che fossero vere e proprie catene di ferro, lì appese soltanto per comodità, pronte ad essere utilizzate in qualsiasi momento contro qualche criminale ribelle. Non ci stancavamo mai di chiederci come i cocchieri dall’altra parte potessero scherzare, in mezzo a tali orrori, e bere intere pentole di panna fresca così vicino al punto di non poterne più bere nemmeno una goccia.

Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch a glimpse of the whipping-place, and that dark building on one side of the yard, in which is kept the gibbet with all its dreadful apparatus, and on the door of which we half expected to see a brass plate, with the inscription ‘Mr. Ketch;’ for we never imagined that the distinguished functionary could by possibility live anywhere else! The days of these childish dreams have passed away, and with them many other boyish ideas of a gayer nature. But we still retain so much of our original feeling, that to this hour we never pass the building without something like a shudder.

What London pedestrian is there who has not, at some time or other, cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which prisoners are admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity? The thick door, plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low enough to enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill-looking fellow, in a broad-brimmed hat, Belcher handkerchief and top-boots: with a brown coat, something between a great-coat and a ‘sporting’ jacket, on his back, and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps you are lucky enough to pass, just as the gate is being opened; then, you see on the other side of the lodge, another gate, the image of its predecessor, and two or three more turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one, seated round a fire which just lights up the whitewashed apartment sufficiently to enable you to catch a hasty glimpse of these different objects. We have a great respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought to have written more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe.

We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some time ago, when, as we passed this identical gate, it was opened by the officiating turnkey. We turned quickly round, as a matter of course, and saw two persons descending the steps. We could not help stopping and observing them.

They were an elderly woman, of decent appearance, though evidently poor, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying bitterly; she carried a small bundle in her hand, and the boy followed at a short distance behind her. Their little history was obvious. The boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had perhaps sacrificed her own—for whose sake she had borne misery without repining, and poverty without a murmur—looking steadily forward to the time, when he who had so long witnessed her struggles for himself, might be enabled to make some exertions for their joint support. He had formed dissolute connexions; idleness had led to crime; and he had been committed to take his trial for some petty theft. He had been long in prison, and, after receiving some trifling additional punishment, had been ordered to be discharged that morning. It was his first offence, and his poor old mother, still hoping to reclaim him, had been waiting at the gate to implore him to return home.

We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with a dogged look, shaking his head with an air of bravado and obstinate determination. They walked a few paces, and paused. The woman put her hand upon his shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his head as if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and every object looked fresh and happy in the broad, gay sunlight; he gazed round him for a few moments, bewildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was long since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a prison. Perhaps the wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the boy’s heart; perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he was a happy child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded on him—he burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and hurriedly placing the other in his mother’s, walked away with her.

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old Bailey. Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them for the first time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a great deal of form, but no compassion; considerable interest, but no sympathy. Take the Old Court for example. There sit the judges, with whose great dignity everybody is acquainted, and of whom therefore we need say no more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking as cool as a Lord Mayor can look, with an immense bouquet before him, and habited in all the splendour of his office. Then, there are the Sheriffs, who are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself; and the Barristers, who are quite dignified enough in their own opinion; and the spectators, who having paid for their admission, look upon the whole scene as if it were got up especially for their amusement. Look upon the whole group in the body of the Court—some wholly engrossed in the morning papers, others carelessly conversing in low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away an hour—and you can scarcely believe that the result of the trial is a matter of life or death to one wretched being present. But turn your eyes to the dock; watch the prisoner attentively for a few moments; and the fact is before you, in all its painful reality. Mark how restlessly he has been engaged for the last ten minutes, in forming all sorts of fantastic figures with the herbs which are strewed upon the ledge before him; observe the ashy paleness of his face when a particular witness appears, and how he changes his position and wipes his clammy forehead, and feverish hands, when the case for the prosecution is closed, as if it were a relief to him to feel that the jury knew the worst.

The defence is concluded; the judge proceeds to sum up the evidence; and the prisoner watches the countenances of the jury, as a dying man, clinging to life to the very last, vainly looks in the face of his physician for a slight ray of hope. They turn round to consult; you can almost hear the man’s heart beat, as he bites the stalk of rosemary, with a desperate effort to appear composed. They resume their places—a dead silence prevails as the foreman delivers in the verdict—‘Guilty!’ A shriek bursts from a female in the gallery; the prisoner casts one look at the quarter from whence the noise proceeded; and is immediately hurried from the dock by the gaoler. The clerk directs one of the officers of the Court to ‘take the woman out,’ and fresh business is proceeded with, as if nothing had occurred.

Spesso ci siamo soffermati qui, nelle sessioni del tempo, per gettare uno sguardo al luogo dove avvenivano le esecuzioni, e a quell’edificio scuro situato sul lato del cortile, in cui veniva custodita la forca con tutti i suoi terribili strumenti. Sulla sua porta ci aspettavamo quasi di vedere una targa di bronzo con l’iscrizione “Signor Ketch”; infatti, non riuscivamo a immaginare che quel funzionario così importante potesse vivere in qualche altro posto! I giorni di questi infantili >sogni sono ormai passati, insieme a molte altre idee fanciullesche legate a una natura più allegra. Tuttavia, conserviamo ancora gran parte dei nostri sentimenti originali; per questo motivo, anche oggi, non possiamo passare davanti a quell’edificio senza provare un brivido.

Quale pedone di Londra non abbia, in un momento o nell’altro, gettato uno sguardo frettoloso attraverso la grata attraverso cui i prigionieri vengono fatti entrare in questa tetra dimora, osservando gli oggetti che riusciva a distinguere con un sentimento di curiosità indescrivibile? Quella porta spessa, rivestita di ferro e munita di spuntoni, abbastanza bassa da permettere di vedere, chinandosi, un individuo dall’aspetto poco raccomandabile: con un cappello a tesa larga, un fazzoletto di lino e stivali alti; indossava un cappotto marrone, qualcosa tra un mantello e una giacca da “sport”, e nella mano sinistra stringeva una chiave enorme. Forse avete la fortuna di passare proprio nel momento in cui il cancello si apre; allora vedete, dall’altra parte della guardiola, un altro cancello identico al precedente, e ancora due o tre carcerieri che sembrano delle copie del primo, seduti intorno a un focolare che illumina appena quella stanza imbiancata, permettendovi di gettare uno sguardo frettoloso su quegli oggetti. Rispettiamo molto la signora Fry, ma sicuramente avrebbe dovuto scrivere più romanzi della signora Radcliffe.

Qualche tempo fa, stavamo camminando tranquillamente lungo il Old Bailey quando, mentre superavamo questo cancello identico, fu aperto dal guardiano incaricato. Ci girammo immediatamente e vedemmo due persone scendere i gradini; non potemmo fare a meno di fermarci e osservarle.

Erano una donna anziana, dall’aspetto decente, sebbene evidentemente povera, e un ragazzo di circa quattordici o quindici anni. La donna piangeva amaramente; teneva in mano un piccolo fagottino, e il ragazzo la seguiva a breve distanza. La loro triste storia era evidente: il ragazzo era suo figlio, per il cui benessere forse aveva sacrificato il proprio; per il quale aveva sopportato miseria senza lamentarsi, povertà senza un lamento, sperando sempre nel giorno in cui lui, che aveva assistito a tutte le sue difficoltà, potesse finalmente aiutarla. Il ragazzo aveva intrapreso vie disoneste; la pigrizia lo aveva portato al crimine; era stato incriminato per un piccolo furto e aveva trascorso molto tempo in prigione. Dopo aver ricevuto una punizione aggiuntiva, quella mattina gli era stata concessa la libertà. Era la sua prima infrazione, e sua povera madre, ancora speranzosa di ricondurlo sulla retta via, lo aspettava alla porta per implorarlo di tornare a casa con lei.

Non possiamo dimenticare quel ragazzo; scese i gradini con uno sguardo risoluto, scuotendo la testa con aria di coraggio e determinazione ostinata. Camminarono per qualche passo, poi si fermarono. La donna posò una mano sulla sua spalla con un tono supplichevole; il ragazzo alzò la testa in segno di rifiuto. Era una mattina splendida: ogni oggetto sembrava fresco e gioioso sotto i raggi del sole; egli guardò intorno per qualche istante, confuso dalla luminosità di quella scena. Da molto tempo non vedeva altro che le tetre pareti di una prigione. Forse la miseria di sua madre ebbe un certo effetto sul suo cuore; forse alcuni ricordi indefiniti del periodo in cui era stato un bambino felice, e lei la sua unica amica e compagna. Gli vennero le lacrime agli occhi; si coprì il viso con una mano e, tenendo l’altra nella mano di sua madre, se ne andò con lei.

La curiosità ci ha talvolta portato in entrambi questi tribunali dell’Old Bailey. Niente colpisce di più chi vi entra per la prima volta quanto l’indifferenza calma con cui si svolgono le procedure: ogni processo sembra semplicemente un affare ordinario. C’è molta formalità, ma nessuna compassione; notevole interesse, ma nessuna simpatia. Prendiamo ad esempio il tribunale principale: lì siedono i giudici, la cui grande dignità è ben nota a tutti, quindi non c’è bisogno di aggiungere altro. Poi c’è il Lord Mayor al centro, con un aspetto freddo e distaccato, circondato da un enorme mazzo di fiori e vestito con tutto lo splendore della sua carica. Ci sono poi i procuratori, che a loro volta si considerano abbastanza dignitari; e gli spettatori, che, avendo pagato per entrare, osservano tutta la scena come se fosse stata allestita apposta per il loro divertimento. Guardate l’intero gruppo nel corpo del tribunale: alcuni completamente assorti nei giornali del mattino, altri che chiacchierano distrattamente a bassa voce, altri ancora che sonnecchiano tranquillamente. È difficile credere che il risultato di questo processo possa significare la vita o la morte per una persona presente lì. Ma rivolgete lo sguardo verso l’imputato: osservatelo attentamente per qualche momento. E la realtà dolorosa vi sarà chiara davanti agli occhi. Notate come sia irrequieto negli ultimi dieci minuti, mentre forma varie figure fantasiose con le erbe disposte davanti a lui; notate il pallore cenereo del suo viso quando compare un testimone particolare. E come cambi posizione e si asciughi la fronte sudata, le mani febbrili, quando si conclude l’arringa dell’accusa. Come se fosse un sollievo per lui sapere che la giuria conosce già la verità più terribile.

La difesa è conclusa; il giudice procede a riassumere le prove; il prigioniero osserva i volti dei membri della giuria, come un uomo morente che, aggrappandosi disperatamente alla vita fino all’ultimo istante, cerca invano nel volto del proprio medico anche solo un barlume di >speranza. I giurati si consultano; si può quasi sentire il battito del cuore del prigioniero mentre morde il gambo del rosmarino, nel tentativo disperato di apparire calmo. Riprendono i loro posti; un silenzio mortale regna nella sala quando il presidente della giuria pronuncia la sentenza: “Colpevole!” Un grido straziante risuona dalla galleria; il prigioniero lancia uno sguardo verso la direzione da cui è provenuto il suono, e immediatamente viene portato via dal carceriere. L’usciere ordina a uno degli ufficiali del >Tribunale di “portare fuori quella donna”, e la procedura giudiziaria prosegue come se nulla fosse accaduto.

No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be as complete as that which is constantly presented in the New Court, the gravity of which is frequently disturbed in no small degree, by the cunning and pertinacity of juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried, say for picking the pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and the offence is about as clearly proved as an offence can be. He is called upon for his defence, and contents himself with a little declamation about the jurymen and his country—asserts that all the witnesses have committed perjury, and hints that the police force generally have entered into a conspiracy ‘again’ him. However probable this statement may be, it fails to convince the Court, and some such scene as the following then takes place:

Court: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy?

Boy: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gen’lm’n is a vaten outside, and vos a vaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial vos a comin’ on.

Court. Inquire for these witnesses.

Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witnesses at the very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as he descends the steps into the court-yard below. After an absence of five minutes, he returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the Court of what it knew perfectly well before—namely, that there are no such witnesses in attendance. Hereupon, the boy sets up a most awful howling; screws the lower part of the palms of his hands into the corners of his eyes; and endeavours to look the picture of injured innocence. The jury at once find him ‘guilty,’ and his endeavours to squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. The governor of the gaol then states, in reply to an inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has been under his care twice before. This the urchin resolutely denies in some such terms as—‘S’elp me, gen’lm’n, I never vos in trouble afore—indeed, my Lord, I never vos. It’s all a howen to my having a twin brother, vich has wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so exactly like me, that no vun ever knows the difference atween us.’

This representation, like the defence, fails in producing the desired effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years’ transportation. Finding it impossible to excite compassion, he gives vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of ‘old big vig!’ and as he declines to take the trouble of walking from the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible.

CHAPTER XXV—A VISIT TO NEWGATE

‘The force of habit’ is a trite phrase in everybody’s mouth; and it is not a little remarkable that those who use it most as applied to others, unconsciously afford in their own persons singular examples of the power which habit and custom exercise over the minds of men, and of the little reflection they are apt to bestow on subjects with which every day’s experience has rendered them familiar. If Bedlam could be suddenly removed like another Aladdin’s palace, and set down on the space now occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out of a hundred, whose road to business every morning lies through Newgate-street, or the Old Bailey, would pass the building without bestowing a hasty glance on its small, grated windows, and a transient thought upon the condition of the unhappy beings immured in its dismal cells; and yet these same men, day by day, and hour by hour, pass and repass this gloomy depository of the guilt and misery of London, in one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up within it—nay, not even knowing, or if they do, not heeding, the fact, that as they pass one particular angle of the massive wall with a light laugh or a merry whistle, they stand within one yard of a fellow-creature, bound and helpless, whose hours are numbered, from whom the last feeble ray of hope has fled for ever, and whose miserable career will shortly terminate in a violent and shameful death. Contact with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the dying—to men in full health and vigour, in the flower of youth or the prime of life, with all their faculties and perceptions as acute and perfect as your own; but dying, nevertheless—dying as surely—with the hand of death imprinted upon them as indelibly—as if mortal disease had wasted their frames to shadows, and corruption had already begun!

It was with some such thoughts as these that we determined, not many weeks since, to visit the interior of Newgate—in an amateur capacity, of course; and, having carried our intention into effect, we proceed to lay its results before our readers, in the hope—founded more upon the nature of the subject, than on any presumptuous confidence in our own descriptive powers—that this paper may not be found wholly devoid of interest. We have only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the reader with any statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found at length in numerous reports of numerous committees, and a variety of authorities of equal weight. We took no notes, made no memoranda, measured none of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches in no particular room: are unable even to report of how many apartments the gaol is composed.

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and what we thought, we will tell at once in our own way.

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who answered our knock at the door of the governor’s house, we were ushered into the ‘office;’ a little room, on the right-hand side as you enter, with two windows looking into the Old Bailey: fitted up like an ordinary attorney’s office, or merchant’s counting-house, with the usual fixtures—a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an almanack, a clock, and a few maps. After a little delay, occasioned by sending into the interior of the prison for the officer whose duty it was to conduct us, that functionary arrived; a respectable-looking man of about two or three and fifty, in a broad-brimmed hat, and full suit of black, who, but for his keys, would have looked quite as much like a clergyman as a turnkey. We were disappointed; he had not even top-boots on. Following our conductor by a door opposite to that at which we had entered, we arrived at a small room, without any other furniture than a little desk, with a book for visitors’ autographs, and a shelf, on which were a few boxes for papers, and casts of the heads and faces of the two notorious murderers, Bishop and Williams; the former, in particular, exhibiting a style of head and set of features, which might have afforded sufficient moral grounds for his instant execution at any time, even had there been no other evidence against him. Leaving this room also, by an opposite door, we found ourself in the lodge which opens on the Old Bailey; one side of which is plentifully garnished with a choice collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the redoubtable Jack Sheppard—genuine; and those said to have been graced by the sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin—doubtful. From this lodge, a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded with nails of the same material, and guarded by another turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, which terminate in a narrow and dismal stone passage, running parallel with the Old Bailey, and leading to the different yards, through a number of tortuous and intricate windings, guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel at once the slightest hope of escape that any new-comer may have entertained; and the very recollection of which, on eventually traversing the place again, involves one in a maze of confusion.

Nessun contrasto immaginario con un caso del genere potrebbe essere più completo di quello che si verifica costantemente presso il Nuovo Tribunale; la gravità di tale contesto viene spesso compromessa, in misura non trascurabile, dall’astuzia e dalla tenacia dei giovani delinquenti. Supponiamo che venga processato un ragazzo di tredici anni accusato di aver derubato una persona della Sua Maestà: l’accusa è dimostrata con estrema chiarezza. Al momento della difesa, il ragazzo si limita a pronunciare alcune parole riguardanti i giurati e il proprio paese, affermando che tutti i testimoni abbiano mentito e insinuando che le forze di polizia siano coinvolte in una cospirazione contro di lui. Per quanto plausibile possa sembrare questa dichiarazione, non riesce comunque a convincere il Tribunale, e allora si verifica una scena del genere:

Corte: Hai qualche testimone che possa parlare a nome del tuo personaggio, ragazzo?

Ragazzo: Sì, mio Signore; ci sono quindici giudici fuori, e voi siete stato un giudice tutto il giorno ieri. Mi hanno detto che la notte prima del mio processo sareste arrivato anche voi.

Corte. Indagate su questi testimoni.

Ecco che esce un robusto custode, gridando a squarciagola per chiamare i testimoni; si sente infatti il suo grido indebolirsi sempre di più man mano che scende i gradini verso l’cortile sottostante. Dopo cinque minuti ritorna, molto sudato e raucoso, e comunica alla >Corte ciò che essa già sapeva perfettamente: ovvero, che non esistono tali testimoni. A questo punto, il ragazzo inizia a urlare disperatamente, si preme le parti inferiori delle mani contro gli angoli degli occhi e cerca di sembrare l’immagine dell’innocenza offesa. La giuria lo dichiara immediatamente “colpevole”, e i suoi tentativi di versare qualche lacrima diventano ancora più intensi. Il direttore del carcere, in risposta a una domanda della corte, afferma che il prigioniero è già stato sotto la sua custodia in due occasioni precedenti. Il monello nega decisamente questa affermazione, dicendo qualcosa del genere: “Per favore, signore, non sono mai stato nei guai prima. Davvero, mio Signore, mai. Tutto questo è solo perché ho un fratello gemello che si è trovato in difficoltà ingiustamente; assomiglia così tanto a me che nessuno riesce a distinguerci.”

Questa rappresentazione, proprio come la difesa presentata, non riesce a produrre l’effetto desiderato; quindi il ragazzo viene condannato, forse, a sette anni di reclusione. Non riuscendo a suscitare compassione in nessuno, esprime i propri sentimenti con un insulto che riguarda gli occhi di quel “vecchio bastardo”. Poiché si rifiuta di prendersi la briga di camminare dal molo al luogo dell’esecuzione, viene immediatamente portato via, congratulandosi per essere riuscito a causare il maggior numero possibile di problemi a tutti.

CAPITOLO XXV – UNA VISITA A NEWGATE

“La forza dell’abitudine” è una frase banale che tutti pronunciano; ed è davvero notevole che coloro che la usano più spesso per parlare degli altri, inconsapevolmente offrano in sé stessi esempi concreti del potere che abitudini e consuetudini esercitano sulla mente umana, nonché della scarsa riflessione che tendiamo a dedicare a questioni a cui la nostra esperienza quotidiana ci ha reso familiari. Se improvvisamente il manicomio venisse rimosso, come un altro palazzo magico, e posizionato nel luogo attualmente occupato da Newgate, probabilmente nessuno su cento, coloro i cui percorsi quotidiani li portano attraverso le strade di Newgate-street o l’Old Bailey, darebbe nemmeno uno sguardo alle sue piccole finestre a grate, né penserebbe alla sorte delle sventurate creature imprigionate nelle sue tetre celle. Eppure questi stessi uomini, giorno dopo giorno, passano continuamente accanto a questo oscuro rifugio del peccato e della miseria di Londra, completamente ignari della moltitudine di esseri infelici rinchiusi al suo interno. Anzi, forse nemmeno sanno, o se lo sanno, non ci prestano attenzione. Mentre attraversano un certo angolo del suo imponente muro, ridono o fischiano allegramente, non si rendono conto di trovarsi a pochi passi da un’altra creatura umana, prigioniera e indifesa, la cui vita è ormai segnata dalla morte. Una morte violenta e vergognosa. Il semplice contatto con la morte, anche nella sua forma meno terribile, è già qualcosa di solenne e spaventoso. Quanto più allora riflettere su questa vicinanza alla morte. Per uomini ancora sani e vigorosi, nel fiore degli anni, con tutte le loro facoltà intatte. Ma che comunque stanno morendo. Morendo inevitabilmente, con la mano della morte impressa su di loro in modo indelebile. Come se una malattia mortale avesse ridotto i loro corpi a ombre, e la decomposizione fosse già iniziata.

Fu con pensieri del genere che, non molte settimane fa, decidemmo di visitare l’interno di Newgate, naturalmente a titolo amatoriale. Una volta messa in atto questa intenzione, procediamo ora a presentarne i risultati ai nostri lettori, nella speranza – basata più sulla natura stessa dell’argomento che su una presuntuosa fiducia nelle nostre capacità descrittive – che questo articolo non si riveli del tutto privo di interesse. Dobbiamo solo precisare che non intendiamo affaticare il lettore con resoconti statistici riguardanti la prigione stessa: tali informazioni si troveranno infatti in numerosi rapporti di varie commissioni e autorevoli fonti. Non abbiamo preso appunti, né misurato nulla; non conosciamo nemmeno il numero esatto di stanze che compongono la prigione. Non siamo nemmeno in grado di indicare quanti appartamenti essa abbia.

Abbiamo visto la prigione e abbiamo visto i prigionieri; ciò che abbiamo visto e ciò che abbiamo pensato ve lo racconteremo subito a modo nostro.

Dopo aver consegnato le nostre credenziali al servitore che aveva risposto al nostro bussare alla porta della residenza del governatore, fummo introdotti nell’“ufficio”: una piccola stanza situata sul lato destro non appena si entra, con due finestre che si affacciano sull’Old Bailey. L’ambiente era arredato come un normale ufficio legale o di un commerciante, con le solite attrezzature: una parete divisoria in pannelli, uno o due scaffali, una scrivania, un paio di sgabelli, alcuni libri, un orologio e alcune mappe. Dopo un breve ritardo, causato dall’invio di qualcuno all’interno della prigione per chiamare l’ufficiale incaricato di accompagnarci, quel funzionario arrivò: un uomo dall’aspetto rispettabile, di circa trentacinque anni, con un cappello a tesa larga e un abito intero nero; se non fosse stato per le chiavi che portava con sé, avrebbe potuto sembrare tanto un prete quanto una guardia carceraria. Siamo rimasti delusi: non indossava nemmeno stivali alti. Seguendo il nostro accompagnatore attraverso una porta opposta a quella da cui eravamo entrati, siamo arrivati in una piccola stanza priva di altri arredi se non di una scrivania, di un libro per gli autografi dei visitatori e di uno scaffale su cui erano posizionate alcune scatole contenenti documenti, oltre a delle copie in gesso delle teste e dei volti dei due notori assassini, Bishop e Williams; il primo, in particolare, presentava un aspetto tale da giustificare senza dubbio la sua immediata esecuzione in qualsiasi momento, anche senza altre prove contro di lui. Uscendo anche da questa stanza attraverso una porta opposta, ci trovammo nella guardiola che si affaccia sull’Old Bailey; uno dei lati della guardiola era decorato con una serie di pesanti strumenti di ferro, tra cui quelli utilizzati dal temibile Jack Sheppard – autentici – e quelli che, si diceva, fossero appartenuti alle forti braccia del non meno celebre Dick Turpin, dubbi. Da questa guardiola, una pesante porta in legno di quercia, chiusa con ferri e decorata con chiodi dello stesso materiale, e sorvegliata da un’altra guardia carceraria, conduceva a alcuni gradini che terminavano in un stretto e cupo passaggio in pietra, parallelo all’Old Bailey e che portava ai diversi cortili della prigione, attraverso numerosi percorsi tortuosi e complicati; questi passaggi erano sorvegliati da enormi porte e grate il cui aspetto era sufficiente a dissipare immediatamente qualsiasi vaga speranza di fuga potesse avere un nuovo arrivato. E il solo ricordo di quei luoghi, quando si tornava a visitarli, creava un vero labirinto di confusione.

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in the prison, or in other words the different wards—form a square, of which the four sides abut respectively on the Old Bailey, the old College of Physicians (now forming a part of Newgate-market), the Sessions-house, and Newgate-street. The intermediate space is divided into several paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and exercise as can be had in such a place. These yards, with the exception of that in which prisoners under sentence of death are confined (of which we shall presently give a more detailed description), run parallel with Newgate-street, and consequently from the Old Bailey, as it were, to Newgate-market. The women’s side is in the right wing of the prison nearest the Sessions-house. As we were introduced into this part of the building first, we will adopt the same order, and introduce our readers to it also.

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which we just now adverted, omitting any mention of intervening gates—for if we noticed every gate that was unlocked for us to pass through, and locked again as soon as we had passed, we should require a gate at every comma—we came to a door composed of thick bars of wood, through which were discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow yard, some twenty women: the majority of whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the presence of strangers, retreated to their wards. One side of this yard is railed off at a considerable distance, and formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet ten inches in height, roofed at the top, and defended in front by iron bars, from which the friends of the female prisoners communicate with them. In one corner of this singular-looking den, was a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had once been black, and the remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded ribbon of the same hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl—a prisoner, of course—of about two-and-twenty. It is impossible to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old woman. The girl was a good-looking, robust female, with a profusion of hair streaming about in the wind—for she had no bonnet on—and a man’s silk pocket-handkerchief loosely thrown over a most ample pair of shoulders. The old woman was talking in that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound that ears can hear. The girl was perfectly unmoved. Hardened beyond all hope of redemption, she listened doggedly to her mother’s entreaties, whatever they were: and, beyond inquiring after ‘Jem,’ and eagerly catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her, took no more apparent interest in the conversation than the most unconcerned spectators. Heaven knows there were enough of them, in the persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who were no more concerned by what was passing before their eyes, and within their hearing, than if they were blind and deaf. Why should they be? Inside the prison, and out, such scenes were too familiar to them, to excite even a passing thought, unless of ridicule or contempt for feelings which they had long since forgotten.

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slovenly, thick-bordered cap, with her arms muffled in a large red shawl, the fringed ends of which straggled nearly to the bottom of a dirty white apron, was communicating some instructions to her visitor—her daughter evidently. The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with the cold. Some ordinary word of recognition passed between her and her mother when she appeared at the grating, but neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on either side. The mother whispered her instructions, and the girl received them with her pinched-up, half-starved features twisted into an expression of careful cunning. It was some scheme for the woman’s defence that she was disclosing, perhaps; and a sullen smile came over the girl’s face for an instant, as if she were pleased: not so much at the probability of her mother’s liberation, as at the chance of her ‘getting off’ in spite of her prosecutors. The dialogue was soon concluded; and with the same careless indifference with which they had approached each other, the mother turned towards the inner end of the yard, and the girl to the gate at which she had entered.

The girl belonged to a class—unhappily but too extensive—the very existence of which, should make men’s hearts bleed. Barely past her childhood, it required but a glance to discover that she was one of those children, born and bred in neglect and vice, who have never known what childhood is: who have never been taught to love and court a parent’s smile, or to dread a parent’s frown. The thousand nameless endearments of childhood, its gaiety and its innocence, are alike unknown to them. They have entered at once upon the stern realities and miseries of life, and to their better nature it is almost hopeless to appeal in after-times, by any of the references which will awaken, if it be only for a moment, some good feeling in ordinary bosoms, however corrupt they may have become. Talk to them of parental solicitude, the happy days of childhood, and the merry games of infancy! Tell them of hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the pawnbroker’s, and they will understand you.

Two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating, conversing with their friends, but a very large proportion of the prisoners appeared to have no friends at all, beyond such of their old companions as might happen to be within the walls. So, passing hastily down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice the little incidents we have just recorded, we were conducted up a clean and well-lighted flight of stone stairs to one of the wards. There are several in this part of the building, but a description of one is a description of the whole.

È necessario spiegare qui che gli edifici della prigione, o in altre parole i diversi reparti, formano un quadrato il cui perimetro è delimitato rispettivamente dall’Old Bailey, dal vecchio College of Physicians (che ora fa parte di Newgate-market), dalla Sessions-House e da Newgate-street. Lo spazio interno è diviso in diverse aree lastricate, dove i prigionieri possono prendere aria e fare esercizio fisico, nel limite delle possibilità offerte da un luogo del genere. Queste aree, ad eccezione di quella in cui sono rinchiusi i prigionieri condannati a morte (di cui forniremo presto una descrizione più dettagliata), si estendono parallelamente a Newgate-street, e quindi, in senso orario, dall’Old Bailey fino a Newgate-market. Il reparto riservato alle donne si trova nell’ala destra della prigione, più vicina alla Sessions-House. Poiché abbiamo visitato per primi questa parte dell’edificio, seguiremo lo stesso ordine di presentazione anche per i nostri lettori.

Voltando a destra, poi scendendo nel corridoio di cui abbiamo appena parlato, omettendo qualsiasi menzione delle porte intermedie – perché se notassimo ogni porta che venisse aperta per farci passare e richiusa non appena fossimo passati, avremmo bisogno di una porta praticamente ad ogni svolta. Arrivammo davanti a una porta composta da spesse sbarre di legno; attraverso di esse si potevano vedere, andare avanti e indietro in un cortile stretto, circa venti donne: la maggior parte delle quali, tuttavia, non appena si resero conto della presenza di estranei, si ritirò nelle proprie stanze. Un lato di questo cortile era delimitato da una recinzione a una certa distanza e formava una sorta di gabbia di ferro, alta circa cinque piedi e dieci pollici, con il tetto in cima e protetta davanti da sbarre di ferro; attraverso queste sbarre gli amici delle prigioniere potevano comunicare con loro. In un angolo di questa strana prigione c’era una vecchia donna gialla, magra, decrepita, vestita con un abito logoro che un tempo era stato nero, e con i resti di un vecchio cappello di paglia, munito di un nastro sbiadito dello stesso colore; quella donna stava conversando seriamente con una giovane ragazza, ovviamente una prigioniera, di circa vent’anni. È impossibile immaginare un essere più colpito dalla povertà, o una creatura così sopraffatta nell’anima e nel corpo dal dolore e dalla miseria, quanto quella vecchia donna. La ragazza era una giovane donna attraente, robusta, con i capelli che le svolazzavano al vento, poiché non indossava cappello, e un fazzoletto di seta da uomo gettato negligentemente sulle sue spalle ampie. La vecchia parlava con quella voce bassa, soffocata, che rivela così vividamente l’angoscia mentale; di tanto in tanto scoppiava in grida acute, strazianti, i suoni più dolorosi che gli orecchi possano udire. La ragazza, invece, rimaneva completamente indifferente. Ormai priva di ogni speranza di redenzione, ascoltava con ostinazione le suppliche di sua madre, qualunque esse fossero; e, a parte chiedere notizie di “Jem” e afferrare con avidità i pochi penny che quella madre misera le portava, non mostrava alcun interesse per quelle conversazioni, proprio come gli spettatori più indifferenti. Chissà quanti altri prigionieri nel cortile fossero altrettanto indifferenti a ciò che accadeva davanti ai loro occhi e alle loro orecchie, come se fossero ciechi e sordi. E perché dovrebbero essere diversi? All’interno della prigione, e fuori, scene del genere erano ormai troppo familiari per suscitare in loro anche solo un pensiero, a meno che non fosse derisione o disprezzo per sentimenti che avevano da tempo dimenticato.

Un po’ più avanti, una donna dall’aspetto trasandato, con un cappello sporco e dai bordi spessi, le braccia avvolte in un grande scialle rosso i cui bordi strisciavano quasi fino alla base di un grembiule bianco e sporco, stava dando alcune istruzioni alla sua visitatrice: evidentemente sua figlia. La ragazza era vestita in modo leggero e tremava dal freddo. Quando apparve davanti alla grata, scambiarono qualche parola di riconoscimento, ma da entrambe le parti non ci furono né >speranza, né compassione, né rimpianto, né affetto. La madre sussurrò le sue istruzioni, e la ragazza le ricevette con i tratti del viso contratti per il freddo e l’affamazione, assumendo un’espressione di astuzia e cautela. Probabilmente si trattava di qualche piano per difendersi; per un attimo, sul volto della ragazza apparve un sorriso cupo, come se ne fosse compiaciuta: non tanto all’idea della possibile liberazione di sua madre, quanto alla possibilità di “farla franca” nonostante i suoi accusatori. Il dialogo terminò presto; e con la stessa indifferenza con cui si erano avvicinate l’una all’altra, la madre si diresse verso il lato interno del cortile, mentre la ragazza tornò verso il cancello da cui era entrata.

La ragazza apparteneva a una classe – sfortunatamente molto diffusa – la cui stessa esistenza bastava a far sanguinare i cuori degli uomini. Appena uscita dall’infanzia, bastava un solo sguardo per capire che era uno di quei bambini nati e cresciuti nell’abbandono e nel vizio, che non avevano mai conosciuto cosa significasse l’infanzia: a cui non era mai stato insegnato ad amare o ad cercare il sorriso di un genitore, né a temere il loro sguardo severo. Tutti quei gesti d’affetto inespressi dell’infanzia, la sua gioia e la sua innocenza erano per loro completamente sconosciuti. Erano entrati immediatamente nelle dure realtà e miserie della vita, e per la loro natura più nobile era quasi impossibile cercare di risvegliare in loro qualche sentimento positivo, attraverso quei ricordi che in cuori normali potrebbero suscitare anche solo per un momento emozioni buone, per quanto corrotti possano essere. Parlate loro di premura genitoriale, di giorni felici dell’infanzia e di giochi spensierati dell’infanzia. Dite loro di fame, strade, mendicità, frustate, bar delle bevande alcoliche, prigioni e usurai. E loro vi capiranno.

Due o tre donne stavano in piedi in diverse parti della grata, conversando con le loro amiche; tuttavia, gran parte dei prigionieri sembrava non avere alcuna amica, se non quelle vecchie compagne che si trovavano proprio all’interno del carcere. Così, attraversando rapidamente il cortile e fermandoci solo un attimo per notare quei piccoli episodi che abbiamo appena descritto, fummo condotti su una serie di gradini di pietra puliti e ben illuminati, fino a uno dei reparti del carcere. In questa parte dell’edificio ce ne sono diversi, ma descrivere uno di essi equivale a descriverli tutti.

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course, by windows looking into the interior of the prison, but far more light and airy than one could reasonably expect to find in such a situation. There was a large fire with a deal table before it, round which ten or a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner. Along both sides of the room ran a shelf; below it, at regular intervals, a row of large hooks were fixed in the wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping mat of a prisoner: her rug and blanket being folded up, and placed on the shelf above. At night, these mats are placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which it hangs during the day; and the ward is thus made to answer the purposes both of a day-room and sleeping apartment. Over the fireplace, was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which were displayed a variety of texts from Scripture, which were also scattered about the room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy-slips which are used in schools. On the table was a sufficient provision of a kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in pewter dishes, which are kept perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order and regularity when they are not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried manner to either side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly—many of them decently—attired, and there was nothing peculiar, either in their appearance or demeanour. One or two resumed the needlework which they had probably laid aside at the commencement of their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless curiosity; and a few retired behind their companions to the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even the casual observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in this and other wards, to whom the thing was no novelty, appeared perfectly indifferent to our presence, and remained standing close to the seats from which they had just risen; but the general feeling among the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the period of our stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word was uttered during the time of our remaining, unless, indeed, by the wardswoman in reply to some question which we put to the turnkey who accompanied us. In every ward on the female side, a wardswoman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation is adopted among the males. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners, selected for good conduct. They alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small stump bedstead being placed in every ward for that purpose. On both sides of the gaol, is a small receiving-room, to which prisoners are conducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. [161]

Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found ourselves at first (and which, by-the-bye, contains three or four dark cells for the accommodation of refractory prisoners), we were led through a narrow yard to the ‘school’—a portion of the prison set apart for boys under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-sized room, in which were writing-materials and some copy-books, was the schoolmaster, with a couple of his pupils; the remainder having been fetched from an adjoining apartment, the whole were drawn up in line for our inspection. There were fourteen of them in all, some with shoes, some without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one in scarce anything at all. The whole number, without an exception we believe, had been committed for trial on charges of pocket-picking; and fourteen such terrible little faces we never beheld.—There was not one redeeming feature among them—not a glance of honesty—not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows and the hulks, in the whole collection. As to anything like shame or contrition, that was entirely out of the question. They were evidently quite gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their idea appeared to be, that we had come to see Newgate as a grand affair, and that they were an indispensable part of the show; and every boy as he ‘fell in’ to the line, actually seemed as pleased and important as if he had done something excessively meritorious in getting there at all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable sight, because we never saw fourteen such hopeless creatures of neglect, before.

On either side of the school-yard is a yard for men, in one of which—that towards Newgate-street—prisoners of the more respectable class are confined. Of the other, we have little description to offer, as the different wards necessarily partake of the same character. They are provided, like the wards on the women’s side, with mats and rugs, which are disposed of in the same manner during the day; the only very striking difference between their appearance and that of the wards inhabited by the females, is the utter absence of any employment. Huddled together on two opposite forms, by the fireside, sit twenty men perhaps; here, a boy in livery; there, a man in a rough great-coat and top-boots; farther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt-sleeves, with an old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall ruffian, in a smock-frock; next to him, a miserable being of distressed appearance, with his head resting on his hand;—all alike in one respect, all idle and listless. When they do leave the fire, sauntering moodily about, lounging in the window, or leaning against the wall, vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. With the exception of a man reading an old newspaper, in two or three instances, this was the case in every ward we entered.

The only communication these men have with their friends, is through two close iron gratings, with an intermediate space of about a yard in width between the two, so that nothing can be handed across, nor can the prisoner have any communication by touch with the person who visits him. The married men have a separate grating, at which to see their wives, but its construction is the same.

Era un appartamento spazioso, vuoto e intonacato di bianco; naturalmente era illuminato da finestre che si affacciavano sull’interno della prigione, ma era molto più luminoso e arioso di quanto ci si potesse aspettare in una situazione del genere. C’era un grande focolare davanti al quale era posizionato un tavolo; intorno ad esso, dieci o dodici donne sedevano su panche di legno a cena. Su entrambi i lati della stanza correvano degli scaffali; sotto di essi, a intervalli regolari, sul muro erano fissati una serie di grandi ganci, su ciascuno dei quali era appeso il materasso su cui dormiva la prigioniera: il suo tappeto e la sua coperta venivano piegati e messi sugli scaffali sopra. Di notte, questi materassi venivano posizionati a terra, sotto il gancio su cui erano appesi durante il giorno; in questo modo la stanza fungeva sia da sala da pranzo che da camera da letto. Sopra il camino c’era un grande foglio di cartone su cui erano esposti vari testi tratti dalla Sacra Scrittura; tali testi erano anche sparsi per la stanza, in pezzi delle dimensioni e della forma dei fogli utilizzati nelle scuole. Sul tavolo c’era una provvista sufficiente di carne stufata e pane marrone, conservati in piatti di stagno che venivano tenuti perfettamente lucidi; quando non erano in uso, questi piatti erano disposti sugli scaffali in modo ordinato e regolare.

Le donne si alzarono in fretta al nostro arrivo e si ritirarono rapidamente su entrambi i lati del caminetto. Erano tutte vestite in modo pulito, molte addirittura con decoro; né nel loro aspetto né nel loro comportamento c’era nulla di particolare. Alcune ripresero il lavoro a maglia che probabilmente avevano interrotto all’inizio del pasto; altre osservarono i visitatori con una curiosità apatica; alcune si ritirarono in fondo alla stanza, come se volessero evitare anche solo l’occhiata casuale degli estranei. Alcune anziane irlandesi, sia in questo che in altri reparti, a cui la cosa non era nuova, sembravano del tutto indifferenti alla nostra presenza e rimasero in piedi vicino ai posti dove si erano appena alzate; tuttavia, l’atmosfera generale tra le donne era di disagio durante il nostro breve soggiorno. Non fu pronunciata una parola per tutto il tempo della nostra permanenza, tranne forse qualche risposta da parte delle guardiane a domande che avevamo rivolto al carceriere che ci accompagnava. In ogni reparto riservato alle donne c’è una guardiana incaricata di mantenere l’ordine; lo stesso sistema è adottato anche tra i prigionieri maschi. Le guardiane e i guardiani sono tutti detenuti selezionati per il loro buon comportamento. Solo a loro è concesso il privilegio di dormire su letti veri; in ogni reparto viene messo a disposizione un piccolo letto di legno per questo scopo. Su entrambi i lati del carcere ci sono piccole stanze d’attesa, dove i prigionieri vengono fatti entrare al loro arrivo e da cui non possono essere rimossi fino a quando non sono stati esaminati dal chirurgo del carcere.[161]

Tornando indietro nel triste corridoio in cui ci eravamo trovati all’inizio (e che, tra l’altro, conteneva tre o quattro celle buie destinate ad ospitare prigionieri recalcitranti), fummo condotti attraverso un cortile stretto fino alla “scuola”: una parte della prigione riservata ai ragazzi di età inferiore ai quattordici anni. In una stanza di dimensioni tollerabili, dotata di materiali da scrivere e alcuni libri di testo, si trovavano l’insegnante e un paio di suoi alunni; gli altri erano stati chiamati da un’altra stanza adiacente e tutti furono fatti mettere in fila per essere ispezionati. Ce n’erano quattordici in totale: alcuni con le scarpe, altri senza; alcuni in gonnellini senza giacche, altri in giacche senza gonnellini, e uno praticamente senza nulla addosso. Tutti quanti, senza eccezione, erano stati messi sotto processo con l’accusa di furto nelle tasche; e non avevamo mai visto quattordici volti così terribili. Non c’era nemmeno un tratto che potesse essere considerato positivo in loro: nessuno sguardo onesto, nessun segno di rimorso o di vergogna. Era assolutamente impossibile trovare qualcosa di umano in quella compagnia. Era evidente che fossero molto compiaciuti dal fatto che ci fossimo presi la briga di guardarli; sembrava che pensassero che fossimo venuti a Newgate per ammirare uno spettacolo, e che loro ne facessero parte indispensabile. Ogni ragazzo, mentre si metteva in fila, appariva davvero molto soddisfatto e importante, come se avesse compiuto qualcosa di estremamente meritorio per essere lì. Non avevamo mai visto una scena più sgradevole: non avevamo mai incontrato quattordici creature così abbandonate e disperate prima d’allora.

Su entrambi i lati del cortile scolastico c’è un recinto riservato agli uomini; in uno di essi – quello che si trova in direzione di Newgate Street – vengono rinchiusi prigionieri di condizione più rispettabile. Per quanto riguarda l’altro recinto, non abbiamo molto da descrivere, poiché le diverse sezioni presentano caratteristiche simili. Sono dotate, proprio come quelle destinate alle donne, di stuoie e tappeti, che vengono disposti allo stesso modo durante il giorno; l’unica differenza significativa rispetto alle sezioni femminili è l’assoluta assenza di qualsiasi attività lavorativa. Intorno al fuoco, seduti uno accanto all’altro, ci sono forse venti uomini: qui un ragazzo in divisa, là un uomo con un grosso cappotto e stivali pesanti; più avanti, un individuo dall’aspetto disperato, con le maniche della camicia arrotolate e un vecchio cappello scozzese in testa; vicino a lui, un individuo alto e rozzo, vestito con una giubba di tela grezza; ancora accanto, una creatura dall’aspetto misero, con la testa appoggiata sulla mano. Tutti uguali in un certo senso: tutti oziosi e apatici. Quando lasciano il fuoco, si aggirano pigramente per l’area, si appoggiano alle finestre o contro i muri, dondolando inutilmente il corpo avanti e indietro. Ad eccezione di un uomo che leggeva un vecchio giornale, in due o tre casi, questa era la situazione in ogni sezione che visitammo.

L’unica forma di comunicazione che questi uomini hanno con i loro amici avviene attraverso due sbarre di ferro vicine tra cui c’è uno spazio di circa un metro di larghezza; quindi nulla può essere passato da una parte all’altra, e il prigioniero non può nemmeno comunicare a livello tattile con la persona che lo visita. Gli uomini sposati dispongono di una grata separata per vedere le loro mogli, ma la sua struttura è identica a quella delle altre.

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the governor’s house: the latter having no windows looking into the interior of the prison. Whether the associations connected with the place—the knowledge that here a portion of the burial service is, on some dreadful occasions, performed over the quick and not upon the dead—cast over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than art has imparted to it, we know not, but its appearance is very striking. There is something in a silent and deserted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of this one from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The meanness of its appointments—the bare and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side—the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain—the men’s with its unpainted benches and dingy front—the tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp—so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church—are strange and striking. There is one object, too, which rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading-desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in its little area, is the condemned pew; a huge black pen, in which the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the Sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow-prisoners, from many of whom they may have been separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their own souls, to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen to an address, warning their recent companions to take example by their fate, and urging themselves, while there is yet time—nearly four-and-twenty hours—to ‘turn, and flee from the wrath to come!’ Imagine what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant may now remain! Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself, by which they have heard the certainty of their speedy transmission to another world, with all their crimes upon their heads, rung into their ears by the officiating clergyman!

At one time—and at no distant period either—the coffins of the men about to be executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by their side, during the whole service. It may seem incredible, but it is true. Let us hope that the increased spirit of civilisation and humanity which abolished this frightful and degrading custom, may extend itself to other usages equally barbarous; usages which have not even the plea of utility in their defence, as every year’s experience has shown them to be more and more inefficacious.

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so frequently alluded to, and crossing the yard before noticed as being allotted to prisoners of a more respectable description than the generality of men confined here, the visitor arrives at a thick iron gate of great size and strength. Having been admitted through it by the turnkey on duty, he turns sharp round to the left, and pauses before another gate; and, having passed this last barrier, he stands in the most terrible part of this gloomy building—the condemned ward.

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper readers, from its frequent mention in accounts of executions, is at the corner of the building, and next to the ordinary’s house, in Newgate-street: running from Newgate-street, towards the centre of the prison, parallel with Newgate-market. It is a long, narrow court, of which a portion of the wall in Newgate-street forms one end, and the gate the other. At the upper end, on the left hand—that is, adjoining the wall in Newgate-street—is a cistern of water, and at the bottom a double grating (of which the gate itself forms a part) similar to that before described. Through these grates the prisoners are allowed to see their friends; a turnkey always remaining in the vacant space between, during the whole interview. Immediately on the right as you enter, is a building containing the press-room, day-room, and cells; the yard is on every side surrounded by lofty walls guarded by chevaux de frise; and the whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced turnkeys.

In the first apartment into which we were conducted—which was at the top of a staircase, and immediately over the press-room—were five-and-twenty or thirty prisoners, all under sentence of death, awaiting the result of the recorder’s report—men of all ages and appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and grizzly beard of three days’ growth, to a handsome boy, not fourteen years old, and of singularly youthful appearance even for that age, who had been condemned for burglary. There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of these prisoners. One or two decently-dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the fire; several little groups of two or three had been engaged in conversation at the upper end of the room, or in the windows; and the remainder were crowded round a young man seated at a table, who appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. The room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little anxiety or mental suffering depicted in the countenance of any of the men;—they had all been sentenced to death, it is true, and the recorder’s report had not yet been made; but, we question whether there was a man among them, notwithstanding, who did not know that although he had undergone the ceremony, it never was intended that his life should be sacrificed. On the table lay a Testament, but there were no tokens of its having been in recent use.

La cappella della prigione si trova sul retro della residenza del direttore: quest’ultima non dispone infatti di finestre che danno sull’interno della prigione. Non sappiamo se le associazioni legate a questo luogo – il fatto che in alcune terribili circostanze qui venga celebrata una parte del rito funebre sui vivi e non sui morti – conferiscano al posto un’atmosfera ancora più cupa e tenebrosa di quella che l’arte possa dare, ma il suo aspetto è certamente molto impressionante. C’è qualcosa in un luogo di culto silenzioso e desolato che lo rende solenne e suggestivo in qualsiasi momento; e la totale diversità di questo ambiente rispetto a quelli a cui siamo abituati non fa che rafforzare questa impressione. La semplicità delle sue strutture – il pulpito spoglio e scarsamente decorato, i pilastri dipinti su entrambi i lati, la galleria per le donne con la sua pesante tenda, quella per gli uomini con i banchi non verniciati e il davanti scolorito, il piccolo tavolo traballante all’altare, con i comandamenti della legge appena leggibili a causa della mancanza di vernice e della polvere) – così diversa dai velluti e dagli ornamenti dorati, dal marmo e dal legno delle chiese moderne, è davvero strana e sorprendente. C’è inoltre un oggetto che cattura immediatamente l’attenzione e affascina lo sguardo; un oggetto di fronte al quale ci si può ritrovare costretti a distogliere lo sguardo, pieni di orrore, poiché il ricordo di esso continuerà ad assillarci, sia svegli che dormienti, per molto tempo dopo. Appena sotto l’altare, sul pavimento della cappella, si trova quella che è senz’altro l’oggetto più evidente in quell’angusto spazio: la panca riservata ai condannati a morte. In essa vengono fatti sedere coloro che sono stati designati per morire; il giorno della domenica precedente all’esecuzione, davanti agli occhi di tutti i loro compagni di prigione – molti dei quali potrebbero essere stati separati da loro soltanto una settimana prima – ascoltano preghiere per le loro anime, partecipano alle risposte rituali del rito funebre e ascoltano un discorso che avverte i loro compagni di prendere esempio dalla loro sorte e li incoraggia, finché c’è ancora tempo – quasi ventiquattro ore – a “convertirsi e fuggire dall’ira futura”. Immaginate quali siano stati i sentimenti di quegli uomini rinchiusi in quella panca terribile. Di coloro per i quali, tra la forca e il coltello, non rimarrà ormai alcuna traccia umana! Pensate a quell’ultimo disperato attaccarsi alla vita, a quel dolore folle che supera di gran lunga la stessa morte. Il sacerdote che officia pronuncia loro le parole che confermano con certezza la loro rapida trasferizione in un altro mondo, con tutti i loro crimini addosso.

Un tempo – e non molto lontano nel passato – i feretri degli uomini destinati all’esecuzione venivano posti in quella panca, accanto ai loro posti durante tutta la cerimonia. Può sembrare incredibile, ma è vero. Speriamo che lo spirito crescente di civiltà e umanità che ha abolito questa pratica orribile e degradante si estenda anche ad altre usanze altrettanto barbare; usanze che non hanno nemmeno il pretesto dell’utilità a loro difesa, poiché l’esperienza di ogni anno dimostra sempre di più quanto siano inefficaci.

Uscendo dalla cappella e scendendo nel passaggio di cui spesso si parla, attraversando il cortile che prima non era stato notato come destinato a prigionieri di una condizione sociale più rispettabile rispetto alla maggior parte delle persone rinchiuse qui, il visitatore arriva davanti a un imponente cancello di ferro, molto grande e robusto. Dopo essere stato fatto entrare dal guardiano di turno, svolta bruscamente a sinistra, si ferma davanti a un altro cancello; superata anche questa ultima barriera, si trova nel punto più terribile di questo cupo edificio: la prigione dei condannati a morte.

Il cortile della prigione, ben noto ai lettori di giornali per le frequenti menzioni nelle cronache delle esecuzioni, si trova all’angolo dell’edificio, accanto alla casa del carceriere, in Newgate-street: si estende da questa strada verso il centro della prigione, parallelo a Newgate-market. È un cortile lungo e stretto; una parte del muro che si affaccia su Newgate-street ne costituisce un’estremità, mentre l’altra è delimitata dal cancello d’ingresso. All’estremità superiore, sul lato sinistro, si trova una cisterna d’acqua; in fondo al cortile, una doppia grata (di cui il cancello stesso fa parte), simile a quella descritta in precedenza. Attraverso queste grate i prigionieri possono vedere i loro amici; durante tutto l’incontro, un carceriere rimane sempre nella zona vuota tra le due grate. Appena entrati, a destra si trova un edificio che ospita la sala stampa, la sala di attesa e le celle; il cortile è circondato su tutti i lati da alti muri sorvegliati da cancelli di sicurezza; l’intero complesso è sotto la costante vigilanza di carcerieri attenti ed esperti.

Nel primo appartamento in cui fummo condotti – che si trovava in cima a una scala, proprio sopra la sala stampa – c’erano venticinque o trenta prigionieri, tutti condannati a morte, in attesa del risultato del rapporto del funzionario incaricato della sentenza. Erano uomini di tutte le età e aspetti: da un vecchio criminale dal viso scuro e dalla barba grigiastra, lunga tre giorni, a un ragazzo bellissimo, non ancora quattordicenne e dall’aspetto particolarmente giovane per la sua età, condannato per furto con scasso. Nell’aspetto di questi prigionieri non c’era nulla di degno di nota. Uno o due uomini vestiti in modo decente sedevano davanti al focolare, con un’espressione depressa; diversi piccoli gruppi di due o tre persone conversavano nell’estremità superiore della stanza o vicino alle finestre; il resto era riunito intorno a un giovane seduto a un tavolo, che sembrava stesse insegnando ai più giovani a scrivere. La stanza era grande, ariosa e pulita. Sul viso di nessuno di quegli uomini si leggeva alcuna traccia di ansia o sofferenza mentale; è vero, erano tutti condannati a morte e il rapporto del funzionario non era ancora stato presentato. Ma ci chiediamo se, nonostante tutto, ci fosse tra loro qualcuno che non sapesse che, anche se aveva già subito la cerimonia legale, in realtà la sua vita non sarebbe mai stata sacrificata. Sul tavolo c’era un Testamento, ma non si vedevano segni che fosse stato utilizzato di recente.

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature of whose offence rendered it necessary to separate them, even from their companions in guilt. It is a long, sombre room, with two windows sunk into the stone wall, and here the wretched men are pinioned on the morning of their execution, before moving towards the scaffold. The fate of one of these prisoners was uncertain; some mitigatory circumstances having come to light since his trial, which had been humanely represented in the proper quarter. The other two had nothing to expect from the mercy of the crown; their doom was sealed; no plea could be urged in extenuation of their crime, and they well knew that for them there was no hope in this world. ‘The two short ones,’ the turnkey whispered, ‘were dead men.’

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of escape, was lounging, at the greatest distance he could place between himself and his companions, in the window nearest to the door. He was probably aware of our approach, and had assumed an air of courageous indifference; his face was purposely averted towards the window, and he stirred not an inch while we were present. The other two men were at the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light, had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed this room again afterwards. The first man was pacing up and down the court with a firm military step—he had been a soldier in the foot-guards—and a cloth cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed respectfully to our conductor, and the salute was returned. The other two still remained in the positions we have described, and were as motionless as statues. [165]

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation of the building, in which are the two rooms we have just quitted, lie the condemned cells. The entrance is by a narrow and obscure stair-case leading to a dark passage, in which a charcoal stove casts a lurid tint over the objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something like warmth around. From the left-hand side of this passage, the massive door of every cell on the story opens; and from it alone can they be approached. There are three of these passages, and three of these ranges of cells, one above the other; but in size, furniture and appearance, they are all precisely alike. Prior to the recorder’s report being made, all the prisoners under sentence of death are removed from the day-room at five o’clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where they are allowed a candle until ten o’clock; and here they remain until seven next morning. When the warrant for a prisoner’s execution arrives, he is removed to the cells and confined in one of them until he leaves it for the scaffold. He is at liberty to walk in the yard; but, both in his walks and in his cell, he is constantly attended by a turnkey who never leaves him on any pretence.

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long by six wide, with a bench at the upper end, under which were a common rug, a bible, and prayer-book. An iron candlestick was fixed into the wall at the side; and a small high window in the back admitted as much air and light as could struggle in between a double row of heavy, crossed iron bars. It contained no other furniture of any description.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth in this cell. Buoyed up with some vague and undefined hope of reprieve, he knew not why—indulging in some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he knew not how—hour after hour of the three preceding days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed which no man living would deem possible, for none but this dying man can know. He has wearied his friends with entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in his feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his spiritual consoler; and, now that the illusion is at last dispelled, now that eternity is before him and guilt behind, now that his fears of death amount almost to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can alone avail.

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with folded arms, heedless alike of the fast decreasing time before him, and the urgent entreaties of the good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting gradually, and the deathlike stillness of the street without, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning fast away. The deep bell of St. Paul’s strikes—one! He heard it; it has roused him. Seven hours left! He paces the narrow limits of his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quivering with agony. Seven hours! He suffers himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible which is placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No: his thoughts will wander. The book is torn and soiled by use—and like the book he read his lessons in, at school, just forty years ago! He has never bestowed a thought upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child: and yet the place, the time, the room—nay, the very boys he played with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday; and some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo of one uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn promises of pardon for repentance, and its awful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush! what sound was that? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark! Two quarters have struck;—the third—the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Tell him not of repentance! Six hours’ repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin! He buries his face in his hands, and throws himself on the bench.

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled state of mind pursues him in his dreams. An insupportable load is taken from his breast; he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless prospect on every side—how different from the stone walls of Newgate! She is looking—not as she did when he saw her for the last time in that dreadful place, but as she used when he loved her—long, long ago, before misery and ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature, and she is leaning upon his arm, and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection—and he does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her from him. And oh! how glad he is to tell her all he had forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees before her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and cruelty that wasted her form and broke her heart! The scene suddenly changes. He is on his trial again: there are the judge and jury, and prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. How full the court is—what a sea of heads—with a gallows, too, and a scaffold—and how all those people stare at him! Verdict, ‘Guilty.’ No matter; he will escape.

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets are cleared, the open fields are gained and the broad, wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and lightness, astonishing even to himself. At length he pauses; he must be safe from pursuit now; he will stretch himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise.

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The dull, gray light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from his uneasy bed in momentary uncertainty. It is but momentary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and despairing; and in two hours more will be dead.

Nella sala stampa sottostante c’erano tre uomini i cui reati erano così gravi da rendere necessario separarli anche dai loro compagni d’colpa. Era una stanza lunga e cupa, con due finestre incassate nella parete di pietra; lì quegli sventurati venivano rinchiusi la mattina dell’esecuzione, prima di essere portati al patibolo. Il destino di uno di questi prigionieri era incerto: erano emerse alcune circostanze attenuanti dopo il processo, che si era svolto in modo umano nella sede competente. Gli altri due non avevano nulla da sperare nell’misericordia della corona; la loro condanna era già irrevocabile; nessuna difesa poteva essere presentata per attenuare il loro crimine, e sapevano bene che in questo mondo non c’era alcuna >speranza per loro. “I due più bassi,” sussurrò il carceriere, “erano già morti.”

L’uomo di cui abbiamo parlato, che nutriva qualche speranza di fuga, se ne stava sdraiato nella finestra più vicina alla porta, mantenendo la massima distanza possibile dai suoi compagni. Probabilmente era a conoscenza del nostro arrivo e aveva assunto un’aria di coraggiosa indifferenza; il suo viso era deliberatamente rivolto verso la finestra e non si mosse nemmeno mentre eravamo lì. Gli altri due uomini si trovavano nell’estremità superiore della stanza: uno di loro, poco visibile nella penombra, aveva le spalle rivolte verso di noi e stava curvo sopra il focolare, con il braccio destro appoggiato al caminetto e la testa china. L’altro era appoggiato allo stipite della finestra più lontana; la luce lo illuminava completamente, conferendo al suo viso pallido e segnato dallo sforzo, nonché ai suoi capelli disordinati, un aspetto davvero spaventoso da quella distanza. La sua guancia era appoggiata sulla mano; con il viso leggermente sollevato e gli occhi fissi davanti a sé, sembrava intento, in modo inconscio, a contare le fessure presenti nella parete di fronte. Più tardi passammo nuovamente attraverso quella stanza: il primo uomo camminava avanti e indietro nel cortile con passi decisi, tipici di un soldato; aveva fatto parte delle guardie a piedi e portava un cappello di stoffa gettato con noncuranza su un lato della testa. Salutò rispettosamente il nostro accompagnatore e ricevette in cambio un saluto altrettanto formale. Gli altri due uomini rimasero immobili, come statue. [165]

A pochi passi più avanti nel cortile, e come continuazione dell’edificio in cui si trovano le due stanze che abbiamo appena lasciato, si trovano le celle dei condannati a morte. L’ingresso è attraverso una stretta e buia scala che conduce a un corridoio oscuro; in questo corridoio, un camino a carbone proietta una luce cupa sugli oggetti nelle sue immediate vicinanze e diffonde una sorta di calore nell’ambiente. Sul lato sinistro di questo corridoio si aprono le massicce porte di ogni cella; ed è unicamente da queste porte che si può accedere alle celle stesse. Ci sono tre di questi corridoi e altrettante file di celle, una sopra l’altra; ma per dimensioni, arredamento e aspetto, tutte sono esattamente uguali. Prima che venga redatto il rapporto del funzionario incaricato della registrazione, tutti i prigionieri condannati a morte vengono portati via dalla sala comune alle cinque del pomeriggio e rinchiusi in queste celle, dove им viene concesso un candele fino alle dieci di sera; rimangono lì fino alle sette del mattino seguente. Quando arriva l’ordine di esecuzione di un prigioniero, questi viene portato in una delle celle e rinchiuso lì fino al momento della sua esecuzione. Gli è permesso camminare nel cortile; tuttavia, sia durante le sue passeggiate che nella cella, è sempre accompagnato da un carceriere che non lo lascia mai, per nessun motivo.

Entrammo nella prima cella. Era una prigione di pietra, lunga otto piedi e larga sei; all’estremità superiore c’era un banco, sotto il quale si trovavano un tappeto comune, una bibbia e un libro di preghiere. Su un lato del muro era fissata una candelaia di ferro; sul retro, una piccola finestra alta lasciava entrare aria e luce, anche se queste venivano ostacolate da due file di pesanti sbarre di ferro incrociate. Non c’era alcun altro mobile nella cella.

Immaginate la situazione di un uomo che trascorre la sua ultima notte sulla terra in questa cella. Sostenuto da una vaga e indefinita >speranza di salvezza, non sa perché si dedichi a queste folli e visionarie idee di fuga, né come possano realizzarsi. Ore dopo ore, nei tre giorni precedenti, ha preparato tutto ciò che gli serviva; poi è fuggito con una velocità che nessun uomo vivo riterrebbe possibile. Solo quest’uomo morente può comprenderla. Ha esaurito le sue forze supplicando i suoi amici, ha tormentato gli assistenti con le sue insistenze, ha ignorato gli avvertimenti del suo consolatore spirituale. Ora che l’illusione è finalmente svanita, ora che l’eternità lo attende e il peccato è alle sue spalle, ora che la paura della >morte sembra portarlo alla >pazzia, un senso opprimente della propria impotenza e disperazione lo assale. Non ha pensieri a cui rivolgersi, né forza per chiamare l’Onnipotente, dall’Unico che può offrirgli misericordia e perdono, davanti al quale solo il suo pentimento può avere effetto.

Gli ore sono trascorse lentamente, e lui continua a sedere sulla stessa panchina di pietra, con le braccia incrociate, indifferente sia al tempo che si assottiglia rapidamente davanti a lui, sia alle insistenti suppliche dell’uomo buono al suo fianco. La debole luce sta svanendo gradualmente, e il silenzio mortale della strada, interrotto soltanto dal rumore dei veicoli che passano e che risuona tristemente negli spazi vuoti intorno, gli ricorda che la notte sta volgendo rapidamente al termine. Il profondo suono della campana di San Paolo rintona. Uno! L’ha sentito; questo suono lo ha risvegliato. Sono rimaste sette ore. Cammina avanti e indietro nei limiti angusti della sua cella, con passi rapidi; gocce di terrore gli appaiono sulla fronte, e ogni muscolo del suo corpo trema per il dolore. Sette ore. Si lascia portare al suo posto, prende meccanicamente la bibbia che gli viene messa in mano e cerca di leggere e ascoltare. Ma i suoi pensieri vagano altrove. Il libro è logoro e sporco per l’uso. E proprio come quel libro, anche le lezioni che ha imparato a scuola, quarant’anni fa. Non ci ha mai più pensato, forse, da quando era solo un bambino. Eppure il luogo, l’ora, la stanza, anzi, persino quei ragazzi con cui giocava allora, gli appaiono tutti così vividi davanti agli occhi, come se fossero scene di ieri. E qualche frase dimenticata, qualche parola infantile risuona nelle sue orecchie, come l’eco di qualcosa detto soltanto un minuto fa. La voce del prete lo riporta alla realtà. Sta leggendo nella sacra scrittura le promesse solenni di perdono per chi si pente, e le terribili condanne per coloro che rimangono ostinati nel loro peccato. Si getta in ginocchio, giunge le mani e prega. Silenzio. Che suono è stato quello? Si alza in piedi. Non può essere ancora mezzanotte. Ascolta. Sono passate due ore. Altre due. La terza. La quarta. Sì! Sono rimaste sei ore. Non parlargli di pentimento. Sei ore di pentimento per otto anni di peccato e colpa. Si nasconde il viso tra le mani e si getta sulla panchina.

Stanco per aver guardato e per l’emozione provata, si addormenta, ma lo stesso stato d’animo inquieto lo perseguita nei suoi >sogni. Un peso insopportabile gli viene sollevato dal petto; cammina con sua moglie in un campo piacevole, con il cielo sereno sopra di loro e una vista fresca e infinita su tutti i lati. Che differenza rispetto alle mura di pietra di Newgate! Lei lo guarda, non come l’ultima volta che l’ha vista in quel luogo terribile, ma come quando lui la amava, tanto tempo fa, prima che la miseria e il maltrattamento alterassero il suo aspetto, e il vizio cambiasse la sua >natura. Si appoggia al suo braccio, alza lo sguardo verso di lui con tenerezza e affetto. E ora lui non la colpisce più, né la scuote rudemente. Oh, quanto è felice di poterle raccontare tutto ciò che aveva dimenticato in quell’ultimo incontro frettoloso, di inginocchiarsi davanti a lei e supplicarla con fervore di perdonargli tutta la cattiveria e la crudeltà che hanno distrutto il suo corpo e spezzato il suo cuore. Ma improvvisamente la scena cambia: si trova di nuovo sotto processo. C’è il giudice, la giuria, i pubblici ministeri, i testimoni, proprio come prima. Quanto è affollata l’>corte, un mare di teste, c’è anche una forca e un patibolo. E tutti quei persone lo fissano. Verdetto: “Colpevole”. Ma non importa. Riuscirà a scappare.

La notte è buia e fredda; i cancelli sono stati lasciati aperti, e in un istante si trova per strada, allontanandosi dalla scena della sua prigionia come il >vento. Le strade sono deserte; gli spazi aperti si estendono davanti a lui. Avanza tra l’oscurità, superando siepi e fossati, attraverso fango e pozzanghere, muovendosi con una velocità e leggerezza tale da stupire persino se stesso. Alla fine si ferma: ormai deve essere al sicuro dalle ricerche. Si sdraierà su quel ciglio di strada e dormirà fino all’alba.

Segue un periodo di incoscienza. Si sveglia, freddo e sconvolto. La luce grigiastra dell’alba filtra nella cella, illuminando la figura del carceriere. Confuso dai suoi >sogni, esita per un momento prima di alzarsi dal suo letto scomodo. Ma è solo un attimo. Ogni oggetto presente in quella stretta cella appare terribilmente reale; non c’è spazio per dubbi o errori. È di nuovo quel criminale condannato, colpevole e disperato. E tra due ore sarà morto.

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I—THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE

It is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or indifferent, a man may live and die in London. He awakens no sympathy in the breast of any single person; his existence is a matter of interest to no one save himself; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for no one remembered him when he was alive. There is a numerous class of people in this great metropolis who seem not to possess a single friend, and whom nobody appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in the first instance, they have resorted to London in search of employment, and the means of subsistence. It is hard, we know, to break the ties which bind us to our homes and friends, and harder still to efface the thousand recollections of happy days and old times, which have been slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush upon the mind, to bring before it associations connected with the friends we have left, the scenes we have beheld too probably for the last time, and the hopes we once cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, however, happily for themselves, have long forgotten such thoughts. Old country friends have died or emigrated; former correspondents have become lost, like themselves, in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city; and they have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures of habit and endurance.

We were seated in the enclosure of St. James’s Park the other day, when our attention was attracted by a man whom we immediately put down in our own mind as one of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in a black coat, scanty gray trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand—not for use, for the day was fine—but, evidently, because he always carried one to the office in the morning. He walked up and down before the little patch of grass on which the chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were doing it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a matter of compulsion, just as he would walk to the office every morning from the back settlements of Islington. It was Monday; he had escaped for four-and-twenty hours from the thraldom of the desk; and was walking here for exercise and amusement—perhaps for the first time in his life. We were inclined to think he had never had a holiday before, and that he did not know what to do with himself. Children were playing on the grass; groups of people were loitering about, chatting and laughing; but the man walked steadily up and down, unheeding and unheeded his spare, pale face looking as if it were incapable of bearing the expression of curiosity or interest.

There was something in the man’s manner and appearance which told us, we fancied, his whole life, or rather his whole day, for a man of this sort has no variety of days. We thought we almost saw the dingy little back office into which he walks every morning, hanging his hat on the same peg, and placing his legs beneath the same desk: first, taking off that black coat which lasts the year through, and putting on the one which did duty last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the other. There he sits till five o’clock, working on, all day, as regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud ticking is as monotonous as his whole existence: only raising his head when some one enters the counting-house, or when, in the midst of some difficult calculation, he looks up to the ceiling as if there were inspiration in the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of every pane of glass. About five, or half-past, he slowly dismounts from his accustomed stool, and again changing his coat, proceeds to his usual dining-place, somewhere near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill of fare in a rather confidential manner—for he is a regular customer—and after inquiring ‘What’s in the best cut?’ and ‘What was up last?’ he orders a small plate of roast beef, with greens, and half-a-pint of porter. He has a small plate to-day, because greens are a penny more than potatoes, and he had ‘two breads’ yesterday, with the additional enormity of ‘a cheese’ the day before. This important point settled, he hangs up his hat—he took it off the moment he sat down—and bespeaks the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it while he is at dinner, he eats with much greater zest; balancing it against the water-bottle, and eating a bit of beef, and reading a line or two, alternately. Exactly at five minutes before the hour is up, he produces a shilling, pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his waistcoat-pocket (first deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns to the office, from which, if it is not foreign post night, he again sallies forth, in about half an hour. He then walks home, at his usual pace, to his little back room at Islington, where he has his tea; perhaps solacing himself during the meal with the conversation of his landlady’s little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a penny, for solving problems in simple addition. Sometimes, there is a letter or two to take up to his employer’s, in Russell-square; and then, the wealthy man of business, hearing his voice, calls out from the dining-parlour,—‘Come in, Mr. Smith:’ and Mr. Smith, putting his hat at the feet of one of the hall chairs, walks timidly in, and being condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully tucks his legs under his chair, and sits at a considerable distance from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry which is poured out for him by the eldest boy, and after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a state of nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover, until he finds himself once more in the Islington-road. Poor, harmless creatures such men are; contented but not happy; broken-spirited and humbled, they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure.

Personaggi

Capitolo I – Pensieri sulle persone

È strano come, con così poca attenzione da parte degli altri – sia positiva che negativa o indifferente – un uomo possa vivere e morire a Londra. Non suscita alcuna compassione nel cuore di nessuno; la sua esistenza non interessa a nessuno se non a lui stesso. Non si può dire che venga dimenticato quando muore, perché nessuno si è ricordato di lui mentre era vivo. In questa grande metropoli esiste un gran numero di persone che sembrano non avere nemmeno un amico, e di cui a nessuno importa nulla. Spinti dalla necessità imperativa, sono venuti a Londra in cerca di lavoro e mezzi di sussistenza. È difficile, lo sappiamo bene, rompere i legami che ci uniscono alle nostre case e ai nostri amici; ancora più difficile è cancellare le migliaia di ricordi di giorni felici e tempi passati, che per anni sono rimasti sepolti nel nostro cuore, per poi riemergere improvvisamente, suscitando associazioni legate agli amici che abbiamo perso, alle scene che probabilmente non vedremo mai più, e alle speranze che un tempo nutrivamo ma che ora non possiamo più coltivare. Tuttavia, questi uomini, fortunatamente per loro, hanno da tempo dimenticato tutto ciò. Gli vecchi amici di campagna sono morti o emigrati; i vecchi corrispondenti si sono persi, come loro, nella folla e nel caos di una città frenetica. E gradualmente, questi uomini sono diventati semplicemente creature passive, guidate soltanto dall’abitudine e dalla resistenza.

Un giorno eravamo seduti nel parco di St. James’s Park quando la nostra attenzione fu attratta da un uomo che immediatamente considerammo appartenente a quella categoria di persone. Era alto, magro, pallido; indossava un cappotto nero, pantaloni grigi sottili e guanti marroni. Teneva in mano un ombrello – non per usarlo, poiché il tempo era bello – ma evidentemente perché lo portava sempre con sé ogni mattina quando andava in ufficio. Camminava avanti e indietro davanti al piccolo spazio erboso dove erano posizionate le sedie in affitto; non sembrava farlo per piacere o divertimento, ma come se fosse un’abitudine consolidata, proprio come andava in ufficio ogni mattina dalle zone più remote di Islington. Era lunedì; aveva appena trascorso ventiquattro ore lontano dal “servizio” alla scrivania. E ora camminava lì per fare esercizio e divertirsi. Forse, per la prima volta in vita sua. Eravamo portati a pensare che non avesse mai avuto delle vacanze prima d’allora, e che non sapesse proprio cosa fare di se stesso. I bambini giocavano sull’erba; gruppi di persone chiacchieravano e ridevano. Ma quell’uomo continuava a camminare avanti e indietro, ignorando completamente tutto ciò che lo circondava. Il suo viso pallido sembrava incapace di mostrare anche solo un minimo di curiosità o interesse.

C’era qualcosa nel modo di comportarsi e nell’aspetto di quell’uomo che ci fece pensare a tutta la sua vita, o meglio, a tutta la sua giornata, perché per un uomo del genere non esistono variazioni nelle sue abitudini quotidiane. Ci sembrava quasi di poter immaginare quella squallida stanzetta dove ogni mattina entrava: appendeva il cappello allo stesso gancio, posizionava le gambe sotto lo stesso tavolo, si toglieva il cappotto nero che indossava tutto l’anno e ne metteva uno diverso, quello dell’anno precedente, che teneva nel suo ufficio per risparmiare l’altro. Lì sedeva fino alle cinque in punto, lavorando tutto il giorno con la stessa regolarità del pendolo sopra il caminetto, il cui ticchettio monotono rifletteva tutta la sua esistenza. Alzava lo sguardo soltanto quando qualcuno entrava nell’ufficio o quando, nel bel mezzo di un calcolo complicato, guardava verso il soffitto, come se l’ispirazione potesse provenire da quella finestra polverosa, con quel nodo verde al centro di ogni vetro. Intorno alle cinque e mezza, si alzava lentamente dal suo solito sgabello, cambiava di nuovo cappotto e andava nel solito ristorante, vicino a Bucklersbury. Il cameriere gli elencava il menù in tono confidenziale, poiché era un cliente abituale. Dopo aver chiesto “Qual è la portata più economica?” e “Che novità ci sono stati l’ultima volta?”, ordinava una piccola porzione di manzo arrosto con verdure e mezza pinta di birra. Oggi sceglieva una porzione piccola, perché le verdure costavano un penny in più delle patate, mentre ieri aveva mangiato “due fette di pane” e il giorno prima addirittura “un formaggio”. Una volta sistemata questa questione importante, appendeva il cappello – se l’era tolto non appena si era seduto – e aspettava che arrivasse il cliente successivo per prendere il giornale. Se riusciva a farlo mentre mangiava, mangiava con molto più appetito, tenendo il giornale in equilibrio accanto alla bottiglia d’acqua, mangiando un po’ di carne e leggendo qualche riga di tanto in tanto. Esattamente cinque minuti prima che scadesse l’ora, tirava fuori una sterlina, pagava il conto, metteva con cura il resto nel taschino del gilet (deducendo prima un penny per il cameriere) e tornava in ufficio. Da lì, se non c’erano lettere da consegnare di notte, usciva di nuovo dopo circa mezz’ora. Poi tornava a casa, al suo solito passo, nella sua piccola stanza a Islington, dove si faceva il tè. Forse si intratteneva durante la cena con le chiacchiere del figlioletto della padrona di casa, al quale di tanto in tanto dava una moneta per aver risolto qualche semplice problema di addizione. A volte riceveva una o due lettere da consegnare al suo datore di lavoro, in Russell Square. Il ricco uomo d’affari, sentendo la sua voce, lo chiamava dal salone da pranzo: “Entri, signor Smith, ” E il signor Smith, appoggiando il cappello ai piedi di una sedia dell’ingresso, entrava timidamente. Gli veniva chiesto di sedersi e lui, con aria deferente, sistemava le gambe sotto la sedia e si allontanava un po’ dal tavolo mentre beveva il bicchiere di sherry che gli veniva versato dal ragazzo più anziano. Dopo aver bevuto, usciva dalla stanza in uno stato di nervosismo dal quale non si riprendeva del tutto fino a quando non si trovava di nuovo in Islington Road. Poveri esseri innocui, soddisfatti, ma non felici, con lo spirito spezzato e umiliati. Forse non provavano dolore, ma non conoscevano mai la vera gioia.

Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the result of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white heads and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from some cause, real or imaginary—generally the former, the excellent reason being that they are rich, and their relations poor—grow suspicious of everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight in thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they come near, miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere; you will know them at coffee-houses by their discontented exclamations and the luxury of their dinners; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people near them; at church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the loud tone in which they repeat the responses; at parties, by their getting cross at whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate, and pictures about him in profusion; not so much for his own gratification, as to be superior to those who have the desire, but not the means, to compete with him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flattered, and hated by the members of them all. Sometimes he will be appealed to by a poor relation—a married nephew perhaps—for some little assistance: and then he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvidence of young married people, the worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, and other unpardonable crimes; winding up his exhortations with a complacent review of his own conduct, and a delicate allusion to parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian conduct in this world, and their comfortable conviction of his happiness in the next.

But, next to our very particular friends, hackney-coachmen, cabmen and cads, whom we admire in proportion to the extent of their cool impudence and perfect self-possession, there is no class of people who amuse us more than London apprentices. They are no longer an organised body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify his Majesty’s subjects whenever it pleases them to take offence in their heads and staves in their hands. They are only bound, now, by indentures, and, as to their valour, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of the New Police, and a perspective view of a damp station-house, terminating in a police-office and a reprimand. They are still, however, a peculiar class, and not the less pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one fail to have noticed them in the streets on Sunday? And were there ever such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent as the young fellows display! We walked down the Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a little group; and they furnished food for our amusement the whole way. They had come out of some part of the city; it was between three and four o’clock in the afternoon; and they were on their way to the Park. There were four of them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so many bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and coats for which the English language has yet no name—a kind of cross between a great-coat and a surtout, with the collar of the one, the skirts of the other, and pockets peculiar to themselves.

Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a large tassel at the top, which he occasionally twirled gracefully round; and the whole four, by way of looking easy and unconcerned, were walking with a paralytic swagger irresistibly ludicrous. One of the party had a watch about the size and shape of a reasonable Ribstone pippin, jammed into his waistcoat-pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at St. Clement’s and the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter ‘Change, the clock of St. Martin’s Church, and the clock of the Horse Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James’s Park, the member of the party who had the best-made boots on, hired a second chair expressly for his feet, and flung himself on this two-pennyworth of sylvan luxury with an air which levelled all distinctions between Brookes’s and Snooks’s, Crockford’s and Bagnigge Wells.

We may smile at such people, but they can never excite our anger. They are usually on the best terms with themselves, and it follows almost as a matter of course, in good humour with every one about them. Besides, they are always the faint reflection of higher lights; and, if they do display a little occasional foolery in their own proper persons, it is surely more tolerable than precocious puppyism in the Quadrant, whiskered dandyism in Regent-street and Pall-mall, or gallantry in its dotage anywhere.

CHAPTER II—A CHRISTMAS DINNER

Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire—fill the glass and send round the song—and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty; one slight form that gladdened the father’s heart, and roused the mother’s pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past; think not that one short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one!

Confrontate questi uomini con un’altra categoria di esseri che, proprio come loro, non hanno né amici né compagni, ma il cui status sociale è il risultato delle proprie scelte. Si tratta generalmente di anziani dai capelli bianchi e dal viso rosso, dipendenti dal porto e dalle scarpe da cavaliere tedesche; per qualche motivo, reale o immaginario – spesso il primo – diventano sospettosi di tutti, si comportano in modo misantropico, trovando grande piacere nel ritenersi infelici e rendendo miserabili tutte le persone che li circondano. Potete incontrare queste persone ovunque: nei caffè, dai loro lamenti e dal lusso dei loro pasti; al teatro, perché si siedono sempre nello stesso posto e osservano con disprezzo tutti i giovani intorno a loro; in chiesa, per la loro pompa nell’entrare e il tono forte con cui ripetono le risposte liturgiche; alle feste, perché si infastidiscono al whist e odiano la musica. Un anziano di questo tipo avrà stanze splendidamente arredate e collezionerà libri, porcellane e quadri in abbondanza; non tanto per il proprio piacere, quanto per sentirsi superiore a coloro che desiderano competere con lui ma non ne hanno i mezzi. Appartiene a due o tre club ed è oggetto di invidia, lusinghe e odio da parte dei loro membri. A volte un parente povero – forse un nipote sposato – gli chiederà aiuto; allora egli esprimerà con sincera indignazione l’incompetenza dei giovani sposati, il valore nullo di una moglie, l’insolenza di avere una famiglia, l’atrocità di indebitarsi con 125 sterline all’anno, e altri “crimini” imperdonabili; concluderà le sue esortazioni con un complimento autoindulgente sul proprio comportamento e un’allusione velata al beneficenza parrocchiale. Un giorno, dopo cena, morirà di ictus, lasciando tutti i suoi beni a una fondazione pubblica; l’istituzione erigerà una targa in suo onore, esprimendo ammirazione per il suo comportamento cristiano in questa vita e la convinzione che sia felice nell’altra.

Ma, accanto ai nostri amici molto particolari – i cocchieri di omnibus, i tassisti e i vagabondi che ammiriamo in proporzione alla loro spudorata audacia e alla loro perfetta padronanza di sé – non c’è alcuna classe di persone che ci diverta di più dei giovani apprendisti londinesi. Non costituiscono più un gruppo organizzato, vincolato da accordi solenni a terrorizzare i sudditi di Sua Maestà ogni volta che decidono di offendersi o di causare problemi. Oggi sono legati soltanto da contratti d’apprendistato; quanto al loro “coraggio”, viene facilmente contenuto dalla paura della nuova polizia, nonché dall’immagine di una umida prigione che termina in un ufficio di polizia e con una reprimenda. Tuttavia rimangono comunque una classe particolare, e per questo motivo ancora più gradevole, visto che non sono pericolosi. Chi mai potrebbe non notarli per le strade la domenica? E quali sforzi inutili, ma così ingenui e amabili, possono eguagliare quelli di questi giovani! Un paio di domeniche fa camminavamo lungo lo Strand dietro a un piccolo gruppo di ragazzi. Ci hanno divertito molto per tutto il tragitto. Erano usciti da qualche parte della città; erano tra le tre e le quattro del pomeriggio e stavano dirigendosi verso il Parco. C’erano in quattro, tutti a braccetto, con guanti bianchi da sposi, pantaloni dai motivi stravaganti e giacche per cui la lingua inglese non ha ancora trovato un nome. Una sorta di ibrido tra una grande giacca e un soprabito, con il colletto dell’una, le falde dell’altro e tasche particolari.

Ognuno di quei signori portava un grosso bastone, con una grande piuma all’estremità; di tanto in tanto lo faceva girare con grazia. I quattro, nel tentativo di apparire rilassati e indifferenti, camminavano con un’andatura goffa e ridicola. Uno di loro aveva un orologio delle dimensioni e della forma di una normale mela Ribstone, infilato nella tasca del gilet; lo confrontava attentamente con gli orologi di St. Clement’s, della New Church, con l’orologio illuminato di Exeter ‘Change, con quello della chiesa di St. Martin’s e con quello delle Guardie a Cavallo. Quando finalmente arrivarono a St. James’s Park, il membro del gruppo che indossava le scarpe migliori noleggiò addirittura un’altra sedia apposta per i suoi piedi, e si abbandonò su quel lusso apparentemente insignificante con un atteggiamento che annullava ogni distinzione tra luoghi come Brooks’s e Snooks’s, Crockford’s e Bagnigge Wells.

Possiamo sorridere di queste persone, ma non riescono mai a suscitare la nostra rabbia. Di solito sono in ottimi rapporti con se stesse, e quindi è quasi inevitabile che siano sempre di buon umore con tutti intorno a loro. Inoltre, rappresentano sempre un riflesso pallido di qualità più elevate; e se talvolta mostrano qualche comportamento sciocco o ridicolo, certamente questo è più tollerabile rispetto al comportamento infantile prematuro dei giovani, all’affettazione dei damerini di Regent Street e Pall Mall, o alle manifestazioni di galanteria fuori luogo in qualsiasi contesto.

CAPITOLO II – UN CENONE DI NATALE

Tempo di Natale! Quell’uomo deve davvero essere un misantropo: nel suo cuore non si risveglia alcun sentimento gioioso, nella sua mente non nascono alcune piacevoli associazioni al ricordo di Natale. Ci sono persone che vi diranno che Natale non è più ciò che era una volta; che ogni Natale successivo ha portato con sé la scomparsa o l’offuscamento di qualche speranza o prospettiva felice del anno precedente; che il presente serve soltanto a ricordare loro circostanze peggiorate e redditi ridotti, le feste che un tempo offrivano ad amici superficiali, e gli sguardi freddi che ora ricevono nella sfortuna. Non prestate mai attenzione a tali tristi ricordi. Sono pochi coloro che, avendo vissuto abbastanza a lungo in questo mondo, non possano ogni giorno ripensare a cose del genere. Quindi, invece di scegliere il momento più gioioso dell’anno per i vostri tristi ricordi, avvicinatevi al caldo fuoco, riempite i bicchieri e cantate insieme. Anche se la vostra stanza è più piccola rispetto a dodici anni fa, o anche se il vostro bicchiere contiene punch puzzolente invece di vino frizzante, sorridete, bevete tutto d’un fiato, riempitevi di nuovo il bicchiere e cantate quella vecchia canzone che un tempo amavate. E ringraziate Dio che le cose non siano peggiorate. Guardate i volti felici dei vostri figli (se ne avete) mentre sono seduti intorno al fuoco: forse uno di loro manca. Ma non rimangete fissi sul passato. Non pensate che, solo un anno fa, quel bel >bambino che ora si è trasformato in >polvere, sedesse davanti a voi con il rossore della salute sulle guance e lo sguardo gioioso dell’infanzia negli occhi. Pensate invece alle vostre benedizioni attuali. A ciò che ogni persona possiede, e non ai vostri passati mali, che tutti hanno. Riempitevi di nuovo il bicchiere, con un sorriso e un cuore sereno. La nostra vita è breve, ma la vostra Natale debba essere gioiosa, e il vostro nuovo anno felice!

Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten; social feelings are awakened, in bosoms to which they have long been strangers; father and son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, or a look of cold recognition, for months before, proffer and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again reunited, and all is kindness and benevolence! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into action among those to whom they should ever be strangers!

The Christmas family-party that we mean, is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two’s notice, originating this year, having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible members of the family, young or old, rich or poor; and all the children look forward to it, for two months beforehand, in a fever of anticipation. Formerly, it was held at grandpapa’s; but grandpapa getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have given up house-keeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle George; so, the party always takes place at uncle George’s house, but grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down, all the way to Newgate-market, to buy the turkey, which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always insisting on the man’s being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink ‘a merry Christmas and a happy new year’ to aunt George. As to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so, to prevent rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and pen-knives, and pencil-cases, for the younger branches; to say nothing of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George at the pastry-cook’s, such as another dozen of mince-pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children.

On Christmas-eve, grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children, during the day, in stoning the plums, and all that, insists, regularly every year, on uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humouredly does, to the vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blind-man’s-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an opportunity of displaying his dexterity.

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state: leaving aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling casters, and uncle George carrying bottles into the dining-parlour, and calling for corkscrews, and getting into everybody’s way.

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it—a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages grandmamma’s ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandmamma under a mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George; and grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily than any of them.

But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excitement when grandmamma in a high cap, and slate-coloured silk gown; and grandpapa with a beautifully plaited shirt-frill, and white neckerchief; seat themselves on one side of the drawing-room fire, with uncle George’s children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the front, waiting the arrival of the expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney-coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims ‘Here’s Jane!’ on which the children rush to the door, and helter-skelter down-stairs; and uncle Robert and aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up-stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of ‘Oh, my!’ from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too, for that matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, laughing, and merriment.

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of ‘Who’s that?’ and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it’s ‘poor aunt Margaret.’ Upon which, aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new-comer; and grandmamma draws herself up, rather stiff and stately; for Margaret married a poor man without her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a disobedient child; but, to banish her at a period of general good-will and hilarity, from the hearth, round which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister, pale in looks and broken in hope—not from poverty, for that she could bear, but from the consciousness of undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness—it is easy to see how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother’s neck. The father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband’s hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail.

Chi potrebbe rimanere insensibile alle manifestazioni di buon cuore e allo scambio sincero di affetto che sono così diffuse in questa stagione dell’anno? Una festa familiare a Natale. Non esiste nulla nella >natura più delizioso! Nel nome stesso di Natale sembra esserci una sorta di magia. Gelosie meschine e dissidi vengono dimenticati; i sentimenti sociali si risvegliano in cuori che per lungo tempo ne erano privi. Padre e figlio, fratelli e sorelle che fino a poco tempo prima si evitavano o si scambiavano solo sguardi freddi, ora si abbracciano con affetto e seppelliscono le loro antiche inimicizie nella felicità presente. Cuori gentili che si sono desiderati a lungo, ma che sono stati separati da false concezioni di orgoglio e dignità personale, si riuniscono finalmente. E tutto ciò che rimane è gentilezza e benevolenza! Oh, se solo Natale potesse durare per tutto l’anno (come dovrebbe essere), e se solo i pregiudizi e le passioni che deformano la nostra migliore >natura non venissero mai messi in atto tra coloro a cui dovrebbero essere estranei.

La festa di Natale in famiglia di cui parliamo non è semplicemente un incontro occasionale tra parenti, organizzato all’ultimo momento, che quest’anno ha avuto luogo per la prima volta e probabilmente non si ripeterà più. No: si tratta di un raduno annuale di tutti i membri della famiglia, giovani o anziani, ricchi o poveri; tutti i bambini lo aspettano con grande entusiasmo, già da due mesi prima. In passato, la festa si teneva a casa del nonno; ma ora che sia lui che la nonna sono invecchiati e piuttosto malandati, hanno lasciato perdere le faccende domestiche e si sono trasferiti a vivere da zio George. Quindi la festa ha sempre luogo a casa di zio George, ma è la nonna a fornire la maggior parte dei cibi deliziosi, mentre il nonno si reca personalmente al mercato di Newgate per comprare il tacchino, facendosi portare indietro da un portatore con grande orgoglio; insiste sempre affinché l’uomo venga ricompensato con un bicchiere di alcolici, oltre al compenso pattuito, per brindare a “un felice Natale e un nuovo anno sereno” per zia George. Quanto alla nonna, per due o tre giorni prima della festa è molto misteriosa; tuttavia non abbastanza da impedire che circolassero voci secondo cui avrebbe comprato dei bellissimi cappelli nuovi con nastri rosa per tutti i domestici, oltre a libri, penne e portapenne per i più giovani. Per non parlare delle aggiunte segrete che fa sempre alla lista originariamente fornita da zia George al pasticcere: un’altra dozzina di tortine di carne per la cena, o una grande torta di prugne per i bambini.

La vigilia di Natale, nonna è sempre di ottimo umore; dopo aver fatto lavorare tutti i bambini durante il giorno a schiacciare le prugne e simili attività, insiste ogni anno affinché zio George scenda in cucina, si tolga il cappotto e mescoli la puding per circa mezz’ora. Zio George lo fa sempre di buon grado, suscitando l’eccitazione dei bambini e dei domestici. La serata si conclude con un meraviglioso gioco del “cieco”, durante il quale nonno fa apposta ad essere catturato, per poter dimostrare la sua agilità.

La mattina seguente, la vecchia coppia, accompagnata da tutti i figli che il banco della chiesa potesse contenere, andava in chiesa con grande pompa: lasciando zia George a casa a pulire i decanter e riempire le caraffe, mentre zio George portava le bottiglie nel salotto da pranzo, chiamava per i cavatappi e intralciava tutti quanti.

Quando i partecipanti alla festa in chiesa tornarono a pranzo, nonno tirò fuori dalla tasca un piccolo rametto di vischio e invitò i ragazzi a baciare le loro piccole cugine sotto di esso. Questa azione procurò grande soddisfazione sia ai ragazzi che al vecchio gentiluomo, ma offese profondamente le idee di decoro di nonna. Fino a quando nonno non raccontò che, all’età di tredici anni e tre mesi, anche lui aveva baciato nonna sotto un vischio. I bambini applaudirono e risero molto, così come zia George e zio George; nonna, invece, sorrise benevolmente e disse che nonno era stato un giovane impudente. I bambini risero ancora di più, e nonno ancora di più di tutti loro.

Ma tutte queste distrazioni non sono nulla rispetto all’emozione che segue quando nonna, con un cappello alto e un abito di seta color piombo, e nonno, con il colletto della camicia bellamente intrecciato e una cravatta bianca, si siedono su un lato del soggiorno vicino al focolare, insieme ai figli di zio George e a innumerevoli cuginetti, tutti seduti davanti ad aspettare l’arrivo degli ospiti attesi. All’improvviso si sente fermarsi una carrozza; zio George, che stava guardando fuori dalla finestra, esclama: “Eccola Jane!”, e i bambini corrono verso la porta e scendono di corsa le scale. Zio Robert, zia Jane, il carino piccolo bebè, l’[infermiera]] e tutta la compagnia vengono fatti entrare al piano di sopra tra grida eccitate dei bambini e continui avvertimenti dell’[infermiera]] a non fare del male al bebè. Nonno prende in braccio il bambino, nonna bacia sua figlia, e la confusione di questo primo incontro appena si placa, quando arrivano altre zie e zii con altri cuginetti; i cuginetti più grandi scherzano tra loro, così come i più piccoli, e non si sente altro che un rumore confuso di voci, risate e allegria.

Un doppio bussare esitante alla porta di strada, udito durante una breve pausa nella conversazione, suscita l’interrogativo generale: “Chi è?” Due o tre bambini, che stavano in piedi alla finestra, annunciano a bassa voce che si tratta della “povera zia Margaret”. Allora zia George esce dalla stanza per accogliere la nuova arrivata; nonna, invece, si alza con movimenti rigidi e solenni. Poiché Margaret aveva sposato un uomo povero senza il suo consenso, e poiché la “povertà” non rappresentava una punizione sufficientemente severa per il suo errore, era stata abbandonata dai suoi amici e esclusa dalla compagnia dei suoi parenti più cari. Ma è arrivato Natale. E quei sentimenti crudeli che, durante l’anno, avevano contrastato con inclinazioni più gentili, si sono sciolti sotto l’influenza benevola di questa festività, come il ghiaccio incompleto sotto il sole del mattino. Non è difficile, in un momento di rabbia, denunciare un figlio disobbediente. Ma allontanarlo, in un periodo di armonia e gioia generale, dal focolare intorno al quale ha trascorso tanti momenti felici – dalla sua infanzia alla sua giovinezza, fino a diventare una donna – è qualcosa di completamente diverso. L’atteggiamento di rigore e freddezza che la vecchia signora mostra appare innaturale. E quando la povera ragazza entra, pallida in volto e con la speranza spezzata – non a causa della povertà, che avrebbe potuto sopportare, ma a causa della consapevolezza di un’ignoranza ingiustificata e di una crudeltà immotivata – è facile capire quanto tutto ciò sia solo apparente. Segue un breve silenzio; poi la ragazza si getta tra le braccia di sua madre, singhiozzando. Il padre si avvicina rapidamente e stringe la mano a suo marito. Gli amici si affollano intorno per offrire i loro calorosi auguri. E la felicità e l’armonia prevalgono nuovamente.

As to the dinner, it’s perfectly delightful—nothing goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of previous turkeys, on former Christmas-days, which grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour and hospitality; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mince-pies, is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert!—and the wine!—and the fun! Such beautiful speeches, and such songs, from aunt Margaret’s husband, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so attentive to grandmamma! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous encore, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new one which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before; and a young scapegrace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and commission—neglecting to call, and persisting in drinking Burton Ale—astonishes everybody into convulsions of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that ever were heard. And thus the evening passes, in a strain of rational good-will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived.

CHAPTER III—THE NEW YEAR

Next to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled away, and to the New Year that is just beginning to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with gaiety and glee.

There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we can look back, with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of justice and equity to give the New Year credit for being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him.

This is our view of the matter; and entertaining it, notwithstanding our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, penning this article with as jovial a face as if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our good humour.

Hackney-coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed coachfuls to crowded parties; loud and repeated double knocks at the house with green blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbourhood that there’s one large party in the street at all events; and we saw through the window, and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, and drew our curtains, pastry-cooks’ men with green boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse-carts, with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an annual festival is held in honour of the occasion.

We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door.

Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know it is a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning, and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies ‘doing’ another of the young ladies’ hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing else but a quadrille party could possibly justify.

The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office; we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait—the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset House air about them.

Hark!—a cab! That’s a junior clerk in the same office; a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes in a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat-pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat, who is a disguised messenger from the office.

The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. ‘Mr. Tupple!’ shouts the messenger. ‘How are you, Tupple?’ says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been talking politics and airing himself. ‘My dear, this is Mr. Tupple (a courteous salute from the lady of the house); Tupple, my eldest daughter; Julia, my dear, Mr. Tupple; Tupple, my other daughters; my son, sir;’ Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, and the old year, and the last new murder, and the balloon, and the ladies’ sleeves, and the festivities of the season, and a great many other topics of small talk.

Per quanto riguarda la cena, è davvero deliziosa: nulla va storto, tutti sono di ottimo umore e desiderosi di compiacere gli altri e di essere compiaciuti a loro volta. Nonno racconta in dettaglio come è stata acquistata la tacchina, facendo anche qualche digressione riguardo alle tacchine comprate in precedenti Natiadi; nonna conferma ogni sua parola nei minimi dettagli. Zio George racconta storie, taglia la carne, beve vino e scherza con i bambini al tavolino laterale; fa l’occhiolino ai cuginetti che si stanno innamorando o che sono appena stati innamorati, e rallegra tutti con il suo ottimo umore e la sua ospitalità. Quando finalmente un servitore robusto entra portando una gigantesca torta di pudding, con un rametto di vischio in cima, scoppia un tale clamore di risate, applausi e movimenti festosi da parte dei bambini, che nulla può eguagliarlo. Nemmeno l’entusiasmo con cui i più giovani accolgono l’impresa straordinaria di versare brandy acceso nelle torte di carne tritata! Poi arriva il dolce, e il vino, e ancora divertimento! Discorsi bellissimi, e tali canzoni, provenienti dal marito di zia Margaret: si rivela davvero un uomo gentile e molto attento verso nonna. Anche nonno non solo canta la sua canzone annuale con insolita energia, ma, su esortazione dell’assemblea che gli chiede un bis, presenta addirittura una nuova canzone che nessuno, tranne nonna, aveva mai sentito prima. Un giovane cugino, che in precedenza aveva creato qualche problema con i vecchi per alcuni comportamenti vergognosi – come aver trascurato di chiamare qualcuno o continuare a bere birra Burton – sorprende tutti cantando le canzoni più comiche che si siano mai sentite. E così trascorre la serata: in un’atmosfera di armonia, allegria e buona volontà. Che contribuisce molto ad alimentare l’affetto reciproco tra tutti i partecipanti, e a mantenere questo bel clima per tutto l’anno successivo. Più di metà delle prediche scritte da qualsiasi teologo che sia mai vissuto!

capitolo III – IL NUOVO ANNO

Dopo il giorno di Natale, il periodo annuale più piacevole è l’arrivo del Nuovo Anno. Ci sono persone che accolgono l’anno nuovo con pianto e digiuno, come se dovessero partecipare come principali dolenti ai riti funebri di quello vecchio. In realtà, consideriamo molto più appropriato, sia per l’anno vecchio che si è appena concluso sia per il nuovo anno che sta appena iniziando, accogliere con gioia e felicità l’arrivo del nuovo e la partenza di quello vecchio.

Deve esserci stata qualche occasione negli ultimi dodici mesi a cui possiamo ripensare con un sorriso di piacevole ricordo, se non addirittura con un sentimento di sincera gratitudine. E siamo obbligati, secondo ogni regola di giustizia e equità, ad attribuire al Nuovo Anno il merito di essere stato positivo, finché non dimostrerà di non meritare la fiducia che riponiamo in esso.

Questa è la nostra visione della questione; e pur rispettando l’anno vecchio – uno dei pochi momenti rimasti del quale l’esistenza svanisce con ogni parola che scriviamo – eccoci qui, seduti accanto al fuoco in questa ultima notte dell’anno vecchio, milleottocentoventisei; stiamo scrivendo questo articolo con un viso sereno, come se nulla di straordinario fosse accaduto, o stesse per accadere, a disturbare il nostro buon umore.

I cocchi e le carrozze di Hackney continuano a passare rapidamente su e giù per la strada, trasportando senza dubbio gruppi di persone ben vestite verso feste affollate; i sonori colpi ripetuti alla porta della casa con le tende verdi, di fronte, annunciano a tutto il quartiere che in quella strada si sta sicuramente svolgendo una grande festa; e noi riuscimmo a vedere, attraverso la finestra, anche se la nebbia diventava sempre più fitta, fino al punto che dovemmo accendere le candele e tirare le tende. Vedemmo uomini dei pasticceri con scatole verdi in testa, carri del negozio di mobili da sala con sedili di canna e lampade francesi, che si affrettavano verso le numerose case dove si tenevano feste annuali per onorare l’occasione.

Possiamo immaginare uno di questi party come se fossimo davvero vestiti in abito da sera e con i tacchi alti, appena annunciati alla porta del salotto.

Prendiamo, ad esempio, quella casa con le tende verdi. Sappiamo che si tratta di una festa in stile “quadrille”, perché questa mattina, mentre facevamo colazione, abbiamo visto alcuni uomini togliere il tappeto del salotto anteriore; e se fosse necessaria ulteriore prova per confermare la verità, possiamo dire che poco fa abbiamo visto una delle giovani signore sistemare i capelli di un’altra giovane signora, vicino a una delle finestre della camera da letto, in uno stile davvero insolito e sfarzoso. Un comportamento che potrebbe spiegarsi soltanto con una festa in stile “quadrille”.

Il proprietario della >casa con le tende verdi ricopre una carica pubblica; lo sappiamo dal taglio del suo abito, dal nodo della sua cravatta e dall’aria di soddisfazione che trasmette il suo passo. Anche le stesse tende verdi hanno un’atmosfera tipica delle case del Somerset.

Ascoltate! Una vettura. Quello è un impiegato junior dello stesso ufficio; un giovane pulito e ordinato, ma con la tendenza ad avere le mani fredde e i calli. Indossa stivali con tomaie di tessuto nero e tiene le scarpe nella tasca del cappotto; in questo preciso momento se le sta mettendo nell’atrio. Il portiere lo annuncia a un altro uomo in abito blu, che in realtà è un messaggero travestito dell’ufficio.

L’uomo al primo piano lo precede fino alla porta del salotto.
“Signor Tupple!”, grida il messaggero. “Come sta, Tupple?”, chiede il padrone di casa, avvicinandosi dal camino dove aveva parlato di politica e si era riscaldato. “Mia cara, questo è il signor Tupple (con un cordiale saluto da parte della signora di casa); Tupple, mia figlia maggiore; Julia, mia cara, signor Tupple; Tupple, le mie altre figlie; mio figlio, signore, ” Tupple si strofina energicamente le mani e sorride come se tutto fosse estremamente divertente; continua a inchinarsi e girarsi intorno, finché tutta la famiglia non viene presentata. Poi si siede su una sedia nell’angolo del divano e inizia a conversare con le giovani signore sul tempo, sui teatri, sull’anno appena trascorso, sull’ultimo omicidio avvenuto, sugli aerostati, sulle maniche delle donne, sulle festività di stagione, e su molti altri argomenti banali.

More double knocks! what an extensive party! what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Tupple now, in our mind’s eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady’s cup to the servant; and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady’s daughter, before he leaves the room; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy.

Charming person Mr. Tupple—perfect ladies’ man—such a delightful companion, too! Laugh!—nobody ever understood papa’s jokes half so well as Mr. Tupple, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delightful partner! talks through the whole set! and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling! Quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him; but everybody knows that’s only envy, and they needn’t give themselves the trouble to depreciate his merits at any rate, for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it’s only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there’s any unexpected delay in the kitchen.

At supper, Mr. Tupple shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. Tupple is so droll: insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa—when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Tupple requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose: on which all the gentlemen cry ‘Hear! hear!’ and pass the decanters accordingly: and Mr. Tupple being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present, how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts captivated, by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) Much as he (Tupple) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present, enables him to propose a toast, which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving—that toast he begs to say is—‘The Ladies!’ (Great applause.) The Ladies! among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host, are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to ‘The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!’ (Prolonged approbation; above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, overhead, is distinctly audible.)

The applause consequent on this toast, has scarcely subsided, when a young gentleman in a pink under-waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgety, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once perceiving, determines to forestall by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple proceeds). He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality—he may say the splendour—with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess. (Unbounded applause.) Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business—he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple’s) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the morning papers, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors, majestic in his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs. Dobble? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble’s feelings; he will spare the feelings of his friend—if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so—Mr. Dobble, junior. (Here Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy). He will simply say—and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur—that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters); and he will conclude by proposing their worthy ‘Host and Hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years!’

Altri due colpi! Che festa grandiosa. Quanto chiacchiericcio incessante e quanta gente che beve caffè. Ora immaginiamo Tupple nel culmine della sua gloria: ha appena consegnato la tazza alla vecchia signora al servitore; ora si infila tra la folla di giovani vicino alla porta per intercettare l’altro servitore e assicurarsi che il vassoio con i muffin arrivi alla figlia della vecchia signora, prima di lasciare la stanza. E mentre torna indietro, lancia uno sguardo compiaciuto e affabile alle giovani donne, come se le conoscesse fin da quando erano bambine.

Un uomo davvero affascinante, il signor Tupple: l’ideale compagno per le donne, e anche molto piacevole da avere intorno! Nessuno ha mai capito le battute di papà così bene come lui; ride fino alle convulsioni ogni volta che ascolta una nuova trovata spiritosa. Un partner davvero delizioso: partecipa attivamente a tutte le conversazioni. E anche se all’inizio sembra un po’ frivolo e spensierato, in realtà è estremamente romantico e pieno di sentimento! Assolutamente adatto per l’amore. Non è molto amato dai giovani, che lo deridono e fingono di disprezzarlo; ma tutti sanno che si tratta solo di invidia. E comunque non c’è bisogno di sottovalutare i suoi meriti: mamma dice che sarà sempre invitato alle cene future, anche solo per chiacchierare con le persone durante i pasti e distrarle quando ci sono ritardi in cucina.

A cena, il signor Tupple si dimostra ancora più divertente di quanto non lo sia stato per tutta la serata; quando il padre di famiglia chiede a tutti di riempire i bicchieri per brindare alla felicità per tutto l’anno, il signor Tupple diventa davvero esilarante: insiste affinché anche tutte le giovani donne abbiano i loro bicchieri riempiti, nonostante queste ripetutamente assicurino di non poterli mai svuotare. Successivamente chiede il permesso di dire qualcosa riguardo al sentimento appena espresso dal padre di famiglia; e pronuncia allora uno dei discorsi più brillanti e poetici che si possano immaginare, sul vecchio anno e sul nuovo. Dopo che il brindisi è stato fatto e le signore si sono ritirate, il signor Tupple chiede a tutti i gentiluomini di riempirgli il bicchiere, poiché ha un altro brindisi da proporre; tutti esclamano “Ascoltate! Ascoltate!” e passano subito i decanter. Il signor Tupple, venuto a sapere dal padrone di casa che tutti hanno già pagato il conto, si alza e ringrazia i presenti per essere stati così deliziati dall’impressionante dimostrazione di eleganza e bellezza offerta dalla sala da pranzo quella sera. E aggiunge come i loro sensi siano stati incantati, i loro cuori conquistati dalla meravigliosa concentrazione di bellezza femminile che quella stessa stanza aveva mostrato. (Forti applausi.) Nonostante sia dispiaciuto per l’assenza delle signore, non può fare a meno di rallegrarsi del fatto che proprio questa loro assenza gli permetta di proporre un brindisi che altrimenti non avrebbe potuto fare. Il brindisi che chiede di pronunciare è: “Alle Signore!” (Grandi applausi.) Le Signore, tra cui le affascinanti figlie del loro eccellente ospite, sono tutte note per la loro bellezza, il loro talento e la loro eleganza. Chiede loro di brindare insieme a lui “Alle Signore, e a un felice nuovo anno!” (Ancora applausi; al di sopra di questi si sente chiaramente il rumore delle signore che ballano la danza spagnola tra loro.)

L’applauso che seguì questo brindisi non era ancora cessato quando si notò un giovane gentiluomo, vestito con una camicia sottogiacca rosa e seduto verso la parte posteriore del tavolo, diventare molto irrequieto e inquieto, mostrando chiaramente il desiderio di esprimere i propri sentimenti attraverso un discorso. Il cauto Tupple, se ne accorse subito e decise di prevenire questa eventualità parlando lui stesso. Così si alzò di nuovo, con aria solenne e importante, e chiese il permesso di proporre un altro brindisi. Ricevette un’approvazione unanime e Tupple proseguì. Era certo che tutti fossero profondamente colpiti dall’ospitalità – per non dire dallo splendore – con cui erano stati accolti quella sera dal loro gentile ospite e dalla sua moglie. (Applausi scroscianti.) Anche se quella era la prima volta che aveva l’onore di sedersi a quel tavolo, conosceva da tempo il suo amico Dobble; erano legati in affari e desiderava che tutti presenti conoscessero Dobble tanto bene quanto lo conosceva lui stesso. (Un colpo di tosse da parte dell’ospite.) Poteva giurare sul proprio onore che non esisteva un uomo migliore di Dobble: un marito più devoto, un padre più premuroso, un fratello più affettuoso, un figlio più rispettabile, (Grida di “Ascoltate!”) Avevano visto Dobble quella sera nel tranquillo ambiente della sua famiglia; avrebbero dovuto vederlo anche la mattina, nell’adempimento dei suoi doveri professionali: calmo nella lettura dei giornali del mattino, deciso nel firmare le sue carte, dignitoso nelle risposte alle domande degli estranei, rispettoso nei confronti dei suoi superiori, maestoso nel suo comportamento con tutti. (Applausi.) Ora che aveva espresso con tanta convinzione le eccellenti qualità del suo amico Dobble, cosa poteva dire riguardo a sua moglie? Era necessario che descrivesse in dettaglio le qualità di quella donna affabile? No; avrebbe risparmiato i sentimenti sia di Dobble che dei presenti, se gli fosse stato concesso l’onore di chiamarlo così: il signor Dobble, junior. (In quel momento, il signor Dobble, junior, che poco prima aveva messo in bocca un’arancia particolarmente bella, smise immediatamente di mangiarla e assunse un’espressione di profonda tristezza.) Avrebbe semplicemente detto, e era certo che tutti i presenti avrebbero concordato con lui, che il suo amico Dobble era superiore a qualsiasi altro uomo avesse mai conosciuto, e che la signora Dobble era molto più meritevole di qualsiasi donna avesse mai visto (ad eccezione delle sue figlie). E avrebbe concluso proponendo un brindisi per il loro gentile ospite e la sua moglie: “Che possano vivere ancora molti anni felici insieme!”

The toast is drunk with acclamation; Dobble returns thanks, and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out; and dancing is kept up, until far in the first morning of the new year.

We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when the first stroke of twelve, peals from the neighbouring churches. There certainly—we must confess it now—is something awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now, than at any other time; for the hours steal as swiftly on, at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man’s life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the landmarks which stands between us and the grave. Disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds, that when the next bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now.

CHAPTER IV—MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE

Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter, a journeyman carpenter of small dimensions, decidedly below the middle size—bordering, perhaps, upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known as ‘aggerawators.’ His earnings were all-sufficient for his wants, varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly—his manner undeniable—his sabbath waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that, with these qualifications, Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex: many women have been captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But, Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt fate had destined him. He came, and conquered—proposed, and was accepted—loved, and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins ‘kept company’ with Jemima Evans.

Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the useful pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden-town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one Monday afternoon, in his best attire, with his face more shining and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. It was quite a little feast; two ounces of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was ‘cleaning herself’ up-stairs; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars under the kettle, to make the water boil for tea.

‘I wos a thinking,’ said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation—‘I wos a thinking of taking J’mima to the Eagle to-night.’—‘O my!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. ‘Lor! how nice!’ said the youngest Miss Ivins. ‘Well, I declare!’ added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. ‘Tell J’mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly,’ screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J’mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a little red shawl, plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked stockings; white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand—all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss J’mima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress-cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who should Miss J’mima Ivins stumble upon, by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man!—And it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes—they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing, and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young man would have the ladies go into the Crown, to taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately, till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed their journey, and walked very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.

‘How ev’nly!’ said Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, both at once, when they had passed the gate and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted—and the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes—and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads—and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company’s feet—and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens—and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy-and-water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda; and in short the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed—‘one of dazzling excitement.’ As to the concert-room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass; and such an organ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whispered it had cost ‘four hundred pound,’ which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was ‘not dear neither;’ an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it; and everybody was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water ‘warm with—’ and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with ‘a pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed biscuits;’ and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only a strange gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J’mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about ‘people’s imperence,’ and ‘swells out o’ luck;’ and to intimate, in oblique terms, a vague intention of knocking somebody’s head off; which he was only prevented from announcing more emphatically, by both Miss J’mima Ivins and her friend threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word.

Il brindisi viene bevuto tra acclamazioni; Dobble ringrazia e tutta la compagnia si riunisce alle signore nel salotto. I giovani che prima di cena erano troppo timidi per ballare trovano ora il modo di farlo; i musicisti mostrano chiaramente di aver festeggiato l’arrivo del nuovo anno, mentre tutti erano fuori; e la danza continua fino a tarda notte, nel primo mattino dell’anno nuovo.

Abbiamo appena scritto l’ultima parola della frase precedente, quando il primo rintocco delle dodici campane risuona dalle chiese vicine. Certo – dobbiamo ammetterlo ora – c’è qualcosa di terribile in quel suono. In senso stretto, forse non è più impressionante adesso di quanto lo fosse in qualsiasi altro momento; infatti le ore passano allo stesso ritmo anche in altre occasioni, e spesso non vi prestiamo attenzione. Ma la vita umana viene misurata in anni, e quel suono rappresenta un campanello funebre che ci avverte di aver superato un altro dei traguardi che ci separano dalla >tomba. Per quanto possiamo cercare di nasconderlo, non potremo evitare di riflettere sul fatto che, quando la prossima campana annuncerà l’arrivo di un nuovo anno, potremmo essere completamente ignari sia dell’avvertimento tempestivo che abbiamo spesso trascurato, sia di tutti i sentimenti calorosi che ancora proviamo in questo momento.

CAPITOLO IV – LA SIGNORINA EVANS E L’AQUILA

Il signor Samuel Wilkins era un falegname, un artigiano del mestiere di piccole dimensioni, decisamente al di sotto della media statura, forse persino vicino alla taglia dei nani. Il suo viso era rotondo e luminoso; i suoi capelli erano accuratamente intrecciati attorno all’angolo esterno di ciascun occhio, formando una serie di mezze onde, solitamente chiamate “aggerawators”. I suoi guadagni erano più che sufficienti alle sue esigenze: andavano da diciotto scellini a un paio di sterline e mezza a settimana. Il suo modo di comportarsi era ineccepibile; i suoi gilet da domenica erano davvero splendidi. Non c’è da meravigliarsi, quindi, che, con queste qualità, Samuel Wilkins riuscisse ad attrarre l’interesse del sesso opposto: molte donne sono state infatti conquistate da caratteristiche molto meno significative di queste. Ma Samuel rimase indifferente alle loro tentazioni, fino a quando i suoi occhi non si posarono su quella donna per la quale, da quel momento in poi, sentì che il destino lo aveva destinato. Si avvicinò a lei, la conquistò; le fece una proposta e fu accettato. Fu amato, e amò. Il signor Wilkins iniziò quindi a frequentare Jemima Evans.

La signorina Evans (o Ivins, per adottare la pronuncia più in voga nel suo cerchio di conoscenti) aveva fin da giovane imparato l’utile arte di cucire le scarpe; in seguito vi aveva aggiunto anche quella di realizzare cappelli di paglia. Lei stessa, sua madre e due sue sorelle formavano un piccolo gruppo armonioso nella parte più remota della città di Camden. Fu proprio lì che un lunedì pomeriggio il signor Wilkins si presentò, vestito con la sua migliore tenuta: il suo viso brillava più del solito e il suo gilet era ancora più elegante. La famiglia stava per prendere il tè ed era davvero molto felice di vederlo. Fu una piccola festa: due once di tè verde a sette penny la libbra, un quarto di libbra di tè fresco di prima qualità. E il signor Wilkins aveva portato anche una pinta di gamberi, ben avvolti in un foglio pulito, per rendere ancora più delizioso il pasto e compiacere la signora Ivins. Jemima si stava “ripulendo” al piano di sopra; così il signor Samuel Wilkins si sedette e iniziò a parlare con la signora Ivins di questioni domestiche, mentre le due più giovani sorelle della famiglia inserivano pezzetti di carta marrone tra le sbarre sotto la pentola, per far bollire l’acqua del tè.

“Stavo pensando, ”, disse il signor Samuel Wilkins durante una pausa nella conversazione, “stavo pensando di portare J’mima all’Orolo della Notte stasera, ” “Oh mio Dio!”, esclamò la signora Ivins. “Che idea deliziosa!”, disse la più giovane delle signorine Ivins. “Beh, devo dire che è davvero una bella idea!”, aggiunse un’altra delle signorine Ivins. “Dite a J’mima di mettersi il suo abito di mussola bianca, Tilly”, gridò la signora Ivins con ansia materna; poco dopo, J’mima apparve davanti a loro in un abito di mussola bianca ben sistemato, con uno scialle rosso fissato con molte spille, un cappellino di paglia bianco decorato con nastri rossi, un piccolo collare, un paio di braccialetti pesanti, scarpe di raso danese e calze a rete; aveva anche i guanti di cotone bianchi sui polsi e in mano teneva un fazzoletto di cambricce piegato con cura. Era davvero molto elegante. Così la signorina J’mima Ivins e il signor Samuel Wilkins partirono, accompagnati da un bastone da passeggio con un pomello dorato in cima; tutti li osservavano con ammirazione ed invidia, mentre la signora Ivins e le sue figlie erano particolarmente felici. Appena svoltarono nella strada di Pancras, per una fortunata coincidenza, J’mima incontrò una giovane donna che conosceva, insieme al suo fidanzato. Era proprio lei che stava andando all’Orolo della Notte! Il signor Samuel Wilkins fu presentato al fidanzato dell’amica di J’mima, e tutti continuarono il loro cammino chiacchierando, ridendo e scherzando. Arrivati a Pentonville, il fidanzato invitò le ragazze ad entrare nel negozio “Crown” per assaggiare alcuni prodotti. Dopo un po’ di imbarazzo e risate, acconsentirono. Dopo averne assaggiato uno, furono facilmente convinte ad assaggiarne altri ancora; sedettero nel giardino a gustare quei prodotti, guardando intanto i bus che passavano. Quando arrivò l’ora giusta per andare all’Orolo della Notte, ripresero il loro viaggio, camminando velocemente per non perdere l’inizio del concerto nella Rotonda.

“Che meraviglia!” esclamarono contemporaneamente la signorina J’mima Ivins e la sua amica, non appena ebbero superato il cancello ed entrarono nei giardini. C’erano i sentieri, ben lastricati e adornati con piante; le cestine per rinfrescarsi, dipinte e decorate come vere scatole da tabacco; le lanterne colorate che diffondevano una luce intensa sui volti dei presenti; un’area appositamente preparata per ballare; un’orchestra moresca che suonava all’estremità dei giardini, e un’altra orchestra militare dall’altra parte. I camerieri correvano avanti e indietro con bicchieri di negus, brandy e acqua, bottiglie di birra e di stout; in un angolo si serviva la birra al ginepro, mentre in un altro si facevano scherzi; la gente si affollava davanti all’ingresso della Rotonda. In breve, l’intera scena era, come osservò la signorina J’mima Ivins ispirata dalla novità e dall’atmosfera del luogo, “di un’eccitazione straordinaria”. Quanto alla sala da concerto, non c’era nulla di paragonabile a tanta magnificenza: un’orchestra per i cantanti, decorazioni in oro e vetro colorato. E quell’organo! L’amico della signorina J’mima Ivins sussurrò che era costato “quattrocento sterline”, ma il signor Samuel Wilkins disse che “non era affatto caro”; le signore erano completamente d’accordo. Il pubblico sedeva su panche rialzate lungo tutta la sala, stipato in ogni angolo; tutti mangiavano e bevevano con grande comodità. Poco prima dell’inizio del concerto, il signor Samuel Wilkins ordinò due bicchieri di rum e acqua “riscaldati”, due fette di limone per sé e l’altro giovane, oltre a “una pinta di sherry per le signore e alcuni biscotti al seme di carraway”; avrebbero potuto trascorrere un momento davvero piacevole, se solo non ci fossero stati quel gentiluomo con grandi baffi che fissava insistentemente la signorina J’mima Ivins, e quell’altro signore con il gilet a quadri che le faceva l’occhiolino. Il giovane amico della signorina J’mima Ivins iniziò allora a lamentarsi dell’indiscrezione delle persone, minacciando in modo velato di colpire qualcuno. Ma fu solo grazie alle minacce della signorina J’mima Ivins e della sua amica che si trattenne dal pronunciare parole più esplicite.

The concert commenced—overture on the organ. ‘How solemn!’ exclaimed Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed hard-breathing vengeance, perhaps,—but said nothing. ‘The soldier tired,’ Miss Somebody in white satin. ‘Ancore!’ cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend. ‘Ancore!’ shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout-bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss J’mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, grew lively and talkative, as Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, grew morose and surly in inverse proportion.

Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers. And the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss J’mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded, they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same; and made divers remarks complimentary to the ankles of Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up and asked Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, than if they was nobody!

‘What do you mean by that, scoundrel!’ exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress-cane firmly in his right hand. ‘What’s the matter with you, you little humbug?’ replied the whiskers. ‘How dare you insult me and my friend?’ inquired the friend’s young man. ‘You and your friend be hanged!’ responded the waistcoat. ‘Take that,’ exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress-cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled into the air, cane and all. ‘Give it him,’ said the waistcoat. ‘Horficer!’ screamed the ladies. Miss J’mima Ivins’s beau, and the friend’s young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more.

Miss J’mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected—wrongfully suspected—oh! that they should ever have lived to see the day—and so forth; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes and saw their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney-coach, and a state of insensibility, compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement.

CHAPTER V—THE PARLOUR ORATOR

We had been lounging one evening, down Oxford-street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman-street, Finsbury-square, and so on, with the intention of returning westward, by Pentonville and the New-road, when we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, decent public-house, which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (it was not far from the City-road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French-polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar aforesaid—a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected by a large screen: from behind which the young lady emerged on our representing our inclination for a glass of ale.

‘Won’t you walk into the parlour, sir?’ said the young lady, in seductive tones.

‘You had better walk into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the screen, to survey our appearance.

‘You had much better step into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old lady, popping out her head, on the other side of the screen.

We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our ignorance of the locality so much recommended. The little old landlord observed it; bustled out of the small door of the small bar; and forthwith ushered us into the parlour itself.

It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken wainscoting, a sanded floor, and a high mantel-piece. The walls were ornamented with three or four old coloured prints in black frames, each print representing a naval engagement, with a couple of men-of-war banging away at each other most vigorously, while another vessel or two were blowing up in the distance, and the foreground presented a miscellaneous collection of broken masts and blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending from the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and bell-pull; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a thickly-planted row of those slippery, shiny-looking wooden chairs, peculiar to hostelries of this description. The monotonous appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon; and a triangular pile of those useful articles adorned the two upper corners of the apartment.

Il concerto iniziò: un preludio su organo. “Che solennità!”, esclamò la signorina J’mima Ivins, lanciando forse uno sguardo inconscio al gentiluomo con i baffi. Il signor Samuel Wilkins, che per qualche tempo mormorava tra sé come se stesse conducendo una conversazione confidenziale con il pomello dorato del suo bastone da passeggio, sembrava provar rancore, ma non disse nulla. “Il soldato è stanco”, osservò qualcuna delle signore in abiti di seta bianca. “Ancora!”, gridò l’amica della signorina J’mima Ivins. “Ancora!”, urlò subito il gentiluomo con la giacca a quadri, battendo sul tavolo con una bottiglia robusta. Il giovane dell’amica della signorina J’mima Ivins osservò attentamente quell’uomo dalla testa ai piedi, lanciando poi uno sguardo di disprezzo verso il signor Samuel Wilkins. Una canzone comica, accompagnata dall’organo. La signorina J’mima Ivins scoppiò a ridere; lo stesso fece il gentiluomo con i baffi. Tutto ciò che facevano le signore, e anche il gentiluomo con la giacca a quadri e i baffi, serviva a esprimere un’unione di sentimenti e una simpatia reciproca. Mentre la signorina J’mima Ivins e la sua amica diventavano sempre più vivaci e loquaci, il signor Samuel Wilkins e il giovane dell’amica della signorina J’mima Ivins diventavano, in proporzione inversa, cupi e sgarbati.

Ora, se la cosa fosse finita qui, il piccolo gruppo avrebbe probabilmente ripreso presto la sua solita tranquillità; ma il signor Samuel Wilkins e il suo amico iniziarono a lanciare sguardi di sfida verso quel gilet e quei baffi. E il gilet e i baffi, per far capire quanto fossero influenzati da quegli sguardi, riservarono a Miss J’mima Ivins e al suo amico occhiate ancora più ammirative. Dopo che il concerto e lo spettacolo si conclusero, passeggiarono nei giardini. Il gilet e i baffi fecero lo stesso, e pronunciarono diverse lodi riguardo ai polpacci di Miss J’mima Ivins e del suo amico, a voce abbastanza alta da essere sentite. Alla fine, non essendo soddisfatti di queste continue “atrocità”, si avvicinarono addirittura a chiedere a Miss J’mima Ivins e al suo amico di )danzare, ignorando completamente il signor Samuel Wilkins e il giovane amico di Miss J’mima Ivins, come se non esistessero nemmeno!

“Cosa intendi dire con questo, mascalzone!”, esclamò il signor Samuel Wilkins, stringendo saldamente nella mano destra il bastone da passeggio con pomello dorato. “Che cos’hai che non va, tu piccolo impostore?”, rispose il personaggio con le basette. “Come osi insultare me e il mio amico?”, chiese il giovane dell’amico. “Tu e il tuo amico dovreste essere impiccati!”, replicò il personaggio con il gilet. “Ecco qua!”, esclamò il signor Samuel Wilkins. Per un istante fu visibile la parte metallica del bastone, poi la luce delle lanterne lo illuminò mentre volteggiava in aria, insieme a tutto il resto. “Dateglielo!”, disse il personaggio con il gilet. “Assassino!”, gridarono le signore. Il fidanzato di Miss J’mima Ivins e il giovane dell’amico rimasero senza fiato sul ciglio della strada; il personaggio con il gilet e le basette scomparvero per sempre.

Miss J’mima Ivins e la sua amica, rendendosi conto che l’incidente era in tutto e per tutto da attribuire a loro stesse, naturalmente entrarono immediatamente in uno stato di isteria; si dichiararono le donne più “ferite” di tutte; esclamarono, in frasi incoerenti e deliranti, che erano state sospettate, ingiustamente sospettate, oh! che avessero mai potuto vivere fino a quel giorno. E così via; ogni volta che aprivano gli occhi e vedevano i loro sfortunati ammiratori, ricadevano nel delirio; furono poi portate alle rispettive abitazioni in una vettura di piazza, in uno stato di incoscienza causato da liquori e eccitazione.

CAPITOLO V – IL ORATORE DEL SALONE

Una sera stavamo passeggiando lungo le strade di Oxford Street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman Street, Finsbury Square e così via, con l’intenzione di tornare verso ovest passando per Pentonville e la New Road. A un certo punto iniziammo a sentirci piuttosto assetati e decidemmo di fermarci per cinque o dieci minuti. Così tornammo indietro verso una vecchia, tranquilla e dignitosa osteria, che ricordavamo di aver già superato poco prima (non era lontana dalla City Road). L’osteria non era uno di quei palazzi decorati con stucco, lucidati alla francese e dotati di impianti illuminativi moderni, ma una semplice osteria tradizionale, con un piccolo bancone e un vecchio proprietario che, insieme a sua moglie e figlia, sedeva comodamente nel bancone stesso: una stanza accogliente, riscaldata da un bel fuoco, protetta da una grande tenda. Fu dietro questa tenda che la giovane donna ci servì la nostra birra.

“Non vuole entrare nel salotto, signore?” disse la giovane donna con toni seducenti.

“Meglio che entri nel salotto, signore,” disse il piccolo vecchio proprietario di casa, spingendo indietro la sedia e guardando intorno, al di là della tenda, per osservare il nostro aspetto.

“Sarebbe molto meglio che entraste nel salotto, signore,” disse la piccola vecchia signora, sporgendo la testa dall’altra parte dello schermo.

Gettammo un’occhiata intorno, come per esprimere la nostra ignoranza riguardo a quella località così tanto raccomandata. Il piccolo vecchio proprietario se ne accorse; uscì di corsa dalla porta del piccolo bar e subito ci accompagnò nella sala principale.

Era una stanza antica e dall’aspetto cupo, con rivestimenti in quercia, pavimento levigato e un camino alto. Le pareti erano decorate da tre o quattro vecchi dipinti a colori incorniciati in nero; ciascun dipinto raffigurava uno scontro navale: due navi da guerra si colpivano con violenza, mentre altre una o due esplodevano in lontananza. In primo piano si vedevano vari alberi di maestra spezzati e gambe di legno blu che spuntavano dall’acqua. Sul soffitto centrale erano installate una lampada a gas e una corda per suonare la campanella; sui lati c’erano tre o quattro tavoli lunghi e stretti, dietro i quali si trovava una fila densa di quelle sedie di legno lucide e scivolose, tipiche delle locande di questo genere. L’aspetto monotono del pavimento levigato veniva mitigato da occasionali posacenere; inoltre, due angoli superiori della stanza erano adornati da mucchi triangolari di quegli oggetti utili.

At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose short, stiff, black hair curled closely round a broad high forehead, and a face to which something besides water and exercise had communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident oracular air which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and universal anecdote-relater, of the place. He had evidently just delivered himself of something very weighty; for the remainder of the company were puffing at their respective pipes and cigars in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently under discussion.

On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a white head, and broad-brimmed brown hat; on his left, a sharp-nosed, light-haired man in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe, and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alternately.

‘Very extraordinary!’ said the light-haired man after a pause of five minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘Not at all extraordinary—not at all,’ said the red-faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie, and turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had spoken.

‘Why should it be extraordinary?—why is it extraordinary?—prove it to be extraordinary!’

‘Oh, if you come to that—’ said the light-haired man, meekly.

‘Come to that!’ ejaculated the man with the red face; ‘but we must come to that. We stand, in these times, upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. Proof, is what I require—proof, and not assertions, in these stirring times. Every gen’lem’n that knows me, knows what was the nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation of the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society, to recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there—I forget the name of it. “Mr. Snobee,” said Mr. Wilson, “is a fit and proper person to represent the borough in Parliament.” “Prove it,” says I. “He is a friend to Reform,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “The abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parliaments; the extender of nothing but the suffrages of the people,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “His acts prove it,” says he. “Prove them,” says I.

‘And he could not prove them,’ said the red-faced man, looking round triumphantly; ‘and the borough didn’t have him; and if you carried this principle to the full extent, you’d have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an elevation of intellectual attainment, and having reached the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument—this always has been my argument—and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I’d make ’em shake in their shoes with it. And the red-faced man, having struck the table very hard with his clenched fist, to add weight to the declaration, smoked away like a brewery.

‘Well!’ said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice, addressing the company in general, ‘I always do say, that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers’s, or who is such improving company.’

‘Improving company!’ said Mr. Rogers, for that, it seemed, was the name of the red-faced man. ‘You may say I am improving company, for I’ve improved you all to some purpose; though as to my conversation being as my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to say anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point; but this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don’t believe there was one man in it, who knew he was a slave—and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied.’

‘Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb,’ said a little greengrocer with a chubby face, ‘of course you can have anything chalked up, as you likes to pay for, so far as it relates to yourself and your affairs; but, when you come to talk about slaves, and that there abuse, you’d better keep it in the family, ’cos I for one don’t like to be called them names, night after night.’

‘You are a slave,’ said the red-faced man, ‘and the most pitiable of all slaves.’

‘Werry hard if I am,’ interrupted the greengrocer, ‘for I got no good out of the twenty million that was paid for ’mancipation, anyhow.’

‘A willing slave,’ ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with eloquence, and contradiction—‘resigning the dearest birthright of your children—neglecting the sacred call of Liberty—who, standing imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart, and points to your helpless infants, but in vain.’

‘Prove it,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Prove it!’ sneered the man with the red face. ‘What! bending beneath the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy; bowed down by the domination of cruel laws; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it!—’ The red-faced man abruptly broke off, sneered melo-dramatically, and buried his countenance and his indignation together, in a quart pot.

‘Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers,’ said a stout broker in a large waistcoat, who had kept his eyes fixed on this luminary all the time he was speaking. ‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the broker with a sigh, ‘that’s the point.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said divers members of the company, who understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself.

Alla tavola più lontana, vicina al focolare, con il viso rivolto verso la porta, in fondo alla stanza, sedeva un uomo robusto di circa quarant’anni. I suoi capelli neri, corti e rigidi, si arricciavano intorno a una fronte larga e alta; il suo viso, oltre ad essere segnato dall’effetto dell’acqua e dell’esercizio fisico, presentava un aspetto piuttosto arrossito. Fumava una sigara, con lo sguardo fisso sul soffitto, e aveva quell’aria di sicurezza e autorità che lo identificava come il principale politico, l’autorità indiscussa e il raccontatore di aneddoti più noto della zona. Era evidente che avesse appena espresso un’opinione molto importante; infatti, gli altri presenti continuavano a fumare le loro pipe e sigarette in un silenzio solenne, come se fossero profondamente colpiti dall’importanza dell’argomento appena discusso.

A destra di lui sedeva un anziano signore con i capelli bianchi e un cappello marrone a tesa larga; a sinistra, un uomo dal naso affilato e dai capelli biondi, vestito con un soprabito marrone che gli arrivava quasi alle caviglie. L’uomo tirava su dalla sua pipa e, di tanto in tanto, lanciava uno sguardo ammirativo verso l’uomo dal viso rosso.

“Davvero straordinario!” disse l’uomo dai capelli biondi dopo una pausa di cinque minuti. Un mormorio di approvazione si diffuse tra il gruppo.

“Assolutamente nulla di straordinario, assolutamente no,” disse l’uomo dal viso rosso, svegliandosi improvvisamente dalla sua meditazione e rivolgendosi all’uomo dai capelli biondi non appena ebbe finito di parlare.

“Perché dovrebbe essere straordinario? – Perché lo è davvero? – Dimostralo che lo è!”

“Ah, se proprio dobbiamo arrivare a quel punto, ” disse l’uomo dai capelli biondi in tono umile.

“Ma certo che dobbiamo arrivare a quel punto!”, esclamò l’uomo dal viso rosso; “in questi tempi ci troviamo su un livello elevato di conoscenza intellettuale, e non nelle tenebre della povertà mentale. Ciò di cui ho bisogno sono prove, non semplici affermazioni. Ogni gentiluomo che mi conosce sa quale sia stata la natura e l’efficacia delle mie osservazioni riguardo alla Società per la Scoperta dei Rappresentanti degli Agglomerati Urbani. Mi sfugge il nome esatto. ‘Il signor Snobee’, dice il signor Wilson, ‘è una persona adatta a rappresentare quel distretto in Parlamento’. ‘Provatelo’, rispondo io. ‘È un sostenitore della Riforma’, aggiunge il signor Wilson. ‘Provatelo’. ‘Un abolizionista del debito pubblico, un oppositore deciso alle pensioni, un difensore incondizionato dei diritti dei neri, uno che si impegna a ridurre i posti di lavoro senza utilità e la durata dei Parlamenti; un sostenitore esclusivo dei diritti del popolo’, continua il signor Wilson. ‘Provatelo’, ripeto io. ‘I suoi atti lo dimostrano’, dice lui. ‘Dimostratevelo voi’, rispondo io.”

“E non riuscì a provarli,” disse l’uomo dal viso rosso, guardandosi intorno con aria trionfale; “e il distretto non lo aveva sotto la sua giurisdizione; e se si applicasse questo principio in tutto il suo rigore, non ci sarebbero debiti, pensioni, sinecure, neri, nulla. E allora, trovandosi su un livello elevato di conoscenza intellettuale e raggiungendo la vetta della prosperità popolare, si potrebbe sfidare tutte le nazioni della terra, ergersi con orgoglio sulla fiducia nella propria saggezza e superiorità. Questo è il mio argomento, sempre stato il mio argomento; e se domani fossi un membro della Casa dei Comuni, li farei tremare fino alle ossa con queste idee. L’uomo dal viso rosso, per dare più forza alle sue parole, batté forte sul tavolo con il pugno chiuso; poi continuò a fumare come una fabbrica di birra.”

“Beh!”, disse l’uomo dal naso affilato, con una voce molto lenta e dolce, rivolgendosi a tutti i presenti, “Dico sempre che, di tutti gli uomini che ho il piacere di incontrare in questa stanza, non c’è nessuno la cui conversazione mi piaccia ascoltare più di quella del signor Rogers, né nessuno che sia una compagnia così istruttiva.”

“Una compagnia davvero migliorativa!”, disse il signor Rogers, perché sembrava proprio che quel fosse il nome dell’uomo dal viso rosso. “Potete dire che sono una compagnia migliorativa, poiché vi ho tutti resi utili in qualche modo; per quanto riguarda il fatto che le mie conversazioni siano come descrive qui il mio amico il signor Ellis, beh, di questo non spetta a me giudicare. Voi, signori, siete i migliori giudici in merito; ma posso dire una cosa: quando sono arrivato in questa parrocchia e ho utilizzato per la prima volta questa stanza, dieci anni fa, non credo che ci fosse nemmeno un uomo qui dentro che sapesse di essere uno schiavo. E ora voi tutti lo sapete, e ne soffrite. Scrivetelo sulla mia tomba, e sarò soddisfatto.”

“Beh, per quanto riguarda scriverlo sulla tua tomba, ”, disse un piccolo verduriere con il viso paffuto, “certamente puoi far scrivere qualsiasi cosa tu voglia, purché riguardi te stesso e le tue faccende; ma quando si tratta di schiavi e di quegli abusi, è meglio tenerselo per sé, perché a me personalmente non piace essere chiamato con quei nomi, notte dopo notte.”

“Sei uno schiavo,” disse l’uomo dal viso rosso, “e il più misero di tutti gli schiavi.”

“Molto difficile, in effetti,” interruppe il verduriere, “perché comunque non ho ottenuto nulla di buono da quei venti milioni pagati per la ‘emancipazione’.”

“Un schiavo volontario, ”, esclamò l’uomo dal viso rosso, diventando ancora più arrossito per l’eloquenza e la contraddizione delle sue parole: “Colui che rinuncia al diritto di nascita più prezioso dei suoi figli, che ignora il sacro richiamo della Libertà. Che si presenta davanti a voi con suppliche, appellandosi ai sentimenti più teneri del vostro cuore, e indicando i vostri bambini indifesi, ma invano.”

“Dimostralo,” disse il verduriere.

“Provalo!” ringhiò l’uomo dal viso rosso. “Cosa! Sottomettersi al giogo di un’oligarchia arrogante e divisiva; inchinarsi sotto il dominio di leggi crudeli; soffrire sotto la tirannia e l’oppressione ovunque, da ogni parte. Provalo!” L’uomo dal viso rosso si interruppe bruscamente, scoppiò in una risata melodrammatica e seppellì sia il proprio volto che la propria indignazione dentro un barile.

“Ah, certamente, signor Rogers,” disse un robusto broker con un grande gilet, che aveva tenuto gli occhi fissi su quest’uomo tutto il tempo in cui parlava. “Ah, certamente,” ripeté il broker sospirando, “è proprio questo il punto.”

“Certo, certo,” dissero diversi membri della compagnia, che ne capivano quasi quanto il broker stesso.

‘You had better let him alone, Tommy,’ said the broker, by way of advice to the little greengrocer; ‘he can tell what’s o’clock by an eight-day, without looking at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on some other suit; it won’t do with him, Tommy.’

‘What is a man?’ continued the red-faced specimen of the species, jerking his hat indignantly from its peg on the wall. ‘What is an Englishman? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor? Is he to be knocked down at everybody’s bidding? What’s freedom? Not a standing army. What’s a standing army? Not freedom. What’s general happiness? Not universal misery. Liberty ain’t the window-tax, is it? The Lords ain’t the Commons, are they?’ And the red-faced man, gradually bursting into a radiating sentence, in which such adjectives as ‘dastardly,’ ‘oppressive,’ ‘violent,’ and ‘sanguinary,’ formed the most conspicuous words, knocked his hat indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and slammed the door after him.

‘Wonderful man!’ said he of the sharp nose.

‘Splendid speaker!’ added the broker.

‘Great power!’ said everybody but the greengrocer. And as they said it, the whole party shook their heads mysteriously, and one by one retired, leaving us alone in the old parlour.

If we had followed the established precedent in all such instances, we should have fallen into a fit of musing, without delay. The ancient appearance of the room—the old panelling of the wall—the chimney blackened with smoke and age—would have carried us back a hundred years at least, and we should have gone dreaming on, until the pewter-pot on the table, or the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into life, and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, by some means or other, we were not in a romantic humour; and although we tried very hard to invest the furniture with vitality, it remained perfectly unmoved, obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the unpleasant necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our thoughts reverted to the red-faced man, and his oratorical display.

A numerous race are these red-faced men; there is not a parlour, or club-room, or benefit society, or humble party of any kind, without its red-faced man. Weak-pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief they do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a pattern one up, to know the others by, we took his likeness at once, and put him in here. And that is the reason why we have written this paper.

CHAPTER VI—THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

In our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture to ourself the gloomy and mournful scenes that are passing within. The sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections; the mere glimmering of the low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous merriment.

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the sick man hears, is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of a dying man? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by strangers; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child?

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the nearly-deserted streets; and the sight of the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the streets and doorways; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery? The wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man—the ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left—which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in death? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of debasement stalk before them; when repentance seems a mockery, and sorrow comes too late?

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent-garden (we had been thinking about these things over-night), we were attracted by the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take the trouble of walking to the Police-office, on the ground that he hadn’t the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd.

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators as could squeeze their way in.

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest brutality; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful.

“È meglio lasciarlo da solo, Tommy,” disse il broker come consiglio al piccolo verduriere; “è in grado di sapere che ore sono anche senza guardare l’indice dei minuti. Prova a farlo su qualche altro abito: non gli andrà bene, Tommy.”

“Che cos’è un uomo?” continuò quell’individuo dal viso rosso, strappando con indignazione il proprio cappello dal gancio appeso al muro. “Che cos’è un inglese? Deve forse essere calpestato da ogni oppressore? Deve essere abbattuto su comando di chiunque? Che cos’è la libertà? Non è certo un esercito permanente. E che cos’è un esercito permanente? Di certo non è libertà. Che cos’è la felicità generale? Non è certo la miseria universale. La libertà non è mica quella tassa sulle finestre, vero? I Lord non sono forse il Popolo, no?” E l’uomo dal viso rosso, esprimendosi con crescente indignazione e utilizzando aggettivi come “disonesto”, “oppressivo”, “violento” e “sanguinario”, gettò il proprio cappello sugli occhi, uscì dalla stanza e sbatté la porta dietro di sé.

“Uomo meraviglioso!”, disse lui riguardo a quel naso affilato.

“Un oratore straordinario!” aggiunse il broker.

“Gran potere!”, dissero tutti tranne il verduriere. E mentre lo dicevano, l’intera compagnia scosse la testa in modo misterioso e, uno dopo l’altro, se ne andò, lasciandoci soli nella vecchia sala.

Se avessimo seguito l’esempio precedente in tutte queste occasioni, saremmo sicuramente caduti in un profondo stato di meditazione senza indugio. L’aspetto antico della stanza – i vecchi pannelli delle pareti, il camino annerito dal fumo e dall’uso – ci avrebbe riportato indietro di almeno cento anni; avremmo continuato a sognare ad occhi aperti, fino a quando la pentola di piombo sul tavolo o il piccolo frigorifero per la birra vicino al focolare non avessero “preso vita” e ci avessero raccontato lunghe storie dei tempi passati. Ma, per qualche motivo, non eravamo in vena di romanticismo; e anche se ci sforzammo molto di dare vitalità agli oggetti presenti nella stanza, questi rimasero completamente immobili, ostinati e cupi. Costretti quindi a riflettere su questioni ordinarie, i nostri pensieri tornarono all’uomo dal viso rosso e al suo discorso appassionato.

Ci sono molte razze di questi uomini dal viso rosso; non esiste alcuna sala da pranzo, sala club, associazione benefica o qualsiasi tipo di riunione che non includa almeno un uomo dal viso rosso. Sono individui debole di mente e causano molti problemi, anche se le loro intenzioni sono buone. Pertanto, per poterli riconoscere facilmente, abbiamo subito ritratto il loro aspetto e l’abbiamo inserito qui. Ed è proprio per questo che abbiamo scritto questo articolo.

Capitolo VI – Il paziente dell’ospedale

Nei nostri vagabondaggi per le strade di Londra dopo il tramonto, spesso ci fermiamo sotto le finestre di qualche ospedale pubblico e immaginiamo le scene tristi e malinconiche che vi si svolgono. Il movimento improvviso di una candela, la cui debole luce si diffonde da una finestra all’altra fino a quando non scompare del tutto, come se venisse portata più lontano nella stanza, verso il letto di qualche paziente sofferente, è sufficiente per suscitare molte riflessioni. Anche solo il tenue bagliore delle lampade a basso consumo, che, mentre tutte le altre abitazioni sono avvolte nell’oscurità e nel sonno, indicano la stanza dove tante persone soffrono di dolore o si consumano a causa della malattia, è sufficiente per frenare anche la più vivace allegria.

Chi può comprendere l’angoscia di quelle ore interminabili, quando l’unico suono che l’uomo malato sente sono i rumori disordinati di qualcuno che dorme febbrilmente accanto a lui, i deboli lamenti del dolore, o forse le preghiere mormorate da un uomo morente? Chi, se non coloro che l’hanno provata, può immaginare la sensazione di solitudine e desolazione che deve affliggere coloro che, nel momento di una malattia grave, sono lasciati a cura di estranei? Perché quali mani, per quanto dolci possano essere, possono asciugare la fronte sudata o sistemare il letto inquieto, come quelle di una madre, di una moglie o di un figlio?

Impressionati da questi pensieri, ci siamo allontanati lungo le strade quasi deserte; e la vista di quelle poche creature misere che ancora vi vagavano intorno non ha certo mitigato il dolore che tali riflessioni suscitano. L’ospedale rappresenta un rifugio e un luogo di riposo per centinaia di persone che, senza istituzioni del genere, morirebbero per strada o sotto i portoni; ma quali possono essere i sentimenti di alcuni emarginati quando giacciono malati sul letto, con pochissime >speranze di guarigione? Quella donna sventurata che si aggira per le strade, ore dopo la mezzanotte, e quell’uomo ridotto a una misera ombra – il residuo orribile lasciato dalla povertà e dall’alcolismo – che si accovaccia sotto il davanzale di una finestra per dormire al riparo dalla pioggia. Che cosa hanno loro nella vita, se non queste cose? E cosa possono ricordare quando moriranno? Quali sono i conforti inaspettati offerti da un tetto e da un letto, per loro, quando i ricordi di una vita intera trascorsa nell’umiliazione li assillano; quando il pentimento sembra una beffa e il dolore arriva troppo tardi?

Circa dodici mesi fa, mentre passeggiavamo nel giardino di Coventry (avevamo riflettuto su queste cose per tutta la notte), fummo attratti dall’aspetto estremamente presentabile di un borseggiatore. Questi, rifiutandosi persino di prendersi la briga di andare alla stazione di polizia – sostenendo di non avere affatto alcun desiderio di farlo – veniva trasportato lì su un carrello, per grande divertimento della folla.

In qualche modo, non riusciamo mai a resistere alla tentazione di unirci a una folla; così ci voltammo indietro insieme al gruppo e entrammo nell’ufficio, accompagnati dal nostro amico il borseggiatore, da un paio di poliziotti e da tantissimi spettatori dall’aspetto poco pulito che riuscirono a farci entrare.

C’era un giovane robusto e dall’aspetto poco attraente al bar; stava subendo un’indagine per l’accusa molto comune di aver maltrattato, la sera precedente, una donna con cui viveva in un certo quartiere vicino. Diversi testimoni avevano fornito testimonianze su atti di estrema brutalità; inoltre fu letta una certificazione del chirurgo dell’ospedale più vicino, che descriveva la natura delle ferite riportate dalla donna e indicava come la sua guarigione fosse estremamente improbabile.

Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the prisoner; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight o’clock that evening, to take her deposition, it was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given. He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word.

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we obtained it.

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke—they were introduced as ‘dressers’—and after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we were conducted to the ‘casualty ward’ in which she was lying.

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third, there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of anguish and suffering.

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate’s inquiry whether she was in great pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not know him.

‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was desired, and the man’s features were disclosed.

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of the errand was explained, and the oath tendered.

‘Oh, no, gentlemen,’ said the girl, raising herself once more, and folding her hands together; ‘no, gentlemen, for God’s sake! I did it myself—it was nobody’s fault—it was an accident. He didn’t hurt me; he wouldn’t for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn’t!’

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was not prepared for this. He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl’s colour changed, and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying.

‘We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,’ said the gentleman who had spoken first, ‘but let me warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him.’

‘Jack,’ murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘they shall not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn’t do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me.’ She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken whisper, ‘I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!’

The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse.

CHAPTER VII—THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE

If we had to make a classification of society, there is a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of ‘Old Boys;’ and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old-boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine. It would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they are at this moment alarmingly on the increase.

Sembra che siano state sollevate alcune domande riguardo all’identità della prigioniera; infatti, quando fu deciso che i due magistrati dovessero visitare l’ospedale alle otto di quella sera per raccogliere la sua testimonianza, si stabilì anche che quell’uomo dovesse essere portato lì con loro. Lui impallidì al sentirlo e, quando fu data l’ordine, lo vedemmo stringere forte la sbarra della cella. Fu portato via immediatamente dopo e non pronunciò una parola.

Sentivamo una curiosità irrefrenabile di assistere a quell’intervista, anche se è difficile capire il motivo per cui, in quel momento preciso, sapevamo infatti che sarebbe stata un’esperienza dolorosa. Non fu affatto difficile ottenere il permesso, e lo ottenemmo davvero.

Il prigioniero e l’ufficiale che lo teneva in custodia erano già in ospedale quando arrivammo noi, e aspettavano l’arrivo dei magistrati in una piccola stanza situata al piano di sotto delle scale. L’uomo era ammanettato e il cappello gli copriva completamente gli occhi; tuttavia, era facile notare, dal pallore del suo viso e dai continui tic dei muscoli facciali, che temeva ciò che stava per accadere. Dopo un breve attimo, i magistrati e il cancelliere furono fatti entrare dal chirurgo dell’ospedale insieme a due giovani uomini che emanavano un forte odore di tabacco; questi ultimi furono presentati come “assistenti”. Dopo che uno dei magistrati si era lamentato amaramente del freddo e l’altro dell’assenza di notizie sui giornali serali, fu annunciato che il paziente era pronto per essere esaminato; quindi fummo condotti nella “stanza dei malati gravi” dove si trovava.

La debole luce che ardeva nella vasta stanza non faceva altro che accentuare l’aspetto orribile di quelle sfortunate creature sdraiate nei letti, disposti in due lunghe file su entrambi i lati. In uno dei letti giaceva un >bambino avvolto nelle bende; il suo -corpo era parzialmente consumato dal fuoco. In un altro letto c’era una donna, resa orribile da qualche terribile incidente; batteva disperatamente i pugni chiusi sul lenzuolo, in preda al )dolore. Nel terzo letto giaceva una giovane ragazza, chiaramente in uno stato di profonda incoscienza, spesso precursore della >morte: il suo viso era coperto di >sangue, e il petto e le braccia erano avvolti in strati di lino. Due o tre letti erano vuoti; i loro precedenti occupanti sedevano accanto a essi, ma con volti così pallidi e occhi così luminosi e vitrei che era spaventoso incrociare il loro sguardo. Su ogni viso si leggeva l’espressione dell’angoscia e del sofferimento.

L’oggetto della visita si trovava all’estremità superiore della stanza. Era una giovane donna graziosa, di circa ventidue o ventitré anni. I suoi lunghi capelli neri, tagliati in fretta vicino alle ferite sulla testa, le ricadevano sul cuscino in ciocche disordinate e intrecciate. Il suo viso presentava evidenti segni dei maltrattamenti subiti: teneva una mano premuta sul fianco, come se il dolore più acuto si concentrasse lì; respirava affannosamente e in modo irregolare; era chiaro che stesse morendo rapidamente. Mormorò alcune parole in risposta alle domande del magistrato riguardo al suo forte dolore; quando la infermiera la sollevò sul cuscino, lei fissò con sguardo vuoto i volti strani che le circondavano il letto. Il magistrato fece un cenno all’ufficiale perché portasse avanti l’uomo in questione; quest’ultimo si avvicinò al capezzale. La ragazza lo guardò con un’espressione selvaggia e angosciata, ma la sua vista era offuscata e non lo riconobbe.

“Toglietegli il cappello,” disse il magistrato. L’ufficiale fece quanto gli era stato chiesto e i tratti del volto dell’uomo furono rivelati.

La ragazza si alzò, con un’energia decisamente soprannaturale; il fuoco brillava nei suoi occhi pesanti, e il sangue affluiva alle sue guance pallide e incavate. Era uno sforzo convulso. Si lasciò cadere di nuovo sul cuscino, coprendosi il viso segnato da cicatrici e lividi con le mani, e scoppiò in lacrime. L’uomo le lanciò uno sguardo ansioso, ma per il resto sembrava del tutto indifferente. Dopo una breve pausa, venne spiegato lo scopo della sua missione e fu pronunciato il giuramento richiesto.

“Oh, no, signori,” disse la ragazza, alzandosi di nuovo e incrociando le mani; “no, signori, per l’amor di Dio! L’ho fatto io stessa. Non è stata colpa di nessuno. È stato un incidente. Lui non mi ha fatto male. Non lo avrebbe mai fatto, per nulla al mondo. Jack, caro Jack. Tu sai che non lo avresti mai fatto!”

La sua vista stava peggiorando rapidamente; la sua mano cercava a tentoni le coperte nel buio, alla ricerca della sua. Per quanto brutale fosse quell’uomo, non si era preparato a una cosa del genere. Girò il viso lontano dal letto e iniziò a singhiozzare. Il colore del viso della ragazza cambiò; il suo respiro divenne sempre più affannoso. Stava chiaramente morendo.

“Rispettiamo i sentimenti che vi spingono a farlo,” disse il gentiluomo che aveva parlato per primo, “ma lasciate che vi avverta di non insistere in qualcosa che sapete essere falso, finché non sarà troppo tardi. Non potrà salvarlo.”

“Jack,” mormorò la ragazza, posando la mano sul suo braccio, “non riusciranno a convincermi a giurare che sei tu il colpevole. Lui non l’ha fatto, signori. Non mi ha mai fatto del male.” Gli strinse forte il braccio e aggiunse, con un sussurro rotto: “Spero che Dio Onnipotente mi perdoni tutti i torti che ho commesso e la vita che ho vissuto. Che Dio ti benedica, Jack. Che qualche gentile signore porti il mio amore a mio povero vecchio padre. Cinque anni fa, lui disse che avrebbe voluto che fossi morta da bambina. Oh, quanto vorrei esserlo stata!”

L’infermiera si chinò sulla ragazza per alcuni secondi, poi tirò le coperte sul suo viso. Copriva un cadavere.

capitolo VII – L’ATTACCAMENTO INESPERATO DEL SIGNOR JOHN DOUNCE

Se dovessimo effettuare una classificazione della società, esisterebbe un particolare tipo di uomini che dovremmo immediatamente inserire nella categoria dei “vecchi compagni di scuola”. Questi “vecchi compagni” richiederebbero, inoltre, uno spazio davvero molto ampio per essere rappresentati. Non siamo in grado di individuare con precisione le cause che stanno alla base di questo rapido aumento del loro numero; sarebbe una speculazione interessante e curiosa. Tuttavia, poiché non disponiamo di spazio sufficiente per approfondirla qui, ci limitiamo a rilevare il fatto che il numero dei “vecchi compagni di scuola” è aumentato gradualmente negli ultimi anni e che, al momento attuale, sta crescendo in modo preoccupante.

Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes—the gay old boys, and the steady old boys. The gay old boys, are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time: the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night; and who assume all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time. There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. Grand old boys they were—fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows—always there—one on one side the table, and the other opposite—puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some people that they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don’t mean immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower, resident with three daughters—all grown up, and all unmarried—in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clockwork—breakfast at nine—dress and tittivate a little—down to the Sir Somebody’s Head—a glass of ale and the paper—come back again, and take daughters out for a walk—dinner at three—glass of grog and pipe—nap—tea—little walk—Sir Somebody’s Head again—capital house—delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister’s clerk—rum fellow that Jones—capital company—full of anecdote!—and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the ‘rush’ had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, sir,—then—Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from business; and going to the pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and waiting there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial; and fainting after all, with the heat and fatigue, before the play began; in which situation he was lifted out of the pit, into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of the finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to know how he found himself, sir—by G-! Between the acts Mr. Dounce and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones—knowing fellow that Jones—knew everybody—pointed out the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a ‘fine woman—very fine woman, indeed,’ or that ‘there might be a little more of her, eh, Jones?’ Just as the case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce and the other old boys were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones—wicked dog that Jones—whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out of their eyes.

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters; and when they came to the second glass of brandy-and-water, Jones—hoaxing scamp, that Jones—used to recount how he had observed a lady in white feathers, in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted home.

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely topsy-turvy—not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster; and thus it happened.

Dopo una revisione generale dell’argomento, e senza considerarlo nei minimi dettagli, si potrebbe dividere gli uomini maturi in due categorie distinte: quelli spensierati e quelli seri. Gli uomini spensierati sono individui anziani, un po’ in sovrappeso, che si mascherano da giovani; durante il giorno frequentano luoghi come il Quadrant e Regent Street, mentre di notte vanno ai teatri (soprattutto quelli gestiti da donne); assumono comportamenti frivoli e leggeri tipici dei ragazzi, senza alcuna scusa legata all’età o all’inesperienza. Gli uomini seri, invece, sono gentiluomini anziani e dignitosi, dall’aspetto curato; si possono sempre vedere nelle stesse taverne, alle stesse ore ogni sera, mentre fumano e bevono in compagnia degli stessi amici.

C’era una volta un bellissimo gruppo di vecchi amici che ogni sera, tra le otto e mezza e le undici e mezza, si riunivano intorno al tavolo rotondo di Offley’s. Da qualche tempo però non li vediamo più. Forse ancora oggi, chissà, ci sono due di loro al Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street: sempre seduti nel posto più vicino al caminetto, fumano lunghi pipe di ciliegio che sporgono sotto il tavolo, con le tazze posate a terra. Erano davvero vecchi amici, grassi, con il viso rosso e i capelli bianchi; sempre lì, uno da un lato del tavolo e l’altro dall’altro, a fumare e bere in grande allegria. Tutti li conoscevano. E alcune persone pensavano che fossero entrambi immortali.

Il signor John Dounce era un vecchio compagno di scuola del gruppo dei più anziani (non intendiamo dire “immortale”, ma sicuramente affidabile); si era ritirato dopo aver lavorato come produttore di guanti e corsetti, ed era vedovo. Viveva con tre figlie, tutte adulte e ancora nubili, in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. Era un uomo basso, robusto, dal viso rotondo; indossava un cappello a tesa larga e un abito quadrato. Aveva quel tono di voce serio ma sicuro, tipico degli anziani. Regolare come un orologio: colazione alle nove, un po’ di cura nell’abbigliamento, poi una tazza di birra e il giornale; dopo usciva con le figlie a fare una passeggiata, cena alle tre, un bicchiere di liquore e la pipa. Poi si riposava, beveva il tè, faceva un’altra breve passeggiata, e infine tornava a casa. Una vita davvero piacevole. Tra i suoi compagni c’erano il signor Harris, l’impiegato dello studio legale, il signor Jennings, il sarto (due giovani allegri come lui), e il signor Jones, l’aiutante di un avvocato. Un gruppo davvero piacevole, pieno di aneddoti interessanti! Ogni sera si riunivano fino a dieci minuti prima di mezzanotte, bevendo brandy con acqua, fumando le loro pipe, raccontandosi storie e godendosi il tempo in un’atmosfera serena ma gioiosa. Davvero edificante.

A volte Jones proponeva di andare a Drury Lane o al Covent Garden a metà prezzo, per vedere due atti di un’opera in cinque atti, oppure una nuova farsa o un balletto; in queste occasioni i quattro andavano insieme. Nessuna fretta né sciocchezze: prima si beveva del brandy con acqua, poi si ordinava una bistecca e delle ostriche per la cena, e solo dopo si andava tranquillamente a sedersi nelle poltrone, quando ormai era iniziato lo spettacolo, come fanno tutte le persone sensate. Tranne quando il famoso Maestro Betty era al culmine della sua popolarità; in quei casi, Mr. Dounce si prendeva davvero una pausa dal lavoro: arrivava alle porte del teatro alle undici di mattina e aspettava lì fino alle sei di pomeriggio, mangiando dei panini e bevendo del vino. Alla fine, per il caldo e la stanchezza, sveniva prima che iniziasse lo spettacolo; in quelle occasioni veniva portato fuori dalle poltrone da cinque delle donne più belle dell’epoca, che si impietosivano di lui e gli davano qualcosa per riprendersi. La mattina dopo, un servitore alto sei piedi, vestito in blu e argento, veniva a portare i loro saluti e a chiedere come stesse. Tra un atto e l’altro, Mr. Dounce, insieme a Mr. Harris e Mr. Jennings, si alzava per guardarsi intorno nel teatro; Jones, che conosceva tutti, indicava le signore famose presenti nelle poltrone. Mr. Dounce, dopo essersi sistemato i capelli e il colletto, le osservava attraverso un enorme specchio e commentava se fossero “donne davvero belle” o se potessero essere “un po’ più in carne, eh, Jones?”, a seconda di come stavano. Quando iniziavano i balli, John Dounce e gli altri erano particolarmente curiosi di vedere cosa succedeva sul palco; Jones, quel furfante, sussurrava loro commenti critici che poi venivano ripetuti da tutti. E ridevano fino alle lacrime.

Quando calò il sipario, tornarono insieme, a coppie, verso le bistecche e gli ostriche; e quando arrivarono al secondo bicchiere di brandy con acqua, Jones – quel birichino che amava scherzare – raccontava sempre come avesse osservato una signora con piume bianche, in uno degli spalti, che per tutta la sera fissava attentamente il signor Dounce; e come avesse visto il signor Dounce, ogni volta che pensava che nessuno lo stesse guardando, ricambiare quegli sguardi con occhi pieni di profonda devozione. Su questo, il signor Harris e il signor Jennings ridevano molto, e John Dounce ancora di più, ammettendo però che in passato avrebbe potuto comportarsi allo stesso modo; allora Jones gli dava una spinta sulle costole, dicendogli che da giovane era stato davvero un pessimo ragazzo. Il quale John Dounce, ridacchiando, lo confermava. E dopo che anche il signor Harris e il signor Jennings ebbero espresso il desiderio di essere considerati “pessimi ragazzi” anch’essi, si separarono in armonia e tornarono a casa.

I decreti del Fato, e i mezzi con cui vengono realizzati, sono misteriosi e incomprensibili. John Dounce aveva condotto questa vita per vent’anni e più, senza desiderare cambiamenti né cercare varietà, quando tutto il suo mondo sociale fu improvvisamente sconvolto e capovolto, non a causa di un terremoto o di qualche altra terribile calamità naturale, come si potrebbe pensare, ma semplicemente per l’azione di un’ostrica; ed è così che accadde.

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody’s Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street—not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings’s birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing—when his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster-shop, on a magnificent scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe.

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone—splendid creature, charming face and lovely figure! It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the lady smiled; then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster-like bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered—the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed—still she came not. He entered the shop.

‘Can you open me an oyster, my dear?’ said Mr. John Dounce.

‘Dare say I can, sir,’ replied the lady in blue, with playfulness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eightpence in less than no time.

‘Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?’ inquired Mr. John Dounce.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you, sir,’ replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence.

‘You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy-and-water, my dear, I suppose?’ said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters: in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could.

‘I’ll see, sir,’ said the young lady: and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the coal-cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies’ grog—hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it.

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which made him feel more affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all—she couldn’t abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply—at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush—and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy-and-water; and, at last, John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and disinterested attachments.

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy-and-water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward, a change came over the spirit of John Dounce’s dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait); ‘went on’ altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was.

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody’s Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he did go there, Jones—vulgar fellow that Jones—persisted in asking ‘when it was to be?’ and ‘whether he was to have any gloves?’ together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature: at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings also; so, he cut the two, altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop.

Now comes the moral of the story—for it has a moral after all. The last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce’s attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she ‘wouldn’t have him at no price;’ and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to everybody, made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys.

Una notte, il signor John Dounce stava tornando a casa sua in Cursitor-street, dopo essere stato al ristorante Sir Somebody’s Head. Non era ubriaco, ma piuttosto eccitato: quel giorno era il compleanno del signor Jennings, e avevano mangiato due porzioni di pernici a cena, oltre ad alcune bottiglie in più. Jones si era comportato particolarmente divertentemente quella sera. Quando i suoi occhi si posarono su un negozio di ostriche appena aperto, di dimensioni imponenti, vide che le ostriche erano disposte in ordine perfetto all’interno di bacinetti di marmo nei finestrini; inoltre, c’erano anche piccole bottiglie di ostriche destinate a lord, baronetti, colonnelli e capitani, distribuite in ogni angolo del mondo abitabile.

Dietro i nativi c’erano i barili, e dietro i barili c’era una giovane donna di circa venticinque anni, vestita interamente di blu, e completamente sola. Una creatura meravigliosa, con un viso affascinante e una figura incantevole! È difficile dire se il volto rosso di Mr. John Dounce, illuminato dal tremolante gas della finestra davanti alla quale si fermò, eccitasse la risata della donna, o se fosse piuttosto un’innata vivacità del suo carattere a superare quella compostezza che le convenzioni sociali impongono in modo quasi dispotico. Ma una cosa è certa: la donna sorrise; poi si mise un dito sulle labbra, come se ricordasse qualcosa che doveva fare. E infine si ritirò, con una timidezza davvero commovente, nell’angolo più remoto del bancone. A John Dounce venne una forte sensazione di tristezza; esitò ancora. La donna in blu non fece alcun segno. Tossì. Lei non si mosse. Entrò nel negozio.

“Potresti aprirmi un’ostrica, cara?” disse il signor John Dounce.

“Direi di sì, signore,” rispose la signora in blu con scherzo. E il signor John Dounce mangiò un’ostrica, poi guardò la giovane donna, ne mangiò un’altra, e poi strinse la mano della ragazza mentre lei apriva la terza, e così via, fino a quando non ebbe divorato una dozzina di ostriche, che costavano otto penny l’una, in meno di un attimo.

“Potresti aprirne altre mezza dozzina per me, cara?” chiese il signor John Dounce.

“Vedrò cosa posso fare per voi, signore,” rispose la giovane donna in blu, ancora più incantevole di prima; e il signor John Dounce ne mangiò altre mezza dozzina, a otto pence l’una.

“Non sei riuscita nemmeno a procurarmi un bicchiere di brandy con acqua, mia cara, vero?”, disse il signor John Dounce dopo aver finito le ostriche, usando un tono che chiaramente lasciava intendere che lei avrebbe dovuto farlo.

“Vedrò, signore,” disse la giovane donna; e poi corse fuori dal negozio, lungo la strada, i suoi lunghi boccoli castani ondeggiando al >vento in modo incantevole; poco dopo tornò indietro, inciampando nelle coperture del deposito del carbone come se fosse una palla da gioco, portando con sé un bicchiere di brandy e acqua, che il signor John Dounce insistette affinché lei assaggiasse, poiché si trattava del tipico grog delle signore: caldo, forte, dolce, e in abbondanza.

La giovane signorina si sedette con il signor John Dounce in una piccola cabina rossa con tende verdi; bevve un sorso di brandy mescolato con acqua, gettò uno sguardo al signor John Dounce, poi distolse lo sguardo e iniziò a compiere varie altre azioni teatrali e significative che ricordarono vividamente al signor John Dounce la prima volta in cui aveva corteggiato sua moglie. Questo lo rese ancora più affettuoso nei suoi confronti. Spinto da questo sentimento, il signor John Dounce le chiese se avesse già preso accordi matrimoniali, ma lei negò categoricamente: non poteva sopportare gli uomini, erano tutti dei traditori! Allora lui le chiese se quella sua dura condanna includesse anche altri tipi di uomini, diversi da quelli molto giovani. Lei arrossì profondamente, almeno distolse lo sguardo e disse che il signor John Dounce l’aveva fatta arrossire. Naturalmente, allora arrossì davvero. Alla fine, il signor John Dounce andò a letto e sognò di sua moglie, della seconda moglie, della giovane signorina, delle pernici, degli ostriche, del brandy mescolato con acqua, e di sentimenti “disinteressati”.

La mattina seguente, John Dounce aveva una certa febbre a causa di tutto il brandy e dell’acqua che aveva bevuto la sera precedente; in parte nella speranza di rinfrescarsi con un’ostrica, e in parte per scoprire se dovesse qualcosa alla giovane signora o meno, tornò al negozio di ostriche. Se la giovane signora era apparsa bella di notte, di giorno era davvero irresistibile; da quel momento in poi, il “sogno” di John Dounce subì un cambiamento radicale. Comprò spille per camicie, si mise un anello al terzo dito, leggeva poesia, corruppe un pittore di miniature perché ritraesse una vaga somiglianza con il suo volto giovane: con una tenda sopra la testa, sei grandi libri sullo sfondo e un paesaggio aperto in lontananza. Questo era ciò che chiamava il proprio “ritratto”. Si comportava in modo così esagerato che le tre signorine Dounce dovettero andarsene con piccole pensioni: aveva reso l’appartamento in Cursitor-street troppo caldo per ospitarle. In breve, si comportò in ogni senso come un vero e proprio vecchio saraceno, esattamente come era.

Per quanto riguarda i suoi vecchi amici, gli altri ragazzi più anziani, gradualmente smise di frequentarli; perché anche quando andava da loro, Jones – quel tipo volgare che era – insisteva sempre nel chiedere “quando sarebbe successo?” e “se avrebbe ricevuto dei guanti?”, insieme ad altre domande altrettanto offensive. Di fronte a questo, non solo Harris rideva, ma anche Jennings; così decise di tagliare completamente i ponti con loro e si legò esclusivamente alla giovane donna in blu del negozio di ostriche elegante.

Ora arriva la morale della storia, perché dopotutto ne ha una. La giovane donna menzionata in ultimo, avendo tratto sufficienti benefici dall’attaccamento di John Dounce, non solo rifiutò categoricamente di prenderlo con sé in momenti difficili, ma dichiarò esplicitamente, per usare le sue stesse parole, che “non lo voleva a nessun costo”. John Dounce, avendo perso tutti i suoi vecchi amici, allontanato tutte le sue relazioni e reso se stesso oggetto di derisione da parte di tutti, fece proposte successive a un’insegnante, a una padrona di casa, a una tabacchiera e a una domestica; ma venne rifiutato da ognuna di loro. Alla fine fu accettato dalla sua cuoca, con la quale ora vive, diventando così un marito sottomesso, un esempio triste di miseria obsoleta, e un monito vivente per tutti quegli uomini anziani ancora ossessionati dalle donne.

CHAPTER VIII—THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION

Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty—what ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you would just have stepped up, in the evening, to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription ‘Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking, in all its branches;’ you’d just have knocked two loud knocks at the street-door; and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies of the most approved description.

If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or if the young lady who called had been recommended by any other young lady whom Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would—so kind, and so comfortable—it really wasn’t like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to be sure, in a low dress with short sleeves; made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom; to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of ‘Missis,’ who wouldn’t allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an arternoon—no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear-rings; let alone hiding people’s heads of hair under them frightful caps. At the termination of this complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and were obliged to keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance—leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service, who had married a great deal better than their missises, and they were not very good-looking either; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing of her; but how she needn’t hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk. And, after expressing due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner: and the one went back to her ‘place,’ and the other, to her room on the second-floor front.

There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service; or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dressmaking or millinery.

A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping company with an ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding-dinner with her presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman had taken a house—no lodgings nor vulgarity of that kind, but a house—four beautiful rooms, and a delightful little washhouse at the end of the passage—which was the most convenient thing in the world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the company, and then run into the little washhouse and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, and then pop back into the parlour again, as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was! Beautiful Kidderminster carpet—six bran-new cane-bottomed stained chairs—three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard—farmer’s girl and farmer’s boy on the mantelpiece: girl tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself, on the handle of a pitchfork—long white dimity curtains in the window—and, in short, everything on the most genteel scale imaginable.

Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle; porter-pots at the corners; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre; vegetables on the floor; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tartlets without number: to say nothing of cheese, and celery, and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the Company! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared, on a subsequent occasion, that, much as she had heard of the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s connexion, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman—and his mother, such a dear old lady—and his sister, such a charming girl—and his brother, such a manly-looking young man—with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately, was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of ‘Red Ruffian, retire!’ it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, ‘thrilling.’ And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the House, his only reply was, that he would back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square—a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn’t bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed that it ‘’ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of.’ So Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he’d think of it.

CAPITOLO VIII – IL TESSITORE IN ERRORE. Una storia di ambizione

Miss Amelia Martin era pallida, di statura media, snella, e aveva ventitré anni; quelle persone dal cuore cattivo l’avrebbero definita “ordinaria”, mentre i rapporti della polizia la trovavano interessante. Era una modista che viveva interamente del proprio lavoro. Se fossi stata una giovane donna al servizio di qualcuno e avessi desiderato conoscere Miss Martin, come facevano molte altre giovani donne in quella situazione, avresti semplicemente bussato alla porta numero quarantasette di Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square. Dopo aver notato la targhetta di bronzo – larga un piede e dieci pollici e alta un piede e mezzo, decorata con maniglie di bronzo in tutti e quattro gli angoli e recante l’iscrizione “Miss Martin; modisteria e sartoria in tutte le sue branche” – avresti bussato due volte forte. E Miss Martin sarebbe scesa personalmente, indossando un abito di merino all’ultima moda, con braccialetti di velluto nero, insomma, tutte le piccole eleganze più apprezzate dell’epoca.

Se la signorina Martin avesse conosciuto la giovane donna che aveva chiamato, o se questa fosse stata raccomandata da un’altra giovane donna che la signorina Martin conosceva, lei l’avrebbe immediatamente fatta salire al piano di sopra, nella stanza affacciata sulla strada principale, e avrebbero chiacchierato insieme, in modo così gentile e così rilassato, davvero non sembrava affatto una questione di lavoro; era così cordiale. Poi, dopo aver osservato attentamente l’aspetto fisico della giovane donna, la signorina Martin avrebbe detto quanto sarebbe stata bella, sicuramente, con un abito scuro e maniche corte, con le gonne ben gonfie e quattro pieghe nella parte posteriore. Alla quale la giovane donna avrebbe risposto esprimendo piena approvazione per quel concetto, e anche il suo sdegno verso quelle “signore” che non permettevano a una ragazza di indossare maniche corte, no, né nulla di elegante, nemmeno un paio di orecchini; lasciavano soltanto che le donne nascondessero i propri capelli sotto quei terribili cappelli. Alla fine di questa conversazione, la signorina Amelia Martin avrebbe espresso alcune oscure sospetti sul fatto che alcune persone fossero gelose delle proprie figlie e quindi si sentissero costrette a nascondere i pregi delle loro domestiche, per paura che queste si sposassero prima di loro, il che non era affatto un caso raro. Almeno lei conosceva due o tre domestiche che si erano sposate con uomini molto migliori delle loro padrone, e nemmeno loro erano particolarmente attraenti. Poi la giovane donna avrebbe confidato alla signorina Martin che una delle loro ragazze era fidanzata con un giovane uomo e stava per sposarlo, ma la padrona ne andava così fiera che non permetteva a nessuno di parlare di lei, anche se, in realtà, lui non era altro che un impiegato. Dopo aver espresso il proprio disprezzo generale per gli impiegati, e soprattutto per quel giovane fidanzato, e dopo aver espresso la massima stima possibile di sé stesse e l’una dell’altra, la signorina Martin e la giovane donna si sarebbero augurate a vicenda una buona notte, in modo amichevole ma perfettamente elegante. Una sarebbe tornata al proprio “posto”, l’altra nella propria stanza al secondo piano.

Non si può dire per quanto tempo la signorina Amelia Martin avrebbe potuto continuare questa vita; quali ampie relazioni avrebbe potuto instaurare tra le giovani donne al suo servizio; o fino a che punto avrebbero potuto aumentare le sue richieste riguardo ai loro introiti trimestrali, se non fosse stato per una serie di circostanze impreviste che avevano indirizzato i suoi pensieri verso un ambito d’azione molto diverso dalla sartoria o dalla produzione di accessori da capelli.

Un’amica di Miss Martin, che da tempo frequentava un apprendista pittore e decoratore, finalmente acconsentì (dopo essere stata espressamente invitata) a indicare la data in cui quell’apprendista sarebbe diventato un marito felice. La cerimonia nuziale fu fissata per un lunedì, e Miss Amelia Martin fu tra le persone invitate ad onorare il banchetto di nozze con la sua presenza. Fu una festa incantevole: il luogo era Somers-town, l’appartamento si trovava al piano terra. L’apprendista pittore e decoratore aveva acquistato una vera e propria casa – non semplici stanze in affitto, ma un’abitazione composta da quattro bellissime camere e un delizioso piccolo lavandino situato all’estremità del corridoio; questo era davvero il luogo più comodo possibile: le damigelle d’onore potevano sedersi nel salotto principale ad accogliere gli ospiti, poi correre nel lavandino per controllare come procedevano la preparazione della torta e del maiale bollito, e infine tornare nel salotto in tutta tranquillità. E che salotto! Tappeti bellissimi di Kidderminster, sei sedie nuove con fondo di canna e rivestite di stoffa colorata, tre bicchieri da vino su ogni comodino. Sul caminetto c’erano una ragazza contadina e un ragazzo contadino: la prima cadeva da uno scaffale, il secondo si sporcava la bocca sulla maniglia di una forca. Lunghe tende bianche alle finestre. In breve, tutto ciò che si potesse desiderare in termini di raffinatezza e eleganza.

Poi venne la cena. In cima c’era una coscia di montone arrosto, in fondo una coscia di montone bollita; al centro, due polli e una coscia di maiale; negli angoli, pentole con stufati; al centro del tavolo, pepe, senape e aceto; verdure sul fondo del tavolo. E poi budino di prugne, torte di mele e piccole tortine in numero incalcolabile. Per non parlare del formaggio, del sedano, delle erbe acquatiche e di tutta quella roba. Quanto alla compagnia. La stessa signorina Amelia Martin, in un’occasione successiva, dichiarò che, per quanto avesse sentito parlare dei legami di quel giovane pittore decorativo con certe persone, non avrebbe mai immaginato che fossero così distinte. C’era suo padre, un vecchio signore davvero divertente; sua madre, una cara vecchia signora; sua sorella, una ragazza incantevole; suo fratello, un giovane dall’aspetto molto mascolino. Ma tutto ciò non era niente in confronto ai suoi amici musicisti: il signor e la signora Jennings Rodolph di White Conduit, con i quali quel giovane pittore aveva avuto la fortuna di instaurare una stretta amicizia mentre decoravano la sala da concerto di quell’istituzione nobile. Ascoltarli cantare singolarmente era divino. Ma quando eseguivano il duetto tragico “Red Ruffian, retire!”, era davvero emozionante, come osservò in seguito la signorina Martin. E perché, come notò il signor Jennings Rodolph, non si esibivano in uno dei teatri ufficiali? Se gli si diceva che le loro voci non erano abbastanza potenti da riempire l’intera sala. L’unica risposta che dava era che avrebbe garantito di riempire interamente Russell Square. Una dichiarazione alla quale tutta la compagnia, dopo aver ascoltato il duetto, credette senza esitazione. Dissero tutti che era un trattamento vergognoso. E sia il signor che la signora Jennings Rodolph concordarono sul fatto che fosse davvero indegno. Il signor Jennings Rodolph sembrò molto serio e disse di sapere chi fossero i suoi nemici malvagi. Ma che avrebbero fatto meglio a stare attenti, perché se lo avessero infastidito troppo, non sapeva ancora se avrebbe deciso di portare la questione davanti al Parlamento. E tutti concordarono sul fatto che gli sarebbe piaciuto molto farlo. E che fosse giusto che persone del genere venissero messe in esempio. Così il signor Jennings Rodolph disse che ci avrebbe pensato.

When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company—a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing frequent allusions to some young gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating ‘Beautiful!’—‘Charming!’—‘Brilliant!’—‘Oh! splendid,’ &c.; and at its close the admiration of himself, and his lady, knew no bounds.

‘Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Never; indeed I never did, love,’ replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Don’t you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?’ asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,’ answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

And thus the time passed away; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking-stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time; and even the funny old gentleman began singing. His song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence—each for himself, without reference to the other—and finally separated: all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening: and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to ‘come out’ without delay.

Now, ‘coming out,’ either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come out with a burst, and being out, to keep out, and not go in again; but, it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties, of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them, of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either—and so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin’s principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin practising. Half-suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly—the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then—the dresses were the result.

Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, and progressed, and was more than half over. The dressmaking business had fallen off, from neglect; and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to the ‘comic gentleman’ whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness—he had composed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived; there was an immense room—ninety-seven sixpenn’orths of gin-and-water, thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painter’s journeyman, with his wife and a select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song—sentimental—by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons—[applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat and more bright basket buttons—[increased applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, ‘Red Ruffian, retire!’—[great applause]. Solo, Miss Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)—‘I am a Friar’—[enthusiasm]. Original duet, comic—Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin—‘The Time of Day.’ ‘Brayvo!—Brayvo!’ cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. ‘Go to work, Harry,’ cried the comic gentleman’s personal friends. ‘Tap-tap-tap,’ went the leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin. ‘Sing out’—shouted one gentleman in a white great-coat. ‘Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,’ exclaimed another, ‘S-s-s-s-s-s-s’-went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. ‘Shame, shame!’ remonstrated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party—‘S-s-s-s’ went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins, and a majority of the brandies.

‘Turn them geese out,’ cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, with great indignation.

‘Sing out,’ whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘So I do,’ responded Miss Amelia Martin.

‘Sing louder,’ said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘I can’t,’ replied Miss Amelia Martin.

Quando la conversazione riprese il tono precedente, il signor Jennings Rodolph rivendicò il proprio diritto di chiamare una signora; e poiché questo diritto gli fu concesso, sperava che la signorina Martin accettasse di unirsi a loro. La proposta ricevette approvazione unanime. Dopo alcune esitazioni e colpi di tosse, la signorina Martin iniziò a cantare una sorta di melodia acuta, facendo frequenti riferimenti a un giovane gentiluomo di nome Henry, e occasionalmente menzionando anche la >pazzia e i cuori spezzati. Il signor Jennings Rodolph interrompeva spesso il corso della sua esibizione, esclamando “Bello!”、“Incantevole!”、“Straordinario!” e simili; alla fine, l’ammirazione per sé stesso e per la sua compagna non conosceva limiti.

“Hai mai sentito una voce così dolce, mia cara?” chiese il signor Jennings Rodolph alla moglie, la signora Jennings Rodolph.

“Mai; davvero non l’ho mai fatto, amore mio,” rispose la signora Jennings Rodolph.

“Non pensate che, con un po’ di cura, la signorina Martin assomiglierebbe molto alla signora Marra Boni, cara mia?” chiese il signor Jennings Rodolph.

“Proprio quella cosa che mi ha colpito di più, mio amore,” rispose la signora Jennings Rodolph.

E così il tempo passò; il signor Jennings Rodolph suonò melodie con un bastone da passeggio, poi andò dietro la porta del salotto e fece le sue celebri imitazioni di attori, strumenti taglienti e animali; la signorina Martin cantò altre diverse >canti, suscitando ogni volta maggiore ammirazione; persino il vecchio signore divertente iniziò a cantare. La sua canzone aveva ben sette strofe, ma poiché non riusciva a ricordarne più di una, la cantò sette volte di seguito, apparentemente molto soddisfatto di sé. Alla fine tutti insieme cantarono l’inno nazionale, ognuno per conto proprio, senza coordinarsi gli uni con gli altri; poi si separarono, dichiarando tutti che non avevano mai trascorso una serata così piacevole. E la signorina Martin decise nel suo cuore di seguire il consiglio del signor Jennings Rodolph e “uscire” senza indugiare.

Oggi, “uscire allo scoperto”, sia nel campo dell’attore, del cantante, della vita sociale, della capacità di scherzare o in qualsiasi altro ambito, è generalmente una cosa molto positiva e particolarmente piacevole per la persona coinvolta, purché riesca a farlo in modo deciso e a mantenere quella posizione senza tornare indietro; purtroppo, tuttavia, entrambi questi obiettivi risultano estremamente difficili da raggiungere. Le difficoltà legate al primo passo – cioè a “uscire allo scoperto” – sono quasi uguali a quelle del secondo passo, ovvero a mantenere quella posizione; e non si tratta affatto di problemi minori. Come scoprì presto la signorina Amelia Martin. È un fatto curioso che, in questo caso, il principale difetto della signorina Amelia Martin fosse la vanità, mentre la caratteristica principale della signora Jennings Rodolph era la passione per l’abbigliamento. Si udivano lamenti disperati provenire dal secondo piano dell’abitazione numero 47 di Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square: era la signorina Martin che si esercitava. Murmuri soffocati disturbavano la tranquilla dignità dell’orchestra del White Conduit all’inizio della stagione musicale. La causa di tutto ciò? L’apparizione della signora Jennings Rodolph in abiti da sera. La signorina Martin studiava incessantemente. E gli esercizi erano la conseguenza di questo impegno. La signora Jennings Rodolph, di tanto in tanto, insegnava gratuitamente. E i vestiti, beh, erano il risultato di questi insegnamenti.

Passarono delle settimane; la stagione dei concerti “White Conduit” era iniziata e si stava svolgendo, essendo ormai giunta a più della metà del suo percorso. L’attività di sartoria aveva subito un calo a causa della trascuratezza, e i suoi profitti erano diminuiti in modo quasi impercettibile. Si avvicinava una serata di beneficenza; il signor Jennings Rodolph cedette alle insistenti richieste della signorina Amelia Martin e la presentò personalmente al “gentiluomo comico” a cui era destinata la serata. Il gentiluomo comico era pieno di sorrisi e affabilità: aveva composto un duetto appositamente per l’occasione, e la signorina Martin avrebbe dovuto cantarlo insieme a lui. La sera arrivò; c’era una stanza enorme, novantasette pinte di gin e acqua, trentadue bicchieri piccoli di brandy e acqua, venticinque bottiglie di birra e quarantuno negus. L’apprendista pittore decorativo, insieme a sua moglie e un ristretto gruppo di conoscenti, era seduto a uno dei tavolini laterali vicino all’orchestra. Il concerto iniziò. Una canzone sentimentale, cantata da un giovane gentiluomo dai capelli biondi in abito blu e bottoni luminosi. [Applausi]. Un’altra canzone, piuttosto dubbia, cantata da un altro gentiluomo con lo stesso abbigliamento. [Applausi crescenti]. Il duetto: il signor Jennings Rodolph e la signora Jennings Rodolph. [Grandi applausi]. Un assolo della signorina Julia Montague. [Entusiasmo]. Un duetto originale, comico, il signor H. Taplin e la signorina Martin, “L’ora del giorno, ” “Bravo! Bravo!” esclamò il gruppo dell’apprendista pittore decorativo, mentre la signorina Martin veniva gentilmente fatta entrare dal gentiluomo comico. “Vai a lavorare, Harry”, disse uno degli amici personali del gentiluomo comico. Il leader iniziò a suonare il pianoforte. La sinfonia iniziò. Poco dopo seguì un tipo di canto sommesso, che sembrava provenire dalle profondità dell’interno della signorina Amelia Martin, “Canta più forte!”, gridò qualcuno in abito bianco, “Non aver paura di aumentare il volume, vecchia mia”, esclamò un altro, “Sssss, ” risuonarono le venticinque bottiglie di birra, “Che vergogna!”, rimproverò il gruppo dell’apprendista pittore decorativo, “Sssss, ” risuonarono di nuovo le bottiglie di birra, accompagnate da tutte le pinte di gin e dalla maggior parte dei brandy.

“Mandateli via, quei polli,” gridò con grande indignazione il gruppo di apprendisti del pittore decorativo.

“Canta,” sussurrò il signor Jennings Rodolph.

“Lo so,” rispose la signorina Amelia Martin.

“Canta più forte,” disse la signora Jennings Rodolph.

“Non posso,” rispose la signorina Amelia Martin.

‘Off, off, off,’ cried the rest of the audience.

‘Bray-vo!’ shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t do—Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered it; and, as she couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour, without being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin’s good humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the local abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation that Miss Martin possessed.

CHAPTER IX—THE DANCING ACADEMY

Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi’s, of the ‘King’s Theatre.’ It was not in Spring-gardens, or Newman-street, or Berners-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street, or Percy-street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses; it was not in the West-end at all—it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane. It was not a dear dancing academy—four-and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter’s payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition—an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi’s family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance with; and when he had been sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the assembly-room.

Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, when Mr. Augustus Cooper, of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement walking leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi, of the King’s Theatre, intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball.

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line—just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who, having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease; and so, somehow or other, he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the shop on week-days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days; whereas Young White, at the gas-fitter’s over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin’—going to the theatre—supping at harmonic meetings—eating oysters by the barrel—drinking stout by the gallon—even out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be ‘blowed,’ in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street-door key. And he was walking down Holborn-hill, thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at four-and-sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself and great delight to his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped advertisement—an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards—and having procured a very small card with the Signor’s address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor’s house—and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five-and-seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and, what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man—and so polite! The list was not full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up, that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and, being very much afraid that the lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her.

‘And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,’ said Signor Billsmethi, ‘that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper—I don’t say it to flatter you, for I know you’re above it—that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and appearance, sir.’

‘I am very glad of it too, sir,’ said Augustus Cooper.

‘And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,’ said Signor Billsmethi.

‘And I’m sure I hope we shall too, sir,’ responded Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and in came a young lady, with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her ankles.

‘Don’t run away, my dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi; for the young lady didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. ‘Don’t run away, my dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi, ‘this is Mr. Cooper—Mr. Cooper, of Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, sir—Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I hope will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet, gavotte, country-dance, fandango, double-hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir; and so shall you, sir, before you’re a quarter older, sir.’

“Via, via, via,” gridarono gli altri spettatori.

“Bravo!”, gridò il gruppo di amici del pittore. Non poteva andare così: la signorina Amelia Martin lasciò l’orchestra con molto meno cerimonie di quando vi era entrata; e, poiché non riusciva a cantare ad alta voce, non uscì mai più. L’atmosfera generale di buon umore non tornò alla normalità fino a quando il signor Jennings Rodolph non divenne viola in viso dopo aver imitato diversi quadrupedi per mezz’ora senza riuscire a farsi sentire; e, ancora oggi, né il buon umore della signorina Amelia Martin è tornato, né i vestiti fatti e regalati alla signora Jennings Rodolph, né le capacità locali di cui il signor Jennings Rodolph un tempo aveva scommesso la sua reputazione professionale, affermando che la signorina Martin le possedesse.

capitolo IX – L’ACADEMIA DELLA DANZA

Di tutte le accademie di danza che siano mai state fondate, nessuna fu mai più popolare nelle immediate vicinanze della Signorina Billsmethi, presso il teatro “Re”. Non si trovava nei giardini primaverili, né in Newman-street, né in Berners-street, né in Gower-street, né in Charlotte-street, né in Percy-street, né in alcuna delle numerose strade dedicate da tempo a professionisti, istituti e pensioni; anzi, si trovava nella parte orientale di Londra, nel popoloso e in via di sviluppo quartiere di Gray’s-inn-lane. Non era un’accademia di danza costosa: quattro o sei pence a trimestre rappresentavano decisamente un prezzo conveniente. Era però molto selettiva: il numero degli allievi era strettamente limitato a settantacinque, e il pagamento di un trimestre in anticipo veniva rigorosamente richiesto. Offriva sia lezioni pubbliche che private, una sala riunioni e un salotto privato. La famiglia del Signor Billsmethi partecipava sempre alle attività del salotto ed era inclusa nel prezzo delle lezioni; in altre parole, gli allievi privati avevano a disposizione sia il salotto del Signor Billsmethi per esercitarsi, sia la sua famiglia con cui danzare. Una volta che gli allievi si erano sufficientemente abituati alle attività nel salotto, iniziavano a esibirsi anche in coppie nella sala riunioni.

Ecco com’era l’accademia di danza del signor Billsmethi, quando il signor Augustus Cooper, di Fetter-lane, vide per la prima volta un annuncio non timbrato che camminava tranquillamente lungo Holborn Hill, annunciando al mondo intero che il signor Billsmethi, del Teatro del Re, intendeva aprire la stagione con un grande ballo.

Ora, il signor Augustus Cooper lavorava nel settore dell’olio e dei colori: aveva appena raggiunto l’età legale, possedeva un po’ di denaro, un piccolo negozio e una madre che, avendo gestito il marito e il suo business durante la sua vita, continuò a farlo anche dopo la sua morte. Così, in qualche modo, lui passava i giorni rinchiuso nel piccolo salotto sul retro del negozio, e le domeniche si recava alla Bethel Chapel, seduto in una specie di banchetto senza coperchio. Non vedeva il mondo più di quanto avrebbe visto un bambino; mentre Young White, che abitava dall’altro lato della strada e aveva tre anni meno di lui, trascorreva le sue giornate andando al teatro, partecipando a riunioni musicali, mangiando ostriche e bevendo birra. Persino tutta la notte, per poi tornare a casa la mattina seguente come se nulla fosse accaduto. Così il signor Augustus decise che non avrebbe più potuto sopportarlo, e quella stessa mattina comunicò alla madre la sua ferma intenzione di “fare qualcosa”, se non gli avessero immediatamente fornito una chiave per l’ingresso principale. Camminava lungo Holborn Hill, pensando a tutto questo e chiedendosi come potesse entrare a far parte della società elegante per la prima volta. Quando i suoi occhi si posarono sull’annuncio del signor Billsmethi, capì immediatamente che era esattamente ciò di cui aveva bisogno: non solo avrebbe potuto scegliere subito un ambiente sociale appropriato tra quei cinquantasette studenti che pagavano soltanto quattro pence e mezzo al quarto, ma avrebbe anche potuto imparare a suonare la cornamusa in società, con facilità per sé stesso e grande divertimento per i suoi amici. Così fermò quell’annuncio non timbrato, procurò un biglietto con l’indirizzo del signor Billsmethi e si diresse immediatamente verso la sua casa. Camminava velocemente, temendo che l’elenco potesse essere riempito prima che arrivasse. Il signor Billsmethi era in casa. E, cosa ancora più gratificante, era inglese! Un uomo così gentile e cortese. L’elenco non era ancora completo, ma c’era soltanto un posto libero. E anche quello sarebbe stato occupato quella stessa mattina, se il signor Billsmethi non fosse stato insoddisfatto della referenza fornita. E, temendo molto che la donna in questione non fosse adatta, aveva deciso di non prenderla.

“E sono davvero molto felice, signor Cooper,” disse il signor Billsmethi, “di non averla presa. Vi assicuro, signor Cooper. Non lo dico per lusingarvi, perché so che siete al di sopra di queste cose. Ma ritengo di essere estremamente fortunata ad avere un gentiluomo con i vostri modi e il vostro aspetto, signore.”

“Anch’io ne sono molto felice, signore,” disse Augustus Cooper.

“E spero che possiamo diventare più intimi, signore,” disse il signor Billsmethi.

“E sono sicuro che anche noi lo faremo, signore,” rispose Augustus Cooper.
In quel momento, la porta si aprì e entrò una giovane donna: i suoi capelli erano raccolti in una coda alta sulla testa, e le scarpe erano legate a sandali intorno ai polpacci.

“Non scappare, mia cara,” disse il signor Billsmethi; perché la giovane signorina non sapeva che il signor Cooper fosse lì quando era entrata e stava per scappare via di nuovo, per timidezza e confusione. “Non scappare, mia cara,” ripeté il signor Billsmethi, “questo è il signor Cooper. Il signor Cooper di Fetter-lane. Signor Cooper, mia figlia, la signorina Billsmethi, che spero avrà il piacere di ballare con voi molte quadriglie, minuetti, gavotte, danze country, fandango e altre danze ancora. Lei le sa ballare tutte; e anche voi, signore, le imparerete prima ancora di invecchiare di un quarto d’anno.”

And Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years,—so friendly;—and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him, and Signor Billsmethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d wish to see; upon which the young lady exclaimed, ‘Lor, pa!’ and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself—you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp at a chemist’s shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night—taking them just as they were—no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind—and learn his positions in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball.

Well; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers’ shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence, and men’s strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi’s. There were four other private pupils in the parlour: two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of pride about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable; and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over, Signor Billsmethi, and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies, and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille—none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work, flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door,—something like dancing! Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper, and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, ‘strike ’em wulgar if they’d stand that;’ and were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness to allow him—and they had the kindness to allow him; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot. They had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper’s hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o’clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief.

Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together, for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and, after a grand Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It was a night! Everything was admirably arranged. The sandwich-boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra potboy was laid on for the occasion. In short, nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew: not only one another, but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi, in black tights, with a large blue bow in his buttonhole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers: and the ladies talked away—and laughed they did—it was delightful to see them.

As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld; there was such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, and then disentangling them again! And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably. He was missing from his partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, without any definite object; but, generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, until he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain; and ‘stood’ considerable quantities of spirits-and-water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five-and-seventy pupils.

E il signor Bellsmethi diede una pacca sulla schiena al signor Augustus Cooper, come se lo conoscesse da dodici anni, con tale cordialità! Il signor Cooper fece un inchino alla giovane signora, che rispose con un inchino a sua volta; il signor Bellsmethi disse che erano davvero una coppia bellissima, proprio come avrebbe desiderato vederli. Allora la giovane signora esclamò: “Oh mio Dio!”, arrossendo fino al viso, proprio come il signor Cooper. Si sarebbe potuto pensare che stessero entrambi sotto una lampada rossa in un negozio di farmacia! Prima che il signor Cooper se ne andasse, fu deciso che si unisse al loro circolo familiare quella stessa notte, senza alcuna cerimonia o formalità, affinché non perdesse tempo e potesse partecipare al ballo imminente.

Bene; il signor Augustus Cooper andò in uno di quei negozi economici di scarpe di Holborn, dove le scarpe da sera per gentiluomini costano sette penny e sei, mentre le scarpe robuste da camminata non costano nulla, e comprò un paio di quelle normali, a sette penny e sei, con la suola alta, adatte per la città. Si meravigliò molto di sé stesso, così come sua madre, e poi andò da signor Billsmethi. Nella sala c’erano altri quattro allievi privati: due signore e due gentiluomini. Che persone gentili! Non avevano affatto un briciolo di orgoglio. Una delle signore, in particolare, che stava imparando a ballare la danza della Columbine, era estremamente affabile; lei e miss Billsmethi si interessavano molto al signor Augustus Cooper, scherzavano, sorridevano e sembravano davvero incantevoli. Così lui imparò i passi della danza in poco tempo. Dopo l’allenamento, signor Billsmethi, miss Billsmethi, il giovane signor Billsmethi, una ragazza, le due signore e i due gentiluomini ballarono una quadriglia: niente movimenti scivolosi o complicati, ma passi regolari e energici. Signor Billsmith, nonostante dovesse suonare il violino durante tutta la danza, partecipò attivamente a ogni figura; il giovane signor Billsmith, mentre tutti gli altri erano senza fiato, ballò una danza con un bastone in mano e una tavoletta di formaggio in testa, suscitando l’ammirazione generale. Poi, poiché erano così felici, signor Billsmethi insistette affinché tutti rimanessero a cena e propose di mandare il giovane signor Billsmith a comprare la birra e gli alcolici. I due gentiluomini giurarono che non avrebbero mai accettato una cosa del genere; stavano per litigare su chi dovesse pagare, quando il signor Augustus Cooper si offrì di farlo, se loro glielo permettevano. E loro glielo permisero davvero. Il giovane signor Billsmith portò la birra in una lattina e il rum in un barile da un litro. Passarono una serata molto piacevole; miss Billsmethi strinse la mano del signor Augustus Cooper sotto il tavolo. Lui ricambiò la stretta e tornò a casa verso le sei di mattina, dove fu messo a letto con la forza dall’apprendista. Dopo aver espresso più volte il desiderio incontrollabile di gettare suo padre dalla finestra del secondo piano e di soffocare l’apprendista con il proprio fazzoletto da collo.

Le settimane passavano, e quegli abiti da poco prezzo che i giovani avevano indossato quasi si erano consumati, quando arrivò la notte del grande ballo in maschera, durante il quale tutti e cinquantasette gli studenti si sarebbero riuniti per la prima volta di quella stagione, per spendere i loro rispettivi quattro penny in olio da lampada e musicisti. Il signor Augustus Cooper aveva ordinato un nuovo abito apposta per l’occasione: uno costoso due sterline e dieci scellini presso il negozio di Turnstile. Era la sua prima apparizione in pubblico; dopo una splendida danza con sciarpe siciliane eseguita da quattordici giovani donne in costume, avrebbe dovuto aprire la sequenza delle danze quadrille insieme alla stessa signorina Billsmethi, con cui aveva stretto una buona amicizia sin dal loro primo incontro. Che notte! Tutto era stato organizzato in modo impeccabile: il ragazzo incaricato di prendere cappelli e berretti si trovava all’ingresso della strada; nel salotto posteriore c’era un letto pieghevole su cui la signorina Billsmethi preparava tè e caffè per quei gentiluomini che erano disposti a pagarli, e per quelle dame che i gentiluomini invitavano. Vino rosso e limonata venivano serviti a diciotto penny a testa; inoltre, su richiesta del pub all’angolo della strada, era stato assunto un altro cameriere per l’occasione. Insomma, nulla poteva superare le preparazioni, tranne la compagnia. Che dame! Che calze di seta rosa! Che fiori artificiali! Quanti taxi. Non appena uno taxi lasciava due signore davanti a un edificio, un altro arrivava subito dopo con altre due signore. E tutte conoscevano non solo l’una l’altra, ma anche la maggior parte dei gentiluomini presenti. Il tutto rendeva l’atmosfera ancora più piacevole e vivace. Il signor Billsmethi, in calzamaglie nere con un grande fiocco blu all’occhiello, presentava le dame ai gentiluomini che non le conoscevano. Le dame chiacchieravano senza sosta, ridevano. Era davvero delizioso vederle.

Quanto alla danza con lo scialle, fu davvero la cosa più emozionante che si fosse mai vista: c’era tanto svolazzare, frusciare e movimento, con le signore che si impigliavano nelle fioriture artificiali per poi essere di nuovo liberate! Per quanto riguarda il ruolo del signor Augustus Cooper nella quadriglia, se la cavò in modo ammirevole. A volte scompariva dalla sua partner, ma in tali occasioni si scopriva che stava ballando con grande perseveranza in un altro gruppo, oppure si muoveva senza uno scopo preciso. Comunque sia, alla fine riuscì a completare la danza nel posto giusto. Quando finì, molte signore e gentiluomini gli fecero i complimenti, dicendo che non avevano mai visto un principiante comportarsi in quel modo; il signor Augustus Cooper fu assolutamente soddisfatto di sé, così come tutti gli altri. E bevve anche una discreta quantità di alcolici, negus e altre bevande, a beneficio di due o tre dozzine di amici molto particolari, selezionati tra il ristretto gruppo dei settantacinque studenti.

Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged, rather than repelled, the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico who had appeared particularly struck with him from the first; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by calling the young lady in brown gauze a ‘creeter,’ which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking; and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils, that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her; on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he ‘wanted anything for himself,’ he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer’s letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till: which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps. And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser.

CHAPTER X—SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE

There are certain descriptions of people who, oddly enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them, every day, in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere; they seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate the remark by a variety of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a specimen—that class which is so aptly and expressively designated as ‘shabby-genteel.’

Now, shabby people, God knows, may be found anywhere, and genteel people are not articles of greater scarcity out of London than in it; but this compound of the two—this shabby-gentility—is as purely local as the statue at Charing-cross, or the pump at Aldgate. It is worthy of remark, too, that only men are shabby-genteel; a woman is always either dirty and slovenly in the extreme, or neat and respectable, however poverty-stricken in appearance. A very poor man, ‘who has seen better days,’ as the phrase goes, is a strange compound of dirty-slovenliness and wretched attempts at faded smartness.

We will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man, lounging up Drury-Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long-acre, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with grease-spots: the trousers made very full over the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each leg—wearing, also, what has been a brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at the side, cocked over his right eye—don’t pity him. He is not shabby-genteel. The ‘harmonic meetings’ at some fourth-rate public-house, or the purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts; he entertains a rooted antipathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar terms with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close as he can to the area-railings, a man of about forty or fifty, clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees-waxed—the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for the look of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off at the heels,—if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white neckerchief is carefully pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will make your heart ache—always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor a political economist.

We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man; he was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind’s eye all night. The man of whom Sir Walter Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet, that we sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice, by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had before him a couple of shabby-genteel books—two old dog’s-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon; and when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where else to go, for warmth and quiet. There he used to sit all day, as close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on his coat: with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation.

Ora, che si trattasse della forza di quei composti, della bellezza delle signore, o di altro ancora, fatto sta che il signor Augustus Cooper incoraggiò, anziché respingere, le attenzioni molto lusinghiere di una giovane donna vestita di garza marrone su calico bianco, la quale sembrava essere particolarmente colpita da lui fin dall’inizio; e quando queste attenzioni continuarono per un certo tempo, la signorina Billsmethi manifestò il proprio risentimento e invidia, chiamando la giovane donna in garza marrone “puttana”, il che indusse quest’ultima a replicare con frasi offensive basate sul fatto che al signor Augustus Cooper venivano pagati quattro pence e sei penny alla settimana; il signor Augustus Cooper, trovandosi in quel momento in uno stato di notevole confusione, acconsentì pienamente a quelle accuse. La signorina Billsmethi, una volta espressa la propria rabbia, iniziò a urlare ad alta voce, quattordici volte al minuto; non avendo ottenuto nulla, attaccò con violenza gli occhi e il viso sia della giovane donna che del signor Augustus Cooper, chiamando poi disperatamente gli altri trentasette studenti affinché le fornissero acido oxalico da bere personalmente; poiché questa richiesta non fu accolta, attaccò di nuovo il signor Augustus Cooper, e le sue stringhe vennero tagliate; infine fu portata a letto. Il signor Augustus Cooper, non essendo particolarmente veloce nell’intuire ciò che accadeva, non riusciva a capire il significato di tutto questo, fino a quando il signor Billsmethi non gli spiegò tutto in modo molto chiaro, raccontando agli studenti che il signor Augustus Cooper aveva fatto e confermato diverse promesse di matrimonio con sua figlia in varie occasioni, per poi abbandonarla in modo ignobile; di fronte a questo, l’indignazione degli studenti divenne generale; e poiché alcuni gentiluomini chiesero con insistenza al signor Augustus Cooper se avesse bisogno di qualcosa per sé, egli ritenne opportuno ritirarsi in fretta. Alla fine, il giorno dopo arrivò una lettera da un avvocato e la settimana successiva fu intentata una causa legale; il signor Augustus Cooper, dopo aver tentato due volte di suicidarsi nel Serpentine, senza riuscirci, confidò tutto a sua madre, la quale risolse la questione pagando venti sterline dal fondo della scuola; queste venti sterline, più quattro scellini e sei pence spesi per le spese varie, furono versate alla signorina Billsmethi. Il signor Augustus Cooper tornò a vivere con sua madre e lì vive ancora oggi; poiché ha perso ogni desiderio di partecipare alla vita sociale e non esce mai più, non saprà mai nulla di questa storia su di sé e non diventerà mai più saggio.

capitolo X – GENTI MEZZO-CULTA E MEZZO-POPOLARE

Ci sono alcune descrizioni di persone che, stranamente, sembrano appartenere esclusivamente alla metropoli. Le incontri ogni giorno per le strade di Londra, ma nessuno le incontra altrove; sembrano essere “indigene” di quel luogo, appartenenti a Londra tanto quanto il suo fumo o i suoi edifici grigi e malandati. Potremmo fornire molti esempi per illustrare questo fenomeno, ma nel nostro attuale skizzo ci limiteremo a menzionare un solo gruppo di persone come esempio rappresentativo: quel gruppo che è stato così appropriatamente definito “shabby-genteel”.

Ora, persone di condizione modesta, Dio sa, si possono trovare ovunque; e le persone distinte non sono certo più rare fuori da Londra che al suo interno. Ma questa combinazione tra i due tipi di persone – questa sorta di “modestia distinta” – è caratteristica esclusivamente di questa città, proprio come la statua di Charing Cross o la fontana di Aldgate. È anche degno di nota il fatto che soltanto gli uomini possano essere considerati di questo tipo; una donna, invece, è sempre o estremamente sporca e trasandata, oppure pulita e rispettabile, indipendentemente dalla sua condizione economica. Un uomo molto povero, “che un tempo ha vissuto meglio”, come si suol dire, rappresenta una strana combinazione di trascuratezza e tentativi falliti di apparire eleganti.

Ci impegneremo ad spiegare la nostra concezione del termine che costituisce il titolo di questo articolo. Se incontrate un uomo che se ne sta sdraiato su Drury-Lane o appoggiato a un palo a Long-acre, con le mani nelle tasche di un paio di pantaloni scuri e macchiati d’olio; pantaloni che si allargano molto sopra gli stivali e decorati con due cordoni lungo i lati esterni delle gambe; che indossa inoltre un cappotto marrone con bottoni brillanti e un cappello stretto sul lato, inclinato sopra l’occhio destro, non provate pietà per lui. Non è certo un “gentiluomo di bassa condizione”. I “raduni armoniosi” in qualche teatro di quarta categoria o nei locali privati sono i suoi luoghi preferiti; nutre un’antipatia profonda verso qualsiasi tipo di lavoro e ha rapporti stretti con alcuni attori di pantomima dei teatri più grandi. Ma se vedete un uomo che corre lungo una strada secondaria, tenendosi il più possibile vicino alle ringhiere, di circa quaranta o cinquant’anni, vestito con un vecchio abito nero logoro e consumato, i pantaloni stretti in vita, sia per estetica che per evitare che le sue vecchie scarpe scivolino, se notate anche che il suo fazzoletto bianco-giallastro è ben fissato intorno al collo per nascondere i vestiti laceri sotto di esso, e che le sue mani sono avvolte nei resti di un vecchio paio di guanti di castoro, allora potete considerarlo senz’altro un “gentiluomo di bassa condizione”. Un’occhiata a quel viso cupo e a quell’aria timida, tipica della consapevolezza della povertà, farà certamente male al vostro cuore, sempre ammesso che non siate né filosofi né economisti politici.

Un tempo fummo perseguitati da un uomo di modi affettatamente raffinati; era fisicamente presente ai nostri sensi tutto il giorno e appariva costantemente nei nostri pensieri di notte. L’uomo di cui parla Sir Walter Scott nella sua “Demonologia” non subì nemmeno la metà delle persecuzioni causate da quel suo immaginario “cameriere in velluto nero”, rispetto a quelle che noi subimmo a causa del nostro amico, un tempo vestito di abiti neri. Ci attirò per la prima volta l’attenzione quando si sedette di fronte a noi nella sala lettura del British Museum; ciò che lo rendeva ancora più strano era il fatto che sempre aveva davanti a sé due libri di modi affettatamente raffinati: due vecchi volumi logori e consumati, con copertine marcite dai vermi, che un tempo dovevano essere stati molto belli. Ogni mattina arrivava alle dieci in punto; era sempre l’ultimo ad uscire dalla sala nel pomeriggio, e lo faceva con l’aria di chi non sapesse dove altro andare per trovare calore e tranquillità. Lì sedeva tutto il giorno, il più vicino possibile al tavolo, per nascondere la mancanza dei bottoni sul suo cappotto; il suo vecchio cappello era posizionato con cura ai suoi piedi, probabilmente convinto che così sfuggisse all’attenzione degli altri.

About two o’clock, you would see him munching a French roll or a penny loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who knew he was only making a lunch; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner.

When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impossible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far, as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter; he grew more and more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over—on the other side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead.

We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge—whether he really was dead or had only been arrested—when our conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man himself. He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep, glossy black; and yet they looked like the same suit; nay, there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had made us familiar. The hat, too—nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown gradually increasing in circumference towards the top. Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint; but, now, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed suddenly upon us—they had been ‘revived.’ It is a deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver; we have watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a temporary assumption of importance: possibly into the purchase of a new pair of gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in this case; the transient dignity of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the ‘reviver’ wore off. The knees of the unmentionables, and the elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began to get alarmingly white. The hat was once more deposited under the table, and its owner crept into his seat as quietly as ever.

There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration the ‘reviver’ had entirely vanished, and the shabby-genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improvement in his outward appearance.

It would be difficult to name any particular part of town as the principal resort of shabby-genteel men. We have met a great many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court. They may be met with, in Holborn, between eight and ten any morning; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors’ Court will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on ‘Change, by any chance, without seeing some shabby-genteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business they can have there. They will sit there, for hours, leaning on great, dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to them, nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing together on ‘Change, but our experience assures us that this is an uncommon circumstance, occasioned by the offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such civility.

It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign any particular spot for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to enumerate their general occupations. We were never engaged in business with more than one shabby-genteel man; and he was a drunken engraver, and lived in a damp back-parlour in a new row of houses at Camden-town, half street, half brick-field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel man may have no occupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent, or a wine merchant, or a collector of debts, or a broker’s assistant, or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of the lowest description, or a contributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know not; this we know—that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels his poverty and vainly strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people.

CHAPTER XI—MAKING A NIGHT OF IT

Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend: and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have, however, grown obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except the sham ones, and they cost half-a-crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times, have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand. We have Potter and Smithers on the other; and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof.

Intorno alle due di ore, lo si vedeva masticare un panino francese o una pagnotta; non li tirava fuori dalla tasca all’improvviso, come uno che sapesse di stare solo pranzando, ma ne spezzava piccoli pezzi nella tasca e li mangiava di nascosto. Sapeva troppo bene che quello era il suo pasto serale.

Quando vedemmo per la prima volta questo povero individuo, pensammo fosse del tutto impossibile che il suo abbigliamento potesse peggiorare ancora. Arrivammo persino a ipotizzare che potesse presto apparire con un decente abito di seconda mano. Non sapevamo nulla al riguardo; ogni giorno sembrava diventare sempre più trasandato. I bottoni del gilet gli cadevano uno dopo l’altro; poi si abbottonava il cappotto. E quando un lato del cappotto finiva nello stesso stato del gilet, se lo abbottonava dall’altra parte. All’inizio della settimana sembrava un po’ meglio rispetto alla fine, perché la cravatta, anche se gialla, non era così logora. E, nonostante tutta questa miseria, non si presentava mai senza guanti e cinture. Rimase in questo stato per una o due settimane. Alla fine, uno dei bottoni sul dorso del cappotto cadde. E poi quell’uomo stesso scomparve; pensammo fosse morto.

Eravamo seduti allo stesso tavolo circa una settimana dopo la sua scomparsa; quando i nostri occhi si posarono sulla sua sedia vuota, iniziammo inconsciamente a riflettere sul motivo della sua ritirata dalla vita pubblica. Ci chiedevamo se si fosse impiccato o se si fosse gettato da un ponte, se fosse davvero morto o semplicemente arrestato. Quando, all’improvviso, l’uomo stesso entrò nella stanza. Era cambiato in modo strano: camminava al centro della sala con un’aria che dimostrava quanto fosse consapevole del miglioramento del proprio aspetto. I suoi abiti erano di un nero lucido e elegante, ma sembravano gli stessi di prima; anzi, c’erano persino le stesse cuciture che quegli vecchi conoscenti ci avevano fatto notare in precedenza. Anche il cappello, nessuno avrebbe potuto confonderne la forma: con quella sua alta tesa che aumentava di circonferenza verso l’alto. Il lungo uso gli aveva conferito una tonalità marrone rossastro, ma ora era nero come il resto dell’abito. All’improvviso ci rendemmo conto della verità: quell’uomo era stato “resuscitato” con un qualche liquido ingannevole. Ne avevamo visto gli effetti su molti uomini di condizione modesta: per un po’ sembravano più importanti, magari compravano un paio di guanti nuovi o qualche altro oggetto insignificante. Ma poi il loro spirito si abbassava ancora di più rispetto al livello precedente. E in questo caso fu lo stesso: la momentanea dignità di quell’uomo sfortunato svanì non appena l’effetto del “liquido resuscitatore” finì. Le ginocchia dei suoi abiti, le cuciture, tutto iniziò rapidamente a diventare bianco. Il cappello fu nuovamente posato sotto il tavolo, e il suo proprietario tornò al proprio posto in silenzio, come sempre.

Passò una settimana di piogge leggere e nebbia continua. Al termine di quella settimana, quel “rinnovatore” era completamente scomparso, e quell’uomo dall’aspetto trasandato non tentò mai più di migliorare il proprio aspetto esteriore.

Sarebbe difficile indicare una particolare zona della città come il principale ritrovo di questi uomini di condizione sociale modesta ma dall’aspetto elegante. Ne abbiamo incontrati molti nei dintorni delle osterie del court; si possono trovare anche a Holborn, tra le otto e le dieci di mattina. Chiunque abbia la curiosità di entrare nel Tribunale dei Debitori Insolventi noterà, sia tra i spettatori che tra gli avvocati, una grande varietà di persone di questo tipo. Non abbiamo mai fatto acquisti al mercato senza incontrarne alcuni; ci siamo spesso chiesti quale potesse essere la loro occupazione lì. Si siedono per ore, appoggiati a grandi ombrelli umidi e muffiti, oppure mangiano biscotti Abernethy. Nessuno parla con loro, e nemmeno loro parlano con nessuno. A pensarci bene, ricordiamo di aver visto occasionalmente due di questi uomini conversare insieme al mercato, ma la nostra esperienza ci assicura che si tratta di un evento raro, solitamente scatenato dall’offerta di una pizzico di tabacco o da qualche altro gesto cortese.

Sarebbe un compito altrettanto difficile sia individuare con precisione il luogo dove risiedono queste persone, sia cercare di elencare le loro occupazioni generali. Non abbiamo mai avuto a che fare con più di un uomo di condizione “modesta”, e lui era un incisore ubriaco che viveva in una stanza umida al piano di sopra di una nuova fila di case nel quartiere di Camden Town: mezzo vicolo, mezzo campo di mattoni, da qualche parte vicino al canale. Un uomo di condizione “modesta” potrebbe non avere alcuna occupazione, oppure potrebbe essere un agente commerciale del grano, del carbone, del vino, un riscuotitore di debiti, un assistente di broker o un avvocato fallito. Potrebbe essere un impiegato di infimo rango o uno collaboratore della stampa dello stesso livello. Non sappiamo se i nostri lettori abbiano mai notato queste persone nei loro spostamenti, tanto quanto noi; quello che sappiamo è che l’uomo miseramente povero (che sia vittima delle proprie azioni o di quelle altrui) che si rende conto della propria povertà e cerca invano di nasconderla, rappresenta uno degli esseri più deplorabili nell’>natura umana. Questi individui, con poche eccezioni, sono proprio le persone di condizione “modesta”.

CAPITOLO XI – TRASCORRERE LA NOTTE IN MANIERA SPECIALE

Damon e Pythias erano senza dubbio due ottimi compagni a modo loro: il primo per la sua estrema disponibilità ad offrire garanzie speciali per un amico; il secondo per una certa puntualità, quasi “trumpesca”, nel presentarsi proprio all’ultimo momento, altrettanto notevole. Tuttavia, molti aspetti del loro carattere sono ormai obsoleti. Oggi è davvero difficile trovare persone come Damon, in questi tempi di carcerazione per debiti (a meno che non si tratti di quelle fittizie, che costano mezza corona); quanto ai Pythias, i pochi esistenti in quest’epoca degenerata hanno la sfortuna di rendersi rari proprio nel momento in cui la loro presenza sarebbe stata assolutamente “classica”. Sebbene le azioni di questi eroi non trovino riscontro nei tempi moderni, la loro amicizia sì. Da un lato abbiamo Damon e Pythias; dall’altro, Potter e Smithers. E affinché i nomi degli ultimi due non arrivino mai alle orecchie dei nostri lettori ignoranti, non ci resta che presentarveli.

Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other’s company very night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were ‘thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it.’ There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers’s disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, a sort of consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what, coming across him he didn’t precisely know why—which stood out in fine relief against the off-hand, dashing, amateur-pickpocket-sort-of-manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree.

The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides—peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated ‘kiddy’ or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Russell-street, and divers other places of public and fashionable resort.

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter’s salary, they would jointly and in company ‘spend the evening’—an evident misnomer—the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of, on the occasion to which reference is made; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would ‘make a night of it’—an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole.

The quarter-day arrived at last—we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets: moving wonderfully quick when you have a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner; and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in, two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his ‘very mildest’ Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same; and then, Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, ‘the abolition of all offices whatever’ (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause. So they went on, talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water, until the ‘goes’—most appropriately so called—were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until, what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach with his back to the horses.

As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was ‘all right;’ in proof of which, he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, and, after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also. When he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers awoke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it had not been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they mightn’t have done ’em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill,—twelve and twopence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the waiter—thirteen shillings in all—started out on their expedition to manufacture a night.

It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn’t do better than go at half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter in confidence that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre, by falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes.

Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a ‘knowing card,’ a ‘fast-goer,’ and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed—rather too fast at last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with him. On his first entry, he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to ‘flare up,’ accompanying the demand with another request, expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously ‘form a union,’ both which requisitions were responded to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions.

Il signor Thomas Potter era un impiegato nella stessa città del signor Robert Smithers; i loro redditi erano limitati, ma la loro amicizia era infinita. Vivevano nella stessa strada, entravano in città ogni mattina alla stessa ora, pranzavano nello stesso ristorante ogni giorno e trascorrevano le serate insieme con grande piacere. Erano legati da un rapporto di profonda intimità e amicizia; come osservò commosso il signor Thomas Potter, erano “veri amici, nient’altro che amici”. Nel carattere del signor Smithers c’era una nota di romanticismo, un tocco di poesia, un velo di tristezza, e una sorta di consapevolezza di qualcosa di indefinito, che spiccava in netto contrasto con il suo modo disinvolto, audace e un po’ rozzo, tipico di uno “scassinatore dilettante”.

La particolarità del loro carattere rispecchiava anche il loro abbigliamento individuale. Il signor Smithers si presentava in pubblico generalmente con un soprabito e delle scarpe, indossando un fazzoletto nero stretto intorno al collo e un cappello marrone con i bordi molto sollevati; il signor Potter, invece, evitava completamente queste caratteristiche. La sua ambizione era quella di distinguersi nel modo tipico dei “kiddies” o degli attori teatrali: aveva persino investito del denaro nell’acquisto di un pesante cappotto blu con bottoni di legno, che, unito a un cappello a tesa bassa e a forma di coppetta, gli aveva permesso di suscitare notevole interesse al pub Albion in Little Russell Street e in altri luoghi frequentati dalla gente elegante.

Il signor Potter e il signor Smithers avevano concordato reciprocamente che, al ricevimento dello stipendio di quel mese, avrebbero trascorso insieme la serata, un termine chiaramente improprio, poiché ciò che intendevano non era tanto la serata stessa, quanto tutto il denaro che ciascuno di loro avesse a disposizione in quell’occasione. Avevano inoltre concordato che, durante quella sera, avrebbero “trascorso una notte intensa”, un’espressione efficace per indicare l’utilizzo di diverse ore del giorno seguente, unite a quelle della serata precedente, al fine di creare una sorta di “notte prolungata”.

Il giorno di pagamento è finalmente arrivato. Lo diciamo “finalmente” perché questi giorni sono davvero imprevedibili: procedono velocissimamente quando bisogna pagare molto, e incredibilmente lentamente quando si riceve poco. Il signor Thomas Potter e il signor Robert Smithers si incontrarono come previsto per iniziare la serata con una cena. Una cena deliziosa, confortevole e abbondante: quattro costine e quattro reni uno dopo l’altro, accompagnati da una bottiglia di ottimo birra forte, insieme a fette di pane e pezzi di formaggio.

Quando il panno fu rimosso, il signor Thomas Potter ordinò al cameriere di portare due bicchieri del suo miglior whisky scozzese, con acqua calda e zucchero, oltre a un paio di sigari Havanna “molto delicati”. Il cameriere obbedì. Il signor Thomas Potter mescolò il suo drink e accese il sigaro; lo stesso fece il signor Robert Smithers. Poi, in tono scherzoso, il signor Thomas Potter propose come primo brindisi “l’abolizione di tutti gli uffici, qualunque essi siano” (non si intendevano sinecure, ma semplicemente uffici burocratici), e il signor Robert Smithers lo bevve immediatamente, accompagnandolo da un applauso entusiasta. Continuarono così, discutendo di politica, fumando sigari e sorseggiando whisky con acqua, fino a quando i due bicchieri furono completamente vuoti. Il signor Robert Smithers, accorgendosene, ordinò immediatamente altri due bicchieri di whisky scozzese e altri due sigari Havanna “molto delicati”. I bicchieri continuarono ad arrivare, e i sigari a finire. Finché, a causa del continuo bere, fumare e della quantità enorme di cenere e grasso sui sigari, il signor Robert Smithers iniziò a dubitare davvero della “delicatezza” di quei sigari. E si sentì proprio come se stesse seduto in una carrozza a cavalli, con la schiena rivolta verso gli animali.

Per quanto riguarda il signor Thomas Potter, continuava a ridere ad alta voce e pronunciava frasi inarticolate per dire che stava “bene”; a dimostrazione di ciò, cercò con difficoltà di leggere il giornale serale dopo l’uomo accanto a lui, ma non riuscì a trovare alcuna notizia nelle sue pagine, né a capire se ne avesse affatto. Allora uscì lentamente per cercare la luna, e tornò pallido dopo aver fissato il cielo per tanto tempo. Tentò di esprimere la sua ilarità per il fatto che il signor Robert Smithers si fosse addormentato con alcuni risatini, poi appoggiò la testa sul braccio e anche lui andò a dormire. Quando si svegliò di nuovo, lo fece anche il signor Robert Smithers, e entrambi convennero seriamente che fosse estremamente saggio non mangiare troppe noci marinate con le costine, poiché era noto che queste causavano sempre sonnolenza e strani effetti sul corpo; anzi, se non fosse stato per il whiskey e i sigari, chissà quali danni avrebbero potuto causare. Così bevvero del caffè, pagarono il conto – dodici scellini e venti penny per la cena, più dieci penny per il cameriere, per un totale di tredici scellini – e partirono per “creare” una bella notte.

Erano appena le otto e mezza, quindi pensarono che non potessero fare di meglio che andare al Teatro della Città a metà prezzo per acquistare i biglietti, e così fecero. Il signor Robert Smithers, che era diventato estremamente poetico dopo aver pagato il conto, rendette più piacevole il tragitto raccontando in confidenza al signor Thomas Potter di avere un presentimento interno riguardo all’imminente fine del teatro stesso; in seguito, durante lo spettacolo, si addormentò con la testa e entrambe le braccia che pendevano graziosamente dal davanzale della sua poltrona.

Ecco il comportamento tranquillo e modesto di quel semplice Smithers; ecco anche gli effetti positivi del whisky scozzese e dei sigari Havanna su quella persona così interessante. Ma il signor Thomas Potter, il cui grande obiettivo era essere considerato una “persona esperta”, un “uomo deciso” e simili, si comportò in modo molto diverso: iniziò davvero ad agire con troppa fretta. Anzi, alla fine fu così veloce che il pubblico non riuscì più a tenere il passo con lui. Al suo primo intervento, si limitò a chiedere seriamente agli uomini presenti in galleria di “mostrare entusiasmo”, accompagnando questa richiesta con un’altra supplica: che immediatamente “formassero un’unione”. Entrambe le richieste furono accolte nel modo più comune in occasioni del genere.

‘Give that dog a bone!’ cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves.

‘Where have you been a having half a pint of intermediate beer?’ cried a second. ‘Tailor!’ screamed a third. ‘Barber’s clerk!’ shouted a fourth. ‘Throw him o—ver!’ roared a fifth; while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to ‘go home to his mother!’ All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance melodramatically.

The overture—to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment—concluded, the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter, emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all, he imitated the shake of the principal female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire; then, affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost; and, lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an audible voice, upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually awoke Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. ‘Turn them out!’ was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a hurried dialogue of ‘Come out?’—‘I won’t!’—‘You shall!’—‘I shan’t!’—‘Give me your card, Sir?’—‘You’re a scoundrel, Sir!’ and so forth, succeeded. A round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road, without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent.

Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast-going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last until the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street-door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it: and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly assented; and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for assisting them in making a night; where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, and a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen and cab-drivers, all drinking and talking together; and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they began to have a very confused idea, either of things in general, or of anything in particular; and, when they had done treating themselves they began to treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving.

Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—‘all was a blank!’ and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words ‘Station-house,’ and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, at different times, five men, four boys, and three women; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at least forty pounds’ worth of oaths, at the rate of five shillings apiece; terrified whole streets full of Her Majesty’s subjects with awful shrieks and alarms of fire; destroyed the uniforms of five policemen; and committed various other atrocities, too numerous to recapitulate. And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each, for being, what the law vulgarly terms, drunk; and thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults at forty shillings a-head, with liberty to speak to the prosecutors.

The prosecutors were spoken to, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit, for a quarter, as best they might; and, although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on the same terms, they have never since been detected in ‘making a night of it.’

CHAPTER XII—THE PRISONERS’ VAN

We were passing the corner of Bow-street, on our return from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd, assembled round the door of the Police-office, attracted our attention. We turned up the street accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing on the pavement and half across the road; and a few stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side of the way—all evidently waiting in expectation of some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but nothing occurred; so, we turned round to an unshorn, sallow-looking cobbler, who was standing next us with his hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual question of ‘What’s the matter?’ The cobbler eyed us from head to foot, with superlative contempt, and laconically replied ‘Nuffin.’

“Date un osso a quel cane!”, gridò un signore con le maniche della camicia rimboccate.

“Dove sei stato mentre bevevi mezza pinta di birra media?” gridò uno. “Sarto!” urlò un altro. “Apprendista barbiere!” strillò un terzo. “Buttatelo via!” ruggì un quarto; mentre molte voci concordavano nel desiderare che il signor Thomas Potter “tornasse a casa da sua madre”! Tutti questi insulti furono ricevuti dal signor Thomas Potter con estremo disprezzo: ogni volta che veniva fatto riferimento al suo aspetto personale, inclinava ancora di più il cappello a tesa bassa, e poi si alzava, incrociando le braccia in segno di sfida.

Le ouverturei – a cui questi vari suoni avevano servito da accompagnamento ad libitum – si conclusero, e iniziò il secondo brano; il signor Thomas Potter, incoraggiato dall’impunità, continuò a comportarsi in modo assolutamente senza precedenti e oltraggioso. Prima di tutto imitò i gesti della cantante principale; poi emise gemiti al suono del fuoco; successivamente fece finta di essere terrorizzato dallo spettro che apparve sul palco; infine, non solo commentò ad alta voce il dialogo in scena, ma riuscì persino a svegliare il signor Robert Smithers, il quale, sentendo i rumori prodotti dal suo compagno e senza avere la minima idea di dove si trovasse o cosa gli venisse chiesto, decise immediatamente di imitare un esempio “positivo”, producendo il lamento più straziante, incessante e spaventoso che qualsiasi pubblico avesse mai sentito. Fu troppo: “Buttateli fuori!”, gridarono tutti. Si udirono rumori di passi affrettati e persone che venivano spinte con forza contro le pareti; seguì un rapido scambio di frasi del tipo “Vieni fuori?”, “Non voglio!”, “Dovrai!”, “Non voglio!”, “Mi dia il suo biglietto, signore?”, “Lei è uno scellerato, signore!”, e così via. Un applauso generale segnò l’approvazione del pubblico, e il signor Robert Smithers e il signor Thomas Potter si ritrovarono immediatamente scaraventati in strada, senza nemmeno aver avuto la necessità di mettere piede a terra durante tutto quel “rapido” percorso.

Il signor Robert Smithers, essendo per natura una persona lenta nei movimenti e avendo ormai avuto abbastanza di situazioni rapide e frenetiche durante la sua recente espulsione – al punto da poter sopravvivere almeno fino al giorno seguente – non appena uscì con il suo compagno dai dintorni di Milton-street, iniziò a fare riferimenti indiretti alle bellezze del sonno, mescolandoli con allusioni vaghe riguardo alla opportunità di tornare a Islington, e provando anche l’efficacia delle chiavi fornite loro da Bramah sui lucchetti delle porte. Il signor Thomas Potter, invece, era deciso e risoluto: avevano deciso di trascorrere una notte divertente, e quindi così sarebbe stato. Così il signor Robert Smithers, che era per tre quarti noioso e per un quarto deprimente, acconsentì disperatamente; e insieme andarono in un locale dove trovarono molte giovani donne, diversi anziani gentiluomini, nonché numerosi cocchieri e autisti di taxi, tutti impegnati a bere e chiacchierare insieme. Il signor Thomas Potter e il signor Robert Smithers bevvero bicchierini di brandy e grandi bicchieri di soda, fino a quando iniziarono ad avere una concezione molto confusa sia delle cose in generale che di quelle specifiche; dopo essersi ristorati a sufficienza, iniziarono anche a “rifornire” gli altri presenti. Il resto della serata fu un insieme caotico e confusionario di persone, luci, suoni e movimenti disordinati.

Poi, come ci dicono esplicitamente i normali romanzi, “tutto rimase vuoto”! E la mattina seguente quel vuoto fu riempito dalle parole “Stazione-casa”; e la stazione-casa si riempì di Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers e della maggior parte dei loro compagni dell’notte precedente, insieme a una quantità relativamente piccola di abiti di ogni tipo. E fu rivelato, presso l’ufficio di polizia, con indignazione da parte del tribunale e stupore da parte degli spettatori, come Robert Smithers, aiutato e incoraggiato da Thomas Potter, avesse aggredito e picchiato, in diverse strade e a diversi orari, cinque uomini, quattro ragazzi e tre donne; come Thomas Potter si fosse impossessato illegalmente di cinque campanelli d’ingresso, due maniglie di campanello e un cappello; come Robert Smithers, il suo compagno, avesse pronunciato almeno quaranta giuramenti, a un costo medio di cinque scellini l’uno; come avesse terrorizzato intere strade piene di cittadini con terribili urla e minacce di incendio; come avesse distrutto le uniformi di cinque poliziotti; e come avesse commesso altre atrocità troppo numerose per essere elencate tutte. Il magistrato, dopo averli adeguatamente rimproverati, multò Thomas Potter e Robert Smithers di cinque scellini ciascuno per essere, secondo la terminologia legale comune, ubriachi; e li condannò anche a trentaquattro sterline per diciassette aggressioni, a un costo medio di quaranta scellini l’una, con il permesso di rivolgersi ai pubblici ministeri.

I pubblici ministeri furono interpellati, e i signori Potter e Smithers continuarono a vivere a credito, per un periodo di quattro settimane, facendo del loro meglio; e sebbene i pubblici ministeri avessero espresso la loro disponibilità ad essere “assaliti” due volte a settimana, alle stesse condizioni, da allora non è mai stato scoperto che lo facessero davvero.

capitolo XII – IL VAN DEI PRIGIONIERI

Stavamo attraversando l’angolo di Bow-street, al nostro ritorno da una passeggiata pomeridiana, quando un gruppo di persone radunate davanti all’ingresso dell’ufficio di polizia attirò la nostra attenzione. Ci avvicinammo quindi. C’erano trenta o quaranta persone in piedi sul marciapiede, bloccando quasi completamente la strada; alcune altre si trovavano pazientemente dall’altra parte della strada, tutte chiaramente in attesa di qualcosa. Aspettammo anche noi per qualche minuto, ma non accadde nulla; così ci avvicinammo a un calzolaio dall’aspetto malandato e pallido, che stava lì con le mani sotto il bordo del grembiule, e gli facemmo la solita domanda: “Che cosa sta succedendo?” Il calzolaio ci guardò da capo a piedi con estrema disprezzo e rispose laconicamente: “Niente.”

Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time; but, as we knew very well that no crowd of people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, ‘What are all these people waiting here for?’—‘Her Majesty’s carriage,’ replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We could not imagine what earthly business Her Majesty’s carriage could have at the Public Office, Bow-street. We were beginning to ruminate on the possible causes of such an uncommon appearance, when a general exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of ‘Here’s the wan!’ caused us to raise our heads, and look up the street.

The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the police-offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full speed. It then occurred to us, for the first time, that Her Majesty’s carriage was merely another name for the prisoners’ van, conferred upon it, not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but because the aforesaid van is maintained at Her Majesty’s expense: having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses of call known by the general denomination of ‘Her Majesty’s Gaols.’

The van drew up at the office-door, and the people thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler, and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into the office. The office-door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the tiptoe of expectation.

After a few minutes’ delay, the door again opened, and the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the elder—could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was evident, from the resemblance which still subsisted between them, though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the elder girl’s features, as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially; and, although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects, which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly—not for display, or in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame: her face was buried in her handkerchief: and her whole manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow.

‘How long are you for, Emily?’ screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd. ‘Six weeks and labour,’ replied the elder girl with a flaunting laugh; ‘and that’s better than the stone jug anyhow; the mill’s a deal better than the Sessions, and here’s Bella a-going too for the first time. Hold up your head, you chicken,’ she continued, boisterously tearing the other girl’s handkerchief away; ‘Hold up your head, and show ’em your face. I an’t jealous, but I’m blessed if I an’t game!’—‘That’s right, old gal,’ exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident.—‘Right!’ replied the girl; ‘ah, to be sure; what’s the odds, eh?’—‘Come! In with you,’ interrupted the driver. ‘Don’t you be in a hurry, coachman,’ replied the girl, ‘and recollect I want to be set down in Cold Bath Fields—large house with a high garden-wall in front; you can’t mistake it. Hallo. Bella, where are you going to—you’ll pull my precious arm off?’ This was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff. ‘Come down, and let’s show you the way.’ And after jerking the miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched companion.

These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was then, the elder had been once; and what the elder then was, the younger must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how surely to be realised; a tragic drama, but how often acted! Turn to the prisons and police offices of London—nay, look into the very streets themselves. These things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour—they have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded. The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pestilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and wide-spreading infection. Step by step, how many wretched females, within the sphere of every man’s observation, have become involved in a career of vice, frightful to contemplate; hopeless at its commencement, loathsome and repulsive in its course; friendless, forlorn, and unpitied, at its miserable conclusion!

There were other prisoners—boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of fifty—a houseless vagrant, going joyfully to prison as a place of food and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would willingly have effaced.

The crowd dispersed; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and misfortune; and we saw no more of the Prisoners’ Van.

Ora, eravamo perfettamente consapevoli che se due uomini si fermassero per strada per osservare qualsiasi oggetto, o anche solo per guardare in alto, in meno di un minuto si radunerebbero duecento persone; ma poiché sapevamo molto bene che nessuna folla poteva rimanere per strada per cinque minuti senza creare qualche tipo di divertimento tra di loro, a meno che non avesse qualcosa di davvero interessante da osservare, la domanda naturale che ci venne in mente fu: “Perché tutte queste persone stanno aspettando qui?” “La carrozza di Sua Maestà”, rispose il calzolaio. Questo era ancora più strano. Non riuscivamo a immaginare quale potesse essere lo scopo della carrozza di Sua Maestà presso l’Ufficio Pubblico, in Bow-street. Stavamo cominciando a riflettere sulle possibili cause di una tale situazione insolita, quando un’esclamazione generale da parte di tutti i ragazzi presenti nella folla (“Eccola arrivare!”) ci fece alzare lo sguardo lungo la strada.

Il veicolo coperto, utilizzato per trasportare i prigionieri dalle stazioni di polizia alle varie carceri, viaggiava a piena velocità. Fu allora che ci venne in mente, per la prima volta, che il “carrozza di Sua Maestà” non era altro che un nome diverso per quel furgone destinato al trasporto dei prigionieri; tale denominazione veniva utilizzata non solo a causa della sua maggiore raffinatezza, ma anche perché il veicolo stesso veniva mantenuto a spese di Sua Maestà: essendo stato originariamente creato esclusivamente per ospitare signore e gentiluomini che avevano la necessità di visitare le varie prigioni.

Il furgone si fermò davanti alla porta dell’ufficio; la gente si affollò intorno ai gradini, lasciando solo uno stretto passaggio per permettere ai prigionieri di passare. Il nostro amico, il calzolaio, e gli altri che erano rimasti indietro seguirono il loro esempio. Il conducente e un altro uomo che era seduto accanto a lui scesero dal veicolo ed furono fatti entrare nell’ufficio. La porta dell’ufficio si chiuse alle loro spalle, e la folla rimase in attesa, piena di aspettativa.

Dopo alcuni minuti di ritardo, la porta si aprì di nuovo e apparvero le prime due prigioniere. Erano due ragazze: la maggiore non poteva avere più di sedici anni, mentre la minore sicuramente non aveva ancora compiuto quattordici. Era evidente che fossero sorelle, a causa della somiglianza che ancora le caratterizzava; tuttavia, due anni trascorsi in condizioni disumane avevano lasciato segni profondi sul viso della ragazza più anziana, come se fossero stati incisi con un ferro rovente. Entrambe erano vestite in modo vistoso, soprattutto la minore; e, nonostante una forte somiglianza fisica – resa ancora più evidente dal fatto che fossero incatenate insieme – c’era un contrasto stridente nel loro comportamento. La ragazza più giovane piangeva amaramente: non per fare scena o nella speranza di suscitare compassione, ma per vera e propria vergogna. Teneva il viso nascosto nel fazzoletto e tutto il suo atteggiamento esprimeva un dolore profondo e inutile.

“Per quanto tempo starai via, Emily?” gridò una donna con il viso rosso nella folla.
“Sei settimane, e poi il parto,” rispose la ragazza più anziana ridendo in modo provocatorio; “e comunque è meglio di quella vecchia giara di pietra. Il mulino è decisamente migliore delle prigioni. E Bella va anche lei per la prima volta. Alza la testa, stupida!” continuò, strappando con forza il fazzoletto dall’altra ragazza; “Alza la testa e mostra loro il tuo viso. Non sono gelosa, ma sarei davvero fortunata se non fossi un po’ competitiva, ”
“Esatto, vecchia mia,” esclamò un uomo con un cappello di carta, che, come gran parte della folla, era estremamente divertito da quell’episodio.
“Esatto!” rispose la ragazza; “Ah, certo. Quali sono le probabilità, eh?”
“Entra pure,” interruppe il conducente.
“Non avere fretta, cocchiere, ” replicò lei; “e ricorda che devo essere lasciata in Cold Bath Fields. Quella grande casa con il alto muro di giardino davanti. Non puoi sbagliarti. Ehi, Bella. Dove stai andando? Mi strapperai via il braccio!” Questo era rivolto alla ragazza più giovane, che, nell’ansia di nascondersi all’interno del carro, aveva salito per prima e dimenticato di liberare la manetta.
“Scendi. Ti mostriamo la strada.” E dopo aver strattonata con forza la povera ragazza facendola barcollare sul marciapiede, lei salì sul veicolo, seguita dalla sua compagna sfortunata.

Queste due ragazze erano state gettate per le strade di Londra da una madre meschina e avida; i vizi e la depravazione della più giovane erano stati quelli della più anziana un tempo, e ciò che era la più anziana ora, presto sarebbe diventato anche la più giovane. Una prospettiva melanconica, ma certamente destinata a realizzarsi; un dramma tragico, ma spesso rappresentato nella realtà! Basta guardare le prigioni e gli uffici di polizia di Londra, anzi, basta osservare le strade stesse. Queste cose avvengono davanti ai nostri occhi, giorno dopo giorno, ora dopo ora; sono diventate talmente ordinarie che vengono completamente ignorate. Il declino di queste ragazze verso il crimine sarà rapido quanto la diffusione di una pestilenza: altrettanto dannoso e contagioso. Passo dopo passo, quante donne misere, sotto gli occhi di tutti, finiscono per intraprendere una vita di vizi orribili, senza speranza all’inizio, disgustosa e ripugnante nel corso del tempo, prive di amici, abbandonate e disprezzate alla fine!

C’erano altri prigionieri: ragazzi di dieci anni, altrettanto corrotti quanto uomini di cinquanta; un vagabondo senza fissa dimora, che andava felicemente in prigione considerandola un luogo dove trovare cibo e riparo; un uomo le cui prospettive erano rovinate, il cui carattere distrutto e la cui famiglia ridotta alla povertà a causa del suo primo reato. Tuttavia, la nostra curiosità fu soddisfatta. Il primo gruppo aveva lasciato in noi un’impressione che avremmo volentieri evitato e che saremmo stati felici di cancellare.

La folla si disperse; il veicolo si allontanò portando con sé il suo carico di colpa e sfortuna; e non vedemmo più la “Vettura dei Prigionieri”.

TALES

CHAPTER I—THE BOARDING-HOUSE

Storie

CAPITOLO I – LA RESIDENZA STUDENTESCA

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area-steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and bright, as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing, could make them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription ‘Mrs. Tibbs,’ had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour-windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont in the pride of her heart to boast, ‘all the way up.’ The bell-lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The banisters were bees-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering.

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man. He had, moreover, very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance with her—he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but, if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, ‘I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,’—but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism.

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about 43_l._ 15_s._ 10_d._ a year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock, drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700_l._, would be to take and furnish a tolerable house—somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somers-town—for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that ‘Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, residing within ten minutes’ walk of’—everywhere. Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants; and most profound was the secrecy observed. ‘E.’ didn’t like this; ‘I.’ couldn’t think of putting up with that; ‘I. O. U.’ didn’t think the terms would suit him; and ‘G. R.’ had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were ‘agreeable to all parties.’ In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’s.

‘Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. ‘Charming woman, indeed!’ repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. ‘And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join us at dinner for the first time.’

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say.

‘The young ladies,’ continued Mrs. T., ‘have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano.’

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it.

A bright thought struck him—

‘It’s very likely—’ said he.

‘Pray don’t lean your head against the paper,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs; ‘and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse.’

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and proceeded. ‘It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage—’

‘A what!’ shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion.

‘I beg you won’t mention such a thing,’ said Mrs. T. ‘A marriage, indeed to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world.’

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but, as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was ‘time to go to business.’ He always went out at ten o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City.

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes and parasols, guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner.

‘Are these gals ’andsome?’ inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room, before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps.

‘Don’t know,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a ‘very talented young man.’ He was fond of ‘lugging’ into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application; in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s; always dressed according to the caricatures published in the monthly fashion; and spelt Character with a K.

‘I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home,’ simpered Mr. Simpson.

‘Materials for the toilet, no doubt,’ rejoined the Don Juan reader.

—‘Much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.’

‘Is that from Milton?’ inquired Mr. Simpson.

‘No—from Byron,’ returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. ‘Hush! Here come the gals,’ and they both commenced talking in a very loud key.

‘Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. ‘Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones’—and vice versâ. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtseyed, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pocket-handkerchiefs: the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish-sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender.

‘Julia, my love,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—‘Julia.’

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘Don’t stoop.’—This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause.

‘We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone.

‘Dear me!’ replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her ‘Missis.’

‘I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil,’ said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone.

‘Positively I think they are,’ replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before.

‘And cabmen, too,’ said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated, by word or sign, the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen.

‘Robinson, what do you want?’ said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door during the preceding five minutes.

‘Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things,’ replied the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the window, and ‘went off’ like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths; and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant warning.

Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still, while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started an idea; but if any commonplace topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic-douloureux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300_l._ a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness, and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day.

This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were ‘eligible.’ A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result.

“Queste ragazze sono attraenti?” chiese il signor Simpson al signor Septimus Hicks, un altro degli ospiti che soggiornavano lì, mentre si divertivano nel salotto, prima di cena, sdraiati sui divani e ammirando le proprie scarpe.

“Non lo so,” rispose il signor Septimus Hicks, un giovane alto, dal viso pallido, che portava occhiali e aveva una corda nera intorno al collo al posto di una cravatta: una persona davvero interessante. Un poeta che frequentava gli ospedali e un “giovane molto talentuoso”. Gli piaceva inserire nella conversazione ogni sorta di citazioni tratte da Don Juan, senza preoccuparsi della loro appropriata applicazione; in questo particolare era estremamente indipendente. L’altro, il signor Simpson, invece, apparteneva a quei giovani che, nella società, sono come i “gentiluomini di compagnia” sul palcoscenico, solo che nel loro mestiere erano infinitamente meno abili del più mediocre degli artisti. Era altrettanto vuoto di cervello quanto la grande campana di San Paolo; si vestiva sempre secondo le caricature pubblicate sui periodici di moda, e scriveva “Character” con una “K”.

“Quando sono tornato a casa, ho visto un numero incredibile di pacchi nel corridoio,” disse con un sorrisetto il signor Simpson.

“Materiali per il bagno, senza alcun >dubbio”, ribatté il lettore di Don Juan.

“Molto lino, pizzo, e diversi paia di calze, pantofole, spazzole, pettini, tutto completo; insieme ad altri oggetti utili per le donne belle, per mantenerle in ordine o per farle apparire attraenti.”

“È un brano di Milton?”, chiese il signor Simpson.

“No, di Byron,” rispose il signor Hicks con un’aria di disprezzo. Era assolutamente certo riguardo all’autore, perché non aveva mai letto nient’altro di suo. “Zitta! Arrivano le ragazze, ” E così entrambi iniziarono a parlare ad alta voce.

“La signora Maplesone e le signorine Maplesone, il signor Hicks. Il signor Hicks. La signora Maplesone e le signorine Maplesone,” disse la signora Tibbs, con il viso molto rosso, perché aveva supervisionato le operazioni di cucina al piano di sotto, e sembrava una bambola di cera in una giornata soleggiata. “Il signor Simpson. Mi scusi. Il signor Simpson. La signora Maplesone e le signorine Maplesone, ” E viceversa. I gentiluomini iniziarono immediatamente a muoversi con grande cortesia, come se desiderassero che le loro braccia fossero gambe, tanto non sapevano cosa farne. Le signore sorrisero, fecero la riverenza e si sedettero, cercando i fazzoletti da tasca caduti; i gentiluomini si appoggiarono a due delle barre delle tende; la signora Tibbs recitò una commovente pantomima con un servitore che era venuto a chiedere qualcosa riguardo alla salsa di pesce. Poi le due giovani signore si guardarono l’una con l’altra; e tutti gli altri sembrarono scoprire qualcosa di molto attraente nel disegno della griglia.

“Julia, la mia amore”, disse la signora Maplesone alla sua figlia minore, con un tono abbastanza alto da essere sentito da tutti gli altri presenti, “Julia”.

“Sì, mamma.”

“Non chinarti.” – Questo fu detto al fine di attirare l’attenzione generale sulla figura della signorina Julia, che era indubbiamente notevole. Tutti la guardarono quindi, e ci fu un’altra pausa.

“Oggi abbiamo avuto il cocchiere più scortese e volgare che si possa immaginare,” disse la signora Maplesone alla signora Tibbs, con tono confidenziale.

“Mio Dio!”, rispose la padrona di casa con un tono pieno di compassione. Non poté dire altro, perché il servitore ricomparve alla porta e iniziò a comunicare con grande urgenza con sua “Signora”.

“Penso che i cocchieri delle vetture di piazza siano generalmente scortesi,” disse il signor Hicks con il suo tono più insinuante.

“Senza dubbio lo sono,” rispose la signora Maplesone, come se quell’idea non le fosse mai passata per la mente prima.

“Anche i tassisti,” disse il signor Simpson. Questa osservazione fallì completamente, perché nessuno, con parole o gesti, fece trapelare la minima conoscenza riguardo ai modi e alle abitudini dei tassisti.

“Robinson, cosa vuoi?” chiese la signora Tibbs al servitore, il quale, per farsi notare dalla sua padrona, aveva emesso diversi suoni e singhiozzi fuori dalla porta negli ultimi cinque minuti.

“Per favore, signora, il padrone vuole i suoi vestiti puliti,” rispose la serva, presa alla sprovvista. I due giovani girarono lo sguardo verso la finestra e se ne andarono come due bottiglie di birra al ginepro; le signore si coprirono la bocca con i fazzoletti; e la piccola signora Tibbs uscì di corsa dalla stanza per dare a Tibbs i suoi vestiti puliti, mentre la serva continuava a parlare.

Il signor Calton, l’ultimo ospite che rimaneva, comparve poco dopo e si rivelò un promotor eccezionale della conversazione. Il signor Calton era un anziano gentiluomo ormai in pensione; diceva spesso di sé che, anche se i suoi tratti non erano particolarmente belli, erano comunque notevoli. Era davvero così: impossibile guardare il suo viso senza pensare a una sorta di “bussola rossa” paffuta, metà leone e metà scimmia. E questa descrizione si applicava anche al suo carattere e alle sue conversazioni. Lui stava sempre fermo, mentre tutti gli altri parlavano; non iniziava mai lui stesso una discussione o un’idea, ma se veniva sollevata qualche argomento banale, o, per continuare con la metafora, se qualcuno lo “sollecitava” a intervenire, allora iniziava a parlare con sorprendente rapidità. A volte aveva dei tic nervosi; in quei momenti sembrava quasi che parlasse più piano del solito. Ma quando continuava a ripetere sempre le stesse cose, il rumore prodotto era comunque notevole. Non si era mai sposato, ma cercava ancora una moglie ricca. Possedeva un reddito annuo di circa 300 sterline; era estremamente vanitoso e egoista. Si guadagnava la reputazione di essere estremamente educato. E ogni giorno passeggiava nel parco e su Regent Street.

Questo rispettabile personaggio aveva deciso di rendersi estremamente gradito a Mrs. Maplesone; in effetti, il suo desiderio di essere il più amabile possibile si estendeva a tutta la compagnia. Mrs. Tibbs riteneva che fosse un’ottima strategia riferire ai signori di avere “alcune” ragioni per credere che le signore fossero donne ricche, e insinuare alle signore che tutti i signori fossero “idonei”. Un po’ di flirtazione, pensava, avrebbe potuto mantenere la sua casa piena, senza portare a conseguenze più serie.

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty: shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could have no other motive. The ‘dear girls’ themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of ‘a good establishment.’ One of them was twenty-five; the other, three years younger. They had been at different watering-places, for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do—but, as yet, to no purpose.

‘What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!’ whispered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia.

‘Splendid!’ returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the ‘swell’ in the pantomime at ‘Richardson’s Show.’

‘What whiskers!’ said Miss Julia.

‘Charming!’ responded her sister; ‘and what hair!’ His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d’oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; his whiskers meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs.

‘Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please,’ said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s.

‘Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you.’ Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice.

‘Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,’ said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband ‘my dear’ before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife.

‘Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?’

‘If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you’ (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate).

‘Julia is a very little eater,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton.

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, ‘Ah!’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, ‘what do you take?’ The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, ‘Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think.’

‘Did you say fish, my dear?’ (another frown).

‘Yes, dear,’ replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her ‘wretch of a husband,’ as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish.

‘James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife.’ This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen.

‘Take away, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning.

‘I’ll take a bit of bread, James,’ said the poor ‘master of the house,’ more hungry than ever.

‘Never mind your master now, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘see about the meat.’ This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present.

A pause ensued, before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks, produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him.

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged interval.

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation—

‘But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.’

‘Very ungentlemanly behaviour,’ thought little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘to talk in that way.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. ‘Tom Moore is my poet.’

‘And mine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone.

‘And mine,’ said Miss Julia.

‘And mine,’ added Mr. Simpson.

‘Look at his compositions,’ resumed the knocker.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson, with confidence.

‘Look at Don Juan,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks.

‘Julia’s letter,’ suggested Miss Matilda.

‘Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?’ inquired Miss Julia.

La signora Maplesone era una vedova intraprendente, di circa cinquant’anni: astuta, calcolatrice e piuttosto attraente. Era sinceramente preoccupata per le sue figlie; a dimostrazione di ciò, soleva dire che non avrebbe avuto obiezioni ad sposarsi di nuovo, se questo avesse potuto essere vantaggioso per le sue care ragazze. Non poteva certo avere altri motivi. Le stesse “care ragazze”, del resto, non erano affatto insensibili ai vantaggi di una “buona situazione sociale”. Una di loro aveva venticinque anni; l’altra ne aveva tre in meno. Per quattro stagioni consecutive, avevano vissuto in luoghi diversi; avevano giocato alle carte nelle biblioteche, letto libri sui balconi, venduto merci alle fiere, ballato alle feste, parlato di sentimenti. Insomma, avevano fatto tutto ciò che le ragazze laboriose possono fare. Ma, per il momento, senza alcun risultato concreto.

“Che meraviglioso armadiere è il signor Simpson!” sussurrò Matilda a sua sorella Julia.

“Meraviglioso!” rispose il più giovane. Quell’individuo maestoso indossava un abito da sera di colore marrone scuro, con colletto e polsini di velluto dello stesso tono: molto simile a quelli che di solito adornano l’aspetto di quel distinto sconosciuto che si degnia di interpretare il ruolo del “personaggio importante” nelle pantomime al “Richardson’s Show”.

“Che baffi!” disse la signorina Julia.

“Incantevole!” rispose sua sorella; “e che capelli,!” I suoi capelli erano come una parrucca, e si distinguevano per quella leggera onda che adornava i lucenti riccioli di quelle vere e proprie “opere d’arte” esposte nelle vetrine di Bartellot in Regent Street; i suoi baffi, che si univano sotto il mento, sembravano delle stringhe con cui poterlo fissare. Prima che la scienza rendesse tali accessori superflui, grazie alle sue invisibili molle.

“La cena è pronta, signora, se vuole,” disse il ragazzo, che ora appariva per la prima volta, indossando il cappotto nero del suo padrone.

“Oh! Signor Calton, le dispiacerebbe accompagnare la signora Maplesone? – Grazie.” Il signor Simpson offrì il suo braccio alla signorina Julia; il signor Septimus Hicks scortò la deliziosa Matilda; e la processione si diresse verso la sala da pranzo. Il signor Tibbs fu presentato, e iniziò a muoversi su e giù davanti alle tre signore come una figura all’interno di un orologio olandese, con una potente molla nel mezzo del suo corpo; poi si precipitò rapidamente al proprio posto, in fondo al tavolo, felice di nascondersi dietro una zuppiera che riusciva appena a vedere. E basta. Gli studenti residenti presero posto, una signora e un gentiluomo alternativamente, come gli strati di pane e carne in un piatto di panini; poi la signora Tibbs ordinò a James di togliere i coperchi dai piatti. Fu servito salmone, salsa al gambero, zuppa di interiora, e tutti gli altri accompagnamenti abituali: patate dure come pietre fossilizzate, e pezzetti di pane tostato delle dimensioni e della forma dei dadi bianchi.

“Zuppa per la signora Maplesone, cara mia,” disse la frenetica signora Tibbs. Di fronte agli altri, chiamava sempre suo marito “caro mio”. Il signor Tibbs, che stava mangiando il suo pane e calcolava quanto tempo ci sarebbe voluto prima di poter mangiare del pesce, aiutò in fretta a servire la zuppa, creò un piccolo “isolotto” sul tovagliolo e posizionò il proprio bicchiere lì sopra, per nasconderlo dalla moglie.

“Signorina Julia, posso aiutarla con il pesce?”

“Se possibile, solo un po’, oh, no, abbastanza, grazie” (un po’ grande quanto una noce, messo sul piatto).

“Julia mangia molto poco,” disse la signora Maplesone al signor Calton.

Il bussatore batté una sola volta. Era troppo impegnato a mangiare il pesce con gli occhi. Quindi riuscì solo a esclamare: “Ah!”

“Mio caro,” disse la signora Tibbs al suo marito dopo che tutti gli altri avevano ricevuto aiuto, “che cosa vuoi prendere tu?” La domanda fu accompagnata da uno sguardo che suggeriva che non dovesse rispondere “pesce”, perché ne era rimasto poco. Il signor Tibbs pensò che quel cipiglio si riferisse all’isola disegnata sul tovagliolo; quindi rispose freddamente: “Beh, penso che prenderò un po’ di pesce.”

“Hai detto ‘pesce’, cara mia?” (un altro cipiglio).

“Sì, caro,” rispose il villano, con un’espressione di intensa fame dipinta sul suo volto. Le lacrime quasi iniziarono a scendere dagli occhi della signora Tibbs, mentre aiutava il suo “povero marito”, come lo chiamava dentro di sé, ad assaggiare l’ultimo boccone di salmone rimasto nel piatto.

“James, porta questo al tuo padrone e prendi via il suo coltello.”
Si trattava di una vendetta deliberata: Tibbs non riusciva mai a mangiare il pesce senza quel coltello.
Tuttavia, era costretto ad usare un pezzo di pane e una forchetta per cercare di raccogliere le piccole particelle di salmone nel suo piatto, con successo solo in circa uno dei diciassette tentativi.

“Portalo via, James,” disse la signora Tibbs, mentre Tibbs ingoiava il quarto boccone. E i piatti sparirono come fulmine.

“Prenderò un po’ di pane, James,” disse il povero “padrone di casa”, più affamato che mai.

“Lascia perdere il tuo padrone adesso, James,” disse la signora Tibbs, “occupati della carne.” Fu detto con quel tono con cui le donne di solito danno istruzioni ai servitori in presenza di altre persone, cioè un tono basso; ma che, proprio a causa di quell’enfasi particolare, viene chiaramente percepito da tutti i presenti.

Seguì una pausa, prima che il tavolo venisse nuovamente riempito: una sorta di “parentheses” in cui il signor Simpson, il signor Calton e il signor Hicks portarono rispettivamente una bottiglia di sauterne, bucellas e sherry, e bevvero vino con tutti, tranne Tibbs. Nessuno pensò mai a lui.

Tra il pesce e la costata di manzo tenera, ci fu un intervallo piuttosto lungo.

Ecco un’opportunità per il signor Hicks. Non poté resistere a quella citazione straordinariamente appropriata.

“Ma la carne di manzo è rara in queste isole prive di buoi; ci sono sicuramente carne di capra, agnello e montone. E quando arriva una festività, li mettono su uno spiedino per mangiarla.”

“Comportamento davvero poco gentiluomo“, pensò la piccola signora Tibbs, “parlare in quel modo, “.

“Ah,” disse il signor Calton, riempiendo il proprio bicchiere. “Tom Moore è il mio poeta.”

“E la mia,” disse la signora Maplesone.

“E la mia,” disse la signorina Julia.

“E la mia,” aggiunse il signor Simpson.

“Guardate le sue composizioni,” continuò il battitore di porta.

“Certo,” disse Simpson con fiducia.

“Guardate Don Juan,” rispose il signor Septimus Hicks.

“La lettera di ‘Julia’”, suggerì la signorina Matilda.

“C’è qualcosa di più maestoso dei Devoti del Fuoco?”, chiese la signorina Julia.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson.

‘Or Paradise and the Peri,’ said the old beau.

‘Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,’ repeated Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally.

‘It’s all very well,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. ‘Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?’

‘Talking of a siege,’ said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—‘when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—’

‘Tell your master, James,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, ‘tell your master if he won’t carve those fowls, to send them to me.’ The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known but, if he did, nobody heard it.

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said ‘Yes,’ or ‘Certainly,’ at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the ‘young people’ amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the newcomers; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time.

---

We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let ‘years roll on;’ but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions, together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do. And we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back.

‘Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly,’ said Mr. Septimus to the boy. ‘Stop—is Mr. Calton unwell?’ inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown.

‘Not as I knows on, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘ Please, sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be.’

‘Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill,’ returned Hicks, unconsciously. ‘Very well: I’ll be down directly.’ Downstairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. ‘Tap, tap.’ ‘Come in.’—Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence.

‘I received a note—’ he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold.

‘Yes,’ returned the other, ‘you did.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes.’

Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously.

‘Hicks,’ said he, ‘I have sent for you, in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage.’

‘With a marriage!’ gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed.

‘With a marriage,’ returned the knocker. ‘I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you.’

‘And will you betray me?’ eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote.

‘I betray you! Won’t you betray_ me_?’

‘Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business,’ responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation.

‘People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine,’ said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. ‘We may have a family.’

‘We!—That won’t affect you, surely?’

‘The devil it won’t!’

‘No! how can it?’ said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair. ‘Oh, Matilda!’ sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daisical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. ‘Oh, Matilda!’

“Certo,” disse Simpson.

“O paradiso o i demoni,” disse il vecchio libertino.

“Sì; o ‘Paradiso e il Nobile’,” ripeté Simpson, convinto di stare facendo molto bene.

“Tutto è molto bene,” rispose il signor Septimus Hicks, che, come abbiamo già accennato in precedenza, non aveva mai letto nulla se non “Don Juan”. “Dove si potrebbe trovare qualcosa di più bello della descrizione dell’assedio all’inizio del settimo canto?”

“Parlando di assedi, ”, disse Tibbs, con un boccone di pane in bocca, “quando facevo parte del corpo dei volontari, nel milleottocentosei, il nostro comandante era Sir Charles Rampart. Un giorno, mentre facciammo esercitazioni sul terreno su cui ora sorge l’Università di Londra, lui mi chiamò dalle file e disse, ”

“Dite al vostro padrone, James,” intervenne la signora Tibbs con un tono estremamente deciso, “ditegli che se non vuole preparare quelle galline, le mandi a me.” Il volontario imbarazzato si mise immediatamente all’opera e preparò le galline quasi altrettanto velocemente di quanto sua moglie lavorasse sul coscio di montone. Non si sa se abbia mai finito la storia, ma, nel caso l’abbia fatto, nessuno l’ha ascoltata.

Ora che il ghiaccio era stato rotto e i nuovi ospiti si sentivano più a loro agio in quel luogo, ogni membro del gruppo provava maggiore serenità. Anche Tibbs ne era certamente felice, poiché andò a dormire subito dopo cena. Il signor Hicks e le signore discussero con grande eloquenza di poesia, teatri e delle Lettere di Lord Chesterfield; il signor Calton, intanto, continuava a intervenire nella conversazione con continui colpi secchi. La signora Tibbs approvava pienamente ogni osservazione fatta dalla signora Maplesone; e poiché il signor Simpson annuiva regolarmente ogni quattro minuti circa, si potè dire che comprendesse perfettamente ciò che stava accadendo. Gli uomini raggiunsero di nuovo le signore nel salotto poco dopo che queste avevano lasciato la sala da pranzo. La signora Maplesone e il signor Calton giocarono a cribbage, mentre i “giovani” si divertivano con la musica e le conversazioni. Le sorelle Maplesone cantarono duetti incantevoli, accompagnandosi al suono di chitarre decorate con nastri blu eterei. Il signor Simpson indossò una giacca rosa e dichiarò di essere estasiato; il signor Hicks, invece, si sentiva come se fosse nel settimo cielo della poesia, o nel settimo canto de “Don Juan” – per lui era la stessa cosa. La signora Tibbs fu davvero conquistata dai nuovi arrivati; il signor Tibbs, come al solito, trascorse la serata andando a dormire, svegliandosi e poi addormentandosi di nuovo, fino all’ora di cena.

---

Non intendiamo adottare lo stile di scrittura degli autori di romanzi e lasciare che “gli anni passino”; tuttavia ci permetteremo di chiedere al lettore di immaginare che siano trascorsi sei mesi da quella cena che abbiamo descritto, e che durante questo periodo gli ospiti di casa della signora Tibbs abbiano cantato, ballato, andato a teatri ed esposizioni insieme, come fanno spesso le signore e i signori quando soggiornano in una casa simile. E, dopo aver considerato trascorso questo lasso di tempo, gli chiederemo ancora di immaginare che il signor Septimus Hicks abbia ricevuto, una mattina presto nella sua camera da letto (un attico anteriore), un biglietto dal signor Calton nel quale questi lo invitava a trovarsi nel suo bagno, situato al secondo piano sul lato posteriore, non appena gli fosse stato possibile.

“Dica al signor Calton che scenderò subito,” disse il signor Septimus al ragazzo. “Aspetti. Il signor Calton è malato?” chiese quest’uomo, visibilmente agitato, mentre indossava una vestaglia che sembrava appartenere all’arredamento di un letto d’ospedale.

“Non che io sappia, signore,” rispose il ragazzo. “Per favore, signore, sembrava davvero strano.”

“Ah, questo non è certo una prova che sia malato,” rispose Hicks, senza pensarci troppo.
“Molto bene. Scenderò subito.” Il ragazzo corse giù per portare il messaggio, e poco dopo anche Hicks, pieno di eccitazione, lo seguì. “Toc, toc, ” “Entri, ” La porta si aprì e videro il signor Calton seduto in una poltrona comoda. Si scambiarono un saluto cordiale, e il signor Septimus Hicks gli indicò un posto a sedere. Dopo una breve pausa, Hicks tossì; il signor Calton prese un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto. Fu uno di quegli incontri in cui nessuno dei due sapeva cosa dire. Alla fine fu il signor Septimus Hicks ad rompere il silenzio.

“Ho ricevuto un biglietto, ” disse, con voce molto tremante, una voce simile a quella di Punch quando ha la raffreddore.

“Sì,” rispose l’altro, “lo hai fatto.”

“Esattamente.”

“Sì, davvero.”

Ora, sebbene questo dialogo dovesse essere stato soddisfacente, entrambi i signori sentirono che ci fosse qualcosa di più importante da dire; quindi fecero ciò che la maggior parte delle persone in una situazione del genere avrebbe fatto: fissarono il tavolo con un’espressione decisa. Tuttavia, la conversazione era già iniziata e il signor Calton aveva deciso di continuarla con un regolare colpo doppio alla porta. Lui parlava sempre in modo molto pomposo.

“Hicks,” disse lui, “ti ho chiamato a causa di alcune questioni in sospeso in questa >casa, relative a un matrimonio.”

“Con un matrimonio!”, esclamò Hicks; rispetto all’espressione sul volto di Hicks, quella di Amleto quando vede lo fantasma di suo padre appare piacevole e composta.

“Con un matrimonio”, rispose il battitore di porta. “Vi ho chiamato per dimostrare la grande fiducia che ripongo in voi.”

“E mi tradirai?” chiese ansiosamente Hicks, che, nel suo panico, aveva persino dimenticato di citare le parole giuste.

“Ti tradisco. E tu non mi tradirai?”

“Mai: nessuno dovrà sapere, fino al giorno della mia morte, che tu sei stato coinvolto in questa faccenda,” rispose Hicks, con il viso alterato e i capelli dritti come se fosse sotto l’effetto di una macchina elettrica in funzione.

“La gente deve sapere che, prima o poi – immagino entro un anno –”, disse il signor Calton con un tono di grande auto-soddisfazione, “potremmo avere una famiglia.”

“Noi! – Questo non dovrebbe influenzarti, vero?”

“Mai e poi mai!”

“No! Come è possibile?” disse Hicks, confuso. Calton era troppo immerso nella contemplazione della propria felicità per notare l’equivoco tra lui e Hicks; si lasciò cadere nuovamente sulla sedia. “Oh, Matilda, ” sospirò il vecchio corteggiatore, con voce malinconica, posando la mano destra un po’ a sinistra del quarto bottone della sua giacca, contando partendo dalla parte inferiore. “Oh, Matilda, ”

‘What Matilda?’ inquired Hicks, starting up.

‘Matilda Maplesone,’ responded the other, doing the same.

‘I marry her to-morrow morning,’ said Hicks.

‘It’s false,’ rejoined his companion: ‘I marry her!’

‘You marry her?’

‘I marry her!’

‘You marry Matilda Maplesone?’

‘Matilda Maplesone.’

‘Miss Maplesone marry you?’

‘Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.’

‘Good Heaven!’ said Hicks, falling into his chair: ‘You marry the mother, and I the daughter!’

‘Most extraordinary circumstance!’ replied Mr. Calton, ‘and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father.’

‘I should have been most happy, I assure you,’ said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; ‘but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is not usual to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll do it for you.’

‘I don’t like to ask him,’ replied Calton, ‘he’s such a donkey.’

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him. ‘Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father,’ he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair—

‘Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there? ’Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair.’

‘The idea has struck me already,’ said Mr. Calton: ‘but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you know.’

‘He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly,’ said Mr. Septimus Hicks. ‘Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.’

A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay the baker’s bill.

‘Mr. Tibbs,’ called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters.

‘Sir!’ replied he of the dirty face.

‘Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bedroom-door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as most timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition.

‘A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,’ said Calton, in a very portentous manner, ‘obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say, to your wife.’

Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters.

Mr. Calton resumed; ‘I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation.’

Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought Mr. H.’s being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder might constitute the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable ‘Lor!’

‘Now,’ continued the knocker, ‘let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning.’ And he drew back his chair, several feet, to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement.

If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down-stairs, and fainted in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise—his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said with a half-chuckle, ‘Just so.’

‘You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?’ inquired Mr. Calton.

‘Bless you, no, sir,’ returned Tibbs; ‘after all, its very natural. When two young people get together, you know—’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction.

‘You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?’ asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tibbs; ‘I was just the same at his age.’ He actually smiled when he said this.

‘How devilish well I must carry my years!’ thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment.

‘Well, then, to come to the point at once,’ he continued, ‘I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise.

‘You will not?’

‘Decidedly not,’ reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off.

Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same.

‘Now, confess,’ asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, ‘were you not a little surprised?’

‘I b’lieve you!’ replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; ‘I b’lieve you! When I first heard of it.’

‘So sudden,’ said Septimus Hicks.

‘So strange to ask me, you know,’ said Tibbs.

‘So odd altogether!’ said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed.

‘I say,’ said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, ‘what bothers me is, what will his father say?’

“Che cosa, Matilda?”, chiese Hicks, alzandosi in piedi.

“Matilda Maplesone,” rispose l’altra, facendo lo stesso.

“La sposerò domani mattina,” disse Hicks.

“È falso“, ribatté il suo compagno: “La sposerò io!“

“La sposi?”

“La sposo!”

“Sposi Matilda Maplesone?”

“Matilda Maplesone.”

“La signorina Maplesone si sposa con te?”

“Signorina Maplesone. No, signora Maplesone.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Hicks, cadendo sulla sedia: “Tu sposi la madre, e io la figlia!”

“Circostanze davvero straordinarie!” rispose il signor Calton, “e anche piuttosto scomode; infatti, poiché Matilda desiderava mantenere segreta la sua intenzione con le sue figlie fino al momento della cerimonia, non vuole chiedere aiuto a nessuno dei suoi amici per farle da testimone. Io stesso ho obiezioni ad annunciare questa notizia ai miei conoscenti; per questo vi ho contattato per vedere se sareste disposto ad accontentarmi, assumendo il ruolo di ‘padre’ in questa situazione.”

“Avrei dovuto essere molto felice, ve lo assicuro,” disse Hicks con tono di compassione; “ma, vedete, dovrò anche svolgere il ruolo dello sposo. Spesso un ruolo ne deriva un altro; tuttavia non è abituale ricoprire entrambi contemporaneamente. C’è Simpson: non ho alcun >dubbio che lo farà per voi.”

“Non mi piace chiederglielo,” rispose Calton, “è davvero un tale asino.”

Il signor Septimus Hicks alzò lo sguardo al soffitto e poi lo abbassò sul pavimento; alla fine gli venne in mente un’idea. “Che sia il padrone di casa, Tibbs, a fare da padre”, suggerì; e poi citò qualcosa che, a suo parere, si adattava perfettamente a Tibbs e a quella coppia.

“Oh, Poteri del Cielo! Che occhi scuri incontra lì. Sono quelli di suo padre, fissi su di loro.”

“L’idea mi è già venuta in mente,” disse il signor Calton: “ma, vedi, Matilda, per qualche motivo che non so, insiste molto affinché la signora Tibbs non sappia nulla al riguardo, fino a quando tutto non sarà finito. Dopotutto, si tratta di una questione piuttosto delicata, capisci.”

“È l’uomo dal carattere più gentile che esista, se lo si gestisce nel modo giusto,” disse il signor Septimus Hicks. “Ditegli di non parlarne con sua moglie e assicurategli che a lei non dispiacerà; così lo farà senz’altro. Il mio matrimonio dovrà rimanere un segreto, a causa di mia madre e di mio padre; quindi è necessario che gli venga chiesto di mantenere il riserbo.”

Un leggero doppio bussare, simile a un singolo bussato con troppa presunzione, fu udito in quel momento alla porta di casa. Era Tibbs; non poteva essere nessun altro, perché nessuno altro impiegava cinque minuti per lucidarsi le scarpe. Era uscito per pagare il conto del panettiere.

“Signor Tibbs,” chiamò il signor Calton con un tono molto indifferente, guardando giù dalle balaustrate.

“Signore!”, rispose quello dal viso sporco.

“Le dispiacerebbe salire un attimo al piano di sopra?”

“Certamente, signore,” disse Tibbs, felice di essere stato notato. La porta della camera da letto fu chiusa con cura; Tibbs, dopo aver messo il cappello per terra (come fanno la maggior parte degli uomini timidi) e aver ricevuto un posto a sedere, sembrava davvero sbalordito, come se fosse stato improvvisamente convocato davanti ai membri dell’Inquisizione.

“Un evento piuttosto sgradevole, signor Tibbs,” disse Calton in tono molto solenne, “mi costringe a consultarvi e vi prego di non rivelare a vostra moglie ciò che sto per dirvi.”

Tibbs acconsentì, chiedendosi dentro di sé cosa diavolo potesse aver fatto l’altro, e immaginando che almeno avesse rotto i migliori decanter disponibili.

mr. Calton proseguì: “Sono messo, signor Tibbs, in una situazione piuttosto sgradevole.”

Tibbs guardò il signor Septimus Hicks, come se pensasse che la presenza del signor H. nelle immediate vicinanze del suo compagno di convitto potesse rappresentare una fonte di disagio per lui; ma poiché non sapeva esattamente cosa dire, si limitò a pronunciare il monosillabo “Lor!”.

“Ora,” continuò lo squillatore, “vi prego di non mostrare alcuna reazione di sorpresa, che possa essere sentita dai domestici, quando vi dirò, che due inquilini di questa casa intendono sposarsi domani mattina.” Poi si allontanò di alcuni piedi dalla sedia, per osservare l’effetto di questa notizia inaspettata.

Se Tibbs fosse uscito di corsa dalla stanza, barcollando giù per le scale e svenendo nel corridoio, se fosse saltato all’istante fuori dalla finestra nelle stradine dietro la >casa, in preda a un dolore improvviso e inaspettato, il suo comportamento sarebbe stato molto meno inspiegabile per il signor Calton rispetto a quando, mettendosi le mani nelle sue tasche inesprimibili, aveva detto con una mezza risata: “Esattamente.”

“Non è sorpreso, signor Tibbs?”, chiese il signor Calton.

“Grazie, no, signore,” rispose Tibbs; “dopotutto, è del tutto naturale. Quando due giovani si incontrano, capisce, ”

“Certo, certo,” disse Calton, con un’aria di auto-soddisfazione indescrivibile.

“Quindi non pensa affatto che si tratti di un’affare insolito o strano?” chiese il signor Septimus Hicks, che aveva osservato l’espressione di Tibbs con silenziosa meraviglia.

“No, signore,” rispose Tibbs; “Anch’io ero esattamente come lui alla sua età.” In realtà sorrise mentre lo diceva.

“Che diavolosamente bene faccio a trascorrere questi anni!” pensò il vecchio gentiluomo compiaciuto, sapendo che in quel momento era almeno dieci anni più anziano di Tibbs.

“Beh,” continuò, “per venire subito al punto, devo chiedervi se avrete obiezioni ad assumere il ruolo di padre in questa occasione.”

“Certamente no,” rispose Tibbs, senza mostrare nemmeno un briciolo di sorpresa.

“Non lo farai?”

“Assolutamente no,” ripeté Tibbs, ancora calmo come una bottiglia di porto dalla testa mozzata.

Il signor Calton prese la mano di quel piccolo uomo guidato dalle donne e giurò eterna amicizia da quell’istante in poi. Anche Hicks, pieno di ammirazione e sorpresa, fece lo stesso.

“Ora, confessa,” chiese il signor Calton a Tibbs, mentre si alzava il cappello, “non sei stato un po’ sorpreso?”

“Ti credo!” rispose quella persona illustre, alzando una mano;
“Ti credo. Fin da quando ne ho sentito parlare per la prima volta.”

“È stato così improvviso,” disse Septimus Hicks.

“È strano chiederlo a me, lo sai,” disse Tibbs.

“È davvero strano tutto questo!” disse il vecchio esperto di amore; e poi tutti e tre risero.

“Dico,” disse Tibbs, chiudendo la porta che aveva aperto poco prima e lasciando sfogare una risata che fino ad allora era stata trattenuta, “quello che mi preoccupa è, cosa dirà suo padre?”

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton.

‘Yes; but the best of it is,’ said the latter, giggling in his turn, ‘I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!’

‘You haven’t got a father. No; but he has,’ said Tibbs.

‘Who has?’ inquired Septimus Hicks.

‘Why, him.’

‘Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?’

‘You! No; you know who I mean,’ returned Tibbs with a knowing wink.

‘For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion.

‘Why Mr. Simpson, of course,’ replied Tibbs; ‘who else could I mean?’

‘I see it all,’ said the Byron-quoter; ‘Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!’

‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, ‘of course he does.’

It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed, at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence, the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs.

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a ‘holy alliance’ with Miss Julia; Tibbs acting as father, ‘his first appearance in that character.’ Mr. Calton, not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, ‘appealed,’ as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, ‘with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country.’ She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000_l._ which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable haircutter’s; hairdressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits, and style of thinking, of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, cant, and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community.

It only remains to add, that this complication of disorders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she could have best spared—her husband. That wretched little man returned home, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is understood, his witticisms will be in future confined: a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers.

The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be reserved for another chapter.

Il signor Septimus Hicks guardò il signor Calton.

“Sì; ma la cosa migliore è,” disse quest’ultimo, ridacchiando a sua volta, “che non ho un padre, lui! lui! lui!”

“Tu non hai un padre. No, ma lui sì,” disse Tibbs.

“Chi l’ha?” chiese Septimus Hicks.

“Perché lui, ”

“Lui, chi? Conosci il mio segreto? Intendi parlare di me?”

“Tu! No, tu sai di chi parlo,” rispose Tibbs con un occhiolino complice.

“Per l’amor del cielo, a chi vi riferite?” chiese il signor Calton, che, proprio come Septimus Hicks, era completamente sconvolto da quella strana situazione confusa.

“Certo, il signor Simpson”, rispose Tibbs; “chi altro potrei intendere?”

“Lo vedo tutto,” disse colui che citava spesso Byron; “Simpson sposerà Julia Maplesone domani mattina!”

“Senza dubbio,” rispose Tibbs, assolutamente soddisfatto, “certamente che lo fa.”

Ci vorrebbe la penna di Hogarth per descrivere – la nostra debole penna è insufficiente a rappresentare – l’espressione che assunsero rispettivamente i volti del signor Calton e del signor Septimus Hicks di fronte a questa inaspettata notizia. Altrettanto impossibile è descrivere, anche se forse più facile da immaginare per le nostre lettrici, quali stratagemmi abbiano potuto utilizzare le tre signore per intrappolare completamente i loro rispettivi partner. Comunque sia, il loro piano ebbe successo: la madre era perfettamente a conoscenza dei progetti di matrimonio delle sue due figlie; e anche le giovani donne erano al corrente dell’intenzione della loro stimata genitrice. Tuttavia concordarono sul fatto che tutto avrebbe avuto un aspetto molto più plausibile se ognuna avesse finto di ignorare l’impegno dell’altra; inoltre, era altrettanto desiderabile che tutti i matrimoni avvenissero lo stesso giorno, per evitare che la scoperta di uno dei legami segreti influenzasse negativamente gli altri. Ecco quindi il “inganno” messo in atto nei confronti del signor Calton e del signor Septimus Hicks, nonché l’inganno preliminare perpetrato contro l’incauto Tibbs.

La mattina seguente, il signor Septimus Hicks sposò la signorina Matilda Maplesone. Anche il signor Simpson entrò in una “alleanza sacra” con la signorina Julia; Tibbs, nel ruolo di padre, fece la sua “prima apparizione in quel ruolo”. Il signor Calton, meno entusiasta dei due giovani, rimase piuttosto colpito da questa “doppia scoperta”; e poiché aveva avuto difficoltà a trovare qualcuno che rivelasse il segreto della signora, gli venne in mente che l’unico modo per evitare problemi fosse semplicemente non sposarla. Tuttavia, la signora, come disse il suo avvocato nel processo Maplesone contro Calton per mancata promessa di matrimonio, “con il cuore spezzato, ricorse alle leggi indignate del suo paese”. Ottenne un risarcimento di 1.000 sterline, somma che il sfortunato signor Hicks fu costretto a pagare. Dopo aver visitato diversi ospedali, il signor Septimus Hicks decise semplicemente di andarsene per sempre; sua moglie ferita attualmente vive con sua madre a Boulogne. Il signor Simpson, sfortunatamente privato della moglie sei settimane dopo il matrimonio (poiché lei fuggì con un ufficiale durante la sua temporanea reclusione in prigione, a causa del suo incapacità di pagare il conto del sarto che le confezionava i vestiti), e diseredato dal padre che morì poco dopo, ebbe la fortuna di ottenere un lavoro stabile in un salone di parrucchiere; l’arte del taglio dei capelli era infatti uno degli argomenti a cui aveva spesso dedicato attenzione. In questa situazione, ebbe molte opportunità di conoscere i costumi e lo stile di pensiero dell’élite nobiliare di quel regno. È proprio grazie a questa fortunata circostanza che sono nati quei brillanti capolavori letterari: i suoi romanzi alla moda, che finché esisterà un buon gusto, lontano da esagerazioni, retorica e ciarlataneria, continueranno sicuramente a istruire e divertire la parte pensante della società.

Resta solo da aggiungere che questa complicazione di problemi privò completamente la povera signora Tibbs di tutti i suoi ospiti, tranne quello che avrebbe potuto permettersi di perdere meno di ogni altro: suo marito. Quel misero uomo tornò a >casa il giorno del matrimonio in uno stato di leggera ebbrezza; sotto l’effetto del vino, dell’eccitazione e della -disperazione, osò addirittura sfidare la rabbia di sua moglie. Da quell’ora sfortunata, mangia costantemente in cucina, dove, si intende, i suoi scherzi continueranno ad essere limitati a quel luogo: una brandina da letto è stata trasferita lì su ordine della signora Tibbs affinché vi potesse soggiornare esclusivamente. È possibile che in quell’isolamento riesca a completare la sua storia sui volontari.

La pubblicità è apparsa di nuovo sui giornali del mattino. I risultati dovranno essere discussi in un altro capitolo.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

‘Well!’ said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first Landings;—‘Things have not turned out so badly, either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again.’

Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune.

The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid.

‘T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning.

‘T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you.

‘I remain yours Truly ‘Wednesday evening.’

Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document, over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the ‘i’ for the ‘T. I.;’ and the transition from the ‘I. T.’ to the ‘You.’ The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs ‘to make herself tidy.’

The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards, Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border.

The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negotiation commenced.

‘I called in consequence of an advertisement,’ said the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off.

‘Yes!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions.

‘Money isn’t no object whatever to me,’ said the lady, ‘so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire.

‘I am constantly attended by a medical man,’ resumed the pelisse wearer; ‘I have been a shocking unitarian for some time—I, indeed, have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.’

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising.

‘I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,’ said Mrs. Bloss; ‘but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton-chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. ‘Now mind,’ said that lady, after terms were arranged; ‘I am to have the second-floor front, for my bed-room?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?’

‘Oh! certainly.’

‘And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.’

‘With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday.’

‘And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning,’ said Mrs. Bloss. ‘I shall get up on purpose.’

‘Very well,’ returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had ‘been given and required,’ and it was quite certain that the new-comer had plenty of money. ‘It’s rather singular,’ continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, ‘that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room.’

‘The next room?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss.

‘The next room,’ repeated the hostess.

‘How very promiscuous!’ ejaculated the widow.

‘He hardly ever gets up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper.

‘Lor!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone.

‘And when he is up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘we never can persuade him to go to bed again.’

‘Dear me!’ said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. ‘What is his complaint?’

‘Why, the fact is,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, ‘he has no stomach whatever.’

‘No what?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm.

‘No stomach,’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head.

‘Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!’ gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere.

CAPITOLO SECONDO.

“Beh!”, si disse la piccola signora Tibbs una mattina, seduta nel salotto anteriore della residenza in Coram Street mentre riparava un pezzo di tappeto delle scale; “Le cose non sono andate poi così male. Se solo ricevo una risposta positiva all’annuncio, torneremo a essere pieni”.

La signora Tibbs riprese il suo lavoro di realizzare intrecci di lana nella moquette, ascoltando con ansia il postino che si avvicinava lungo la strada, battendo i piedi ad ogni passo. La casa era il più possibile silenziosa. Si udiva soltanto un suono sommesso: quello della sfortunata Tibbs che puliva le scarpe dei signori nella cucina posteriore, emettendo un rumore simile al ronzio di un’ape, una miserabile parodia del canto di un uccellino.

Il postino si avvicinò alla >casa. Si fermò; lo fece anche la signora Tibbs. Un colpo alla porta, un trambusto, una lettera, pagamento in contanti.

“T. I. presenta questo messaggio a I. T. e chiede di poter dire che ha visto l’annuncio; si prega quindi di concederle il piacere di farvi visita alle 12 del domani mattina.”

“Per scusarmi con te per la brevità della comunicazione, ma spero che non ti causi alcun disagio.”

“Resto sempre tuo devotamente,
Mercoledì sera.”

La piccola signora Tibbs esaminò il documento più e più volte; e più lo leggeva, più si confondeva a causa della mescolanza di prima e terza persona, del sostituto “io” al posto di “T. I.”, e del passaggio da “I. T.” a “Tu”. La scrittura sembrava un gomitolo di filo inestricabile; la nota, però, era stata abilmente piegata in un quadrato perfetto, con le istruzioni scrivute nell’angolo destro, come se ne vergognasse. Il retro della lettera era decorato con una grande fetta di pane rosso; insieme alle varie macchie d’inchiostro, tutto questo dava alla nota l’aspetto sorprendente di un scarafaggio nero calpestato. Una cosa, però, era assolutamente chiara per la confusa signora Tibbs: qualcuno avrebbe suonato alla porta alle dodici. La sala da pranzo fu subito spolverata per la terza volta quella mattina; tre o quattro sedie furono spostate dai loro posti, e lo stesso numero di libri fu messo sottosopra, in modo che non ci fossero formalità. Il tappeto della scala venne tolto e la signora Tibbs corse su “per sistemarsi”.

L’orologio della chiesa di New Saint Pancras suonò le dodici; il bambino abbandonato, con una lodevole cortesia, fece lo stesso dieci minuti dopo. Poi suonò la mezzora. E infine arrivò una signora che bussò due volte: indossava un mantello del colore dell’interno di una torta di ciliegie; un cappello dello stesso colore, adornato con un “giardino” di fiori artificiali; un velo bianco e un ombrello verde, bordato di ragnatele.

Il visitatore (che era molto grasso e aveva il viso rosso) fu fatto entrare nel salotto; la signora Tibbs si presentò e iniziò la negoziazione.

“Ho chiamato a causa di un annuncio,” disse la sconosciuta, con una voce come se avesse suonato i flauti di Pan per due settimane consecutive senza mai fermarsi.

“Sì!”, disse la signora Tibbs, strofinandosi le mani molto lentamente e guardando l’aspirante dritto negli occhi: due cose che faceva sempre in occasioni del genere.

“Per me il denaro non rappresenta alcun problema,” disse la signora, “l’importante è vivere in tranquillità e senza distrazioni.”

La signora Tibbs, naturalmente, acconsentì a un desiderio così estremamente naturale.

“Sono costantemente assistito da un medico,” continuò la persona che indossava il mantello; “Da qualche tempo sono diventato un unitariano convinto. In effetti, non ho avuto quasi alcun riposo da quando è morto il signor Bloss.”

La signora Tibbs guardò il resto di quel povero Bloss e pensò che doveva aver vissuto molto poco in pace durante la sua vita. Ovviamente non poteva dirlo apertamente, quindi assunse un’espressione molto comprensiva.

“Vi darò molto da fare,” disse la signora Bloss; “ma sono disposta a pagare questo disturbo. Sto seguendo un trattamento che richiede molta attenzione. Ogni mattina, alle otto e mezza e alle dieci, ho bisogno di qualcuno che si prenda cura di me.”

La signora Tibbs, per dovere, esprimeva la compassione che provava per chiunque si trovasse in una situazione così angosciosa; mentre la carnivora signora Bloss procedette ad organizzare tutte le necessarie procedure con straordinaria efficienza. “Ora ascoltate bene,” disse quella signora, dopo aver definito tutti gli accordi, “devo avere il lato anteriore del secondo piano per la mia camera da letto, giusto?”

‘Sì, signora.’

“E troverete spazio anche per la mia piccola serva Agnes?”

“Ah, certamente.”

“E posso prendere uno dei sotterranei della zona per conservare il mio porter in bottiglia.”

Con grande piacere; James lo preparerà per te entro sabato.

“E mi unirò alla compagnia a tavola per la colazione domenica mattina,” disse la signora Bloss. “Mi alzerò apposta.”

“Molto bene,” rispose la signora Tibbs con il suo tono più affabile; poiché erano stati forniti i referimenti necessari e si era certi che il nuovo arrivato avesse molto denaro. “È piuttosto strano,” continuò la signora Tibbs, con un sorriso che voleva sembrare incantevole, “che ora abbiamo qui un gentiluomo in uno stato di salute molto delicato. Un certo signor Gobler. La sua stanza si trova nel salotto sul retro.”

“La stanza successiva?”, chiese la signora Bloss.

“La stanza successiva,” ripeté l’hostess.

“Che comportamento davvero promiscuo!” esclamò la vedova.

“Raramente si alza,” sussurrò la signora Tibbs.

“Lor!” gridò la signora Bloss, con lo stesso tono sommesso.

“E quando si alza,” disse la signora Tibbs, “non riusciamo mai a convincerlo a tornare a letto.”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò la sorpresa signora Bloss, avvicinando la sua sedia a quella della signora Tibbs. “Di cosa si lamenta?”

“Beh, in realtà,” rispose la signora Tibbs con un tono molto loquace, “lui semplicemente non ha appetito.”

“Ma cosa?” chiese la signora Bloss, con un’espressione di allarme indescrivibile.

“Nessun appetito,” ripeté la signora Tibbs scuotendo la testa.

“Signore, benedicici! Che caso straordinario!” esclamò la signora Bloss, come se avesse compreso il significato letterale di quelle parole e fosse rimasta sbalordita dal fatto che un gentiluomo senza stomaco ritenesse necessario soggiornare da qualche parte.

‘When I say he has no stomach,’ explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s an inconvenience.’

‘Never heard such a case in my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. ‘Why, he’s worse than I am.’

‘Oh, yes!’ replied Mrs. Tibbs;—‘certainly.’ She said this with great confidence, for the damson pelisse suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint.

‘You have quite incited my curiosity,’ said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. ‘How I long to see him!’

‘He generally comes down, once a week,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday.’ With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the street.

It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds; and, by way of retaliation, he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100_l._ a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny.

The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house: and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid Agnes: both of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions.

Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young-lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour, and increased the comfort, of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First, there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout, and an umbrella; then, a train of trunks; then, a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then, an easy chair with an air-cushion; then, a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—‘though last not least’—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes: the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals: like a disguised Columbine.

The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing, in point of bustle and turmoil, to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up-stairs for her consumption.

‘Why, what do you think, ma’am?’ inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; ‘what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married.’

‘Married!’ said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—‘married! Unpossible!’

‘She is indeed, ma’am,’ returned the Columbine; ‘and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am.’

‘In the kitchen!’

‘Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—“Ah! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you?”’ Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit.

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs. Bloss.

‘Yes. And please, ma’am, the servants gives him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them.’

‘Tickle the boarders!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed.

‘No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.’

‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.

“Quando dico che non ha lo stomaco adatto”, spiegò la chiacchierona signora Tibbs, “intendo dire che la sua digestione è così compromessa e il suo organismo interno così squilibrato, che lo stomaco non gli serve affatto a nulla; anzi, rappresenta solo un fastidio.”

“Non ho mai sentito una storia del genere in vita mia!” esclamò la signora Bloss. “Dio mio, è peggio di me, ”

“Oh, sì!” rispose la signora Tibbs; “certamente.” Lo disse con grande fiducia, perché il mantello color ciliegio faceva pensare che la signora Bloss, in ogni caso, non stesse soffrendo a causa delle lamentele del signor Gobler.

“Avete davvero suscitato la mia curiosità,” disse la signora Bloss mentre si alzava per andarsene. “Quanto desidero vederlo!”

“Di solito viene giù una volta alla settimana,” rispose la signora Tibbs; “credo che lo vedrete domenica.” Con questa promessa consolatoria, la signora Bloss dovette accontentarsi. Così scese lentamente le scale, continuando a raccontare i suoi problemi lungo il cammino; la signora Tibbs la seguiva, esprimendo compassione ad ogni passo. James (che aveva un aspetto molto sporco, perché stava pulendo i coltelli) cadde giù per le scale della cucina e aprì la porta di casa; dopo essersi salutati a vicenda, la signora Bloss se ne andò lentamente, lungo il lato ombreggiato della strada.

È quasi superfluo dire che la signora che abbiamo appena mostrato alla porta di casa (e che ora le due domestiche stanno esaminando dalle finestre del secondo piano) era estremamente volgare, ignorante e egoista. Il suo defunto coniuge era stato un rinomato produttore di sughero, e in questa veste aveva accumulato una discreta fortuna. Non aveva parenti se non il nipote, né amici se non la cuoca. Un mattino, quel nipote osò chiedergli in prestito quindici sterline; in segno di rappresaglio, il giorno dopo il defunto sposò proprio la cuoca. Subito dopo redasse un testamento, nel quale esprimeva tutto il suo sdegno verso il nipote (che si manteneva lui e due sorelle con soli 100 sterline all’anno) e lasciava tutta la sua proprietà alla moglie. Si ammalò dopo colazione e morì dopo cena. In una chiesa parrocchiale c’è un cartello che elenca le sue virtù e deplora la sua scomparsa. Non aveva mai mancato di pagare un conto, né regalato nemmeno mezzo penny.

L’unica erede e esecutrice di quest’uomo dal nobile carattere era una strana miscela di astuzia e semplicità, generosità e avarizia. Cresciuta nel modo in cui era stata educata, non conosceva nessun modo di vivere più piacevole di quello offerto da una casa di pensione; avendo nulla da fare e nulla desiderare, naturalmente immaginava di essere malata – un’impressione che veniva costantemente alimentata dal suo medico, il dottor Wosky, e dalla sua ancella Agnes: entrambi, senza dubbio per motivi validi, incoraggiavano tutte le sue idee esagerate.

Dalla catastrofe descritta nel capitolo precedente, la signora Tibbs provava grande timore nei confronti delle giovani ospiti che soggiornavano da lei. Le sue attuali inquiline erano tutte persone di alto rango sociale, e lei approfittò dell’occasione del loro raduno a tavola per annunciare l’imminente arrivo della signora Bloss. I gentiluomini accolsero la notizia con indifferenza stoica, mentre la signora Tibbs dedicò tutte le sue energie a prepararsi all’accoglienza di questa donna anziana e malata. Il lato anteriore del secondo piano fu pulito, lavato e strofinato fino a quando l’umidità non penetrò anche nel soffitto del salotto. Tappeti bianchi puliti, tende e tovaglioli, bottiglie d’acqua trasparenti come il cristallo, giare blu e mobili in mogano contribuirono ad aumentare lo splendore e il comfort dell’appartamento. Il bricco riscaldante veniva utilizzato costantemente, e ogni giorno veniva accesa un’fiamma nel salotto. Gli effetti personali della signora Bloss arrivarono in più lotti: prima di tutto, un grande cesto contenente birra Guinness e un ombrello; poi, una serie di valigie; successivamente, un paio di ciabatte e una scatola da viaggio; infine, una poltrona con cuscino d’aria. Infine arrivarono anche la signora Bloss stessa e Agnes: quest’ultima indossava un abito di lana merino color ciliegia, calze a rete e scarpe con sandali, sembrava quasi una Colombina in incognito.

L’insediamento del Duca di Wellington come Cancelliere dell’Università di Oxford non fu, in termini di trambusto e confusione, paragonabile all’insediamento della signora Bloss nelle sue nuove stanze. È vero che non c’era alcun illustre dottore in diritto civile per tenere un discorso classico all’occasione; ma c’erano diverse altre anziane presenti, le quali parlavano altrettanto efficacemente e si capivano a vicenda altrettanto bene. La signora Bloss, esausta dal processo di trasloco, rifiutò di lasciare la sua stanza fino al giorno seguente; così una cotoletta d’agnello, dei sottaceti, una pillola, una bottiglia di birra forte e altri medicinali furono portati su per lei da consumare.

“Ma allora, cosa pensa lei, signora?” chiese l’curiosa Agnes alla sua padrona, dopo che erano state nella >casa per circa tre ore; “cosa pensa lei, signora? La padrona di questa casa è sposata.”

“Sposata!” disse la signora Bloss, prendendo la pillola e un sorso di Guinness, “Sposata? Impossibile!”

“È davvero così, signora,” rispose la Columbine; “e suo marito, vive, nella cucina, signora.”

“In cucina!”

“Sì, signora: e la cameriera dice che lui non entra mai nel salotto se non la domenica; che la signorina Tibbs lo fa pulire le scarpe dei signori; e che a volte pulisce anche le finestre; e che una mattina, mentre era sul balcone anteriore a pulire le finestre del soggiorno, ha chiamato un signore che abitava qui prima, ‘Ah! Signor Calton, come sta?’” L’assistente rise così tanto che la signora Bloss iniziò seriamente a temere che potesse scoppiare in una crisi di ilarità.

“Beh, mai!” disse la signora Bloss.

“Sì. E per favore, signora, a volte i servitori gli danno gin e acqua; poi piange e dice di odiare sua moglie e gli altri inquilini, e vuole farli ridere.”

“Stuzzicate i confini!” esclamò la signora Bloss, seriamente allarmata.

“No, signora, non i pensionanti, ma i domestici.”

“Ah, è tutto qui!” disse la signora Bloss, molto soddisfatta.

‘He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now,’ said Agnes, indignantly; ‘but I gave it him—a little wretch!’

This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story.

The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers; with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milkpot with a teaspoon.

A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a chair; and a stern-looking man, of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and a Sunday paper in his hand, entered the room.

‘Good morning, Mr. Evenson,’ said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow.

‘How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?’ replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word.

‘Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?’ inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something.

‘I should think he was,’ replied the stern gentleman. ‘He was whistling “The Light Guitar,” in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning.’

‘He’s very fond of whistling,’ said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

‘Yes—I ain’t,’ was the laconic reply.

Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and, could tell you, off-hand, where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state; and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd’s-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance reminded one of Orson.

‘Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling ‘Di piacer.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he ever said to anybody.

‘How are you, Tibbs?’ condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever.

‘Pretty air, that!’ said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper.

‘Glad you like it,’ replied Wisbottle, highly gratified.

‘Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?’ inquired the mastiff.

‘No; I don’t think it would,’ rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle.

‘I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle,’ said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours—‘the next time you feel disposed to whistle “The Light Guitar” at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—’

The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion.

Mrs. Tibbs apologised for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared, and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the window. ‘Here—Wisbottle—pray come here—make haste.’

Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up.

‘Do you see,’ said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—‘a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?’

‘Dear me! I see,’ replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration.

‘I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life,’ ejaculated Alfred. Everybody (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment; for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it.

“Voleva baciarmi appena sono salita le scale della cucina, poco fa,” disse Agnes, indignata; “ma gliel’ho negato, quel piccolo miserabile!”

Questa informazione era purtroppo vera. Un lungo periodo di disprezzo e trascuratezza; giorni trascorsi in cucina e notti passate su quel letto improvvisato avevano completamente distrutto lo spirito che quell’infortunato volontario avesse mai posseduto. Non aveva nessuno con cui poter condividere le sue sofferenze se non i domestici, e questi, per necessità, divennero i suoi confidenti. È tuttavia strano, ma vero: quelle piccole debolezze che aveva sviluppato, molto probabilmente durante la sua carriera militare, sembravano aumentare man mano che le sue condizioni di vita peggioravano. In realtà, era una sorta di “Giovanni del seminterrato” in versione moderna.

La mattina seguente, essendo domenica, la colazione fu servita nel salotto anteriore alle dieci in punto. Di solito la famiglia pranzava alle nove, ma il sabato lo faceva sempre un’ora più tardi. Tibbs si vestì con l’abito da domenica: un cappotto nero e pantaloni estremamente corti e sottili; indossò anche una cravatta bianca, calze bianche e stivali Blucher, quindi salì nel suddetto salotto. Nessuno era ancora sceso, così si divertì a bere il contenuto della pentola del latte usando un cucchiaino.

Si sentì il rumore di un paio di pantofole che scendevano le scale. Tibbs si precipitò verso una sedia; poi entrò nella stanza un uomo dall’aspetto severo, di circa cinquant’anni, con pochissimi capelli in testa e un giornale della domenica in mano.

“Buongiorno, signor Evenson,” disse Tibbs in tono molto umile, con un gesto che era a metà tra un cenno del capo e un inchino.

“Come va, signor Tibbs?” rispose l’uomo con gli scarponcini, sedendosi e iniziando a leggere il suo giornale senza dire una parola in più.

“Sa se il signor Wisbottle è in città oggi, signore?”, chiese Tibbs, solo per dire qualcosa.

“Credo proprio di sì,” rispose il gentiluomo severo. “Stamattina alle cinque stava suonando ‘The Light Guitar’ nella stanza accanto alla mia.”

“Gli piace molto fischiare,” disse Tibbs, con un leggero sorrisetto.

“Sì, non lo sono,” fu la risposta laconica.

Il signor John Evenson aveva un reddito indipendente, derivante principalmente dalle varie case che possedeva nei diversi sobborghi. Era molto malinconico e insoddisfatto; era un radicale convinto e partecipava a molte riunioni pubbliche con l’intento esplicito di trovare difetti in tutto ciò che veniva proposto. Dall’altra parte, il signor Wisbottle era un convinto conservatore: lavorava nell’Ufficio per le Foreste e considerava quel lavoro particolarmente nobile; conosceva a memoria l’intera nobiltà inglese e sapeva indicare all’istante dove vivevano personaggi illustri. Aveva denti belli e un sarto eccellente. Il signor Evenson guardava con profondo disprezzo tutte queste qualità del signor Wisbottle; di conseguenza, i due litigavano spesso, a grande divertimento degli altri inquilini della casa. Va aggiunto che, oltre alla sua passione per il fischiettare, il signor Wisbottle aveva una grande fiducia nelle proprie capacità canore. Oltre ai due uomini già menzionati, nella casa vivevano anche il signor Alfred Tomkins e il signor Frederick O’Bleary: il primo lavorava in un negozio di vini ed era un esperto di pittura; il secondo era irlandese, appena arrivato in Inghilterra, e cercava disperatamente di trovare lavoro come farmacista, impiegato in un ufficio governativo, attore o giornalista. Non aveva preferenze precise. Era in buoni rapporti con due membri del Parlamento irlandese e riusciva a ottenere biglietti gratuiti per tutti gli abitanti della casa. Era convinto che i suoi meriti intrinseci gli avrebbero garantito un destino illustre. Indossava abiti a quadri scozzesi e, camminando per le strade, guardava sempre sotto i cappelli delle signore. Il suo comportamento e il suo aspetto ricordavano molto Orson.

“Ecco arrivare il signor Wisbottle,” disse Tibbs; e subito dopo il signor Wisbottle apparve indossando pantofole blu e una vestaglia con sciarpa, mentre suonava la canzone “Di piacer”.

“Buongiorno, signore,” disse di nuovo Tibbs. Era quasi l’unica cosa che mai diceva a qualcuno.

“Come stai, Tibbs?”, rispose l’amateur in tono condiscendente; poi si avvicinò alla finestra e iniziò a fischiare più forte che mai.

“Che bello aria, ”, disse Evenson con un ringhio, senza staccare gli occhi dal foglio di carta.

“Mi fa piacere che ti piaccia,” rispose Wisbottle, molto compiaciuto.

“Non pensi che suonerebbe meglio se lo fischiassi un po’ più forte?”, chiese il mastino.

“No; non credo che lo farebbe,” rispose il senza-senso Wisbottle.

“Ti dico una cosa, Wisbottle,” disse Evenson, che aveva trattenuto la sua rabbia per diverse ore: “la prossima volta che avrai voglia di suonare ‘The Light Guitar’ alle cinque di mattina, ti prego di farlo con la testa fuori dalla finestra. Se non lo fai, imparerò a suonare il triangolo. Lo farò, te lo prometto.”

L’arrivo della signora Tibbs (con le chiavi in un piccolo cestino) interruppe la minaccia e impedì che venisse portata a termine.

La signora Tibbs si scusò per essere arrivata un po’ in ritardo; il campanello era già stato suonato. James portò fuori l’urna e ricevette un ordine illimitato di toast secco e bacon. La signora Tibbs si sedette all’estremità del tavolo e iniziò a mangiare i cressi come se fosse una persona molto golosa. Il signor O’Bleary e il signor Alfred Tomkins arrivarono poco dopo; si scambiarono i soliti complimenti del mattino e poi venne preparato il tè.

“Dio mi benedica!”, esclamò Tomkins, che stava guardando fuori dalla finestra. “Vieni qui, Wisbottle, per favore, sbrigati.”

Il signor Wisbottle iniziò dal tavolo, e tutti alzarono lo sguardo.

“Vedi?” disse il conoscitore, posizionando Wisbottle nel punto giusto. “Un po’ più in questa direzione. Ecco: vedi quanto meravigliosamente la luce illumini il lato sinistro di quella ciminiera rotta al numero 48?”

“Mio Dio! Capisco,” rispose Wisbottle con tono ammirativo.

“Nella mia vita non ho mai visto un oggetto risaltare così bellamente contro il cielo sereno,” esclamò Alfred. Tutti (tranne John Evenson) condivisero quel sentimento; infatti, il signor Tomkins aveva davvero il dono di scoprire bellezze che nessun altro riusciva a notare. Certamente se lo meritava.

‘I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect,’ said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point.

The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48.

The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared, leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions; a chain to match; and a splendid assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head; Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle, bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction.

Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity.

‘You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the Drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?’ said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic.

‘Yes,’ replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.

‘Never saw anything like it before, I suppose?’ suggested Wisbottle.

‘No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,’ replied O’Bleary.

‘Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?’

‘Oh, infinitely superior!’

‘Gad! I don’t know,’ said the aristocratic Wisbottle, ‘the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.’

‘What was he presented on?’ inquired Evenson.

‘On his arrival in England.’

‘I thought so,’ growled the radical; ‘you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that.’

‘Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,’ said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice.

‘Well,’ said Wisbottle, evading the point, ‘it’s a splendid sight.’

‘And did it never occur to you,’ inquired the radical, who never would be quiet; ‘did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society?’

‘It certainly has occurred to me,’ said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser; ‘it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them.’

‘Well, and it has occurred to me too,’ replied John Evenson, ‘and I ain’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?’ continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. ‘There are two great principles—demand—’

‘A cup of tea if you please, dear,’ interrupted Tibbs.

‘And supply—’

‘May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?’ said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it.

The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper.

‘If it’s very fine,’ said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, ‘I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.’ Mr. Wisbottle hummed, ‘Flow on, thou shining river.’

‘We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part.

‘The accommodations are extraordinary,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Extraordinary indeed,’ returned Mrs. Bloss. ‘When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with berths, is not creditable.’

Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he had not.

The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their teaspoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room; and, when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together.

‘Oh dear!’ said the latter, ‘I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular.’ (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) ‘By-the-bye,’ said Mrs. Bloss, ‘I have not seen Mr. What’s-his-name yet.’

‘Mr. Gobler?’ suggested Mrs. Tibbs.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up-stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together.’

‘I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,’ repeated Mrs. Bloss.

‘I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.’

‘I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A little double-knock interrupted the conversation; Dr. Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face—dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay.

“Ho spesso notato una ciminiera situata in College-green, a Dublino, che ha un effetto molto più bello,” disse il patriottico O’Bleary, che non permetteva mai all’Irlanda di essere superata in alcun campo.

Questa affermazione fu accolta con evidente incredulità, poiché il signor Tomkins dichiarò che nessun altro comignolo nel Regno Unito, sia rotto che intatto, potesse essere così bello come quello al numero 48.

La porta della stanza si aprì improvvisamente, e apparve Agnes, che fece entrare la signora Bloss, vestita con un abito di mussola color geranio; indossava anche un orologio d’oro di dimensioni notevoli, una catena abbinata e una splendida collezione di anelli con pietre enormi. Tutti si affrettarono a cercare una sedia per sedersi, e poi ebbe luogo la presentazione ufficiale. Il signor John Evanson fece un leggero inchino; il signor Frederick O’Bleary, il signor Alfred Tomkins e il signor Wisbottle si inchinarono come i mandarini in una bottega di alimentari; Tibbs si strofinò le mani e iniziò a camminare in cerchio. Si notò che chiudeva un occhio e assumeva un’espressione simile a quella di un orologio con l’altro; questo fu interpretato come un battito di ciglia, e si disse che l’oggetto di tale gesto fosse Agnes. Rifiutiamo queste calunnie e sfidiamo chiunque voglia contraddirle.

La signora Tibbs chiese, con voce bassa, della salute della signora Bloss. La signora Bloss, provando un profondo disprezzo per la memoria di Lindley Murray, rispose alle varie domande in modo molto soddisfacente; dopo di che seguì una pausa durante la quale il cibo scomparve con incredibile rapidità.

“Deve essere stato molto soddisfatto dell’aspetto delle signore che sono andate in salotto l’altro giorno, vero, signor O’Bleary?” disse la signora Tibbs, nella speranza di avviare una conversazione su quel argomento.

“Sì,” rispose Orson, con la bocca piena di pane tostato.

“Non ho mai visto nulla del genere prima d’ora, suppongo, ”, suggerì Wisbottle.

“No, tranne che per le dighe del Luogotenente Governatore,” rispose O’Bleary.

“Sono davvero paragonabili alle nostre sale da pranzo?”

“Ah, infinitamente superiore!”

“Mio Dio! Non lo so proprio,” disse l’aristocratico Wisbottle. “La Marchesa Vedova di Publiccash era vestita in modo davvero magnifico, così come il Barone Slappenbachenhausen.”

“Su cosa è stato presentato?” chiese Evenson.

‘Al suo arrivo in Inghilterra.’

“Lo pensavo,” ringhiò il radicale; “non si sente mai parlare di questi tizi che vengono presentati al momento della loro partenza. Loro sanno meglio di così.”

“Tranne se qualcuno non li invade con un’ossessione”, disse la signora Bloss, unendo il proprio discorso con una voce debole.

“Beh,” disse Wisbottle, eludendo l’argomento principale, “è davvero uno spettacolo meraviglioso.”

“E non ti è mai venuto in mente,” chiese il radicale, che non smetteva mai di fare domande; “non ti è mai venuto in mente che sei tu a pagare per questi preziosi ornamenti della società?”

“Certo che mi è venuto in mente,” disse Wisbottle, ritenendo che quella risposta fosse una domanda trabocchetto; “mi è venuto in mente, e sono disposto a pagarli.”

“Beh, anche a me è venuto in mente,” rispose John Evenson, “e non ho intenzione di pagarli. Allora perché dovrei farlo? Voglio dire, perché dovrei?” continuò il politico, posando il foglio e battendo i pollici sul tavolo. “Ci sono due principi fondamentali: la domanda, ”

“Una tazza di tè, per favore, cara,” interruppe Tibbs.

“E l’approvvigionamento, ”

“Potrebbe gentilmente consegnare questa tazza di tè al signor Tibbs?” disse la signora Tibbs, interrompendo la discussione e, senza saperlo, illustrandone i contenuti.

Il filo del discorso dell’oratore si interruppe. Bevve il suo tè e riprese a leggere il documento.

“Se il tempo è molto bello,” disse il signor Alfred Tomkins rivolgendosi a tutti i presenti, “oggi andrò a Richmond in carrozza e tornerò con la nave a vapore. Sul Tamigi ci sono effetti meravigliosi di luce e ombra; il contrasto tra il blu del cielo e il colore giallo dell’acqua è spesso estremamente bello.” Il signor Wisbottle mormorò: “Prosegui, oh luminoso fiume, ”

“In Irlanda abbiamo alcuni splendidi vascelli a vapore,” disse O’Bleary.

“Certamente,” disse la signora Bloss, felice di trovare un argomento su cui poter intervenire.

“Le strutture offerte sono straordinarie,” disse O’Bleary.

“Davvero straordinario,” rispose la signora Bloss. “Quando il signor Bloss era vivo, doveva spesso recarsi in Irlanda per lavoro. Io lo accompagnavo, e devo dire che il modo in cui le signore e i signori venivano sistemati per la notte non era affatto dignitoso.”

Tibbs, che aveva ascoltato il dialogo, sembrò sbalordito e mostrò una forte voglia di fare una domanda, ma si trattenne a causa dello sguardo della moglie. Il signor Wisbottle rise e spiegò che Tomkins aveva fatto un gioco di parole; anche Tomkins rise, affermando invece di non averlo fatto.

Il resto del pasto trascorse come di consueto durante i colazioni. La conversazione si affievolì e le persone iniziarono a giocare con le loro cucchiaini. Gli uomini guardarono fuori dalla finestra, camminarono un po’ per la stanza e, quando arrivarono vicino alla porta, se ne andarono uno dopo l’altro. Su ordine di sua moglie, Tibbs si ritirò nella sala posteriore per controllare il rendiconto settimanale del negoziante di verdure; alla fine, la signora Tibbs e la signora Bloss rimasero da sole.

“Oh mio Dio!”, disse quest’ultima, “mi sento terribilmente debole; è davvero strano, ” (E infatti lo era, visto che quella mattina aveva mangiato ben quattro libbre di cibo solido.) “A proposito, ”, aggiunse la signora Bloss, “non ho ancora visto il signor, come-si-chiama.”

“Signor Gobler?”, suggerì la signora Tibbs.

“Sì, davvero.”

“Oh!”, disse la signora Tibbs, “è una persona davvero misteriosa. Fa portare i pasti regolarmente di sopra, e a volte non esce dalla sua stanza per settimane intere.”

“Non l’ho visto né sentito nulla di lui,” ripeté la signora Bloss.

“Oserei dire che lo sentirai stanotte,” rispose la signora Tibbs; “di solito geme molto le sere di domenica”.

“Non ho mai provato un interesse del genere per nessuno in tutta la mia vita,” esclamò la signora Bloss. Un leggero bussare alla porta interruppe la conversazione; fu annunciato il dottor Wosky, che fu subito fatto entrare. Era un uomo di statura bassa, con il viso rosso; ovviamente era vestito di nero e indossava un colletto bianco rigido. Aveva una pratica molto redditizia e parecchi soldi, che aveva accumulato accontentando sempre le strane richieste di tutte le donne delle famiglie in cui aveva avuto occasione di entrare. La signora Tibbs si offrì di andarsene, ma le fu chiesto di restare.

‘Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?’ inquired Wosky, in a soothing tone.

‘Very ill, doctor—very ill,’ said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper

‘Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed,’ said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient.

‘How is our appetite?’

Mrs. Bloss shook her head.

‘Our friend requires great care,’ said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. ‘I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again.’ Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she was made quite stout.

‘We must take stimulants,’ said the cunning Wosky—‘plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,’ concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, ‘and we must keep quiet.’

‘Dear man!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into the carriage.

‘Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees.

As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s; and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions; we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked, indeed, like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against his will.

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become, every day, more sarcastic and more ill-natured; and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last.

One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone.

‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,’ said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; ‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour!’

‘No, no—it’s nothing,’ returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; ‘it’s only the heat of the room.’

‘A flush!’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; ‘that’s good for four.’

‘If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, ‘he should leave this house instantly.’

‘Go!’ said Mrs. Bloss again.

‘And if I thought,’ continued the hostess with a most threatening air, ‘if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—’

‘One for his nob!’ said Gobler.

‘Oh,’ said Evenson, in a most soothing tone—he liked to make mischief—‘I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless.’

‘I have generally found him so,’ sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot.

‘Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs—consider—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!’ said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. ‘We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so.’ Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks.

‘When you think every one has retired to rest to-night,’ said Evenson very pompously, ‘if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bedroom door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper.’

Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again.

‘Well, Mr. O’Bleary,’ said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, ‘what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?’

‘Oh, it’s very fair,’ replied Orson, who had been enthusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition.

‘Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?’

‘No,’ returned the patriot, with his usual reservation—‘except in Dublin.’

‘I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,’ said Wisbottle; ‘they appeared much delighted.’

‘Then it must be beautiful,’ snarled Evenson.

“Beh, mia cara signora, come state?” chiese Wosky con un tono rassicurante.

“Molto malata, dottore, molto malata,” sussurrò la signora Bloss.

“Ah! Dobbiamo prendersi cura di noi stessi, davvero,” disse il servile Wosky, mentre controllava il polso del suo “interessante” paziente.

“Come è il nostro appetito?”

La signora Bloss scosse la testa.

“La nostra amica ha bisogno di molte cure,” disse Wosky, rivolgendosi a Mrs. Tibbs, che naturalmente acconsentì. “Tuttavia, spero che, con la benedizione della Provvidenza, riusciremo a farla tornare completamente in salute.” Mrs. Tibbs si chiese dentro di sé quale sarebbe stata l’aspetto della paziente una volta guarita del tutto.

“Dobbiamo assumere stimolanti,” disse il astuto Wosky, “abbondante nutrimento, e soprattutto dobbiamo mantenere la calma; assolutamente non dobbiamo lasciarci dominare dalle nostre emozioni. Dobbiamo prendere tutto ciò che possiamo,” concluse il dottore, mettendosi in tasca la sua parcella, “e dobbiamo rimanere in silenzio.”

“Caro signore!”, esclamò la signora Bloss non appena il dottore salì nel veicolo.

“Davvero creature incantevoli, davvero dei veri corteggiatori!” disse la signora Tibbs, mentre il dottor Wosky continuava a inventare storie su donne delicate per guadagnare nuove tariffe.

Come abbiamo avuto l’occasione di descrivere in un articolo precedente una cena presso la signora Tibbs; e poiché una cena è molto simile all’altra in tutte le circostanze ordinarie, non stancheremo i nostri lettori fornendo ulteriori dettagli sull’economia domestica di quella casa. Pertanto passeremo direttamente agli eventi successivi, presupponendo soltanto che l’enigmatico inquilino del salotto posteriore fosse un uomo pigro, egoista e ipocondriaco: si lamentava sempre, ma in realtà non era mai malato. Poiché il suo carattere, in molti aspetti, assomigliava molto a quello della signora Bloss, tra loro nacque presto una profonda amicizia. Era alto, magro e pallido; si credeva sempre affetto da qualche grave >dolore e il suo viso aveva sempre un’espressione contratta e sofferente; sembrava davvero un uomo costretto, contro la sua volontà, a stare in una vasca piena d’acqua estremamente calda.

Per due o tre mesi dopo la prima apparizione della signora Bloss in Coram-street, si notò che John Evenson diventava ogni giorno sempre più sarcastico e di cattivo umore; nel suo comportamento c’era anche un certo grado di enfasi, che chiaramente indicava il fatto che riteneva di aver scoperto qualcosa e voleva soltanto trovare l’occasione giusta per rivelarlo. Alla fine, quella opportunità gli si presentò.

Una sera, i diversi residenti della casa si riunirono nel salotto, impegnati nelle loro solite attività. Il signor Gobler e la signora Bloss erano seduti vicino alla finestra, a giocare a cribbage; il signor Wisbottle disegnava semicerchi sullo sgabello da musica, sfogliando le pagine di un libro posato sul pianoforte e canturrendo dolcemente; Alfred Tomkins era seduto al tavolo rotondo, con i gomiti ben appoggiati, e stava disegnando a matita il profilo di una testa molto più grande della sua; O’Bleary leggeva Orazio, cercando di sembrare che lo capisse; John Evenson aveva avvicinato la sedia al tavolo da lavoro della signora Tibbs e le parlava con grande serietà, a bassa voce.

“Posso assicurarla, signora Tibbs,” disse il radicale, posando il dito indice sul tessuto di mussola su cui lei stava lavorando; “posso assicurarla che nulla altro se non il mio interesse per il suo benessere mi spingerebbe a farle questa comunicazione. Ripeto: temo che Wisbottle stia cercando di conquistare i sentimenti di quella giovane donna, Agnes, e che abbia l’abitudine di incontrarla nel magazzino al primo piano. La scorsa notte ho sentito chiaramente delle voci là dentro; ho aperto immediatamente la porta e mi sono avvicinato molto silenziosamente. Lì ho visto il signor Tibbs, che a quanto pare era stato disturbato anch’egli, ” “Mio Dio, signora Tibbs, le è cambiato colore in viso!”

“No, no, niente,” rispose la signora T. in fretta; “è solo il caldo della stanza.”

“Un punto in più!”, esclamò la signora Bloss seduta al tavolo da gioco; “quattro punti in totale”.

“Se pensassi che fosse il signor Wisbottle,” disse la signora Tibbs dopo una pausa, “lui dovrebbe lasciare immediatamente questa casa.”

“Vai!” disse di nuovo la signora Bloss.

“E se pensassi,” continuò la padrona di casa con un tono estremamente minaccioso, “se pensassi che fosse aiutato dal signor Tibbs, ”

“Uno per la sua nobiltà!”, disse Gobler.

“Oh,” disse Evenson con un tono molto rassicurante; gli piaceva fare scherzi, “spero davvero che il signor Tibbs non sia in alcun modo coinvolto in questa faccenda. Sempre mi è sembrato una persona del tutto innocua.”

“Di solito lo trovo proprio così,” singhiozzò la povera piccola signora Tibbs, piangendo come una fontana.

“Zitta! Zitta! Per favore, signora Tibbs, pensaci bene, potremmo essere visti, per favore, no!” disse John Evenson, temendo che tutto il suo piano venisse interrotto. “Risolveremo la questione con estrema attenzione, e sarò molto felice di aiutarvi in questo.” La signora Tibbs mormorò ringraziamenti.

“Quando pensi che tutti siano già andati a riposare per la notte”, disse Evenson in tono molto solenne, “se vieni da me senza accendere la luce, proprio fuori dalla porta della mia camera da letto, vicino alla finestra delle scale, credo che possiamo scoprire chi siano veramente i responsabili di tutto questo. E poi potrai agire come ritieni più opportuno.”

La signora Tibbs fu facilmente convinta; la sua curiosità era stata stimolata, la sua invidia era stata suscitata, e l’accordo venne subito raggiunto. Riprese il suo lavoro, mentre John Evenson andava avanti e indietro nella stanza con le mani in tasca, comportandosi come se nulla fosse accaduto. Il gioco del cribbage era finito, e la conversazione ricominciò.

“Beh, signor O’Bleary,” disse il colibrì, girandosi sul suo asse e rivolgendosi al gruppo, “che ne pensate di Vauxhall l’altra notte?”

“Ah, è davvero molto bella,” rispose Orson, che era stato entusiasticamente felice di tutta l’esposizione.

“Non ho mai visto nulla del genere. La partenza del Capitano Ross, eh?”

“No,” rispose il patriota, con la sua solita reticenza, “tranne che a Dublino.”

“Ho visto il Conte de Canky e il Capitano Fitzthompson nei Giardini,” disse Wisbottle; “sembravano molto felici.”

“Allora deve essere bellissimo,” ringhiò Evenson.

‘I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done,’ suggested Mrs. Bloss. ‘In their shaggy white coats, they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?’

‘I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours,’ replied the discontented one.

‘Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well,’ gasped Gobler; ‘only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully! I was obliged to have several shower-baths, before I could leave my room.’

‘Capital things those shower-baths!’ ejaculated Wisbottle.

‘Excellent!’ said Tomkins.

‘Delightful!’ chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.)

‘Disgusting machines!’ rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter.

‘Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!’ said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—‘Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they have saved by promoting perspiration.’

‘Promoting perspiration, indeed,’ growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—‘I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. ‘Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards.’

A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided James brought up ‘the tray,’ containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread; cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley; one pickled walnut and the third of another; and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table; and the servants retired for the night.

Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never ate supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary ate as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking, and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle ‘got into an argument;’ that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning.

Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk, on his way home to Somers-town, struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water ‘coming in’ at number eleven.

‘He must be asleep by this time,’ said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything.

‘S-s-s!’ whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off.

‘Hush!’ whispered somebody else.

‘Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Here;’ and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard.

‘This way, Mrs. Tibbs,’ whispered the delighted busybody: ‘give me your hand—there! Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?’

‘No,’ said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling.

‘Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters;’ and down-stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon.

‘It’s Wisbottle and somebody, I’ll swear,’ exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments.

‘Hush—pray let’s hear what they say!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration.

‘Ah! if I could but believe you,’ said a female voice coquettishly, ‘I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.’

‘What does she say?’ inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion.

‘She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs. ‘The wretch! they’re plotting murder.’

‘I know you want money,’ continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; ‘and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more.

‘I think she says she’ll set the house on fire,’ replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. ‘But thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!’

‘The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,’ said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, ‘you may depend on having the money.’

“Penso che gli orsi bianchi siano davvero ben realizzati,” suggerì la signora Bloss. “Con i loro mantelli bianchi e arruffati, sembrano proprio orsi polari. Non è d’accordo, signor Evenson?”

“Penso che assomiglino molto di più a dei teppisti sdraiati su quattro zampe,” rispose quello scontento.

‘In generale, avrei apprezzato molto la nostra serata,’ ansimò Gobler; ‘ma ho preso un raffreddore terribile che ha aumentato il mio dolore in modo insopportabile! Sono stato costretto a fare diversi bagni sotto la doccia prima di poter lasciare la mia stanza.’

“Che cose straordinarie sono quelle docce!” esclamò Wisbottle.

“Eccellente!”, disse Tomkins.

“Delizioso!” esclamò O’Bleary. (Una volta ne aveva vista una, fuori da un negozio di ferramenta.)

“Macchine disgustose!” ribatté Evenson, il cui disprezzo si estendeva quasi a ogni oggetto creato, maschile, femminile o neutro.

“Disgustoso, signor Evenson!” disse Gobler con tono di profonda indignazione. “Disgustoso! Guardate quale utilità hanno. Pensate a quante vite hanno salvato promuovendo la sudorazione.”

“Promuovere la sudorazione, davvero, ”, ringhiò John Evenson, fermandosi mentre camminava attraverso le grandi aree disposte secondo lo schema del tappeto. “Sono stato abbastanza stupido da lasciarmi convincere, una volta, ad averne uno in camera mia. Mio Dio, ci sono entrato una volta soltanto, e quell’oggetto mi ha letteralmente curato: solo il vederlo mi fece sudare copiosamente per sei mesi interi dopo.”

A quest’annuncio seguì una serie di risate; prima che si placassero, James portò fuori “il vassoio”, contenente i resti di una gamba di agnello che aveva fatto la sua prima apparizione a cena; pane; 形式奶酪; un filo di burro tra le foglie di prezzemolo; un gheriglio di noce in salamoia e un terzo di un altro. E così via. Il ragazzo scomparve, per poi tornare con un altro vassoio, pieno di bicchieri e giare di acqua calda e fredda. I signori tirarono fuori le loro bottiglie di liquore; la cameriera posizionò diversi candelabri da camera sotto il tavolo da gioco; e i servitori si ritirarono per la notte.

Le sedie furono disposte intorno al tavolo e la conversazione proseguì nel solito modo. John Evenson, che non mangiava mai la cena, si sdraiò sul divano e si divertì a contraddire tutti quanti. O’Bleary mangiò quanto riuscì a portare con sé, mentre la signora Tibbs ne provò una certa indignazione; il signor Gobler e la signora Bloss conversarono con grande affetto sull’argomento dei farmaci e su altre distrazioni “innocenti”; Tomkins e Wisbottle, invece, iniziarono a discutere animatamente, ciascuno convinto di aver ottenuto un vantaggio in qualche questione, senza che nessuno dei due avesse la minima idea di ciò di cui stavano parlando. Trascorsero un’ora o due; poi gli studenti e le candele a stelo si ritirarono ognuno nella propria camera da letto. John Evenson si tolse le scarpe, chiuse a chiave la porta e decise di restare sveglio fino a quando il signor Gobler non se ne fosse andato. Lui rimaneva sempre in salotto per un’ora dopo che tutti gli altri se n’erano andati, prendeva le sue medicine e si lamentava continuamente.

La grande strada di Coram-street era immersa in un profondo silenzio: erano quasi le due di notte. Di tanto in tanto, una carrozza a cavalli passava lentamente; occasionalmente, qualche impiegato legale di ritorno a Somers-town batteva il tacco del suo stivale sul tetto della cantina del carbone, producendo un suono simile al clicchettio di uno strumento per accendere i sigari. Si udiva inoltre un suono basso, monotono e continuo: era l’acqua che entrava nel numero undici di quella strada.

“A quest’ora dovrebbe essere addormentato,” si disse John Evenson dopo aver aspettato con esemplare pazienza per quasi un’ora da quando il signor Gobler aveva lasciato il salotto. Ascoltò per qualche momento; la casa era completamente silenziosa; spense la sua lampada a olio e aprì la porta della sua camera da letto. La scala era così buia che non si riusciva a vedere nulla.

“Sss!” sussurrò il birichino, emettendo un suono simile al primo segnale che una “ruota di Caterina” dà riguardo alla probabilità che si attivi.

“Zitta!” sussurrò qualcun altro.

“È davvero lei, signora Tibbs?”

“Sì, signore.”

‘Dove?’

“Ecco qui,” disse, e la vaga silhouette di Mrs. Tibbs apparve alla finestra della scala, come lo spettro dell’Regina Anna nella scena della tenda in Richard.

“Da questa parte, signora Tibbs,” sussurrò la curiosa e felice donna: “mi dia la mano. Ecco! Chiunque siano queste persone, adesso si trovano nel magazzino, perché stavo guardando giù dalla mia finestra e ho visto che hanno rovesciato per sbaglio il candelabro; ora sono al buio. Non indossa scarpe, vero?”

“No,” disse la piccola signora Tibbs, che a malapena riusciva a parlare per il tremore.

“Bene,” disse lui, “mi sono tolto le scarpe, quindi possiamo scendere vicino alla porta della dispensa e ascoltare da dietro la ringhiera.” E così entrambi scesero le scale in silenzio, ogni gradino scricchiolando come una macchina per stritolare il legno in un pomeriggio di sabato.

“È Wisbottle, e qualcun altro, giuro,” esclamò il radicale sottovoce con energia, dopo aver ascoltato per qualche momento.

“Zitta, pregate, ascoltiamo cosa dicono!” esclamò la signora Tibbs; per lei, soddisfare la propria curiosità era ora più importante di qualsiasi altra considerazione.

“Ah, se solo potessi crederti,” disse una voce femminile in tono seducente, “sicuramente sposerei quell’uomo per tutta la vita.”

“Cosa dice?” chiese il signor Evenson, che non si trovava nella stessa posizione vantaggiosa del suo compagno.

“Dice che sistemerà la vita di sua moglie,” rispose la signora Tibbs. “Quella poveretta, stanno complottando un omicidio.”

“So che vuoi soldi,” continuò la voce, che apparteneva ad Agnes;
“e se mi procurassi quei cinquecento sterline, sono sicura che lei accetterebbe di lasciarmi presto.”

“Cos’è?” chiese di nuovo Evenson. Riusciva a sentire abbastanza da voler sapere di più.

“Credo che dica che darà fuoco alla >casa,” rispose la spaventata signora Tibbs. “Ma grazie a Dio ho l’assicurazione della Phoenix!”

“Non appena avrò ottenuto la tua amante, caro mio,” disse una voce maschile con un forte accento irlandese, “puoi stare certo che riceverai i soldi.”

‘Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a parenthesis.

‘The villain!’ said the indignant Mr. Evenson.

‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the Hibernian, ‘is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ returned Agnes.

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper.

‘He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life.

‘And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,’ continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered.

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. ‘Hush!’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs.

‘There’s somebody coming up-stairs,’ said Agnes to O’Bleary.

‘There’s somebody coming down-stairs,’ whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs.

‘Go into the parlour, sir,’ said Agnes to her companion. ‘You will get there, before whoever it is, gets to the top of the kitchen stairs.’

‘The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!’ whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down-stairs, and one coming up.

‘What can it be?’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. ‘It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!’

‘Nor I,’ returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. ‘Hush! here they are at the door.’

‘What fun!’ whispered one of the new-comers.—It was Wisbottle.

‘Glorious!’ replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. ‘Who would have thought it?’

‘I told you so,’ said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. ‘Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.’

‘Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?’ interrupted Tomkins.

‘Not notice it!’ continued Wisbottle. ‘Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed.’

‘They’re talking of us!’ exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind.

‘I know it—I know it,’ replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape.

‘What’s to be done? we cannot both stop here!’ ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement.

‘I’ll get up the chimney,’ replied Evenson, who really meant what he said.

‘You can’t,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. ‘You can’t—it’s a register stove.’

‘Hush!’ repeated John Evenson.

‘Hush—hush!’ cried somebody down-stairs.

‘What a d-d hushing!’ said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered.

‘There they are!’ exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room.

‘Hark!’ whispered both the young men.

‘Hark!’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

‘Let me alone, sir,’ said a female voice in the store-room.

‘Oh, Hagnes!’ cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, ‘Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!’

‘Be quiet, sir!’ (A bounce.)

‘Hag—’

‘Be quiet, sir—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir!’

‘My wife!’ exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; ‘I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—’

‘I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?’ (Another bounce and a scuffle.)

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Tibbs, with a start.

‘What’s what?’ said Agnes, stopping short.

‘Why that!’

‘Ah! you have done it nicely now, sir,’ sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’s bedroom door, which would have beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow.

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ called out Mrs. Bloss. ‘Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up.’ (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.)

‘Oh, dear—dear!’ exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. ‘She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered! What will they think?’

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ screamed the woodpecker again.

‘What’s the matter!’ shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s.

‘Oh, Mr. Gobler!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; ‘I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises!’

‘The devil you have!’ shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. ‘Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce! all up and dressed?’

‘Astonishing!’ said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm.

‘Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,’ said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room.—‘What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!’

‘Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!’ repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair were discovered: Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’s house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, ‘except in Ireland.’ We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.

“Mia povera ‘anima, è il signor O’Bleary!”, esclamò la signora Tibbs, tra parentesi.

“Quel malvagio!” esclamò indignato il signor Evenson.

“La prima cosa da fare,” continuò l’Irlandese, “è intossicare la mente del signor Gobler.”

“Oh, certamente,” rispose Agnes.

“Cos’è quello?” chiese di nuovo Evenson, con un sussurro pieno di curiosità e angoscia.

“Dice che lei deve distrarre il signor Gobler e avvelenarlo,” rispose la signora Tibbs, inorridita da questo sacrificio di una vita umana.

“E per quanto riguarda la signora Tibbs,” continuò O’Bleary, “la signora Tibbs rabbrividì.”

“Zitta!” esclamò Agnes con tono di grande allarme, proprio nel momento in cui la signora Tibbs era sull’orlo di svenire. “Zitta!”

“Zitta!” esclamò Evenson, nello stesso istante anche verso la signora Tibbs.

“C’è qualcuno che sta salendo le scale,” disse Agnes a O’Bleary.

“C’è qualcuno che sta scendendo le scale,” sussurrò Evenson alla signora Tibbs.

“Entrate nel salotto, signore,” disse Agnes al suo compagno. “Arriverete lì prima che chiunque sia possa raggiungere la cima delle scale della cucina.”

“La sala da pranzo. Signora Tibbs!” sussurrò Evenson, stupito, al suo compagno altrettanto sorpreso; e verso la sala da pranzo si diressero entrambi, sentendo chiaramente il fruscio di due persone: una che scendeva le scale e l’altra che le saliva.

“Che cosa può essere?” esclamò la signora Tibbs. “È come un >sogno. Non mi troverei mai in questa situazione, per nulla al mondo!”

“Nemmeno io,” rispose Evenson, che non riusciva mai a sopportare scherzi a sue spese. “Zitta! Stanno arrivando alla porta.”

“Che divertimento!”, sussurrò uno dei nuovi arrivati. Era Wisbottle.

“Meraviglioso!”, rispose il suo compagno, con lo stesso tono sommesso. Era Alfred Tomkins. “Chi l’avrebbe mai detto?”

“Te l’avevo detto,” sussurrò Wisbottle con aria molto complice. “Che il Signore ti benedica. Lui le ha dedicato un’attenzione davvero straordinaria negli ultimi due mesi. Li ho visti mentre suonavo il pianoforte, quella sera, ”

“Beh, sai che non me ne sono accorto?” intervenne Tomkins.

“Non te ne sei accorto!” continuò Wisbottle. “Che fortuna. L’ho visto sussurrarle qualcosa, e lei piangeva; poi giuro di averlo sentito dire qualcosa riguardo alla. notte, quando eravamo tutti a letto.”

“Stanno parlando di noi!”, esclamò la sofferente signora Tibbs, quando quell’atroce sospetto e la consapevolezza della loro situazione le balenarono nella mente.

“Lo so, lo so,” rispose Evenson, con una sensazione di malinconia che gli rivelava l’impossibilità di fuggire.

“Cosa dobbiamo fare? Non possiamo certo fermarci entrambi qui!” esclamò la signora Tibbs, in uno stato di semi-pazzia.

“Salirò per la canna fumaria,” rispose Evenson, intendendo davvero quello che diceva.

“Non puoi farlo,” disse la signora Tibbs, con disperazione. “Non puoi, è un forno a registro.”

“Zitto!”, ripeté John Evenson.

“Zitto, zitto!”, gridò qualcuno al piano di sotto.

“Che silenzio assurdo!” disse Alfred Tomkins, che iniziava ad sentirsi piuttosto confuso.

“Eccoli lì!” esclamò il saggio Wisbottle, mentre si udiva un rumore di fruscio nella stanza degli oggetti.

“Ascolta!” sussurrarono entrambi i giovani uomini.

“Ascoltate!” ripeterono la signora Tibbs ed Evanson.

“Lasciatemi da solo, signore,” disse una voce femminile nella stanza degli oggetti.

“Oh, Hagnes!” gridò un’altra voce, che chiaramente apparteneva a Tibbs, perché nessun altro aveva mai una voce del genere; “Oh, Hagnes, creatura adorabile!”

“State zitto, signore!” (Con un balzo.)

“Strega, ”

“Silenzio, signore. Mi vergogno di lei. Pensa a sua moglie, signor Tibbs. Silenzio, per favore!”

“Mia moglie!” esclamò il valoroso Tibbs, chiaramente sotto l’influenza del gin e dell’acqua, oltre che di un affetto mal riposto; “L’ho mangiata! Oh, Hagnes, quando facevo parte del corpo dei volontari, nel milleottocento, ”

“Declaro che urlerò. State zitto, per favore.” (Un altro balzo e un po’ di trambusto.)

“Cos’è quello?” esclamò Tibbs, sobbalzando.

“Cosa significa?” disse Agnes, fermandosi all’improvviso.

“Perché proprio quello!”

“Ah! Ora l’avete fatto davvero bene, signore,” singhiozzò la spaventata Agnes, mentre si sentiva bussare alla porta della camera da letto di Mrs. Tibbs, un rumore che avrebbe potuto competere con quello di una dozzina di picchi che battevano sul legno.

“Signora Tibbs! Signora Tibbs!” gridò la signora Bloss. “Per favore, alzatevi, signora Tibbs.” (In quel momento, l’imitazione del picchio riprese, ancora più intensa di prima.)

“Oh, mio Dio, mio Dio!” esclamò la sventurata compagna del depravato Tibbs.
“Sta bussando alla mia porta. Dovremo essere scoperti! Cosa penseranno?”

“Signora Tibbs! Signora Tibbs!” gridò di nuovo il picchio.

“Che c’è che non va!” gridò Gobler, uscendo di corsa dal salotto posteriore, come il drago in casa Astley.

“Oh, signor Gobler!” gridò la signora Bloss, con un tono che rasentava l’isteria; “Penso che la casa stia andando a fuoco, o altrimenti ci sono dei ladri dentro. Ho sentito dei rumori terribili!”

“Dio ti maledica!” gridò di nuovo Gobler, tornando felicemente nella sua tana in una perfetta imitazione del suddetto drago, e poco dopo tornò con una candela accesa. “Ma che diavolo. Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! Che cosa sta succedendo? Siete tutti già vestiti?”

“Straordinario!” disse la signora Bloss, che era corsa giù per le scale e aveva preso il braccio del signor Gobler.

“Chiamate subito la signora Tibbs, qualcuno,” disse Gobler, dirigendosi verso il salotto d’ingresso. “Cosa? La signora Tibbs e il signor Evenson??”

“La signora Tibbs e il signor Evenson!”, ripeterono tutti quando quel sfortunato duo fu scoperto: la signora Tibbs seduta in una poltrona accanto al caminetto, e il signor Evenson in piedi al suo fianco.

Dobbiamo lasciare che il lettore immagini da solo ciò che accadde in seguito. Possiamo descrivere come la signora Tibbs svenisse all’istante, e come fu necessaria la combinata forza del signor Wisbottle e del signor Alfred Tomkins per tenerla seduta sulla sedia; come il signor Evenson cercò di spiegare, ma le sue parole furono chiaramente ignorate; come Agnes confutò le accuse della signora Tibbs dimostrando di essere in trattative con il signor O’Bleary al fine di influenzare i sentimenti della sua padrona a suo favore; e come il signor Gobler distrusse le speranze del signor O’Bleary ammettendo di aver già chiesto la mano della signora Bloss, che lo aveva accettato. Possiamo anche raccontare come Agnes venisse licenziata dal servizio di quella signora, e come il signor O’Bleary lasciasse la casa della signora Tibbs senza nemmeno saldare i suoi debiti. Ma preferiamo astenerci da queste descrizioni, per praticare l’autodisciplina. Preferiamo lasciare che sia il lettore stesso a immaginare tutto ciò che è accaduto.

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and his pleasing wife revel in retirement: happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43_l._ 15_s._ 10_d._, which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also, annually, that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas.

CHAPTER II—MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said—of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held ‘a responsible situation under Government.’ He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some 10,000_l._ of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate.

‘I’ll break the ice, my love,’ said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, ‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.’

‘Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,’ replied Mrs. Budden. ‘Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!’

‘Very true,’ said Mr. Budden, musing, ‘very true indeed, my love!’ On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer’s name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense letters, ‘Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.’s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.’

‘Budden!’ ejaculated Minns, ‘what can bring that vulgar man here!—say I’m asleep—say I’m out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep him down-stairs.’

‘But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,’ replied the servant, and the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

‘Hem—show the gentleman in,’ said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance.

La signora che abbiamo descritto finora come la signora Bloss non esiste più. La signora Gobler è ancora viva: la signora Bloss ci ha lasciati per sempre. In un ritiro isolato a Newington Butts, lontano, molto lontano dal clamore e dalle lotte di quella grande casa pensione, il mondo intero, la invidiabile famiglia Gobler e sua moglie godono della loro tranquillità: felici nelle loro lamentele, al loro tavolo, con le loro medicine. Sostenuti dalle preghiere grate di tutti coloro che forniscono cibo animale entro un raggio di tre miglia.

Saremmo felici di fermarci qui, ma abbiamo un dovere doloroso che ci è stato imposto e che dobbiamo adempiere. Il signor e la signora Tibbs si sono separati per reciproca volontà: la signora Tibbs riceverà metà dell’importo di 43 lire, 15 scellini e 10 pence, che in precedenza abbiamo indicato come l’entità del reddito annuo di suo marito; il signor Tibbs riceverà invece l’altra metà. Ora trascorre le sue serate in ritiro, godendo anche di quella piccola ma onorevole indipendenza economica. Vive tra i primi coloni di Walworth; e si dice, con autorità incontestabile, che la fine di questa storia sia stata raccontata in una piccola taverna di quel rispettabile quartiere.

La sfortunata signora Tibbs ha deciso di vendere tutti i suoi mobili all’asta pubblica e di lasciare la residenza in cui ha sofferto così tanto. È stato chiesto al signor Robins di organizzare la vendita, e le straordinarie capacità degli uomini di lettere legati alla sua attività sono ora dedicate alla stesura dell’annuncio preliminare. Questo annuncio conterrà, tra varie informazioni interessanti, settantotto parole scritte in caratteri maiuscoli e sei citazioni originali inserite tra virgolette.

Capitolo II – Il signor Minns e suo cugino

Il signor Augustus Minns era un scapolo; aveva circa quarant’anni, secondo quanto diceva lui stesso, anche se i suoi amici sostenevano che ne avesse ottantaquattro. Era sempre estremamente pulito, preciso e ordinato; forse un po’ pedante, e sicuramente l’uomo più riservato del mondo. Indossava solitamente un abito marrone senza una piega, camicie chiare e immacolate, una cravatta ben stirata e stivali perfetti; inoltre portava sempre con sé un ombrello di seta marrone con manico d’avorio. Lavorava come impiegato presso la Somerset House, o, per usare le sue parole, ricopriva una “posizione responsabile nel governo”. Aveva uno stipendio buono e in aumento, oltre a circa 10.000 sterline di propri risparmi investiti in fondi finanziari; abitava al primo piano di Tavistock Street, nel quartiere di Covent Garden, dove viveva da vent’anni, con l’abitudine di litigare regolarmente con il proprietario dell’appartamento: annunciava sempre il proprio intenzione di andarsene il primo giorno di ogni trimestre, per poi ritrattare il giorno successivo. C’erano due tipi di creature che lo disgustavano profondamente: i cani e i bambini. Non era certo antipatico, ma avrebbe potuto assistere con grande soddisfazione all’esecuzione di un cane o all’assassinio di un neonato in qualsiasi momento. Le abitudini di questi animali erano in totale contrasto con il suo amore per l’ordine, e il suo amore per l’ordine era altrettanto forte quanto il suo amore per la vita stessa. Il signor Augustus Minns non aveva alcuna relazione, né a Londra né nelle sue vicinanze, tranne che con suo cugino, il signor Octavius Budden; aveva acconsentito a fare da padrino per il figlio di quest’ultimo, anche se non lo aveva mai incontrato personalmente (poiché non gli piaceva il padre). Il signor Budden, avendo accumulato una discreta fortuna nel commercio del grano e amando molto la vita rurale, aveva acquistato una casetta nei dintorni di Stamford Hill; vi si era ritirato con sua moglie e suo unico figlio, il signor Alexander Augustus Budden. Una sera, mentre i coniugi Budden ammiravano loro figlio, discutevano dei suoi meriti, della sua educazione e se gli studi classici dovessero farne parte essenziale, la moglie insistette molto affinché coltivassero l’amicizia del signor Minns a beneficio di loro figlio. Così il signor Budden decise finalmente che non sarebbe stato certo lui il responsabile se in futuro suo cugino e lui non avessero stretto un rapporto più stretto.

“Farò da primo passo, mia amata”, disse il signor Budden, mescolando lo zucchero sul fondo del suo bicchiere di brandy e acqua, e lanciando un’occhiata di sguardo alla moglie per vedere l’effetto che avrebbe avuto la sua dichiarazione, “Invitando Minns a cena da noi, il domenica”.

“Allora prega, Budden, scrivi subito a tuo cugino,” rispose la signora Budden. “Chissà, se solo riuscissimo a farlo venire qui. Magari si innamorerebbe di nostro Alexander e gli lascierebbe tutta la sua eredità! Alick, caro, smettila di appoggiarti alle gambe della sedia!”

“Assolutamente vero,” disse il signor Budden, meditando, “davvero molto vero, mia amata”. La mattina seguente, mentre il signor Minns sedeva al suo tavolo da colazione, mordicchiando alternativamente il suo pane tostato e dando un’occhiata alle colonne del giornale mattutino che leggeva sempre dall’intestazione fino al nome dell’editore, sentì bussare forte alla porta d’ingresso; poco dopo entrò il suo servitore, porgendogli una cartolina particolarmente piccola su cui erano incisi in caratteri enormi: “Signor Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (il nome della signora B. era Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-Hill”.

“Budden!” esclamò Minns, “cosa può portare qui quell’uomo volgare! Dite che sono addormentato, dite che non sono in casa, fate qualunque cosa per tenerlo giù al piano di sotto.”

“Ma per favore, signore, il gentiluomo sta salendo,” rispose il servitore, e la cosa divenne evidente grazie a un terribile scricchiolio di stivali sulle scale, accompagnato da un rumore di passi veloci; Minns, però, non riuscì assolutamente a capire la causa di tutto ciò.

“Ehm, fatemi entrare questo signore,” disse il sfortunato scapolo. Servitore, vai via; entri ora Ottavio, preceduto da un grande cane bianco, vestito con un paio di calzamaglie di lana, con occhi rosa, orecchie grandi e una coda praticamente invisibile.

La causa di quei passi frettolosi sulle scale era fin troppo evidente: il signor Augustus Minns barcollava, sopraffatto dallo shock alla vista del cane.

‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

‘How are you, my hearty?’

‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’

‘Uncommonly well, thank you,’ said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet.

‘Ah, you rogue!’ said Budden to his dog; ‘you see, Minns, he’s like me, always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns.

‘Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make myself at home, you see!’ continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. ‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’pon my life, I’m hungry.’

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

‘I decidedly never was so hot in my life,’ continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; ‘well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear capitally!’

‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile.

‘’Pon my life, I do!’

‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’

‘Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place as we’ve got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I really thought it was a cut above me.’

‘Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,’ interrupted Minns, ‘if you cut it the other way?’ He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules.

‘No, thank ye,’ returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, ‘I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don’t you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he’s spoiling your curtains, Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!’ Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

‘Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!’ cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

‘A good dog for the country that!’ coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, ‘but he’s not much used to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s see, to-day’s Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don’t say no—do.’

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

‘Now mind the direction,’ said Budden: ‘the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white house.’

‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time.

‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you can’t go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with “Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and anybody will show you which is my place.’

‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’

‘Be punctual.’

‘Certainly: good morning.’

‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’

‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time.

‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

“Mio caro amico, come stai?” disse Budden entrando.

Parlava sempre a voce alta e ripeteva sempre la stessa cosa, anche sei volte di fila.

“Come stai, mio buon amico?”

“Come sta, signor Budden? Si accomodi pure!” balbettò educatamente il imbarazzato Minns.

“Grazie, grazie, bene, come stai?”

“Straordinariamente bene, grazie,” disse Minns, lanciando uno sguardo malvagio al cane, che, con le zampe posteriori a terra e quelle anteriori appoggiate sul tavolo, stava tirando fuori un pezzo di pane e burro da un piatto, pronto a divorarlo con il lato imburrato rivolto verso il tappeto.

“Ah, tu birichino!” disse Budden al suo cane; “vedi, Minns, lui è proprio come me, sempre a >casa, eh, mio ragazzo!. Accidenti, sono davvero affamato e sudato! Ho camminato tutto il tragitto da Stamford-hill stamattina.”

“Hai già fatto colazione?” chiese Minns.

‘Oh, no! – Sono venuto a colazione con te; quindi suona il campanello, caro amico, per favore. E prendiamo un’altra tazza e piattino, insieme alla carne di maiale fredda. Fai sentire che sono a casa mia, capisci?’ continuò Budden, pulendo le sue scarpe con un tovagliolo da tavola. ‘Ah! Ah! Ah. Per la mia vita, ho fame.’

Minns suonò la campanella e cercò di sorridere.

“Decisamente non ho mai avuto così caldo in vita mia,” continuò Ottavio, asciugandosi la fronte; “Beh, ma come stai tu, Minns? Per l’amor del cielo, sei davvero malconcio!”

“Pensi davvero così?”, disse Minns; e provò a sorridere di nuovo.

“Per la mia vita, lo giuro!”

“La signora B. e, come si chiama, stanno molto bene, vero?”

‘Alick, intendo dire mio figlio; mai stato meglio, davvero mai. Ma in un posto come quello dove viviamo a Poplar-walk, sai, non potrebbe nemmeno ammalarsi, anche se ci provasse. Quando l’ho visto per la prima volta, per Giove! Sembrava davvero qualcosa di speciale: con quel giardino davanti, le ringhiere verdi, il campanello di bronzo. Pensavo davvero che fosse qualcosa di superiore a me.’

“Non pensi che ti piacerebbe di più il prosciutto,” intervenne Minns, “se lo tagliassi nel senso opposto?” Vide, con sentimenti impossibili da descrivere, che il suo ospite stava tagliando, o meglio, distruggendo il prosciutto, in totale violazione di tutte le regole consolidate.

“No, grazie,” rispose Budden con la più totale indifferenza verso il crimine; “preferisco così, è più veloce. Ma dimmi, Minns, quando verrai a trovarci? Ti piacerà molto questo posto; ne sono sicuro. Io e Amelia ne parlavamo l’altra notte, e Amelia disse, un altro pezzetto di zucchero, per favore; grazie. Disse: ‘Non pensi che potresti, caro, cercare di dire al signor Minns in modo amichevole. Venga a trovarci, per favore. Maledetto cane! Sta rovinando le tue tende, Minns. Ha! Ha! Ha!’” Minns balzò in piedi come se avesse ricevuto una scossa elettrica.

“Fuori, signore! — Vada via, per favore!” gridava povero Augustus, tenendosi comunque a una distanza molto rispettosa dal cane; aveva infatti letto di un caso di idrofobia sul giornale di quella mattina. Grazie a grandi sforzi, molti grida e a innumerevoli tentativi di spingere il cane sotto i tavoli con un bastone e un ombrello, finalmente riuscì a farlo uscire e ad allontanarlo dalla porta; lì fuori, il cane iniziò immediatamente a ululare terribilmente, graffiando contemporaneamente la vernice dei due pannelli sottostanti, fino a ridurli in uno stato pietoso.

“Un ottimo cane per la campagna, davvero!”, osservò freddamente Budden rivolto a Minns, che era distratto. “Ma non è molto abituato alle restrizioni. Ora, Minns, quando scenderai? Non accetterò rifiuti, assolutamente. Vediamo. Oggi è giovedì. Verrai domenica? Mangiamo alle cinque; non dire di no. Per favore.”

Dopo molte insistenze, il signor Augustus Minns, spinto alla -disperazione, accettò l’invito e promise di presentarsi a Poplar-walk la seguente -domenica, alle quattro e un quarto in punto.

“Ora presta attenzione alla direzione,” disse Budden: “il calesse parte da Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, ogni mezz’ora. Quando il calesse si fermerà al Swan, vedrai immediatamente di fronte a te una casa bianca.”

“Quale è la tua >casa. Capisco,” disse Minns, desiderando concludere sia la visita che quella storia nello stesso istante.

“No, no, quella non è mia; appartiene a Grogus, il grande ferramentaio. Volevo dire, devi girare vicino alla casa bianca, fino a quando non potrai andare oltre, attenzione! Poi gira a destra, vicino a qualche stalla, vedrai un muro su cui è scritto “Attenti al cane” in caratteri grandi. Prosegui lungo quel muro per circa un quarto di miglio, e qualcuno ti indicherà dove si trova la mia casa.”

“Molto bene, grazie, addio.”

“Arriva puntuale.”

“Certamente: buongiorno.”

“Dico io, Minns, hai una carta in mano.”

“Sì, l’ho fatto; grazie.” E il signor Octavius Budden se ne andò, lasciando suo cugino in attesa della sua visita la prossima domenica, con lo stesso sentimento di un poeta senza un soldo all’idea della visita settimanale della sua padrona di casa scozzese.

Arrivò la domenica; il cielo era luminoso e sereno; folle di persone si affrettavano per le strade, impegnate nei loro vari piani per trascorrere piacevolmente la giornata; tutto e tutti sembravano allegri e felici, tranne il signor Augustus Minns.

La giornata era bella, ma il caldo era considerevole; dopo aver percorso le zone ombreggiate di Fleet-street, Cheapside e Threadneedle-street, il signor Minns si era riscaldato parecchio ed era coperto di polvere. Inoltre, stava facendo tardi. Fortunatamente, una carrozza lo aspettava alla Flower-pot; il cocchiere gli assicurò solennemente che la vettura sarebbe partita entro tre minuti. Il che rappresentava esattamente il limite massimo di tempo consentito dalla legge per l’attesa. Trascorse un quarto d’ora, ma non ci furono segni che la carrozza si muovesse. Minns guardò l’orologio per la sesta volta.

“Cochiere, vai o no?”, gridò il signor Minns, con la testa e metà del suo -corpo fuori dalla finestra della carrozza.

“Direttamente, signore,” disse il cocchiere, con le mani in tasca, sembrando il meno possibile una persona che si affretti.

‘Bill, take them cloths off.’ Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes.

‘Coachman! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,’ said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

‘Going this minute, sir,’ was the reply;—and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol, became his fellow-passengers.

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

‘Be quiet, dear,’ said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of impatience. ‘Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.’

‘Thank Heaven I am not!’ thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his wretchedness.

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the stables, the ‘Beware of the Dog,’—every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with ‘a garden’ in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy ‘The Hall,’ ushered him into a front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

‘Well, Brogson,’ said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves—‘Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?’

‘Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.’

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from ‘stormy’ to ‘set fair.’

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down ‘Master Alexander,’ habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are you?’

‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!’

‘He asked me how old I was,’ said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called, out, with a very patronising air, ‘Alick, what part of speech is be.’

“Bill, toglili quei panni.” Trascorsero altri cinque minuti: alla fine di quel lasso di tempo il cocchiere salì sul tetto della carrozza e, guardando sia in una direzione che nell’altra della strada, chiamò tutti i passanti per altri cinque minuti ancora.

“Cochiere! Se non parti immediatamente, scenderò dalla carrozza,” disse il signor Minns, disperato a causa dell’ora tarda e dell’impossibilità di arrivare a Poplar-walk entro l’orario stabilito.

“Partirò proprio adesso, signore,” fu la risposta; e così, la macchina proseguì per un paio di centinaia di metri, poi si fermò di nuovo. Minns si rannicchiò in un angolo del vagone e si abbandonò al proprio destino, mentre un >bambino, una madre, una scatola musicale e un ombrello divennero i suoi compagni di viaggio.

Il >bambino era un neonato affettuoso e gentile; il piccolo caro scambiò Minns per l’altro genitore suo e gridò per abbracciarlo.

“Stai tranquilla, tesoro,” disse la mamma, trattenendo l’impulsività della piccola, le cui gambette paffute si muovevano freneticamente, scalciando e intrecciandosi in forme sempre più complicate, nell’estasi dell’impazienza. “Stai tranquilla, tesoro, quello non è tuo padre.”

“Grazie al cielo, non lo sono!” pensò Minns, mentre il primo barlume di piacere che aveva provato quella mattina attraversava come un meteore la sua miseria.

Nel carattere di quel bambino, la spensieratezza si mescolava in modo piacevole con l’affetto. Una volta certo che il signor Minns non fosse suo genitore, cercava di attirare la sua attenzione raschiando i suoi pantaloni logori con le sue scarpe sporche, pungendosi il petto con l’ombrello di sua madre e altre tenerezze tipiche dell’infanzia, con cui riusciva a rendere più sopportabile il noioso viaggio, apparentemente con grande soddisfazione sua.

Quando il povero gentiluomo arrivò al Swan, scoprì con grande disappunto che erano le cinque e un quarto. La casa bianca, gli stalli, la scritta “Attenzione al cane”, ogni punto di riferimento fu superato con una velocità del tutto normale per un gentiluomo di certa età quando era troppo tardi per cena. Dopo alcuni minuti, il signor Minns si trovò di fronte a una casa in mattoni gialli, con porte verdi, campanelli di bronzo e targhe d’ingresso; le finestre avevano cornici e ringhiere verdi, e davanti c’era un piccolo giardino, ovvero un pezzo di terreno ricoperto di ghiaia, con un’aiuola rotonda e due a forma di triangolo scaleno, dove crescevano un abete, venti o trenta bulbi e un numero infinito di margherite. Il gusto del signor e della signora Budden si manifestava anche nell’immagine di Cupido posta su entrambi i lati della porta, seduto su mucchi di grandi pietre di gesso colorate di rosa. Alla sua bussata rispose un ragazzo robusto, vestito in abiti logori, con calze di cotone e scarpe alte; dopo aver appeso il cappello a uno dei dozzine di ganci di bronzo che adornavano il corridoio – chiamato per gentilezza “Il Salone” – lo fece entrare in un salotto anteriore da cui si poteva ammirare una vista molto ampia sulle facciate delle case vicine. Dopo le solite formalità di presentazione, il signor Minns prese posto; era piuttosto agitato nel rendersi conto di essere l’ultimo ad arrivare e, in qualche modo, l’unico tra una dozzina di persone sedute in un piccolo salotto a passare quel momento così noioso che precede la cena.

“Beh, Brogson,” disse Budden, rivolgendosi a un anziano signore in abito nero, pantaloni larghi fino al ginocchio e calzamaglie lunghe; quest’ultimo, sotto pretesto di esaminare le illustrazioni di un annuario, si era in realtà dedicato ad osservare attentamente l’aspetto generale del signor Minns, guardandolo attraverso le pagine dell’annuario, “Beh, Brogson, cosa intendono fare i ministri? Usciranno o cosa?”

“Oh, davvero? Sai, io sono l’ultima persona al mondo che chiederebbe notizie. Tuo cugino, data la sua situazione, è molto probabilmente la persona adatta a rispondere a questa domanda.”

Il signor Minns assicurò l’ultimo oratore che, pur trovandosi nella residenza di Somerset, non possedeva alcuna comunicazione ufficiale relativa ai progetti dei ministri di Sua Maestà. Tuttavia, il suo commento fu chiaramente accolto con scetticismo; poiché nessun’altra ipotesi venne avanzata sull’argomento, seguì un lungo silenzio durante il quale i presenti si occuparono di tossire e soffiarsi il naso, fino a quando l’ingresso della signora Budden non causò un generale movimento tra la compagnia.

Dopo la cerimonia di presentazione, fu annunciato il momento di cena e, al piano di sotto, la festa proseguì come di consueto: il signor Minns scortò la signora Budden fino alla porta del salotto, ma a causa della strettezza delle scale non poté andare oltre. La cena trascorse come di solito; tra il rumore dei coltelli e forchette e il chiacchiericcio generale, si poteva sentire la voce del signor B. che invitava un amico a bere vino e gli assicurava di essere felice di vederlo; inoltre, tra la signora Budden e i domestici ci furono molte conversazioni riguardo al servizio dei piatti, durante le quali l’espressione del suo viso cambiava continuamente, passando da “tempestosa” a “serena”.

Non appena il dessert e il vino furono messi sul tavolo, il servitore, seguendo lo sguardo significativo della signora B., fece entrare “il padrone Alexander”, vestito con un abito di colore azzurro cielo con bottoni d’argento; i suoi capelli avevano quasi lo stesso colore del metallo. Dopo vari elogi da parte di sua madre e diverse raccomandazioni riguardo al suo comportamento da parte di suo padre, fu presentato al suo padrino.

“Beh, mio caro ragazzo, sei davvero un bravo ragazzo, vero?” disse il signor Minns, felice come una passera su del nastro appiccicoso.

“Sì, davvero.”

“Quanti anni hai?”

“Otto, il prossimo lunedì. Quanti anni hai?”

“Alexander,” lo interruppe sua madre, “come osi chiedere al signor Minns quanti anni abbia!”

“Mi ha chiesto quanti anni ho,” disse il precoce bambino; Minns, da quel momento in poi, aveva deciso dentro di sé che non gli avrebbe mai lasciato nemmeno un soldo. Non appena si placò l’ilarità suscitata da quella osservazione, un uomo con i baffi rossi, seduto in fondo al tavolo e che per tutta la cena aveva cercato di trovare qualcuno disposto ad ascoltare le sue storie su Sheridan, chiamò ad alta voce, con tono molto condiscendente: “Alick, a quale parte del discorso appartiene ‘è’?”

‘A verb.’

‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother’s pride.

‘Now, you know what a verb is?’

‘A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.’

‘I’ll give you an apple,’ replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, ‘if you’ll tell me what is the meaning of be.’

‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an insect that gathers honey.’

‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the substantive.’

‘I don’t think he knows much yet about common substantives,’ said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. ‘It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!’

‘Gentlemen,’ called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, ‘will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.’

‘Hear! hear!’ cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—‘Gentlemen; there is an individual present—’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers.

‘Pray be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden.

‘I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,’ resumed the host, ‘in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure.’ [‘Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!’ thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] ‘Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval.

‘Gentlemen,’ continued Budden, ‘my cousin is a man who—who is a relation of my own.’ (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. ‘Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every sentiment of—of—’

‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family.

‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.’

‘Standing, gentlemen!’ shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers—‘and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!’

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, ‘we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman’s observations.’ The words ‘present company—honour—present occasion,’ and ‘great happiness’—heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried ‘Bravo!’ and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up.

‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow me to propose a toast?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right across the table, ‘Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.’ Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:

‘It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was—’

Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o’clock) had room for one inside.

Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise, and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and as the coachman couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word for Mr. Minns to ‘run round’ and catch him. However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of ‘running round’ to the Swan, the coach—the last coach—had gone without him.

“Un verbo.”

“Bravo bambino,” disse la signora Budden, con tutto l’orgoglio di una madre.

“Ora, sai cos’è un verbo?”

“Un verbo è una parola che indica essere, fare o soffrire; ad esempio: ‘Io sono’, ‘Io comando’, ‘Io sono comandato’. Dammi un’apple, mamma.”

“Ti darò una mela,” rispose l’uomo con le basette rosse, che era un amico di lunga data della famiglia; in altre parole, la signora Budden lo invitava sempre, che al signor Budden piacesse o no. “Se mi dici quale sia il significato della parola essere.”

“Una specie di insetto che raccoglie il miele”, disse il prodigio dopo un breve esitare.

“No, caro,” disse con espressione preoccupata la signora Budden; “‘B >doppioE’ è il sostantivo.”

“Non credo che sappia ancora molto riguardo ai sostantivi comuni,” disse il signore che sorrideva, ritenendo questa un’ottima opportunità per fare una battuta. “È evidente che non sia molto familiare con i nomi propri. Ahahah!”

“Signori,” gridò il signor Budden dall’estremità del tavolo, con voce tonante e un’aria molto solenne, “avrebbero la gentilezza di riempire i loro bicchieri? Ho un brindisi da proporre.”

“Sentite! Sentite!” gridarono i signori mentre passavano i decanter. Dopo aver fatto il giro intorno al tavolo, il signor Budden proseguì: “Signori, c’è una persona presente, ”

“Sentite! Sentite!” disse il piccolo uomo con le basette rosse.

“Per favore stai zitto, Jones”, lo rimproverò Budden.

“Dico, signori, che qui presente c’è una persona,” riprese l’ospite, “la cui compagnia, ne sono certo, ci darà grande piacere, e la conversazione di quella persona deve aver procurato a tutti noi il massimo divertimento.” [“Grazie al cielo, non si riferisce a me!” pensò Minns, rendendosi conto che la sua timidezza e la sua riservatezza gli avevano impedito di pronunciare più di una dozzina di parole da quando era entrato in quella casa.] “Signori, anch’io sono solo una persona umile. Forse dovrei scusarmi per aver permesso che un sentimento di amicizia e affetto verso la persona di cui parlo mi spingesse a alzarmi e a proporre un brindisi in suo onore. Una persona, ne sono certo, le cui virtù devono renderla amatissima da chi la conosce. E coloro che non hanno la fortuna di conoscerla non possono che ammirarla.”

“Ascoltate! Ascoltate!” disse il gruppo, con tono di incoraggiamento e approvazione.

“Signori,” continuò Budden, “mio cugino è un uomo, che è una parente mia stessa.” (Ascoltate!) Minns emise un gemito udibile. “Un uomo che sono molto felice di vedere qui, e che, se non fosse stato presente, sicuramente ci avrebbe privati della grande gioia che proviamo tutti nel vederlo.” (Grida di approvazione!) Signori, credo di aver monopolizzato la vostra attenzione per troppo tempo. Con ogni sentimento, con ogni emozione.

“Gratificazione” – suggerì l’amico di famiglia.

“Per celebrare questa gioia, propongo di brindare alla salute del signor Minns.”

“In piedi, signori!” gridò l’infaticabile ometto con le basette. “E con tutti gli onori. Prendetevi pure il vostro tempo, se vi pare. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!”

Tutti gli sguardi erano ora fissi sul destinatario del brindisi, il quale, ingoiando avidamente vino di Porto con il rischio imminente di soffocare, cercava disperatamente di nascondere la propria confusione. Dopo un intervallo lungo quanto fosse consentito dalla decenza, si alzò in piedi, ma, come a volte i giornali scrivono nelle loro cronache, “ci rammarichiamo di non essere in grado nemmeno di riportare il contenuto delle osservazioni di questo onorevole gentiluomo”. Le parole “la compagnia presente – l’onore – questa occasione”, e “grande felicità”, udite di tanto in tanto e ripetute con un’espressione di estrema confusione e sconforto, convinsero tutti che stesse tenendo un discorso eccellente; e così, quando tornò a sedersi, la compagnia gridò “Bravo!” e gli riservò un applauso tumultuoso. Jones, che aveva da tempo atteso il momento giusto, approfittò allora dell’occasione per intervenire.

“Budden,” disse, “mi permetteresti di proporre un brindisi?”

“Certamente,” rispose Budden, aggiungendo con un tono particolare a Minn, seduto di fronte a lui al tavolo, “Quel ragazzo è davvero eccezionalmente brillante: sarai molto soddisfatto del suo discorso. Parla altrettanto bene su qualsiasi argomento.” Minn fece un inchino e il signor Jones proseguì:

‘In diverse occasioni, in vari contesti, sotto molteplici circostanze e in diverse aziende, mi è capitato di proporre un brindisi a coloro che, in quel momento, avevano l’onore di circondarmi. A volte, lo ammetto senza esitazione – perché dovrei negarlo? – ho percepito l’enormità della responsabilità che mi era stata affidata e la mia totale incapacità di renderle giustizia. Se tali sono stati i miei sentimenti in passato, quali devono essere ora, ora, nelle straordinarie circostanze in cui mi trovo. (Ascoltate!) Descrivere con precisione i miei sentimenti sarebbe impossibile; tuttavia, non posso darvene un’idea più chiara che ricordando una circostanza che, curiosamente, mi viene in mente proprio in questo momento. Una volta, quando quell’uomo davvero grande e illustre, Sheridan, ’

Ora, non si sa quale altra malvagità, sotto forma di una battuta scherzosa, sarebbe stata aggiunta alla >tomba di quell’uomo così ingiustamente trattato, il signor Sheridan. Se solo in quel momento il ragazzo vestito in abiti semplici non fosse entrato nella stanza, ansimante, per annunciare che, essendo una notte molto piovosa, l’auto era arrivata alle nove. Per chiedere se ci fosse qualcuno che andava in città, poiché in tal caso lui avrebbe potuto prendere un passeggero a bordo.

Il signor Minns partì; nonostante innumerevoli esclamazioni di sorpresa e suppliche perché rimanesse, insistette nella sua decisione di accettare quel posto vuoto. Ma l’ombrello di seta marrone era sparito; e poiché il cocchiere non poteva aspettare, tornò al Swan, lasciando un messaggio per il signor Minns affinché lo raggiungesse. Tuttavia, il signor Minns ci impiegò circa dieci minuti per rendersi conto che aveva dimenticato l’ombrello con il manico d’avorio nell’altro calesse che stava partendo; e poiché non era certo noto per la sua velocità, non sorprende affatto che, quando finalmente riuscì a raggiungere il Swan, il calesse fosse già andato via senza di lui.

It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein.

CHAPTER III—SENTIMENT

The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, ‘The Misses Crumpton,’ were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny personages: very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting manner—like twins! and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very strongly of lavender.

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a ‘finishing establishment for young ladies,’ where some twenty girls of the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and Italian, dancing lessons twice a-week; and other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a little removed from the roadside, with close palings in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly open, to afford a bird’s-eye view of numerous little bedsteads with very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front parlour hung round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who, whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the very deep appearance of the place.

‘Amelia, my dear,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school-room one morning, with her false hair in papers: as she occasionally did, in order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality. ‘Amelia, my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just received. You needn’t mind reading it aloud.’

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an air of great triumph:

‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., presents his compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton’s calling on him, if she conveniently can, to-morrow morning at one o’clock, as Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.

‘Adelphi.

‘Monday morning.’

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ ejaculated Amelia, in an ecstatic tone.

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ repeated Miss Maria, with a smile of delight, which, of course, elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies.

‘It’s exceedingly delightful!’ said Miss Amelia; whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but school-boys, and court-ladies school-girl’s.

So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the day. A holiday was declared, in commemoration of the great event; the Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies verging on eighteen wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore much bustle, and many other whethers of equal importance.

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could—which, by-the-bye, is not saying much for them. Having sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august presence of the profound Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very haughty, solemn, and portentous. He had, naturally, a somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the M.P. attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy, on a small scale, in his own family arrangements, he considered himself unrivalled. He was a county magistrate, and discharged the duties of his station with all due justice and impartiality; frequently committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like adverbs, may be known by their answering to a commonplace question, and doing nothing else.

On the present occasion, this talented individual was seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing, but trying to look busy, playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to ‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,’ were ostentatiously scattered over the table; at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion—in a blue tunic with a black belt—a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an immense buckle—looking like a robber in a melodrama, seen through a diminishing glass.

After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by running away with Miss Maria Crumpton’s chair as fast as it was placed for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., opened the conversation.

Era circa le tre di mattina quando il signor Augustus Minns bussò debolmente alla porta d’ingresso del suo alloggio in Tavistock-street: era freddo, bagnato, infelice e sconvolto. Il giorno dopo fece testamento, e il suo legale, con quella stessa riservatezza con cui comunichiamo queste informazioni al pubblico, ci ha riferito che nel testamento non compare il nome del signor Octavius Budden, né di sua moglie Amelia Budden, né di loro figlio Alexander Augustus Budden.

CAPITOLO III – SENTIMENTALITÀ

Le signorine Crumpton, o per citare l’autorità dell’iscrizione presente sul cancello del giardino della casa di Minerva a Hammersmith, “Le signorine Crumpton”, erano due donne insolitamente alte, particolarmente magre e estremamente snelle: molto dritte e dal colorito molto giallastro. La signorina Amelia Crumpton aveva trentotto anni, mentre la signorina Maria Crumpton ammise di averne quaranta; un’ammissione del tutto superflua, visto che era evidente che ne avesse almeno cinquanta. Si vestivano in modo molto particolare, come gemelle! E sembravano felici e a loro agio, proprio come due margherite in piena fioritura. Erano molto precise nel comportamento, avevano idee molto rigide riguardo alle convenzioni sociali, portavano parrucche e avevano sempre un forte odore di lavanda addosso.

La casa Minerva, gestita sotto gli auspici delle due sorelle, era un “istituto di perfezionamento per giovani signorine”, dove circa venti ragazze di età compresa tra i tredici e i diciannove anni acquisivano una conoscenza superficiale di tutto, ma senza approfondirla davvero; venivano insegnate il francese e l’italiano, si tenevano lezioni di danza due volte a settimana, e si offrivano altre necessità della vita quotidiana. La casa era bianca, un po’ distante dalla strada principale, con recinzioni basse davanti all’ingresso. Le finestre delle camere da letto erano sempre lasciate leggermente aperte, in modo che i passanti potessero ammirare numerosi letti piccoli e arredi molto bianchi; questo aspetto doveva dare l’impressione della grande raffinatezza dell’istituto. Nell’ingresso c’era un salotto decorato con mappe altamente lucidate, che nessuno mai guardava, e libri che nessuno mai leggeva; questi spazi erano riservati esclusivamente all’accoglienza dei genitori, i quali, ogni volta che venivano a far visita, non potevano fare a meno di essere colpiti dall’aspetto estremamente elegante dell’edificio.

“Amelia, mia cara,” disse la signorina Maria Crumpton, entrando nell’aula una mattina, con i suoi capelli postici avvolti in carta: come faceva occasionalmente, per far credere alle giovani signore che fossero veri. “Amelia, mia cara, ecco una lettera molto gratificante che ho appena ricevuto. Non ti dispiace se la leggi ad alta voce.”

Miss Amelia, avendo ricevuto questo consiglio, iniziò a leggere la seguente nota con un tono di grande trionfo:

‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., invia i suoi saluti a Miss Crumpton e sarebbe molto grato se lei potesse trovarsi da lui domani mattina alle una, poiché Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., desidera discutere con lei la questione relativa alla affidamento di Miss Brook Dingwall alle sue cure.’

“Adelphi.”

“Lunedì mattina.”

“La figlia di un membro del Parlamento!” esclamò Amelia, con tono estatico.

“La figlia di un membro del Parlamento!” ripeté la signorina Maria con un sorriso di gioia, che naturalmente suscitò anche le risate di piacere di tutte le giovani donne presenti.

“È davvero delizioso!” disse la signorina Amelia; e allora tutte le giovani dame mormorarono di nuovo il loro ammiramento. I cortigiani non sono altro che ragazzi di scuola, e le dame di corte, beh, sono soltanto ragazze di scuola.

Un annuncio così importante sovrascrisse immediatamente tutte le altre questioni del giorno. Fu dichiarato un giorno di festa in commemorazione di quell’evento straordinario; la signorina Crumptons si ritirò nel suo appartamento privato per discuterne; le ragazze più giovani si chiedevano quali fossero probabilmente i modi e le abitudini della figlia di un membro del Parlamento; e le giovani donne prossime ai diciotto anni si interrogavano se fosse fidanzata, se fosse bella, se indossasse abiti eleganti, e molte altre domande altrettanto importanti.

Le due signorine Crumpton si recarono all’Adelphi all’ora stabilita il giorno seguente, vestite, naturalmente, nel loro miglior abbigliamento e con un aspetto il più amichevole possibile, il che, a dire il vero, non significa molto in loro favore. Dopo aver fatto consegnare le loro carte di presentazione tramite un valletto dall’aspetto imponente e in uniforme sgargiante, furono introdotte nell’augusta presenza del profondo e rispettabile Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., era molto arrogante, solenne e pieno di presunzione. Naturalmente, aveva un’espressione del viso piuttosto spasmodica, la quale non risultava meno evidente dal fatto che indossasse una cravatta estremamente rigida. Era estremamente orgoglioso del titolo di M.P. legato al suo nome e non perdeva mai l’occasione per ricordare alle persone la sua dignità. Aveva un’alta stima delle proprie capacità, il che doveva rappresentare per lui un grande conforto, poiché nessun altro la aveva; in ambito diplomatico, su piccola scala, e nelle questioni relative alla gestione della sua famiglia, si considerava insuperabile. Era un magistrato di contea e svolgeva le proprie funzioni con piena giustizia e imparzialità, anche se spesso perdeva la pazienza con i bracconieri e, occasionalmente, commetteva errori personali. Miss Brook Dingwall apparteneva a quella numerosa categoria di giovani donne che, come gli avverbi, si riconoscono soltanto in risposta a domande banali, e non fanno altro.

In questa occasione, questo individuo talentuoso era seduto in una piccola biblioteca, davanti a un tavolo coperto di carte; non faceva nulla, ma cercava di sembrare impegnato, fingendo di occuparsi di lavoro. Atti del Parlamento e lettere indirizzate a “Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.” erano disposti in modo vistoso sul tavolo; poco lontano da lui, la signora Brook Dingwall era seduta al suo lavoro. Uno di quei fastidiosi individui, un bambino viziato, correva per la stanza, vestito secondo le mode più alla moda: con una tunica blu e una cintura nera larga un quarto di iarda, fissata con una enorme fibbia; sembrava davvero un bandito in un melodramma, visto attraverso uno specchio deformante.

Dopo qualche scherzo da parte del dolce >bambino, che si divertiva a correre via con la sedia di Miss Maria Crumpton non appena veniva messa a posto per lei, gli ospiti presero posto e Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., iniziò la conversazione.

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high character he had received of her establishment from his friend, Sir Alfred Muggs.

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and Cornelius proceeded.

‘One of my principal reasons, Miss Crumpton, for parting with my daughter, is, that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas, which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind.’ (Here the little innocent before noticed, fell out of an arm-chair with an awful crash.)

‘Naughty boy!’ said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else; ‘I’ll ring the bell for James to take him away.’

‘Pray don’t check him, my love,’ said the diplomatist, as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling consequent upon the threat and the tumble. ‘It all arises from his great flow of spirits.’ This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the antique Maria: not exactly seeing, however, the connexion between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall from an arm-chair.

Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: ‘Now, I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of girls of her own age; and, as I know that in your establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her young mind, I propose to send her to you.’

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgments of the establishment generally. Maria was rendered speechless by bodily pain. The dear little fellow, having recovered his animal spirits, was standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with the writing-table.

‘Of course, Lavinia will be a parlour boarder,’ continued the enviable father; ‘and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her inferior in life, has been the cause of her present state of mind. Knowing that of course, under your care, she can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not object to—indeed, I should rather prefer—her mixing with such society as you see yourself.’

This important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyousness breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded; two little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as the man left the room, and the child was gone.

‘Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything,’ said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at all.

‘Certainly,’ said both the Miss Crumptons together.

‘And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton,’ continued the legislator, ‘I hope you will have the goodness to comply, in all respects, with any request I may forward to you.’

The promise was of course made; and after a lengthened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith on the next day but one, on which occasion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl’s mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both the Miss Crumptons pronounced her ‘a most charming girl;’ an opinion which, by a singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension exhibited, and the interview terminated.

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, ‘on a scale of magnitude never before attempted,’ were incessantly made at Minerva House to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up, the folding-doors were taken down, the furniture was taken out, and rout-seats were taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand piano already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off on the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, practised incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant correspondence was kept up, between the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastrycook.

The evening came; and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be in everybody’s way, and were pushed about accordingly; and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied, one another, as earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually come out.

‘How do I look, dear?’ inquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend, because she was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.

‘Oh! charming, dear. How do I?’

‘Delightful! you never looked so handsome,’ returned the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion.

‘I hope young Hilton will come early,’ said another young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation.

‘I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,’ returned the other, who was practising l’été.

Aveva chiamato la signorina Crumpton, disse, a causa delle ottime referenze che il suo amico, sir Alfred Muggs, aveva fornito riguardo al suo lavoro.

La signorina Crumpton gli rivolse qualche parola di ringraziamento, e poi Cornelius proseguì.

“Uno dei motivi principali per cui ho deciso di separarmi dalla mia figlia, signorina Crumpton, è che ultimamente ha iniziato ad avere alcune idee sentimentali, le quali è assolutamente necessario eliminare dalla sua giovane mente.” (In quel momento, la piccola innocente di cui si era parlato prima cadde da una poltrona con un terribile rumore.)

“Bambino cattivo!” disse sua madre, che sembrava più sorpresa dal fatto che si fosse preso la libertà di cadere che da qualsiasi altra cosa; “Suonerò il campanello perché James lo porti via.”

“Per favore, non controllarlo, mio amore”, disse il diplomatico non appena riuscì a farsi sentire tra i terribili ululati scaturiti dalla minaccia e dallo scontro. “Tutto deriva dal suo grande spirito, ”. Quest’ultima spiegazione era rivolta a Miss Crumpton.

“Certamente, signore,” rispose l’antica Maria; tuttavia, non riusciva proprio a comprendere il legame tra un flusso di “spiriti animali” e una caduta da una poltrona.

Il silenzio fu ristabilito e il membro del parlamento continuò: “Ora, signorina Crumpton, so che nulla potrebbe essere più efficace per raggiungere questo scopo di farle frequentare costantemente compagnie di ragazze della sua stessa età; e poiché so che nel vostro istituto incontrerà persone che non correranno il rischio di contaminare la sua giovane mente, propongo di mandarla da voi.”

La più giovane delle signorine Crumpton esprimeva, a nome di tutta l’istituzione, i propri ringraziamenti. Maria era rimasta senza parole a causa di un intenso dolore fisico. Il caro bambino, essendosi ripreso, si era messo in piedi sul suo piede più delicato, per poter mettere il viso (che assomigliava a una grande “O” scritta in caratteri rossi su un cartellone teatrale) allo stesso livello della scrivania.

“Certo, Lavinia diventerà una pensionata,” continuò il padre invidiabile; “e su un punto desidero che le mie istruzioni vengano rigorosamente rispettate. Il fatto è che qualche assurda relazione amorosa con una persona molto inferiore a lei per status sociale è la causa del suo attuale stato d’animo. Sapendo che, naturalmente, sotto la tua cura, non avrà alcuna possibilità di incontrare questa persona, non ho obiezioni. Anzi, preferirei addirittura che frequentasse ambienti come quelli che tu stesso consideri appropriati.”

Questa importante dichiarazione fu di nuovo interrotta dalla piccola creatura piena di energia: per l’eccesso della sua gioia, ruppe un pezzo di vetro e rischiò quasi di cadere in una stanza adiacente. Chiamarono James; seguì una notevole confusione e urla; si videro due piccole gambe blu muoversi violentemente nell’aria mentre l’uomo usciva dalla stanza, e il bambino era scomparso.

“Il signor Brook Dingwall vuole che la signorina Brook Dingwall impari tutto,” disse la signora Brook Dingwall, che di solito non diceva quasi mai nulla.

“Certo,” dissero insieme le due signorine Crumpton.

“E poiché sono convinto che il piano che ho ideato sarà efficace nel far abbandonare a mia figlia questa assurda idea, signorina Crumpton,” continuò il legislatore, “spero che vorrà avere la gentilezza di attenersi, in ogni dettaglio, a qualsiasi richiesta le invierò.”

La promessa fu naturalmente fatta; e dopo una lunga discussione, condotta da parte dei Dingwalls con la massima gravità diplomatica e da parte dei Crumptons con profondo rispetto, si decise finalmente che Miss Lavinia fosse inviata a Hammersmith il giorno precedente a quello in cui avrebbe avuto luogo il ballo semestrale dell’istituto. Forse questo avrebbe potuto distrarre la mente della cara ragazza. Questo, tra l’altro, era un altro esempio di diplomazia.

La signorina Lavinia fu presentata alla sua futura tutrice, e sia la signorina Crumptons che l’altra opinarono che fosse “una ragazza davvero incantevole”; una stessa opinione che, per una singolare coincidenza, avevano sempre riguardo a ogni nuova alunna.

Si scambiarono cortesie, si espressero ringraziamenti, si dimostrò condiscendenza e l’intervista terminò.

Le preparazioni, per usare una fraseologia teatrale, “su scala di grandezza mai tentata prima”, proseguivano incessantemente nella casa di Minerva al fine di rendere il prossimo ballo il più spettacolare possibile. La stanza più grande della casa era stata decorata con rose di cotone blu, tulipani a quadri e altre piante artificiali dall’aspetto estremamente naturale, opera stessa delle giovani signore presenti. Il tappeto fu rimosso, le porte pieghevoli smontate, i mobili spostati e furono installati nuovi sedili. I negozi di Hammersmith rimasero stupiti dalla improvvisa richiesta di nastri blu di seta e guanti bianchi lunghi. Furono acquistate dozzine di gerani per i mazzi floreali, e una cetra insieme a due violini furono ordinati in città, oltre al grande pianoforte già presente nella casa. Le giovani signore selezionate per partecipare all’evento e onorare l’istituto si esercitavano incessantemente, con grande soddisfazione loro stesse, e non poco fastidio del vecchio gentiluomo che abitava di fronte. Inoltre, un costante scambio epistolare avveniva tra le signorine Crumpton e il pasticcere di Hammersmith.

Arrivò la sera; e allora iniziò una serie di attività: allacciare i reggiseni, legare le sandali, pettinarsi, cose che in nessuna scuola convittoria avvengono con tale frenesia. Le ragazze più giovani riuscivano sempre a intralciare tutti, e venivano spinte da una parte all’altra; quelle più grandi si vestivano a vicenda, si aiutavano a sistemarsi i capelli, si lusingavano e si invidiavano con sincerità e impegno, come se davvero fossero uscite per divertirsi.

“Come mi vedo, carina?”, chiese la signorina Emily Smithers, la più bella della casa, alla signorina Caroline Wilson, sua migliore amica, perché quest’ultima era la ragazza più brutta di Hammersmith, o forse addirittura di tutto il mondo.

“Ah! Delizioso, caro. Come faccio?”

“Adorabile! Non sei mai stato così affascinante,” rispose la bella, sistemando il proprio abito senza degnare di uno sguardo la sua povera compagna.

“Spero che la giovane Hilton arrivi presto,” disse un’altra giovane signora a qualcun’altra, con grande attesa.

“Sono sicuro che ne sarebbe molto lusingato se lo sapesse,” rispose l’altro, che stava praticando il l’été.

‘Oh! he’s so handsome,’ said the first.

‘Such a charming person!’ added a second.

‘Such a distingué air!’ said a third.

‘Oh, what do you think?’ said another girl, running into the room; ‘Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s coming.’

‘What! Theodosius Butler?’ said everybody in raptures.

‘Is he handsome?’ inquired a novice.

‘No, not particularly handsome,’ was the general reply; ‘but, oh, so clever!’

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be met with in almost every circle. They have, usually, very deep, monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though they don’t precisely know why. They are very conceited, and usually possess half an idea; but, with enthusiastic young ladies, and silly young gentlemen, they are very wonderful persons. The individual in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some very weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other; and as every sentence contained a good many words of four syllables, his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.

‘Perhaps that’s he,’ exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate.

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a young lady—Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball costume, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose; an ivory fan in her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family, with the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise: papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig; the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners. The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back-parlour—a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide her somewhere, on account of her being a fright.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of ‘The Recollections of Ireland’ was universally declared to be almost equal to that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the back drawing-room in which she was seated.

‘Now, Theodosius,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of the whole company, ‘I must introduce you to our new pupil.’

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.

‘She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,’ said Maria.—Theodosius started.

‘And her name is—?’ he inquired.

‘Miss Brook Dingwall.’

‘Great Heaven!’ poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone.

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her head.

‘Edward!’ she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the well-known nankeen legs.

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia’s incoherent exclamations, she was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.

‘Oh, Edward!’ exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young ladies, as the light of science seated himself beside her, ‘Oh, Edward, is it you?’

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned manner, that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.

‘Then why—why—this disguise? Oh! Edward M’Neville Walter, what have I not suffered on your account?’

‘Lavinia, hear me,’ replied the hero, in his most poetic strain. ‘Do not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection—if any being, so vile, deserve your notice—you may remember that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled “Considerations on the Policy of Removing the Duty on Bees’-wax.”’

“Oh, è così bello,” disse la prima.

“Che persona incantevole!” aggiunse un’altra.

“Un’aria così distinta!” disse un terzo.

“Oh, cosa pensi tu?” disse un’altra ragazza entrando nella stanza; “La signorina Crumpton dice che arriverà il cugino di sua cugina.”

“Che cosa! Teodosio Butler?” esclamarono tutti, estasiati.

“È davvero bello?” chiese un principiante.

“No, non particolarmente attraente,” era la risposta generale; “ma, oh, così intelligente!”

Il signor Teodosio Butler era uno di quei geni immortali che si incontrano quasi in ogni ambiente. Di solito, hanno voci molto profonde e monotone. Si convincono sempre di essere persone straordinarie e che dovrebbero soffrire terribilmente, anche se non sanno esattamente il motivo. Sono molto presuntuosi e di solito possiedono solo una conoscenza superficiale delle cose; tuttavia, in compagnia di giovani donne entusiaste o di giovani uomini sciocchi, diventano davvero persone “straordinarie”. Il signor Teodosio aveva scritto un pamphlet nel quale esprimeva alcune considerazioni molto serie sull’opportunità di fare questo o quell’altro; poiché ogni frase conteneva molte parole composte da quattro sillabe, i suoi ammiratori erano convinti che ciò che diceva avesse un grande significato.

“Forse è lui,” esclamarono alcune giovani signore, mentre il primo tentativo di suonare la campanella quella sera minacciava di distruggerla.

Seguì un terribile silenzio. Arrivarono alcune scatole e una giovane signora – la signorina Brook Dingwall – vestita completamente da ballerina, con un enorme collare d’oro intorno al collo e il vestito decorato con una singola rosa; in mano teneva un ventaglio di avorio e sul suo viso si leggeva un’espressione di profondo disperazione.

Le signorine Crumpeton chiesero notizie della famiglia con la massima ansia; in seguito, la signorina Brook Dingwall fu presentata ufficialmente alle sue future compagne. Le signorine Crumpeton conversarono con le giovani donne usando toni estremamente dolci e gentili, affinché la signorina Brook Dingwall potesse rimanere davvero colpita dal loro modo amichevole di trattare le persone.

Un altro colpo alla campanella. Il maestro di scrittura, il signor Dadson, e sua moglie.
La moglie indossava seta verde, con scarpe e bordi dei cappelli abbinati; il maestro di scrittura portava una giacca bianca, pantaloncini neri e calze dello stesso tessuto, mostrando gambe così grosse da poter ospitare due maestri di scrittura. Le giovani signore sussurravano tra loro, mentre il maestro di scrittura e sua moglie lusingavano le signorine Crumpton, vestite di colore ambra con lunghi nastri, come bambole.

Continui suoni della campanella, e arrivi così numerosi da essere impossibile individuarli uno per uno: papà e mamme, zie e zii, i genitori e i tutori degli studenti; il maestro di canto, Signor Lobskini, con una parrucca nera; il pianista e i violinisti; l’arpa, in uno stato di evidente eccitazione. E poi una ventina di giovani uomini che stavano vicino alla porta, chiacchierando tra loro e di tanto in tanto scoppiando in risate. Un generale brusio di voci. Il caffè veniva servito, e le mamme grasse ne bevevano abbondantemente, sembrando proprio quelle figure robuste che appaiono nelle pantomime soltanto per essere poi rovesciate a terra.

Il popolare signor Hilton fu il successivo ad arrivare; e poiché, su richiesta della signorina Crump-ton, aveva assunto l’incarico di direttore dei cerimoniali, i quadrilli iniziarono con grande entusiasmo. I giovani, inizialmente raggruppati vicino alla porta, si avvicinarono gradualmente al centro della sala e, col tempo, divennero abbastanza a loro agio da accettare di essere presentati alle rispettive partner. L’insegnante di danza partecipò a ogni serie di danze, muovendosi con una agilità sorprendente; sua moglie, intanto, suonava il pianoforte nella stanza sul retro – un piccolo ambiente dotato di cinque scaffali pieni di libri, chiamato “studi”. Farle sedere a giocare a carte rappresentava, per la signorina Crump-ton, un vero e proprio atto di strategia. Era necessario nasconderla da qualche parte, visto che le sue urla spaventavano tutti.

L’interessante Lavinia Brook Dingwall era l’unica ragazza presente; sembrava non interessarsi affatto agli eventi della serata. Inutilmente le furono chieste di danzare; inutilmente ricevette l’omaggio generale dovuto alla figlia di un membro del parlamento. Rimase altrettanto indifferente anche al magnifico canto del incomparabile Lobskini, così come all’eccellente esibizione della signorina Laetitia Parsons, la cui interpretazione di “The Recollections of Ireland” fu universalmente riconosciuta come quasi paragonabile a quella dello stesso Moscheles. Nemmeno l’annuncio dell’arrivo del signor Theodosius Butler riuscì a convincerla ad abbandonare il angolo del salotto in cui si trovava seduta.

“Ora, Teodosio,” disse la signorina Maria Crumpton, dopo che quel propagandista illuminato aveva quasi affrontato l’intera compagnia, “devo presentarti il nostro nuovo studente.”

Teodosio sembrava non curarsi affatto delle cose terrene.

“È la figlia di un membro del parlamento,” disse Maria. E così iniziò Theodosius.

“E il suo nome è,?” chiese lui.

“Miss Brook Dingwall.”

“Gran Cielo!”, esclamò poeticamente Teodosio, a bassa voce.

La signorina Crumpton iniziò la presentazione in due modi diversi. La signorina Brook Dingwall sollevò lentamente la testa.

“Edward!”, esclamò lei, con un mezzo grido, non appena vide quelle ben note gambe in calzoni di cotone.

Fortunatamente, poiché la signorina Maria Crumpton non possedeva una particolare capacità di intuizione, e poiché era parte degli accordi diplomatici stabiliti che non si dovesse prestare attenzione alle esclamazioni incoerenti della signorina Lavinia, lei non aveva la minima idea dell’agitazione reciproca tra le due parti; pertanto, vedendo che la sua proposta di matrimonio durante il prossimo ballo venne accettata, lo lasciò al fianco della signorina Brook Dingwall.

“Oh, Edward!” esclamò quella giovane donna tra le più romantiche, mentre la luce della scienza si sedeva accanto a lei, “Oh, Edward, sei tu?”

Il signor Teodosio assicurò con grande passione quella cara creatura che non si rendeva conto di essere altro che se stesso.

“Allora perché, perché questo travestimento? Oh! Edward M’Neville Walter, quante sofferenze non ho dovuto sopportare a causa tua?”

‘Lavinia, ascoltami,’ rispose l’eroe con il tono più poetico possibile. ‘Non condannarmi senza avermi ascoltato. Se qualcosa che proviene dall’‘anima di un essere meschino come me può trovare spazio nella tua memoria, se una creatura così vile merita la tua attenzione, ricorda forse che un tempo pubblicai un pamphlet (e ne pagai la stampa) intitolato “Considerazioni sulla politica volta a eliminare l’obbligo di raccogliere la cera delle api”.’

‘I do—I do!’ sobbed Lavinia.

‘That,’ continued the lover, ‘was a subject to which your father was devoted heart and soul.’

‘He was—he was!’ reiterated the sentimentalist.

‘I knew it,’ continued Theodosius, tragically; ‘I knew it—I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never! No, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of endearment. As M’Neville Walter, I devoted myself to the stirring cause; as M’Neville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character I was ejected from your house by your father’s domestics; and in no character at all have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am—Theodosius Butler.’

The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the immortal advocate of bees’-wax.

‘May I hope,’ said he, ‘that the promise your father’s violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?’

‘Let us join this set,’ replied Lavinia, coquettishly—for girls of nineteen can coquette.

‘No,’ ejaculated he of the nankeens. ‘I stir not from this spot, writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may I—hope?’

‘You may.’

‘The promise is renewed?’

‘It is.’

‘I have your permission?’

‘You have.’

‘To the fullest extent?’

‘You know it,’ returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of the interesting Butler’s visage expressed his raptures.

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced, and talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening—how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How the writing-master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist-table in the little back-parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head-dress in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a tart here and there by way of variety; and how the visitors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was seated at the same library-table, and in the same room, as we have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep thought and solemn gravity—he was drawing up ‘A Bill for the better observance of Easter Monday.’

The footman tapped at the door—the legislator started from his reverie, and ‘Miss Crumpton’ was announced. Permission was given for Miss Crumpton to enter the sanctum; Maria came sliding in, and having taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for the presence of a third party! Even the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief.

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the handsome little boy were in good health.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.

‘Much obliged to you, Miss Crumpton,’ said Cornelius, in his most dignified manner, ‘for your attention in calling this morning. I should have driven down to Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much, that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on?’

‘Very well indeed, sir,’ returned Maria, dreading to inform the father that she had gone off.

‘Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her.’

Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a match for her. But the unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.

‘You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss Crumpton?’

‘Strictly, sir.’

‘You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.’

‘Very much indeed, sir.’

‘To be sure. I was convinced they would.’

‘But I fear, sir,’ said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion, ‘I fear the plan has not succeeded, quite so well as we could have wished.’

No!’ exclaimed the prophet. ‘Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened?’

‘Miss Brook Dingwall, sir—’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Has gone, sir’—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.

‘Gone!’

‘Eloped, sir.’

‘Eloped!—Who with—when—where—how?’ almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria’s face changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet on the member’s table.

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, and another from Theodosius. He glanced over their contents—‘Ere this reaches you, far distant—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bees’-wax—slavery,’ &c., &c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.

‘Now mind; from this time forward,’ said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand; ‘from this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever, permit a man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of this house but the kitchen.—I’ll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and never see their faces again: and, damme! ma’am, I’ll bring in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools.’

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball’s-pond, pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and writes incessantly; but, in consequence of a gross combination on the part of publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness; and that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness than she ever anticipated.

“Sì, sì!” singhiozzò Lavinia.

“Quello,” continuò l’innamorato, “era un argomento a cui tuo padre dedicava tutto il suo cuore e la sua ‘anima.”

“Era, era!” ripeteva il sentimentalista.

“Lo sapevo,” continuò Teodosio, con tono tragico; “lo sapevo. Gli ho inviato una copia della lettera. Voleva conoscermi. Potrei rivelare il mio vero nome? Mai! Ho assunto quel nome che voi avete spesso pronunciato con toni affettuosi. Come M’Neville Walter, mi sono dedicato a quella causa appassionante; come M’Neville Walter ho conquistato il vostro cuore. Ma sempre sotto quell’identità sono stato cacciato dalla vostra casa dai domestici di vostro padre. Da allora, non ho mai più avuto l’opportunità di rivedervi. Ora ci incontriamo di nuovo. E con orgoglio dichiaro che io sono. Teodosius Butler.”

La giovane signora sembrava assolutamente soddisfatta di questo discorso argomentato e rivolse uno sguardo pieno di più ardente affetto all’immortale difensore della cera delle api.

“Posso sperare”, disse, “che la promessa che il comportamento violento di vostro padre interruppe possa essere rinnovata?”

“Uniamoci a questo gruppo,” rispose Lavinia in modo seducente, perché le ragazze di diciannove anni possono certamente flirtare.

“No,” esclamò riguardo a quelle camicie di seta. “Non mi muoverò da questo posto, torturato dall’attesa. Posso, posso forse sperare?”

“Puoi farlo.”

“La promessa si rinnova?”

‘It is.’

“Ho il tuo permesso?”

“Lo hai.”

“Nella massima misura possibile?”

“Lo sai,” rispose arrossendo Lavinia. Le espressioni stravaganti sul volto di quel curioso maggiordomo riflettevano la sua grande emozione.

Potremmo soffermarci sulle vicende che seguirono: come il signor Teodosio e la signorina Lavinia danzarono, conversarono e sospirarono per il resto della serata; come le signorine Crumptons ne furono deliziate. Come l’insegnante di scrittura continuò a muoversi con grande energia, e come sua moglie, per qualche motivo inspiegabile, lasciò il tavolo da whist nella piccola sala sul retro della casa, insistendo nel mostrare il proprio copricapo verde nella parte più visibile del salotto. Come la cena consistette in piccoli panini triangolari serviti su vassoi, e in qualche torta come variante; e come gli ospiti bevvero acqua calda mescolata con limone e noce moscata, presentata sotto il nome di “negus”. Tuttavia, tralasciamo queste e altre cose altrettanto interessanti, al fine di descrivere una scena ancora più importante.

Dopo quindici giorni dalla data del ballo, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., era seduto allo stesso tavolo della biblioteca, nella stessa stanza che avevamo descritto in precedenza. Era solo, e il suo volto esprimeva una profonda concentrazione e un’aria di solenne gravità; stava redigendo “Un disegno di legge per il miglior rispetto del Lunedì di Pasqua”.

Il valletto bussò alla porta; il legislatore si riscosse dai suoi pensieri e fu annunciata “Miss Crumpton”. Le fu concesso l’accesso al “sanctum”; Maria entrò furtivamente e, dopo essersi seduta con un’evidente dose di affettazione, il valletto se ne andò, lasciando la governante da sola con il membro del parlamento. Oh, quanto desiderava la presenza di una terza persona! Anche quel giovane gentiluomo scherzoso sarebbe stato un sollievo.

La signorina Crumpton iniziò il duetto. Sperava che la signora Brook Dingwall e quel carino bambino fossero in buona salute.

Erano lì. La signora Brook Dingwall e il piccolo Frederick si trovavano a Brighton.

“Grazie mille, signorina Crumpton,” disse Cornelius con il suo tono più dignitoso, “per la sua attenzione nell’avermi chiamato stamattina. Avrei dovuto recarmi a Hammersmith per vedere Lavinia, ma il suo resoconto era davvero molto soddisfacente, e i miei doveri nella Casa mi assorbono così tanto che ho deciso di rimandare la visita di una settimana. Come sta andando?”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose Maria, temendo di comunicare al padre che se n’era andata.

“Ah, pensavo che il piano che avevo ideato fosse adatto a lei.”

Era un’ottima opportunità per dire che qualcun altro avrebbe potuto essere all’altezza di lei. Ma sfortunatamente, quella povera governante non era all’altezza della situazione.

“Ha sempre seguito rigorosamente le regole di condotta che le ho prescritto, signorina Crumpton?”

“Assolutamente sì, signore.”

“Nella tua nota dici che il suo umore è migliorato gradualmente.”

“Certo, signore.”

“Certo. Ero convinto che lo avrebbero fatto.”

“Ma ho paura, signore,” disse la signorina Crumpton con evidente emozione, “ho paura che il piano non abbia avuto successo, non del tutto come avremmo desiderato.”

“No!” esclamò il profeta. “Per favore. Signorina Crumpton, sembrate allarmata. Che cosa è successo?”

“Miss Brook Dingwall, signore, ”

“Sì, signora?”

“È andato via, signore” — disse Maria, mostrando chiari segni di voler svenire.

‘Sparita!’

“Sono fuggiti insieme, signore.”

“È fuggita via! — Con chi? — Quando? — Dove? — Come?” quasi gridò il diplomatico agitato.

Il naturale colore giallo del viso della sfortunata Maria cambiò in tutte le tonalità dell’arcobaleno, quando posò un piccolo pacchetto sul tavolo del membro.

Lo aprì in fretta. Una lettera di sua figlia, e un’altra di Teodosio. Diede un’occhiata al loro contenuto: “Mentre questa lettera vi raggiunge, lontani da qui, un appello ai sentimenti. amore fino all’estremo. api”, cera, “schiavitù”, ecc. Si prese la fronte con la mano e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza con passi lunghi e veloci, causando grande allarme a Maria che era lì presente.

“Ora ascoltate bene: da questo momento in poi,” disse il signor Brook Dingwall, fermandosi improvvisamente davanti al tavolo e battendoci sopra il palmo della mano; “da questo momento in poi, non permetterò mai, sotto nessuna circostanza, a un uomo che scrive pamphlet di entrare in alcuna altra stanza di questa >casa se non in cucina. Darò a mia figlia e a suo marito centocinquanta sterline all’anno, ma non li vedrò mai più. E, per Dio, signora, presenterò una proposta per l’abolizione delle scuole di perfezionamento!”

È trascorso del tempo da quando fu fatta questa appassionata dichiarazione. Il signor e la signora Butler attualmente vivono in una piccola capanna a Ball’s-pond, situata in prossimità di un cantiere di mattoni. Non hanno famiglia. Il signor Theodosius sembra molto importante e scrive incessantemente; tuttavia, a causa di combinazioni disastrose da parte degli editori, nessuna delle sue opere viene pubblicata. Sua moglie giovane inizia a pensare che una miseria ideale sia preferibile a un’infelicità reale; e che un matrimonio contratto in fretta e rimpianto in seguito possa causare una sofferenza molto più profonda di quanto avesse previsto.

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his admirable arrangements was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons, but his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is in status quo, and ‘The Misses Crumpton’ remain in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School.

CHAPTER IV—THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

Once upon a time there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of the water, within three minutes’ walk of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph Tuggs—a little dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measuring from the centre button of his waistcoat in front, to the ornamental buttons of his coat behind. The figure of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly symmetrical, was decidedly comfortable; and the form of her only daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into that state of luxuriant plumpness which had enchanted the eyes, and captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr. Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs’s only brother, was as differently formed in body, as he was differently constituted in mind, from the remainder of his family. There was that elongation in his thoughtful face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic disposition. The slightest traits of character in such a being, possess no mean interest to speculative minds. He usually appeared in public, in capacious shoes with black cotton stockings; and was observed to be particularly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament of any description.

There is perhaps no profession, however useful; no pursuit, however meritorious; which can escape the petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was beyond the breath of calumny; but no—the neighbours stigmatised him as a chandler; and the poisonous voice of envy distinctly asserted that he dispensed tea and coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce, cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggses. Mr. Tuggs attended to the grocery department; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery; and Miss Tuggs to her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his father’s books, and his own counsel.

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on a tub of weekly Dorset, behind the little red desk with a wooden rail, which ornamented a corner of the counter; when a stranger dismounted from a cab, and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black cloth, and bore with him, a green umbrella, and a blue bag.

‘Mr. Tuggs?’ said the stranger, inquiringly.

‘My name is Tuggs,’ replied Mr. Simon.

‘It’s the other Mr. Tuggs,’ said the stranger, looking towards the glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, and on the inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly visible, peeping over the curtain.

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of his wish that his father would advance. Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with considerable celerity, removed his face from the curtain and placed it before the stranger.

‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.

‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same moment.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch cheese.

‘From the Temple,’ repeated the man with the bag; ‘from Mr. Cower’s, the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.’ And the man with the bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Now the words ‘we have been successful,’ had no sooner issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest ostensible cause or pretence.

‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.

‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs.

‘I’m better now,’ said Mr. Simon Tuggs. ‘What! successful!’ And then, as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again, and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with the position of the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit respecting the validity of a will, had been unexpectedly decided; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was the possessor of twenty thousand pounds.

A prolonged consultation took place, that night, in the little parlour—a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of the Tuggses. The shop was shut up, at an unusually early hour; and many were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn’orths of pepper, which were to have been ‘left till Saturday,’ but which fortune had decreed were to be left alone altogether.

‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs.

Riflettendoci con calma, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., fu costretto ad ammettere, sebbene a malincuore, che l’insuccesso dei suoi ottimi piani non era da attribuire alle signorine Crumpton, ma alla sua stessa diplomazia. Tuttavia, si consola, come fanno altri piccoli diplomatici, dimostrando in modo convincente che, se i suoi progetti non avevano avuto successo, forse non avrebbero dovuto averlo comunque. La situazione rimane immutata: Minerva House continua a godere di tutti i vantaggi derivanti dalla sua scuola per signorine, e le “signorine Crumpton” continuano a vivere in pace e tranquillità.

capitolo IV—I TUGGSES DI RAMSGATE

C’era una volta, in una strada stretta sul lato di Surrey del fiume, a soli tre minuti a piedi dal vecchio Ponte di Londra, un signore di nome Joseph Tuggs: un uomo dall’aspetto scuro, con i capelli lucidi, gli occhi brillanti, gambe corte e un corpo davvero molto robusto, la cui circonferenza andava dal bottone centrale della sua giacca davanti fino ai bottoni decorativi del suo cappotto dietro. Anche se non perfettamente simmetrica, la figura della gentile signora Tuggs era decisamente attraente; quanto alla figlia unica, la raffinata signorina Charlotte Tuggs, il suo corpo si stava rapidamente trasformando in quella forma di rotondità rigogliosa che aveva incantato gli occhi e conquistato il cuore del signor Joseph Tuggs nei primi anni della loro conoscenza. Il figlio unico di Joseph Tuggs, Simon Tuggs, e fratello minore di Charlotte, erano molto diversi dal resto della famiglia sia nell’aspetto fisico che nel carattere: il suo viso rifletteva una profonda meditazione, mentre le sue gambe denotavano una certa debolezza, tratti che testimoniavano chiaramente di un’intelligenza elevata e di un temperamento romantico. Ogni minimo dettaglio del suo carattere suscitava grande interesse nelle persone curiose di conoscere meglio le sue qualità. Di solito si presentava in pubblico indossando scarpe spaziose e calze di cotone nero; inoltre, era particolarmente affezionato a una calza lucida nera, senza lacci né alcun tipo di ornamento.

Forse non esiste alcuna professione, per quanto utile; nessuna attività, per quanto meritoria, che possa sfuggire agli attacchi meschini delle menti volgari. Il signor Joseph Tuggs era un macellaio. Si potrebbe pensare che il lavoro di un macellaio sia al di fuori del raggio d’azione delle calunnie; ma no: i vicini lo denigravano, definendolo un commerciante di candele; inoltre, voci velenose affermavano chiaramente che vendesse tè e caffè a quarti, zucchero all’oncia, formaggio a fette, tabacco a rotoli e burro a cucchiaiate. Tuttavia, queste offese non colpirono minimamente la famiglia Tuggs. Il signor Tuggs si occupava della parte commerciale del negozio; la signora Tuggs si dedicava alla vendita di formaggio; la signorina Tuggs, invece, si dedicava alla sua istruzione. Il signor Simon Tuggs si occupava delle contabilità del padre e seguiva anche i propri consigli personali.

Un bel pomeriggio di primavera, quel gentiluomo sedeva su un vassoio contenente il settimanale “Dorset”, dietro la piccola scrivania rossa dotata di una ringhiera in legno, che decorava un angolo del bancone; quando uno sconosciuto scese da una cabina e entrò frettolosamente nel negozio. Era vestito di stoffa nera e portava con sé un ombrello verde e una borsa blu.

“Signor Tuggs?”, chiese lo sconosciuto con tono curioso.

“Mi chiamo Tuggs,” rispose il signor Simon.

“È l’altro signor Tuggs,” disse lo sconosciuto, guardando verso la porta di vetro che conduceva nel salotto situato dietro il negozio; all’interno, il viso rotondo del signor Tuggs senior era chiaramente visibile, sporgendosi oltre la tenda.

Il signor Simon agitò con grazia la sua penna, come per indicare il desiderio che suo padre avanzasse nella discussione. Il signor Joseph Tuggs, con notevole rapidità, tolse il proprio viso dalla tenda e lo pose di fronte allo sconosciuto.

“Vengo dal Tempio,” disse l’uomo con il sacco.

“Dall’Tempio!”, disse la signora Tuggs, spalancando la porta del piccolo salotto e rivelando così la signorina Tuggs nella sua interezza.

“Dall’Tempio!”, dissero contemporaneamente la signorina Tuggs e il signor Simon Tuggs.

“Dal Tempio!”, disse il signor Joseph Tuggs, impallidendo come un pezzo di formaggio olandese.

“Dal Tempio,” ripeté l’uomo con il sacco; “dal signor Cower, lo avvocato. Signor Tuggs, le faccio i miei complimenti, signore. Signore e signori, auguro loro gioia per la loro prosperità! Siamo stati fortunati.” E l’uomo con il sacco si tolse con calma ombrello e guanto, come preparazione per stringere la mano al signor Joseph Tuggs.

Non appena le parole “Siamo stati successivi” uscirono dalla bocca dell’uomo con il sacco, il signor Simon Tuggs si alzò dal bagno dove si lavava ogni settimana, aprì molto gli occhi, trattenne il respiro, disegnò dei numeri otto in aria con la penna e infine cadde tra le braccia della sua ansiosa madre, svenendo senza alcuna apparente causa o pretesto.

“‘Acqua!’” gridò la signora Tuggs.

“Alza lo sguardo, mio figlio,” esclamò il signor Tuggs.

“Simon! caro Simon!” gridò la signorina Tuggs.

“Ora sto meglio,” disse il signor Simon Tuggs. “Che cosa! Hai avuto successo!” E poi, come prova concreta del fatto che stesse davvero meglio, svenne di nuovo; fu portato nella piccola sala da soggiorno grazie agli sforzi congiunti del resto della famiglia e dell’uomo con il sacco.

Per uno spettatore occasionale, o per chiunque non fosse a conoscenza della situazione familiare, questo svenimento sarebbe risultato inspiegabile. Ma per coloro che conoscevano la missione di quell’uomo con il sacco, e inoltre erano a conoscenza dell’eccitabilità dei nervi del signor Simon Tuggs, tutto era perfettamente comprensibile. Una causa legale riguardante la validità di un testamento si era conclusa inaspettatamente; e il signor Joseph Tuggs si trovava ora in possesso di ventimila sterline.

Quella notte, ebbe luogo una lunga consultazione nella piccola sala da pranzo: una consultazione che avrebbe deciso i destini futuri della famiglia Tuggs. Il negozio era chiuso, in un orario insolitamente presto; e molti furono i calci inviati contro la porta chiusa da coloro che cercavano di acquistare quarti di zucchero, mezzi quarti di pane o poche pietre di pepe, merci che avrebbero dovuto essere “riservate fino a sabato”, ma che il destino aveva deciso fossero lasciate completamente solo.

“Dobbiamo assolutamente abbandonare questo affare,” disse la signorina Tuggs.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Simon shall go to the bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ said his son.

‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘And you must always call me “Ma,” and father “Pa,”’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,’ interposed Miss Tuggs.

‘I’ll take care of all that,’ responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently. He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

‘We must leave town immediately,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

‘Gravesend?’ mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was low.

‘Margate?’ insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody there, but tradespeople.

‘Brighton?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that ‘no blame whatever was attributable to the coachman.’

‘Ramsgate?’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was just the place of all others.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed gay and lively.—No wonder—the Tuggses were on board.

‘Charming, ain’t it?’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap with a gold band.

‘Soul-inspiring,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at the bar. ‘Soul-inspiring!’

‘Delightful morning, sir!’ said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained down to the soles of his boots.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the observation. ‘Heavenly!’ he replied.

‘You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?’ said the military gentleman.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Travelled much, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not much,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘You’ve been on the continent, of course?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—in a qualified tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

‘You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?’ said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, ‘Of course.’ Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the young lady to the military gentleman.

‘Yes, Belinda, my love,’ responded the military gentleman to the black-eyed young lady.

‘What have you left me alone so long for?’ said the young lady. ‘I have been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.’

‘What! stared at?’ exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady’s face with inconceivable rapidity. ‘Which young men—where?’ and the military gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers around.

‘Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’ said the young lady.

‘I won’t,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Do, sir,’ interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘They ain’t worth your notice.’

‘No—no—they are not, indeed,’ urged the young lady.

‘I will be calm,’ said the military gentleman. ‘You speak truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the guilt of manslaughter.’ Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

‘My sister, sir!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

‘My wife, ma’am—Mrs. Captain Waters,’ said the military gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady.

‘My mother, ma’am—Mrs. Tuggs,’ said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as unembarrassed as they could.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

‘Yes, my love,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?’

‘Lord bless me, very!’ said the military gentleman.

‘It struck me, the moment I saw him,’ said the young lady, gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady.

‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

‘If you did,’ continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘you would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing appearance.’

‘He is—he is indeed!’ exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion.

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the fac simile of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier.

“Ah, decisamente,” disse la signora Tuggs.

“Simon andrà al bar,” disse il signor Joseph Tuggs.

“E d’ora in poi firmerò sempre il mio nome come ‘Cymon’”, disse suo figlio.

“E mi chiamerò Charlotta,” disse la signorina Tuggs.

“E dovete sempre chiamarmi ‘Ma’ e vostro padre ‘Pa’”, disse la signora Tuggs.

“Sì, e papà deve smettere con tutte le sue abitudini volgari,” intervenne la signorina Tuggs.

“Me ne occuperò io di tutto,” rispose con soddisfazione il signor Joseph Tuggs. In quel preciso momento stava mangiando salmone in scatola con un coltello da tasca.

“Dobbiamo lasciare immediatamente la città,” disse il signor Cymon Tuggs.

Tutti erano d’accordo sul fatto che questo fosse un passo preliminare indispensabile per essere considerati persone raffinate. Allora sorse la domanda: dove dovrebbero andare?

“Gravesend?” suggerì gentilmente il signor Joseph Tuggs. L’idea fu accettata all’unanimità: Gravesend era un luogo, “basso”.

“Margate?” insinuò la signora Tuggs. Sempre peggio. Lì non c’era nessuno, solo commercianti.

“Brighton?” Il signor Cymon Tuggs sollevò un obiezione insormontabile. Negli ultimi tre settimane tutti i conducenti di treno avevano subito gravi perdite: in media, due passeggeri erano morti e sei feriti per ogni conducente; inoltre, i giornali avevano chiaramente sottolineato che “nessuna colpa poteva essere attribuita ai conducenti stessi”.

“Ramsgate?”, esclamò il signor Cymon, pensieroso. Sicuramente. Che stupidi devono essere stati ad non pensarci prima! Ramsgate era proprio il posto giusto.

Due mesi dopo questa conversazione, la nave a vapore Ramsgate della città di Londra navigava felicemente lungo il >fiume. La sua -bandiera sventolava, l’orchestra suonava, i passeggeri chiacchieravano; tutto sembrava allegro e vivace. —Nessun stupore—i Tuggse erano a bordo.

“Affascinante, non è vero?”, disse il signor Joseph Tuggs, indossando un grande cappotto di colore verde bottiglia, con colletto di velluto dello stesso colore, e un berretto da viaggio blu con una striscia d’oro.

“Un’opera che ispira l’anima,” rispose il signor Cymon Tuggs, che aveva ottenuto l’ammissione all’ordine degli avvocati.
“Un’opera davvero ispiratrice dell’anima!”

“Buongiorno, signore!” disse un gentiluomo dall’aspetto militare, piuttosto robusto, con una giacca blu abbottonata fino al mento e pantaloni bianchi che arrivavano fino alla suola delle sue scarpe.

Il signor Cymon Tuggs si assunse la responsabilità di rispondere a quell’osservazione. “Divino!”, rispose.

“Lei è un appassionato ammiratore delle bellezze della Natura, signore?” disse il gentiluomo militare.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Cymon Tuggs.

“Ha viaggiato molto, signore?”, chiese il gentiluomo militare.

“Non molto,” rispose il signor Cymon Tuggs.

“Naturalmente siete stato nel continente, vero?” chiese il gentiluomo militare.

“Non esattamente,” rispose il signor Cymon Tuggs, con un tono cauto, come se volesse lasciare intendere di essere tornato indietro dopo aver percorso solo metà strada.

“Naturalmente intende che suo figlio intraprenda il grande viaggio di formazione, vero, signore?” disse il gentiluomo militare rivolgendosi a Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Poiché il signor Joseph Tuggs non capiva esattamente cosa fosse questo “grand tour” né come venisse prodotto un articolo del genere, rispose: “Certo che sì.” Appena ebbe pronunciato queste parole, una giovane donna in un mantello di seta color porpora e stivali dello stesso colore si alzò dal suo posto a poppa della nave; aveva lunghi boccoli neri, grandi occhi neri, gonne corte e polpacci impeccabili.

“Walter, mio caro,” disse la giovane signora al gentiluomo militare.

“Sì, Belinda, il mio amore”, rispose il gentiluomo militare alla giovane donna dagli occhi neri.

“Perché mi avete lasciato sola per così tanto tempo?”, disse la giovane signora. “Quei giovani scortesi non hanno fatto altro che fissarmi.”

“Cosa! Stai fissando?” esclamò il gentiluomo militare, con un tono così enfatico che il signor Cymon Tuggs distolse immediatamente lo sguardo dal viso della giovane donna. “Quali giovani, dove?” Il gentiluomo militare strinse i pugni e fissò con aria minacciosa gli uomini che fumavano sigari intorno a lui.

“Calmati, Walter, te lo prego,” disse la giovane signora.

“Non lo farò,” disse il gentiluomo militare.

“Faccia pure, signore,” intervenne il signor Cymon Tuggs. “Non meritano la sua attenzione.”

“No, no, in realtà non lo sono,” insistette la giovane signora.

“Farò in modo di calmarmi,” disse il gentiluomo militare. “Parlate con verità, signore. Vi ringrazio per questo rimprovero tempestivo, che forse mi avrà risparmiato la colpa dell’omicidio colposo.” Calmandosi, il gentiluomo militare strinse la mano a Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

“Mia sorella, signore!” disse il signor Cymon Tuggs, notando che il gentiluomo militare stava lanciando sguardi ammirativi verso la signorina Charlotta.

“Mia moglie, signora, la signora Capitano Waters,” disse il gentiluomo militare, presentando la giovane donna dai capelli neri.

“Mia madre, signora, la signora Tuggs,” disse il signor Cymon. Il gentiluomo militare e sua moglie mormorarono cortesie deliziose; e i Tuggs sembravano quanto più a loro agio fosse possibile.

“Walter, mio caro,” disse la giovane signorina dagli occhi neri, dopo che avevano chiacchierato per circa mezz’ora con i Tuggse.

“Sì, mio amore”, disse il gentiluomo militare.

“Non vi sembra che questo signore (che inclina leggermente la testa verso il signor Cymon Tuggs) assomigli molto al marchese Carriwini?”

“Dio mi benedica, davvero!” disse il gentiluomo militare.

“Mi colpì non appena lo vidi,” disse la giovane signora, fissando con attenzione e con un’aria di melanconia il volto scarlatto del signor Cymon Tuggs. Il signor Cymon Tuggs guardò tutti intorno; e vedendo che tutti lo stavano osservando, sembrò provare qualche difficoltà momentanea nell’utilizzare la vista.

“Conosco esattamente lo stile del marchese,” disse il gentiluomo militare.

“Davvero straordinario!” sospirò la signora del gentiluomo militare.

“Non conosce il marchese, signore?”, chiese il gentiluomo militare.

Il signor Cymon Tuggs balbettò una risposta negativa.

“Se lo faceste,” continuò il Capitano Walter Waters, “vi rendereste conto di quanto motivo abbiate per essere orgogliosi di questa somiglianza: un uomo davvero elegante, con un aspetto estremamente affascinante.”

“È lui, davvero è lui!” esclamò Belinda Waters con energia. Quando i suoi occhi incrociarono quelli di Mr. Cymon Tuggs, li distolse subito, imbarazzata e confusa.

Tutto ciò fu estremamente gratificante per i sentimenti della famiglia Tuggs; e quando, nel corso di ulteriori conversazioni, si scoprì che la signorina Charlotta Tuggs assomigliava in tutto a un parente titolato della signora Belinda Waters, e che la stessa signora Tuggs era l’immagine vivente della duchessa vedova di Dobbleton, la loro gioia nell’aver acquisito un’amica così gentile e cordiale non conobbe limiti. Anche la dignità del capitano Walter Waters si allentò a tal punto che si lasciò convincere dal signor Joseph Tuggs ad assaggiare del prosciutto freddo e dello sherry sul ponte; e una conversazione molto piacevole, arricchita da questi deliziosi stimolanti, proseguì fino a quando non raggiunsero il molo di Ramsgate.

‘Good-bye, dear!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; ‘we shall see you on the sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.’

‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the paddle-box.

‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters—‘good-bye, Mr. Cymon!’ and with a pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

‘Fly, sir?’ exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the street.

‘Here’s the gen’lm’n at last!’ said one, touching his hat with mock politeness. ‘Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin’ for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!’

‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: ‘fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme welocity!’

‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry large fly here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’

‘Here’s your fly, sir!’ shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. ‘Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingein!’

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of lodgings.

‘How many beds have you got?’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that apartments were to be let within.

‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply.

‘Three.’

‘Will you step in, ma’am?’ Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly.

‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage. Same question—same answer—similar result.

‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper.

‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Orvis the vay here, sir,’ said the driver, by way of accounting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

It had grown dusk when the ‘fly’—the rate of whose progress greatly belied its name—after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills, stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea—if you thrust half of your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area. Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells with beds in them up-stairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

‘Five guineas a week, ma’am, with attendance,’ replied the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

‘Rather dear,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. ‘Oh dear, no, ma’am!’ replied the mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. ‘Very cheap!’

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week’s rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour’s time, the family were seated at tea in their new abode.

‘Capital srimps!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically said ‘Shrimps.’

‘Well, then, shrimps,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Srimps or shrimps, don’t much matter.’

“Addio, cara!” disse la signora Captain Waters alla signorina Charlotta Tuggs, proprio prima che iniziasse il trambusto dello sbarco; “ci rivedremo sulla spiaggia stamattina; e siccome sicuramente avremo trovato un alloggio entro allora, >spero che possiamo rimanere insieme per molte settimane a venire.”

“Oh! Spero proprio di sì,” disse con enfasi la signorina Charlotta Tuggs.

“Biglietti, signore e signori,” disse l’uomo sulla cabina di controllo.

“Desiderate un portiere, signore?”, chiesero una dozzina di uomini in abiti da lavoro.

“Ora, mia cara!”, disse il Capitano Waters.

“Addio!”, disse la signora Capitano Waters, “addio, signor Cymon!” E con una stretta di mano che gettò i nervi di quel giovane simpatico in uno stato di notevole agitazione, la signora Capitano Waters scomparve tra la folla. Si videro due stivali di colore violaceo salire i gradini, un fazzoletto bianco sventolare, e un occhio nero brillare nel buio. I Waters se n’erano andati, e il signor Cymon Tuggs rimase solo in un mondo spietato.

In silenzio e con distacco, quel giovane così sensibile seguì i suoi rispettabili genitori, insieme a una processione di bambini in grembiule e carriole, lungo il molo. Fino a quando il trambusto circostante lo riportò alla realtà. Il sole splendeva intensamente; il mare, danzando al ritmo della sua stessa musica, si increspava gioiosamente; folle di persone passeggiavano avanti e indietro; giovani signore ridacchiavano; anziane signore chiacchieravano; tate mostravano i loro pregi il più possibile. I loro piccoli protetti correvano su e giù, tra le gambe della folla radunata, in modo davvero giocoso ed eccitante. C’erano vecchi gentiluomini che cercavano di osservare gli oggetti attraverso lunghi telescopi; giovani che facevano di sé stessi l’oggetto dell’attenzione. Signore che portavano in giro sedie portatili, e sedie portatili che trasportavano persone anziane o malate. Gruppi di persone che aspettavano sul molo altri gruppi arrivati con la nave a vapore. E non si sentiva altro che parlare, ridere, salutarsi e divertirsi.

“Volare, signore?”, esclamarono quattordici uomini e sei ragazzi non appena il signor Joseph Tuggs, alla testa del suo piccolo gruppo, mise piede in strada.

“Eccolo finalmente il gentiluomo!” disse uno di loro, toccandosi il cappello con falsa cortesia. “È un vero piacere vedervi, signore. Vi aspettavo da queste sei settimane. Salite pure, per favore, signore!”

“Una mosca leggera e veloce, signore,” disse un altro; “quattordici miglia all’ora, gli oggetti intorno vengono resi invisibili a causa della velocità estrema!”

“Una grande mosca attaccata al suo bagaglio, signore,” gridò un terzo. “Una vera e propria grande mosca, una comune mosca blu!”

“Ecco la sua cavalla, signore!” gridò un altro aspirante cocchiere, montando sul sedile e facendo sì che un vecchio cavallo grigio ricordasse vagamente come si galoppa. “Guardatelo, signore: carattere mite come quello di un agnello, ma forza tale da poter competere con una macchina a vapore!”

Resistendo persino alla tentazione di assicurarsi i servizi di un animale così prezioso come l’ultimo menzionato, il signor Joseph Tuggs chiamò il proprietario di un veicolo malandato di colore verdastro, rivestito con stoffe a strisce sbiadite; dopo che bagagli e famiglia furono caricati a bordo, l’animale, dopo aver percorso cerchi sulla strada per un quarto d’ora, finalmente acconsentì a partire alla ricerca di una sistemazione.

“Quanti letti avete?” gridò la signora Tuggs dalla finestra, rivolta alla donna che aveva aperto la porta della prima >casa su cui era affisso un cartello che annunciava l’affitto di appartamenti.

“Quanti ne voleva, signora?”, fu naturalmente la risposta data.

“Tre.”

“Potrebbe intervenire, signora?” Disse la signora Tuggs. La famiglia ne fu molto felice: una vista meravigliosa sul mare dalle finestre anteriori, incantevole! Dopo una breve pausa, la signora Tuggs tornò: “Una sola stanza e un materasso.”

“Perché diavolo non l’hanno detto subito?” chiese il signor Joseph Tuggs, con un tono piuttosto irritato.

“Non lo so,” disse la signora Tuggs.

“Miserabili!” esclamò il nervoso Cymon. Un altro conto, un’altra sospensione del pagamento.
Stessa domanda, stesso riscontro, stesso risultato.

“Cosa intendono dire con questo?”, chiese il signor Joseph Tuggs, completamente fuori di sé dalla rabbia.

“Non lo so,” disse la tranquilla signora Tuggs.

“Orvis, vieni qui, signore,” disse il conducente, cercando di spiegare la situazione in modo soddisfacente; e così partirono di nuovo, per fare nuove indagini e incontrare nuovi delusioni.

Era già calata la sera quando quella “mosca” – il cui ritmo di movimento nascondeva completamente il significato del suo nome –, dopo aver scalato quattro o cinque colline perpendicolari, si fermò davanti alla porta di una polverosa >casa con una finestra a bovindo da cui si poteva ammirare un bellissimo panorama sul mare, se si sporgeva metà del proprio -corpo fuori di essa, naturalmente rischiando di cadere nel vuoto. La signora Tuggs scese dalla macchina. Al piano terra c’era un salotto; al piano di sopra, tre stanze con letti. Una casa “doppia”. La famiglia viveva dall’altra parte. Cinque bambini stavano bevendo latte e acqua nel salotto; un piccolo ragazzo, espulso per cattivo comportamento, urlava sdraiato sul pavimento del corridoio.

“Quali sono i termini?” chiese la signora Tuggs. La padrona di casa stava valutando se fosse opportuno aggiungere un’altra ghinea. Così, tossì leggermente e fece finta di non aver sentito la domanda.

“Quali sono i termini?” chiese la signora Tuggs, alzando il tono di voce.

“Cinque ghinee a settimana, signora, con il diritto di suonare la campanella tutte le volte che desiderate, per vostro divertimento personale,” rispose la proprietaria dell’ostello.

“Piuttosto caro,” disse la signora Tuggs. “Oh no, mia cara!” rispose la padrona di casa, con un sorriso benevolo e pieno di compassione per l’ignoranza delle buone maniere e dei costumi che quell’osservazione rivelava. “Molto economico, invece!”

Un’autorità del genere era indiscutibile. La signora Tuggs pagò l’affitto di una settimana in anticipo e prese in affitto l’appartamento per un mese. In soli un’ora, tutta la famiglia si trovava già seduta a tavola per il tè nella loro nuova dimora.

“Gamberetti al vapore!” disse il signor Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon guardò suo padre con un’espressione ribelle e disse con fermezza: “Gamberi”.

“Beh, allora gamberetti,” disse il signor Joseph Tuggs. “Gamberetti o altro, non fa molta differenza.”

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon’s eye, as he replied, ‘Don’t matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he heard such vulgarity?’

‘Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,’ added Charlotta, ‘if she saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and all!’

‘It won’t bear thinking of!’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. ‘How different,’ he thought, ‘from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!’

‘Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?’ inquired Miss Charlotta.

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, ‘An angel of beauty!’

‘Hallo!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care. Married lady, you know;’ and he winked one of his twinkling eyes knowingly.

‘Why,’ exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as unexpected as alarming, ‘why am I to be reminded of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to—to—to—’ and the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath, was never distinctly ascertained.

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too, half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and perplexity.

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms, were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four rush-bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand, forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half—‘Well, I never!’

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the chairs, and removed them further back.

‘Why, I’m blessed if there ain’t some ladies a-going in!’ exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

‘Lor, pa!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

‘There is, my dear,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water; round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler, too!’ ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

‘Why, here’s some gentlemen a-going in on this side!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the water like so many dolphins.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

‘How d’ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,’ said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner of it.

‘How d’ye do?’ said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

‘Belinda, my love,’ said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘There’s Harry Thompson!’

‘Where?’ said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

‘Bathing.’

‘Lor, so it is! He don’t see us, does he?’

‘No, I don’t think he does’ replied the captain. ‘Bless my soul, how very singular!’

‘What?’ inquired Belinda.

‘There’s Mary Golding, too.’

‘Lor!—where?’ (Up went the glass again.)

‘There!’ said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

‘So it is, I declare!’ exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘How very curious we should see them both!’

‘Very,’ said the captain, with perfect coolness.

‘It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,’ whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to his father.

‘I see it is,’ whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. ‘Queer, though—ain’t it?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

‘What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?’ inquired the captain. ‘Shall we lunch at Pegwell?’

‘I should like that very much indeed,’ interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell; but the word ‘lunch’ had reached her ears, and it sounded very agreeably.

‘How shall we go?’ inquired the captain; ‘it’s too warm to walk.’

‘A shay?’ suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘Chaise,’ whispered Mr. Cymon.

‘I should think one would be enough,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. ‘However, two shays if you like.’

‘I should like a donkey so much,’ said Belinda.

‘Oh, so should I!’ echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

‘Well, we can have a fly,’ suggested the captain, ‘and you can have a couple of donkeys.’

Negli occhi del signor Cymon c’era pietà, mescolata a malvagità, mentre rispondeva: “Non importa, padre! Cosa direbbe il capitano Waters se sentisse una simile volgarità?”

“O cosa direbbe la cara signora capitano Waters,” aggiunse Charlotta, “se vedesse mamma, cioè, intendo, mangiarle intere, con testa e tutto!”

“Non oso nemmeno pensarci!”, esclamò il signor Cymon, rabbrividendo. “Che differenza, ”, pensò, “rispetto alla duchessa vedova di Dobbleton!”

“Che donna molto bella, la signora capitano Waters, non è vero, Cymon?” chiese Miss Charlotta.

Un bagliore di eccitazione nervosa apparve sul volto del signor Cymon Tuggs mentre rispondeva: “Un angelo di bellezza!”

“Salve!” disse il signor Joseph Tuggs. “Salve, Cymon, mio ragazzo, stai attento. Una donna sposata, capisci?” e fece l’occhiolino con uno dei suoi occhi scintillanti, in modo significativo.

“Perché,” esclamò Cymon, scattando in un accesso di furia improvviso e inaspettato, “perché devo essere costantemente ricordato di quella macchia che ha rovinato la mia felicità, distrutto le mie speranze? Perché devo essere tormentato dai mali che mi sono stati inflitti? Non è forse sufficiente,?” L’oratore si interruppe; ma non si seppe mai con certezza se per mancanza di parole o per mancanza di fiato.

C’era una solennità impressionante nel tono di questo discorso, e nell’atmosfera che si creò quando il romantico Cymon, alla sua conclusione, suonò la campanella e chiese un candelabro piatto, impedendo così effettivamente qualsiasi risposta. Si diresse con passi drammatici verso il letto, e i Tuggses andarono a dormire anche loro, mezz’ora dopo, in uno stato di notevole mistero e perplessità.

Se il molo aveva offerto una scena di vita e movimento alle famiglie Tuggse al loro primo sbarco a Ramsgate, questa era di gran lunga superata dall’aspetto delle dune la mattina seguente il loro arrivo. Era una bella giornata, luminosa e serena, con una leggera brezza marina. C’erano le stesse signore e i stessi gentiluomini, gli stessi bambini, le stesse tate, gli stessi telescopi, le stesse sedie da portare in giro. Le signore erano impegnate in lavori di cucito, nella realizzazione di orologi da polso o nel maglione; i gentiluomini leggevano giornali e riviste; i bambini scavavano buche nella sabbia con badili di legno e raccoglievano l’acqua al loro interno; le tate, con i loro piccoli in braccio, correvano dietro alle onde per poi tornare indietro insieme a esse. Di tanto in tanto, una piccola barca a vela partiva con un carico di passeggeri allegri e loquaci, o ritornava con un carico molto silenzioso e dall’aspetto particolarmente scomodo.

“Beh, mai e poi!” esclamò la signora Tuggs, mentre lei, il signor Joseph Tuggs, la signorina Charlotta Tuggs e il signor Cymon Tuggs, tutti con otto piedi di altezza e un numero corrispondente di scarpe gialle, si sedettero su quattro sedie a fondo morbido. Queste sedie, posizionate in una zona soffice della sabbia, affondarono immediatamente di circa due piedi e mezzo, “Beh, mai e poi!”

Il signor Cymon, con un grande sforzo personale, sradicò le sedie e le spostò più indietro.

“Perbacco, sono davvero fortunato che ci siano delle signore che entrano!” esclamò il signor Joseph Tuggs, con profondo stupore.

“Loro, papà!”, esclamò la signorina Charlotte.

“C’è davvero, mia cara,” disse il signor Joseph Tuggs. E infatti, quattro giovani signore, ognuna munita di un asciugamano, salirono i gradini di una macchina da bagno. L’cavallo vi entrò, annaspando nell’acqua; la macchina iniziò a funzionare; il conducente si sedette. E poco dopo le giovani signore uscirono, accompagnate da quattro distinti schizzi d’acqua.

“Beh, anche questo è davvero strano!”, esclamò il signor Joseph Tuggs dopo una breve pausa imbarazzante. Il signor Cymon tossì leggermente.

“Ma guarda, alcuni signori stanno entrando da questo lato!”, esclamò la signora Tuggs con tono di orrore.

Tre macchine, tre cavalli, tre tentativi falliti, tre giri completi, tre schizzi d’acqua, tre gentiluomini che si divertono nell’acqua come tanti delfini.

“Beh, questa sì che è una canzone davvero unica!” disse di nuovo il signor Joseph Tuggs. Questa volta la signorina Charlotta tossì, e seguì un’altra pausa. Ma fu interrotta in modo piacevole.

“Come state, cara? Vi abbiamo cercata per tutta la mattina,” disse una voce alla signorina Charlotta Tuggs. La proprietaria di quella voce era la signora Capitano Waters.

“Come state?” disse il Capitano Walter Waters con grande cordialità; seguì quindi un caloroso scambio di saluti.

“Belinda, il mio amore”, disse il Capitano Walter Waters, portandosi il binocolo all’occhio e guardando nella direzione del mare.

“Sì, caro mio,” rispose la signora Capitano Waters.

“C’è Harry Thompson!”

“Dove?” disse Belinda, portandosi il bicchiere all’occhio.

“Bagno.”

“Ah, ecco dunque! Non ci vede, vero?”

“No, non credo che lo faccia,” rispose il capitano. “Dio mio, quanto è strano!”

“Cosa?”, chiese Belinda.

“C’è anche Mary Golding.”

“Lor!—dove?” (Il bicchiere fu di nuovo sollevato.)

“Eccola!” disse il capitano, indicando una delle giovani signore davanti a lui; lei, con il suo costume da bagno addosso, sembrava essere avvolta in un impermeabile di dimensioni molto ridotte.

“Lo so, lo dichiaro!” esclamò la signora Capitano Waters. “Che curioso sarebbe vederli entrambi, ”

“Molto bene,” disse il capitano con assoluta calma.

“È una cosa abituale qui, capisci,” sussurrò il signor Cymon Tuggs a suo padre.

“Vedo che è così,” sussurrò in risposta il signor Joseph Tuggs. “Strano, però, non trovi?” Il signor Cymon Tuggs annuì in segno di accordo.

“Che ne dici di cosa fare questa mattina?” chiese il capitano. “Andiamo a pranzo da Pegwell?”

“Mi piacerebbe molto davvero,” intervenne la signora Tuggs. Non aveva mai sentito parlare di Pegwell; ma la parola “pranzo” le era giunta alle orecchie, e suonava molto allettante.

“Come facciamo ad andare?”, chiese il capitano; “fa troppo caldo per camminare.”

“Con un calesse?” suggerì il signor Joseph Tuggs.

“Chaise,” sussurrò il signor Cymon.

“Dovrebbe essere sufficiente uno,” disse ad alta voce il signor Joseph Tuggs, del tutto ignaro del significato di quella correzione. “Comunque, due se vi piacciono, ”

“Vorrei tantissimo un asino”, disse Belinda.

“Ah, allora dovrei farlo anch’io!” echeggiò Charlotta Tuggs.

“Beh,” suggerì il capitano, “possiamo avere una mosca, e tu puoi avere anche un paio di asini.”

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany them.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was speedily found; and three donkeys—which the proprietor declared on his solemn asseveration to be ‘three parts blood, and the other corn’—were engaged in the service.

‘Kim up!’ shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon’s boots, and Cymon’s boots nearly scraping the ground.

‘Way—way! Wo—o—o—!’ cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting.

‘Don’t make it gallop!’ screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

‘My donkey will go into the public-house!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs in the rear.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them.

Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs’s leg on the rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters’s donkey, apparently under the influence of some playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected, and the little party jogged slowly on together.

‘Now let ’em walk,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘It’s cruel to overdrive ’em.’

‘Werry well, sir,’ replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the animals than to their riders.

‘What a lovely day, dear!’ said Charlotta.

‘Charming; enchanting, dear!’ responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!’

Cymon looked full in Belinda’s face, as he responded—‘Beautiful, indeed!’ The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Mr. Cymon,’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, ‘Mr. Cymon—I am another’s.’

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was impossible to controvert.

‘If I had not been—’ resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

‘What—what?’ said Mr. Cymon earnestly. ‘Do not torture me. What would you say?’

‘If I had not been’—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—‘if, in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth—a kindred soul—a congenial spirit—one capable of feeling and appreciating the sentiments which—’

‘Heavens! what do I hear?’ exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘Is it possible! can I believe my—Come up!’ (This last unsentimental parenthesis was addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs, appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

‘Hi—hi—hi,’ said the boys behind. ‘Come up,’ expostulated Cymon Tuggs again. ‘Hi—hi—hi,’ repeated the boys. And whether it was that the animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs’s command, or felt alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor’s boots running behind him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of ‘hi—hi’s,’ than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked Mr. Cymon’s hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head, into the very doorway of the tavern.

Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had not sustained much more injury than the donkey—he was grazed, and the animal was grazing—and then it was a delightful party to be sure! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden behind:—small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in such spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf, and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said, it didn’t matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs responded, ‘To be sure.’ And then they went down the steep wooden steps a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Sorse un nuovo problema. La signora Capitano Waters dichiarò che sarebbe stato decisamente inappropriato che due signore viaggiassero da sole. La soluzione era ovvia: forse il giovane signor Tuggs avrebbe avuto la gentilezza di accompagnarle.

Il signor Cymon Tuggs arrossì, sorrise, sembrò distratto e protestò debolmente dicendo di non essere un cavaliere. Obiezione immediatamente respinta. Fu rapidamente trovata una mosca; e tre asini – che il proprietario dichiarò con solenne fermezza essere “tre parti sangue e una parte mais” – furono messi al servizio.

“Alzatevi!” gridò uno dei due ragazzi che li seguivano, per spingere i daini; intanto Belinda Waters e Charlotta Tuggs erano state sollevate, spinte e tirate sui rispettivi cavalli.

“Hi—hi—hi!” gemette l’altro ragazzo dietro il signor Cymon Tuggs. Il asino partì, con le staffe che tintinnavano contro i tacchi delle scarpe di Cymon, e le sue scarpe quasi sfioravano il terreno.

“Via, via! Oh, oh,!” gridò il signor Cymon Tuggs con tutte le sue forze, nel mezzo di quel sobbalzo continuo.

“Non farla correre troppo velocemente!” gridò la signora Capitano Waters, alle loro spalle.

“Il mio asino entrerà sicuramente nel pub!” gridò la signorina Tuggs da dietro.

“Hi—hi—hi!” gemettero entrambi i ragazzi insieme; e i daini continuarono ad andare, come se nulla potesse mai fermarli.

Tuttavia, tutto ha una fine; anche il galoppo dei daini si fermerà con l’arrivo del tempo. L’animale su cui montava il signor Cymon Tuggs, sentendo diversi e sgradevoli strappi alla morsa – di cui non riusciva affatto a comprendere lo scopo – si fermò improvvisamente contro un muro di mattoni, esprimendo la sua insoddisfazione premendo con forza la gamba del signor Tuggs sulla superficie ruvida. Il daino della signora Captain Waters, evidentemente preso da un certo spirito giocoso, si precipitò all’improvviso in una siepe e rifiutò di uscirne più; l’animale su cui montava la signorina Tuggs, invece, esprimeva la sua gioia per questa “scena comica” fissando saldamente le zampe anteriori a terra e alzando quelle posteriori in modo molto agile, ma anche piuttosto allarmante.

Questo improvviso arresto nella velocità del viaggio causò naturalmente un po’ di confusione. Entrambe le signore iniziarono a urlare disperatamente per diversi minuti; e il signor Cymon Tuggs, oltre ad affrontare intensi dolori fisici, dovette sopportare anche l’angoscia mentale di assistere alla loro situazione difficile senza poterle salvare, poiché la sua gamba era saldamente incastrata tra l’animale e il muro. Tuttavia, gli sforzi dei ragazzi, uniti all’ingegnoso stratagemma di torcere la coda del più ribelle tra gli asini, riuscirono a ripristinare l’ordine in un tempo molto più breve di quanto si potesse ragionevolmente aspettarsi, e il piccolo gruppo proseguì lentamente il suo viaggio.

“Ora lasciateli andare,” disse il signor Cymon Tuggs. “È crudele costringerli a lavorare troppo.”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il ragazzo, sorridendo al suo compagno, come se capisse che il signor Cymon intendesse dire che la crudeltà riguardava meno gli animali che i loro cavalieri.

“Che giorno meraviglioso, caro!” disse Charlotta.

“Delizioso, incantevole, caro!” rispose la signora Capitano Waters.

“Che bell’prospettiva, signor Tuggs!”

Cymon guardò dritto negli occhi di Belinda mentre rispondeva: “Davvero bella!” La signora abbassò lo sguardo e permise al cavallo su cui cavalcava di indietreggiare leggermente; Cymon Tuggs fece lo stesso istintivamente.

Ci fu un breve silenzio, interrotto solo da un sospiro del signor Cymon Tuggs.

“Signor Cymon,” disse all’improvviso la donna, a bassa voce, “Signor Cymon, io appartengo a un altro.”

Il signor Cymon esprimeva la sua piena approvazione in una dichiarazione che era impossibile confutare.

“Se non fossi stata, ” riprese Belinda; poi si fermò.

“Cosa, cosa?” disse seriamente il signor Cymon. “Non tormentatemi. Che ne pensate?”

“Se non fosse stato per, ” continuò la signora Captain Waters, “se, in una vita precedente, fosse stato mio destino conoscere e essere amata da un giovane nobile, da un’anima affine, da uno spirito simile al mio, da qualcuno capace di comprendere e apprezzare i sentimenti che, ”

“Mio Dio! Cosa sto sentendo?” esclamò il signor Cymon Tuggs. “È possibile. Posso davvero crederci? Vieni qui!” (Quest’ultima frase, priva di qualsiasi sentimentalismo, era rivolta al asino, che, con la testa tra le zampe anteriori, sembrava esaminare con grande attenzione lo stato delle sue scarpe.)

“Hi—hi—hi,” risero i ragazzi dietro di lui. “Vieni su,” insistette ancora Cymon Tuggs. “Hi—hi—hi,” ripeterono i ragazzi. Forse l’animale si sentì offeso dal tono autoritario delle parole del signor Tuggs, o forse fu spaventato dal rumore degli stivali del vice-proprietario che lo inseguivano; oppure provò una nobile voglia di superare gli altri asini. Comunque sia, non appena sentì quella seconda serie di risate, partì di corsa con tale velocità che strappò il cappello al signor Cymon e lo portò immediatamente all’hotel Pegwell Bay, dove depositò il suo cavaliere senza nemmeno dargli la possibilità di scendere, gettandolo saggiamente oltre la propria testa, direttamente nell’ingresso della taverna.

La confusione di Mr. Cymon Tuggs fu davvero grande quando due camerieri lo misero a testa in giù; la preoccupazione di Mrs. Tuggs per suo figlio fu notevole; quelle della signora capitano Waters furono ancora più angosciose. Tuttavia, si scoprì rapidamente che non aveva riportato ferite gravi: era solo stato graffiato, proprio come l’asino. E allora, davvero, fu una giornata deliziosa! Mr. e Mrs. Tuggs, insieme alla signora capitano Waters, avevano ordinato il pranzo nel piccolo giardino dietro la casa: ciotoline di gamberetti, un po’ di burro, pane croccante e birra in bottiglia. Il cielo era sereno; davanti a loro c’erano vasi pieni di fiori e prato; il mare, ai piedi della scogliera, si estendeva fino all’orizzonte. Le imbarcazioni in lontananza avevano vele bianche, piccole e ben tenute, come eleganti fazzoletti di cambric. I gamberetti erano deliziosi, la birra ancora migliore. E la signora capitano Waters era davvero di ottimo umore dopo pranzo: inseguiva prima il capitano tra i vasi e il prato, poi Mr. Cymon Tuggs, infine Miss Tuggs. E rideva anche molto forte. Ma, come disse il capitano, non importava. Chi poteva sapere chi fossero in realtà? Perché tutti quelli che vivevano nella casa pensavano che fossero persone comuni. A cui Mr. Joseph Tuggs rispose: “Certo.” Poi scesero lungo i ripidi gradini di legno che conducevano in fondo alla scogliera; osservarono i granchi, le alghe e le anguille. Fino a quando non fu davvero ora di tornare a Ramsgate. Infine, Mr. Cymon Tuggs salì gli ultimi gradini, e la signora capitano Waters l’ultimo dopo tutti. E Mr. Cymon Tuggs si rese conto che il piede e la caviglia della signora capitano Waters erano ancora più belli di quanto avesse pensato inizialmente.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is, to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies in the maroon-coloured gowns.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in the same uniform.

‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady. ‘Numbers eight and eleven!’

‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady.

‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady.

‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second.

‘The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,’ said the first. The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded round the table.

‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

‘Throw, Jane, my dear,’ said the stout lady. An interesting display of bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to a younger sister.

‘Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,’ said the stout lady; and then she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands’ Macassar Oil, who stood next her, and said, ‘Jane is so very modest and retiring; but I can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is so truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!’

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight for her sister, ten for herself.

‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside her.

‘Beautiful!’

‘And such a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can not help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

‘Who’s this?’ inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring to the programme of the concert.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of hands, and shouts of ‘bravo!’ which greeted her appearance, proceeded to sing the popular cavatina of ‘Bid me discourse,’ accompanied on the piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on the chin by Master Tippin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if anybody had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed higher into the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures first sat down—and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away; light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully breaking silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’

‘Oh, Cymon!’ resumed Belinda, ‘the chaste delight, the calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!’ Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and murmured unintelligibly.

Portare un asino al suo solito luogo di residenza è una cosa molto diversa, e un compito molto più facile da realizzare rispetto a portarlo via da lì. Nel primo caso è necessaria una grande capacità di prevedere e lucidità mentale per anticipare le innumerevoli deviazioni della sua immaginazione; nel secondo, invece, basta semplicemente mantenere la calma e avere fiducia cieca nell’animale. Il signor Cymon Tuggs adottò quest’ultimo approccio al suo ritorno; i suoi nervi furono così poco scossi dal viaggio che riuscì chiaramente a capire che si sarebbero riuniti tutti di nuovo in biblioteca la sera stessa.

La biblioteca era affollata. C’erano le stesse signore e gli stessi gentiluomini che quella mattina erano stati sulla spiaggia e il giorno prima al molo. C’erano giovani donne, vestite con abiti color maroon e braccialetti di velluto nero, che vendevano articoli eleganti nel negozio e gestivano i giochi d’azzardo nella sala da concerto. C’erano figlie in età da sposare e madri desiderose di combinare matrimoni; alcune giocavano a carte, altre passeggiavano, sfogliavano spartiti musicali o flirtavano. C’erano alcuni giovani che si comportavano in modo sentimentale, sussurrando tra loro, mentre altri lo facevano in modo più “feroce”, facendo le smorfie con i baffi. C’era la signora Tuggs vestita di colore ambra, la signorina Tuggs in azzurro cielo, la signora capitano Waters in rosa. Il capitano Waters indossava un soprabito intrecciato; il signor Cymon Tuggs portava scarpe con i tacchi alti e una giacca dorata; il signor Joseph Tuggs, invece, un abito blu e una cravatta a volantini.

“Tre, otto undici!” gridò una delle giovani donne vestite con abiti di colore marrone scuro.

“Tre, otto undici!” echeggiò un’altra giovane donna con lo stesso uniforme.

“Il numero tre è sparito,” disse la prima giovane signora. “Anche i numeri otto e undici!”

“Otto e undici!” echeggiò la seconda giovane signora.

“Il numero otto è sparito, Mary Ann,” disse la prima giovane signora.

“Undici!” gridò il secondo.

“Tutti i numeri sono stati raccolti, signore, per favore,” disse il primo.
I rappresentanti dei numeri tre, otto, undici e degli altri numeri si affollarono intorno al tavolo.

“Vuole lanciare i dadi, signora?”, chiese la dea presidente, porgendo il contenitore dei dadi alla figlia maggiore di una donna robusta con quattro figlie.

Circolava un profondo silenzio tra gli spettatori.

“Lancia, Jane, cara mia,” disse la donna robusta. Una interessante dimostrazione di timidezza: un leggero arrossire con un fazzoletto di cambrice, un sussurro rivolto a una sorella minore.

“Amelia, cara mia, lancia per tua sorella,” disse la donna robusta; poi si rivolse a un cartellone pubblicitario di Rowlands’ Macassar Oil che stava accanto a lei e aggiunse: “Jane è davvero molto modesta e riservata. Ma non posso certo arrabbiarmi per questo. Una ragazza ingenua e senza sofisticazioni è davvero adorabile; spesso vorrei che Amelia fosse più simile a sua sorella!”

Il signore con i baffi sussurrò la sua ammirata approvazione.

“Ora, cara mia!” disse la donna robusta. La signorina Amelia gettò: otto per sua sorella, dieci per sé.

“Che bella figura, Amelia,” sussurrò la donna robusta al giovane magro accanto a lei.

“Bello!”

“E che spirito! In questo senso sono come te. Non posso fare a meno di ammirare quella vitalità e quell’energia. Ah! Vorrei poter rendere povera Jane un po’ più simile alla mia cara Amelia, ”

Il giovane gentiluomo acconsentì cordialmente a quel sentimento; sia lui che la persona a cui si era rivolto per prima cosa erano perfettamente soddisfatti.

“Chi è questa?” chiese il signor Cymon Tuggs alla signora capitano Waters, mentre una donna minuta, con un cappello di velluto blu e piume, veniva fatta entrare nell’orchestra da un uomo grasso in tute nere e occhiali scuri.

“La signora Tippin, dei teatri di Londra”, rispose Belinda, riferendosi al programma del concerto.

La talentuosa Tippin, dopo aver accettato con condiscendenza gli applausi e le grida di “bravo!” che l’hanno accolta al suo apparire, ha continuato a cantare la popolare cavatina “Bid me discourse”, accompagnata al pianoforte dal signor Tippin; successivamente, il signor Tippin ha cantato una canzone comica, mentre la moglie lo accompagnava al pianoforte: gli applausi ricevuti in quel momento sono stati superati soltanto dall’entusiastico plauso riservato a un brano eseguito dalla signorina Tippin alla chitarra, con variazioni musicali, mentre il fratello maggiore del signor Tippin la accompagnava al violino.

Così trascorse la serata; così passarono i giorni e le sere delle famiglie Tuggse e Waters, per sei settimane. Sabbia al mattino, asini a mattina, il molo nel pomeriggio, la biblioteca alla sera. E sempre le stesse persone ovunque.

Quella stessa notte, sei settimane dopo, la luna brillava intensamente sul mare calmo che si frangeva contro le alte e scoscese scogliere; il rumore prodotto dalle onde era appena sufficiente per far addormentare i pesci anziani, senza disturbare quelli giovani. In quel momento, due figure erano visibili, o almeno lo sarebbero state, se qualcuno le avesse cercate, sedute su uno dei banchi di legno posti in prossimità del bordo della scogliera occidentale. La luna si era già spostata più in alto nel cielo; eppure quelle figure non si erano mosse di un millimetro. La folla dei bagnanti si era diradata e dispersa; il rumore dei musicisti itineranti era svanito; una dopo l’altra, le luci si erano accese nelle finestre delle case in lontananza; uno dopo l’altro, i soldati di guardia avevano passato quel luogo, dirigendosi verso le loro postazioni solitarie. Eppure quelle figure rimanevano immobili. Alcune parti delle loro figure erano avvolte nell’oscurità, ma la luce della luna illuminava con forza una scarpa di colore violaceo e un calcioio lucido. Su quel banco sedevano il signor Cymon Tuggs e la signora Captain Waters. Non parlavano; fissavano in silenzio il mare.

“Walter tornerà domani,” disse la signora Capitano Waters, rompendo tristemente il silenzio.

Il signor Cymon Tuggs sospirò, come una brezza che attraversa un bosco di rovi, e rispose: “Ahimè, lo farà.”

“Oh, Cymon!” continuò Belinda, “la gioia casta, la felicità serena di questa settimana d’amore platonico, è troppo per me!” Cymon stava per dire che per lui era invece troppo poco, ma si trattenne e mormorò qualcosa di incomprensibile.

‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,’ exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’

‘Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,’ exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. ‘Do not say for ever!’

‘I must,’ replied Belinda.

‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’

‘My husband!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘You little know him. Jealous and revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy! Would you be assassinated before my eyes?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of assassination before the eyes of anybody.

‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘Leave me, this night, for ever. It is late: let us return.’

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand. ‘Good night,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He did walk in.

‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the drawing-room.

‘Good night!’ replied Belinda; ‘and, if at any period of my life, I—Hush!’ The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at the street-door.

‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was heard below.

‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives floated up the staircase.

‘The curtain! The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon.

‘The curtain!’ reiterated the frantic lady: ‘you will be murdered.’ This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

‘My dear,’ said the captain, ‘Lieutenant, Slaughter.’ Two iron-shod boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr. Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason.

‘The brandy, my dear!’ said the captain. Here was a situation! They were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all of no use—out came the cough.

‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?’

‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.

‘It makes you cough.’

‘Oh dear no.’

‘You coughed just now.’

‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’

‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.

‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

‘Fancy,’ said the captain.

‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.

‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain.

‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you mean?’

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? Slaughter, your sabre!’

‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Mercy!’ said Belinda.

‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon.

‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand me—the villain’s life!’

‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon.

‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six weeks’ acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom, however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition to a commencement; we have therefore no alternative. Lieutenant Slaughter brought a message—the captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph Tuggs interposed—the lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and exciting circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen hundred pounds; and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and there are not wanting some who affirm that three designing impostors never found more easy dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant Slaughter, in the Tuggses at Ramsgate.

CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS

‘Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last assembly night,’ said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port;—‘very great attention; and I say again, every possible encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down here to dine.’

“E pensare che anche questo barlume di felicità, per quanto innocente sia,” esclamò Belinda, “ora andrà perso per sempre!”

“Oh, non dire mai più ‘per sempre’, Belinda”, esclamò il nervoso Cymon, mentre due lacrime ben definite si inseguivano lungo il suo viso pallido, c’era abbastanza spazio perché continuassero a correre l’una dietro l’altra. “Per favore, non dire mai più ‘per sempre’!”

“Devo farlo,” rispose Belinda.

“Perché?” insistette Cymon, “perché proprio? Una conoscenza così platonica come la nostra è del tutto innocua; nemmeno tuo marito potrebbe mai obiettare.”

“Mio marito!” esclamò Belinda. “Non lo conosci affatto. Geloso e vendicativo; feroce nella sua vendetta, un pazzo per la sua gelosia! Ti ucciderebbero davanti ai miei occhi?” Il signor Cymon Tuggs, con una voce rotta dall’emozione, esprimeva il proprio rifiuto di subire un assassinio davanti agli occhi di chiunque.

“Allora lasciami,” disse la signora Capitano Waters. “Lasciami, questa notte, per sempre. È tardi: torniamo.”

Purtroppo, il signor Cymon Tuggs offrì il proprio braccio alla signora e la scortò fino al suo alloggio. Si fermò davanti alla porta: sentì una sorta di pressione “platonica” sulla propria mano. “Buona notte”, disse, esitando.

“Buona notte”, singhiozzò la signora. Il signor Cymon Tuggs si fermò di nuovo.

“Non vuole entrare, signore?” disse il servitore. Il signor Tuggs esitò. Oh, quell’esitazione! Alla fine entrò lo stesso.

“Buona notte!” disse di nuovo il signor Cymon Tuggs quando arrivò in salotto.

“Buona notte!” rispose Belinda; “e, se in qualche momento della mia vita, ” “Zitta!” La signora si interruppe e fissò con uno sguardo di orrore il volto cenereo del signor Cymon Tuggs. Si udì un secondo bussare alla porta d’ingresso.

“È mio marito!”, disse Belinda, quando si sentì la voce del capitano sotto di loro.

“E la mia famiglia!” aggiunse Cymon Tuggs, mentre le voci dei suoi parenti risuonavano lungo la scala.

“La tenda! La tenda!” esclamò ansimando la signora Captain Waters, indicando la finestra davanti alla quale alcune tende di stoffa grossolana erano state tirate con forza.

“Ma non ho fatto nulla di sbagliato,” disse il esitante Cymon.

“La tenda!”, ripeté disperatamente la donna: “verrete uccisi”. Questo ultimo appello ai suoi sentimenti fu irresistibile. Il sconvolto Cymon si nascose dietro la tenda con una rapidità teatrale.

Entrano il capitano Joseph Tuggs, la signora Tuggs e Charlotta.

“Mia cara,” disse il capitano, “Tenente Slaughter.” Il signor Cymon sentì avvicinarsi due stivali chiodati e una voce ruvida; queste persone accettarono l’onore di essere presentate. La sciabola del tenente risuonò pesantemente sul pavimento mentre si sedeva al tavolo. Le paure del signor Cymon quasi sopraffecero la sua ragione.

“Brandy, mia cara!” disse il capitano. Che situazione. Avrebbero passato una bella notte! E il signor Cymon Tuggs era rinchiuso dietro la tenda, troppo spaventato per osare respirare.

“Massacro,” disse il capitano, “una sigara?”

Ora, il signor Cymon Tuggs non riusciva mai a fumare senza sentirsi obbligato ad andarsene immediatamente; inoltre, non poteva mai sentire l’odore del fumo senza provare un forte desiderio di tossire. Furono introdotti i sigari: il capitano era un fumatore accanito, così come il tenente e Joseph Tuggs. L’appartamento era piccolo, la porta chiusa. Il fumo si accumulava in dense nuvole nella stanza, per poi infiltrarsi dietro le tende. Cymon Tuggs cercava disperatamente di trattenere il respiro. Ma niente serviva: la tosse arrivava comunque.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!”, disse il capitano, “Mi scusi, signorina Tuggs. Non le piace fumare?”

“Oh, no; davvero no,” disse Charlotta.

“Ti fa tossire.”

“Oddio, no.”

“Hai tossito poco fa.”

“Me, Capitano Waters? Ma come può dire una cosa del genere?”

“Qualcuno ha tossito,” disse il capitano.

“Certo che lo pensavo,” disse Slaughter. No; tutti lo negarono.

“Fantastico,” disse il capitano.

“Deve essere così,” echeggiò Slaughter.

I sigari continuarono a essere fumati; ancora più fumo, un altro colpo di tosse, soffocante, ma violento.

“Che strano!” disse il capitano, guardandosi intorno.

“Sing’ler!”, esclamò il svenuto signor Joseph Tuggs.

Il tenente Slaughter guardò prima una persona in modo misterioso, poi un’altra; quindi posò il suo sigaro e si avvicinò in punta di piedi alla finestra, indicando con il pollice destro oltre la spalla, nella direzione della tenda.

“Massacro!”, esclamò il capitano alzandosi da tavola, “che cosa intendi?”

Il tenente, in risposta, tirò indietro la tenda e scoprì dietro di essa il signor Cymon Tuggs: pallido per l’ansia, con gli occhi blu per il bisogno di tossire.

“Ahah!”, esclamò il capitano, furioso. “Cosa vedo? Massacro, la tua sciabola!”

“Cymon!”, gridarono i Tuggses.

“‘Misericordia!’” disse Belinda.

“Platonico!”, esclamò Cymon.

“La tua spada!” gridò il capitano: “Uccidilo. Lasciami andare. La vita di quel malvagio!”

“Assassinio!”, gridarono i Tuggses.

“Tenetelo fermo, signore!”, disse debolmente Cymon.

“‘Acqua!’ esclamò Joseph Tuggs – e il signor Cymon Tuggs, insieme a tutte le signore, svennero immediatamente, formando così un quadro vivente.”

Con grande piacere vorremmo nascondere la disastrosa fine di quella conoscenza durata sei settimane. Tuttavia, una forma di narrazione convenzionale e un’usanza arbitraria richiedono che ogni storia abbia sia un inizio che una conclusione; quindi non abbiamo altra scelta. Il tenente Slaughter portò un messaggio; il capitano invece intraprese delle azioni concrete. Il signor Joseph Tuggs intervenne; il tenente negoziò. Quando il signor Cymon Tuggs si riprese dallo stato di nervosismo in cui lo avevano gettato sentimenti errati e circostanze eccitanti, scoprì che la sua famiglia aveva perso quella piacevole conoscenza; che suo padre aveva perso quindicicento sterline, mentre il capitano ne aveva guadagnate esattamente la stessa somma. Il denaro fu pagato per insabbiare l’intera faccenda, ma comunque trapelò alla stampa; e ci sono persone che affermano che tre imbroglioni astuti non abbiano mai trovato vittime più facilmente ingannabili del capitano Waters, della signora Waters e del tenente Slaughter, nei confronti della famiglia Tuggs di Ramsgate.

CAPITOLO V — Horatio Sparkins

“Davvero, mio amore, ha prestato molta attenzione a Teresa durante l’ultima riunione di notte”, disse la signora Malderton rivolgendosi al proprio coniuge, il quale, dopo le fatiche della giornata nella Città, sedeva con un fazzoletto di seta sulla testa e i piedi appoggiati alla ringhiera, bevendo il suo porto; “molta attenzione. E dico ancora una volta: bisognerebbe incoraggiarlo in ogni modo possibile. Dovremmo assolutamente invitarlo qui a cena.”

‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton.

‘Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly, and whom all the girls are talking about. Young—dear me! what’s his name?—Marianne, what is his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and looking sentimental.

‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

‘Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton. ‘Decidedly the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—’

‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

‘You should recollect, my dear,’ resumed Mrs. Malderton, ‘that Teresa is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that something should be done.’

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with vermilion cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and Brixton; to say nothing of those who ‘dropped in’ from town. Miss Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had an equal chance of ‘going off.’

‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, ‘he is so gentlemanly!’

‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa.

‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,’ said Miss Marianne.

‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa.

‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. Malderton.

‘Well, well,’ returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; ‘if I see him at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down. I hope he knows we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?’

‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’

‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap; ‘I’ll see about it.’

Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion, taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had a very decided and becoming horror of anything which could, by possibility, be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation, illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience, and a love of good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests. He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table, because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure what he called ‘sharp fellows.’ Probably, he cherished this feeling out of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond their own small circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters. Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy. Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well. A barrister?—He said he was not called. He used very fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he be a distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life, polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these surmises, there existed some valid objection.—‘Then,’ said everybody, ‘he must be somebody.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned Mr. Malderton, within himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and pays us so much attention.’

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was ‘assembly night.’ The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak Lodge at nine o’clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in full-dress costume, was the very beau idéal of a smart waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband, usually are. Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would patronise the great unknown by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement; who had lodgings of his own in town; who had a free admission to Covent-garden theatre; who always dressed according to the fashions of the months; who went up the water twice a-week in the season; and who actually had an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of challenging him to a game at billiards.

“Chi deve farlo?” chiese il signor Malderton.

“Ma insomma, sai di chi parlo, cara, quel giovane con le basette nere e la cravatta bianca che è appena arrivato alla nostra riunione, di cui tutte le ragazze parlano. Come si chiama? Marianna, dimmi come si chiama, ” continuò la signora Malderton, rivolgendosi alla sua figlia minore, che era impegnata a intrecciare una borsa, con un tono sentimentale.

“Signor Horatio Sparkins, ma,” rispose Miss Marianne, sospirando.

“Oh! Sì, senza dubbio – Horatio Sparkins,” disse la signora Malderton. “Decisamente il giovane più gentiluomo che abbia mai visto. Sono sicura che, con quel bellissimo cappotto che indossava quella notte, sembrasse, come dire, ”

“Come il Principe Leopoldo, ma così nobile, così pieno di sentimento!” suggerì Marianne, con tono di entusiasta ammirazione.

“Dovresti ricordare, cara mia,” continuò la signora Malderton, “che Teresa ora ha ventotto anni; e che davvero è molto importante fare qualcosa al riguardo.”

La signorina Teresa Malderton era una bambina molto piccola, un po’ grassoccia, con guance vermiglie, ma di buon umore e ancora single. Anche se, a darle giustizia, la sua situazione non derivava certo da una mancanza di perseveranza da parte sua. Inutilmente aveva flirtato per dieci anni; inutilmente i signori Malderton si erano impegnati a mantenere rapporti con molti giovani scapoli idonei di Camberwell, e persino di Wandsworth e Brixton. Per non parlare di quelli che arrivavano dalla città. La signorina Malderton era conosciuta tanto quanto il “leone” che viveva in cima alla casa di Northumberland House. E aveva le stesse possibilità di trovare un marito.

“Sono sicura che vi piacerebbe molto,” continuò la signora Malderton, “è davvero così gentiluomo!”

“Che intelligente!” disse la signorina Marianne.

“E ha davvero un modo così fluido di esprimersi!” aggiunse la signorina Teresa.

“Ha un grande rispetto per te, caro mio,” disse la signora Malderton a suo marito. Il signor Malderton tossì e guardò il fuoco.

“Sì, sono sicura che sia molto legato alla società di papà,” disse la signorina Marianne.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo,” ripeté Miss Teresa.

“Infatti, me lo ha detto in confidenza,” osservò la signora Malderton.

“Beh, beh, ”, rispose il signor Malderton, un po’ lusingato; “se lo vedo all’assemblea di domani, forse gli chiederò di venire da noi. Spero che sappia che abitiamo a Oak Lodge, Camberwell, cara, ”

“Certo – e che tu mantenga una carrozza trainata da un solo cavallo.”

“Me ne occuperò io”, disse il signor Malderton, preparandosi per un pisolino.
“Me ne occuperò io”.

Il signor Malderton era un uomo il cui orizzonte di pensieri si limitava a Lloyd’s, alla Borsa, all’India House e alla Banca. Alcune speculazioni fortunate lo avevano elevato da una condizione di oscurità e relativa povertà a uno stato di agi. Come spesso accade in casi del genere, le idee sue e quelle della sua famiglia raggiunsero un livello eccezionale con l’aumentare delle loro risorse; influenzarono la moda, i gusti e molte altre cose, imitando coloro che erano considerati migliori di loro, e provavano un profondo disprezzo per qualsiasi cosa potesse essere ritenuta volgare. Era ospitale per vanità, ignorante e prevenuto a causa della sua presunzione. L’egoismo e il desiderio di ostentazione lo spingevano a mantenere una tavola eccellente; la comodità e l’amore per le cose belle di questa vita gli assicuravano un gran numero di ospiti. Gli piaceva avere a tavola persone intelligenti, o quanto meno quelle che lui riteneva tali, perché era un grande piacere conversare con loro; tuttavia non poteva sopportare ciò che definiva “uomini astuti”. Probabilmente nutriva questo sentimento per compiacere i suoi due figli, i quali non causavano alcun imbarazzo al loro rispettabile genitore in questa materia. La famiglia ambiva stabilire relazioni e contatti in ambiti sociali superiori a quello in cui viveva; una conseguenza inevitabile di questo desiderio, unita alla loro totale ignoranza del mondo al di fuori del loro piccolo cerchio, era che chiunque potesse vantare conoscenze con persone di rango e titolo aveva automaticamente accesso alla tavola di Oak Lodge, a Camberwell.

L’apparizione del signor Horatio Sparkins all’assemblea aveva suscitato notevole sorpresa e curiosità tra i suoi frequentatori abituali. Chi poteva essere? Era chiaramente riservato, e sembrava anche piuttosto melanconico. Era un prete?. Ballava troppo bene. Un avvocato?. Diceva di non esserlo. Usava parole molto raffinate e parlava molto. Poteva essere un distinto straniero venuto in Inghilterra con lo scopo di descrivere il paese, i suoi costumi e le sue usanze; e frequentare balli e cene pubbliche al fine di conoscere meglio la vita mondana, l’eleganza delle maniere e la raffinatezza inglese?. No, non aveva alcun accento straniero. Era un chirurgo, uno collaboratore di riviste, uno scrittore di romanzi alla moda, o un artista?. Nemmeno: per ciascuna di queste ipotesi esistevano valide obiezioni. “Allora,” dicevano tutti, “deve essere qualcuno di importante.” “Credo proprio che lo sia,” rifletteva tra sé il signor Malderton, “perché si rende conto della nostra superiorità e ci presta così tanta attenzione.”

La notte successiva alla conversazione che abbiamo appena registrato fu una “riunione serale”. Fu ordinato al doppio volatore di presentarsi alle nove in punto alla porta della Oak Lodge. Le signorine Malderton indossavano satin blu cielo decorato con fiori artificiali; la signora M., una donna un po’ grassoccia, vestiva allo stesso modo e sembrava il doppio della sua figlia maggiore. Il signor Frederick Malderton, il figlio maggiore, con il suo abito da cerimonia, rappresentava perfettamente l’ideale di un cameriere elegante; il signor Thomas Malderton, il più giovane, con i suoi calzini bianchi, il cappotto blu, i bottoni lucidi e la cravatta rossa, assomigliava molto al ritratto di quel giovane interessante ma avventato, George Barnwell. Tutti i membri del gruppo avevano deciso di cercare di entrare in contatto con il signor Horatio Sparkins. La signorina Teresa, naturalmente, sarebbe stata affabile e attraente, come solitamente lo sono le donne di ventotto anni alla ricerca di un marito; la signora Malderton avrebbe mostrato tutto il suo sorriso e la sua gentilezza; la signorina Marianne avrebbe chiesto al signor Sparkins di scrivere qualche verso per il suo album; il signor Malderton avrebbe dimostrato interesse per quel “grande sconosciuto” invitandolo a cena; Tom intendeva scoprire fino a che punto il signor Sparkins fosse informato sugli argomenti legati al tabacco e ai sigari; persino il signor Frederick Malderton stesso, l’autorità di famiglia in materia di gusto, abbigliamento e mode; che aveva una casa sua in città, un ingresso gratuito al Covent Garden Theatre, si vestiva sempre secondo le tendenze del momento, andava due volte a settimana sul fiume durante la stagione estiva e aveva addirittura un amico intimo che conosceva un gentiluomo che un tempo viveva ad Albany, anche lui era convinto che il signor Horatio Sparkins dovesse essere una persona davvero meravigliosa, e che gli avrebbe fatto l’onore di invitarlo a giocare a biliardo.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa.

‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne.

‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom.

‘Tom—don’t be an ass!’ said his father, who checked him on all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming ‘sharp’—which was very unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the family had crossed the room. He then started up, with the most natural appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same time, condescending personage.

‘Miss Malderton,’ said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and bowing very low, ‘may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure—’

‘I don’t think I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so many—’

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

‘I shall be most happy,’ simpered the interesting Teresa, at last. Horatio’s countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of rain.

‘A very genteel young man, certainly!’ said the gratified Mr. Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille which was just forming.

‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick.

‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to put his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’

‘Tom!’ said his father solemnly, ‘I think I desired you, before, not to be a fool.’ Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

‘How delightful!’ said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—‘how delightful, how refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—whose frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose affection would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could bestow on man?’

‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more heavily on her companion’s arm.

‘But enough—enough!’ resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical air. ‘What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these! Miss Malderton’—here he stopped short—‘may I hope to be permitted to offer the humble tribute of—’

‘Really, Mr. Sparkins,’ returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the sweetest confusion, ‘I must refer you to papa. I never can, without his consent, venture to—’

‘Surely he cannot object—’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not!’ interrupted Miss Teresa, well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa. ‘What a fuss about nothing!’

‘It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o’clock, if you have no better engagement,’ said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering invitation.

‘I must confess,’ continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his new acquaintance, ‘that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as the comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge. They have no great charms for an elderly man.’

‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins. ‘I say, what is man?’

‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’

‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

‘I say, we know that we exist,’ repeated Horatio, raising his voice, ‘but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the summit of our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends. What more do we know?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning home in the fly, ‘that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a splendid mode of expressing himself!’

‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘How charmingly romantic!’

‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I don’t exactly understand what he means.’

‘I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,’ said his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins’s conversation.

‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made yourself very ridiculous this evening.’

Il primo oggetto che attirò lo sguardo ansioso della famiglia in attesa non appena entrarono nella sala da ballo, fu l’interessante Horatio, con i capelli pettinati all’indietro e lo sguardo fisso sul soffitto, seduto in una posizione contemplativa su uno dei divani.

“Eccolo lì, caro mio,” sussurrò la signora Malderton al signor Malderton.

“Che somiglianza con Lord Byron!” mormorò la signorina Teresa.

“O Montgomery!”, sussurrò la signorina Marianne.

“O forse i ritratti del Capitano Cook!”, suggerì Tom.

“Tom, non comportati come uno sciocco!” disse suo padre, che lo controllava in ogni occasione, probabilmente nel tentativo di impedirgli di diventare “spietato”, il che era del tutto inutile.

Il distinto Sparkins si comportò in modo estremamente elegante e naturale, fino a quando tutta la famiglia non ebbe attraversato la stanza. A quel punto assunse un’aria di sorpresa e gioia del tutto spontanea; si avvicinò alla signora Malderton con grande cordialità, salutò le giovani signore in modo incantevole, si inchinò e strinse la mano al signor Malderton con un rispetto che rasentava quasi la venerazione; infine ricambiò i saluti dei due giovani uomini in modo a metà compiaciuto, a metà condiscendente, il che li convinse pienamente del fatto che dovesse trattarsi di una persona importante, e, al contempo, molto presuntuosa.

“Signorina Malderton,” disse Horatio dopo i soliti saluti, inchinandosi profondamente, “posso sperare che mi concediate il piacere di, ”

“Non credo di essere fidanzata,” disse la signorina Teresa, con una terribile finzione di indifferenza, “ma, davvero, ci sono così tante persone, ”

Horatio sembrava davvero molto sconsolato.

“Sarò molto felice,” sospirò finalmente la interessante Teresa.
Il volto di Horatio si illuminò, come un vecchio cappello bagnato dalla pioggia.

“Certamente, un giovane molto raffinato!” disse il compiaciuto signor Malderton, mentre i servili Sparkins e il suo socio si univano al quadrille che stava appena iniziando.

“Ha un indirizzo davvero ottimo,” disse il signor Frederick.

“Sì, è davvero un tipo in gamba,” intervenne Tom, che riusciva sempre a mettersi nei guai; “parla proprio come un banditore d’asta.”

“Tom!” disse suo padre seriamente, “Credo di averti già chiesto, in passato, di non essere un idiota.” Tom sembrava felice quanto un gallo in una mattina piovosa.

“Che delizioso!” disse l’interessante Horatio alla sua compagna, mentre passeggiavano per la stanza al termine dello spettacolo. “Che delizioso, che rinfrescante è ritirarsi dalle tempeste oscure, dalle vicissitudini e dai problemi della vita, anche solo per brevi momenti; e trascorrere quei momenti, per quanto effimeri, nella compagnia piacevole e beata di una persona la cui espressione cupa significherebbe morte, la cui freddezza rappresenterebbe follia, la cui menzogna porterebbe rovina, mentre la sua fedeltà è la più grande ricompensa che il cielo possa donare all’uomo, ”

“Che sensazione, che sentimento!” pensò la signorina Teresa, appoggiandosi ancora di più al braccio della sua compagna.

“Ma basta, basta!” riprese l’elegante Sparkins con un tono teatrale. “Cosa ho detto? Cosa ho io a che fare con sentimenti del genere! Signorina Malderton” – si fermò qui – “posso sperare di essere autorizzato a offrirvi il mio umile omaggio, ”

“Davvero, signor Sparkins,” rispose Teresa, incantata e arrossendo per l’emozione, “devo rivolgermi a mio padre. Non potrei mai farlo senza il suo consenso, ”

“Certamente non può obiettare, ”

“Oh, sì. Davvero, davvero. Non lo conosci affatto!” interruppe la signorina Teresa, sapendo bene che non c’era nulla di cui aver paura, ma desiderando che l’intervista assomigliasse a una scena tratta da qualche romanzo romantico.

“Non può certo obiettare al fatto che io ti offra un bicchiere di negus,” rispose l’adorabile Sparkins, con una certa sorpresa.

“È tutto qui?” pensò Teresa delusa. “Che trambusto per niente!”

“Mi farebbe grande piacere, signore, invitarvi a cena da Oak Lodge, Camberwell, domenica prossima alle cinque in punto, se non avete altri impegni,” disse il signor Malderton alla fine della serata, mentre lui e i suoi figli stavano conversando con il signor Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio ringraziò con un inchino e accettò l’invito lusinghiero.

“Devo ammetterlo,” continuò il padre, porgendo la sua scatola di tabacco al suo nuovo conoscente, “che non mi divertono affatto queste riunioni, rispetto al comfort, quasi direi al lusso, che offre Oak Lodge. Per un uomo anziano, non hanno certo grandi attrattive.”

“E dopotutto, signore, che cos’è l’uomo?” disse il metafisico Sparkins. “Dico io: che cos’è l’uomo?”

“Ah! molto vero,” disse il signor Malderton; “molto vero.”

“Sappiamo di vivere e di respirare,” continuò Horatio; “sappiamo di avere desideri, aspirazioni, voglie, ”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Frederick Malderton, con un’espressione molto seria.

“Dico io, sappiamo di esistere,” ripeté Horatio alzando la voce, “ma è tutto ciò che sappiamo; oltre a questo, non c’è nulla. Qui si ferma la nostra conoscenza; qui si trova il limite delle nostre capacità; qui terminano i nostri scopi. Cosa altro possiamo sapere?”

“Niente,” rispose il signor Frederick – nessuno era più capace di badare a se stesso in quella particolare situazione di lui. Tom stava per dire qualcosa, ma, fortunatamente per la sua reputazione, incrociò lo sguardo arrabbiato di suo padre e si allontanò come un cucciolo colpevole di un piccolo furto.

“Per la mia parola,” disse il signor Malderton il vecchio, mentre tornavano a casa in fretta, “il signor Sparkins è davvero un giovane straordinario. Una conoscenza sorprendente, informazioni eccezionali, e un modo davvero splendido di esprimersi!”

“Penso che debba essere qualcuno che si è camuffato”, disse la signorina Marianne. “Che idea romantica e incantevole!”

“Parla molto ad alta voce e in modo gentile,” osservò timidamente Tom, “ma non capisco esattamente cosa intenda.”

“Sembra che io stia per disperare del fatto che tu possa capire qualcosa, Tom,” disse suo padre, il quale, ovviamente, aveva tratto grandi insegnamenti dalla conversazione con il signor Horatio Sparkins.

“Mi sembra, Tom,” disse la signorina Teresa, “che stasera tu ti sia reso davvero molto ridicolo.”

‘No doubt of it,’ cried everybody—and the unfortunate Tom reduced himself into the least possible space. That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether, in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously encourage the visits of her present associates; and dreamed, all night, of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he keep a gig?—was it possible he could come on horseback?—or would he patronize the stage? These, and other various conjectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole morning after church.

‘Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,’ said Mr. Malderton to his wife. ‘On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, I purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable! I declare I wouldn’t have him mention his shop, before our new guest—no, not for a thousand pounds! I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible business, that he will let people know what he is.’

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: ‘he’d made his money by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.’

‘Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?’ said Mr. Malderton, as a little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. ‘You got my note?’

‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’

‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know everybody?’

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know everybody, but in reality know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody, to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical.

‘Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,’ returned Flamwell, in a low tone, and with an air of immense importance. ‘I have no doubt I know him, though. Is he tall?’

‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa.

‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

‘Rather a snub nose?’

‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman nose.’

‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell. ‘He’s an elegant young man?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together. ‘You must know him.’

‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly exclaimed Mr. Malderton. ‘Who d’ye think he is?’

‘Why, from your description,’ said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking his voice, almost to a whisper, ‘he bears a strong resemblance to the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very talented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely probable he may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.’

Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne! What a name to be elegantly engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon! ‘The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!’ The thought was transport.

‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch: ‘I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look—as people when they particularly expect a visitor always do—as if they were perfectly unsuspicious of the approach of anybody.

The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant.

‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton. ‘Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do! Any news?’

‘Why no,’ returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner. ‘No, none partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d’ye do, gals and boys? Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.’

‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at the window, ‘on such a black horse!’ There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley’s supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things at Teresa.

‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great authority—‘not exactly.’

‘Who is he then?’

‘Hush!’ said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of state, from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, ‘pray divide the ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.’ This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions, acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white neckerchief and shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a second footman.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo,” gridarono tutti; e il sfortunato Tom si ridusse al minimo spazio possibile. Quella notte, il signor e la signora Malderton ebbero una lunga conversazione riguardo alle prospettive future di loro figlia. La signorina Teresa andò a letto, chiedendosi se, nel caso in cui sposasse un nobile, potesse onestamente continuare ad accogliere le visite delle sue attuali amiche; e per tutta la notte sognò nobili mascherati, grandi feste, piume di struzzo, regali di nozze, e Horatio Sparkins.

Nella mattina di domenica, si fecero varie congetture riguardo al mezzo di trasporto che l’attesissimo Horatio avrebbe utilizzato per arrivare. Teneva un calesino? Era possibile che venisse a cavallo? Oppure avrebbe intrapreso la carriera teatrale? Queste e altre congetture, di uguale importanza, tennero occupata l’attenzione della signora Malderton e delle sue figlie per tutta la mattina dopo la messa.

“Per la mia parola, cara, è davvero una cosa molto fastidiosa che quel tuo fratello volgare si sia invitato da solo a pranzo qui oggi,” disse il signor Malderton a sua moglie. “A causa dell’arrivo del signor Sparkins, ho intenzionalmente evitato di invitare nessun altro se non Flamwell. E poi pensare a tuo fratello: un commerciante. È insopportabile! Giuro che non gli permetterei mai di menzionare il suo negozio davanti al nostro nuovo ospite. No, nemmeno per mille sterline! Non mi importerebbe nemmeno se avesse la buona sensatezza di nascondere l’umiliazione che rappresenta per la famiglia; ma lui è così ossessionato dal suo orribile lavoro, che deve assolutamente far sapere a tutti chi è.”

Il signor Jacob Barton, la persona di cui si parla, era un grosso mercante di alimentari; così volgare e privo di ogni senso di decenza, che non esitava mai ad ammettere apertamente di non essere al di sopra del proprio mestiere: “Ho guadagnato i miei soldi con questo lavoro, e non mi interessa che lo sappiano tutti”.

“Ah! Flamwell, mio caro amico, come stai?” disse il signor Malderton, mentre un uomo un po’ effeminato, con occhiali verdi, entrava nella stanza. “Hai ricevuto la mia nota?”

“Sì, l’ho fatto; ed eccomi qui di conseguenza.”

“Non saprebbe per caso il nome di questo signor Sparkins? Lei conosce tutti, no?”

Il signor Flamwell era uno di quei gentiluomini dotati di una conoscenza straordinariamente vasta che si incontrano occasionalmente in società: persone che fingono di conoscere tutti, ma in realtà non conoscono nessuno. Al Malderton’s, dove ogni storia riguardante grandi personaggi veniva ascoltata con grande interesse, lui era particolarmente apprezzato; e, conoscendo bene il tipo di persone con cui aveva a che fare, portava fino all’estremo la sua passione per fingere di conoscere tutti. Aveva un modo piuttosto singolare di raccontare le sue bugie più grandi tra parentesi, con un’aria di auto-sacrificio, come se temesse di essere considerato presuntuoso.

“Perché no, non lo conosco con quel nome,” rispose Flamwell a bassa voce, con un tono di grande importanza. “Tuttavia, non ho alcun >dubbio di conoscerlo. È alto?”

“Di medie dimensioni,” disse la signorina Teresa.

“Con i capelli neri?”, chiese Flamwell, facendo un’audace congettura.

“Sì,” rispose con entusiasmo la signorina Teresa.

“Meglio un naso schiacciato?”

“No,” disse la delusa Teresa, “ha il naso romano.”

“Ho detto che aveva il naso tipico dei Romani, vero?”, chiese Flamwell. “È un giovane davvero elegante, no?”

“Certo, senza dubbio.”

“Con modi estremamente affascinanti?”

“Ah sì!” dissero tutti insieme i membri della famiglia. “Devi assolutamente conoscerlo.”

“Sì, pensavo che lo conosceste, se era davvero qualcuno di importante,” esclamò trionfante il signor Malderton. “Chi credete che sia?”

“Beh, dalla tua descrizione, ”, disse Flamwell, riflettendo e abbassando la voce quasi a sussurro, “sembra assomigliare molto all’onorevole Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. È un giovane molto talentuoso, anche se piuttosto eccentrico. È estremamente probabile che abbia cambiato nome per qualche motivo temporaneo.”

Il cuore di Teresa batteva forte. Poteva davvero essere l’Onorabile Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne? Che nome meraviglioso, da incidere con eleganza su due biglietti di vetro legati insieme con un pezzo di seta bianca, “L’Onorabile Signora Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne”! Quel pensiero la rendeva euforica.

“Mancano cinque minuti alle cinque,” disse il signor Malderton guardando l’orologio: “Spero che non ci deluda.”

“Eccolo lì!” esclamò la signorina Teresa, mentre si sentiva un forte bussare alla porta. Tutti cercarono di guardare fuori – come fanno le persone quando aspettano particolarmente una visita – come se non avessero la minima idea dell’arrivo di qualcuno.

La porta della stanza si aprì: “Signor Barton!”, disse il servitore.

“Maledetto quell’uomo!” mormorò Malderton. “Ah, caro signore, come sta? Ci sono novità?”

“Perché no,” rispose il macellaio con il suo solito tono spavaldo. “No, nessuna particolarità. Almeno per quanto ne so io. Come state, ragazze e ragazzi? Signor Flamwell, che piacere rivederla.”

“Ecco il signor Sparkins!” disse Tom, che stava guardando fuori dalla finestra. “Su un cavallo nero così bello, ” C’era davvero Horatio, su un grande cavallo nero, che si muoveva agilmente avanti e indietro, come uno degli attori di spettacolo di Astley’s. Dopo molte tentativi per far fermare l’animale – con sbuffi, impennate e calci – riuscirono finalmente a fargli fermare a circa cento metri dal cancello. Il signor Sparkins scese da cavallo e lo affidò alle cure del groom del signor Malderton. La cerimonia di presentazione si svolse con tutte le formalità dovute. Il signor Flamwell, guardando Horatio attraverso i suoi occhiali verdi, aveva un’aria di misteriosa importanza; e il nobile Horatio, beh, guardava Teresa in modo davvero indescrivibile.

“È davvero il rispettabile signor Augustus, come-si-chiama?”, sussurrò la signora Malderton a Flamwell mentre lui la accompagnava in sala da pranzo.

“Mai dire, almeno non esattamente,” rispose quella grande autorità. “Non esattamente.”

“Chi è allora?”

“Zitto!” disse Flamwell, annuendo con un’espressione seria, dando a intendere di sapere molto bene; ma era trattenuto, per qualche motivo grave legato allo stato, dal rivelare quel segreto importante. Forse si trattava di uno dei ministri che cercava di comprendere le opinioni del popolo.

“Signor Sparkins,” disse la felice signora Malderton, “per favore dividete le signore. John, mettete una sedia per il signore tra la signorina Teresa e la signorina Marianne.” Si rivolgeva a un uomo che, in circostanze normali, fungeva da mezzo-cameriere, mezzo-giardiniere; ma poiché era importante fare una buona impressione su Mr. Sparkins, era stato costretto a indossare un fazzoletto bianco al collo e delle scarpe lucide, e a pettinarsi con cura per assomigliare a un secondo cameriere.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa, and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is ‘much easier to be imagined than described.’

‘Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?’ inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

‘Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before yesterday.’

‘All! I hope his lordship is very well?’ said Malderton, in a tone of the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

‘Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed. He’s a devilish good fellow. I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed, I’m rather intimate with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather, indeed I may say very, intimate.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ returned the host, consequentially—in reality knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.—‘He has a capital business.’

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

‘Talking of business,’ interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the table. ‘A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and—’

‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain manner—’

‘Floury, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word ‘shop.’

‘He said, says he,’ continued the culprit, after despatching the potato; ‘says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly—you know my way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business will never be above me. Ha, ha!’

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his dismay, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’

‘Happy to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We were talking the other evening,’ resumed the host, addressing Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer’s stories—‘we were talking the other night about the nature of man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.’

‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of the head.

‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies simpered.

‘Man,’ replied Horatio, ‘man, whether he ranged the bright, gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves, in times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in any place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without woman, would be—alone.’

‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr. Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.

‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young lady blushed.

‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interposed Malderton, determined not to give his relation another opportunity, ‘and I don’t agree with you.’

‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer.

‘I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,’ said the host, in as positive a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other had laid down, ‘but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very monstrous proposition.’

‘But I meant to say—’

‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of obstinate determination. ‘Never.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, ‘cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’

‘What!’ said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in wondering delight—‘what! Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause the precursor of effect?’

‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton.

‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio.

‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell.

‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again. ‘It settles the point.’

‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t see it before.’

‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but I suppose it’s all right.’

‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

‘Oh, he’s quite a love!’ said both the young ladies together; ‘he talks like an oracle. He must have seen a great deal of life.’

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, first broke silence.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said that distinguished personage, ‘I presume you have studied for the bar? I thought of entering once, myself—indeed, I’m rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished profession.’

La cena fu eccellente; Horatio fu particolarmente attento verso la signorina Teresa, e tutti erano di ottimo umore, tranne il signor Malderton, che, conoscendo la propensione di suo cognato, il signor Barton, sopportava quel genere di angoscia di cui i giornali ci parlano, quella che colpisce i vicini quando un ragazzo addetto al servizio in cucina si impicca in un fienile. Una sofferenza “molto più facile da immaginare che da descrivere”.

“Avete visto di recente vostro amico, Sir Thomas Noland, Flamwell?” chiese il signor Malderton, lanciando un’occhiata di sguardo a Horatio per vedere quale effetto avesse su di lui menzionare una persona così importante.

“Mai, affatto. Non molto di recente. Ho visto Lord Gubbleton il giorno prima ieri.”

“Ah! Spero che il suo signore stia molto bene”, disse Malderton con tono di grande interesse. È quasi superfluo aggiungere che, fino a quel momento, non aveva la minima idea dell’esistenza di una tale persona.

“Sì, certo; stava molto bene, davvero molto bene. È un uomo estremamente gentile e simpatico. L’ho incontrato in città e abbiamo parlato a lungo. Anzi, sono abbastanza intimo con lui. Avrei voluto parlare ancora più a lungo, ma ero di fretta: dovevo andare da un banchiere, un uomo molto ricco e membro del Parlamento, con il quale anch’io sono piuttosto, anzi, posso dire proprio molto intimo.”

“So a chi vi riferite,” rispose l’ospite, in realtà sapendo tanto sulla questione quanto lo stesso Flamwell. “Ha un affare molto importante.”

Questo argomento toccava un tema pericoloso.

“Parlando di affari, ”, intervenne il signor Barton, dal centro del tavolo. “Un gentiluomo che conoscevate molto bene, Malderton. Prima che faccieste quella vostra prima e fortunata speculazione, è passato da noi l’altro giorno, ”

“Barton, potrei chiedervi una patata?” interruppe quel povero padrone di casa, nella speranza di soffocare la questione sul nascere.

“Certamente,” rispose il macellaio, del tutto ignaro dello scopo di suo cognato – “e lo disse in modo molto chiaro.”

“Floury, per favore,” intervenne di nuovo Malderton; temeva che l’aneddoto finisse e che si ripetesse la parola “negozio”.

“Ha detto, dice che, ”, continuò il colpevole dopo aver finito di mangiare la patata; “dice che come vanno le tue faccende? Allora io risposi, scherzando – sai com’è fatto – che non sono mai troppo occupato con le mie cose, e spero che le mie faccende non mi sopraffacciano mai. Ahah!”

“Signor Sparkins,” disse l’ospite, cercando invano di nascondere il proprio disappunto, “un bicchiere di vino?”

“Con grande piacere, signore.”

“Felice di rivederti.”

“Grazie.”

“Stavamo parlando l’altra sera,” riprese l’ospite, rivolgendosi a Horatio, in parte per dimostrare le capacità conversazionali del suo nuovo conoscente, e in parte nella speranza di soffocare le storie del rivenditore, “Stavamo discutendo dell’>natura umana; il tuo argomento mi ha colpito molto.”

“E io,” disse il signor Frederick. Horatio fece un grazioso inchino con la testa.

“Dica pure, qual è la sua opinione sulle donne, signor Sparkins?”, chiese la signora Malderton. Le giovani dame sorrisero compiaciute.

“Uomo,” rispose Horatio, “uomo, che sia nei luminosi, fioriti campi di un secondo Eden, o nelle regioni più sterili, desolate e, per così dire, ordinarie a cui siamo costretti ad abituarci in tempi come questi; uomo, in qualsiasi circostanza, in qualsiasi luogo – che sia sotto i gelidi venti dell’emisfero settentrionale o sotto i raggi ardenti di un sole verticale – l’uomo, senza una donna, sarebbe. solo.”

“Sono molto felice di scoprire che lei abbia opinioni così onorevoli, signor Sparkins,” disse la signora Malderton.

“E io,” aggiunse la signorina Teresa. Horatio mostrò tutta la sua gioia, e la giovane signora arrossì.

“Ora, secondo me, ” disse il signor Barton.

“So cosa stai per dire,” intervenne Malderton, deciso a non dare un’altra opportunità alla sua parente, “e non sono d’accordo con te.”

“Che cosa!”, chiese sorpreso il macellaio.

“Mi dispiace dissentire da te, Barton,” disse l’ospite con tale fermezza, come se stesse davvero contraddicendo un punto di vista espresso dall’altro, “ma non posso accordarmi con ciò che ritengo una proposta assolutamente orribile.”

“Ma volevo dire, ”

“Non riuscirete mai a convincermi,” disse Malderton con un tono di ostinata determinazione. “Mai.”

“E io,” disse il signor Frederick, proseguendo nell’attacco di suo padre, “non posso assolutamente concordare con l’argomentazione del signor Sparkins.”

“Che cosa!” disse Horatio, diventando sempre più metafisico e argomentativo, mentre vedeva la parte femminile della famiglia ascoltare con meravigliosa attenzione, “Che cosa! È l’effetto la conseguenza della causa? O è la causa il precursore dell’effetto?”

“Ecco il punto,” disse Flamwell.

“Certamente,” disse il signor Malderton.

“Perché, se l’effetto è la conseguenza della causa, e se la causa precede necessariamente l’effetto, allora ritengo che tu abbia torto,” aggiunse Horatio.

“Senza dubbio,” disse Flamwell, che mangiava rane.

“Almeno, ritengo che questa sia la deduzione giusta e logica, vero?” disse Sparkins, con tono interrogativo.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo,” intervenne di nuovo Flamwell. “Questo chiarisce definitivamente la questione.”

“Beh, forse sì,” disse il signor Frederick; “non l’avevo notato prima.”

“Adesso non capisco proprio bene,” pensò il macellaio; “ma immagino che vada bene lo stesso.”

“Che meravigliosamente intelligente è!” sussurrò la signora Malderton alle sue figlie mentre si ritiravano nel salotto.

“Oh, è davvero un vero e proprio amante!” dissero insieme le due giovani signore; “parla come un oracolo. Deve aver vissuto molte cose nella vita.”

Gli uomini, lasciati a se stessi, rimasero in silenzio; durante quel momento tutti sembravano molto seri, come se fossero profondamente colpiti dalla natura profonda della discussione appena avvenuta. Flamwell, deciso a scoprire chi e cosa fosse veramente il signor Horatio Sparkins, fu il primo a rompere il silenzio.

“Scusi, signore,” disse quella distinta persona, “presumo che lei abbia studiato per diventare avvocato. Anche io ho pensato di intraprendere questa carriera. In effetti, conosco piuttosto bene alcune delle figure più eminenti di quella nobile professione.”

‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not exactly.’

‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ inquired Flamwell, deferentially.

‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell. He was a young gentleman ‘about to be called.’

‘I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,’ said Tom, speaking for the first time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the remark.

No one made any reply.

‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another observation.

‘Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,’ said his father. ‘Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.’

‘Very well, father,’ replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past five o’clock, p.m., and it was then eight.

‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind! I think with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather wear an apron.’

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a man’s above his business—’

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he intended to say.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’

‘I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an opportunity of serving him considerably,’ replied Horatio, slightly colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the acknowledgment.

‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ he whispered to Mr. Malderton, confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. ‘It’s quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr. Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr. Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as possible. Miss Teresa played the ‘Fall of Paris,’ as Mr. Sparkins declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr. Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his visit on the following Sunday.

‘But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow evening?’ suggested Mrs. M. ‘Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to see the pantomime.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party in box 48, in the course of the evening.

‘We will not tax you for the morning,’ said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly; ‘for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. I know that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton significantly.—‘It’s term time!’ he whispered.

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the ‘fly’ was at the door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a friend’s house. First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were to go to Redmayne’s in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were dropsical figures of seven with a little three-farthings in the corner; ‘perfectly invisible to the naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty thousand ladies’ boas, from one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an equally cheap rate; and ‘every description of goods,’ as the proprietors said—and they must know best—‘fifty per cent. under cost price.’

‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; ‘what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’

‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

‘Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?’ inquired the obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad ‘portrait of a gentleman’ in the Somerset-house exhibition.

‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton.

‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where is Mr. Smith?’

‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop.

‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C. ‘You never are to be found when you’re wanted, sir.’

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and beheld—Horatio Sparkins!

“N-no!”, disse Horatio con un po’ di esitazione; “non proprio.”

“Ma voi siete stato spesso tra quelle vesti di seta, o mi sbaglio?”, chiese Flamwell con rispetto.

“Per quasi tutta la mia vita,” rispose Sparkins.

La questione fu quindi abbastanza chiaramente risolta nella mente del signor Flamwell. Era un giovane gentiluomo “che stava per ricevere il titolo nobiliare”.

“Non dovrei voler diventare avvocato,” disse Tom, per la prima volta, guardandosi intorno al tavolo nella speranza che qualcuno notasse quella dichiarazione.

Nessuno rispose.

“Non dovrei voler indossare una parrucca,” disse Tom, facendo un’altra osservazione azzardata.

“Tom, ti prego di non comportarti in modo ridicolo,” disse suo padre. “Ascolta attentamente e cerca di migliorare attraverso le conversazioni che ascolti; smettila di fare continuamente queste osservazioni assurde.”

“Molto bene, padre,” rispose il sfortunato Tom, che non aveva detto una parola da quando aveva chiesto un altro pezzo di carne alle cinque e un quarto del pomeriggio; ormai erano le otto.

“Beh, Tom,” osservò suo zio di buon carattere, “non importa! Io sono d’accordo con te. Non mi andrebbe affatto di indossare una parrucca. Preferirei mettermi un grembiule.”

“Il signor Malderton tossì violentemente. Il signor Barton proseguì: ‘Perché se un uomo si impegna in cose che non sono adatte a lui, ’”

La tosse tornò con dieci volte più intensità e non cessò finché la sfortunata causa che l’aveva provocata, nel suo panico, non dimenticò completamente ciò che intendeva dire.

“Signor Sparkins,” disse Flamwell, riprendendo il discorso, “saprebbe per caso chi è il signor Delafontaine, di Bedford-square?”

“Ho scambiato carte con lui; da allora, in effetti, ho avuto l’opportunità di servirlo molto bene,” rispose Horatio, arrossendo leggermente; non aveva alcun >dubbio riguardo al fatto di essere stato costretto a riconoscere ciò che era accaduto.

“Sei davvero molto fortunato ad aver avuto l’opportunità di rendere un servizio a quell’uomo straordinario,” osservò Flamwell con un tono di profondo rispetto.

“Non so chi sia,” sussurrò al signor Malderton, in modo confidenziale, mentre lo seguivano nella sala da pranzo. “È abbastanza chiaro, comunque, che appartiene al mondo legale e che è una persona di grande importanza, con molti contatti influenti.”

“Nessun >dubbio, nessun >dubbio”, rispose il suo compagno.

Il resto della serata trascorse in modo molto piacevole. Il signor Malderton, sollevato dalle sue preoccupazioni dal fatto che il signor Barton era caduto in un sonno profondo, fu estremamente affabile e gentile. La signorina Teresa suonò “La caduta di Parigi”, come dichiarò il signor Sparkins, in modo davvero magistrale; entrambi, con l’aiuto del signor Frederick, provarono innumerevoli duetti e trii, scoprendo con piacere che le loro voci si armonizzavano perfettamente. Per sicurezza, cantarono tutti la parte iniziale della melodia; e Horatio, sebbene non avesse alcuna nozione di musica, era assolutamente innocente riguardo a queste questioni. Comunque sia, trascorsero il tempo molto piacevolmente, e fu solo dopo le dodici che il signor Sparkins ordinò di portare fuori quel cavallo dall’aspetto “triste”. Un ordine che venne eseguito soltanto a condizione che lui ripetesse la sua visita il seguente domenica.

“Ma forse, domani sera, il signor Sparkins potrebbe unirsi al nostro gruppo?” suggerì la signora M. “Il signor Malderton intende portare le ragazze a vedere la pantomima.” Il signor Sparkins fece un inchino e promise di unirsi al gruppo nella sala 48, durante la serata.

“Non vi faremo pagare per la mattina,” disse Miss Teresa con un tono incantevole; “perché mia madre ci porterà in tutti i tipi di luoghi, a fare shopping. So che gli uomini hanno una grande avversione per queste attività.” Il signor Sparkins si inchinò di nuovo e dichiarò che ne sarebbe stato molto felice, ma quella mattina aveva impegni importanti da svolgere. Flamwell guardò Malderton in modo significativo, “È ora!” sussurrò.

Alle dodici in punto della mattina seguente, la vettura si fermò davanti al negozio di un mercante di biancheria, con merci di ogni tipo esposte alle finestre e etichette di tutte le dimensioni. C’erano figure “idropiche” raffigurate su cartoline, con scritte del tipo: “Perfettamente invisibili ad occhio nudo”; trecentocinquantamila sciarpe da signora, a partire da uno scellino e mezzo; vere scarpe di cuoio francese, a due sterline e nove pence a paio; ombrelli verdi, allo stesso prezzo conveniente. E “ogni tipo di merce”, come dicevano i proprietari – e loro dovevano saperlo meglio di chiunque altro – “a cinquanta percento in meno rispetto al prezzo di mercato”.

“Lorà, ma in quale posto ci avete portato!” esclamò la signorina Teresa; “cosa direbbe il signor Sparkins se potesse vederci!”

“Ah! Che cosa orribile!” esclamò Miss Marianne, inorridita all’idea stessa.

“Prego, sedetevi, signore. Qual è il primo articolo?” chiese l’ossequioso cerimoniere dell’istituto, che, con il suo grande fazzoletto da collo bianco e la cravatta formale, sembrava un pessimo “ritratto di un gentiluomo” all’esposizione della Somerset-house.

“Vorrei vedere alcuni tessuti di seta,” rispose la signora Malderton.

“Direttamente, signora. Il signor Smith! Dove è il signor Smith?”

“Ecco qui, signore,” gridò una voce dalla parte posteriore del negozio.

“Per favore si sbrighi, signor Smith”, disse il capo della squadra. “Non la si trova mai quando c’è bisogno di lei, signore.”

Il signor Smith, incaricato di agire il più rapidamente possibile, saltò oltre il bancone con grande agilità e si mise davanti ai clienti appena arrivati. La signora Malderton emise un debole grido; la signorina Teresa, che stava chinandosi per parlare con sua sorella, alzò lo sguardo e vide. Horatio Sparkins!

‘We will draw a veil,’ as novel-writers say, over the scene that ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins—he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and dreamed, but had never expected to behold, was suddenly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a ‘cheap shop;’ the junior partner in a slippery firm of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected recognition, could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almack’s was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an increased aversion to anything low.

CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL

One winter’s evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney. The night was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the whole day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a thousand matters in his wandering imagination. First, he thought how hard the wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at that moment beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his native place and dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be to see him, and how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her that he had found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to come down again, in a few months’ time, and marry her, and take her home to gladden his lonely fireside, and stimulate him to fresh exertions. Then, he began to wonder when his first patient would appear, or whether he was destined, by a special dispensation of Providence, never to have any patients at all; and then, he thought about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed about her, till the tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears, and her soft tiny hand rested on his shoulder.

There was a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny; its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the parish to carry medicine and messages. As there was no demand for the medicine, however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually occupied his unemployed hours—averaging fourteen a day—in abstracting peppermint drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master with a shake.

‘What lady?’ cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose herself.—‘What lady? Where?’

‘There, sir!’ replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading into the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an instant, on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing so close to the door that her face almost touched the glass. The upper part of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for the purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black veil. She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full height, and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were fixed on him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no gesture whatever, the slightest consciousness of his having turned towards her.

‘Do you wish to consult me?’ he inquired, with some hesitation, holding open the door. It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not alter the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on the same spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the direction of the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate.

‘Leave the room, Tom,’ said the young man, addressing the boy, whose large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this brief interview. ‘Draw the curtain, and shut the door.’

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a seat. The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it. As the blaze shone upon the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was saturated with mud and rain.

‘You are very wet,’ be said.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was that of a person in pain.

“Copriremo con un velo”, come dicono gli scrittori di romanzi, la scena che seguì. Quel misterioso, filosofico, romantico e metafisico Sparkins – che, agli occhi dell’interessata Teresa, sembrava l’incarnazione stessa dell’idea dei giovani duchi e degli eleganti poeti in abiti di seta blu e pantofole coordinate, di cui aveva letto e sognato, ma che mai si sarebbe aspettata di incontrare – si trasformò improvvisamente nel signor Samuel Smith, assistente in un negozio economico, socio junior in una società poco affidabile appena fondata da tre settimane. La dignitosa scomparsa dell’“eroe” di Oak Lodge, a seguito di questa inaspettata rivelazione, poteva essere paragonata soltanto a quella di un cane furtivo con una pentola pesante alle calcagna. Tutte le speranze della famiglia Malderton erano destinate a svanire all’istante, come i gelati al limone durante una cena aziendale; il mondo delle debuttanti per loro era ancora più lontano del Polo Nord. E la signorina Teresa aveva altrettante possibilità di trovare un marito quanto il capitano Ross di scoprire una via navigabile verso nord-ovest.

Sono trascorsi molti anni da quando è avvenuto quell’orribile evento. I margheriti hanno fiorito tre volte in Camberwell-green; gli uccellini hanno ripetuto per tre volte i loro canti primaverili in Camberwell-grove; ma le signorine Malderton sono ancora single. La situazione di Miss Teresa è più disperata che mai; tuttavia Flamwell si trova ancora all’apice della sua reputazione, e la famiglia mantiene la stessa preferenza per i personaggi aristocratici, con un’avversione sempre maggiore verso tutto ciò che è “basso” o di rango inferiore.

CAPITOLO VI – IL VELO NERO

Una sera d’inverno, verso la fine dell’anno 1800, o un anno o due dopo quel periodo, un giovane medico, appena avviato nella sua professione, sedeva accanto a un caldo fuoco nel suo piccolo salotto, ascoltando il vento che batteva contro la finestra, trasformando la pioggia in goccioline che cadevano rumorosamente, o rimbombava cupamente nel camino. La notte era umida e fredda; aveva trascorso l’intera giornata camminando tra fango e acqua, e ora si riposava comodamente in vestaglia e pantofole, mezzo addormentato, mentre mille pensieri gli vorticavano nella mente. Prima di tutto, rifletté su quanto fosse forte il vento e su quanto la pioggia fredda e battente lo avrebbe colpito se non fosse stato al sicuro in casa. Poi i suoi pensieri tornarono alla visita natalizia annuale nella sua città natale e tra i suoi cari amici; immaginò quanto sarebbero stati felici di vederlo, e come sarebbe stata contenta Rose se le avesse potuto dire che finalmente aveva trovato un paziente. E che sperava di ne trovare altri, per tornare a trovarla tra qualche mese, sposarla e portarla con sé a casa, per rendere più felice la sua solitaria vita. Poi iniziò a chiedersi quando sarebbe apparso il suo primo paziente. O se, forse, per qualche strana volontà del Destino, non ne avrebbe mai trovato nessuno. E poi pensò di nuovo a Rose. E si addormentò, sognandola. Fino a quando non sentì la sua voce dolce e allegra risuonare nelle sue orecchie, e la sua mano delicata posarsi sulla sua spalla.

C’era una mano sulla sua spalla, ma non era né morbida né piccola; il suo proprietario era un ragazzo robusto e dalla testa rotonda che, in cambio di uno scellino a settimana e del cibo, veniva incaricato dal parrocchione di portare medicine e messaggi. Tuttavia, poiché non c’era alcuna richiesta per le medicine né necessità dei messaggi, passava solitamente i suoi momenti liberi – in media quattordici al giorno – a preparare gocce alla menta piperita, assumere sostanze nutritive e andare a dormire.

“Una signora, signore, una signora!” sussurrò il ragazzo, scuotendo il suo padrone per svegliarlo.

“Quale signora?” esclamò il nostro amico, alzandosi in piedi, non del tutto sicuro che il suo sogno fosse un’illusione, e aspettandosi quasi che potesse essere proprio Rose in persona. “Quale signora? Dove?”

“Lì, signore!”, rispose il ragazzo, indicando la porta di vetro che conduceva nell’ambulatorio, con un’espressione di allarme che anche l’apparizione insolita di un cliente avrebbe potuto suscitare.

Il chirurgo guardò verso la porta; per un istante, alla vista dell’arrivo di quel visitatore inaspettato, rimase immobile.

Era una donna di statura eccezionalmente alta, vestita a lutto stretto, e stava così vicina alla porta che il suo viso quasi toccava il vetro. La parte superiore del suo corpo era accuratamente coperta da un scialle nero, come se lo scopo fosse quello di nasconderla; inoltre, il suo volto era avvolto in un fitto velo nero. Stava in piedi perfettamente dritta, con la schiena eretta al massimo; e sebbene il chirurgo avvertisse che i suoi occhi sotto il velo lo fissavano, lei rimaneva completamente immobile, senza mostrare con alcun gesto di essere consapevole del suo sguardo.

“Desideri consultarmi?” chiese lui, con un certo esitazione, tenendo la porta aperta. La porta si apriva verso l’interno, quindi quel gesto non modificava affatto la posizione della figura, che rimaneva immobile nello stesso punto.

Inclinò leggermente la testa, come segno di assenso.

“Entri pure per la preghiera,” disse il chirurgo.

La figura fece un passo avanti; poi, girando la testa nella direzione del ragazzo, sembrò esitare, per sua immensa paura.

“Vattene dalla stanza, Tom,” disse il giovane rivolgendosi al ragazzo, i cui grandi occhi rotondi si erano spalancati al massimo durante quell’ breve incontro. “Tira le tende e chiudi la porta.”

Il ragazzo tirò una tenda verde davanti alla parte in vetro della porta, si ritirò nella stanza operatoria, chiuse la porta dietro di sé e immediatamente applicò uno dei suoi “grandi occhi” sulla serratura dall’altra parte.

Il chirurgo trascinò una sedia vicino al focolare e fece segno all’ospite di sedersi. La figura misteriosa si avvicinò lentamente. Mentre le fiamme illuminavano l’abito nero, il chirurgo notò che la sua parte inferiore era completamente imbevuta di fango e pioggia.

“Sei molto bagnato,” si disse.

“Lo sono,” disse lo sconosciuto con una voce bassa e profonda.

“E sei malato?” chiese il chirurgo con compassione, poiché il tono della sua voce denotava chiaramente dolore.

‘I am,’ was the reply—‘very ill; not bodily, but mentally. It is not for myself, or on my own behalf,’ continued the stranger, ‘that I come to you. If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone, at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted with it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down and pray to die. It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may be mad to ask it for him—I think I am; but, night after night, through the long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been ever present to my mind; and though even I see the hopelessness of human assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his grave without it makes my blood run cold!’ And a shudder, such as the surgeon well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker’s frame.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman’s manner, that went to the young man’s heart. He was young in his profession, and had not yet witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human suffering.

‘If,’ he said, rising hastily, ‘the person of whom you speak, be in so hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost. I will go with you instantly. Why did you not obtain medical advice before?’

‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless even now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however, rendered such a result impossible.

‘You are ill,’ he said, gently, ‘although you do not know it. The fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue you have evidently undergone, is burning within you now. Put that to your lips,’ he continued, pouring out a glass of water—‘compose yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can, what the disease of the patient is, and how long he has been ill. When I know what it is necessary I should know, to render my visit serviceable to him, I am ready to accompany you.’

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising the veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

‘I know,’ she said, sobbing aloud, ‘that what I say to you now, seems like the ravings of fever. I have been told so before, less kindly than by you. I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that have gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old friends long since dead, and young ones—children perhaps—who have fallen off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died too. My natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be dear on that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh—with cheerfulness—with joy—if what I tell you now, were only false, or imaginary. To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I know, though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and could not serve, him.’

‘I am unwilling to increase your distress,’ said the surgeon, after a short pause, ‘by making any comment on what you have just said, or appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot reconcile with probability. This person is dying to-night, and I cannot see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will be useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then! If he be, indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not try to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease render it impracticable?’

‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how can I hope strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You will not see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly.

‘I did not say that I declined to see him,’ replied the surgeon; ‘but I warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination, and the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.’

‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the stranger bitterly. ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear, and ready to answer.’

‘As I incur none,’ continued the surgeon, ‘by acceding to your request, I will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address. At what hour can he be seen?’

‘Nine,’ replied the stranger.

‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon. ‘But is he in your charge now?’

‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder.

‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night, you could not assist him?’

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more information by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the woman’s feelings, which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now irrepressible and most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his promise of calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His visitor, after giving him a direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the house in the same mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible circumstances of the case. In common with the generality of people, he had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and realised. At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with a foreboding of their own death. This woman, however, spoke of another person—a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken. It could not be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the woman, originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath, had relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some outrage on the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible, by the timely interposition of medical aid? The idea of such things happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and preposterous to be entertained beyond the instant. Then, his original impression that the woman’s intellects were disordered, recurred; and, as it was the only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his thoughts at the time, and presented themselves again and again through the long dull course of a sleepless night; during which, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil from his disturbed imagination.

“Sì,” fu la risposta, “sono molto malato; non fisicamente, ma mentalmente. Non è per me, né a mio nome,” continuò lo sconosciuto, “che vengo da voi. Se soffrissi di una malattia fisica, non uscirei da solo, a un’ora del genere, in una notte come questa; e se ne soffrissi anche tra ventiquattro ore, Dio sa quanto volentieri mi sdraierei e pregerei per morire. È per un altro che vi chiedo aiuto, signore. Forse sono pazzo a farlo. Penso di sì. Ma, notte dopo notte, durante quelle lunghe e tristi ore di veglia e pianto, questo pensiero non ha mai lasciato la mia mente. E anche se anch’io vedo l’impossibilità che l’aiuto umano possa salvarlo, solo l’idea di seppellirlo nella sua tomba senza alcun soccorso mi fa rabbrividire, ” Un brivido, simile a quello che un chirurgo conosce bene come impossibile da indurre artificialmente, scosse il corpo dello sconosciuto.

C’era una sincera disperazione nel modo di comportarsi di questa donna, che raggiunse il cuore del giovane. Era ancora alle prime armi nella sua professione e non aveva ancora assistito a sufficienza alle miserie che ogni giorno si presentano davanti agli occhi dei suoi colleghi, per diventare relativamente insensibile al dolore umano.

“Se,” disse lui alzandosi in fretta, “la persona di cui parlate si trovasse in una condizione così disperata come quella che descrivete, non bisogna perdere un istante. Verrò con voi immediatamente. Perché non avete chiesto consiglio medico prima?”

“Perché prima sarebbe stato inutile, perché anche ora è inutile,” rispose la donna, stringendo le mani con passione.

Il chirurgo fissò per un momento il velo nero, come se volesse discernere l’espressione dei tratti facciali che si nascondevano al di sotto di esso; tuttavia, la sua spessore rendeva impossibile ottenere tale informazione.

“Sei malato,” disse lui dolcemente, “anche se non lo sai. La febbre che ti ha permesso di sopportare, senza accorgertene, la fatica che hai sicuramente subito, ora sta bruciando dentro di te. Bevi questo,” continuò, versandogli un bicchiere d’acqua; “calmati per un momento, e poi dimmi, con tutta la calma possibile, qual è la malattia del paziente e da quanto tempo è ammalato. Quando saprò tutto ciò che è necessario, sarò pronto ad accompagnarti.”

Lo sconosciuto portò il bicchiere di acqua alle labbra, senza sollevare il velo; lo posò di nuovo senza averlo assaggiato; e scoppiò in lacrime.

“Lo so,” disse lei, singhiozzando ad alta voce, “che ciò che ti sto dicendo ora sembra il delirio causato dalla febbre. Me lo hanno detto anche in passato, ma non con tanta gentilezza come tu. Non sono più una giovane donna; e si dice infatti che, mentre la vita si avvicina alla sua fine, l’ultimo breve periodo di tempo, per quanto possa sembrare insignificante agli occhi degli altri, sia più prezioso per chi lo vive di tutti gli anni trascorsi, anche se quegli anni sono legati al ricordo di vecchi amici ormai morti da tempo, e di giovani, forse bambini, che ci hanno abbandonato e dimenticato completamente, come se anch’essi fossero morti. La mia vita naturale non potrà durare ancora molti anni; per questo motivo dovrebbe essere preziosa. Ma la darei via senza un lamento, con gioia, se ciò che ti sto dicendo ora fosse solo falso o frutto dell’immaginazione. Domani mattina, colui di cui parlo sarà, lo so, al di là di ogni possibilità di aiuto umano; eppure, stasera, anche se è in pericolo mortale, tu non devi vederlo, né puoi aiutarlo.”

“Non desidero aumentare il vostro dolore,” disse il chirurgo dopo una breve pausa, “facendo commenti su ciò che avete appena detto, né mostrando interesse ad indagare su un argomento che cercate così disperatamente di nascondere; tuttavia, c’è un’incoerenza nelle vostre affermazioni che non riesco a spiegarmi. Questa persona sta morendo, questa notte, e non posso visitarla ora, quando la mia assistenza potrebbe ancora essere utile; voi temete che domani sia troppo tardi, eppure vorreste che lo facessi proprio allora! Se davvero è così importante per voi, come suggeriscono le vostre parole e il vostro comportamento, perché non cercate di salvarlo prima che il ritardo e l’aggravarsi della sua malattia rendano tutto impossibile?”

“Dio mi aiuti!”, esclamò la donna piangendo amaramente, “come posso sperare che degli estranei credano a qualcosa che sembra incredibile anche per me? Allora non lo vedrete, signore, ”, aggiunse alzandosi improvvisamente.

“Non ho detto che rifiutassi di vederlo,” rispose il chirurgo; “ma vi avverto che, se continuerete con questa straordinaria dilazione e la persona morirà, una terribile responsabilità ricadrà su di voi.”

“La responsabilità ricadrà inevitabilmente su qualcuno,” rispose lo sconosciuto con amarezza. “Qualunque sia la mia responsabilità, sono disposto ad assumerla e pronto a rispondere delle mie azioni.”

“Poiché non subirò alcuna conseguenza negativa,” continuò il chirurgo, “accettando la vostra richiesta, lo incontrerò domattina, se mi lasciate l’indirizzo. A che ora potrebbe essere raggiunto?”

“Nove,” rispose lo sconosciuto.

“Deve scusarmi per queste domande insistenti,” disse il chirurgo. “Ma ora è sotto la sua responsabilità?”

“Non lo è,” fu la risposta.

“Allora, se vi dessi istruzioni per il suo trattamento durante la notte, non potreste aiutarlo?”

La donna pianse amaramente e rispose: “Non ho potuto.”

Riconoscendo che non c’erano molte possibilità di ottenere ulteriori informazioni prolungando l’intervista, e desideroso di risparmiare i sentimenti della donna – che, sebbene inizialmente repressi con uno sforzo violento, ora erano ormai irrefrenabili e estremamente dolorosi da osservare – il chirurgo ripeté la sua promessa di tornare la mattina all’ora concordata. La sua visitatrice, dopo avergli dato indicazioni per raggiungere una zona poco conosciuta di Walworth, lasciò la casa nello stesso modo misterioso in cui vi era entrata.

Si può facilmente credere che una visita così straordinaria abbia prodotto un’impressione notevole nella mente di quel giovane chirurgo; egli rifletté molto, sebbene senza arrivare a conclusioni definitive, sulle possibili circostanze del caso. Come la maggior parte delle persone, aveva spesso sentito e letto di casi singolari in cui si era avuta una premonizione della propria morte in un giorno o persino in un minuto preciso, e tale premonizione si era poi avverata. Per un momento pensò che questo potesse essere uno di quei casi; ma subito dopo gli venne in mente che tutte le storie del genere che aveva sentito riguardavano persone afflitte da timori legati alla propria morte. Questa donna, invece, parlava di un’altra persona: un uomo; e non era possibile pensare che un semplice sogno o un’illusione potessero spingerla a parlare con tale certezza della sua imminente morte. Non poteva certo essere che quell’uomo sarebbe stato assassinato la mattina seguente, e che quella donna, inizialmente complice dell’omicidio e vincolata dal giuramento al silenzio, avesse cambiato idea, decidendo di cercare, se possibile, di impedire la sua morte attraverso un intervento medico tempestivo. L’idea che cose del genere potessero accadere a soli due miglia dalla capitale sembrava troppo assurda per essere presa in considerazione anche solo per un momento. Allora ritornò alla sua prima impressione: che la mente di quella donna fosse disturbata; e poiché questa era l’unica spiegazione possibile, si ostinò a credere che fosse pazza. Tuttavia, in quel momento gli vennero alcuni dubbi al riguardo, e questi dubbi continuarono ad assillarlo per tutta la lunga e noiosa notte insonne; nonostante i suoi sforzi, non riuscì a scacciare quelle terribili immagini dalla sua mente turbata.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but, five-and-thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of questionable character, whose poverty prevented their living in any better neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its solitude desirable. Very many of the houses which have since sprung up on all sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great majority even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable description.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit he was about to make, had awakened. Striking off from the high road, his way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here and there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with decay and neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night, skirted the path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of garden-ground, with a few old boards knocked together for a summer-house, and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered from the neighbouring hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of the inhabitants, and the little scruple they entertained in appropriating the property of other people to their own use. Occasionally, a filthy-looking woman would make her appearance from the door of a dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking utensil into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little slip-shod girl, who had contrived to stagger a few yards from the door under the weight of a sallow infant almost as big as herself; but, scarcely anything was stirring around: and so much of the prospect as could be faintly traced through the cold damp mist which hung heavily over it, presented a lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in keeping with the objects we have described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as the object of his destination. It was a small low building, one story above the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior than any he had yet passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn across the window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but not fastened. The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood at an angle of a narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond the house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we say nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest reader. The police of London were a very different body in that day; the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and the progress of improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the main body of the city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most depraved characters. Even the streets in the gayest parts of London were imperfectly lighted, at that time; and such places as these, were left entirely to the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting desperate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, were thus rendered very few, and their offences naturally increased in boldness, as the consciousness of comparative security became the more impressed upon them by daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must be remembered that the young man had spent some time in the public hospitals of the metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had then gained a horrible notoriety, his own observation might have suggested to him how easily the atrocities to which the former has since given his name, might be committed. Be this as it may, whatever reflection made him hesitate, he did hesitate: but, being a young man of strong mind and great personal courage, it was only for an instant;—he stepped briskly back and knocked gently at the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on the landing above. It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy boots upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfastened; the door opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face, as the surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the passage.

‘Am I in time?’

‘Too soon!’ replied the man. The surgeon turned hastily round, with a gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it impossible to repress.

‘If you’ll step in here, sir,’ said the man, who had evidently noticed the action—‘if you’ll step in here, sir, you won’t be detained five minutes, I assure you.’

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal chairs, and a table of the same material. A handful of fire, unguarded by any fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if it served no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was stealing down the walls, in long slug-like tracks. The window, which was broken and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed piece of ground, almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be heard, either within the house, or without. The young surgeon sat down by the fireplace, to await the result of his first professional visit.

La parte posteriore di Walworth, nella sua massima distanza dalla città, è già oggi un luogo desolato e misero; ma cinquantatré anni fa, la maggior parte di quella zona non era molto meglio di una landa desolata, abitata da poche persone sparse di carattere dubbia, la cui povertà impediva loro di vivere in quartieri migliori, o il cui modo di vita rendeva quel luogo particolarmente isolato e poco attraente. Molte delle case che sono poi sorte intorno a quella zona non sono state costruite se non alcuni anni dopo; e la stragrande maggioranza di quelle esistenti all’epoca erano di tipo molto semplice e in condizioni estremamente precarie.

L’aspetto del luogo attraverso cui camminava al mattino non era certo fatto per sollevare lo spirito del giovane chirurgo, né per dissipare qualsiasi senso di ansia o depressione che quel tipo particolare di visita stesse per suscitare in lui. Allontanandosi dalla strada principale, il suo cammino attraversava una palude, lungo sentieri irregolari; qua e là si vedevano capanne in rovina, ormai completamente distrutte a causa del decadimento e dell’abbandono. Alcuni alberi stentati o stagni d’acqua stagnante, sollecitati dalla pioggia torrenziale della notte precedente, costeggiavano di tanto in tanto il sentiero; di quando in quando, un misero pezzo di terreno coltivato, con alcune vecchie assi messe insieme per costruire una “casa estiva”, e vecchi recinti riparati in modo approssimativo con pali rubati dalle siepi vicine, testimoniavano sia della povertà degli abitanti che del loro scarso scrupolo nell’appropriarsi delle proprietà altrui a proprio uso. Di tanto in tanto, una donna dall’aspetto sporco appariva dalla porta di una casa lurida per svuotare il contenuto di qualche utensile da cucina nel canale di scolo davanti alla casa, o per gridare dietro a una ragazzina scalza che, sotto il peso di un bambino pallido e quasi della sua stessa taglia, riusciva a camminare a fatica per pochi metri. Ma quasi nulla si muoveva intorno; e quella vista, appena distinguibile attraverso la nebbia fredda e umida che avvolgeva tutto il luogo, presentava un aspetto desolato e cupo, perfettamente in linea con ciò che avevamo descritto.

Dopo aver camminato stancamente attraverso fango e melma, dopo aver fatto molte domande riguardo al luogo verso cui era stato indirizzato e aver ricevuto risposte contraddittorie e insoddisfacenti, il giovane finalmente arrivò davanti alla casa che gli era stata indicata come sua destinazione. Era un piccolo edificio a un piano, con un aspetto ancora più desolato e poco promettente di qualsiasi altro avesse incontrato fino ad allora. Una vecchia tenda gialla era tirata con forza davanti alla finestra al piano di sopra, e le persiane della sala erano chiuse, ma non serrate a dovere. La casa era isolata da tutte le altre abitazioni circostanti; essendo situata all’angolo di una strada stretta, non si vedeva alcun altro edificio nelle vicinanze.

Quando diciamo che il chirurgo esitò e camminò per qualche passo oltre la casa, prima di riuscire a convincersi di suonare alla porta, non stiamo dicendo nulla che possa far sorridere anche il lettore più coraggioso. La polizia di Londra, in quei tempi, era un’organizzazione molto diversa da quella odierna; la posizione isolata dei sobborghi, dove l’espansione edilizia e i progressi urbanistici non avevano ancora collegato quelle aree al corpo principale della città e alle sue immediate vicinanze, rendevano molti di quei luoghi rifugio per le persone peggiori e più depravate. Anche le strade delle zone più vivaci di Londra, a quell’epoca, erano scarsamente illuminate; posti del genere erano completamente lasciati all’“misericordia” della luna e delle stelle. Di conseguenza, le possibilità di individuare persone pericolose o di rintracciarle nei loro nascondigli erano molto scarse, e i loro reati diventavano sempre più audaci, poiché la sensazione di sicurezza cresceva con l’esperienza quotidiana. A tutto ciò si aggiungeva il fatto che quel giovane aveva trascorso del tempo negli ospedali pubblici della città; e sebbene né Burke né Bishop avessero ancora acquisito una terribile notorietà, le sue stesse osservazioni potevano avergli fatto capire quanto facilmente fossero possibili gli atti orribili di cui Burke è poi diventato il simbolo. Comunque sia, qualunque riflessione lo avesse indotto ad esitare, egli esitò davvero, ma essendo un giovane dal carattere forte e dal grande coraggio personale, l’esitazione durò solo un istante: poi tornò rapidamente indietro e bussò delicatamente alla porta.

Subito dopo si udì un sussurro sommesso, come se qualcuno all’estremità del corridoio stesse conversando furtivamente con un’altra persona sul pianerottolo sopra. Poi seguì il rumore di due pesanti scarpe che calpestavano il pavimento nudo. La catena della porta fu sciolta dolcemente; la porta si aprì, e apparve un uomo alto e dall’aspetto poco attraente, con i capelli neri e un volto, come avrebbe poi detto lo stesso chirurgo, pallido e segnato dalla stanchezza, simile al viso di qualsiasi morto avesse mai visto.

“Entrate pure, signore,” disse lui a bassa voce.

Il chirurgo lo fece, e l’uomo, dopo aver nuovamente chiuso la porta con la catena, li guidò in una piccola stanza sul retro, all’estremità del corridoio.

“Sono nel giusto tempo?”

“Troppo presto!”, rispose l’uomo. Il chirurgo si girò di scatto, con un gesto di stupore misto ad allarme che non riuscì a trattenere.

“Se vuole entrare qui, signore,” disse l’uomo, che evidentemente aveva notato quella scena, “se vuole entrare qui, signore, le assicuro che non verrà trattenuto per più di cinque minuti.”

Il chirurgo entrò immediatamente nella stanza. L’uomo chiuse la porta e lo lasciò solo.

Era una stanza piuttosto fredda, senza altri mobili se non due sedie di legno e un tavolo dello stesso materiale. Un po’ di fuoco, non protetto da alcun paravento, ardeva nel camino; tuttavia, quell’umidità malsana si diffondeva lungo le pareti, lasciando tracce simili a lunghi rivoli d’acqua. La finestra, rotta e riparata in più punti, dava su un piccolo spazio chiuso quasi completamente coperto da acqua. Non si udiva alcun suono, né all’interno della >casa né all’esterno. Il giovane chirurgo si sedette accanto al camino, in attesa del risultato della sua prima visita professionale.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of some approaching vehicle struck his ear. It stopped; the street-door was opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise of footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three men were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above. The creaking of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the new-comers having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving the house. The door was again closed, and the former silence was restored.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to explore the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his errand known, when the room-door opened, and his last night’s visitor, dressed in exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before, motioned him to advance. The singular height of her form, coupled with the circumstance of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across his brain for an instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman’s attire. The hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the convulsive attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once exposed the absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the door, to let him enter first. It was scantily furnished with an old deal box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or cross-rails, which was covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed from the outside, rendered the objects in the room so indistinct, and communicated to all of them so uniform a hue, that he did not, at first, perceive the object on which his eye at once rested when the woman rushed frantically past him, and flung herself on her knees by the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and covered with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless. The head and face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage which passed over the head and under the chin. The eyes were closed. The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily—‘the man is dead!’

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

‘Oh! don’t say so, sir,’ she exclaimed, with a burst of passion, amounting almost to frenzy. ‘Oh! don’t say so, sir! I can’t bear it! Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if proper means had been resorted to. Don’t let him lie here, sir, without one effort to save him! This very moment life may be passing away. Do try, sir,—do, for Heaven’s sake!’—And while speaking, she hurriedly chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

‘It is of no use, my good woman,’ said the surgeon, soothingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man’s breast. ‘Stay—undraw that curtain!’

‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up.

‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

‘I darkened the room on purpose,’ said the woman, throwing herself before him as he rose to undraw it.—‘Oh! sir, have pity on me! If it can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than mine!’

‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon. ‘I must see the body!’ With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

‘There has been violence here,’ he said, pointing towards the body, and gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his searching glance.

‘There has!’ replied the woman.

‘This man has been murdered.’

‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately; ‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’

‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder.

‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon.

‘My son,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death, and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the sufferings she had endured for him—incessant anxiety of mind, and voluntary starvation of body—had plunged into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman’s hands, and his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity.

Non era trascorso molto tempo da quando si trovava in quella posizione, quando il rumore di un veicolo che si avvicinava raggiunse le sue orecchie. Il veicolo si fermò; la porta di casa si aprì; seguirono alcune voci basse, accompagnate dal suono di passi che si muovevano lungo il corridoio e sulle scale, come se due o tre uomini stessero trasportando un qualche oggetto pesante verso la stanza al piano di sopra. Pochi secondi dopo, lo scricchiolio delle scale annunciò che i nuovi arrivati avevano completato la loro missione, qualunque essa fosse, e stavano lasciando la casa. La porta si richiuse di nuovo, e il precedente silenzio tornò a regnare.

Erano trascorsi altri cinque minuti, e il chirurgo aveva deciso di esplorare la casa alla ricerca di qualcuno a cui potesse comunicare il suo messaggio, quando la porta della stanza si aprì e la visitatrice della sua ultima notte, vestita esattamente nello stesso modo, con il velo abbassato come prima, gli fece segno di avvicinarsi. L’alta statura insolita di quella donna, unita al fatto che non parlava, gli fece per un istante pensare che potesse trattarsi di un uomo mascherato da donna. Tuttavia, i singhiozzi isterici che provenivano dal di sotto del velo e l’atteggiamento convulso di dolore della sua figura rivelarono immediatamente l’assurdità di quel sospetto; così lui la seguì senza esitazione.

La donna lo guidò su per le scale fino alla stanza principale, poi si fermò sulla porta per lasciarlo entrare per primo. La stanza era arredata in modo molto semplice: c’era una vecchia scatola da regali, alcune sedie e un letto da campeggio, senza tende né sbarre di protezione; il letto era coperto con una trapunta fatta a patchwork. La luce fioca che filtrava attraverso la tenda, che aveva notato dall’esterno, rendeva gli oggetti nella stanza molto indistinti e conferiva loro tutti lo stesso colore uniforme; per questo, all’inizio non riuscì a vedere l’oggetto su cui i suoi occhi si posarono immediatamente quando la donna, con un gesto frenetico, gli passò accanto e si gettò in ginocchio vicino al letto.

Disteso sul letto, avvolto strettamente in un panno di lino e coperto da coperte, c’era un corpo umano, rigido e immobile. La testa e il viso, che appartenevano a un uomo, erano scoperti, tranne per una benda che gli passava sulla testa e sotto il mento. Gli occhi erano chiusi. Il braccio sinistro giaceva pesantemente sul letto, e la donna teneva nella sua quella mano inerte.

Il chirurgo spostò dolcemente la donna da parte e prese la sua mano nella propria.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò, senza poter trattenersi, “quell’uomo è morto!”

La donna si alzò in piedi e iniziò a battere le mani insieme.

“Oh! Non dite così, signore,” esclamò lei, con un impeto di passione che quasi sfiorava la follia. “Oh! Non dite così, signore. Non ce la faccio più! In passato sono stati risuscitati uomini che venivano dati per perduti da persone inesperte; e ci sono stati uomini che sono morti quando invece avrebbero potuto essere salvati, se si fossero adottate le giuste misure. Non lasciate che rimanga qui senza che si faccia nulla per salvarlo. In questo stesso momento la vita potrebbe staccarsi da lui. Provateci, signore. Per l’amor del cielo!” Mentre parlava, cominciò freneticamente a strofinare prima la fronte e poi il petto di quella figura priva di sensi; inoltre batteva con forza le sue mani fredde, che, non appena lei smetteva di tenerle, ricadevano inerte e pesantemente sul lenzuolo.

“Non serve a nulla, mia buona donna,” disse il chirurgo con voce rassicurante, mentre ritirava la mano dal petto dell’uomo. “Resti, non tirare via quella tenda!”

“Perché?”, disse la donna, alzandosi in piedi.

“Togliete quella tenda!” ripeté il chirurgo con tono agitato.

“Ho intenzionalmente oscurato la stanza,” disse la donna, gettandosi davanti a lui mentre lui si alzava per togliere le tende. “Oh, signore, abbia pietà di me! Se non serve a nulla e lui è davvero morto, non esponga quella figura ad altri occhi se non ai miei!”

“Quest’uomo non è morto di una morte naturale o tranquilla,” disse il chirurgo. “Devo vedere il corpo!” Con un movimento così improvviso che la donna quasi non si rese conto che lui le era scivolato accanto, strappò via la tenda, lasciando entrare tutta la luce del giorno, e tornò al capezzale del letto.

“Qui è avvenuta violenza,” disse, indicando il corpo e fissando attentamente il volto, dal quale ora, per la prima volta, era stato rimosso il velo nero. Nell’agitazione di quel momento, la donna aveva gettato via cappello e velo e ora stava lì, con lo sguardo fisso su di lui. I suoi tratti erano quelli di una donna di circa cinquant’anni, un tempo bella. Il dolore e il pianto avevano lasciato su di lei segni che nemmeno il tempo avrebbe mai potuto cancellare; il suo viso era pallidissimo; le labbra si contraevano in modo nervoso, e nei suoi occhi brillava una luce innaturale che dimostrava chiaramente quanto le sue forze fisiche e mentali fossero ormai prossime al collasso, sotto il peso di un’infinita sofferenza.

“Qui è stata commessa violenza,” disse il chirurgo, mantenendo uno sguardo attento e indagatore.

“C’è stato!” rispose la donna.

“Quest’uomo è stato assassinato.”

“Giuro su Dio che l’ha fatto,” disse la donna con passione; “l’ha assassinato senza pietà, in modo disumano!”

“Da chi?” chiese il chirurgo, afferrando la donna per un braccio.

“Guarda quelle macchie lasciate dai macellai, poi chiedimelo!” rispose lei.

Il chirurgo girò il viso verso il letto e si chinò sul -corpo che ora giaceva completamente illuminato dalla luce della finestra. La gola era gonfia, e un segno livido la circondava. All’improvviso, la -verità gli balenò davanti agli occhi.

“Questo è uno degli uomini che sono stati impiccati stamattina!” esclamò, allontanandosi con un brivido.

“Sì,” rispose la donna, con uno sguardo freddo e privo di significato.

“Chi era?” chiese il chirurgo.

“Mio figlio, ”, esclamò la donna; poi svenne ai suoi piedi.

Era vero. Un compagno, altrettanto colpevole di lui, era stato assolto per mancanza di prove; mentre quest’uomo era stato condannato a morte e giustiziato. Raccontare i dettagli di questo caso, in un periodo così lontano, sarebbe superfluo e potrebbe causare >dolore a alcune persone ancora in vita. La storia era piuttosto banale: la madre era una vedova senza amici né denaro, e aveva rinunciato a tutto ciò di cui aveva bisogno per poter provvedere al proprio figlio orfano. Quel ragazzo, indifferente alle sue preghiere e dimentico delle sofferenze che lei aveva sopportato per lui – angoscia continua e privazioni volontarie – era caduto in una vita di dissipazione e crimini. E questo fu il risultato: la sua stessa >morte per mano del boia, e la vergogna e la follia irreversibile di sua madre.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.

CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION

Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square which command an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—‘a devilish good fellow.’ He had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always ‘willing to make himself generally useful.’ If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy-godfather; and if any member of a friend’s family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own appropriate and expressive description—‘like winkin’!’

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore, after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, cardboard drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

‘Splendid idea, ’pon my life!’ soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the evening. ‘Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance, emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was the laundress. ‘Did you call, sir?’

‘Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor should call again, you’d better say—you’d better say I’m out of town, and shan’t be back for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost his address, or I’d have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?’

‘The funny gentleman, sir?’

‘Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as herself.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into an easy chair near the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house officer, or some other interesting amateur.

‘You good creature!’ said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy. ‘You really are a good soul! You’ve come about the water-party, I know.’

‘I should rather suspect I had,’ replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly. ‘Now, come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to the table.

‘Now,’ continued Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘it seems to me that the best way will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by these ten fellows jointly.’

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.

capitolo VII – L’ESCURSIONE IN VAPORE

Il signor Percy Noakes era uno studente di legge che abitava in un appartamento al quarto piano, in una di quelle case situate in Gray’s-inn-square da cui si poteva godere di una vista ampia sui giardini e su tutte le cose che di solito vi accompagnano: cameriere eleganti, bambini viziati. Il signor Percy Noakes era quel che si definisce comunemente un “uomo davvero gentile”. Aveva un vasto cerchio di conoscenti e raramente pranzava a sue spese. Parlava di politica con i padri, lusingava la vanità delle madri, era affabile con le loro figlie, organizzava incontri piacevoli per i loro figli maschi e scherzava con i più giovani della famiglia. Come quei modelli di perfezione che sembrano fuori posto in certe situazioni, era sempre “disposto ad essere d’aiuto a tutti”. Se una vecchia signora, il cui figlio si trovava in India, organizzava un ballo, il signor Percy Noakes si occupava personalmente delle cerimonie; se una giovane donna nascondeva una relazione segreta, lui la “smascherava”; se una moglie giovane presentava al marito un bambino appena nato, il signor Percy Noakes diventava padrino o vice-padrino. E se qualcuno della famiglia di un amico moriva, lui era sempre presente nel secondo carro funebre, con un fazzoletto bianco sugli occhi, piangendo. Per usare le sue stesse parole: “come se stesse battendo le palpebre!”.

Si può facilmente immaginare che queste numerose attività avessero lo scopo di interferire con gli studi professionali del signor Percy Noakes. Il signor Percy Noakes ne era pienamente consapevole e, dopo matura riflessione, aveva deciso di non studiare affatto: una decisione lodevole, che mantenne in modo davvero encomiabile. Il suo salotto presentava un vero caos di guanti da sera, guanti da pugilato, caricature, album, biglietti d’invito, foglie di metallo, mazze da cricket, disegni su cartone, colla, gomma da masticare e altre cinquanta cose varie ammucchiate in modo assurdo. Era sempre impegnato a preparare qualcosa per qualcuno o a organizzare qualche festa divertente, che rappresentava il suo vero punto di forza. Parlava sempre con una velocità sorprendente; era spiritoso, affascinante e, ventottenne.

“Un’idea splendida,” esclamò tra sé il signor Percy Noakes mentre beveva il caffè del mattino, ripensando a una proposta fatta la sera precedente da una signora nella cui casa aveva trascorso la serata. “Una idea meravigliosa. La signora Stubbs.”

“Sì, signore,” rispose una vecchia donna sporca, con il viso infiammato, uscendo dalla camera da letto e portando con sé un secchio pieno di fango e cenere. Era la lavandaia. “Ha chiamato, signore?”

“Oh! Signora Stubbs, esco adesso. Se quel sarto dovesse chiamare di nuovo, dica pure che non sono in città e che non tornerò per due settimane; e se quel calzolaio dovesse venire, dica che ho perso il suo indirizzo, altrimenti gli avrei già inviato quella piccola somma. Assicurarsi che la scriva giù; e se il signor Hardy dovesse chiamare, sa chi è il signor Hardy?”

“Il gentiluomo divertente, signore?”

“Ah! Quel gentiluomo così strano. Se il signor Hardy dovesse chiamare, dite che sono andato da Mrs. Taunton per quella festa acquatica.”

“Sì, signore.”

“E se qualcuno dovesse chiamare dicendo di essere venuto per un piroscafo, ditegli di venire qui alle cinque in ora questo pomeriggio, signora Stubbs.”

“Molto bene, signore.”

Il signor Percy Noakes si sistemò il cappello, pulì le briciole dai suoi vestiti con un fazzoletto di seta, sistemò con cura le estremità dei suoi capelli attorno al dito indice e si avviò verso la residenza della signora Taunton in Great Marlborough-street, dove lei e le sue figlie abitavano l’alloggio superiore di una casa. Era una vedova attraente di cinquant’anni, con la corporatura di una gigantessa e la mente di una bambina. La ricerca del piacere e qualche modo per passare il tempo costituivano l’unico scopo della sua esistenza. Amava molto le sue figlie, che erano altrettanto frivole quanto lei.

Un generale esclamazione di soddisfazione accolse l’arrivo del signor Percy Noakes, il quale si limitò alle solite formalità di saluto e si sedette con disinvoltura in una poltrona vicino al tavolo da lavoro delle signore, come se fosse un amico di famiglia ormai affermato. La signora Taunton era impegnata ad attaccare enormi nastri luminosi su ogni parte di un cappello elegante; la signorina Emily Taunton stava facendo il turno di guardia; la signorina Sophia era al pianoforte, a esercitarsi con una nuova canzone, poesia scritta da quel giovane ufficiale, o poliziotto, o funzionario doganale, o qualche altro appassionato dilettante.

“Che brava persona sei!” disse la signora Taunton rivolgendosi al nobile Percy. “Sei davvero una bella ‘anima. So che sei venuto alla festa sul lago.”

“Piuttosto dovrei sospettare di averla,” rispose il signor Noakes, trionfante. “Ora, venite qui ragazze, e vi racconterò tutto.” La signorina Emily e la signorina Sophia si avvicinarono al tavolo.

“Ora,” continuò il signor Percy Noakes, “mi sembra che il modo migliore sia quello di formare un comitato di dieci persone per organizzare tutto e gestire l’intera operazione. Propongo inoltre che le spese siano sostenute congiuntamente da queste dieci persone.”

‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part of the arrangements.

‘Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then named; every member of the committee shall have the power of black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.’

‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily.

‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in his element. ‘I think it’ll do. Then you know we shall go down to the Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know what you call ’em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles all day; and then, whoever we know that’s musical, you know, why they’ll make themselves useful and agreeable; and—and—upon the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!’

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises.

‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the ten gentlemen to be?’

‘Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall have—’

‘Mr. Hardy!’ interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that could be adopted on so short a notice.

‘How are you?’ said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as ‘the funny gentleman.’ He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jews’-harp. He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendous laugh.

‘How are you?’ said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many pump-handles.

‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a detailed account of the proposed excursion. ‘Oh, capital! glorious! What a day it will be! what fun!—But, I say, when are you going to begin making the arrangements?’

‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’

‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies. ‘Pray, do!’

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother’s) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated, however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he trusted not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never existed.—(Hear, hear!) The young gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on pic-nics and constitutional rights.

“Veramente eccellente!” disse la signora Taunton, che approvava molto questa parte degli accordi.

“Allora, il mio piano è che ciascuno di questi dieci ragazzi abbia il potere di chiedere informazioni a cinque persone. Dovrà esserci una riunione del comitato nelle mie stanze per fare tutti gli accordi necessari, e in quel momento verranno nominati i partecipanti; ogni membro del comitato avrà il potere di opporsi con un voto negativo a chiunque venga proposto; un solo voto negativo basterà per escludere quella persona. In questo modo, si garantirà che la nostra festa sia piacevole, capite?”

“Che bravo manager che sei!” interruppe di nuovo la signora Taunton.

“Incantevole!” disse la adorabile Emily.

“Non l’ho mai fatto!” esclamò Sophia.

“Sì, penso che vada bene,” rispose il signor Percy Noakes, che ormai si sentiva completamente a suo agio. “Penso proprio che vada bene. Allora sapete che scenderemo al Nore e torneremo indietro, e prepareremo una cena davvero deliziosa nella cabina prima di iniziare, così tutto sarà pronto senza alcun problema; inoltre, pranzeremo sul ponte, in quei piccoli spazi decorati come dei giardini, vicino alle pompe. Non so proprio come li chiamiate. Poi noleggeremo una nave appositamente per il nostro gruppo, assumeremo anche un’orchestra, e il ponte sarà pulito e preparato; potremo ballare le quadriglie tutto il giorno. E poi, chiunque abbia talento musicale si renderà sicuramente utile e renderà l’atmosfera piacevole. Insomma, davvero spero che sia una giornata meravigliosa!”

L’annuncio di questi accordi fu accolto con grande entusiasmo. La signora Taunton, Emily e Sophia espressero apertamente la loro approvazione.

“Beh, ma dimmi, Percy,” disse la signora Taunton, “chi sono questi dieci gentiluomini di cui si parla?”

“Oh! Conosco molti ragazzi che saranno felicissimi di questo piano,” rispose il signor Percy Noakes; “certamente ne avremo, ”

“Signor Hardy!”, interruppe il servitore, annunciando l’arrivo di un visitatore. La signorina Sophia e la signorina Emily assunsero rapidamente le posizioni più interessanti che potessero assumere in così poco tempo.

“Come sta?” disse un signore robusto, di circa quarant’anni, fermandosi sulla soglia con l’aria di un buffone impacciato. Era il signor Hardy, che avevamo già descritto in precedenza; secondo la signora Stubbs, era “quel signore così divertente”. Era un tipo simile a Joe Miller degli Astley-Cooper’s – un vero e proprio buffone pratico, estremamente popolare tra le donne sposate e molto amato dai giovani. Era sempre impegnato in qualche gita o avventura e si divertiva a mettere qualcuno nei guai in quelle occasioni. Sapeva cantare canzoni comiche, imitare i cocchieri e i polli, suonare melodie sul mento, e persino eseguire concerti con l’arpa ebraica! Mangiava e beveva sempre in modo eccessivo ed era il caro amico del signor Percy Noakes. Aveva il viso rosso, una voce un po’ rauca e una risata fragorosa.

“Come stai?” disse quest’uomo gentile, ridendo, come se fosse la battuta più divertente del mondo fare una visita mattutina e stringere le mani alle signore con tale fervore, come se quelle loro braccia fossero state delle maniglie di pompa.

“Sei proprio l’uomo che cercavo,” disse il signor Percy Noakes, il quale poi spiegò la ragione della sua richiesta.

“Ahahah!” esclamò Hardy, dopo aver ascoltato il resoconto e ricevuto i dettagli dell’escursione proposta. “Oh, fantastico! Meraviglioso! Che giorno sarà, che divertimento! Ma allora, quando inizierete a organizzare tutto?”

“Nessun altro momento come questo. Subito, per favore.”

“Ah, che incantevole!” esclamarono le signore. “Per favore, fatelo!”

I materiali da scrivere furono disposti davanti al signor Percy Noakes, e i nomi dei diversi membri del comitato furono concordati dopo molte discussioni tra lui e il signor Hardy, come se il destino delle nazioni dipendesse dalla loro nomina. Fu quindi deciso che si tenesse una riunione nelle stanze del signor Percy Noakes il mercoledì successivo alle otto di ore, e gli ospiti se ne andarono.

Arrivò la sera di mercoledì; alle otto in punto arrivarono gli otto membri del comitato, tutti puntuali. Il signor Loggins, l’avvocato dello studio legale Boswell-court, inviò scuse per non poter partecipare, mentre il signor Samuel Briggs, dell’omonimo studio legale di Furnival’s Inn, mandò suo fratello al suo posto; ciò fu di grande soddisfazione per quest’ultimo e di grande disappunto per il signor Percy Noakes. Tra le famiglie Briggs e Taunton esisteva un odio implacabile, del tutto senza precedenti. L’inimicizia tra i Montague e i Capuleto non era nulla in confronto a quella che regnava tra queste due illustri famiglie. La signora Briggs era vedova, con tre figlie e due figli; il maggiore dei figli, Samuel, lavorava come avvocato, mentre il più giovane, Alexander, era sotto la tutela di suo fratello. Vivevano in Portland-street, vicino a Oxford-street, e conducevano una vita simile a quella dei Taunton; ecco perché si odiavano a vicenda. Se le signorine Briggs indossavano cappelli eleganti, le signorine Taunton li superavano in raffinatezza. Se la signora Taunton appariva con un cappello dai mille colori dell’arcobaleno, la signora Briggs subito si metteva un tocco decorato con tutti i motivi del calidoscopio. Se la signorina Sophia Taunton imparava una nuova canzone, due delle signorine Briggs ne componevano immediatamente un duetto. Una volta i Taunton riuscirono a ottenere una vittoria temporanea grazie all’aiuto di un arpa, ma i Briggs portarono con sé tre chitarre e sconfissero decisivamente il nemico. Quella rivalità non aveva fine.

Ora, poiché il signor Samuel Briggs non era altro che una semplice macchina, una sorta di bastone da passeggio legale che agiva da solo; e poiché si sapeva che tutto ciò aveva avuto origine, per quanto remota, dalla signora Taunton, le donne della famiglia Briggs avevano deciso che fosse il signor Alexander ad intervenire, invece di suo fratello; inoltre, poiché il suddetto signor Alexander era giustamente noto per possedere tutta la tenacia tipica di un avvocato di tribunali fallimentari, unita alla testardaggine di quell’animale utile che si nutre dei cardi, non gli fu necessario alcun particolare addestramento. Gli fu in particolare ordinato di comportarsi il più sgradevolmente possibile; e soprattutto, di votare contro i Taunton a tutti i costi.

L’ordine del giorno della serata fu aperto dal signor Percy Noakes. Dopo aver incoraggiato con successo i presenti sull’utilità di mescolare brandy con acqua, espresse brevemente lo scopo dell’incontro e concluse osservando che il primo passo doveva essere la selezione di un presidente, il quale dovesse disporre di poteri discrezionali – ma certamente non incostituzionali – affinché potesse gestire personalmente tutte le organizzazioni (sotto l’approvazione del comitato). Un giovane gentiluomo pallido, vestito con un abito verde e occhiali dello stesso colore, membro dell’onorevole società dell’Inner Temple, si alzò immediatamente per proporre il signor Percy Noakes. Lo conosceva da tempo e poteva affermare che non esisteva persona più onorevole, più eccellente o dal cuore più gentile di lui. – (Applausi!) Il giovane, che faceva parte di una società di dibattito, approfittò dell’occasione per analizzare lo stato del diritto inglese, dai tempi di Guglielmo il Conquistatore fino ad oggi; menzionò brevemente il codice stabilito dagli antichi druidi, accennò ai principi enunciati dai legislatori ateniesi e concluse con un elogio appassionato dei picnic e dei diritti costituzionali.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said this, without the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put that ‘The Endeavour’ be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment, that the word ‘Fly’ be substituted for the word ‘Endeavour’; but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was provided with two backgammon men, one black and one white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman.

‘It is,’ replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—‘Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.’ The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceedings.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the Briggses were reinstated; and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and, as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on board by seven o’clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman; and the meeting separated.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s chambers.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised.

It was just five o’clock. He calculated the time—he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was stationed a ‘street-breakfast.’ The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three ‘ladies’ and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements by ‘bonneting’ the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house.

Il signor Alexander Briggs si oppose alla proposta. Nutriva la massima stima per il signor Percy Noakes come persona, ma riteneva che non dovesse essere incaricato di tali immense responsabilità. Oh, oh! Credeva che, nella posizione proposta, il signor Percy Noakes non avrebbe agito in modo equo, imparziale o onorevole; tuttavia pregava che si capisse chiaramente che diceva queste cose senza alcun minimo disprezzo personale. Il signor Hardy difese il suo onorevole amico, con una voce resa in parte inintelligibile dall’emozione e dal brandy. La proposta fu messa ai voti e, poiché sembrava esserci soltanto un voto contrario, il signor Percy Noakes fu dichiarato ufficialmente eletto e assunse immediatamente la carica.

L’attività della riunione proseguì rapidamente. Il presidente presentò la sua stima dei probabili costi dell’escursione e tutti i presenti contribuirono con la propria quota. Fu poi sollevata la questione di noleggiare la nave “Endeavour” per l’occasione; il signor Alexander Briggs propose come emendamento di sostituire la parola “Endeavour” con la parola “Fly”, ma dopo alcune debattute acconsentì a ritirare la sua proposta. A quel punto iniziò la importante procedura di votazione. Su un tavolo, in un angolo buio dell’appartamento, fu posizionata una scatola da tè e a ciascuno furono forniti due pedine da backgammon, una nera e una bianca.

Il presidente, con grande solennità, lesse quindi l’elenco dei ospiti che intendeva presentare: la signora Taunton e sue due figlie, il signor Wizzle, il signor Simson. I nomi furono votati uno per uno, e si decise che la signora Taunton e sue figlie venissero rifiutate. Il signor Percy Noakes e il signor Hardy si scambiarono uno sguardo.

“La sua lista è pronta, signor Briggs?” chiese il presidente.

“Sì,” rispose Alexander, e proseguì: “La signora Briggs e le sue tre figlie, il signor Samuel Briggs.” La procedura precedente fu ripetuta, e la signora Briggs insieme alle sue tre figlie furono dichiarate escluse dalla lista dei candidati. Il signor Alexander Briggs sembrava piuttosto imbarazzato, mentre gli altri presenti apparivano un po’ intimiditi dal carattere misterioso di quella procedura.

Le votazioni proseguirono; ma una piccola circostanza che il signor Percy Noakes non aveva previsto inizialmente impedì che il sistema funzionasse esattamente come lui aveva previsto. Tutti furono esclusi dalle votazioni. Il signor Alexander Briggs, a titolo di rappresaglia, esercitò il proprio potere di esclusione in ogni occasione; di conseguenza, dopo tre ore di votazioni intense, si scoprì che i nomi di soltanto tre gentiluomini erano stati concordati. In questa situazione difficile, cosa si poteva fare? O l’intero piano doveva fallire, oppure era necessario trovare un compromesso. Quest’ultima opzione risultò preferibile; quindi il signor Percy Noakes propose di abbandonare la forma tradizionale delle votazioni e di chiedere semplicemente a ogni gentiluomo di indicare chi intendeva includere nel gruppo. La proposta fu accettata; i membri dei clan Taunton e Briggs furono riammessi, e il gruppo venne finalmente formato.

Il prossimo mercoledì era stato fissato per quella giornata importante, e fu unanimemente deciso che ogni membro del comitato indossasse un nastro di seta blu attorno al braccio sinistro. Secondo quanto dichiarato dal signor Percy Noakes, la barca apparteneva alla General Steam Navigation Company ed era in quel momento ancorata vicino all’ufficio doganale; poiché egli propose che il pranzo e i vini fossero forniti da un rinomato fornitore della città, fu deciso che il signor Percy Noakes si recasse a bordo alle sette in punto per supervisionare gli preparativi, mentre gli altri membri del comitato, insieme al resto dei partecipanti, avrebbero dovuto raggiungerla alle nove. Fu ordinata ulteriore brandy e acqua; diversi studenti di legge presenti tennero discorsi; si ringraziò il presidente e la riunione si concluse.

Il tempo era stato meraviglioso fino a quel momento, e continuò ad esserlo. Passò la domenica, e il signor Percy Noakes divenne insolitamente irrequieto: andava avanti e indietro continuamente presso il molo del Steam Packet Wharf, per la sorpresa dei impiegati e al grande vantaggio dei tassisti di Holborn. Arrivò il martedì, e l’ansia del signor Percy Noakes non conosceva limiti: ogni istante correva alla finestra per controllare la presenza di nuvole; intanto, il signor Hardy sorprese tutta la piazza eseguendo una nuova canzone comica appositamente per l’occasione, nelle stanze del presidente.

Quella notte, il sonno del signor Percy Noakes fu agitato e tormentato: si girava e rigirava nel letto, sognando navi che partivano, orologi giganteschi le cui lancette indicavano le nove e un quarto, e il brutto volto del signor Alexander Briggs che lo fissava dal bordo della barca, sorridendo con derisione dei suoi vani tentativi di muoversi. Fece uno sforzo disperato per salire a bordo, e si svegliò. Il sole splendente illuminava la camera da letto; il signor Percy Noakes si alzò, con l’orribile timore che i suoi peggiori >sogni si fossero avverati.

Erano appena le cinque in orario. Calcolò il tempo necessario: avrebbe impiegato almeno mezz’ora per vestirsi; e poiché era una bella mattina e la marea stava scendendo, avrebbe potuto camminare con calma fino a Strand-lane e prendere una barca per raggiungere l’Ufficio Doganale.

Si vestì in fretta, si scusò brevemente per non aver potuto preparare la colazione e uscì. Le strade sembravano deserte e solitarie, come se la notte precedente fossero state affollate per l’ultima volta. Qui e là, un apprendista con occhi assonnati stava abbassando le persiane dei negozi; di tanto in tanto si vedeva un poliziotto o una lattaia camminare lentamente avanti e indietro. Ma i domestici non avevano ancora iniziato a pulire le porte né ad accendere i fuochi in cucina, quindi Londra appariva davvero desolata. All’angolo di una strada secondaria, vicino a Temple-bar, c’era un chiosco che serviva colazioni. Il caffè bolliva su un fuoco di carbone, e grandi fette di pane e burro erano impilate una sopra l’altra. I clienti sedevano su una panca posta contro il muro adiacente, per maggiore sicurezza e comodità. Due giovani, dall’aspetto festoso e dai vestiti disordinati, intrattenevano tre “dame” e un lavoratore irlandese. Una ragazza si trovava a una certa distanza, lanciando sguardi desiderosi verso quelle deliziose prelibatezze; un poliziotto osservava il gruppo dall’altra parte della strada. L’aspetto pallido e i vestiti sgargianti di quelle donne sembravano contrastare stranamente con la luce solare. Così come la loro falsa allegria rispetto alla baldoria dei due giovani, che di tanto in tanto si divertivano “prendendo in giro” il proprietario di quel chiosco ambulante.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. ‘Boat, sir?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

‘Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?’ inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’

‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before. ‘Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’

‘So did I,’ said another; ‘and I should think she’d gone down by this time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lemen.’

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. ‘Shove her off!’ cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach the ‘Custum-us.’

‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour.

‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board.

‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon well this morning.’

‘She does, indeed,’ replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the steward’s wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion.

The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters.

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week’s incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage—they wore feathers.

‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with ‘wretch.’)

‘Quite well, thank you, dear,’ replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air.—‘Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain Helves.’

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

‘Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,’ resumed Mrs. Taunton, ‘I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.’

Il signor Percy Noakes camminava velocemente; quando svoltò in Strand-lane e intravide le lucide acque del mare, pensò di non essersi mai sentito così importante o così felice in vita sua.

“Barca, signore?” gridò uno dei tre barcaioli che stavano pulendo le loro imbarcazioni, mentre tutti suonavano il fischietto. “Barca, signore?”

“No,” rispose il signor Percy Noakes, piuttosto bruscamente; poiché la domanda non era stata posta in un modo affatto adatto alla sua dignità.

“Preferireste un bicchiere di vino, signore?”, chiese un altro, con grande gioia del “Jack-in-the-water”.

Il signor Percy Noakes rispose con un’espressione di supremo disprezzo.

“Voleva essere imbarcato su una nave a vapore, signore?”, chiese un vecchio vigile del fuoco e bagnino in tono molto confidenziale. Indossava un abito rosso sbiadito, esattamente dello stesso colore della copertina di un vecchissimo Guida al Tribunale.

“Sì, affrettatevi. L’Endeavour, sta lasciando il porto doganale.”

“Endeavour!”, gridò l’uomo che poco prima aveva fatto sobbalzare il “Jack”. “Mio Dio, vedo che l’Endeavour è decollato già mezz’ora fa.”

“Anch’io lo so,” disse un altro; “e penso che ormai sia già arrivata, perché è davvero uno spettacolo meraviglioso, pieno di signore e gentiluomini.”

Il signor Percy Noakes decise di ignorare queste affermazioni e salì sulla barca che l’uomo anziano, con grande sforzo, aveva portato fino alla diga. “Spingetela via!”, gridò il signor Percy Noakes, e la barca scivolò giù per il fiume. Il signor Percy Noakes si sedette sul sedile appena pulito, mentre i rematori alle scale gli offrirono di scommettere qualsiasi somma ragionevole che non avrebbe mai raggiunto il “Custum-us”.

“Eccola qui, per Giove!” esclamò Percy, felice, mentre correvano accanto all’Endeavour.

“Tenetevi forte!”, gridò l’ufficiale di bordo, e il signor Percy Noakes saltò a bordo.

‘Spero che troverete tutto come desiderate, signore. Questa mattina sembra davvero molto in forma.’

“Sì, davvero,” rispose il manager, in uno stato di estasi impossibile da descrivere. Il ponte era stato pulito, i sedili erano stati lavati, c’era un banco per la banda, un posto dove ballare, un mucchio di sgabelli da campeggio e un ombrello; poi il signor Percy Noakes arrivò di corsa, insieme ai lavoratori del pasticcere e alla moglie dello steward, che avevano preparato la cena su due tavoli lungo tutta la cabina; il signor Percy Noakes si tolse il cappotto e corse avanti e indietro, senza fare nulla di concreto, ma convinto di essere di grande aiuto a tutti; la moglie dello steward rideva fino alle lacrime, mentre il signor Percy Noakes ansimava per lo sforzo. Poi suonò la campana del molo di London-bridge: una barca di Margate stava appena partendo, così come una barca di Gravesend; la gente gridava, i facchini correvano giù per le scale con bagagli capaci di schiacciare chiunque tranne loro; vennero posizionate delle assi inclinate, con pezzi di legno fissati sopra, tra la barca esterna e quella interna; i passeggeri vi si affrettarono sopra, sembrando un nugolo di polli che uscivano da un recinto. Poi la campana smise di suonare, le assi furono rimosse, le barche partirono, e l’intera scena divenne un esempio straordinario di frenesia e confusione.

Il tempo passava; alle otto e mezza in punto arrivò l’ora prevista; gli uomini del pasticcere sbarcarono; la cena fu completamente preparata; e il signor Percy Noakes chiuse a chiave la cabina principale, mettendosi la chiave in tasca, affinché potesse essere improvvisamente mostrata, nella sua intera magnificenza, agli occhi di tutti i presenti, stupiti da quella scena. La banda salì a bordo, così come il vino.

Dieci minuti alle nove, e il comitato iniziò la sua riunione. C’era il signor Hardy, con una giacca blu e un gilet, pantaloni bianchi, calze di seta e scarpe con i tacchi alti; insomma, completamente vestito come se fosse in acqua, con un cappello di paglia in testa e un enorme telescopio sotto il braccio. C’era anche quel giovane gentiluomo con gli occhiali verdi, indossando abiti di tessuto indefinibile, con lo stesso tipo di gilet e bottoni luminosi, proprio come nelle immagini di Paul, non il santo, ma quello della Virginia, tanto noto per certe sue azioni. Gli altri membri del comitato, vestiti con cappelli bianchi, giacche leggere, gilet e pantaloni, sembravano qualcosa a metà tra camerieri e proprietari terrieri delle Indie Occidentali.

Le nove suonarono, e il gruppo arrivò uno dopo l’altro. Il signor Samuel Briggs, la signora Briggs e le signorine Briggs comparvero su una graziosa barca privata. Le tre chitarre, riposte nelle rispettive custodie di colore verde scuro, furono attentamente sistemate nella parte inferiore della barca, insieme a due enormi raccoglitori contenenti partiture; per ascoltarle tutte sarebbe servita almeno una settimana di continui suoni. I Taunton arrivarono nello stesso momento, portando con sé altre musiche e anche un “leone”, un gentiluomo dalla voce profonda e con un baffo rosso appena iniziato a crescere. I membri del gruppo dei Taunton indossavano abiti di colore rosa; quelli della famiglia Briggs, invece, abiti di colore blu chiaro. I Taunton avevano fiori artificiali nei cappelli; i Briggs, invece, avevano piume, e questo li dava un netto vantaggio.

“Come state, cara?” dissero le signorine Briggs alle signorine Taunton. (“Cara” tra ragazze è spesso sinonimo di “poveretta”).

“Molto bene, grazie cara,” risposero le signorine Taunton alle signorine Briggs; poi ci furono tanti baci, congratulazioni e strette di mano, al punto che si sarebbe potuto pensare che quelle due famiglie fossero le migliori amiche del mondo, invece di desiderare sinceramente l’una la rovina dell’altra.

Il signor Percy Noakes accolse gli ospiti e si inchinò davanti a quel gentiluomo sconosciuto, come se volesse sapere chi fosse. Proprio questo era ciò che la signora Taunton desiderava: un’occasione per stupire i Briggs.

“Oh! Mi scusi,” disse il generale del gruppo di Taunton con un tono noncurante. “Capitano Helves. Signor Percy Noakes. Signora Briggs. Capitano Helves.”

Il signor Percy Noakes si inchinò molto profondamente; anche il nobile capitano fece lo stesso con la stessa enfasi, e i fratelli Briggs furono chiaramente sopraffatti.

“Purtroppo il nostro amico, il signor Wizzle, non è potuto venire,” continuò la signora Taunton, “quindi ho avuto l’impegno di portare io stessa il capitano, sapendo che i suoi talenti musicali sarebbero stati un grande arricchimento per noi.”

‘In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir,’ replied Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) ‘But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?’

‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

‘Now, is every one on board?’ inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start.

‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle-boxes.

‘Go on!’ echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern.

‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, sir?’

‘Noakes,’ exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and near, through the large telescope, ‘it’s the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!’

‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very inconsiderate!’

‘I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t it?’ suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

‘Stop her!’ cried the captain.

‘Stop her!’ repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss of human life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

The boat once more started off; the band played ‘Off she goes:’ the major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be ‘a naughty man—a shocking creature’—and so forth; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jews’-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities.

‘Perhaps,’ he said in a very insinuating manner, ‘Captain Helves will oblige us?’ Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her daughters.

‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very happy, ‘but—’

‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies.

‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’

‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without accompaniments.’

‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

“Nel nome del comitato devo ringraziarvi per averlo fatto e darvi il benvenuto, signore,” rispose Percy. (In quel momento il rumore di graffiare ricominciò.) “Ma vi prego, sedetevi. Non volete venire a poppa? Capitano, potreste accompagnare la signorina Taunton? E voi, signorina Briggs, mi permettete?”

“Dove avranno potuto incontrare quell’uomo militare?”, chiese la signora Briggs alla signorina Kate Briggs mentre seguivano il piccolo gruppo.

“Non riesco nemmeno a immaginarlo,” rispose la signorina Kate, piena di frustrazione; perché l’atteggiamento estremamente autoritario con cui il nobile capitano si comportava con il gruppo le aveva fatto percepire quanto fosse importante.

Barca dopo barca si avvicinava, e ospite dopo ospite arrivava. Gli inviti erano stati organizzati con estrema cura: il signor Percy Noakes aveva ritenuto importante che il numero dei giovani uomini fosse esattamente uguale a quello delle giovani donne, affinché anche il numero di coltelli a bordo fosse in perfetta proporzione con quello delle forchette.

“Ora, tutti sono pronti?” chiese il signor Percy Noakes. Il comitato, con i suoi nastri blu, sembrava composto da persone che avrebbero potuto essere “sanguinate” in qualsiasi momento; si affrettò a verificare la situazione e comunicò che potevano partire senza problemi.

“Avanti!” gridò il padrone della barca dalla cima di una delle cabine a remi.

“Avanti!” echeggiò la voce del ragazzo, che si trovava sopra l’apertura per trasmettere le istruzioni all’ingegnere; e così il vascello partì, emettendo quel piacevole rumore tipico delle navi a vapore: un misto di scricchiolii, gorgoglii, clangori e sbuffi.

“Oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!” gridarono sei voci da una barca, situata a un quarto di miglio alle loro spalle.

“Calmatevi!”, gridò il capitano. “Queste persone appartengono davvero a noi, signore?”

“Noakes,” esclamò Hardy, che aveva osservato ogni oggetto, lontano e vicino, attraverso il grande telescopio, “sono i Fleetwood e i Wakefield, e con loro ci sono anche due bambini, per Giove!”

“Che peccato portare i bambini!” dicevano tutti; “che mancanza di considerazione!”

“Dico, sarebbe una bella battuta fingere di non vederli, no?” suggerì Hardy, con grande divertimento di tutti i presenti. Si tenne rapidamente un consiglio di guerra e si decise di accogliere i nuovi arrivati, con il signor Hardy che promise solennemente di prendersi gioco dei bambini per tutta la giornata.

“Fermatela!”, gridò il capitano.

“Fermatela!” ripeté il ragazzo; con un sibilo la steam si liberò, e tutte le giovani dame, come se fosse loro dovere, gridarono all’unisono. Solo le rassicurazioni degli Helves, esperti in materia militare, le tranquillizzarono: spesso, infatti, l’emissione di steam causata dall’arresto di una nave non comportava gravi perdite umane.

Due uomini corsero verso il lato della barca; dopo alcuni gridi, imprecazioni e tentativi di afferrare la barca con un gancio, il signor Fleetwood, la signora Fleetwood, il giovane Fleetwood, il signor Wakefield, la signora Wakefield e la signorina Wakefield furono salutamente depositati sul ponte. La bambina aveva circa sei anni, il bambino circa quattro; la prima era vestita con un abitino bianco, una cintura rosa e un piccolo gilet logoro; indossava anche un cappello di paglia e un velo verde, largo sei pollici e alto tre pollici e mezzo; il bambino, invece, era vestito con un abitino di tela blu, e tra la parte inferiore di quell’abito e l’orlo dei suoi calzini a quadri si poteva intravedere una buona parte delle sue gambe, piccole e maculate. Aveva in testa un cappello blu chiaro con una striscia dorata e una frangia; in mano teneva anche un pezzo di pan di zenzero umido, con cui si era leggermente imbrattato il viso.

La barca ripartì nuovamente; la banda suonò “Off she goes”; la maggior parte dei passeggeri chiacchierava allegramente in gruppi; gli anziani signori camminavano avanti e indietro sul ponte a coppie, con determinazione e serietà, come se stessero gareggiando contro il tempo per una posta enorme. Scorsero velocemente lungo il fiume; gli uomini indicarono i moli, l’ufficio di polizia del Tamigi e altri eleganti edifici pubblici; le giovani donne mostravano un autentico orrore alla vista dei lavoratori che caricavano carbone e zavorra. Il signor Hardy raccontò storie alle signore sposate, che risero molto, coprendosi la bocca con i fazzoletti e battendogli sulle nocche con i ventagli, definendolo “un uomo cattivo, una creatura disgustosa”, e così via; il capitano Helves descrisse brevemente battaglie e duelli con un tono estremamente crudele, guadagnandosi l’ammirazione delle donne e l’invidia degli uomini. Iniziò poi la danza quadrilla: il capitano Helves ballò una serie di danze con la signorina Emily Taunton e un’altra con la signorina Sophia Taunton; la signora Taunton era in estasi. La vittoria sembrava assicurata. Ma ahimè, l’incostanza degli uomini! Dopo aver adempiuto a questo “dovere necessario”, il capitano Helves si dedicò esclusivamente alla signorina Julia Briggs, con la quale ballò ben tre danze consecutive, senza mostrare alcuna intenzione di allontanarsi da lei per il resto della giornata.

Il signor Hardy, dopo aver suonato una o due fantasie molto brillanti sulla cetra ebraica e dopo aver ripetuto spesso quella barzelletta estremamente divertente di disegnare furtivamente una grande croce sul dorso di alcuni membri del comitato, esprimette la sua >speranza che alcuni dei loro amici musicisti avrebbero onorato il gruppo con una dimostrazione delle loro abilità.

“Forse,” disse lui in un tono molto allusivo, “il Capitano Helves ci accontenterà?” Il viso della signora Taunton si illuminò: il capitano infatti cantava solo duetti, e non poteva cantarli con nessuno se non con una delle sue figlie.

“Davvero,” disse quell’individuo bellicoso, “sarei molto felice, ma, ”

“Oh, per favore sì,” gridarono tutte le giovani signore.

“Signorina Emily, le dispiacerebbe unirsi a noi in un duetto?”

“Oh no, affatto,” rispose la giovane signora, con un tono che chiaramente mostrava quanto fosse contraria all’idea.

“Devo accompagnarti, caro?” chiese una delle signorine Briggs, con l’intenzione innocua di rovinare l’effetto desiderato.

“Grazie mille, signorina Briggs,” ribatté seccamente la signora Taunton, che aveva capito subito il trucco; “le mie figlie cantano sempre senza accompagnamento.”

“E senza voci,” sussurrò la signora Briggs con voce bassa.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly—‘Perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people.’

‘And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to other persons’ daughters,’ returned Mrs. Briggs, ‘some persons would not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons.’

‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs.

‘Insolence!’

‘Creature!’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. ‘Hush!—pray, silence for the duet.’

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began the following duet from the opera of ‘Paul and Virginia,’ in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated ‘a bass voice.’

‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing Bright flames the or—b of d—ay. From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box.

‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. ‘My child! it is his voice—I know it.’

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery.

‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned with the child in his arms.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ inquired the father once more—hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’

‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him.

‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial which men usually assume when they think they have done something to astonish the company.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, ‘if the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be very much delighted.’

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that it was ‘quite sickening!’ and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’

‘Pretty! isn’t it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military cough;—‘de-lightful!’

‘Sweet instrument!’ said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

“Forse,” disse la signora Taunton, arrossendo, perché intuiva il senso di quell’osservazione, anche se non l’aveva sentita chiaramente, “forse per alcune persone sarebbe meglio se le loro voci non fossero così udibili come lo sono per gli altri.”

“E forse,” rispose la signora Briggs, “se gli uomini che vengono rapiti per corteggiare le figlie di alcune persone avessero abbastanza buon senso da prestare attenzione anche alle figlie di altre persone, alcune di queste ultime non sarebbero così pronte a mostrare quel cattivo umore che, grazie al cielo, le distingue dalle altre.”

“Persone!”, esclamò la signora Taunton.

“Persone,” rispose la signora Briggs.

“Insolenza!”

“Creatura!”

“Zitti! Zitti!” interruppe il signor Percy Noakes, che era uno dei pochi a cui era stato possibile ascoltare questo dialogo. “Per favore, mantenete il silenzio per il duetto.”

Dopo molto grugnire e canticchiare preparatori, il capitano iniziò il seguente duetto tratto dall’opera “Paul and Virginia”, con quel tono rauco tipico di quando un uomo si impegna in attività per cui non ha la minima possibilità di riuscirci. In ambiti privati, questo tipo di espressione vocale viene spesso definito “voce baritonale”.

“Vedi (cantava il capitano), da un canto lontano. Fiamme brillanti illuminano la notte. Da quel bosco, risuonano melodie varie, ”

Qui, il cantante fu interrotto da vari grida di terribile natura, provenienti da un boschetto situato nelle immediate vicinanze della cabina del timone a dritta.

“Mio >bambino!” gridò la signora Fleetwood. “Mio >bambino. È la sua voce. La riconosco.”

Il signor Fleetwood, accompagnato da diversi gentiluomini, si precipitò nel luogo da dove proveniva il rumore; un’esclamazione di orrore sfuggì al gruppo. L’impressione generale era che quel piccolo innocente si fosse infilato la testa nell’acqua o le gambe nelle macchine.

“Che cos’è successo?” gridò il padre angosciato, tornando con il >bambino tra le braccia.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ gridò di nuovo il piccolo sofferente.

“Che c’è che non va, caro?” chiese ancora una volta il padre, togliendosi in fretta la camicia di cotone per verificare se al >bambino mancasse qualche osso frantumato.

“Oh! oh!. Sono così spaventata!”

“Che c’è, carino?. Che c’è?” disse la madre, consolando il dolce bambino.

“Oh! Mi fa sempre quelle facce orribili,” gridò il ragazzo, ricominciando a tremare solo al pensiero di quella scena.

“Lui!, chi?” gridarono tutti, radunandosi intorno a lui.

“Oh! Lui!” rispose il >bambino, indicando Hardy, che fingeva di essere la persona più preoccupata di tutto il gruppo.

La vera situazione della cosa balenò immediatamente nella mente di tutti i presenti, ad eccezione dei Fleetwood e dei Wakefield. Il faccettoneiro Hardy, mantenendo la sua promessa, aveva seguito il bambino fino a una parte remota della nave; poi, apparso improvvisamente davanti a lui con espressioni del viso terribilmente contorte, aveva scatenato in lui un attacco di terrore. Ovviamente, ora si rendeva conto che non era affatto necessario negare l’accusa; e così il povero piccolo vittima fu portato via, dopo essere stato colpito più volte sulla testa da entrambi i genitori, per aver avuto la malizia di inventare una storia del genere.

Dopo che questa piccola interruzione fu sistemata, il capitano riprese a parlare; poco dopo, anche la signorina Emily intervenne nella conversazione. Il duetto ricevette grandi applausi: senza dubbio, l’assoluta indipendenza delle due parti coinvolte meritava davvero ammirazione. La signorina Emily cantò la sua parte senza mai fare riferimento al capitano; il capitano, invece, cantava così ad alta voce che non aveva la minima idea di ciò che stesse facendo la sua partner. Dopo aver eseguito da solo gli ultimi diciotto o diciannove versi, accolse quindi gli applausi del pubblico con quell’aria di auto-sacrificio tipica delle persone che pensano di aver fatto qualcosa di davvero sorprendente.

“Ora,” disse il signor Percy Noakes, che aveva appena raggiunto la cabina di prua, dove era stato impegnato a versare il vino, “se le signorine Briggs vorranno onorarci con qualcosa prima di cena, sono sicuro che ne saremo molto felici.”

Uno di quei mormori di ammirazione seguì quella proposta, che si sente spesso nella società, quando nessuno ha la minima idea di ciò per cui si esprime il proprio consenso. Le tre signorine Briggs guardarono modestamente verso loro madre, la quale a sua volta le guardò con approvazione; la signora Taunton, invece, le guardò con disprezzo. Le signorine Briggs chiesero le loro chitarre, e alcuni gentiluomini, nella fretta di presentarle, le danneggiarono seriamente. Poi seguì una scena molto interessante: vennero prodotte tre piccole chiavi adatte alle custodie delle chitarre, e si manifestò un’espressione drammatica di orrore quando si scoprì che una corda era rotta; infine ci fu molta attività di avvitamento, regolazione e accordatura. Durante tutto questo, la signora Briggs spiegava a coloro che le stavano intorno quanto fosse estremamente difficile suonare la chitarra, sottolineando l’incredibile abilità delle sue figlie in quell’arte misteriosa. La signora Taunton, invece, sussurrò a una vicina che tutto ciò era “veramente disgustoso”; le signorine Taunton, per parte loro, sembravano sapere come suonare la chitarra, ma disdegnavano farlo.

Finalmente, le signorine Briggs iniziarono sul serio. Si trattava di una nuova composizione spagnola, per tre voci e tre chitarre. L’effetto fu straordinario: tutti gli sguardi si rivolsero verso il capitano, che si diceva avesse attraversato la Spagna con il suo reggimento e dovesse quindi conoscere molto bene la musica nazionale spagnola. Era estasiato. Questo fu sufficiente: il trio fu ripetuto; l’applauso fu generale; e mai prima d’allora i Taunton avevano subito una sconfitta così completa.

“Bravo! Bravo!” esclamò il capitano. “Bravo!”

“Bello, vero signore?”, chiese il signor Samuel Briggs con l’aria di un impresario compiaciuto di sé. A proposito, queste furono le prime parole che si sentirono pronunciare da lui da quando aveva lasciato la corte di Boswell la sera precedente.

“Delizioso!” rispose il capitano con enfasi, accompagnando le parole da un colpo di tosse militare; “delizioso davvero!”

“Che strumento meraviglioso!” disse un anziano signore calvo che aveva passato tutta la mattina cercando di guardare attraverso un telescopio, all’interno del cui vetro il signor Hardy aveva fissato una grande lastra nera.

‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular individual.

‘Did you ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

‘A tom-tom.’

‘Never!’

‘Nor a gum-gum?’

‘Never!’

‘What is a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies.

‘When I was in the East Indies,’ replied the captain—(here was a discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—‘when I was in the East Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying our hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa, we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there), accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up—’

‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’

‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go on.’

‘—Started up and drew a pistol. “Helves,” said he, “my boy,”—he always called me, my boy—“Helves,” said he, “do you hear that tom-tom?” “I do,” said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame shaken by violent emotions. “Do you see that gum-gum?” said he. “No,” said I, staring about me. “You don’t?” said he. “No, I’ll be damned if I do,” said I; “and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,” said I. I really thought the Ram would have dropped. He drew me aside, and with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper—’

‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the steward’s wife.

‘Will you allow me?’ said the captain, immediately suiting the action to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease as if he had finished the story.

‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old gentleman, preserving his listening attitude.

‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies.

‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the coolness of the whole affair.

‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady. ‘I wonder what a gum-gum really is?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter amazement, ‘I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.’

‘How illiberal! how envious!’ cried everybody, as they made for the cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the day—impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day, was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the first instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a state of convalescence. It had been ‘spitting’ with rain for the last half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight emotion on the part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat were an overladen clothes-basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts—every one entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will acknowledge any. The majority of the company, therefore, endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially miserable.

‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else.

‘No, I don’t think it does,’ responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and was almost blown off his seat.

‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally.

‘No doubt of it!’ said the remainder of the company, whose attention was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating, carving, taking wine, and so forth.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in. The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were convulsed—everything was shaking and jarring. The beams in the roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became ill-tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons up, they would fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were made for small glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness: thereby greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be coming down at the same moment.

“Hai mai sentito suonare un tamburello portoghese?” chiese quell’individuo scherzoso.

“Ha mai sentito parlare di un tamburo, signore?”, chiese severamente il capitano, che non perdeva mai l’occasione per vantarsi delle sue avventure, vere o inventate.

“Ad cosa?”, chiese Hardy, piuttosto sorpreso.

“Un tamburo di legno.”

“Mai!”

“Nemmeno una gomma da masticare?”

“Mai!”

“Cos’è esattamente la gomma da masticare?”, chiesero con curiosità diverse giovani signore.

“Quando ero nelle Indie Orientali,” rispose il capitano – (e qui ebbe una scoperta: era davvero stato nelle Indie Orientali!) – “una volta mi trovavo a diverse miglia di distanza, in visita nella casa di un mio amico molto particolare, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar. Un tipo davvero delizioso. Una sera, mentre ci divertivamo con i nostri narghilè sulla fresca veranda davanti alla sua villa, fummo piuttosto sorpresi dall’improvvisa apparizione di trentaquattro dei suoi servitori, accompagnati da un numero uguale di altre persone, che si avvicinarono alla casa con un aspetto minaccioso e battendo su un tamburo. Ram si alzò di scatto, ”

“Chi?” chiese il signore calvo, con grande interesse.

“Il Ram. Ram Chowdar, ”

“Ah!” esclamò il vecchio signore, “scusi, per favore continui.”

“Lo ha acceso e ha tirato fuori una pistola. ‘Helves,’ mi disse, ‘ragazzo mio’, sempre mi chiamava così, ‘Helves, senti quel rumore?’ ‘Sì,’ risposi. Il suo viso, prima pallido, assunse un aspetto terribile; tutto il suo volto era distorto e il corpo scosso da emozioni violente. ‘Vedi quella gomma?’ mi chiese. ‘No,’ dissi, guardandomi intorno. ‘Davvero non la vedi?’ insistette. ‘No. Non ne ho idea nemmeno di cosa sia una gomma,’ risposi. Pensavo davvero che stesse per svenire. Mi portò da parte e, con un’espressione di dolore che non dimenticherò mai, sussurrò, ”

“La cena è pronta, signore”, intervenne la moglie del cameriere.

“Mi permetterete?” disse il capitano, mettendo immediatamente in atto le sue parole e accompagnando la signorina Julia Briggs nella cabina, con tale disinvoltura come se avesse appena terminato di raccontare la storia.

“Che circostanza straordinaria!” esclamò lo stesso vecchio gentiluomo, mantenendo la sua attitudine di ascolto.

“Che viaggiatore!” dissero le giovani signore.

“Che nome strano!” esclamarono i signori, piuttosto confusi dalla freddezza di tutta la situazione.

“Vorrei che avesse finito la storia,” disse una vecchia signora. “Mi chiedo davvero cos’è un ‘gum-gum’, ”

“Per Giove!”, esclamò Hardy, che fino ad allora era rimasto completamente sbalordito. “Non so cosa significhi in India, ma in Inghilterra credo che ‘gum-gum’ abbia esattamente lo stesso significato di ‘hum-bug’.”

“Che mancanza di raffinatezza, che invidia!”, esclamarono tutti mentre si dirigevano verso la cabina, profondamente colpiti dalla credibilità delle straordinarie avventure del capitano. Per il resto della giornata, Helves fu l’unico “leone” presente. L’impudenza e le cose meravigliose, infatti, sono spesso i migliori passaporti per entrare in qualsiasi società.

A quell’ora, il gruppo aveva raggiunto la sua destinazione e si era messo in viaggio verso casa. L’>vento, che li aveva accompagnati per tutta la giornata, soffiava ora direttamente contro di loro; il tempo era diventato sempre più nuvoloso; cielo, mare e riva presentavano tutti quel colore grigio-metallolico, opaco e uniforme che i verniciatori usano per coprire le porte delle case quando queste stanno iniziando a “guarire”. Negli ultimi trenta minuti pioveva a dirotto, e ora la pioggia aveva preso davvero ad aumentare intensità. Il vento soffiava sempre più forte, e il barcaiolo al timone aveva chiaramente espresso l’opinione che presto sarebbe scoppiata una tempesta. Di tanto in tanto, il movimento della nave sembrava suggerire la possibilità che si capovolgesse completamente se il vento avesse continuato ad aumentare; ogni singolo pezzo di legno del veliero cominciava a scricchiolare, come se fosse un cesto pieno di vestiti troppo pesanti. Tuttavia, il mal di mare è come la credenza negli fantasmi: tutti ne hanno paura, ma pochi lo ammettono apertamente. Per questo motivo, la maggior parte dei passeggeri cercava di sembrare particolarmente felice, anche se in realtà si sentivano terribilmente infelici.

“Non piove, vero?”, chiese il vecchio signore prima di accorgersi che, dopo qualche sforzo e un po’ di movimento, erano tutti seduti attorno al tavolo.

“Penso di sì, un po’,” rispose il signor Percy Noakes, che a malapena riusciva a sentire la propria voce a causa del rumore incessante sul ponte.

“Non soffia forse troppo forte?”, chiese qualcun altro.

“No, non credo che lo faccia,” rispose Hardy, desiderando sinceramente di riuscire a convincersi del contrario; poiché sedeva vicino alla porta e quasi veniva spazzato via dal vento.

“Tra poco schiarirà,” disse il signor Percy Noakes con tono allegro.

“Oh, certamente!” esclamarono all’unanimità i membri del comitato.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo!” dissero gli altri membri del gruppo, i cui pensieri erano ormai completamente assorbiti dalle attività serie come mangiare, tagliare la carne, bere vino e simili.

Il movimento pulsante del motore era fin troppo percepibile. In fondo al tavolo c’era una grande coscia di montone fredda e solida che tremolava come della panna montata; un taglio di manzo che prima sembrava sano ora appariva come se fosse stato colpito da una paralisi improvvisa; inoltre, alcune cibarie, posizionate su piatti troppo grandi per loro, compivano movimenti sorprendenti, sobbalzando da un lato all’altro e dall’estremità alla punta, come una mosca in un bicchiere capovolto. I dolci tremavano così tanto che era impossibile non farci caso; le persone rinunciavano, disperate. Anche i pasticci di piccione sembravano come se gli uccelli, con le zampe intrappolate all’esterno, cercassero in tutti i modi di liberarsi. Il tavolo vibrava, pulsando come un battito febbrile; anche le gambe delle sedie si contorcevano. Tutto tremava e sobbalzava. I travi del soffitto sembravano essere state messe lì esclusivamente per causare mal di testa alle persone; diversi anziani, a causa di questo, iniziarono ad avere cattivo umore. Non appena lo steward sollevava le pinze per riscaldare il cibo, queste ricadevano immediatamente giù; più le signore e i signori cercavano di sedersi comodamente, più i loro posti sembravano allontanarsi da loro. Furono fatte diverse richieste di piccoli bicchieri di brandy. I volti dei presenti subirono gradualmente cambiamenti straordinari; si notò che un signore, senza alcun motivo apparente, corse via dal tavolo e salì le scale con incredibile velocità, causando gravi danni sia a se stesso che allo steward, che in quel momento stava scendendo.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles, who had been in a fluctuating state for some time—at one moment bright, and at another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as follows:

‘Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I may say a stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he paused, and looked extremely odd)—whose talents, whose travels, whose cheerfulness—’

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables.

‘Will you have some brandy?’

‘No!’ replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; ‘what should I want brandy for?’

‘Will you go on deck?’

‘No, I will not.’ This was said with a most determined air, and in a voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.’

A pause.

‘Pray go on.’

‘Mr. Edkins is gone,’ cried somebody.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he can’t answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been werry ill, but he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.’

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition. Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing, endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent down below, on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors. That interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had no voice left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the remainder of the passage.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the Thursday morning dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy the Tauntons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other subject.

Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose town-debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds, he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.

CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, straggling, quiet High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red Town-hall, half-way up—a market-place—a cage—an assembly-room—a church—a bridge—a chapel—a theatre—a library—an inn—a pump—and a Post-office. Tradition tells of a ‘Little Winglebury,’ down some cross-road about two miles off; and, as a square mass of dirty paper, supposed to have been originally intended for a letter, with certain tremulous characters inscribed thereon, in which a lively imagination might trace a remote resemblance to the word ‘Little,’ was once stuck up to be owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post-office, from which it only disappeared when it fell to pieces with dust and extreme old age, there would appear to be some foundation for the legend. Common belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles long, colonised by one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop; but, even this authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme suspicion, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to the present day.

Il panno fu rimosso; il dessert fu posato sul tavolo e i bicchieri furono riempiti. Il movimento della barca aumentò; diversi membri del gruppo iniziarono a sentirsi un po’ storditi e confusi, come se appena si fossero alzati. Il giovane gentiluomo con gli occhiali, che da qualche tempo era in uno stato di instabilità mentale – a tratti eccitato, a tratti depresso, come una luce lampeggiante sulla costa marina – annunciò improvvisamente il suo desiderio di proporre un brindisi. Dopo diversi tentativi falliti per mantenere l’equilibrio, riuscì finalmente ad aggrapparsi con la mano sinistra alla gamba centrale del tavolo e proseguì con il suo discorso.

“Signore e signori. C’è un gentiluomo tra di noi. Potrei dire, anzi, uno straniero, (A questo punto, qualcosa che sembrava essere un pensiero doloroso colpì l’oratore; fece una pausa e assunse un’espressione molto strana, ) i cui talenti, le cui esperienze di viaggio, la sua allegria, ”

“Mi scusi, Edkins,” interruppe in fretta il signor Percy Noakes, “Hardy, che c’è?”

“Niente,” rispose il “gentiluomo strano”, il quale aveva appena abbastanza vita per pronunciare due sillabe consecutive.

“Vuoi un po’ di brandy?”

“NO!” rispose Hardy con tono di grande indignazione, e sembrava altrettanto a suo agio lì che in Temple-bar nel bel mezzo di una nebbia scozzese; “Perché dovrei voler del brandy?”

“Verrai sul ponte?”

“No, non lo farò.” Fu detto con un tono estremamente deciso, e con una voce che avrebbe potuto sembrare un’imitazione di qualsiasi cosa; assomigliava tanto a quella di un porcellino d’India quanto a quella di un fagotto.

“Mi scusi, Edkins,” disse il cortese Percy; “pensavo che il nostro amico fosse malato. Prosegua pure.”

Una pausa.

“Per favore, continui.”

“Il signor Edkins se n’è andato,” gridò qualcuno.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse lo steward avvicinandosi al signor Percy Noakes. “Perdonatemi, signore, ma quel gentiluomo che è appena salito sul ponte, quello con gli occhiali verdi, sta davvero molto male. Il giovane che ha suonato il violino dice che, se non beve del brandy, non può garantire le conseguenze. Dice di avere una moglie e due figli, la cui sopravvivenza dipende dal fatto che lui riesca a suonare bene. E teme che ciò possa accadere da un momento all’altro. Il flauto è stato molto malato, ma ora sta meglio, solo che è in uno stato terribile.”

Ora ogni mascheramento era inutile; il gruppo barcollava sul ponte; i gentiluomini cercavano di non guardare nulla se non le nuvole; mentre le signore, avvolte nei scialli e nelle vesti che avevano portato con sé, giacevano dappertutto sui sedili e sotto di essi, in condizioni davvero misere. Mai prima d’allora un gruppo di persone aveva dovuto sopportare un vento così forte, una pioggia così intensa, e un mare così agitato. Furono inviate diverse proteste riguardo al comportamento del signor Fleetwood, ma vennero completamente ignorate a causa dello stato di salute dei suoi protettori naturali. Quel curioso >bambino gridava a squarciagola, fino a quando non gli rimase più voce; poi fu la volta della signorina Wakefield, che continuò a urlare per tutto il resto del viaggio.

Alcune ore dopo, si notò che il signor Hardy era in una posizione che fece supporre ai suoi amici che fosse impegnato a contemplare le bellezze delle profondità marine; essi si rammaricarono soltanto che la sua passione per i paesaggi pittoreschi lo portasse a rimanere così a lungo in una posizione estremamente dannosa, soprattutto per una persona con una tendenza del sangue verso la testa.

Il gruppo arrivò davanti alla dogana verso le due di notte, il giovedì mattina: demoralizzato e stanco. I Taunton erano troppo malati per litigare con i Briggs, e i Briggs erano troppo sfortunati per infastidire i Taunton. Uno dei bauli contenenti chitarre andò perso durante il trasporto verso una vettura a noleggio; la signora Briggs non esitò ad affermare che i Taunton avessero corrotto un portiere affinché lo gettasse in un vicolo. Il signor Alexander Briggs si oppone al sistema di votazione per maggioranza: afferma che sia inefficace, basandosi sulla propria esperienza personale; il signor Samuel Briggs, invece, ogni volta che gli viene chiesto di esprimere il proprio parere su questo argomento, risponde di non avere alcuna opinione in merito, né su altri temi.

Il signor Edkins – quel giovane gentiluomo con gli occhiali verdi – tiene un discorso ogni volta che sia possibile farlo; l’eloquenza di questi discorsi può essere eguagliata soltanto dalla loro lunghezza. Nel caso in cui non venga nominato giudice in anticipo, è probabile che eserciti la professione di avvocato presso il New Central Criminal Court.

Il Capitano Helves continuò a prestare attenzione alla signorina Julia Briggs; forse avrebbe potuto sposarla, se solo non fosse accaduto che il signor Samuel lo arrestasse, per motivi legati agli affari, su istruzioni dei signori Scroggins e Payne. Il nobile capitano si era infatti offerto di riscuotere i loro debiti cittadini, ma, a causa della disattenzione tipica delle menti militari, aveva trascurato di tenere un registro accurato delle transazioni. La signora Taunton si lamentava di essere stata profondamente ingannata da lui. Si era presentato alla famiglia a bordo di una nave a vapore di Gravesend; quindi, certamente, avrebbe dovuto sembrare una persona rispettabile.

Il signor Percy Noakes è come sempre spensierato e negligente.

CAPITOLO VIII – IL GRANDE DUEL DI WINGLEBURY

La piccola città di Great Winglebury si trova esattamente a quarantadue miglia e tre quarti dal angolo di Hyde Park. Ha una lunga strada principale, tranquilla e disordinata; in mezzo ad essa, presso il piccolo municipio rosso, c’è un grande orologio in bianco e nero. Ci sono anche un mercato, una sala riunioni, una chiesa, un ponte, una cappella, un teatro, una biblioteca, una locanda, una fontana e un ufficio postale. La tradizione parla di un “Little Winglebury”, situato a circa due miglia lungo una strada secondaria; inoltre, esiste un pezzo di carta sporca che, secondo la leggenda, sarebbe stato originariamente utilizzato per scrivere una lettera e su di esso sarebbero state incise alcune parole tremolanti. Un’immaginazione fervida potrebbe ravvisare in quelle parole una vaga somiglianza con la parola “Little”. Questo pezzo di carta fu un tempo esposto alla luce del sole, all’interno dell’ufficio postale di Great Winglebury, ma scomparve quando si ridusse in pezzi a causa della polvere e dell’usura. Sembra quindi che ci sia una certa base storica per questa leggenda. La credenza popolare tende ad attribuire questo nome a un piccolo buco situato alla fine di un sentiero fangoso, abitato da un fabbro di ruote, quattro poveri e una taverna. Tuttavia anche questa “autorità”, per quanto poco affidabile, deve essere considerata con estrema cautela: gli abitanti di quel luogo sostengono infatti che esso non abbia mai avuto alcun nome, fin dai tempi più antichi fino ad oggi.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the small building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great Winglebury—the commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the ‘Blue’ house at every election, and the judges’ house at every assizes. It is the head-quarters of the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (so called in opposition to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down): and whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great Winglebury in his circuit, it is immediately placarded all over the town that Mr. So-and-so, ‘trusting to that liberal support which the inhabitants of Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing, has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commodious assembly-rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.’ The house is a large one, with a red brick and stone front; a pretty spacious hall, ornamented with evergreen plants, terminates in a perspective view of the bar, and a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new-comer the moment he enters, and excite his appetite to the highest possible pitch. Opposite doors lead to the ‘coffee’ and ‘commercial’ rooms; and a great wide, rambling staircase,—three stairs and a landing—four stairs and another landing—one step and another landing—half-a-dozen stairs and another landing—and so on—conducts to galleries of bedrooms, and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated ‘private,’ where you may enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place where some bewildered being walks into your room every five minutes, by mistake, and then walks out again, to open all the doors along the gallery until he finds his own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury Arms some time since—no matter when—two or three minutes before the arrival of the London stage. Four horses with cloths on—change for a coach—were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be seen. Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock itself. Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions, out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were electrified—unstrapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging willing horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most exhilarating bustle. ‘Lady inside, here!’ said the guard. ‘Please to alight, ma’am,’ said the waiter. ‘Private sitting-room?’ interrogated the lady. ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ responded the chamber-maid. ‘Nothing but these ’ere trunks, ma’am?’ inquired the guard. ‘Nothing more,’ replied the lady. Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman; off came the cloths, with a jerk; ‘All right,’ was the cry; and away they went. The loungers lingered a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by one. The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, quieter than ever.

‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the landlady.—‘Thomas!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at the Lion left it. No answer.’

‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number nineteen’s table.

‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which he had been surveying the scene just described.

‘Yes, sir,’—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete sentences,)—‘yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar, sir, I think, sir?’

‘My name is Trott,’ replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. ‘You may go, waiter.’ The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place that was not dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn’t do. He threw himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—

‘Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, ‘Great Winglebury. ‘Wednesday Morning.

‘Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our counting-house, and followed you. I know the purport of your journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

‘I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and contemptible in everybody else’s: nor will I tamely submit to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

‘Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun’s Acre.’ [Mr. Trott shuddered.] ‘I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty minutes before six o’clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip.

L’Winglebury Arms, situato nel centro della strada principale, di fronte al piccolo edificio con l’enorme orologio, è la locanda principale di Great Winglebury: un luogo che svolge sia funzioni commerciali che ufficiali (ufficio postale, ufficio delle tasse). Ogni volta che si tengono elezioni, vi si riuniscono i giudici; inoltre, è anche la sede del Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (così chiamato per distinguerlo dal Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs, che si tiene in un altro edificio poco più avanti). Ogni volta che un giocoliere, un artista di cera o un musicista si reca a Great Winglebury, vengono immediatamente affissi manifesti in tutta la città che annunciano: “Il signor tal-de-tale, confidando nella generosa ospitalità degli abitanti di Great Winglebury, ha speso una grande somma per affittare le eleganti e comode sale riunioni annesse all’Winglebury Arms”. L’edificio è piuttosto grande, con facciata in mattoni rossi e pietra; l’atrio è abbastanza spazioso ed è decorato con piante sempreverdi. All’estremità si trova una vetrina che mostra una varietà di delizie pronte da consumare, destinate ad attirare immediatamente l’attenzione dei nuovi arrivati e a stimolare il loro appetito al massimo. Le porte opposte conducono alle sale “per il caffè” e a quelle commerciali; una vasta scala a rampe con diversi livelli porta alle camere da letto e ai salotti, denominati “privati”. Lì si può godere di un certo grado di intimità, anche se, ogni cinque minuti, qualcuno entra per errore nella tua stanza e poi la lascia di nuovo, aprendo tutte le porte lungo il corridoio finché non trova quella giusta.

Ecco com’è oggi il Winglebury Arms, ed era così anche in passato. Qualche tempo fa, due o tre minuti prima dell’arrivo della diligenza di Londra, lì c’erano quattro cavalli coperti da drappi, pronti per essere sostituiti con una carrozza; stavano tranquillamente in un angolo del cortile, circondati da un gruppo di postini con cappelli lucidi e abiti da lavoro, impegnati a discutere delle qualità del bestiame. Una mezza dozzina di ragazzi malvestiti stava in disparte, ascoltando con evidente interesse le conversazioni di questi “uomini importanti”; alcuni oziosi si erano radunati intorno al abbeveratoio dei cavalli, in attesa dell’arrivo della carrozza.

La giornata era calda e soleggiata; la città sembrava essere nel culmine della sua noia, e ad eccezione di quei pochi oziosi, non si vedeva anima viva. All’improvviso, le sonore note di una tromba ruppero il monotono silenzio della strada; arrivò la carrozza, sobbalzando sul selciato irregolare con un rumore così forte da fermare persino l’enorme orologio che si trovava lì. I servitori scesero rapidamente, le finestre si aprirono in tutte le direzioni; i cocchieri e gli altri addetti alla carrozza si misero subito all’opera, come se fossero stati colpiti da una scossa elettrica: scioglievano le redini, facevano uscire i cavalli con fretta e li costringevano a entrare nella carrozza con altrettanta energia, creando un gran trambusto. “Signora, si accomodi qui dentro!” disse il guardiano. “Per favore, scenda, signora,” aggiunse il servitore. “Una stanza privata?” chiese la donna. “Certo, signora,” rispose la cameriera. “Nient’altro che questi bauli, vero?” domandò il guardiano. “Nient’altro,” rispose la signora. I servitori e il guardiano risalirono sulla carrozza; i teloni vennero rapidamente rimessi a posto e la carrozza partì. Gli oziosi rimasero ancora un minuto o due in strada, osservando la carrozza finché non svanì dietro l’angolo, poi se ne andarono uno dopo l’altro. La strada tornò silenziosa; la città, al contrario, sembrava ancora più tranquilla del solito.

“La signora numero ventiquattro!” gridò la padrona di casa. “Thomas!”

‘Sì, signora.’

“Una lettera è appena stata lasciata per il signore al numero diciannove. Sono state le scarpe da ginnastica del Leone a lasciarla. Nessuna risposta.”

“Una lettera per voi, signore,” disse Thomas, posizionando la lettera sul tavolo del numero diciannove.

“Per me?” disse il numero diciannove, allontanandosi dalla finestra da cui aveva osservato la scena appena descritta.

“Sì, signore,” —(i camerieri parlano sempre in modo evasivo, senza mai pronunciare frasi complete)— “sì, signore. Stivali al Leone, signore. Bar, signore. La signora ha chiesto il numero diciannove, signore. Alexander Trott, Esq., signore?. Il suo biglietto da visita al bar, signore, credo, ”

“Il mio nome è Trott,” rispose il numero diciannove, rompendo il sigillo. “Puoi andare, cameriere.” Il cameriere abbassò la tenda della finestra e poi la rialzò di nuovo – perché un cameriere normale deve fare qualcosa prima di andarsene dalla stanza – sistemò gli occhiali sul comodino, spazzolò un angolo che non era affatto polveroso, si strofinò energicamente le mani, si avvicinò silenziosamente alla porta, e poi scomparve.

Evidentemente, c’era qualcosa nel contenuto della lettera di una natura, se non del tutto inaspettata, certamente estremamente sgradevole. Il signor Alexander Trott la posò, la riprese in mano, camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza seguendo determinati motivi del tappeto, e tentò persino, senza successo, di suonare una melodia. Niente funzionava. Si gettò su una sedia e lesse ad alta voce la seguente lettera:

“Blu Leone e Riscaldacuore,
‘Grande Winglebury.
‘Mercoledì mattina.”

“Signore. Non appena ho scoperto le vostre intenzioni, ho lasciato la nostra casa e vi ho seguito. Conosco lo scopo del vostro Viaggio; quel viaggio non verrà mai completato.”

“Non ho nessun amico qui, proprio ora, di cui possa fidarmi riguardo al segreto che devo mantenere. Questo non rappresenterà un ostacolo alla mia vendetta. Nemmeno Emily Brown dovrà subire le insidie mercenarie di uno scellerato, odioso ai suoi occhi e disprezzabile agli occhi di tutti gli altri; né mi sottometterò passivamente agli attacchi segreti di quel meschino fabbricante di ombrelli.”

“Signore. Dalla chiesa di Great Winglebury, un sentiero attraversa quattro prati fino a raggiungere un luogo isolato conosciuto dai cittadini come Stiffun’s Acre.” [Il signor Trott rabbrividì.] “Aspetterò lì da solo, alle venti minuti prima delle sei di domani mattina. Se non vi troverò, mi farò il piacere di venire a cercarvi con un frustino.”

‘Horace Hunter.

‘PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won’t sell gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

‘PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.’

‘Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!’ ejaculated the terrified Trott. ‘I always told father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It’s bad enough as it is, to marry with the old people’s commands, and without the girl’s consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What shall I do? What can I do? If I go back to the city, I’m disgraced for ever—lose the girl—and, what’s more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the Browns’ by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun’s Acre (another shudder), I’m as good as dead. I’ve seen him hit the man at the Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of every six, and when he didn’t hit him there, he hit him in the head.’ With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, ‘What shall I do?’

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the ‘governor’s’ anger, and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son. Then the words ‘To Brown’s’ were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but Horace Hunter’s denunciation rung in his ears;—last of all it bore, in red letters, the words, ‘To Stiffun’s Acre;’ and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots—for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. ‘Come in,’ said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again desired to ‘come in,’ brought in the body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

‘You are the upper-boots, I think?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Yes, I am the upper-boots,’ replied a voice from inside a velveteen case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—‘that is, I’m the boots as b’longs to the house; the other man’s my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.’

‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply.

‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott.

‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the top-boots, with brevity.

‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.

‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ interrogated Trott.

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots.

‘But this letter,’ said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—‘this letter is anonymous.’

‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots.

‘Anonymous—he’s not to know who it comes from.’

‘Oh! I see,’ responded the reg’lar, with a knowing wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—‘I see—bit o’ Sving, eh?’ and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. ‘But, I say!’ he continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott. ‘I say, he’s a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you’ve a spite agen him, you’d better not burn his house down—blessed if I don’t think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.’ And he chuckled inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter’s letter of defiance.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private business of paramount importance—a summons which that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of ‘Bless me!’ and other manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

‘Show the gentleman in,’ said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost waiter’s announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly-dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves.

“Horace Hunter.”

‘P.S. C’è un armaiolo in High Street; non venderà polvere da sparo dopo il tramonto. Mi capisci.’

‘PPS: Faresti meglio a non ordinare la colazione al mattino finché non mi hai incontrato. Potrebbe essere una spesa inutile.’

‘Villano dal cuore disperato! Lo sapevo che sarebbe andata a finire così!’ esclamò il terrorizzato Trott. ‘Glielo dicevo sempre a mio padre: se mi avesse mandato in questa spedizione, Hunter mi avrebbe inseguito come fa lo “Ebreo Errante”. È già abbastanza brutto dover sposare per ordine degli anziani, senza il consenso della ragazza; ma cosa penserà di me Emily, se arrivo lì senza fiato, dopo essere fuggito da questa maledetta creatura? Cosa devo fare? Cosa posso fare? Se torno in città, sarò rovinato per sempre: perderò la ragazza e, peggio ancora, anche i soldi. Anche se andassi dai Brown con la carrozza, Hunter mi inseguirebbe con una posta; e se vado in questo posto, in questa maledetta zona di Stiffun’s Acre, sono praticamente morto. L’ho visto colpire il bersaglio cinque volte su sei alla Pall-mall Shooting Gallery. E quando non lo colpiva lì, lo colpiva in testa.’ Con questi ricordi “consolanti”, il signor Alexander Trott esclamò di nuovo: ‘Cosa devo fare?’

Le sue riflessioni furono lunghe e tormentose; con il viso nascosto tra le mani, sedeva immerso nei pensieri sul percorso migliore da seguire. La “bussola” della sua mente indicava Londra. Pensò all’ira del “governatore” e alla perdita di quella fortuna che il padre di Brown aveva promesso che la figlia di Trott avrebbe contribuito a finanziare il figlio di lui. Poi, sulla suddetta “bussola”, lesse chiaramente le parole “Per Brown’s”; ma poi gli risuonarono nelle orecchie le accuse di Horace Hunter. Infine, in caratteri rossi, vide scritto: “Per Stiffun’s Acre”. E allora il signor Alexander Trott decise di adottare un piano che ben presto mise in atto.

Prima di tutto, inviò le calzature sotto il ginocchio al Blue Leone e allo “Scaldamani”, accompagnando la missiva con una nota gentile rivolta a Mr. Horace Hunter, nella quale dichiarava di desiderare ardentemente la sua distruzione e che si sarebbe compiaciuto di ucciderlo il giorno seguente, senza fallo. Poi scrisse un’altra lettera, chiedendo la presenza delle altre calzature, poiché ne possedevano un paio. Si udì bussare timidamente alla porta della stanza. “Entri,” disse Mr. Trott. Un uomo con la testa rossa e un occhio solo entrò; su richiesta, portò con sé il corpo e le gambe a cui apparteneva quella testa, oltre a un cappello di pelliccia che anch’esso apparteneva alla testa stessa.

“Penso che lei sia il responsabile principale di questa situazione, giusto?”, chiese il signor Trott.

“Sì, io sono le scarpe alte,” rispose una voce proveniente da dentro una custodia di velluto con bottoni di perla madreperla; “cioè, io sono quelle scarpe che fanno parte della casa; l’altro uomo è il mio aiutante, quello che si occupa delle commissioni e dei lavori vari. Noi ci chiamiamo ‘scarpe alte’ e ‘mezza scarpa’.”

“Viene da Londra?” chiese il signor Trott.

“Guida un taxi una volta,” fu la risposta laconica.

“Perché non la guidi ora?” chiese il signor Trott.

“Hai guidato troppo forte con il taxi e hai investito una donna,” rispose l’uomo con i stivali alti, in modo laconico.

“Conosci la casa del sindaco?” chiese il signor Trott.

“Piuttosto,” rispose il berretto, in modo significativo, come se avesse qualche buona ragione per ricordarlo.

“Pensi davvero di riuscire a lasciare una lettera lì?” chiese Trott.

“Non dovremmo forse meravigliarci?”, rispose il paio di stivali.

“Ma questa lettera,” disse Trott, tenendo in una mano un biglietto deformato e con indicazioni confuse, e nell’altra cinque scellini, “questa lettera è anonima.”

“Cosa, cosa?” interruppe il ragazzo con le scarpe.

“Anonimo, non deve sapere da chi proviene.”

“Ah, capisco,” rispose il regolare, con un battito d’occhio complice, ma senza mostrare la minima riluttanza ad assumersi quell’incombenza; “Capisco, qualcosa a che fare con Sving, eh?” Il suo occhio si guardò intorno nella stanza, come se cercasse una lanterna nera o una scatola di fosforo. “Ma, dico io!” continuò, riportando lo sguardo su Mr. Trott. “Dico, è un avvocato, il nostro sindaco, e anche assicurato nella contea. Se avete qualcosa contro di lui, forse sarebbe meglio non bruciargli la casa. Perbacco, penso che sia il più grande favore che potreste fargli.” E ridacchiò tra sé.

Se il signor Alexander Trott si fosse trovato in una situazione diversa, la sua prima mossa sarebbe stata quella di far buttare quell’uomo giù per le scale; in altre parole, avrebbe suonato il campanello e chiesto al padrone di casa di fargli togliere gli stivali. Tuttavia, si accontentò di raddoppiare la tariffa e spiegare che quella lettera riguardava semplicemente una violazione dell’ordine pubblico. Gli stivali furono ritirati; il padrone di casa promise solennemente di mantenere il segreto; e il signor Alexander Trott si sedette a mangiare un pesce spada fritto, cotolette di manzo al prosciutto, vino di Madeira e altre prelibatezze, con una calma molto maggiore di quella che aveva provato da quando aveva ricevuto la lettera di sfida di Horace Hunter.

La signora che scese dal treno di Londra non appena si fu sistemata nell’appartamento numero ventiquattro e modificò leggermente il proprio abbigliamento da viaggio, scrisse una nota a Joseph Overton, avvocato e sindaco di Great Winglebury, chiedendogli di recarsi immediatamente per un affare privato di estrema importanza. Quel rispettabile funzionario non perse tempo nell’obbedire; dopo aver espresso diversi segni di sorpresa e meraviglia, prese il proprio cappello a tesa larga dal gancio dove solitamente lo appendeva nel suo piccolo ufficio e si diresse rapidamente verso l’ostello Winglebury Arms. Attraverso l’atrio e la scala dell’edificio, fu accompagnato dalla padrona di casa e da un gruppo di camerieri fino alla porta dell’appartamento numero ventiquattro.

“Fate entrare il signore,” disse la donna sconosciuta in risposta all’annuncio del cameriere. Il signore fu quindi fatto entrare.

La signora si alzò dal divano; il sindaco fece un passo avanti verso la porta; e lì entrambi si fermarono, per un minuto o due, guardandosi a vicenda come se lo avessero concordato insieme. Il sindaco vide davanti a sé una donna formosa, vestita con eleganza, di circa quarant’anni; la signora osservò un uomo dall’aspetto curato, di circa dieci anni più anziano, vestito con pantaloncini scuri, cappotto nero, cravatta e guanti.

‘Miss Julia Manners!’ exclaimed the mayor at length, ‘you astonish me.’

‘That’s very unfair of you, Overton,’ replied Miss Julia, ‘for I have known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you might extend equal courtesy to me.’

‘But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!’ remonstrated the mayor.

‘You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?’ was the cool rejoinder.

‘And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!’ pettishly ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an arm-chair, and producing Miss Julia’s letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the assertion that he had been asked.

‘Now, Overton,’ replied the lady, ‘I want your assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who—who—’

‘Who was to have married you, and didn’t, because he died first; and who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,’ suggested the mayor.

‘Well,’ replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, ‘in the lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn’t die of consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:—help me now.’

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired, ‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Miss Julia—‘I’ll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter—’

‘That’s the young man, I suppose—’ interrupted the mayor.

‘That’s the young Nobleman,’ replied the lady, with a great stress on the last word. ‘Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.’

‘Very well,’ observed Joseph Overton, ‘and then he can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the presence or interference of a third party, can’t you?’

‘No,’ replied Miss Julia. ‘We have every reason to believe—dear Lord Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:—to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick, say. If I don’t show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.’

The thought occurred to the mayor’s mind that the lady might show herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and the lady proceeded.

‘With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.’

‘Has he arrived?’ inquired Overton.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the lady.

‘Then how am I to know!’ inquired the mayor. ‘Of course he will not give his own name at the bar.’

‘I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,’ replied Miss Manners; ‘and to prevent the possibility of our project being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his pockets—‘most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours—didn’t know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn’t have attended to it.—Oh! here it is.’ And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. ‘Is this his lordship’s hand?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Julia; ‘good, punctual creature! I have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—’

‘Ay, ay, I see,’ replied the mayor.—‘Horses and dogs, play and wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.’

‘Here’s what he says,’ pursued the mayor; ‘“Sir,—A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow morning at an early hour.” (That’s good—he means marrying.) “If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he mean by that?’

‘That he’s so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it’s put off, and that I may possibly do the same,’ replied the lady with great complacency.

‘Oh! I see—not much fear of that;—well—“two human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night.” (He wants to start at once.) “Fear not to do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your promptitude.” Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?’

“Signorina Julia Manners!”, esclamò finalmente il sindaco, “mi lasciate davvero stupito.”

“È molto ingiusto da parte tua, Overton,” rispose la signorina Julia, “poiché ti conosco da abbastanza tempo per non sorprendermi più di nulla che tu possa fare. E dovresti dimostrarmi lo stesso rispetto.”

“Ma scappare via, davvero scappare via con un giovane uomo!” obiettò il sindaco.

“Non vorrai mica che io scappi davvero con uno vecchio, giusto?” fu la risposta fredda e calma.

“E poi chiedermi a me – a me, tra tutte le persone al mondo – a un uomo della mia età e dell’aspetto mio, il sindaco della città – di promuovere un simile progetto!” esclamò Joseph Overton in tono petulante; si lasciò cadere su una poltrona e tirò fuori dalla tasca la lettera di Miss Julia, come per confermare l’affermazione secondo cui gli fosse stata effettivamente fatta quella richiesta.

“Ora, Overton,” rispose la signora, “ho bisogno del tuo aiuto in questa faccenda, e devo assolutamente averlo. Durante la vita di quel povero vecchio caro, il signor Cornberry, che, ”

“Chi avrebbe dovuto sposarti, ma non l’ha fatto perché è morto prima; e chi ti ha lasciato la sua proprietà senza aggiungere se stesso a essa,” suggerì il sindaco.

“Beh,” rispose Miss Julia, arrossendo leggermente, “per tutta la vita di quel povero vecchio caro, la proprietà è stata onerata dal vostro controllo; e tutto ciò che posso dire al riguardo è che mi chiedo soltanto perché non sia morta di tubercolosi invece del suo proprietario. Allora vi siete servito a vostro piacimento: ora aiutatemi voi.”

Il signor Joseph Overton era un uomo di mondo e un avvocato; quando gli vennero in mente alcune vaghe ricordi di mille o due migliaia di sterline che erano state accidentalmente prese in prestito, si limitò a scuotere la testa con rammarico, sorrise in modo cordiale e rimase in silenzio per qualche secondo; infine chiese: “Cosa desiderate che faccia?”

“Te lo dirò,” rispose la signorina Julia — “te lo dirò in tre parole: caro Lord Peter, ”

“Dev’essere quel giovane, ” interruppe il sindaco.

“Quello è il giovane nobile,” rispose la signora, mettendo particolare enfasi sull’ultima parola. “Il caro Lord Peter teme molto l’ostilità della sua famiglia; per questo abbiamo ritenuto meglio che il matrimonio avvenisse in segreto. È partito dalla città, per evitare sospetti, per una visita al suo amico, l’onorevole Augustus Flair, la cui residenza si trova a circa trenta miglia da qui; lo ha fatto accompagnato soltanto dal suo tigre preferito. Abbiamo concordato che io venissi qui da sola con il postale di Londra; lui, invece, lasciando indietro il proprio tigre e la carrozza, avrebbe raggiunto me il prima possibile questo pomeriggio.”

“Molto bene,” osservò Joseph Overton, “e così potrà ordinare la carrozza e andare insieme a Gretna Green, senza bisogno della presenza o dell’intervento di terzi, giusto?”

“No,” rispose la signorina Julia. “Abbiamo tutte le ragioni per credere che, poiché il caro Lord Peter non è considerato molto prudente o saggio dai suoi amici, e questi hanno scoperto il suo interesse per me, non appena si noterà la sua assenza, le ricerche saranno indirizzate in questa direzione. Per eludere queste ricerche e impedire che veniamo rintracciate, desidero che in questa casa si creda che il caro Lord Peter sia leggermente disturbato, sebbene del tutto innocuo; e che io, a lui sconosciuta, lo stia aspettando per accompagnarlo in una carrozza postale verso un istituto privato, diciamo a Berwick. Se non mi faccio vedere molto spesso, credo di riuscire a fingermi sua madre.”

Il sindaco pensò che quella donna potesse comportarsi in modo molto audace senza alcuna >paura di essere scoperta, visto che aveva circa doppio l’età del suo futuro marito. Tuttavia, non disse nulla e la donna continuò nel suo intento.

‘Tutto questo piano è noto a caro Lord Peter; tutto ciò che voglio da voi è che rendiate questa illusione ancora più convincente, conferendole il vostro sostegno in questa situazione, e spiegando alla gente di quella casa che è questo il motivo per cui porto via quel giovane signore. Poiché non sarebbe logico che io lo vedessi prima che salga nella carrozza, vorrei anche che comunicaste con lui e gli assicuraste che tutto sta andando benissimo.’

“È già arrivato?” chiese Overton.

“Non lo so,” rispose la signora.

“Allora come faccio a saperlo?” chiese il sindaco. “Certo che non dirà il proprio nome al bar.”

“Gli ho supplicato, non appena è arrivato, di scrivervi una nota,” rispose la signorina Manners; “e per evitare che il nostro progetto venisse scoperto attraverso quel mezzo, desideravo che scrivesse in modo anonimo e con termini enigmatici, per informarvi del numero della sua stanza.”

“Che mi benedica!” esclamò il sindaco, alzandosi dal suo posto e frugando nelle tasche. “Una circostanza davvero straordinaria. È arrivato un biglietto misterioso lasciato nella mia casa in modo molto enigmatico, proprio prima del tuo arrivo. Prima non sapevo cosa farne, e di certo non avrei dovuto prenderlo in considerazione. Oh! Ecco qui.” Joseph Overton tirò fuori dalla tasca interna del cappotto la stessa lettera scritta da Alexander Trott. “È davvero la mano di Sua Signoria?”

“Ah sì,” rispose Julia; “brava creatura puntuale! Non l’ho visto più di una o due volte, ma so che scrive molto male e in caratteri molto grandi. Questi cari, giovani nobili selvaggi, sai, Overton, ”

“Ah, ah, capisco,” rispose il sindaco. “Cavalli e >cani, giochi e vino, stallieri, attrici e sigari, lo stallo, la sala prove, il salone da ballo e la taverna. E infine, l’assemblea legislativa.”

“Ecco cosa dice,” continuò il sindaco; “‘Signore, un giovane gentiluomo al numero diciannove dell’Winglebury Arms è deciso a compiere un atto avventato domani mattina molto presto.’ (Bene, intende dire che vuole sposarsi.) ‘Se vi preoccupate per la pace di questa città, o per la salvezza di una, forse due, vita umana’, ” Ma cosa diavolo intende dire con questo?”

“È così ansioso per la cerimonia che morirà se viene rinviata. E forse lo stesso accadrà a me,” rispose la signora con grande compiacimento.

‘Oh! Capisco. Non c’è molta >paura al riguardo; beh, “Due vite umane, farai in modo che vengano portate via, di notte”. (Vuole agire immediatamente.) “Non temere di assumerti questa responsabilità: domani l’assoluta necessità di questo gesto diventerà fin troppo evidente. Ricorda: numero diciannove. Il nome è Trott. Nessun ritardo; la vita, o la morte, dipendono dalla tua prontezza.” Un linguaggio appassionato, senza dubbio. Devo vederlo?’

‘Do,’ replied Miss Julia; ‘and entreat him to act his part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor.

‘Settle all the arrangements.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor again.

‘And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o’clock.’

‘Very well,’ said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

The announcement, ‘Gentleman to speak with you, sir,’ induced Mr. Trott to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very low and cautious tone,

‘My lord—’

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

‘Hush—hush!’ said the cautious attorney: ‘to be sure—quite right—no titles here—my name is Overton, sir.’

‘Overton?’

‘Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous information, this afternoon.’

‘I, sir?’ exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled surprise; for, coward as he was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter in question. ‘I, sir?’

‘Yes, you, sir; did you not?’ responded Overton, annoyed with what he supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion. ‘Either this letter is yours, or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon the subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more to say.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said Trott, ‘it is mine; I did write it. What could I do, sir? I had no friend here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ said the mayor, encouragingly, ‘you could not have managed it better. Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to leave here to-night in a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys drive, the better. You are not safe from pursuit.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, ‘can such things happen in a country like this? Such unrelenting and cold-blooded hostility!’ He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

‘It certainly is a very hard case,’ replied the mayor with a smile, ‘that, in a free country, people can’t marry whom they like, without being hunted down as if they were criminals. However, in the present instance the lady is willing, you know, and that’s the main point, after all.’

‘Lady willing,’ repeated Trott, mechanically. ‘How do you know the lady’s willing?’

‘Come, that’s a good one,’ said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr. Trott on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; ‘I have known her, well, for a long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Trott, ruminating. ‘This is very extraordinary!’

‘Well, Lord Peter,’ said the mayor, rising.

‘Lord Peter?’ repeated Mr. Trott.

‘Oh—ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then—Trott—very good, ha! ha!—Well, sir, the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.’

‘And what is to become of me until then?’ inquired Mr. Trott, anxiously. ‘Wouldn’t it save appearances, if I were placed under some restraint?’

‘Ah!’ replied Overton, ‘very good thought—capital idea indeed. I’ll send somebody up directly. And if you make a little resistance when we put you in the chaise it wouldn’t be amiss—look as if you didn’t want to be taken away, you know.’

‘To be sure,’ said Trott—‘to be sure.’

‘Well, my lord,’ said Overton, in a low tone, ‘until then, I wish your lordship a good evening.’

‘Lord—lordship?’ ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step or two, and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

‘Ha-ha! I see, my lord—practising the madman?—very good indeed—very vacant look—capital, my lord, capital—good evening, Mr.—Trott—ha! ha! ha!’

‘That mayor’s decidedly drunk,’ soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing himself back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

‘He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young nobleman—he carries it off uncommonly well,’ thought Overton, as he went his way to the bar, there to complete his arrangements. This was soon done. Every word of the story was implicitly believed, and the one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian of the person of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o’clock. In pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric gentleman armed himself with a walking-stick of gigantic dimensions, and repaired, with his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr. Trott’s apartment, which he entered without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly depositing himself on a chair near the door, where he proceeded to beguile the time by whistling a popular air with great apparent satisfaction.

‘What do you want here, you scoundrel?’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott with a smile of pity, and whistled an adagio movement.

‘Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s desire?’ inquired Trott, rather astonished at the man’s demeanour.

‘Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,’ calmly responded the boots, ‘and don’t say nothing to nobody.’ And he whistled again.

“Sì,” rispose la signorina Julia; “e pregalo di svolgere il suo ruolo bene. Ho un po’ paura di lui. Digli di stare attento.”

“Lo farò,” disse il sindaco.

“Organizzare tutto per bene.”

“Lo farò,” disse di nuovo il sindaco.

“E direi che sia meglio ordinare la chaise entro le una di ore.”

“Molto bene,” disse il sindaco ancora una volta; e, riflettendo sull’assurdità della situazione in cui destino e vecchi conoscenti lo avevano messo, chiese a un cameriere di annunciarne l’arrivo al rappresentante temporaneo del numero diciannove.

L’annuncio: “Signore, c’è qualcuno che desidera parlarle”, indusse il signor Trott a fermarsi a metà del bicchiere di porto che stava per bere; si alzò dalla sedia e si allontanò di qualche passo verso la finestra, come se volesse prepararsi a qualunque evenienza, nel caso il visitatore assumesse l’aspetto di Horace Hunter. Tuttavia, un’occhiata a Joseph Overton lo rassicurò. Invitò cortesemente lo sconosciuto a sedersi. Dopo aver fatto rumore con il decanter e i bicchieri, il cameriere acconsentì ad andarsene; Joseph Overton posò il cappello a tesa larga sulla sedia accanto a sé, si chinò leggermente in avanti e iniziò la conversazione usando un tono molto basso e cauto.

“Mio signore, ”

“Eh?”, disse il signor Alexander Trott, con voce alta e lo sguardo vuoto e perplesso di un sonnambulo freddo e confuso.

“Shhh, shhh!” disse l’avvocato cauto: “Per sicurezza, esatto, nessun titolo qui, il mio nome è Overton, signore.”

“Overton?”

“Sì: il sindaco di questo posto, questa pomeriggio mi ha inviato una lettera con informazioni anonime.”

“Io, signore?” esclamò Trott con una sorpresa palesemente falsa; perché, per quanto codardo fosse, avrebbe volentieri negato di essere l’autore della lettera in questione. “Io, signore?”

“Sì, proprio lei, signore; non è forse così?” rispose Overton, infastidito da quella che riteneva fosse una sospettosità del tutto ingiustificata. “O questa lettera è sua, o non lo è. Se lo è, possiamo discuterne con tranquillità immediatamente. Se non lo è, naturalmente non ho altro da dire.”

“Resta, resta,” disse Trott, “è davvero mio; l’ho scritto io stesso. Cosa avrei potuto fare, signore? Non avevo nessun amico qui.”

“Certo, certo,” disse il sindaco incoraggiandolo, “non avreste potuto farlo meglio. Bene, signore; sarà necessario che lasciate qui e vi rechiate a, di notte in una berlina con quattro cavalli. E più veloci saranno i ragazzi a guidare, meglio sarà. Non siete al sicuro da eventuali inseguimenti.”

“Perdono!” esclamò Trott, in preda all’angoscia, “Possono davvero accadere cose del genere in un paese come questo? Una tale ostilità spietata e fredda, ” Si asciugò il sudore freddo della codardia che gli colava lungo la fronte e guardò Joseph Overton con orrore.

“Certamente è un caso molto difficile,” rispose il sindaco sorridendo, “che in una nazione libera le persone non possano sposare chi vogliono, senza essere perseguite come se fossero criminali. Tuttavia, in questo caso specifico la signora è d’accordo, e questa è dopotutto la cosa più importante.”

“La signora è d’accordo”, ripeté Trott meccanicamente. “Come fai a sapere che la signora sia d’accordo?”

“Ma davvero, questa è una buona notizia,” disse il sindaco, battendo affettuosamente sul braccio del signor Trott con il suo cappello a tesa larga; “la conosco molto bene, da molto tempo. E se qualcuno potesse anche solo avere la minima dubbio al riguardo, vi assicuro che io non ne ho affatto, né voi dovreste averne.”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò il signor Trott, riflettendo. “Questo è davvero straordinario!”

“Beh, Lord Peter,” disse il sindaco alzandosi in piedi.

“Lord Peter?”, ripeté il signor Trott.

“Oh—ah, me ne sono dimenticato. Allora, il signor Trott. Trott, molto bene, ha! ha! —[Bene], signore, la carrozza sarà pronta alle dodici e mezza.”

“E cosa ne sarà di me fino ad allora?” chiese ansiosamente il signor Trott. “Non sarebbe meglio, per salvare le apparenze, se venissi messo sotto qualche tipo di controllo?”

“Ah!” rispose Overton, “ottima idea, davvero geniale. Manderò subito qualcuno su. E se dovessi opporre un po’ di resistenza quando vi metteremo nella carrozza, non sarebbe mala cosa, fai finta di non voler essere portato via, capisci?”

“Certamente,” disse Trott, “certamente.”

“Beh, mio signore,” disse Overton a bassa voce, “fino ad allora, desidero a Vostra Signoria una buona serata.”

“Signore. Vostra Signoria?”, esclamò di nuovo Trott, facendo un passo indietro e fissando, con un’indescrivibile meraviglia, il volto del sindaco.

‘Ah-ah! Capisco, mio signore. Sta imitando il pazzo, vero? Molto bene davvero. Quel viso assolutamente vuoto. Ottimo, mio signore, davvero ottimo. Buonasera, signor Trott. Ah! Ah! Ah!’

“Quel sindaco è decisamente ubriaco,” mormorò tra sé il signor Trott, lasciandosi cadere sulla sedia con un atteggiamento meditativo.

“È un uomo molto più intelligente di quanto pensassi, quel giovane nobile. Se la cava in modo davvero notevole,” pensò Overton mentre si dirigeva verso il bar per completare le sue disposizioni. Questo fu fatto rapidamente: ogni parola della storia venne accettata senza alcun dubbio, e al calzino con un occhio fu immediatamente ordinato di essere riparato e messo sotto la custodia della presunta persona pazza fino alle dodici e mezza. In seguito a queste istruzioni, quel signore piuttosto eccentrico si armò di un bastone da passeggio di dimensioni gigantesche e, con la sua solita calma, si recò nell’appartamento del signor Trott, dove entrò senza alcuna cerimonia e si sistemò su una sedia vicino alla porta, passando il tempo a fischiare una canzone popolare con grande soddisfazione.

“Cosa vuoi qui, mascalzone?” esclamò il signor Alexander Trott, mostrando un’aperta indignazione per essere stato trattenuto.

Le scarpe battevano il ritmo del tempo con la sua testa; intanto guardava gentilmente il signor Trott con un sorriso di compassione e suonava una melodia in adagio.

“Vi trovate qui su esortazione di Mr. Overton?” chiese Trott, piuttosto sorpreso dal comportamento di quell’uomo.

“Stai per te, ragazzo,” rispose calmo il tizio con gli stivali, “e non dire niente a nessuno.” Poi fischiò di nuovo.

‘Now mind!’ ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of wishing with great earnestness to fight a duel if they’d let him. ‘I protest against being kept here. I deny that I have any intention of fighting with anybody. But as it’s useless contending with superior numbers, I shall sit quietly down.’

‘You’d better,’ observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick expressively.

‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself with indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. ‘Under protest.’

‘Oh, certainly!’ responded the boots; ‘anything you please. If you’re happy, I’m transported; only don’t talk too much—it’ll make you worse.’

‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: ‘the man’s drunk!’

‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, going through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.

‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. ‘Leave the room, sir, and tell them to send somebody else.’

‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots.

‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he began to be alarmed on a new score.

‘Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!’ said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and brandishing the stick aloft. ‘Be quiet, you miserable object, and don’t let everybody know there’s a madman in the house.’

‘He is a madman! He is a madman!’ exclaimed the terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of abject horror.

‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he is a madman with a vengeance! Listen to me, you unfortunate. Ah! would you?’ [a slight tap on the head with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move towards the bell-handle] ‘I caught you there! did I?’

‘Spare my life!’ exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly.

‘I don’t want your life,’ replied the boots, disdainfully, ‘though I think it ’ud be a charity if somebody took it.’

‘No, no, it wouldn’t,’ interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, ‘no, no, it wouldn’t! I—I-’d rather keep it!’

‘O werry well,’ said the boots: ‘that’s a mere matter of taste—ev’ry one to his liking. Hows’ever, all I’ve got to say is this here: You sit quietly down in that chair, and I’ll sit hoppersite you here, and if you keep quiet and don’t stir, I won’t damage you; but, if you move hand or foot till half-past twelve o’clock, I shall alter the expression of your countenance so completely, that the next time you look in the glass you’ll ask vether you’re gone out of town, and ven you’re likely to come back again. So sit down.’

‘I will—I will,’ responded the victim of mistakes; and down sat Mr. Trott and down sat the boots too, exactly opposite him, with the stick ready for immediate action in case of emergency.

Long and dreary were the hours that followed. The bell of Great Winglebury church had just struck ten, and two hours and a half would probably elapse before succour arrived.

For half an hour, the noise occasioned by shutting up the shops in the street beneath, betokened something like life in the town, and rendered Mr. Trott’s situation a little less insupportable; but, when even these ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional rattling of a post-chaise as it drove up the yard to change horses, and then drove away again, or the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the stables behind, it became almost unbearable. The boots occasionally moved an inch or two, to knock superfluous bits of wax off the candles, which were burning low, but instantaneously resumed his former position; and as he remembered to have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had an unfailing effect in controlling mad people, he kept his solitary organ of vision constantly fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott. That unfortunate individual stared at his companion in his turn, until his features grew more and more indistinct—his hair gradually less red—and the room more misty and obscure. Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of ‘Chaise-and-four for number twenty-five!’ A bustle on the stairs succeeded; the room door was hastily thrown open; and Mr. Joseph Overton entered, followed by four stout waiters, and Mrs. Williamson, the stout landlady of the Winglebury Arms.

‘Mr. Overton!’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a frenzy. ‘Look at this man, sir; consider the situation in which I have been placed for three hours past—the person you sent to guard me, sir, was a madman—a madman—a raging, ravaging, furious madman.’

‘Bravo!’ whispered Mr. Overton.

‘Poor dear!’ said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, ‘mad people always thinks other people’s mad.’

‘Poor dear!’ ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott. ‘What the devil do you mean by poor dear! Are you the landlady of this house?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the stout old lady, ‘don’t exert yourself, there’s a dear! Consider your health, now; do.’

‘Exert myself!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; ‘it’s a mercy, ma’am, that I have any breath to exert myself with! I might have been assassinated three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the oakum head. How dare you have a madman, ma’am—how dare you have a madman, to assault and terrify the visitors to your house?’

‘I’ll never have another,’ said Mrs. Williamson, casting a look of reproach at the mayor.

‘Capital, capital,’ whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr. Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak.

‘Capital, sir!’ exclaimed Trott, aloud; ‘it’s horrible. The very recollection makes me shudder. I’d rather fight four duels in three hours, if I survived the first three, than I’d sit for that time face to face with a madman.’

‘Keep it up, my lord, as you go down-stairs,’ whispered Overton, ‘your bill is paid, and your portmanteau in the chaise.’ And then he added aloud, ‘Now, waiters, the gentleman’s ready.’

“Ora state attenti!” esclamò il signor Trott, ansioso di continuare questa farsa, fingendo di desiderare ardentemente combattere un duello se glielo avessero permesso. “Protesto contro essere trattenuto qui. Nego di avere alcuna intenzione di combattere con nessuno. Ma poiché è inutile opporsi a un numero superiore di persone, mi siederò tranquillamente.”

“Faresti meglio,” osservarono le calzature tranquille, scuotendo espressivamente il grosso bastone.

“Tuttavia, con le mie riserve,” aggiunse Alexander Trott, sedendosi con un’espressione di indignazione sul viso, ma con grande soddisfazione nel cuore. “Con le mie riserve.”

“O certo!” risposero le scarpe; “fai pure ciò che desideri. Se sei felice, anch’io sarò trasportato, solo non parlare troppo: ti farà stare ancora peggio.”

“Rendermi peggiore?”, esclamò Trott con autentico stupore: “Quell’uomo è ubriaco!”

“Farai meglio a stare zitto, giovane,” disse lo stivale, mettendo in scena una minacciosa pantomima con il bastone.

“O forse è impazzito!”, disse il signor Trott, piuttosto allarmato. “Lasci la stanza, signore, e dica loro di mandare qualcun altro.”

“Non va bene!” risposero le scarpe.

“Uscite dalla stanza!” gridò Trott, suonando il campanello con violenza; perché aveva iniziato ad allarmarsi per un motivo diverso.

“Lascia quella bella ragazza in pace, maledetto buono a nulla!” dissero le scarpe, costringendo improvvisamente il sfortunato Trott a tornare sulla sua sedia e brandendo il bastone in alto. “Stai zitto, miserabile individuo. Non far sapere a tutti che c’è un pazzo in questa casa!”

“È un pazzo! È davvero un pazzo!” esclamò il terrorizzato signor Trott, fissando con orrore l’unico occhio dello scarpeggiato dai capelli rossi.

“Pazzo!” risposero le scarpe, “diamine, penso proprio che sia un pazzo assetato di vendetta! Ascoltami, tu sfortunato. Ah! Lo farai?” [Un leggero colpo sulla testa con il grosso bastone, mentre il signor Trott faceva un altro movimento verso la maniglia della campanella] “Ti ho beccato, vero?”

“Perdona la mia vita!”, esclamò Trott alzando le mani in preghiera.

“Non voglio la tua vita,” risposero le scarpe con disprezzo, “anche se penso che sarebbe una vera carità se qualcuno la prendesse.”

“No, no, non lo farei,” interruppe il povero signor Trott in fretta, “no, no, preferirei tenerlo!”

“O davvero,” dissero le scarpe, “è solo una questione di gusto, ognuno secondo i suoi preferimenti. Comunque, tutto ciò che ho da dire è questo: siediti tranquillamente in quella sedia, e io mi siederò qui accanto a te; se rimarrai fermo senza muoverti, non ti farò del male. Ma se muoverai anche solo un dito prima delle dodici e mezza, cambierò completamente l’espressione del tuo viso, tanto che la prossima volta che ti guarderai allo specchio, penserai di essere partito per la città, e probabilmente non tornerai mai più. Quindi, siediti.”

“Lo farò, lo farò,” rispose la vittima degli errori; e così il signor Trott si sedette, proprio di fronte a lui, con il bastone pronto all’uso in caso di emergenza.

Le ore che seguirono furono lunghe e tristi. La campana della chiesa di Great Winglebury aveva appena suonato le dieci; probabilmente sarebbero trascorse due ore e mezza prima dell’arrivo del soccorso.

Per mezz’ora, il rumore prodotto dal chiudere i negozi situati nella strada sottostante sembrava rappresentare una sorta di vita normale in città, e rendeva la situazione del signor Trott un po’ meno insopportabile; ma quando anche quel rumore cessò, e non si udì più nulla se non il rumore occasionale di una carrozza che arrivava nel cortile per cambiare i cavalli e poi ripartiva, o lo scalpiccio degli zoccoli dei cavalli nelle stalle alle sue spalle, la situazione divenne quasi insopportabile. Di tanto in tanto, le sue scarpe si muovevano di un paio di centimetri per togliere i residui di cera dalle candele, che bruciavano ormai basse, ma subito riprendevano la loro posizione originale; e poiché ricordava di aver sentito da qualche parte che lo sguardo umano aveva un effetto ineguagliabile nel controllare le persone folli, manteneva costantemente il proprio occhio fisso sul signor Alexander Trott. Quell’infortunato individuo a sua volta fissava il suo compagno di stanza, fino a quando i suoi tratti diventarono sempre più indistinti, i suoi capelli gradualmente meno rossi, e la stanza sempre più nebbiosa e oscura. Il signor Alexander Trott cadde in un sonno profondo, dal quale fu svegliato da un rumore nella strada e dal grido: “Carrozza a quattro cavalli per il numero ventiquattro!” Seguì un trambusto sulle scale; la porta della stanza si aprì di scatto; ed entrò il signor Joseph Overton, seguito da quattro robusti camerieri e dalla signora Williamson, la corpulenta padrona dell’ostello Winglebury Arms.

“Signor Overton!”, esclamò il signor Alexander Trott, alzandosi di scatto in preda alla frenesia. “Guardate quest’uomo, signore. Pensate alla situazione in cui mi trovo da tre ore ormai: la persona che avete mandato a sorvegliarmi è un pazzo. Un pazzo furioso, violento e devastante.”

“Bravo!”, sussurrò il signor Overton.

“Povero caro!” disse la compassionevole signora Williamson, “le persone pazze pensano sempre che gli altri siano pazzi.”

“Povero caro!” esclamò il signor Alexander Trott. “Cosa diavolo intendi con ‘povero caro’? Sei forse la proprietaria di questa casa?”

“Sì, sì,” rispose la robusta signora anziana, “non affaticarti troppo, ci penserò io. Pensa alla tua salute, per favore.”

“Dovrei sforzarmi di più!”, gridò il signor Alexander Trott; “è una vera magnanimità, signora, che io abbia ancora la forza di farlo. Tre ore fa avrei potuto essere assassinato da quel mostro monocolo con la testa di canapa. Come osate tenere in casa un pazzo, signora. Come osate permettere a un pazzo di aggredire e spaventare gli ospiti della vostra >casa?”

“Non ne avrò mai più un’altra,” disse la signora Williamson, lanciando uno sguardo di rimprovero al sindaco.

“Capitale, capitale,” sussurrò di nuovo Overton mentre avvolgeva il signor Alexander Trott in un pesante mantello da viaggio.

“Capitale, signore!” esclamò Trott ad alta voce; “è orribile. Solo il ricordo mi fa rabbrividire. Preferirei affrontare quattro duelli in tre ore, se sopravvivessi ai primi tre, piuttosto che passare tutto quel tempo faccia a faccia con un pazzo.”

“Continuate così, mio signore, mentre scendete le scale,” sussurrò Overton, “il vostro conto è stato pagato e il vostro borsone si trova nella carrozza.” Poi aggiunse ad alta voce: “Ora, camerieri, il signore è pronto.”

At this signal, the waiters crowded round Mr. Alexander Trott. One took one arm; another, the other; a third, walked before with a candle; the fourth, behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson brought up the rear; and down-stairs they went: Mr. Alexander Trott expressing alternately at the very top of his voice either his feigned reluctance to go, or his unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a madman.

Mr. Overton was waiting at the chaise-door, the boys were ready mounted, and a few ostlers and stable nondescripts were standing round to witness the departure of ‘the mad gentleman.’ Mr. Alexander Trott’s foot was on the step, when he observed (which the dim light had prevented his doing before) a figure seated in the chaise, closely muffled up in a cloak like his own.

‘Who’s that?’ he inquired of Overton, in a whisper.

‘Hush, hush,’ replied the mayor: ‘the other party of course.’

‘The other party!’ exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat.

‘Yes, yes; you’ll soon find that out, before you go far, I should think—but make a noise, you’ll excite suspicion if you whisper to me so much.’

‘I won’t go in this chaise!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his original fears recurring with tenfold violence. ‘I shall be assassinated—I shall be—’

‘Bravo, bravo,’ whispered Overton. ‘I’ll push you in.’

‘But I won’t go,’ exclaimed Mr. Trott. ‘Help here, help! They’re carrying me away against my will. This is a plot to murder me.’

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Williamson again.

‘Now, boys, put ’em along,’ cried the mayor, pushing Trott in and slamming the door. ‘Off with you, as quick as you can, and stop for nothing till you come to the next stage—all right!’

‘Horses are paid, Tom,’ screamed Mrs. Williamson; and away went the chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott and Miss Julia Manners carefully shut up in the inside.

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner of the chaise, and his mysterious companion in the other, for the first two or three miles; Mr. Trott edging more and more into his corner, as he felt his companion gradually edging more and more from hers; and vainly endeavouring in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the furious face of the supposed Horace Hunter.

‘We may speak now,’ said his fellow-traveller, at length; ‘the post-boys can neither see nor hear us.’

‘That’s not Hunter’s voice!’—thought Alexander, astonished.

‘Dear Lord Peter!’ said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm on Mr. Trott’s shoulder. ‘Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?’

‘Why, it’s a woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of excessive wonder.

‘Ah! Whose voice is that?’ said Julia; ‘’tis not Lord Peter’s.’

‘No,—it’s mine,’ replied Mr. Trott.

‘Yours!’ ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; ‘a strange man! Gracious heaven! How came you here!’

‘Whoever you are, you might have known that I came against my will, ma’am,’ replied Alexander, ‘for I made noise enough when I got in.’

‘Do you come from Lord Peter?’ inquired Miss Manners.

‘Confound Lord Peter,’ replied Trott pettishly. ‘I don’t know any Lord Peter. I never heard of him before to-night, when I’ve been Lord Peter’d by one and Lord Peter’d by another, till I verily believe I’m mad, or dreaming—’

‘Whither are we going?’ inquired the lady tragically.

‘How should I know, ma’am?’ replied Trott with singular coolness; for the events of the evening had completely hardened him.

‘Stop stop!’ cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the chaise.

‘Stay, my dear ma’am!’ said Mr. Trott, pulling the glasses up again with one hand, and gently squeezing Miss Julia’s waist with the other. ‘There is some mistake here; give me till the end of this stage to explain my share of it. We must go so far; you cannot be set down here alone, at this hour of the night.’

The lady consented; the mistake was mutually explained. Mr. Trott was a young man, had highly promising whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and an insinuating address—he wanted nothing but valour, and who wants that with three thousand a-year? The lady had this, and more; she wanted a young husband, and the only course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his disgrace was a rich wife. So, they came to the conclusion that it would be a pity to have all this trouble and expense for nothing; and that as they were so far on the road already, they had better go to Gretna Green, and marry each other; and they did so. And the very next preceding entry in the Blacksmith’s book, was an entry of the marriage of Emily Brown with Horace Hunter. Mr. Hunter took his wife home, and begged pardon, and was pardoned; and Mr. Trott took his wife home, begged pardon too, and was pardoned also. And Lord Peter, who had been detained beyond his time by drinking champagne and riding a steeple-chase, went back to the Honourable Augustus Flair’s, and drank more champagne, and rode another steeple-chase, and was thrown and killed. And Horace Hunter took great credit to himself for practising on the cowardice of Alexander Trott; and all these circumstances were discovered in time, and carefully noted down; and if you ever stop a week at the Winglebury Arms, they will give you just this account of The Great Winglebury Duel.

CHAPTER IX—MRS. JOSEPH PORTER

Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting family, as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play which had been ‘many months in preparation,’ approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive description, ‘regularly turned out o’ windows;’ the large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes in theatrical slang included under the comprehensive name of ‘properties.’ The bedrooms were crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene in ‘Othello’—it having been determined that that tragedy should form the first portion of the evening’s entertainments.

Al segnale dato, i camerieri si affollarono intorno al signor Alexander Trott. Uno gli prese un braccio; un altro, l’altro; un terzo camminava davanti con una candela; il quarto, dietro con un’altra candela; le scarpe e la signora Williamson chiudevano la fila; poi scesero le scale: il signor Alexander Trott, al massimo della sua voce, alternava espressioni di finta riluttanza ad andare con vere e proprie indignazioni per essere costretto a trascorrere del tempo con un pazzo.

Il signor Overton aspettava alla porta della carrozza; i ragazzi erano pronti per montare a cavallo, e alcuni stallieri e altri individui presenti intorno osservavano la partenza di “quel gentiluomo pazzo”. Il signor Alexander Trott stava già sul gradino quando notò – cosa che la luce fioca gli aveva impedito di fare prima – una figura seduta nella carrozza, avvolta strettamente in un mantello simile al suo.

“Chi è?” chiese sottovoce a Overton.

“Zitto, zitto,” rispose il sindaco: “naturalmente, l’altra parte.”

“L’altra parte!”, esclamò Trott, cercando disperatamente di ritirarsi.

“Sì, sì; lo scoprirai presto, credo. Ma fai meno rumore: se sussurri troppo, attirerai sospetti.”

“Non entrerò in questa carrozza!” gridò il signor Alexander Trott; tutti i suoi timori originari tornarono a galla, moltiplicati dieci volte. “Verrò assassinato, verrò, ”

“Bravo, bravo,” sussurrò Overton. “Ti spingerò dentro.”

“Ma non andrò,” esclamò il signor Trott. “Aiutatemi, per favore! Mi stanno portando via contro la mia volontà. Questa è un’imboscata per uccidermi.”

“Povero caro!” disse di nuovo la signora Williamson.

“Ora, ragazzi, andatevene,” gridò il sindaco, spingendo Trott dentro e chiudendo la porta con forza. “Andate via il più in fretta possibile, e non fermatevi per nulla fino a quando non arriverete alla prossima tappa. Capito?”

“Ai cavalli viene dato il loro compenso, Tom,” gridò la signora Williamson; e via partì la carrozza, a una velocità di quattordici miglia all’ora, con il signor Alexander Trott e la signorina Julia Manners ben chiusi al suo interno.

Il signor Alexander Trott rimase rannicchiato in un angolo della poltrona, e il suo misterioso compagno nell’angolo opposto; per i primi due o tre miglia, il signor Trott si ritirò sempre di più nel proprio angolo, mentre sentiva che il suo compagno faceva lo stesso; inutilmente cercò, nella oscurità, di intravedere il volto furioso di quel presunto Horace Hunter.

“Ora possiamo parlare,” disse finalmente il suo compagno di viaggio; “i postini non ci possono né vedere né sentire.”

“Quella non è la voce di Hunter!” pensò Alexander, sorpreso.

“Caro Lord Peter!”, disse Miss Julia con grande affetto, mettendo un braccio sulle spalle di Mr. Trott. “Caro Lord Peter. Niente da dire?”

“Ma è una donna!”, esclamò il signor Trott con un tono basso e pieno di eccessivo stupore.

“Ah! Di chi è quella voce?” disse Julia; “non è di Lord Peter.”

“No,” rispose il signor Trott, “è mia.”

“Tuo!” esclamò la signorina Julia Manners; “un uomo strano. Per l’amore del cielo, come sei arrivato qui?”

“Chiunque siate, probabilmente sapevate che sono venuto contro la mia volontà, signora,” rispose Alexander, “perché ho fatto abbastanza rumore quando sono entrato.”

“Viene dal Lord Peter?” chiese la signorina Manners.

“Maledetto Lord Peter,” rispose Trott in tono petulante. “Non conosco nessun Lord Peter. Non ne ho mai sentito parlare prima. Di notte, qualcuno continua a chiamarmi Lord Peter. Finché non credo davvero di essere impazzito, o di stare sognando, ”

“Dove stiamo andando?”, chiese la signora con tono tragico.

“Come potrei saperlo, signora?” rispose Trott con una calma straordinaria; infatti gli eventi di quella sera lo avevano completamente indurito.

“Fermati, fermati!” gridò la signora, abbassando i vetri anteriori della chaise-longue.

“Resti, mia cara signora!” disse il signor Trott, sollevando di nuovo gli occhiali con una mano e stringendo dolcemente la vita della signorina Julia con l’altra. “C’è qualche errore; lasciate che spieghi la mia parte in tutto questo fino alla fine di questa scena. Dobbiamo andare avanti così; non potete essere lasciata qui da sola, a quest’ora della notte.”

La signora acconsentì; l’errore fu spiegato reciprocamente. Il signor Trott era un giovane uomo con baffi molto promettenti, un aspetto indubbiamente attraente e un modo di parlare insinuante. Non desiderava altro che coraggio. E chi lo desidererebbe, con tremila sterline all’anno? La signora aveva tutto questo, e anche di più: voleva un giovane marito. E l’unica strada per il signor Trott per recuperare la propria reputazione era trovare una moglie ricca. Così, decisero che sarebbe stato un peccato sprecare tutta quella fatica e quei soldi invano. E poiché ormai erano già sulla “strada giusta”, tanto valeva andare a Gretna Green e sposarsi. E così fecero. La prima registrazione successiva nel libro del fabbro riguardava il matrimonio di Emily Brown con Horace Hunter. Il signor Hunter portò sua moglie a casa, chiese scusa, e gli fu perdonato. Anche il signor Trott portò sua moglie a casa, chiese scusa anch’egli, e gli fu perdonato anche lui. Lord Peter, invece, che era rimasto trattenuto oltre l’ora prevista a causa del consumo di champagne e delle corse a ostacoli, tornò da Augustus Flair, bevve ancora dello champagne, partecipò a un’altra corsa a ostacoli, e fu gettato a terra e ucciso. Horace Hunter si attribuì grande merito per aver “sfruttato” la codardia di Alexander Trott. Tutte queste circostanze furono scoperte in seguito, e vennero attentamente registrate. Se mai trascorrete una settimana al Winglebury Arms, vi racconteranno proprio questa storia del Grande Duello di Winglebury.

CAPITOLO IX – SIGNORA JOSEPH PORTER

Le preparazioni più estese ebbero luogo nella villa Rose a Clapham Rise, presso la residenza del signor Gattleton (un broker in borsa particolarmente benestante). La famiglia del signor Gattleton era molto ansiosa, poiché si avvicinava la data prevista per la rappresentazione dello spettacolo teatrale che aveva richiesto “molti mesi di preparazione”. L’intera famiglia era affetta da questa passione per le produzioni teatrali amatoriali; la casa, solitamente così pulita e ordinata, era, per usare le parole del signor Gattleton, “davvero in uno stato disastroso”: il grande salone da pranzo, privato di mobili e ornamenti, presentava un caos di oggetti vari – ali, lampade, ponti, nuvole, tuoni, fulmini, festoni, fiori, pugnali, insomma, tutto ciò che veniva utilizzato nella scenografia teatrale. Le camere da letto erano piene di scenografie, mentre in cucina lavoravano i carpentieri. Le prove si tenevano ogni due sere nel salotto, e ogni divano della casa subiva danni a causa dell’impegno con cui il signor Gattleton e la signorina Lucina provavano la scena drammatica de “>Otello”, poiché era stato deciso che quella tragedia fosse la prima parte degli spettacoli serali.

‘When we’re a leetle more perfect, I think it will go admirably,’ said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps dramatique, at the conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, unanimously elected stage-manager. ‘Evans,’ continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers—‘Evans, you play Roderigo beautifully.’

‘Beautifully,’ echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady friends to be ‘quite a dear.’ He looked so interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! Roderigo simpered and bowed.

‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?’

‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; ‘I’ve fallen about, a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I find it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one’s head a good deal.’

‘But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,’ said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. ‘The stage is very narrow, you know.’

‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; ‘I shall fall with my head “off,” and then I can’t do any harm.’

‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall make a decided hit in “Masaniello.” Harleigh sings that music admirably.’

Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked foolish—not an unusual thing with him—hummed’ Behold how brightly breaks the morning,’ and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was trying on.

‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, ‘we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides Fenella, and four fishermen. Then, there’s our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do for another—that’s five. In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of ’em. And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.’

‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers unâ voce—and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend the ‘setting up’ of some of the amateur-painted, but never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape of ridicule; lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this feeling—she regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way. However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for much the same reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman.

‘Never mind, ma,’ said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected relative, and trying to look unconcerned; ‘if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such an exhibition.’

‘Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,’ returned the mother. ‘I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceeding.’ Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made ‘an exhibition’ of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

‘There!’ said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; ‘there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too!’

‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically.

‘I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business, however,’ said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

‘Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,’ said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play, ‘well, my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? I was just telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’

‘What?’

‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gattleton; ‘she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—’

‘Oh, now pray don’t mention it,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter; ‘it’s most absurd—quite as absurd as young What’s-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play Fenella.’

‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up.

‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; ‘most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot;—and then—such puppies as these young men are—he had the impudence to say, that—’

“Quando saremo un po’ più perfetti, penso che andrà tutto meravigliosamente,” disse il signor Sempronius rivolgendosi al suo corpo drammatico alla fine della centocinquantesima prova. Data la sua disponibilità a sopportare le piccole incomodità legate al pagamento di tutte le spese per lo spettacolo, il signor Sempronius era stato eletto all’unanimità come direttore di scena in modo molto generoso. “Evans,” continuò il signor Gattleton, il più giovane, rivolgendosi a un giovane alto, magro e pallido con folte basette, “tu interpreti Roderigo in modo davvero eccellente.”

“Meravigliosamente,” ripetero le tre signorine Gattleton; infatti tutte le sue amiche lo definivano “davvero adorabile”. Sembrava così interessante, e aveva delle basette davvero deliziose. Per non parlare del suo talento nel scrivere versi negli album e nel suonare la flauta! Roderigo sorrise compiaciuto e fece un inchino.

“Ma penso,” aggiunse il manager, “che tu non sia affatto perfetto nella scena della scherma, dove sei, capisci?”

“È molto difficile,” disse il signor Evans, pensieroso; “Ultimamente, nella nostra casa degli uffici contabili, ho dovuto cadere piuttosto spesso, solo che mi fa davvero male. Vedi, quando si deve cadere all’indietro, si fanno molti lividi alla testa.”

“Ma devi fare attenzione a non rompere una delle ali,” disse il signor Gattleton, il più anziano, che era stato nominato aiuto regista e che si interessava allo spettacolo tanto quanto il più giovane membro della compagnia. “Lo scenario è molto stretto, sai.”

“Oh! Non aver paura,” disse il signor Evans con un’aria molto compiaciuta di sé; “Cadrò e mi romperò la testa, e allora non potrò fare del male a nessuno.”

“Ma, santo cielo,” disse il direttore strofinandosi le mani, “faremo un grande successo con ‘Masaniello’. Harleigh canta quella musica in modo meraviglioso.”

Tutti condivisero quel sentimento. Il signor Harleigh sorrise, sembrando un po’ sciocco, il che non era affatto insolito per lui; mormorò “Ecco come splende brillantemente l’alba”, e arrossì fino al colore del berretto da notte del pescatore che stava provando a indossare.

“Diamo un’occhiata,” riprese il manager, contando sulle dita, “avremo tre contadine che ballano, oltre a Fenella, e quattro pescatori. Poi c’è il nostro Tom: può prendere una coppia di anatre mie, una camicia a quadri di Bob, e un berretto da notte rosso. Fa cinque in totale. Nei cori, naturalmente, possiamo cantare in secondo piano; e nella scena del mercato possiamo muoverci indossando mantelli e simili. Quando avverrà la rivolta, Tom dovrà correre avanti e indietro con una pala, il più velocemente possibile. L’effetto sarà sorprendente: sembrerà davvero che ci siano un numero enorme di persone coinvolte. E nella scena dell’eruzione dobbiamo accendere il fuoco rosso, rovesciare le tazze da tè e fare ogni sorta di rumore. Sicuramente funzionerà.”

“Certo! Certo!” gridarono tutti gli artisti all’unisono; e subito il signor Sempronius Gattleton si affrettò a lavarsi via la carta vetrata bruciata dal viso e a supervisionare l’“installazione” di alcune scenografie dipinte dagli amatori, ma che mai sarebbero state sufficientemente belle da essere ammirate.

La signora Gattleton era una persona gentile, di buon carattere, ma piuttosto volgare; amava molto suo marito e i suoi figli, e aveva soltanto tre cose che non le piacevano. Prima di tutto, provava un’antipatia naturale per le figlie single degli altri; in secondo luogo, temeva profondamente qualsiasi forma di derisione; infine – quasi come conseguenza inevitabile di questo sentimento – provava un orrore estremo verso la signora Joseph Porter che abitava poco lontano. Tuttavia, le brave persone di Clapham e dintorni temevano molto lo scandalo e il sarcasmo; per questo motivo, la signora Joseph Porter veniva corteggiata, lusingata, coccolata e invitata, proprio per gli stessi motivi che spingono un povero autore, senza un soldo in tasca, a comportarsi con estrema gentilezza verso un postino che guadagna soltanto due penny al giorno.

“Non importa,” disse la signorina Emma Porter, conversando con il suo rispettato parente e cercando di sembrare indifferente; “se mi avessero invitata, sai bene che né tu né papà mi avreste permesso di partecipare a una simile esposizione.”

“Esattamente ciò che avrei dovuto aspettarmi, data la tua grande sensibilità,” rispose la madre. “Sono contenta di vedere, Emma, che sai come definire correttamente questa situazione.” A proposito, la signorina P. solo una settimana prima aveva tenuto un’“esibizione” durata quattro giorni: dietro a un bancone in una fiera, si era mostrata davanti a tutti i sudditi della Maestà Reale disposti a pagare un penny ciascuno per il privilegio di vedere circa quaranta ragazze flirtare con degli sconosciuti e fingere di gestire un negozio.

“Lì!” disse la signora Porter, guardando fuori dalla finestra; “ci sono due rotoli di manzo e un prosciutto che stanno per essere messi via, chiaramente per fare dei panini; e Thomas, il pasticcere, dice che sono state ordinate dodici dozzine di torte, oltre a budino bianco e gelatine. Davvero! Immaginate solo le signorine Gattleton in abiti eleganti, ”

“Oh, è troppo ridicolo!” disse la signorina Porter, in preda all’isteria.

“Riuscirò comunque a farli un po’ scendere dal loro orgoglio riguardo a questa faccenda,” disse la signora Porter; e poi se ne andò ad svolgere la sua missione di carità.

“Beh, mia cara signora Gattleton,” disse la signora Joseph Porter dopo essersi ritirate da sole per un po’ di tempo, e quando, grazie a continue domande, era riuscita a ottenere tutte le notizie riguardanti quella rappresentazione, “beh, cara, la gente può dire quello che vuole; anzi, sappiamo bene che lo farà, perché alcune persone sono davvero di cattivo cuore. Ah, mia cara signorina Lucina, come state? Stavo appunto dicendo a vostra madre che ho sentito dire, ”

“Cosa?”

“La signora Porter si riferisce a quella commedia, cara mia,” disse la signora Gattleton; “purtroppo mi stava appena comunicando che, ”

“Oh, per favore non parlatene più,” interruppe la signora Porter; “è assurdo, proprio come è assurdo quello che dice quel giovane. Come si chiama? Diceva che non capiva come la signorina Caroline, con un piede e una caviglia del genere, potesse avere la vanità di interpretare il ruolo di Fenella.”

“Estremamente irrispettoso, chiunque l’abbia detto,” disse la signora Gattleton, reprimendosi a stento.

“Certo, mia cara,” intervenne la felice signora Porter; “senza dubbio! Perché, come ho detto, anche se la signorina Caroline interpreta davvero il ruolo di Fenella, non significa necessariamente che debba pensare di avere un piede bellissimo. E poi, quei giovani uomini sono così insensibili. Ha avuto l’impudenza di dire, ”

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family ‘Uncle Tom,’ changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces: as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in existence: always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neckerchief; and it was his pride that he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did. The result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a misquotation from the ‘Swan of Avon’ without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He was also something of a wag; never missed an opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous.

‘Well, girls!’ said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—‘how d’ye get on? Know your parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I—place, left-cue—“Unknown fate,”—What’s next, eh?—Go on—“The Heavens—”’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect—

“The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!”’

‘Make a pause here and there,’ said the old gentleman, who was a great critic. ‘“But that our loves and comforts should increase”—emphasis on the last syllable, “crease,”—loud “even,”—one, two, three, four; then loud again, “as our days do grow;” emphasis on days. That’s the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?’

‘Very well, thankee, uncle,’ returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round each eye: the result of his constant corking. ‘Of course we see you on Thursday.’

‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’

‘What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr. Balderstone!’ whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; ‘you would have been invaluable.’

‘Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably up to the thing,’ responded Uncle Tom.

‘I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,’ resumed Mrs. Porter; ‘and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.’

‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power’

‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts, ‘but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on Thursday. I am sure she’s scheming something.’

‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily.

The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, ‘no disappointments, to speak of.’ True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded severe colds. What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody knew his part: the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling until he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; Iago was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make ‘a decided hit.’ A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins’s talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an address on somebody’s escaping from nothing); and last, not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately.

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to ‘The Men of Prometheus.’ The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, ‘sounded very well, considering.’ The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment ‘at sight,’ found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, ‘ought of sight, out of mind;’ for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman too-too’d away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of ‘Here’s a pretty go!—what’s to be done?’ &c. The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to ‘clear the stage, and ring up.’

Quanto l’affabile signora Porter sarebbe riuscita nel realizzare il suo piacevole proposito, è impossibile dirlo; se non fosse stato l’arrivo del signor Thomas Balderstone, fratello della signora Gattleton e familiarmente chiamato in famiglia “Zio Tom”, che cambiò il corso della conversazione e le suggerì un ottimo piano da attuare la sera dello spettacolo.

Zio Tom era molto ricco e aveva un grande affetto per i suoi nipoti e nipotine; pertanto, naturalmente, rappresentava una figura di grande importanza nella sua stessa famiglia. Era uno degli uomini dal cuore più gentile che esistessero: sempre di buon umore e sempre pronto a parlare. Si vantava di indossare stivali alti in tutte le occasioni e di non aver mai portato un fazzoletto da collo di seta nera; inoltre, andava fiero del fatto di ricordare tutti i drammi principali di Shakespeare dalla prima all’ultima scena. E infatti era davvero così. Il risultato di questa sorta di “memoria meccanica” fu che non solo ripeteva costantemente le stesse cose, ma non riusciva mai a stare seduto ad ascoltare una citazione errata tratta dalle opere di Shakespeare senza subito correggerla. Era anche piuttosto spiritoso: non perdeva mai l’occasione di dire qualcosa che riteneva divertente, e rideva sempre fino alle lacrime di fronte a tutto ciò che gli sembrava buffo o ridicolo.

‘Beh, ragazze!’ disse zio Tom, dopo che le cerimonie preliminari di baci e saluti erano state concluse. ‘Come va? Avete imparato bene i vostri ruoli, vero? Lucina, cara, atto II, scena I. Posizione, segnale di partenza: “Destino sconosciuto”. Cosa viene dopo? Andate avanti, “I Cieli, ”’

“Ah sì,” disse la signorina Lucina, “me ne ricordo, ”

“Che i cieli lo impediscano, Ma che il nostro amore e le nostre gioie aumentino, Proprio come crescono i nostri giorni!”

“Fai delle pause qui e lì,” disse il vecchio signore, che era un grande critico. “‘Ma affinché i nostri amori e le nostre comodità aumentino’, enfasi sull’ultima sillaba, ‘crease’; poi di nuovo ad alta voce, ‘poiché i nostri giorni crescono’, enfasi su ‘giorni’. È così che si fa, caro mio; fidati di tuo zio per l’enfasi. Ah! Sem, mio ragazzo, come stai?”

“Molto bene, grazie zio,” rispose il signor Sempronius, che era appena apparso; aveva un aspetto simile a quello di una colomba, con un piccolo cerchio intorno a ciascun occhio: conseguenza delle continue bevute. “Certo che ci vedremo il giovedì.”

“Certo, certo, caro ragazzo mio.”

“Che peccato che vostro nipote non abbia pensato di farvi fare da suggeritore, signor Balderstone!” sussurrò la signora Joseph Porter; “sareste stato di grande aiuto.”

“Beh,” rispose zio Tom, “mi lusingo dicendo che avrei dovuto riuscire a farcela abbastanza bene.”

“Devo parlarti mentre sediamo uno accanto all’altro questa notte,” riprese la signora Porter; “e poi, se i nostri cari giovani amici qui facessero qualche errore, tu potresti aiutarmi a capire. Sarei davvero molto interessata.”

“Sono certo che sarò più che felice di offrirvi qualsiasi aiuto sia in mio potere.”

“Attenzione, è davvero un affare.”

‘Senz’altro.’

“Non so proprio perché,” disse la signora Gattleton alle sue figlie, mentre sedevano intorno al >focolare alla sera, esaminando i loro compiti, “ma vorrei davvero che la signora Joseph Porter non venisse il giovedì. Sono sicura che stia architettando qualcosa.”

“Tuttavia, non può farci sembrare ridicoli,” osservò con aria sprezzante il signor Sempronius Gattleton.

Il tanto atteso >Giovedì arrivò infine, e con sé portò, come osservò filosoficamente il signor Gattleton senior, “nessuna delusione, per così dire”. Certo, rimaneva ancora da vedere se Cassio avrebbe potuto indossare l’abito inviato appositamente per lui dal magazzino dei costumi; altrettanto incerta era la situazione della principale cantante femminile: si dubitava che fosse sufficientemente guarita dall’influenza per esibirsi. Il signor Harleigh, il protagonista della serata, aveva la voce rauca e non stava bene a causa della grande quantità di limone e caramelle che aveva mangiato per migliorare il proprio timbro vocale; inoltre, due flauti e un violoncello soffrivano di gravi raffreddori. Ma che importanza aveva tutto ciò? Il pubblico stava arrivando. Tutti conoscevano il proprio ruolo; gli abiti erano adornati di brillantini; le piume bianche sembravano davvero bellissime; il signor Evans si era esercitato così tanto che era rimasto pieno di lividi dalla testa ai piedi, ma la sua performance sarebbe stata sicuramente perfetta; Iago era certo che, nella scena degli attacchi con il pugnale, avrebbe riuscito a colpire con precisione. Un gentiluomo sordo autodidatta, che si era offerto volontario di portare la sua flauta, sarebbe stato un prezioso aggiunto all’orchestra; il talento della signorina Jenkins al pianoforte era troppo noto per essere messo in dubbio anche solo per un istante; il signor Cape si era esercitato spesso con lei nell’accompagnamento al violino; e il signor Brown, che aveva accettato di portare il suo violoncello a poche ore dall’evento, sicuramente avrebbe suonato eccezionalmente bene.

Erano le sette di ore quando arrivò anche il pubblico; tutta la gente importante e alla moda di Clapham e dintorni stava rapidamente riempiendo il teatro. C’erano i Smith, i Gubbins, i Nixon, i Dixon, gli Hickson, persone con nomi di ogni tipo, due assessori comunali, un sceriffo in lontananza. E infine, non meno importanti, c’erano la signora Joseph Porter e zio Tom, seduti nella terza fila dal palco: la signora P. intratteneva zio Tom con ogni sorta di storie, mentre zio Tom divertiva tutti quanti ridendo in modo estremamente rumoroso.

Ting, ting, ting! suonò esattamente alle otto in punto la campanella del direttore d’orchestra, e l’orchestra attaccò immediatamente l’ouverture di “I Figli di Prometeo”. Il pianista continuò a suonare con notevole perseveranza; il violoncello, che interveniva a intervalli regolari, suonava davvero molto bene. L’infelice individuo che si era assunto il compito di suonare l’accompagnamento al flauto, però, scoprì, grazie a un’esperienza disastrosa, la perfetta veridicità dell’antico detto: “Ciò che si vede con chiarezza, facilmente si dimentica”; essendo molto miopio e trovandosi a una certa distanza dal suo spartito, riusciva soltanto a suonare qualche nota nel posto sbagliato, disturbando così gli altri musicisti. È tuttavia giusto dire che il signor Brown lo faceva con grande abilità. L’ouverture, in realtà, assomigliava molto a una gara tra i diversi strumenti: il pianista partì per primo di diversi accordi, seguito dal violoncello, che lasciò ben indietro il povero flauto; il gentiluomo sordo continuava a suonare senza rendersi conto degli errori commessi, fino a quando l’applauso del pubblico non gli fece capire che l’ouverture era finita. Poi si udì un gran trambusto sul palco, accompagnato da sussurri del tipo “Che situazione imbarazzante, cosa si fa ora?”. Il pubblico applaudì di nuovo per incoraggiare i musicisti; infine il signor Sempronius chiese al direttore d’orchestra, a voce alta, di “liberare il palco e prepararsi per l’inizio del secondo atto”.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots paddling about; and there remained.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton solus, and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and said:

‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, that Iago who was to have played Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played Iago, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed that Iago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening. Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur performance—a—another gentleman undertaken to read the part—request indulgence for a short time—courtesy and kindness of a British audience.’ Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when the substitute Iago had finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the original Iago unexpectedly arrived. The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate: the only remarkable circumstance being, that as Iago could not get on any of the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the Duke, a carpenter, two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought.

Mr. Sempronius proceeded:

‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’

‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

‘No.’

‘Tell him so, then.’

‘I will. Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my boy.’

‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded Othello, quite forgetting the dignity of his situation.

‘You’ve left out something. “True I have married—”’

‘Oh, ah!’ said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence—

—‘“true I have married her;— The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more.”

(Aside) Why don’t you prompt, father?’

‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle.

‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom.

‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with his part.

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers; suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody’s part as it was being delivered, in an under-tone. The audience were highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personae. None of the performers could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in ‘the flies;’ and the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of ‘Masaniello’ to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire, which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told everybody, ‘a complete failure.’ The audience went home at four o’clock in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that immortal bard.

CHAPTER X—A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE

Ting, ting, ting! La campanella suonò di nuovo. Tutti si sedettero; la tenda si mosse; la rosa si trovava abbastanza in alto da permettere di vedere diverse paia di stivali gialli muoversi intorno. E poi tutto rimase fermo.

Ting, ting, ting! La campanella suonò di nuovo. Il sipario si mosse violentemente, ma non si sollevò di più; il pubblico ridacchiò; la signora Porter guardò zio Tom; zio Tom guardò tutti, si strofinò le mani e rise con vera gioia. Dopo che la campanella suonò per quanto tempo potesse farlo un ragazzo che porta i muffin lungo una strada abbastanza lunga, e dopo molti sussurri, colpi di martello e richieste di chiodi e corda, finalmente il sipario si sollevò, rivelando il signor Sempronius Gattleton, solo soletto, pronto per interpretare il ruolo di Othello. Dopo tre distinti round di applausi, durante i quali il signor Sempronius si portò la mano destra sul petto sinistro e fece un inchino nel modo più appropriato, il direttore si avvicinò e disse:

‘Signore e signori, vi assicuro che con sincero rammarico devo comunicarvi che Iago, che avrebbe dovuto interpretare il ruolo di Mr. Wilson. Vi chiedo scusa, ma sono naturalmente un po’ agitato (applausi); intendo dire, Mr. Wilson, che avrebbe dovuto interpretare Iago, è, insomma, la realtà è che ho appena ricevuto una nota nella quale mi viene comunicato che Iago è inevitabilmente trattenuto all’ufficio postale stasera. In queste circostanze, spero che possiate concedere a un altro gentiluomo l’onore di interpretare questo ruolo. Vi chiedo la cortesia e la comprensione del pubblico britannico.’ Applausi scroscianti. Esce il signor Sempronius Gattleton e cala il sipario.

Il pubblico, naturalmente, era di ottimo umore; l’intera faccenda era solo uno scherzo, e quindi attesero per un’ora con la massima pazienza, intrattenuti durante l’attesa da alcuni dolci e limonata. Secondo le spiegazioni successive del signor Sempronius, il ritardo non sarebbe stato così lungo se, quando il sostituto di Iago si fu preparato e la rappresentazione stava per iniziare, l’Iago originale non fosse arrivato all’improvviso. Il primo dovette quindi spogliarsi nuovamente, mentre l’altro doveva vestirsi per il suo ruolo; poiché quest’ultimo ebbe difficoltà ad indossare i propri abiti, l’intero processo richiese un certo tempo. Alla fine, la tragedia iniziò davvero. Andò abbastanza bene fino alla terza scena del primo atto, in cui Othello si rivolge al Senato; l’unica circostanza degna di nota fu che, poiché Iago non riusciva a infilarsi nessuna delle scarpe da teatro a causa dei piedi gonfi per il caldo e l’emozione, dovette recitare con un paio di stivali Wellington, il che creava un contrasto piuttosto strano con i suoi pantaloni riccamente decorati. Quando Othello iniziò il suo discorso al Senato – il cui “rango” era rappresentato dal Duca, da un falegname, da due uomini raccomandati dal giardiniere e da un ragazzo – la signora Porter colse l’occasione che aveva tanto atteso.

Il signor Sempronio proseguì:

‘“Miei molto potenti, gravi e rispettabili signori,
I miei nobili e stimati padroni,
Il fatto che abbia rapito la figlia di questo vecchio è vero;
Forse il mio modo di esprimermi è troppo brusco, ”’

“È davvero così?”, sussurrò la signora Porter a zio Tom.

‘No.’

“Dìglielo allora.”

“Lo farò! Sem!” gridò zio Tom, “Ma non è così, ragazzo mio.”

“Che c’è che non va, zio?” chiese Othello, dimenticando completamente la dignità della sua posizione.

“Hai dimenticato qualcosa, ‘Vero, mi sono sposata, ’”

“Oh, ah!”, disse il signor Sempronio, cercando inutilmente di nascondere la sua confusione, proprio come il pubblico tentava invano di soffocare le risate che gli sfuggivano, tossendo con violenza estrema.

—“Veramente, l’ho sposata;— L’intera causa del mio errore Si riduce a questo: nient’altro.”

Nota a margine “Perché non dai tu l’esempio, padre?”

“Perché ho perso gli occhiali,” disse povero il signor Gattleton, quasi morto per il caldo e il trambusto.

“Ecco, ora dice ‘Sono davvero scortese’,” disse zio Tom.

“Sì, lo so,” rispose il sfortunato manager, proseguendo con il suo compito.

Sarebbe inutile e noioso elencare tutte le volte in cui zio Tom, ormai completamente a suo agio e spinto dalla maliziosa signora Porter, correggeva gli errori degli attori; basta dire che, una volta preso questo vizio, nulla avrebbe potuto convincerlo a smettere: per tutta la durata della rappresentazione, mormorava sottovoce le parti di tutti gli attori mentre queste venivano recitate. Il pubblico si divertì molto, la signora Porter ne fu entusiasta, gli attori rimasero imbarazzati; zio Tom, invece, non fu mai più così soddisfatto in tutta la sua vita. E i suoi nipoti, sebbene fossero gli eredi designati della sua vasta fortuna, non desiderarono mai tanto che si riunisse con i suoi genitori come in quell’occasione memorabile.

Anche diverse altre cause minori contribuirono ad attenuare l’entusiasmo dei protagonisti di questa rappresentazione. Nessuno degli attori riusciva a muoversi liberamente nei suoi costumi aderenti, né a gestire le braccia all’interno delle giacche; i pantaloni erano troppo stretti, gli stivali troppo larghi, e le spade avevano forme e dimensioni svariate. Il signor Evans, naturalmente troppo alto per lo scenario, indossava un cappello di velluto nero con enormi piume bianche, la cui bellezza veniva però oscurata dalle “mosche”; l’unico altro inconveniente legato a quel cappello era che, quando se lo toglieva dalla testa, non riusciva a rimetterselo, e viceversa. Nonostante tutti i suoi sforzi, finiva sempre per cadere con la testa e le spalle attraverso uno degli scenari laterali, proprio come un arlecchino che salti attraverso una tavola in una pantomima natalizia. Il pianista, sopraffatto dal calore estremo della stanza, svenne all’inizio dello spettacolo, lasciando che la musica di “Masaniello” fosse eseguita soltanto dal flauto e dal violoncello. L’orchestra si lamentò che il signor Harleigh soffocasse il suono delle loro note, mentre lui affermava che fosse proprio l’orchestra a impedirgli di cantare correttamente. I pescatori assunti per l’occasione si ribellarono apertamente, rifiutando categoricamente di esibirsi senza un aumento della loro paga; e quando questa richiesta venne accolta, si ubriacarono durante la scena dell’eruzione con estrema naturalezza. Il fuoco rosso acceso alla fine del secondo atto non solo rischiò di soffocare il pubblico, ma quasi fece prendere fuoco anche all’intero teatro; per questo motivo, il resto dello spettacolo si svolse in mezzo a una fitta nebbia.

In breve, l’intera faccenda fu, come la signora Joseph Porter dichiarò trionfante a tutti, “un completo fallimento”. Il pubblico se ne andò a casa alle quattro del mattino, esausto dalle risate, afflitto da terribili mal di testa e con un odore insopportabile di zolfo e polvere da sparo. I signori Gattleton, padre e figlio, si ritirarono per riposare, con l’idea vaga di emigrare sul fiume Swan all’inizio della settimana successiva.

La villa Rose ha nuovamente ripreso il suo aspetto abituale; i mobili della sala da pranzo sono stati sostituiti; i tavoli sono stati lucidati con cura come prima; le sedie di crine sono allineate contro il muro, come sempre; in ogni finestra della casa sono state installate tende veneziane per impedire che la signora Joseph Porter possa spiarci. Nel clan Gattleton non si parla mai di teatro, a meno che non sia lo zio Tom a farlo, il quale non può fare a meno di esprimere talvolta la sua sorpresa e rammarico nel constatare che i suoi nipoti sembrano aver perso l’apprezzamento per le bellezze di Shakespeare e per le citazioni tratte dalle sue opere.

CAPITOLO X – UN EPISODIO NELLA VITA DEL SIGNOR WATKINS TOTTLER

CHAPTER THE FIRST

Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an over-weening predilection for brandy-and-water, it is a misfortune into which a man easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to extricate himself. It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and three-quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at all—plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one of Richardson’s novels, and had a clean-cravatish formality of manner, and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to the individual who received it, in one respect—it was rather small. He received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he ran himself out, about a day after the expiration of the first week, as regularly as an eight-day clock; and then, to make the comparison complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular tick.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think; but the idea of matrimony had never ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries on this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in Cecil-street, Strand, into a neat house in the suburbs; the half-hundredweight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up into three tons of the best Walls-end; his small French bedstead was converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster; and in the empty chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, imagination seated a beautiful young lady, with a very little independence or will of her own, and a very large independence under a will of her father’s.

‘Who’s there?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his room-door disturbed these meditations one evening.

‘Tottle, my dear fellow, how do you do?’ said a short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the question by asking another.

‘Told you I should drop in some evening,’ said the short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle’s hand, after a little struggling and dodging.

‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had ‘dropped in’ to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.

‘How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?’ inquired Tottle.

‘Quite well, thank you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared vacancy out of countenance.

‘Quite well,’ repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had expired. ‘I may say remarkably well.’ And he rubbed the palms of his hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.

‘What will you take?’ inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very little chance of taking anything else.

‘Oh, I don’t know—have you any whiskey?’

‘Why,’ replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, ‘I had some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it’s all gone—and therefore its strength—’

‘Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,’ said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did duty in an imaginary wine-cellar; left the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application was successful; the spirits were speedily called—not from the vasty deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing themselves.

‘Tottle,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘you know my way—off-hand, open, say what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can’t bear affectation. One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people have about ’em, without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one. Now listen to what I’m going to say.’

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.

‘It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,’ resumed the short gentleman.—‘You want to get married.’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; ‘why—I should certainly—at least, I think I should like—’

‘Won’t do,’ said the short gentleman.—‘Plain and free—or there’s an end of the matter. Do you want money?’

‘You know I do.’

‘You admire the sex?’

‘I do.’

‘And you’d like to be married?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then you shall be. There’s an end of that.’ Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.

CAPITOLO PRIMO

Il matrimonio è, per proverbio, un impegno serio. Proprio come una eccessiva predilezione per il brandy mescolato con acqua, è una sfortuna nella quale un uomo cade facilmente e dalla quale gli è estremamente difficile liberarsi. Non serve dire a un uomo timido in queste questioni che si tratta soltanto di un passo decisivo e poi tutto sarà finito. Lo stesso si dice anche in tribunale, e le sfortunate vittime trovano lo stesso conforto in entrambi i casi.

Il signor Watkins Tottle era un caso piuttosto insolito: da un lato, possedeva forti inclinazioni verso la moglie, dall’altro, una timidezza nei confronti del matrimonio senza eguali. Aveva circa cinquant’anni, era alto quattro piedi e sei pollici e tre quarti, perché non indossava mai calze; era robusto, pulito e aveva il viso rossiccio. Sembrava quasi una vignetta tratta da uno dei romanzi di Richardson; si comportava in modo formale, ma con un’aria piuttosto casalinga, tanto che persino Sir Charles Grandison avrebbe potuto invidiarlo. Viveva di un’indennità, il cui importo, però, era piuttosto modesto. La riceveva a scaglioni ogni secondo lunedì; ma, regolarmente, esauriva i fondi già poco dopo la fine del primo periodo, con la stessa precisione di un orologio a otto giorni. E poi, per completare il paragone, la sua padrona di casa gli rinnovava il denaro, e lui continuava la sua routine quotidiana.

Il signor Watkins Tottle aveva vissuto da molto tempo in uno stato di felicità solitaria, come dicono gli scapoli, o di sfortuna solitaria, secondo le vedove; ma l’idea del matrimonio non aveva mai smesso di perseguitarlo. Immerso in profonde riflessioni su questo argomento incessante, la sua fantasia trasformava il suo piccolo salotto in Cecil-street, Strand, in una graziosa >casa nei sobborghi; i cinquanta chili di carbone nascosti sotto le scale della cucina diventavano improvvisamente tre tonnellate del miglior carbone di Walls-end; il suo piccolo letto francese si trasformava in un solido letto da matrimonio con quattro colonne; e sulla sedia vuota dall’altra parte del caminetto, la sua immaginazione vedeva seduta una bellissima giovane donna, con molto poca indipendenza o volontà propria, e molta, invece, sotto la volontà di suo padre.

“Chi è là?” chiese il signor Watkins Tottle, quando un leggero bussare alla porta della sua stanza interruppe quelle riflessioni una sera.

“Tottle, mio caro amico, come stai?” disse un anziano signore di statura bassa, con una voce un po’ ruvida; entrò nella stanza all’improvviso e rispose alla domanda ponendone un’altra a sua volta.

“Vi avevo detto che avrei dovuto passare da voi una sera,” disse il signore di statura bassa, porgendo il proprio cappello a Tottle dopo alcuni tentativi e schermaglioni.

“È un piacere vedervi, ne sono sicuro,” disse il signor Watkins Tottle, sperando in cuor suo che la sua visita fosse avvenuta lungo il fiume Tamigi, alla fine della strada, invece di entrare nel suo salotto. La quindicina stava per finire e Watkins era in difficoltà finanziarie.

“Come sta la signora Gabriel Parsons?”, chiese Tottle.

“Molto bene, grazie,” rispose il signor Gabriel Parsons, perché quello era il nome che quel gentiluomo di statura bassa amava usare. Ci fu una pausa; il gentiluomo di statura bassa guardò verso il lato sinistro del camino; il signor Watkins Tottle fissava il vuoto senza dire una parola.

“Abbastanza bene,” ripeté il signore basso e snello, dopo che erano trascorsi cinque minuti. “Anzi, si potrebbe dire davvero molto bene.” E si strofinò le palme delle mani con forza, come se volesse produrre una scintilla per accendere qualcosa.

“Cosa vorrà prendere?”, chiese Tottle con la disperata urgenza di un uomo che sapeva che, a meno che il visitatore non se ne andasse, le sue possibilità di ottenere qualcos’altro erano molto scarse.

“Ah, non so, avete del whisky?”

“Perché,” rispose Tottle molto lentamente, poiché tutto ciò gli permetteva di guadagnare tempo, “la scorsa settimana avevo del capitale e del whisky particolarmente forte; ma ora è tutto finito, e quindi anche la sua forza.”

“È qualcosa che va ben oltre la possibilità di essere dimostrato; in altre parole, è impossibile provarlo,” disse il signor Tottle, ridendo molto e sembrando davvero felice che il whisky fosse stato bevuto. Il signor Gabriel Parsons, dopo aver smesso di ridere, insinuò delicatamente che, in assenza di whisky, non avrebbe avuto nulla in contrario al brandy. Il signor Watkins Tottle, accendendo con grande ostentazione una candela piatta e mostrando un enorme chiave che apparteneva alla porta d’ingresso, ma che, a fini di apparenza, occasionalmente veniva utilizzata in un immaginario vinoio, lasciò la stanza per chiedere alla padrona di casa di riempire i loro bicchieri e di includerli nel conto. La richiesta ebbe successo: gli alcolici furono prontamente serviti, non certo dalle profondità infinite della terra, ma dai vicini magazzini vini. I due signori mescolarono il loro grog e poi si sedettero comodamente davanti al focolare, riscaldandosi al calore delle fiamme.

“Tottle,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons, “conosci la strada: parlo senza esitazioni, dico ciò che penso, intendo davvero quello che dico, odio le riserve e non sopporto l’affettazione. La prima cosa è come un cattivo domino che nasconde soltanto i lati positivi delle persone buone, senza però rendere quelli negativi meno evidenti; la seconda, in sostanza, è lo stesso di tingere una calza di cotone bianca in modo che sembri di seta. Ora ascolta attentamente ciò che sto per dire.”

Qui, il piccolo gentiluomo fece una pausa e bevve un lungo sorso del suo liquore misto con acqua. Anche il signor Watkins Tottle ne bevve un sorso, mescolò il contenuto della sua coppa vicino al fuoco e assunse un’aria di profonda attenzione.

“Non serve certo mormorare e borbottare in merito a questa questione,” riprese il gentiluomo di statura bassa. “Voi volete sposarvi.”

“Perché,” rispose il signor Watkins Tottle in modo evasivo; perché tremava violentemente e sentiva un formicolio improvviso in tutto il corpo; “perché, certamente, almeno, penso che mi piacerebbe, ”

“Non va,” disse il signore basso di statura. “O tutto è chiaro e semplice, oppure basta così. Vuoi soldi?”

“Lo sai che lo so.”

“Ammiri il sesso?”

‘I do.’

“E vorresti sposarti?”

‘Senz’altro.’

“Allora lo sarai. Fine della questione.” Così dicendo, il signor Gabriel Parsons prese un pizzico di tabacco da naso e preparò un altro bicchiere.

‘Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,’ said Tottle. ‘Really, as the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of, in this way.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject, and the brandy-and-water—‘I know a lady—she’s stopping with my wife now—who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it, by her last will and testament.’

‘I’ll pay my addresses to her,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘She isn’t very young—is she?’

‘Not very; just the thing for you. I’ve said that already.’

‘What coloured hair has the lady?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Egad, I hardly recollect,’ replied Gabriel, with coolness. ‘Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.’

‘A what?’ ejaculated Tottle.

‘One of those things with curls, along here,’ said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. ‘I know the front’s black; I can’t speak quite positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that it was rather lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish tinge, perhaps.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the next attack without delay.

‘Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?’ he inquired.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the soft impeachment.

‘I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,’ said Parsons.

‘Never in my life!’ replied his friend, apparently indignant at being suspected of such an act. ‘Never! The fact is, that I entertain, as you know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now, the fact is, that anything like this easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if you were,’ replied Parsons, gravely; ‘I shouldn’t wonder. However, you’ll be all right in this case; for the strictness and delicacy of this lady’s ideas greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes, hanging up in her bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there, till it was taken down, considering it decidedly wrong.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘certainly.’

‘And then, the other night—I never laughed so much in my life’—resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons; ‘I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny—that’s Mrs. Parsons, you know—and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny’s flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and left the room.’

‘Quite right!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘she could not possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?’

‘Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.’

‘But, didn’t you apologise for hurting her feelings?’

‘Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;—men ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture; being a married man.’

‘And what did the lady say to that?’ inquired Tottle, deeply interested.

‘Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its impropriety was obvious.’

‘Noble-minded creature!’ exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.

‘Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for you.’

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart; ‘I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the deuce you’ll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.’ Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense.

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure.

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle; and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman who felt more uncomfortable.

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his pardon—alighted, with great dignity. ‘All right!’ said he, and away went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which ‘short’ stages are generally remarkable.

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the garden-gate bell. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum.

“Vi prego di essere più esplicativi,” disse Tottle. “Davvero, essendo la parte principale interessata, non posso accettare di essere trattato in questo modo.”

“Te lo dico io,” rispose il signor Gabriel Parsons, entusiasmandosi all’argomento, “conosco una signora, sta attualmente da mia moglie, ed è proprio la persona adatta per te. Ben istruita; parla francese; suona il pianoforte; sa molto sulle fiori, sulle conchiglie e simili cose. E guadagna cinquecento sterline all’anno, con la piena libertà di disporre di quel denaro secondo il proprio testamento.”

“Le darò le mie informazioni personali”, disse il signor Watkins Tottle. “Non è più molto giovane, vero?”

“Niente di eccezionale, ma proprio quello che fa per te. L’ho già detto.”

“Che colore di capelli ha quella signora?” chiese il signor Watkins Tottle.

“Egad, quasi non me ne ricordo,” rispose Gabriel con calma. “Forse avrei dovuto notare subito che indossa un velo davanti al viso.”

“‘A cosa?’”, esclamò Tottle.

“Una di quelle cose con le onde, proprio qui,” disse Parsons, tracciando una linea dritta sulla sua fronte, appena sopra gli occhi, per spiegare meglio ciò che intendeva. “So che la parte anteriore dei suoi capelli è nera; non posso dire con certezza com’è il colore dei suoi capelli posteriori, perché a meno di non camminarle dietro e di intravederli sotto il cappello, raramente si riesce a vederli. Ma direi che siano abbastanza più chiari della parte anteriore: forse un tono grigioastro.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle sembrava avere certi dubbi nella mente. Il signor Gabriel Parsons se ne accorse e pensò che fosse sicuro lanciare l’attacco successivo senza indugiare.

“Ora, sei mai stato innamorato, Tottle?” chiese lui.

Il signor Watkins Tottle arrossì fino agli occhi e giù fino al mento, mostrando una vasta gamma di colori mentre confessava quel lieve errore.

“Immagino che tu abbia fatto quella proposta, più di una volta, quando eri giovane. Scusa la mia franchezza,” disse Parsons.

“Mai nella mia vita!” rispose il suo amico, chiaramente indignato all’idea di essere sospettato di un simile atto. “Mai! Il fatto è che, come sai, ho opinioni particolari su queste questioni. Non ho paura delle signore, giovani o anziane, anzi no; ma penso che, in conformità con le usanze di questi tempi, loro concedano agli uomini sposabili troppa libertà di parola e di comportamento. Ora, la verità è che io non sono mai riuscito ad ottenere una tale libertà; e poiché ho sempre paura di esagerare, di solito vengo considerato, diciamo, formale e freddo.”

“Non dovrei nemmeno chiedermelo se lo fossi,” rispose Parsons con serietà; “non dovrei chiedermelo affatto. Tuttavia, in questo caso andrà tutto bene; perché la rigore e la delicatezza delle idee di questa signora superano di gran lunga le tue. Per l’amor del cielo. Quando è venuta a casa nostra, c’era un vecchio ritratto di qualche uomo, con due grandi occhi neri e fissi, appeso nella sua camera da letto; lei si è rifiutata assolutamente di dormirci, finché non è stato tolto, considerandolo decisamente inappropriato.”

“Anch’io lo penso,” disse il signor Watkins Tottle; “certamente.”

“E poi, un’altra notte. Non ho mai riso così tanto in vita mia”, continuò il signor Gabriel Parsons; “ero tornato a casa sotto una forte vento orientale e mi è venuto un terribile mal di testa. Beh, Fanny, cioè la signora Parsons, sapete, insieme a questa sua amica, a me e a Frank Ross stavamo giocando a carte; scherzando, dissi che, prima di andare a letto, avrei avvolto la testa nel grembiule di flanella di Fanny. Lei, all’istante, gettò via le carte e se ne andò dalla stanza.”

“Esattamente!” disse il signor Watkins Tottle; “non avrebbe potuto comportarsi in modo più dignitoso. Cosa hai fatto tu?”

“Ho vinto sei pence, ” – Frank prese la “finta moneta” e vinse sei pence.

“Ma non ti sei scusato per averle ferito i sentimenti?”

“Un po’ di sfrontatezza. La mattina dopo, a colazione, ne abbiamo parlato. Lei sosteneva che qualsiasi menzione di una sottoveste di flanella fosse inappropriata; non si doveva dare per scontato che gli uomini sapessero di cose del genere. Ho difeso la mia posizione. Dopotutto, sono un uomo sposato.”

“E cosa ha detto la signora a questo proposito?” chiese Tottle, molto interessato.

“Cambiò argomento e disse che, essendo Frank un uomo single, tale comportamento era chiaramente inappropriato.”

“Creature di nobile animo!”, esclamò l’incantato Tottle.

“Ah! Sia io che Fanny dicemmo subito che lei era perfettamente adatta per te.”

Un bagliore di serena soddisfazione apparve sul volto rotondo del signor Watkins Tottle quando udì quella profezia.

“C’è una cosa che non riesco a capire,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons mentre si alzava per andarsene; “Non riesco proprio, per tutta la mia vita e l’anima mia, a immaginare come diavolo riuscirete mai a incontrarvi. La signora sicuramente avrebbe un attacco isterico se si menzionasse l’argomento.” Il signor Gabriel Parsons si sedette di nuovo e rise fino a perdere le forze. Tottle gli doveva dei soldi, quindi aveva tutto il diritto di ridere a spese di Tottle.

Nel suo intimo, il signor Watkins Tottle temeva che questa fosse un’altra caratteristica in comune con questa moderna Lucrezia. Tuttavia, accettò con grande determinazione l’invito a cena dai Parsonsen il giorno dopo; anzi, non vedeva l’ora di quell’incontro, nella speranza di poter rimanere di nuovo solo in modo relativamente tranquillo.

Il sole che sorse il giorno dopo non aveva mai visto, all’esterno del teatro Norwood, una figura più eccentrica e stravagante di Mr. Watkins Tottle; e quando la carrozza si fermò davanti a una casa dall’aspetto cartonato, con camini fatti in modo artificioso e un prato simile a un grande foglio di carta verde, certamente non aveva mai accompagnato fino al suo destinazione un gentiluomo che si sentisse più a disagio.

Il treno si fermò, e il signor Watkins Tottle saltò giù – chiediamo scusa per l’intromissione – con grande dignità. “Bene!” disse, e il treno ripartì su per la collina, mantenendo quella bellissima regolarità di andatura che caratterizza solitamente i tratti più brevi.

Il signor Watkins Tottle tirò con esitazione la maniglia della campanella del cancello del giardino. Provò a tirare più forte, ma il suo precedente nervosismo non diminuì affatto quando sentì la campanella suonare come un allarme antincendio.

‘Is Mr. Parsons at home?’ inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling.

‘Here I am,’ shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then, the gentleman without the coat called out ‘play,’ very loudly, and bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and took another run. Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and didn’t hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into a neighbouring field. They called this cricket.

‘Tottle, will you “go in?”’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which made him even warmer than his friend.

‘Then we’ll go into the house, as it’s past four, and I shall have to wash my hands before dinner,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Here, I hate ceremony, you know! Timson, that’s Tottle—Tottle, that’s Timson; bred for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;’ and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stiffly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sincerity.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa, was seated a lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess; her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her complexion—with a slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance I assure you,’ said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.

‘Splendid, majestic creature!’ thought Tottle.

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was deserved.

‘May I beg,’ said the reverend gentleman,—‘May I beg to call upon you, Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket distribution society?’

‘Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,’ responded Miss Lillerton.

‘You are truly charitable, madam,’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson, ‘and we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.’

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady’s face, as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, ‘it’s my private opinion, Timson, that your “distribution society” is rather a humbug.’

‘You are so severe,’ replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners.

‘So positively unjust!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Certainly,’ observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual.

‘Why,’ urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, ‘what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he hasn’t a bed, or giving him soup when he requires substantial food?—“like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.” Why not give ’em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase what they think best? Why?—because your subscribers wouldn’t see their names flourishing in print on the church-door—that’s the reason.’

‘Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I wish to see my name in print, on the church-door,’ interrupted Miss Lillerton.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and getting another glance.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Parsons. ‘I dare say you wouldn’t mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church register—eh?’

‘Register! What register?’ inquired the lady gravely.

‘Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,’ replied Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in spirits. The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and had taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port on the plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all. At length, the ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour previously—signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she generally did at once.

“Il signor Parsons è a casa?” chiese Tottle all’uomo che aveva aperto il cancello. A malapena riusciva a sentire la propria voce, perché la campana non aveva ancora suonato.

“Eccomi qui,” gridò una voce nel prato. E lì c’era il signor Gabriel Parsons, con una giacca di flanella, che correva avanti e indietro, da un wicket a due cappelli impilati uno sopra l’altro, e poi di nuovo dallo stesso punto al wicket, in modo estremamente frenetico. Un altro signore, senza giacca, stava cercando una palla nel cortile della casa. Quando riuscì a trovarla – in meno di dieci minuti – corse di nuovo verso i cappelli; Gabriel Parsons intanto si fermò. Il signore senza giacca gridò “Inizia la partita!” e lanciò la palla. Gabriel Parsons la colpì facendola volare per diversi metri, poi continuò a correre. L’altro signore provò a colpire il wicket, ma fallì; Gabriel Parsons, dopo aver finito di correre, posò la mazza e corse dietro alla palla, che finì in un campo vicino. Questo gioco si chiamava cricket.

“Tottle, entrerai con me?” chiese il signor Gabriel Parsons avvicinandosi a lui e asciugandosi il sudore dal viso.

Il signor Watkins Tottle rifiutò l’offerta; solo il pensiero di accettarla lo fece arrossire ancora di più rispetto a suo amico.

“Allora entreremo in casa, visto che sono passate le quattro, e dovrò lavarmi le mani prima di cena,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons. “Ehi, io odio le formalità, lo sapete! Timson, quello è Tottle; Tottle, quello è Timson, cresciuto per la chiesa, ma temo che quella non diventerà mai la sua fonte di sostentamento, ” E ridacchiò a quel vecchio scherzo. Il signor Timson si inchinò con noncuranza; il signor Watkins Tottle invece si inchinò rigidamente. Il signor Gabriel Parsons prese la strada verso la casa. Era un ricco produttore di zucchero che confondeva la scortesia con l’onestà, e la franchezza brusca con un modo aperto e sincero di comportarsi. Molti, oltre a Gabriel, confondono proprio la franchezza con la sincerità.

La signora Gabriel Parsons accolse gli ospiti con grande gentilezza sulle scale e li precedette nel salotto. Sul divano sedeva una donna dall’aspetto molto dignitoso, ma estremamente inespressiva. Era uno di quei casi in cui è impossibile fare alcuna supposizione ragionevole riguardo all’età; i suoi tratti potevano essere stati notevolmente belli quando era più giovane, oppure potevano continuare a presentarsi nello stesso modo. La sua pelle, con una leggera traccia di cipria qua e là, era chiara come quella di una bambola di cera ben realizzata, e il suo viso altrettanto inespressivo. Era vestita con eleganza e stava avvolgendo un orologio d’oro.

“Signorina Lillerton, cara mia, questo è il nostro amico il signor Watkins Tottle; un vecchio conoscente, vi assicuro,” disse la signora Parsons, presentando Strephon di Cecil-street, Strand. La signorina si alzò in piedi e fece un profondo inchino; il signor Watkins Tottle si inchinò a sua volta.

“Creature splendide e maestose!” pensò Tottle.

Il signor Timson fece un passo avanti, e il signor Watkins Tottle iniziò ad odiarlo. Gli uomini di solito individuano istintivamente un rivale, e il signor Watkins Tottle sentiva che il suo odio fosse meritato.

“Posso chiedervelo?” disse il rispettabile signore. “Posso chiedervi di fare una piccola donazione alla mia associazione per la distribuzione di zuppa, carbone e coperte?”

“Scrivete il mio nome, per due sovrani, se vi piace,” rispose la signorina Lillerton.

“Siete davvero caritatevole, signora,” disse il reverendo signor Timson, “e sappiamo che la carità può coprire molti peccati. Vi prego di capire che non dico questo supponendo che abbiate molti peccati da espiare; credetemi quando affermo che non ho mai incontrato nessuno che avesse meno cose di cui pentirsi della signorina Lillerton.”

Qualcosa di simile a una cattiva imitazione dell’effetto luminoso tipico delle animazioni illuminò il viso della donna, mentre accettava quel complimento. Watkins Tottle commise il peccato di desiderare che le ceneri del Reverendo Charles Timson venissero silenziosamente deposte nel cimitero della parrocchia in cui prestava servizio, ovunque esso si trovasse.

“Ti dico una cosa,” intervenne Parsons, che era appena apparso con le mani pulite e un cappotto nero, “è solo la mia opinione personale, Timson, ma quella tua ‘società di distribuzione’ è piuttosto una farsa.”

“Sei troppo severo,” rispose Timson con un sorriso cristiano: non gli piaceva Parsons, ma gli piacevano le sue cene.

“È decisamente ingiusto!” disse la signorina Lillerton.

“Certamente,” osservò Tottle. La signora alzò lo sguardo; i suoi occhi incontrarono quelli di Mr. Watkins Tottle. Li distolse rapidamente, con un’espressione di dolce imbarazzo, e anche Watkins Tottle fece lo stesso. L’imbarazzo era reciproco.

“Perché,” insistette il signor Parsons continuando le sue obiezioni, “di che utilità è dare del carbone a una persona che non ha nulla con cui cucinare, o coperte quando non ha un letto, o zuppa quando ha bisogno di cibo sostanzioso? È come dare loro delle frange quando invece hanno bisogno di una camicia. Perché non dargli semplicemente un po’ di denaro, come faccio io quando ritengo che lo meritino, e lasciare che comprino ciò che ritenono meglio? Perché? Perché i vostri abbonati non vorrebbero vedere i loro nomi stampati sulle porte delle chiese. Ecco il vero motivo.”

“Davvero, signor Parsons, spero che non intenda insinuare che desideri vedere il mio nome stampato sulla porta della chiesa,” interruppe la signorina Lillerton.

“Non lo spero affatto,” disse il signor Watkins Tottle, aggiungendo un’altra parola e ricevendo un altro sguardo.

“Certamente no,” rispose Parsons. “Anzi, penso che non vi dispiacerebbe vederlo scritto, nel registro della chiesa, eh?”

“Registrazione! Quale registrazione?” chiese la signora con aria solenne.

“Beh, sicuramente il registro dei matrimoni,” rispose Parsons, ridacchiando alla battuta e lanciando un’occhiata a Tottle. Il signor Watkins Tottle pensò che avrebbe dovuto svenire per la vergogna; è davvero impossibile immaginare quale effetto avrebbe avuto quella battuta sulla signorina, se in quel momento non fosse stato annunciato il pasto. Il signor Watkins Tottle, con un sforzo senza precedenti di galanteria, offrì la punta del proprio mignolo; la signorina Lillerton lo accettò con grazia e modestia da fanciulla. E così si recarono insieme alla tavola da pranzo, dove presto furono seduti uno accanto all’altra. La stanza era molto accogliente, la cena ottima. E il piccolo gruppo era di buon umore. La conversazione divenne piuttosto generale; dopo aver fatto alcune osservazioni “freddine” alla sua vicina e aver bevuto del vino con lei, il signor Watkins Tottle iniziò rapidamente a sentirsi più a suo agio. Quando vennero tolti i piatti, la signora Gabriel Parsons bevve quattro bicchieri di porto, sostenendo di essere una “infermiera” in quel momento. La signorina Lillerton ne bevve all’incirca lo stesso numero, affermando invece di non volerne affatto. Alla fine, le signore si ritirarono. Con grande soddisfazione del signor Gabriel Parsons, che per mezz’ora aveva tossito e fatto la faccia scura davanti a sua moglie. Segnali che la signora Parsons non aveva mai notato, fino a quando non le fu chiesto di bere la solita quantità. E, per evitare problemi, lei di solito lo faceva subito.

‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an under-tone.

‘I dote on her with enthusiasm already!’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,”’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson.

‘The ladies!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen ladies, off-hand.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘I remember when I was a young man—fill your glass, Timson.’

‘I have this moment emptied it.’

‘Then fill again.’

‘I will,’ said Timson, suiting the action to the word.

‘I remember,’ resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘when I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to think every woman was an angel.’

‘Was that before you were married?’ mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! certainly,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘I have never thought so since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so at all. But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most ridiculous circumstances possible.’

‘What were they, if one may inquire?’ asked Timson, who had heard the story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.

‘I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,’ said Parsons, by way of a beginning.

‘In a back-kitchen chimney!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle. ‘How dreadful!’

‘Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant,’ replied the small host. ‘The fact is, Fanny’s father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but had a decided objection to my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn’t any money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up somebody else. However, we managed to discover the state of each other’s affections somehow. I used to meet her, at some mutual friends’ parties; at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that sort of thing; then, I used to like nothing so well as sitting by her side—we didn’t talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a great notion of looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left eye—and then I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write verses, and use Macassar oil. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer, and after I had walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street in tight boots for a week—and a devilish hot summer it was too—in the hope of meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own mouth. I said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn’t live without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate, so as to take myself off in some way or other. Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the housemaid to give her the note, which she did.’

‘And what was the reply?’ inquired Timson, who had found, before, that to encourage the repetition of old stories is to get a general invitation.

‘Oh, the usual one! Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her to swerve from the duty she owed her parents; implored me to forget her, and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing. She said she could, on no account, think of meeting me unknown to her pa and ma; and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt to meet her there.’

‘You didn’t go, of course?’ said Watkins Tottle.

‘Didn’t I?—Of course I did. There she was, with the identical housemaid in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption. We walked about, for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable; and were regularly engaged. Then, we began to “correspond”—that is to say, we used to exchange about four letters a day; what we used to say in ’em I can’t imagine. And I used to have an interview, in the kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. Well, things went on in this way for some time; and we got fonder of each other every day. At last, as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been raised too, shortly before, we determined on a secret marriage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend’s, on the previous night; we were to be married early in the morning; and then we were to return to her home and be pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, and bathe his boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady and call her “mother,” and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as possible. Married we were, the next morning; two girls-friends of Fanny’s—acting as bridesmaids; and a man, who was hired for five shillings and a pint of porter, officiating as father. Now, the old lady unfortunately put off her return from Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the next morning; and as we placed great reliance on her, we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours. My newly-made wife returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in strolling about Hampstead-heath, and execrating my father-in-law. Of course, I went to comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I could, with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. I opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shown by the servant to our old place of meeting—a back kitchen, with a stone-floor and a dresser: upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and make love.’

‘Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!’ interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged.

‘Ah! On a kitchen-dresser!’ replied Parsons. ‘And let me tell you, old fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no other place to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself of such an opportunity. However, let me see;—where was I?’

“Che ne pensi di lei?” chiese il signor Gabriel Parsons al signor Watkins Tottle, con un tono sommesso.

“La adoro con entusiasmo!” rispose il signor Watkins Tottle.

“Signori, vi prego, lasciateci bere in onore delle signore”, disse il reverendo signor Timson.

“Le signore!”, disse il signor Watkins Tottle, svuotando il suo bicchiere. Con tutta la sua fiducia in sé, si sentiva come se potesse innamorarsi all’istante di una dozzina di signore.

“Ah!”, disse il signor Gabriel Parsons, “Ricordo quando ero giovane. Riempi il mio bicchiere, Timson.”

“Ho appena svuotato questo momento.”

“Riempilo di nuovo.”

“Lo farò,” disse Timson, mettendo in atto le sue parole.

“Ricordo,” continuò il signor Gabriel Parsons, “quando ero più giovane, con quale strana miscela di sentimenti bevevo quel brindisi. E come pensavo che ogni donna fosse un angelo.”

“È successo prima che vi sposaste?” chiese gentilmente il signor Watkins Tottle.

“Oh! certamente,” rispose il signor Gabriel Parsons. “Non ci ho mai più pensato da allora; e devo essere stato davvero un idiota a averlo anche solo considerato. Ma, sapete, ho sposato Fanny in circostanze strane e assolutamente ridicole.”

“Di cosa si trattava, se si può chiedere?” domandò Timson, che aveva ascoltato quella storia, in media, due volte a settimana negli ultimi sei mesi. Il signor Watkins Tottle ascoltò attentamente, nella >speranza di cogliere qualche suggerimento che potesse essergli utile nel suo nuovo progetto.

“Ho trascorso la mia notte di nozze nel camino della cucina posteriore,” disse Parsons, per iniziare il racconto.

“Nel camino della cucina posteriore!”, esclamò Watkins Tottle. “Che orrore!”

“Sì, non è stato affatto piacevole,” rispose il piccolo ospite. “Il fatto è che i genitori di Fanny mi trovavano abbastanza simpatico come persona, ma avevano decisamente obiezioni al fatto che diventassi suo marito. A quel tempo, infatti, non avevo soldi, mentre loro ne avevano; per questo volevano che Fanny scegliesse qualcun altro. Comunque, in qualche modo riuscimmo a scoprire i nostri sentimenti reciproci. Ci incontravamo alle feste di alcuni amici comuni; all’inizio ballavamo insieme, chiacchieravamo, flirtavamo. Poi non desideravo nient’altro se non stare al suo fianco; non parlavamo molto, ma ricordo che mi piaceva moltissimo guardarla con l’angolo estremo del mio occhio sinistro. Alla fine diventai molto triste e sentimentale: iniziai a scrivere versi e ad usare olio di Macassar. Alla fine non ne potei più. Dopo aver camminato avanti e indietro lungo il lato soleggiato di Oxford Street, con degli stivali stretti addosso, in una estate terribilmente calda, nella speranza di incontrarla, scrissi una lettera e le chiesi di vedermi in segreto: volevo sentire la sua decisione dalle sue stesse labbra. Le dissi che avevo scoperto, con assoluta certezza, di non poter vivere senza di lei. E che, se lei non mi avesse voluto, avevo deciso di prendere il cianuro, di iniziare a bere o di emigrare, in qualche modo per porre fine a tutto. Beh, presi in prestito una sterlina e corruppi la cameriera perché le desse la lettera. E lei lo fece.”

“E qual è stata la risposta?” chiese Timson, che aveva già scoperto che incoraggiare la ripetizione di vecchie storie equivale a ricevere un invito generale a farlo ancora.

“Oh, quella solita storia! Fanny si è espressa in modo molto triste; ha accennato alla possibilità di una morte prematura; ha detto che nulla avrebbe dovuto spingerla a tradire il dovere che aveva verso i suoi genitori; mi ha supplicato di dimenticarla e di trovare qualcuno più meritevole, e cose del genere. Ha detto che in nessun caso avrebbe potuto pensare di incontrarmi senza che i suoi genitori lo sapessero; e mi ha pregato, poiché si sarebbe trovata in un certo punto dei Kensington Gardens alle undici di domani mattina, di non provare a incontrarla lì.”

“Non ci sei andato, vero?” disse Watkins Tottle.

“Non è vero? – Certo che sì. Ecco lei lì, con la stessa cameriera di servizio in primo piano, così da non esserci alcuna interruzione. Abbiamo passeggiato per un paio d’ore; ci siamo resi la vita davvero difficile, e poi abbiamo iniziato a ‘corrispondere’, cioè a scambiarci circa quattro lettere al giorno; non riesco nemmeno a immaginare cosa scrivevamo dentro. Ogni sera, avevo un incontro con lei in cucina, nel seminterrato o in qualche altro posto del genere. Beh, le cose sono andate avanti così per un po’ di tempo; e ci siamo innamorati sempre di più ogni giorno. Alla fine, poiché il nostro amore era arrivato a un tale livello, e anche il mio stipendio era aumentato da poco, abbiamo deciso di sposarci in segreto. Fanny ha organizzato per dormire da un’amica la sera prima; ci saremmo sposati all’alba, poi saremmo tornati a casa sua. Lei avrebbe pianto ai piedi del vecchio signore e bagnato le sue scarpe con le lacrime; io avrei abbracciato la vecchia signora chiamandola ‘madre’, e avrei usato il mio fazzoletto il più possibile. Ci siamo sposati il giorno dopo; due amiche di Fanny hanno fatto da damigelle d’onore, e un uomo assunto per cinque scellini e una pinta di birra ha officiato come testimone. Purtroppo, la vecchia signora ha ritardato il suo ritorno da Ramsgate, dove era andata a fare visita. Così abbiamo deciso di rimandare la nostra dichiarazione d’amore di ventiquattro ore. Mia moglie è tornata a casa, e io ho trascorso la mia giornata di nozze girovagando per Hampstead Heath, maledicendo mio suocero. Naturalmente, quella sera sono andato da lei il più possibile, assicurandole che i nostri problemi sarebbero finiti presto. Ho aperto il cancello del giardino, di cui avevo la chiave. E il servitore ci ha portati nel nostro vecchio posto d’incontro: una cucina sul retro, con pavimento in pietra e un comò. Su quel comò, in assenza di sedie, ci sedevamo per fare l’amore, ”

“Fare l’amore su un cassettone della cucina!” interruppe il signor Watkins Tottle, la cui idea di decoro era profondamente offesa.

“Ah! Su un comodino da cucina!” rispose Parsons. “E lasciate che vi dica, vecchio mio, che se davvero foste completamente innamorati e non aveste nessun altro posto dove esprimere i vostri sentimenti, sareste davvero felici di approfittare di un’opportunità del genere. Comunque, dove ero rimasto?”

‘On the dresser,’ suggested Timson.

‘Oh—ah! Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite disconsolate and uncomfortable. The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits. So, I put a good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy the pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length, poor Fanny brightened up a little. I stopped there, till about eleven o’clock, and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the girl came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a great fright, to tell us that the old villain—Heaven forgive me for calling him so, for he is dead and gone now!—prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness, was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper—a thing he had not done before, for six months, to my certain knowledge; for the cask stood in that very back kitchen. If he discovered me there, explanation would have been out of the question; for he was so outrageously violent, when at all excited, that he never would have listened to me. There was only one thing to be done. The chimney was a very wide one; it had been originally built for an oven; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and then shot backward and formed a sort of small cavern. My hopes and fortune—the means of our joint existence almost—were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney-board, I could see the light of the candle which my unconscious father-in-law carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer; and I never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down came the infernal chimney-board with a tremendous crash. He stopped and put down the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser; he was a nervous old fellow, and any unexpected noise annoyed him. He coolly observed that the fire-place was never used, and sending the frightened servant into the next kitchen for a hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the door on the outside. So, there was I, on my wedding-night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat, that I had been married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of which was nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the neighbours. And there,’ added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the bottle, ‘there I remained till half-past seven the next morning, when the housemaid’s sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe that no one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.’

‘And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he found you were married?’ inquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke, was not satisfied until he heard a story to the very end.

‘Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned us off-hand, and allowed us something to live on till he went the way of all flesh. I spent the next night in his second-floor front, much more comfortably than I had spent the preceding one; for, as you will probably guess—’

‘Please, sir, missis has made tea,’ said a middle-aged female servant, bobbing into the room.

‘That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘She went into Fanny’s service when we were first married, and has been with us ever since; but I don’t think she has felt one atom of respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went into violent hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since. Now, shall we join the ladies?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘By all means,’ added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for the drawing-room accordingly.

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed, and occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed. They cut for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson having conscientious scruples on the subject of card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his reception by Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made up to visit the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday.

‘It’s all right, I think,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him.

‘I hope so,’ he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand.

‘You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘Undoubtedly.’

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and the success of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter.

“Sul comodino,” suggerì Timson.

‘Oh—ah! Beh, eccomi qui con povera Fanny: molto disperata e a disagio. Quel vecchio ragazzo era stato molto irritabile tutto il giorno, il che l’aveva resa ancora più sola. E lei era davvero demoralizzata. Così ho cercato di prendere le cose con filosofia, ho riso della situazione e ho detto che avremmo apprezzato ancora di più i piaceri della vita coniugale, grazie al contrasto. Alla fine, povera Fanny si è un po’ rasserenata. Sono rimasta lì fino alle undici circa; proprio mentre stavo per andarmene per la quattordicesima volta, quella ragazza è corsa giù per le scale, senza scarpe, in preda al panico, e ci ha detto che quel vecchio, beh, il cielo mi perdoni se lo chiamo così, perché ormai è morto, probabilmente spinto dal principe delle tenebre, stava scendendo per prendersi la birra da bere a cena. Una cosa che non faceva da sei mesi, per quanto ne so io; il barile si trovava proprio in quella cucina posteriore. Se mi avesse scoperta lì, non ci sarebbe stata alcuna possibilità di spiegare. Era così violento quando si arrabbiava. C’era solo una cosa da fare: il camino era molto largo; era stato costruito originariamente per un forno; saliva verticalmente per qualche piede e poi si piegava all’indietro, formando una sorta di piccola caverna. La mia speranza, la nostra possibilità di sopravvivere insieme, dipendeva da questo. Sono strisciata lì dentro come un scoiattolo, mi sono arrotolata in quel nascondiglio. E mentre Fanny e la ragazza rimettevano a posto la griglia del camino, riuscivo a vedere la luce della candela che mio suocero teneva in mano. L’ho sentito prendere la birra. Non ho mai sentito la birra scorrere così lentamente. Stava per uscire dalla cucina quando, bang! La griglia del camino è caduta a terra con un terribile rumore. Si è fermato, ha posato la candela e il barile di birra sul comodino. Era un vecchio nervoso. Qualsiasi rumore inaspettato lo disturbava. Ha detto freddamente che quel camino non veniva mai usato. Ha mandato la serva spaventata nella cucina accanto a prendere martello e chiodi. E ha davvero fissato la griglia al suo posto, chiudendo poi la porta dall’esterno. Così sono rimasta lì, nella notte delle mie nozze, con i pantaloni di lana rossa, il gilet elegante e il cappotto blu che indossavo quella mattina, in un camino della cucina posteriore, il fondo del quale era stato chiuso a chiave. E la parte superiore del camino, in origine alta circa quindici piedi, per evitare che il fumo disturbasse i vicini. Ed eccomi lì,’ aggiunse Mr. Gabriel Parsons, passando la bottiglia, ‘eccomi lì fino alle sette e mezza del giorno seguente, quando il fidanzato della cameriera, che era un carpentiere, mi ha liberata. Quel vecchio cane mi aveva fissata così saldamente, che, fino ad ora, sono convinta che solo un carpentiere potrebbe riuscire a tirarmi fuori di lì.’

“E cosa disse il padre della signora Parsons quando scoprì che eri sposata?” chiese Watkins Tottle, il quale, anche se non capiva mai le battute, non si accontentava finché non ascoltava tutta la storia fino alla fine.

“Perché, l’idea del camino lo divertiva così tanto che ci perdonò immediatamente e ci permise di avere qualcosa con cui vivere fino a quando non sarebbe andato via come tutti gli altri. Trascorsi la notte seguente nel suo appartamento al secondo piano, molto più comodamente di quanto avessi fatto la notte precedente; perché, come probabilmente immaginerete, ”

“Per favore, signore, la signora ha preparato il tè,” disse una domestica di mezza età, entrando nella stanza.

“Quella è proprio la cameriera di cui parlo nella mia storia,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons. “Entrò al servizio di Fanny quando ci sposammo e da allora è rimasta con noi; ma non credo che abbia mai provato nemmeno un briciolo di rispetto per me da quella mattina in cui mi vide liberare. Da allora soffre di violenti attacchi isterici. Ora, andiamo a raggiungere le signore?”

“Se vi compiacete,” disse il signor Watkins Tottle.

“Certamente,” aggiunse il servile signor Timson; e i tre si diressero quindi verso il salotto.

Dopo che il tè fu terminato e i toast insieme alle tazze furono distribuiti – e talvolta anche rovesciati, a causa del signor Watkins Tottle – si propose di giocare a carte. Si scelsero i partner: il signore e la signora Parsons da un lato, e il signor Watkins Tottle con la signorina Lillerton dall’altro. Il signor Timson, però, avendo scrupoli morali riguardo al gioco d’azzardo, preferì bere brandy e acqua, continuando così a scherzare con il signor Watkins Tottle. La serata trascorse bene; il signor Watkins Tottle era di ottimo umore, essendo soddisfatto del modo in cui la signorina Lillerton lo aveva accolto. Prima di andarsene, si decise di formare un piccolo gruppo per visitare le terme Beulah il sabato seguente.

“Va tutto bene, penso,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons al signor Watkins Tottle mentre gli apriva il cancello del giardino.

“Spero proprio di sì,” rispose, stringendo la mano del suo amico.

“Sabato sarai pronto al primo allenamento,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons.

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Watkins Tottle. “Indubbiamente.”

Ma il destino aveva deciso che il signor Watkins Tottle non dovesse trovarsi vicino al primo treno di sabato. Le sue avventure in quel giorno, tuttavia, e il successo dei suoi tentativi di corteggiamento sono argomenti di un altro capitolo.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

‘The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen feet of gravel which bordered the ‘lawn,’ on the Saturday morning which had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt.

‘No, sir; I haven’t seen it,’ replied a gardener in a blue apron, who let himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his ‘keep.’

‘Time Tottle was down,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating—‘Oh, here he is, no doubt,’ added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill; and he buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the expected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse Petersham great-coat, whity-brown neckerchief, faded black suit, gamboge-coloured top-boots, and one of those large-crowned hats, formerly seldom met with, but now very generally patronised by gentlemen and costermongers.

‘Mr. Parsons?’ said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air.

‘My name is Parsons,’ responded the sugar-baker.

‘I’ve brought this here note,’ replied the individual in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper: ‘I’ve brought this here note from a gen’lm’n as come to our house this mornin’.’

‘I expected the gentleman at my house,’ said Parsons, as he broke the seal, which bore the impression of her Majesty’s profile as it is seen on a sixpence.

‘I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here, replied the stranger, ‘if he hadn’t happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts no gen’lm’n furder nor we can see him—no mistake about that there’—added the unknown, with a facetious grin; ‘beg your pardon, sir, no offence meant, only—once in, and I wish you may—catch the idea, sir?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly, but a cold. He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound astonishment on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of which he had been the bearer. Once opened and the idea was caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for 33_l._ 10_s._ 4_d._, and dated his communication from a lock-up house in the vicinity of Chancery-lane.

‘Unfortunate affair this!’ said Parsons, refolding the note.

‘Oh! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,’ coolly observed the man in the Petersham.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ consideration, ‘just put the horse in, will you?—Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost as soon as you are,’ he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer’s Mercury.

‘Werry well,’ replied that important functionary; adding, in a confidential manner, ‘I’d adwise the gen’lm’n’s friends to settle. You see it’s a mere trifle; and, unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore the court, it’s hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. Our governor’s wide awake, he is. I’ll never say nothin’ agin him, nor no man; but he knows what’s o’clock, he does, uncommon.’ Having delivered this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman in the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into the house; said that business had suddenly summoned him to town; that he had desired the messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would return together to dinner. He then hastily equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his gig, was soon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him) in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane.

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object in view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his journey, the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear not only to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and painful experience of its justice in the course of his drive. There are three classes of animated objects which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort or celerity through streets which are but little frequented—they are pigs, children, and old women. On the occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks, and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the little deal battledores, and the children played in the road; and women, with a basket in one hand, and the street-door key in the other, would cross just before the horse’s head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet-street, there was ‘a stoppage,’ in which people in vehicles have the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying the slowest pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses’ bridles, and back them into shop-windows, by way of clearing the road and preventing confusion. At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant), he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs. Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the chance of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was of glass, grated like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron bars—painted white to look comfortable.

CAPITOLO IL SECONDO

“Il primo allenatore non è ancora arrivato, vero, Tom?” chiese il signor Gabriel Parsons, camminando avanti e indietro con aria molto soddisfatta lungo i quattordici piedi di ghiaia che delimitavano il “prato”, nella mattina di sabato fissata per la gita allo stabilimento termale Beulah Spa.

“No, signore; non l’ho visto,” rispose un giardiniere con un grembiule blu, che si occupava dei lavori ornamentali per mezza corona al giorno in cambio del proprio mantenimento.

“‘Time Tottle è caduto,’ disse il signor Gabriel Parsons, riflettendo, ‘Oh, eccolo qui, senza alcun dubbio,’ aggiunse Gabriel mentre una cab si avvicinava rapidamente alla collina; poi si abbottonò la vestaglia e aprì il cancello per ricevere il visitatore atteso. La cab si fermò, e ne scese un uomo con un grosso cappotto di Petersham, una sciarpa marrone chiaro, un abito nero sbiadito, stivali color gambo di melograno, e uno di quei cappelli a tesa larga che un tempo si vedevano raramente, ma ora sono molto diffusi tra gentiluomini e venditori ambulanti.”

“Signor Parsons?”, disse l’uomo, guardando l’intestazione di un biglietto che teneva in mano e rivolgendosi a Gabriel con tono interrogativo.

“Mi chiamo Parsons,” rispose il panettiere di zucchero.

“Ho portato questa nota,” rispose l’uomo con le maglie dipinte, sussurrando raucamente: “L’ho ricevuta da un gentiluomo che è venuto a casa nostra stamattina.”

“Aspettavo il gentiluomo nella mia casa”, disse Parsons mentre rompeva il sigillo, sul quale era inciso il profilo di Sua Maestà, proprio come si vede su una moneta da sei penny.

“Non ho alcun >dubbio che quell’uomo sarebbe stato qui,” rispose lo sconosciuto, “se per caso non fosse passato prima da casa nostra; ma noi non ci fidiamo mai più di nessuno e non possiamo nemmeno rivederlo. Non c’è dubbio su questo,” aggiunse con un sorriso ironico. “Scusi se l’ho offeso, signore. Voglio solo che capisca: capita una volta nella vita, e spero che lei possa comprenderlo, ”

Il signor Gabriel Parsons non era noto per cogliere improvvisamente qualcosa, tranne che il raffreddore. Pertanto, lanciò soltanto uno sguardo di profondo stupore al suo misterioso compagno, poi iniziò a leggere la nota che portava con sé. Non appena l’aprì, capì immediatamente il contenuto: il signor Watkins Tottle era stato improvvisamente arrestato per una somma di 33 lire, 10 scellini e 4 pence; la sua lettera era stata scritta da un carcere situato nelle vicinanze di Chancery-lane.

“Che sfortunata storia!” disse Parsons, ripiegando il biglietto.

“Ah, niente di che, ci si abitua,” osservò con calma l’uomo di Petersham.

“Tom!” esclamò Parsons, dopo alcuni minuti di riflessione, “metti semplicemente il cavallo dentro, per favore. Digli al signore che arriverò lì quasi subito dopo di te,” continuò, rivolgendosi all’agente dello sceriffo.

“Molto bene,” rispose quel funzionario importante; aggiungendo, in tono confidenziale: “Consiglierei agli amici del signore di sistemarsi qui. Si tratta di una questione insignificante; e a meno che il signore non intenda presentarsi davanti al tribunale, non vale davvero la pena aspettare ulteriori ritardi, capisce? Il nostro governatore è molto sveglio. Non direi mai nulla contro di lui, né contro nessun altro; ma sa bene cosa sta succedendo, davvero.” Dopo aver pronunciato questo discorso eloquente – e particolarmente comprensibile per Parsons, a giudicare dai vari cenni del capo e degli occhi – il gentiluomo si risedette nella vettura, che partì rapidamente, scomparendo presto dalla vista. Il signor Gabriel Parsons continuò a camminare avanti e indietro lungo il sentiero per alcuni minuti, apparentemente immerso in profonde riflessioni. Il risultato delle sue meditazioni sembrava soddisfarlo pienamente: entrò di fretta nella casa, disse che un impegno improvviso lo aveva costretto a recarsi in città, chiese al messaggero di informare il signor Watkins Tottle della situazione e annunciò che sarebbero tornati insieme per cena. Poi si preparò rapidamente per la partenza, salì sulla sua vettura e si diresse verso l’ufficio del signor Solomon Jacobs, situato in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane – come gli aveva indicato il signor Watkins Tottle.

Quando un uomo è assolutamente ansioso di arrivare a destinazione e ha un obiettivo preciso la cui realizzazione dipende dal completamento del suo viaggio, le difficoltà che si presentano sul suo cammino sembrano non solo essere innumerevoli, ma anche essere state create apposta per quell’occasione. Questo fenomeno non è affatto nuovo; il signor Gabriel Parsons ne ebbe una dolorosa esperienza pratica durante il suo viaggio. Esistono tre tipi di persone o animali che impediscono di guidare con comodità e velocità per strade poco frequentate: i maiali, i bambini e le vecchie donne. Nell’occasione descritta, i maiali si nutrivano di steli di cavolo, i palloncini da gioco volavano dappertutto e i bambini giocavano per strada; inoltre, alcune donne, con un cesto in una mano e la chiave della porta d’ingresso nell’altra, attraversavano proprio davanti al cavallo del signor Gabriel Parsons, fino a farlo impazzire di frustrazione. Quando finalmente arrivò in Fleet-street, si trovò di fronte a un ingorgo: le persone nei veicoli rimanevano ferme per mezz’ora, invidiando persino i pedoni più lenti; la polizia correva dappertutto, afferrava le redini dei cavalli e li spingeva contro i negozi per liberare la strada. Alla fine, il signor Gabriel Parsons entrò in Chancery-lane e, dopo aver chiesto indicazioni per Cursitor-street (una zona di cui non conosceva assolutamente nulla), si trovò presto di fronte alla casa del signor Solomon Jacobs. Lasciato il suo cavallo e la sua carrozza in custodia di uno dei quattordici ragazzi che lo avevano seguito da Blackfriars-bridge, attraversò la strada e bussò a una porta interna la cui parte superiore era fatta di vetro, come le finestre di quella casa elegante, ma protetta da sbarre di ferro dipinte di bianco per dare un aspetto accogliente.

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who, after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, applied a large key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts.

‘I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,’ said Parsons.

‘It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,’ screamed a voice from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor. ‘The gentleman’s in the coffee-room.’

‘Up-stairs, sir,’ said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had made his way through the aperture—‘First floor—door on the left.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and ill-lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the before-mentioned ‘door on the left,’ which were rendered inaudible by the hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on some frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the handle, and entered the apartment. Being informed that the unfortunate object of his visit had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had leisure to sit down and observe the scene before him.

The room—which was a small, confined den—was partitioned off into boxes, like the common-room of some inferior eating-house. The dirty floor had evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to carpet or floor-cloth: and the ceiling was completely blackened by the flare of the oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night. The gray ashes on the edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plentifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty glasses and half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with the porter pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations in which the individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary residence in his house indulged. Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass, extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but by way of counterpoise, the ashes were confined by a rusty fender about twice as long as the hearth.

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons was naturally directed to its inmates. In one of the boxes two men were playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some with green, and some with red backs—selections from decayed packs. The cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some ingenious visitor with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a two-pronged fork, with which the necessary number of holes had been made in the table at proper distances for the reception of the wooden pegs. In another box a stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was eating some dinner which his wife—an equally comfortable-looking personage—had brought him in a basket: and in a third, a genteel-looking young man was talking earnestly, and in a low tone, to a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his own mind as the debtor’s wife. A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extreme of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, ever and anon puffing forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying, with much apparent relish, to a pint pot, the contents of which were ‘chilling’ on the hob.

‘Fourpence more, by gum!’ exclaimed one of the cribbage-players, lighting a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game; ‘one ’ud think you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when you wanted it.’

‘Well, that a’n’t a bad un,’ replied the other, who was a horse-dealer from Islington.

‘No; I’m blessed if it is,’ interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who, having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water. The faithful partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the anti-temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy. ‘You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker—will you dip your beak into this, sir?’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to the other to accept the proffered glass. ‘Here’s your health, sir, and your good ’ooman’s here. Gentlemen all—yours, and better luck still. Well, Mr. Willis,’ continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the young man with the cigar, ‘you seem rather down to-day—floored, as one may say. What’s the matter, sir? Never say die, you know.’

‘Oh! I’m all right,’ replied the smoker. ‘I shall be bailed out to-morrow.’

‘Shall you, though?’ inquired the other. ‘Damme, I wish I could say the same. I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George, and stand about as much chance of being bailed out. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Why,’ said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud key, ‘look at me. What d’ye think I’ve stopped here two days for?’

‘’Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,’ interrupted Mr. Walker, winking to the company. ‘Not that you’re exactly obliged to stop here, only you can’t help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must—eh?’

‘A’n’t he a rum un?’ inquired the delighted individual, who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife.

‘Oh, he just is!’ replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these flashes of imagination.

‘Why, my case,’ frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the pot on the table, at intervals,—‘my case is a very singular one. My father’s a man of large property, and I am his son.’

La porta fu aperta da un ragazzo dal viso pallido, i capelli rossi e l’aria malinconica; dopo aver osservato il signor Gabriel Parsons attraverso lo specchio, applicò una grossa chiave a quella che in realtà era una serratura. Ma, unita ai chiodi di ferro con cui erano fissati i pannelli della porta, quell’impianto dava all’intera struttura l’aspetto di essere “coperta di verruche”.

“Vorrei vedere il signor Watkins Tottle,” disse Parsons.

“È il signore che è venuto stamattina, Jem,” gridò una voce dal piano di sopra delle scale della cucina; apparteneva a una donna sporca che aveva appena messo il mento allo stesso livello del pavimento del corridoio. “Il signore si trova nella sala da caffè.”

“Al piano di sopra, signore,” disse il ragazzo, aprendo appena la porta abbastanza da far entrare Parsons senza stringerlo, e chiudendola a doppio chiave non appena quest’ultimo fu passato attraverso l’apertura: “Primo piano, porta a sinistra.”

Il signor Gabriel Parsons, seguendo tali istruzioni, salì la scala senza tappeti e scarsamente illuminata; dopo aver bussato più volte alla suddetta “porta a sinistra”, i colpi furono inascoltabili a causa del rumore delle voci all’interno della stanza e del sibilo prodotto da alcune operazioni di frittura che si stavano svolgendo al piano di sotto. Alla fine girò la maniglia ed entrò nell’appartamento. Venuto a sapere che la persona che cercava era appena salita al piano di sopra per scrivere una lettera, ebbe il tempo di sedersi e osservare la scena davanti a sé.

La stanza – che era una piccola e angusta tana – era divisa in “scatole”, proprio come la sala comune di qualche modesto ristorante. Il pavimento sporco, evidentemente, non conosceva né spazzole né tappeti; il soffitto, invece, era completamente annerito dal bagliore della lampada a olio che illuminava la stanza di notte. Le ceneri grigie sui bordi dei tavoli e i mozziconi di sigaro sparsi ovunque spiegavano perfettamente l’intollerabile odore di tabacco che permeava l’ambiente; inoltre, i bicchieri vuoti e le fette di limone semi-sature sui tavoli, insieme alle caraffe posizionate sotto di essi, testimoniavano delle frequenti bevute a cui si abbandonavano coloro che onoravano il signor Solomon Jacobs risiedendo temporaneamente nella sua casa. Sopra la mensola del camino c’era uno specchio dall’aspetto scarno, largo circa metà della stessa; per contrasto, le ceneri venivano raccolte da una griglia arrugginita, lunga circa il doppio del caminetto.

Proprio da questa stanza allegra, l’attenzione del signor Gabriel Parsons fu naturalmente attratta dai suoi occupanti. In una delle scatole, due uomini stavano giocando a cribbage con un mazzo di carte molto sporco: alcune avevano il dorso blu, altre verde e altre ancora rosso; si trattava di carte prese da mazzi ormai in cattive condizioni. Il tabellone per il gioco era stato realizzato tempo prima su un tavolo da parte di qualche visitatore ingegnoso, che aveva utilizzato un coltello a portata di tasca e una forchetta a due punte per praticare nel tavolo i fori necessari alle carte. In un’altra scatola, un uomo robusto e dall’aspetto sano, circa quarantenne, stava mangiando la cena che sua moglie – anch’essa di aspetto confortevole – gli aveva portato in un cesto; in una terza scatola, un giovane dall’aspetto distinto parlava seriamente, a bassa voce, con una giovane donna il cui viso era nascosto da un velo spesso; il signor Gabriel Parsons riconobbe immediatamente che si trattava della moglie del debitore. Un giovane dai modi volgari, vestito all’ultima moda del momento, camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, con una sigara accesa in bocca e le mani in tasca; di tanto in tanto soffiava fuori grandi nuvole di fumo e, con evidente piacere, si serviva da una pentola contenente del liquido che stava “raffreddando” sul fornello.

“Quattro pence in più, ”, esclamò uno dei giocatori di cribbage, accendendo la pipa e rivolgendosi al suo avversario alla fine della partita; “si potrebbe pensare che tu abbia fortuna dentro una scatola di pepe nero, e che la possa tirar fuori quando ne hai bisogno, ”

“Beh, non è affatto male,” rispose l’altro, che era un commerciante di cavalli di Islington.

“No; sarei benedetto se fosse così,” intervenne l’uomo dall’aspetto allegro, che, dopo aver finito di cenare, stava bevendo dallo stesso bicchiere della moglie, in vera armonia coniugale, del forte gin mescolato a acqua. La fedele compagna delle sue preoccupazioni aveva portato con sé una abbondante scorta di quel liquido contro l’alcolismo, conservato in una grande bottiglia di pietra piatta, che assomigliava a un barattolo da mezzo gallone da cui si erano estratti con successo dei goccioli per curare l’idropisia. “Sei davvero un tipo stravagante, signor Walker. Vuoi assaggiarne anche tu?”

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose il signor Walker, lasciando la sua sedia e avvicinandosi all’altra per accettare il bicchiere che gli veniva offerto. “Ecco al suo benessere, signore. E anche la sua cara moglie è qui con lei. Signori tutti, buona fortuna ancora.” “Beh, signor Willis,” continuò scherzosamente il prigioniero, rivolgendosi al giovane con il sigaro, “sembrate piuttosto depresso oggi. Direi quasi ‘a terra’, per così dire. Che cosa c’è che non va, signore? Non si debba mai arrendersi, lo sapete.”

“Ah, sto bene,” rispose il fumatore. “Domani verrò salvato.”

“Ma lo farai davvero?” chiese l’altro. “Diamine, vorrei poter dire lo stesso. Sono sempre nei guai, proprio come la Royal George, e ho le stesse possibilità di essere salvato. Ahahah!”

“Perché,” disse il giovane, fermandosi di colpo e parlando a voce molto alta, “guardatemi. Perché credete che sia rimasto qui per due giorni?”

“Perché non riuscivi a uscire, immagino,” intervenne il signor Walker, facendo l’occhiolino al gruppo. “Non che tu sia obbligato ad fermarti qui, ma semplicemente non riesci a farlo. Nessuna costrizione, capisci? È solo che devi farlo, eh?”

“Non è davvero strano?” chiese l’uomo felice che aveva offerto a sua moglie il gin con acqua.

“Oh, sì che lo è!” rispose la signora, completamente sopraffatta da questi sprazzi di immaginazione.

“Perché, il mio caso, ”, borbottò la vittima, gettando la punta del suo sigaro nel fuoco e illustrando il proprio punto di vista battendo ripetutamente il fondo della coppa sul tavolo, “il mio caso è davvero molto particolare. Mio padre possiede una grande fortuna, e io sono suo figlio.”

‘That’s a very strange circumstance!’ interrupted the jocose Mr. Walker, en passant.

‘—I am his son, and have received a liberal education. I don’t owe no man nothing—not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to put my name to some bills for a friend—bills to a large amount, I may say a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no consideration. What’s the consequence?’

‘Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances weren’t taken up, and you were, eh?’ inquired Walker.

‘To be sure,’ replied the liberally educated young gentleman. ‘To be sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred pound.’

‘Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?’ inquired Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air.

‘Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,’ replied the other, in a tone of expostulation—‘Never!’

‘Well, it is very odd to—be—sure,’ interposed the owner of the flat bottle, mixing another glass, ‘but I’ve been in difficulties, as one may say, now for thirty year. I went to pieces when I was in a milk-walk, thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a spring wan; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur line—but all that time I never see a youngish chap come into a place of this kind, who wasn’t going out again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested on bills which he’d given a friend and for which he’d received nothing whatsomever—not a fraction.’

‘Oh! it’s always the cry,’ said Walker. ‘I can’t see the use on it; that’s what makes me so wild. Why, I should have a much better opinion of an individual, if he’d say at once in an honourable and gentlemanly manner as he’d done everybody he possibly could.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, ‘so should I.’ The young gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the point of offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising of the young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. She had been weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon her excited feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion necessary as they quitted it together.

There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was observed until the whirr—r—bang of the spring door announced that they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer.

‘Poor creetur!’ said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of gin-and-water. ‘She’s very young.’

‘She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,’ added the horse-dealer.

‘What’s he in for, Ikey?’ inquired Walker, of an individual who was spreading a cloth with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recognising as the man who had called upon him in the morning.

‘Vy,’ responded the factotum, ‘it’s one of the rummiest rigs you ever heard on. He come in here last Vensday, which by-the-bye he’s a-going over the water to-night—hows’ever that’s neither here nor there. You see I’ve been a going back’ards and for’ards about his business, and ha’ managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them; and so far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here effect—’

‘Cut it short, old fellow,’ interrupted Walker, who knew from former experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor intelligible in his narratives.

‘Let me alone,’ replied Ikey, ‘and I’ll ha’ wound up, and made my lucky in five seconds. This here young gen’lm’n’s father—so I’m told, mind ye—and the father o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad, out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down sort o’ terms; but somehow or another, when he was a wisitin’ at some gentlefolk’s house, as he knowed at college, he came into contract with the young lady. He seed her several times, and then he up and said he’d keep company with her, if so be as she vos agreeable. Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he vos upon her, and so I s’pose they made it all right; for they got married ’bout six months arterwards, unbeknown, mind ye, to the two fathers—leastways so I’m told. When they heard on it—my eyes, there was such a combustion! Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to ’em. The young gen’lm’n’s father cut him off vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut himself off vith a wife; and the young lady’s father he behaved even worser and more unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, and swore he’d never see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows—and as you knows, Mr. Valker, a precious sight too well—to go about and buy up the bills and them things on which the young husband, thinking his governor ’ud come round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself on vith for a time; besides vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he could; but things he never expected to have to meet till he’d had time to turn himself round, come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed. He vos brought here, as I said afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s about—ah, half-a-dozen detainers agin him down-stairs now. I have been,’ added Ikey, ‘in the purfession these fifteen year, and I never met vith such windictiveness afore!’

‘Poor creeturs!’ exclaimed the coal-dealer’s wife once more: again resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the bud. ‘Ah! when they’ve seen as much trouble as I and my old man here have, they’ll be as comfortable under it as we are.’

‘The young lady’s a pretty creature,’ said Walker, ‘only she’s a little too delicate for my taste—there ain’t enough of her. As to the young cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the mouth for me—he ain’t game.’

“È una circostanza davvero strana!” interruppe scherzosamente il signor Walker, di passaggio.

“Sono suo figlio e ho ricevuto un’educazione solida. Non devo nulla a nessuno, nemmeno il valore di una moneta; tuttavia, sono stato indotto, capite, a firmare alcune cambiali per un amico. Cambiali per una somma considerevole, anzi, molto considerevole, e per le quali non ho ricevuto alcuna ricompensa. Qual è la conseguenza?”

“Beh, immagino che le fatture siano state inviate e tu sia arrivato dopo. Le accettazioni non erano ancora state effettuate, ma tu sì, giusto?” chiese Walker.

“Certo,” rispose il giovane gentiluomo ben istruito. “Certo. E così eccomi qui, rinchiuso per una questione legata a milleduecento sterline.”

“Perché non chiedi al tuo vecchio governatore di pagare?” domandò Walker, con un tono piuttosto scettico.

“Oh, che Dio ti benedica. Lui non lo farebbe mai,” rispose l’altro con tono di rimprovero. “Mai!”

“Beh, è davvero molto strano, ”, intervenne il proprietario della bottiglia, mescolando un altro bicchiere, “ma posso dire di essere stato nei guai per trent’anni. Sono andato in rovina quando facevo il venditore di latte, trent’anni fa; poi, quando lavoravo come fruttivendolo e gestivo una >vendita di verdure fresche. E dopo ancora nel settore del carbone. Ma in tutto questo tempo, non ho mai visto un giovane entrare in un posto del genere per poi uscirne subito dopo, né essere stato arrestato per debiti che aveva contratto con degli amici e per i quali non ha ricevuto nemmeno una piccola somma di denaro, ”

“Oh! È sempre lo stesso lamento. Non vedo alcun senso in tutto questo; è proprio questo che mi fa impazzire. In realtà, avrei un’opinione molto migliore di una persona se lei dicesse subito, in modo onesto e gentiluomo, ciò che ha detto a tutti quelli con cui ha avuto a che fare.”

“Ah, certamente,” intervenne il commerciante di cavalli, le cui concezioni di contratto e vendita coincidevano perfettamente con questo principio; “anch’io dovrei farlo.” Il giovane signore che aveva suscitato queste osservazioni stava per rispondere in modo piuttosto arrabbiato a questi sarcasmi, ma l’alzarsi del giovane menzionato prima e della donna che era stata seduta accanto a lui per lasciare la stanza interruppe la conversazione. Lei aveva pianto amaramente, e l’atmosfera tossica della stanza, agendo sui suoi sentimenti eccitati e sul suo delicato fisico, rendeva necessario il sostegno del suo compagno mentre uscivano insieme.

C’era un’aria di superiorità in entrambi, e qualcosa nel loro aspetto così insolito in un posto del genere, che si osservò un rispettoso silenzio fino a quando il fruscio—bang della porta a molla non annunciò che erano ormai fuori portata d’orecchio. Il silenzio fu rotto dalla moglie dell’ex fruttivendolo.

“Povera creatura!”, disse lei, soffocando un sospiro con un sorso di gin e acqua. “È ancora molto giovane.”

“È anche una donna molto attraente,” aggiunse il commerciante di cavalli.

“Perché lo sta facendo, Ikey?”, chiese Walker riguardo a un uomo che stava stendendo su uno dei tavoli una stoffa macchiata di senape; il signor Gabriel Parsons riconobbe subito quell’uomo come colui che lo aveva cercato quella mattina.

“Vy,” rispose il factotum, “è una delle storie più strane che abbia mai sentito. È arrivato qui lo scorso mercoledì; tra l’altro, stasera partirà per attraversare l’acqua, anche se non so esattamente dove vada. Ho cercato di indagare su questa faccenda, e ho riuscito a raccogliere alcune informazioni dai servitori; da quanto ho capito, sembra che si tratti di qualcosa del genere, ”

“Taglia corto, vecchio mio,” intervenne Walker, che sapeva dalla sua precedente esperienza che quell’uomo con gli stivali alti non era né molto conciso né chiaro nelle sue descrizioni.

“Lasciatemi da solo,” rispose Ikey, “e in cinque secondi avrò sistemato tutto e fatto la mia fortuna. Si dice che il padre di questo giovane, beh, insomma, sia sempre stato in cattivi rapporti con il padre della ragazza; ma chissà come, quando lui si trovava a casa di certa gente benestante – come aveva imparato all’università – entrò in contatto con la ragazza. La vide più volte, e poi le propose di frequentarsi insieme, se lei fosse stata d’accordo. Beh, lei era altrettanto interessata a lui quanto lui a lei, quindi immagino che abbiano deciso di sposarsi; si sono uniti circa sei mesi dopo, senza che i due padri lo sapessero, almeno così mi è stato detto. Quando lo scoprirono, beh, ci fu un vero e proprio putiferio! Il padre del giovane lo licenziò su due piedi, perché lui aveva “licenziato” se stesso con una moglie; il padre della ragazza si comportò ancora peggio: non solo la insultò terribilmente e giurò di non vederla mai più, ma assunse anche qualcuno – come sapete bene, signor Valker – per pagare tutte le bollette e le altre spese che il giovane marito aveva accumulato nella speranza che il padre della ragazza cambiasse idea. Inoltre, fece di tutto per mettere gli altri contro di lui. Alla fine, il giovane riuscì a pagare per un po’, ma poi arrivarono problemi imprevisti e finì in prigione. È stato portato qui mercoledì scorso, e credo che ora ci siano almeno una mezza dozzina di ordini di arresto contro di lui. Io, in questi quindici anni di lavoro, non ho mai incontrato una situazione così disastrosa, ”

“Poveri esseri!” esclamò di nuovo la moglie del commerciante di carbone: ancora una volta ricorrendo alla stessa ottima soluzione per soffocare sul nascere un sospiro. “Ah! Quando avranno vissuto tanti problemi come me e mio marito, saranno altrettanto a loro agio quanto noi.”

“La giovane signorina è davvero una bella creatura,” disse Walker, “ma è un po’ troppo delicata per i miei gusti. Non c’è abbastanza ‘coraggio’ in lei. Quanto al giovane ragazzo, forse è molto rispettabile e via dicendo, ma è troppo timido per i miei gusti. Non ha il carattere giusto.”

‘Game!’ exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do. ‘He’s game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about; but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him?—It’s enough to drive any man’s heart into his boots to see ’em together—and no mistake at all about it. I never shall forget her first comin’ here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come—I know he did, ’cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs, says he, “Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional expense—just to see my wife in?” says he. Jacobs looked as much as to say—“Strike me bountiful if you ain’t one of the modest sort!” but as the gen’lm’n who had been in the back parlour had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says—werry grave—“Sir,” says he, “it’s agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but,” says he, “for a gentleman, I don’t mind breaking through them for once.” So then he turns round to me, and says, “Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,” vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos a waitin’ at the parlour door—and wasn’t he a trembling, neither? The poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him. “Oh, Harry!” she says, “that it should have come to this; and all for my sake,” says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like—“Why, Kate,” says he—’

‘Here’s the gentleman you want,’ said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins Tottle, who at that moment entered the room. Watkins advanced with a wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out.

‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive of his dislike of the company.

‘This way,’ replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend’s countenance.

‘Yes; and here you’re likely to be,’ said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after an awkward pause.

‘37_l_. 3_s_ 10_d_.’

‘Have you any money?’

‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, ‘Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.’

‘I do.’

‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’

‘I fear I am.’

‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘listen: here’s my proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t. I’ll pay the debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10_l._ more (which, added to your annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.’

‘My dear—’

‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.’

‘At once! My dear Parsons, consider.’

‘It’s for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation, though she did not know you personally until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married out of hand with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has confessed.’

‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

‘Why,’ replied Parsons, ‘to say exactly what she has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons.

‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’

‘I have,’—and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs’s establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy when they found themselves once again—to wit, the _out_side.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—‘you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.’

‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously.

‘How I should like to see you together,’ ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.—‘What fun!’ and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ said Gabriel, as they approached the house. ‘Mind your eye, Tottle.’

“Gioco!” esclamò Ikey, che aveva modificato almeno una dozzina di volte la posizione del coltello e della forchetta con manico verde, pur di poter rimanere nella stanza sotto il pretesto di avere qualcosa da fare. “È abbastanza coraggioso quando c’è qualcosa di realmente pericoloso; ma chi potrebbe essere davvero coraggioso, come tu dici, signor Walker, di fronte a una giovane donna pallida e timida come quella. Vederli insieme è sufficiente per far battere il cuore di qualsiasi uomo. E non c’è alcun dubbio al riguardo. Non dimenticherò mai la prima volta che è venuta qui: lui le ha scritto giovedì invitandola a venire. Lo so per certo, perché ho preso la lettera. Quel giorno era davvero molto irrequieto; alla sera è andato nell’ufficio e ha detto a Jacobs: ‘Signore, potrei prendere in prestito una stanza privata per qualche minuto stasera, senza alcun costo aggiuntivo. Solo per vedere mia moglie.’ Jacobs sembrava voler dire: ‘Ma che modestia!’ Ma poiché l’uomo che aveva occupato la stanza sul retro era appena uscito e aveva pagato per quella giornata, ha detto seriamente: ‘Signore, di solito non permettiamo ai nostri inquilini di utilizzare le stanze private gratuitamente. Ma, per un gentiluomo, posso fare un’eccezione.’ Poi si è rivolto a me e mi ha detto: ‘Ikey, metti due candele nella stanza sul retro e addebitale al conto di questo signore.’ Così ho fatto. Dopo un po’, è arrivata una carrozza. E lì c’era davvero la giovane donna, avvolta in un mantello, completamente sola. Quella notte avevo aperto il cancello, quindi sono andato ad accoglierla quando la carrozza si è fermata. Era così tremante. La poveretta lo ha visto e a malapena riusciva a camminare verso di lui. ‘Oh, Harry!’ ha detto, ‘Che sia arrivato a questo punto. E tutto per colpa mia,’ ha aggiunto, mettendogli una mano sulla spalla. Lui l’ha abbracciata e l’ha portata dentro la stanza, chiudendo la porta dolcemente, ‘Perché, Kate, ’ ha detto, ”

“Ecco il signore che cercavate,” disse Ikey, interrompendo bruscamente la sua storia e presentando il signor Gabriel Parsons a Watkins Tottle, che in quel momento entrò nella stanza. Watkins avanzò con un’espressione rigida, tipica di una passiva resistenza, e strinse la mano che il signor Gabriel Parsons gli porgeva.

“Vorrei parlarti,” disse Gabriel, con uno sguardo che esprimeva chiaramente il suo disprezzo per quella compagnia.

“Da questa parte,” rispose il prigioniero, guidandoli verso il salotto anteriore, dove i ricchi debitori si concedevano lussi spendendo alcune ghinee al giorno.

“Beh, eccomi qui,” disse il signor Watkins sedendosi sul divano; poi, appoggiando i palmi delle mani sulle ginocchia, guardò con ansia il volto del suo amico.

“Sì; ed è proprio qui che probabilmente vi troverete,” disse Gabriel con calma, mentre faceva tintinnare i soldi nelle sue tasche, e guardava fuori dalla finestra.

“Quanto ammontano complessivamente i costi?” chiese Parsons, dopo una pausa imbarazzante.

‘37_l_. 3_s_ 10_d_.’

“Hai qualche soldo?”

“Nove pence e mezzo.”

Il signor Gabriel Parsons camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza per qualche secondo, prima di decidere di rivelare il piano che aveva concepito; era abituato a negoziare con fermezza, ma era sempre molto attento a nascondere la propria avidità. Alla fine si fermò e disse: “Tottle, mi devi cinquanta sterline.”

‘I do.’

“E da tutto ciò che vedo, deduco che probabilmente mi dovrai qualcosa.”

“Le paure che provo, ”

“Anche se avresti tutte le intenzioni di pagarmi, se solo potessi, ”

‘Senz’altro.’

“Allora,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons, “ascoltate: ecco la mia proposta. Conoscete il mio modo di fare. Accettatela, sì o no, farò ciò che ho deciso. Pagherò il debito e le spese, e vi presterò altri 10 sterline (che, sommate alla vostra rendita annuale, vi permetteranno di proseguire la guerra in modo [L01]efficace]) se mi darete una promessa scritta di pagarmi centocinquanta sterline entro sei mesi dopo il vostro matrimonio con la signorina Lillerton.”

“Mia cara, ”

“Aspetta un attimo, ma solo a una condizione: devi chiedere immediatamente la mano di Miss Lillerton.”

“Subito! Mio caro Parsons, rifletta bene.”

“È a te che spetta decidere, non a me. Lei ti conosce bene per reputazione, anche se non ti ha incontrato di persona fino a poco tempo fa. Nonostante tutta la sua timidezza da fanciulla, penso che sarebbe molto felice di sposarsi il prima possibile, senza alcun ritardo. Mia moglie le ha parlato dell’argomento e lei lo ha ammesso.”

“Cosa, cosa?” interruppe con impazienza il rapito Watkins.

“Perché,” rispose Parsons, “dire esattamente ciò che lei ha confessato sarebbe piuttosto difficile, visto che hanno parlato solo in termini velati e simili; ma mia moglie, che non è certo una sciocca in queste questioni, mi ha detto chiaramente che ciò che aveva confessato equivaleva a ammettere di essere consapevole dei tuoi meriti, anzi, che nessun altro uomo dovrebbe averla.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle si alzò in fretta dal suo posto e suonò il campanello.

“Perché lo fai?” chiese Parsons.

“Voglio mandare qualcuno a prendere il timbro per le fatture,” rispose il signor Watkins Tottle.

“Allora hai preso una decisione?”

“L’ho fatto,” —e si strinsero la mano con grande cordialità. Il debito e le spese furono saldati; Ikey fu soddisfatto del proprio impegno, e i due amici presto si ritrovarono nel lato esterno dell’attività commerciale di Mr. Solomon Jacobs, quel lato che rendeva molto felici la maggior parte dei suoi visitatori quando vi finivano per trovarsi.

“Ora,” disse il signor Gabriel Parsons mentre viaggiavano insieme verso Norwood, “avrai l’opportunità di rivelare tutto stasera. E ricorda di parlare chiaramente, Tottle.”

“Lo farò, lo farò!” rispose Watkins, con coraggio.

“Che desiderio ho di vedervi insieme,” esclamò il signor Gabriel Parsons. “Che divertimento!” e rise così a lungo e così ad alta voce che mise in imbarazzo il signor Watkins Tottle e spaventò anche il cavallo.

“C’è Fanny e la tua futura moglie che passeggiano sul prato,” disse Gabriel mentre si avvicinavano alla casa. “Stai attento, Tottle.”

‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking.

‘Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight expression of disappointment or carelessness.

‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his friend.

‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,’ replied Tottle.

‘Pooh, nonsense!’ whispered Parsons again—‘it’s always the way with the women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It’s the way with the whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over again—see what it is to have a wife.’

‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

‘Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,’ said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director.

‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again. ‘Confound it! pay her a compliment, can’t you?’

‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘you are really very polite; you stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.’

‘We were talking of the business, my dear, which detained us this morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

‘Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,’ said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not.

‘I think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested Tottle.

(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons.

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house.

‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’ inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the effect.’

‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins Tottle, ‘much too broad!’

‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room, ‘mad from modesty.’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,’ said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: ‘Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

‘Take off the covers, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with lemon.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist you?’

‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’

Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change.

‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

‘Not the least consequence,’ replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of broken glass.

‘I presume,’ said Miss Lillerton, ‘that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest penalty.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the circumstances, was really extraordinary.

‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the pleasure?’

‘I shall be most happy.’

‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.’ (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)—

‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, ‘but I’ve been in Devonshire.’

‘Ah!’ replied Gabriel, ‘it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?’

Mr. Watkins Tottle had happened to hear his friend mention it some four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our meaning.

‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons. ‘I beg your pardon, my dear.’

“Mai avere paura,” rispose Watkins con determinazione, mentre si dirigeva verso il luogo dove le signore stavano camminando.

“Ecco il signor Tottle, mio caro,” disse la signora Parsons rivolgendosi alla signorina Lillerton. La donna si girò rapidamente e ricambiò il suo saluto cortese con lo stesso tipo di confusione che Watkins aveva notato al loro primo incontro, ma con un’espressione leggermente delusa o negligente.

“Hai visto quanto fosse felice di vederti?” sussurrò Parsons al suo amico.

“Perché, davvero pensavo che avrebbe preferito vedere qualcun altro,” rispose Tottle.

“Pff, sciocchezze!” sussurrò di nuovo Parsons. “È sempre così con le donne, giovani o vecchie: non mostrano mai quanto siano felici di vedere coloro che fanno battere loro il cuore. È tipico di tutto il sesso femminile. E nessun uomo dovrebbe essere arrivato alla tua età senza averlo capito. Fanny me lo ha confessato più e più volte quando ci siamo sposati. Vedi un po’ cosa significa avere una moglie.”

“Certo,” sussurrò Tottle, il cui coraggio stava svanendo rapidamente.

“Beh, ora è meglio che tu inizi a preparare il terreno,” disse Parsons, che, avendo investito del denaro in quell’operazione, aveva assunto la carica di direttore.

“Sì, sì, lo farò subito,” rispose Tottle, molto agitato.

“Dille qualcosa, amico,” insistette di nuovo Parsons. “Per l’amor del cielo, falle un complimento, non puoi?”

“No! Non prima di cena,” rispose timido il piccolo Tottle, desideroso di rimandare quel momento spiacevole.

“Beh, signori,” disse la signora Parsons, “siete davvero molto educati: restate via tutta la mattina, dopo aver promesso di portarci fuori, e quando finalmente tornate a >casa, vi mettete a sussurrare tra voi senza degnarci nemmeno di uno sguardo.”

“Stavamo parlando del lavoro, cara mia, ed è per questo che siamo rimasti trattenuti questa mattina,” rispose Parsons, guardando significativamente Tottle.

“Mio Dio! Com’è passata velocemente la mattina,” disse la signorina Lillerton, riferendosi all’orologio d’oro che veniva caricato nelle occasioni ufficiali, indipendentemente dal fatto ne fosse necessario o meno.

“Penso che sia passato molto lentamente,” suggerì dolcemente Tottle.

“Esatto, bene fatto!” sussurrò Parsons.

“Davvero!” disse la signorina Lillerton, con un tono di sorpresa maestosa.

“Posso attribuirlo soltanto alla mia inevitabile assenza dalla vostra compagnia, signora,” disse Watkins, “e a quella della signora Parsons.”

Durante questo breve dialogo, le signore avevano già guidato il cammino verso la casa.

“Ma che diavolo hai messo dentro quel complimento per Fanny?”, chiese Parsons mentre camminavano insieme; “ha completamente rovinato l’effetto.”

“Oh! Sì, senza di esso sarebbe davvero stato troppo ampio,” rispose Watkins Tottle, “molto troppo ampio!”

“È pazzo!”, sussurrò Parsons alla moglie mentre entravano nel salotto, “pazzo per la sua umiltà.”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò la signora, “Non ho mai sentito parlare di una cosa del genere”.

“Vedrà che abbiamo una cena di famiglia piuttosto intima, signor Tottle,” disse la signora Parsons quando si sedettero a tavola: “La signorina Lillerton fa parte della nostra famiglia, e naturalmente non vi consideriamo un estraneo.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle nutriva la speranza che la famiglia Parsons non lo trattasse mai come uno straniero; in cuor suo, desiderava anche che la sua timidezza gli permettesse di sentirsi un po’ meno uno straniero lui stesso.

“Togli i coperchi, Martha,” disse la signora Parsons, dirigendo con grande ansia il montaggio della scenografia. L’ordine fu eseguito: in cima furono disposte due galline bollite, con lingua e altre parti interne, mentre in fondo c’era un filetto di vitello. Da un lato del tavolo, due vasi contenenti salsa verde, accompagnati da cucchiai dello stesso condimento, erano posizionati uno accanto all’altro in un piatto verde; dall’altro lato c’era un coniglio al curry, avvolto in una crosta marrone e servito con limone.

“Signorina Lillerton, mia cara,” disse la signora Parsons, “posso esservi d’aiuto?”

“Grazie, no; penso che chiederò aiuto al signor Tottle.”

Watkins iniziò, tremava, aiutò il coniglio, e poi romse un vaso. L’espressione del viso della signora di quella casa, che prima era piena di sorrisi, subì un cambiamento terribile.

“Mi dispiace moltissimo,” balbettò Watkins, cercando di aiutarsi con il curry, il prezzemolo e il burro, nel mezzo del suo totale sconcerto.

“Nessuna conseguenza, per niente,” rispose la signora Parsons, con un tono che suggeriva invece che si trattasse della conseguenza più grave possibile, distogliendo l’attenzione del ragazzo, il quale stava cercando sotto il tavolo i pezzi di vetro rotto.

“Presumo,” disse la signorina Lillerton, “che il signor Tottle sia a conoscenza dell’interesse che i single di solito mostrano in tali circostanze; una dozzina di bicchieri per uno è la punizione minima.”

Il signor Gabriel Parsons diede al suo amico un chiaro avvertimento. Era evidente che, più presto possibile, avrebbe dovuto smettere di essere scapolo e liberarsi da tali “punizioni”. Anche il signor Watkins Tottle interpretò l’osservazione nello stesso modo, e sfidò la signora Parsons a bere del vino, con un sangue freddo davvero straordinario, date tutte le circostanze.

“Signorina Lillerton,” disse Gabriel, “posso avere l’onore?”

“Sarò molto felice.”

“Tottle, potresti aiutare la signorina Lillerton e passarle il decanter? Grazie.” (La solita cerimonia teatrale di annuire e bere venne eseguita, )

“Tottle, sei mai stato nel Suffolk?” chiese il padrone di quella casa, desideroso disperatamente di raccontare una delle sue solite storie.

“No,” rispose Watkins, aggiungendo come precisazione: “ma sono stato nel Devonshire.”

“Ah!”, rispose Gabriel, “fu nel Suffolk che molti anni fa mi capitò una circostanza piuttosto insolita. Hai mai sentito parlare di essa?”

Il signor Watkins Tottle aveva sentito il suo amico menzionarlo circa quattrocento volte. Naturalmente mostrò grande curiosità e dimostrò la massima impazienza di ascoltare di nuovo quella storia. Il signor Gabriel Parsons cercò immediatamente di continuare, nonostante le interruzioni a cui, come i nostri lettori avranno sicuramente notato spesso in casi del genere, il padrone di casa è esposto. Cercheremo di far loro capire cosa intendiamo dire.

“Quando ero nel Suffolk, ”, disse il signor Gabriel Parsons.

“Togli prima le galline, Martha,” disse la signora Parsons. “Perdonami, cara.”

‘When I was in Suffolk,’ resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, ‘which is now years ago, business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s. I had to stop at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so dark—’

‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, ‘don’t spill that gravy.’

‘Fanny,’ said Parsons impatiently, ‘I wish you’d defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.’

‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘But, my dear, you did interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

‘How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you saw the stain to-morrow morning.’

‘Well,’ continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no getting over the point about the carpet, ‘I was just saying, it was so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—’

‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.

‘Now, pray, my dear,’ remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. ‘As I turned a corner of the road,’ resumed Gabriel, ‘the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—’

‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘Oh! it’s no use,’ exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. ‘Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It’s useless to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Parsons is present.’

This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and at her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it. Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

‘I say,’ said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, ‘don’t you think it would be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?’

‘Don’t you think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?’ retorted Parsons bluntly.

‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you’ll excuse me.’

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred it, and put some coals on.

‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you spoke.’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,’ said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

‘No, thank you,’ returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, ‘Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.’

‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’

“Quando vivevo nel Suffolk,” riprese il signor Parsons, lanciando un’occhiata impaziente verso sua moglie, che fingeva di non accorgersene, “cioè molti anni fa, per lavoro dovetti recarmi nella città di Bury St. Edmund’s. Dovevo fermarmi nelle principali località lungo la strada, quindi, per comodità, viaggiai in una carrozza a noleggio. Lasciai Sudbury una notte buia, era inverno, intorno alle nove di sera; pioveva a dirotto, il vento ululava tra gli alberi lungo la strada, e fui costretto a procedere a passo d’uomo, perché non riuscivo quasi a vedere davanti a me, ”

“John,” lo interruppe la signora Parsons con una voce bassa e cavernosa, “non versare quella salsa.”

“Fanny,” disse Parsons con impazienza, “vorrei che rimandassi queste riprese domestiche a un momento più adatto. Davvero, cara mia, questi continui interventi sono molto fastidiosi.”

“Mia cara, non ti ho interrotta,” disse la signora Parsons.

“Ma, cara, mi hai davvero interrotto,” obiettò il signor Parsons.

“Che assurdo che sei, mio amore! Devo dare istruzioni ai servitori; sono sicura che se me ne stessi qui seduta e lasciassi che John versasse la salsa sul tappeto nuovo, saresti tu la prima a rimproverarmi non appena vedessimo la macchia domani mattina.”

“Beh, ”, continuò Gabriel con un tono rassegnato, come se sapesse che non c’era modo di evitare quell’argomento riguardante il tappeto, “volevo solo dire che faceva così buio che a malapena riuscivo a vedere la mia mano davanti a me. La strada era molto desolata. E ti assicuro, Tottle (questo era un modo per distrarre l’attenzione di quell’individuo, il cui pensiero era stato distratto da una conversazione confidenziale tra la signora Parsons e Martha, accompagnata dalla consegna di un mazzo enorme di chiavi, ), ti assicuro, Tottle: in qualche modo, quella situazione mi fece provare una profonda sensazione di solitudine.”

“Sottomettiti al tuo padrone,” intervenne la signora Parsons, dirigendo di nuovo il servitore.

“Ora, per favore, ”, ribadì ancora una volta Parsons, in tono molto petulante.
La signora P. alzò le mani e le sopracciglia, facendo un gesto di supplica verso la signorina Lillerton. “Mentre svoltavo l’angolo di quella strada, ”, continuò Gabriel, “il cavallo si fermò all’improvviso e iniziò a impennarsi. Mi fermai subito, saltai giù, corsi verso di lui e vidi un uomo sdraiato a pancia in su nel mezzo della strada, con lo sguardo fisso sul cielo. Pensavo fosse morto; ma no, era vivo, e non sembrava avere nulla che non andasse. Si alzò all’improvviso, si premette la mano sul petto e, fissandomi con uno sguardo estremamente serio, esclamò, ”

“Ecco il budino,” disse la signora Parsons.

“Oh! È inutile,” esclamò l’ospite, ormai disperato. “Ecco, Tottle: un bicchiere di vino. È inutile provare a raccontare qualcosa quando la signora Parsons è presente.”

Questo attacco fu accolto nel solito modo. La signora Parsons parlò con la signorina Lillerton e le spiegò in dettaglio l’impazienza tipica degli uomini in generale; insinuò che suo marito fosse particolarmente crudele in questo senso, e concluse sostenendo di dover avere davvero il temperamento più mite che esistesse al mondo, altrimenti non sarebbe mai riuscita a sopportarlo. In realtà, ciò che doveva tollerare a volte era molto di più di quanto chiunque la vedesse nella vita quotidiana potesse anche solo immaginare. Ora questa storia era diventata un argomento doloroso; perciò il signor Parsons rifiutò di entrare nei dettagli, limitandosi a dichiarare che quell’uomo era un pazzo fuggito da una casa di ricovero per malati mentali nelle vicinanze.

Il panno fu rimosso; poco dopo le signore si ritirarono, e la signorina Lillerton suonò il pianoforte nel salotto di sopra, molto ad alta voce, per l’edificazione del visitatore. Il signor Watkins Tottle e il signor Gabriel Parsons sedevano chiacchierando tranquillamente, fino alla fine della seconda bottiglia; a quel punto il secondo propose di spostarsi nel salotto, informando Watkins che aveva concordato un piano con sua moglie per lasciarlo da solo con la signorina Lillerton poco dopo il tè.

“Dico,” disse Tottle mentre salivano le scale, “non pensi che sarebbe meglio rimandare a, domani?”

“Non pensi anche tu che sarebbe stato molto meglio se ti avessi lasciato in quel maledetto buco dove ti ho trovato stamattina?” ribatté Parsons senza mezzi termini.

“Beh, beh, ho solo fatto una proposta,” disse povero Watkins Tottle, con un profondo sospiro.

Il tè fu presto finito; Miss Lillerton, tirando avanti un piccolo tavolino da lavoro su un lato del >focolare e posandovi sopra un piccolo telaio di legno – qualcosa che assomigliava a una minuscola mulina in argilla, ma senza il >cavallo – si mise subito all’opera per realizzare una protezione da orologio con seta marrone.

“Dio mi benedica!”, esclamò Parsons, fingendo con grande convinzione sorpresa, “Ho dimenticato quelle maledette lettere. Tottle, so che mi perdonerai.”

Se Tottle fosse stato un agente libero, non avrebbe permesso a nessuno di lasciare la stanza per alcun motivo, tranne che per sé stesso. Tuttavia, in quel caso, fu costretto ad apparire allegro quando Parsons uscì dall’appartamento.

Appena se n’era andato, Martha mise la testa dentro la stanza e disse: “Per favore, signora, la cercano.”

La signora Parsons lasciò la stanza, chiudendo la porta con cura dietro di sé, e il signor Watkins Tottle rimase da solo con la signorina Lillerton.

Per i primi cinque minuti regnò un silenzio assoluto. Il signor Watkins Tottle pensava a come iniziare, mentre la signorina Lillerton sembrava non pensare a nulla. Il fuoco ardeva debolmente; il signor Watkins Tottle lo ravvivò aggiungendo alcuni carboni.

“Ehm!”, tossì la signorina Lillerton; il signor Watkins Tottle pensò che quella bella creatura avesse parlato. “Mi scusi”, disse lui.

‘Eh?’

“Pensavo che stessi parlando.”

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

“Ci sono alcuni libri sul divano, signor Tottle, se desidera darci un’occhiata,” disse la signorina Lillerton, dopo altri cinque minuti.

“No, grazie,” rispose Watkins; e poi aggiunse, con un coraggio che era davvero sorprendente, persino per lui stesso: “Signora, lei è la signorina Lillerton. Vorrei parlarle.”

“Con me!” disse la signorina Lillerton, lasciando che la seta le cadesse dalle mani e spingendo indietro la sedia di alcuni passi. “Parla, con me!”

‘To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.’ The lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: ‘Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me—at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but—’ here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved him.

‘Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?’

‘She has.’

‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish air, ‘what could induce you to seek such an interview as this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?’

Here was the time for a flourish—‘By allowing me,’ replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in the act—‘By allowing me to be your slave, your servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart’s feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?’

‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as he could. ‘My information was correct?’ he tremulously inquired, when he was once more on his feet.

‘It was.’ Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture.

‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar and delicate one.’

‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle.

‘Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

‘Indeed!’ said Tottle.

‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins.

‘Oh!’ he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that she had known him from report, ‘I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?’

‘It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I ought to pursue,’ replied Miss Lillerton, ‘but pardon my feelings of delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar ideas on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.’

‘Then allow me to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly.

‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, ‘but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.’

‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is that to be, I wonder!’

‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the—clergyman.’

‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. ‘Angel! Certainly—this moment!’

‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the door; ‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.’

‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

‘Oh! Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and she left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle. ‘Hush—I’m going to the clergyman.’

‘No!’ said Parsons. ‘How well you have managed it!’

‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane. He’s waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could have carried it off so!’

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat.

‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

“A voi, signora, e riguardo allo stato dei vostri sentimenti.” La donna si alzò in fretta e stava per lasciare la stanza; ma il signor Watkins Tottle le prese dolcemente la mano, tenendola a distanza tale da quanto permetteva la lunghezza dei loro bracci, e proseguì: “Per favore, non fraintendetemi, né pensate che io vi parli, dopo un incontro così breve, spinto da qualche sentimento legato ai miei meriti, poiché non possiedo alcun merito che mi permetta di rivendicare la vostra mano. Spero che mi perdonerete se vi spiego che ho conosciuto i dettagli riguardanti questa situazione tramite la signora Parsons, cioè, la signora Parsons mi ha raccontato, ” A questo punto Watkins iniziò a balbettare; ma la signorina Lillerton lo salvò dalla difficoltà.

Devo intendere, signor Tottle, che la signora Parsons vi ha informato dei miei sentimenti, intendo dire del mio rispetto, verso una persona dell’altro sesso?

“Lo ha, davvero.”

“Allora, cosa?” chiese la signorina Lillerton, girando il viso con un’aria da ragazza, “cosa può aver spinto voi a cercare un incontro del genere? Qual è il vostro scopo? In che modo posso contribuire alla vostra felicità, signor Tottle?”

Era giunto il momento di fare un gesto significativo, “Permettendomi,” rispose Watkins, cadendo in ginocchio e rompendosi due bottoni della cintura e un laccio del gilet nel farlo, “permettendomi di essere il vostro schiavo, il vostro servitore, in breve, permettendomi di diventare il confidente dei sentimenti più profondi del vostro cuore, posso chiedervi questo, per il vostro stesso bene, posso chiedervelo, affinché possiate diventare la moglie di un marito gentile e affettuoso?”

“Creature disinteressate!”, esclamò la signorina Lillerton, nascondendo il viso in un fazzoletto da tasca bianco bordato di piccoli fori.

Il signor Watkins Tottle pensava che, se la signora sapesse tutto, forse avrebbe potuto cambiare opinione su questo ultimo punto. Sollevò con cerimonia la punta del suo dito medio fino alle labbra e si alzò in piedi nel modo più elegante possibile. “Le mie informazioni erano corrette?”, chiese tremando, non appena fu di nuovo in piedi.

“Era proprio così.” Watkins alzò le mani e guardò verso l’ornamento situato al centro del soffitto, che originariamente era stato costruito per ospitare una lampada, esprimendo così la sua ammirazione.

“La nostra situazione, signor Tottle,” riprese la donna, guardandolo attraverso uno degli spiragli, “è davvero molto particolare e delicata.”

“È così,” disse il signor Tottle.

“La nostra conoscenza è durata così poco,” disse la signorina Lillerton.

“Solo una settimana,” concordò Watkins Tottle.

“Oh! Anche di più,” esclamò la signora, con tono sorpreso.

“Certamente!” disse Tottle.

“Più di un mese, più di due mesi!” disse la signorina Lillerton.

“Piuttosto strano,” pensò Watkins.

“Oh!”, disse, ricordando le parole di Parsons secondo cui lei lo conosceva solo per sentito dire, “Capisco. Ma, mia cara signora, per favore, rifletteteci bene. Più a lungo dura questa conoscenza, meno motivi ci sono per ritardare. Perché non fissare subito una data per soddisfare le speranze del vostro devoto ammiratore?”

“Mi è stato ripetutamente detto che questo sia il percorso che dovrei seguire,” rispose la signorina Lillerton, “ma perdonate i miei timori e le mie esitazioni, signor Tottle. Vi prego di scusare questa mia imbarazzo. Ho idee particolari su queste questioni, e sono assolutamente certa che non riuscirei mai a trovare il coraggio necessario per nominare la data del mio futuro matrimonio.”

“Allora permettetemi di darle un nome,” disse Tottle con entusiasmo.

“Vorrei sistemarlo da sola,” rispose timidamente la signorina Lillerton, “ma non posso farlo senza ricorrere immediatamente a una terza persona.”

“Una terza parte, ”, pensò Watkins Tottle; “chi diavolo può essere, mi chiedo, ”

“Signor Tottle,” continuò la signorina Lillerton, “mi ha fatto un’offerta molto generosa e disinteressata; accetto quindi questa offerta. Potrebbe gentilmente portare immediatamente una mia lettera a, al signor Timson?”

“Signor Timson!”, disse Watkins.

“Dopo tutto ciò che è accaduto tra di noi,” rispose la signorina Lillerton, continuando a tenere lo sguardo distolto, “dovete capire a chi mi riferisco: il signor Timson, l’uomo di chiesa, ”

“Signor Timson, il prete!” esclamò Watkins Tottle, in uno stato di indescrivibile beatitudine e con autentico stupore per il proprio successo. “Un angelo. Certamente. In questo stesso momento!”

“Lo preparerò immediatamente,” disse la signorina Lillerton dirigendosi verso la porta; “gli eventi di oggi mi hanno sconvolta così tanto, signor Tottle, che stasera non uscirò più dalla mia stanza; vi manderò il biglietto tramite il servitore.”

“Restate, restate,” gridò Watkins Tottle, mantenendo sempre una distanza molto rispettosa dalla signora; “quando ci rivedremo?”

“Oh, signor Tottle,” rispose Miss Lillerton in modo civettuoso, “quando saremo sposati, non potrò mai vedervi abbastanza spesso, né ringraziarvi a sufficienza, ” e poi uscì dalla stanza.

Il signor Watkins Tottle si lasciò cadere in una poltrona e si abbandonò alle più deliziose fantasticherie riguardo a un futuro di felicità; nell’immaginario di quel futuro, l’idea di “cinquecento sterline all’anno, con la possibilità di disporne liberamente tramite il proprio testamento” occupava una posizione centrale. Aveva sostenuto l’intervista in modo così buono e tutto era finito in modo così soddisfacente che quasi iniziò a sperare di aver espressamente richiesto che quelle cinquecento sterline venissero assegnate a lui.

“Posso entrare?” chiese il signor Gabriel Parsons, spiando attraverso la porta.

“Puoi farlo,” rispose Watkins.

“Beh, l’hai fatto?” chiese ansiosamente Gabriel.

“L’ho fatto!”, esclamò Watkins Tottle. “Zitta, vado dal prete.”

“No!”, disse Parsons. “Come benissimo ci sei riuscito!”

“Dove vive Timson?”, chiese Watkins.

“Da suo zio,” rispose Gabriel, “proprio all’angolo della strada. Sta cercando di guadagnarsi da vivere e aiuta suo zio da due o tre mesi ormai. Ma che bene l’hai fatto. Non pensavo che fossi riuscito a gestire tutto così bene!”

Il signor Watkins Tottle stava appunto per dimostrare che il principio di Richardson fosse il migliore su cui potesse basarsi l’amore, quando fu interrotto dall’ingresso di Martha, che portava con sé un piccolo biglietto rosa piegato a forma di elegante cappello.

“I complimenti di Miss Lillerton,” disse Martha, porgendoli a Tottle e poi scomparve.

‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.’

‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

‘Mr. Charles is at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.’

‘I am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.

‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.’

‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; ‘Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

‘How do you do, sir?’ replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was.

‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked-hat.

‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour. ‘Pray sit down.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. ‘May I ask,’ he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, ‘whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?’

‘Our friend is in my confidence,’ replied Watkins, with considerable importance.

‘Then, sir,’ said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, ‘allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part you have acted in this affair.’

‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle. ‘Confound these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.’

‘I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,’ continued Timson. ‘Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few men who would have acted as you have done.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily, ‘When is it to be?’

‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at half-past eight.’

‘Uncommonly early,’ observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant self-denial. ‘I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.’ (This was intended for a joke.)

‘Never mind, my dear fellow,’ replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, ‘so long as we see you to breakfast, you know—’

‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

‘I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,’ replied Timson, ‘we will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson with appalling perseverance.

‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm, ‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs. Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’

‘Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,’ angrily exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson,—‘but have the goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?’

‘This note,’ replied Timson, ‘is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have been for the last five weeks regularly engaged. Her singular scruples and strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire. She informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making her her confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this elderly gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even undertook to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long sought in vain—an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful.’

‘Good night, Timson,’ said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the bewildered Tottle with him.

‘Won’t you stay—and have something?’ said Timson.

‘No, thank ye,’ replied Parsons; ‘I’ve had quite enough;’ and away he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said—

‘You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the unfortunate Watkins.

‘I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you?’ inquired Gabriel.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ replied the bewildered Tottle.

‘Well,’ said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, ‘the next time you make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don’t throw a chance away. And the next time you’re locked up in a spunging-house, just wait there till I come and take you out, there’s a good fellow.’

“Notate la delicatezza?” disse Tottle, rivolgendosi al signor Gabriel Parsons. “Un complimento, non amore, da parte del servitore, eh?”

Il signor Gabriel Parsons non sapeva esattamente quale risposta dare, quindi infilò l’indice della mano destra tra la terza e la quarta costola del signor Watkins Tottle.

“Bene,” disse Watkins, quando il clamore di risate scatenato da questa battuta pratica si fu placato, “partiremo subito: non dobbiamo perdere tempo.”

“Capitale!”, echeggiò la voce di Gabriel Parsons; e in cinque minuti arrivarono alla porta d’ingresso del giardino della villetta affittata dall’zio del signor Timson.

“Il signor Charles Timson è a >casa?” chiese il signor Watkins Tottle al servitore dello zio del signor Charles Timson.

“Il signor Charles è a casa”, rispose l’uomo balbettando; “ma desiderava che io vi dicessi che non può essere disturbato da nessuno dei parrocchiani, signore.”

“Non sono un parrocchiano,” rispose Watkins.

“Sta scrivendo un sermone il signor Charles, Tom?”, chiese Parsons, sporgendosi in avanti.

“No, signor Parsons, non sta esattamente scrivendo un sermone, ma sta suonando il violoncello nella sua stanza da letto e ha dato ordini severi di non essere disturbato.”

“Dite che sono qui,” rispose Gabriel, guidandoli attraverso il giardino; “Il signor Parsons e il signor Tottle, per affari privati e particolari.”

Fu loro mostrato il salotto, e il servitore se ne andò per portare a termine il suo compito. Il lontano suono del violoncello cessò; si udirono dei passi sulle scale; poi arrivò il signor Timson, che strinse la mano a Parsons con grande cordialità.

“Come state, signore?” disse Watkins Tottle con grande solennità.

“Come state, signore?” rispose Timson con tale freddezza, come se per lui fosse del tutto indifferente come stesse realmente, il che molto probabilmente era vero.

“Chiedo il permesso di consegnarvi questa nota,” disse Watkins Tottle, tirando fuori il cappello a cilindro.

“Da parte della signorina Lillerton!”, disse Timson, cambiando improvvisamente colore. “Per favore, si sieda.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle si sedette; mentre Timson leggeva la nota, i suoi occhi erano fissi su un ritratto dell’Arcivescovo di Canterbury, dipinto in colore salsa d’ostrica e appeso sopra il caminetto.

Il signor Timson si alzò dalla sua sedia dopo aver terminato di leggere la nota e guardò con scetticismo Parsons. “Posso chiedere,” disse, rivolgendosi a Watkins Tottle, “se il nostro amico qui conosca lo scopo della sua visita?”

“Il nostro amico è al mio fianco,” rispose Watkins, con notevole enfasi.

“Allora, signore,” disse Timson, prendendo entrambe le mani di Tottle, “permettetemi di ringraziarvi davanti a lui con sincera e calorosa gratitudine per il nobile ruolo che avete svolto in questa faccenda.”

“Pensa che sia stato io a raccomandarlo,” pensò Tottle. “Maledetti questi individui. Non pensano mai ad altro che ai loro onorari.”

“Mi dispiace profondamente di aver frainteso le vostre intenzioni, mio caro signore,” continuò Timson. “Davvero disinteressato e nobile. Ci sono pochissimi uomini che avrebbero agito come avete fatto voi.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle non poté fare a meno di pensare che quest’ultima osservazione fosse tutt’altro che lusinghiera. Pertanto chiese, piuttosto affrettatamente: “Quando avverrà?”

“Il >Giovedì,” rispose Timson, “il >Giovedì mattina alle otto e mezza.”

“Incomparabilmente presto,” osservò Watkins Tottle con un tono di trionfale auto-negazione. “A quell’ora difficilmente riuscirò ad arrivare qui.” (Si trattava di una battuta.)

“Nessun problema, caro amico,” rispose Timson con grande gentilezza, stringendo di nuovo la mano a Tottle con calore, “purché ci vediamo a colazione, capisci, ”

“Eh!”, disse Parsons, con uno degli espressioni più straordinarie che si siano mai viste su un volto umano.

“Che cosa!” esclamò contemporaneamente Watkins Tottle.

“Dico questo perché, finché vi vedremo a colazione,” rispose Timson, “perdoneremo la vostra assenza dalla cerimonia, anche se naturalmente la vostra presenza ci darebbe grande piacere.”

Il signor Watkins Tottle si appoggiò barcollando al muro e fissò Timson con una perseveranza spaventosa.

“Timson,” disse Parsons, spazzolando affrettatamente il proprio cappello con il braccio sinistro,
“quando dici ‘noi’, a chi ti riferisci?”

A sua volta, il signor Timson sembrò ridicolo quando rispose: “Perché, la signora Timson, intendo dire questa settimana, cioè, la signorina Lillerton, ”

“Ora smettete di guardare quell’idiota nell’angolo,” esclamò Parsons con rabbia, mentre le straordinarie convulsioni del viso di Watkins Tottle attiravano gli sguardi curiosi di Timson; “ma per favore ditemi in tre parole il contenuto di quel biglietto.”

“Questa nota,” rispose Timson, “è di Miss Lillerton, con la quale sono stato regolarmente fidanzato nelle ultime cinque settimane. Le sue straordinarie esitazioni e i suoi strani atteggiamenti in alcuni aspetti hanno finora impedito che il nostro fidanzamento giungesse a quella conclusione che desideravo tanto ardentemente. Mi informa qui che ha parlato con la signora Parsons al fine di farne la sua confidente e intermediaria; la signora Parsons, a sua volta, ne ha informato questo anziano gentiluomo, il signor Tottle, il quale, con estrema gentilezza e delicatezza, si è offerto di aiutarci in qualsiasi modo possibile, addirittura assumendosi l’onere di consegnarmi questa nota, che contiene la promessa che da tempo cercavo invano. Un atto di gentilezza per il quale non potrò mai essere abbastanza grato.”

“Buona notte, Timson,” disse Parsons, allontanandosi di fretta e portando con sé il confuso Tottle.

“Non resterai un po’ e non mangi qualcosa?” disse Timson.

“No, grazie,” rispose Parsons; “ne ho avuto abbastanza”; e se ne andò, seguito da Watkins Tottle, che rimase sbalordito.

Il signor Gabriel Parsons continuò a fischiare finché non ebbero percorso circa un quarto di miglio oltre il suo cancello; poi improvvisamente si fermò e disse:

“Sei davvero un tipo intelligente, Tottle, non è vero?”

“Non lo so,” disse il sfortunato Watkins.

“Immagino che dirai che è colpa di Fanny, vero?” chiese Gabriel.

“Non so nulla al riguardo,” rispose confuso Tottle.

“Beh,” disse Parsons, girandosi sui tacchi per andare a casa, “la prossima volta che fai un’offerta, dovresti parlare chiaramente e non sprecare l’occasione. E la prossima volta che finirai in una casa di tolleranza, aspetta semplicemente che venga a prenderti. C’è un bravo ragazzo là dentro.”

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning; but we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither emerged therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours. At the expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held in the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of milk-and-water. The next morning he went through the formalities of eating and drinking as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he never perfectly recovered.

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body of a gentleman unknown, was found in the Regent’s canal. In the trousers-pockets were four shillings and threepence halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement from a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper: a tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would have led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for the circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A bill, which has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill, which has not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his parlour-window.

CHAPTER XI—THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING

Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, ‘long Dumps,’ was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old: cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable; and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a ‘first-floor furnished,’ at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was ‘the most unfortunate man in the world.’ Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; and if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate anything in particular, because he disliked everything in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the ‘Society for the Suppression of Vice’ for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, in the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next.

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the ‘Bedford-square,’ and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words ‘Tottenham-court-road.’)

‘No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning.

‘I cannot, indeed I cannot,’ returned Dumps.

‘Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little trouble.’

‘As to the trouble,’ rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, ‘I don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles, don’t fidget with that stool so; you’ll drive me mad.’ Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air, and holding fast on by the desk.

‘I beg your pardon, uncle,’ said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor, with a force sufficient to drive them through it.

‘But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers.’

‘If it’s a boy!’ said Dumps; ‘why can’t you say at once whether it is a boy or not?’

‘I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet.’

‘Not born yet!’ echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage. ‘Oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won’t want me; or if it is a boy, it may die before it is christened.’

In che modo o a quale ora il signor Watkins Tottle tornò in Cecil-street è sconosciuto. La mattina seguente i suoi stivali furono visti fuori dalla porta della sua camera da letto; tuttavia, abbiamo l’autorizzazione della sua padrona di casa per affermare che né uscì da quella stanza né consumò alcun cibo per ventiquattro ore. Al termine di quel periodo, mentre in cucina si teneva una riunione per decidere se fosse opportuno chiamare il beadle del villaggio per far aprire la sua porta, lui suonò il campanello e chiese una tazza di latte e acqua. La mattina seguente segui le solite abitudini di mangiare e bere, ma una settimana dopo ebbe un nuovo ricaduto mentre leggeva l’elenco dei matrimoni su un giornale del mattino; da allora non si riprese mai completamente.

Alcune settimane dopo l’evento menzionato, il -corpo di un gentiluomo sconosciuto fu trovato nel canale Regent. Nelle tasche dei suoi pantaloni c’erano quattro scellini e tre pence e mezzo; un annuncio matrimoniale di una signora, che sembrava essere stato ritagliato da un giornale domenicale; un pettine da denti e una cartella da biglietti. Elementi che, con ogni probabilità, avrebbero permesso di identificare il povero gentiluomo, se non fosse stato per il fatto che all’interno della cartella non c’erano altri biglietti se non quelli vuoti. Il signor Watkins Tottle aveva lasciato il suo alloggio poco prima; il giorno seguente fu presentata una bolletta che non venne pagata, e poco dopo ne fu affissa un’altra alla finestra del suo salotto.

capitolo XI – LA BATTEZIA A BLOOMSBURY

Il signor Nicodemus Dumps, o, come lo chiamavano i suoi conoscenti, “il lungo Dumps”, era un scapolo alto sei piedi e di cinquant’anni: arcigno, cadaverico, strano e di cattivo carattere. Non era mai felice se non quando si sentiva infelice; e sempre infelice quando aveva tutte le ragioni per essere felice. L’unica vera consolazione della sua esistenza era rendere tutti quelli intorno a lui miserabili, solo allora poteva davvero dire di godersi la vita. Possedeva una posizione nel banco che gli garantiva cinquecento sterline all’anno, ma affittava un appartamento ammobiliato al primo piano a Pentonville; l’aveva scelto proprio perché offriva una vista desolata su un cimitero adiacente. Conosceva a memoria ogni lapide del cimitero, e i riti funebri sembravano suscitare in lui la più profonda compassione. I suoi amici lo definivano scontroso; lui insisteva sul dire di essere nervoso. Loro lo consideravano un uomo fortunato, ma lui protestava di essere “l’uomo più sfortunato del mondo”. Nonostante fosse freddo e si dichiarasse infelice, non era del tutto insensibile ai sentimenti altrui. Rispettava la memoria di Hoyle, poiché anche lui era un giocatore di whist eccezionale e imperturbabile; rideva con piacere quando incontrava avversari irrequieti e impazienti. Ammirava re Erode per il massacro degli innocenti. E se c’era qualcosa che odiava più di ogni altra cosa, era proprio i bambini. Tuttavia, non si poteva dire che odiasse qualcosa in particolare: odiava semplicemente tutto in generale. Forse le sue antipatie maggiori erano per gli taxi, le vecchie donne, le porte che non si chiudevano, gli amanti della musica e i truffatori degli omnibus. Si iscriveva alla “Società per la repressione del vizio” solo per il piacere di impedire qualsiasi forma di divertimento innocuo. E contribuiva generosamente al sostentamento di due pastori metodisti itineranti, nella speranza che, se qualcuno in questo mondo poteva essere reso felice, forse sarebbe stato reso infelice dalle paure per l’aldilà.

Il signor Dumps aveva un nipote che era sposato da circa un anno e che era piuttosto il preferito di suo zio, perché rappresentava una vittima ideale su cui esercitare i suoi poteri capaci di causare sofferenza. Il signor Charles Kitterbell era un uomo piccolo, magro, dall’aspetto ascetico; aveva una testa molto grande e un viso largo e bonario. Sembrava un gigante invecchiato, la cui testa e il cui viso fossero stati parzialmente restaurati; inoltre, uno degli occhi gli era offuscato, rendendo del tutto impossibile per chiunque parlasse con lui capire verso dove stesse guardando. I suoi occhi sembravano fissi sul muro, e quando ti guardava, non riuscivi a intercettare il suo sguardo; insomma, era impossibile attirare la sua attenzione. E forse è stata una vera benedizione da parte della Provvidenza che occhi del genere non fossero in grado di “catturare” qualcosa. Oltre a queste caratteristiche, si può aggiungere che il signor Charles Kitterbell era uno dei personaggi più creduloni e banali che abbiano mai preso moglie, e acquistato una casa in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square. (Lo zio Dumps, però, ometteva sempre “Bedford-square” e al suo posto pronunciava le terribili parole “Tottenham-Court-Road”).

“No, ma zio, per l’amor del cielo, dovete promettermi che sarete il padrino,” disse il signor Kitterbell una mattina, mentre conversava con il suo rispettato parente.

“Non posso, davvero non posso,” rispose Dumps.

‘Beh, perché no? Jemima penserà che sia molto scortese. Non è certo un grosso disturbo.’

“Per quanto riguarda i problemi,” ribatté l’uomo più sfortunato dell’universo, “non mi importa; ma i miei nervi sono in quello stato. Non riesco a sopportare la cerimonia. Voi sapete che non mi piace uscire. Per l’amor di Dio, Charles, smettetela di muovere quel sgabello in quel modo: mi farà impazzire.” Il signor Kitterbell, del tutto indifferente ai nervi di suo zio, si era dedicato per circa dieci minuti a disegnare un cerchio sul pavimento utilizzando una gamba dello sgabello su cui sedeva, tenendo le altre tre in aria e aggrappandosi saldamente al tavolo.

“Perdonatemi, zio,” disse Kitterbell, molto imbarazzato, allentando improvvisamente la presa sul tavolo e riportando quelle tre “gambe” erranti a terra con una forza tale da farle quasi penetrare nel legno.

“Ma vieni, non rifiutare. Se sarà un maschio, sai bene che dobbiamo avere due padrini.”

“Se è un maschietto, ”, disse Dumps, “perché non puoi dire subito se è davvero un maschietto o no?”

“Mi farebbe molto piacere dirvelo, ma è impossibile per me garantire se si tratta di una bambina o di un bambino, finché il >bambino non sia nato.”

“Non è ancora nato!” esclamò Dumps, con un barlume di >speranza che illuminò il suo volto cupo. “Oh, beh, potrebbe essere una femmina, e allora non mi vorrai più; oppure, se fosse un maschio, potrebbe morire prima ancora di essere battezzato.”

‘I hope not,’ said the father that expected to be, looking very grave.

‘I hope not,’ acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. ‘I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course.’

‘Lord, uncle!’ ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

‘Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—’

‘How frightful!’ interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell.

‘The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors.’ Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. ‘Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.’

‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; ‘though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst.’

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eyes:—

‘Births.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.’

‘It is a boy!’ he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. ‘It is a boy!’ But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality.

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:—

‘Great Russell-street, Monday morning.

‘Dear Uncle,—You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally. He was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever.

‘Believe me, dear Uncle, ‘Yours affectionately, ‘Charles Kitterbell.

‘P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal.’

It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials ‘F. C. W. K.,’ with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith.

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was ‘unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;’ and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. ‘I knew how it would be,’ said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion-house at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. ‘I knew how it would be. I am concerned, and that’s enough;’—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the ‘fare’ as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of ‘standing up’ under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday.

“Non lo spero affatto,” disse il padre, che sembrava molto serio mentre lo diceva.

“Spero di no,” acconsentì Dumps, chiaramente soddisfatto dell’argomento. Stava iniziando a sentirsi felice. “Spero di no, ma casi spiacevoli si verificano spesso nei primi due o tre giorni della vita di un >bambino; mi è stato detto che le crisi sono estremamente comuni, e convulsioni allarmanti quasi inevitabili.”

“Signore, zio!” esclamò la piccola Kitterbell, ansimando.

‘Sì; la mia padrona di casa è stata ricoverata, vediamo, lo scorso martedì: un bambino davvero molto carino. Nella notte di giovedì, l’infermiera stava seduta con lui sulle ginocchia davanti al focolare, e lui stava benissimo. All’improvviso il suo viso divenne scuro e iniziò ad avere convulsioni. Fu subito chiamato il medico e furono provati tutti i possibili rimedi, ma, ’

“Che orrore!” interruppe Kitterbell, sopraffatta dal terrore.

‘Il >bambino è morto, naturalmente. Tuttavia, il vostro >bambino potrebbe non morire; e se dovesse essere un maschio e sopravvivere fino al battesimo, allora credo che io debba esserne uno dei padrini.’ Dumps era chiaramente di buon umore riguardo alla >fede nelle sue aspettative.

“Grazie, zio,” disse il suo nipote, agitato, stringendogli la mano con calore, come se gli avesse reso un grande servizio. “Forse sarebbe meglio che non raccontassi a signora K. quello che hai detto.”

“Beh, se è di cattivo umore, forse sarebbe meglio non menzionarle quella storia triste,” rispose Dumps, che ovviamente aveva inventato tutto; “anche se forse sarebbe proprio il tuo dovere di marito prepararla al peggio.”

Un giorno o due dopo, mentre Dumps leggeva un giornale del mattino nel ristorante dove andava regolarmente, i seguenti paragrafi caddero sotto i suoi occhi:—

“Nati, – Sabato 18, in Great Russell Street, la signora di Charles Kitterbell ha dato alla luce un figlio.”

“È un maschio!”, esclamò, scorrendo velocemente il giornale, con grande sorpresa dei camerieri. “È un maschio!” Ma presto riprese la calma quando lesse un paragrafo che riportava i dati sui decessi infantili tratti dai rapporti sulla mortalità.

Passarono sei settimane e, poiché non era arrivata alcuna notizia dai Kitterbells, Dumps iniziò a pensare che il >bambino fosse morto, quando la seguente nota dissipò dolorosamente i suoi dubbi:—

“_Via Great Russell-,
mattina di lunedì.”

“Caro zio, — sarai molto felice di sapere che la mia cara Jemima ha lasciato la sua stanza e che il tuo futuro nipote sta facendo grandi progressi. All’inizio era molto magro, ma ora è diventato molto più robusto; l’infermiera dice che ogni giorno migliora sempre di più. Piange spesso e ha una pelle di colore piuttosto strano, il che ci ha un po’ preoccupate, Jemima ed io; ma dato che l’infermiera afferma che sia normale, e visto che naturalmente non sappiamo ancora nulla in merito, siamo completamente soddisfatte di quanto dice. Pensiamo che diventerà un bambino molto vivace; l’infermiera è sicura che sarà così, perché non dorme mai. Capirai facilmente che siamo tutte molto felici, anche se siamo un po’ stanche per la mancanza di riposo, visto che lui ci tiene sveglie tutta la notte; ma l’infermiera dice che è normale nei primi sei o otto mesi. Gli hanno fatto il vaccino, ma a causa del modo un po’ goffo con cui è stato eseguito l’intervento, sono entrati alcuni piccoli frammenti di vetro nel suo braccio insieme al liquido vaccinale. Forse questo può spiegare il suo comportamento irrequieto; almeno, così dice l’infermiera. Abbiamo deciso di battezzarlo alle dodici in punto di venerdì, nella chiesa di San Giorgio in Hart-street, con il nome di Frederick Charles William. Per favore, vieni prima delle dodici e un quarto. Questa sera avremo pochi amici a casa; naturalmente ci vedremo allora. Purtroppo, oggi il caro bambino sembra molto irrequieto e ansioso. Temo che sia febbre.”

“Credimi, caro zio,
con affetto tuo,
Charles Kitterbell.”

‘P.S.—Apro questo biglietto per dire che abbiamo appena scoperto la causa dell’irrequietezza di piccolo Frederick. Non è febbre, come temevo, ma un piccolo spillino che l’infermiera gli ha accidentalmente conficcato nella gamba ieri sera. L’abbiamo rimosso e ora sembra più tranquillo, anche se continua a singhiozzare molto.’

È quasi inutile dire che la lettura della suddetta dichiarazione interessante non fu di alcun conforto per la mente dell’ipocondriaco Dumps. Tuttavia, non era possibile tirarsi indietro, quindi cercò di affrontare la situazione con il miglior atteggiamento possibile, il che, in realtà, significava assumere un’espressione insolitamente miserabile. Comprò poi una bella tazza d’argento per il bambino Kitterbell e fece incidere su di essa le iniziali “F. C. W. K.”, accompagnate dai soliti ornamenti simili a tralci di uva non ben realizzati, oltre a un grande punto fermo.

Lunedì fu una bella giornata, martedì ancora più deliziosa; mercoledì era paragonabile alle precedenti, mentre giovedì fu ancora migliore di tutte. Quattro giorni consecutivi di bel tempo a Londra! I cocchieri di Hackney divennero “rivoluzionari”, e i netturbini iniziarono a >dubitare dell’esistenza di una “Causa Prima”. Il Morning Herald comunicò ai suoi lettori che una vecchia donna di Camden Town aveva detto che la bellezza di quella stagione era “senza precedenti nella memoria degli abitanti più anziani”; i impiegati di Islington, con famiglie numerose e salari modesti, smisero di indossare i loro stivali neri e rifiutarono di portare gli ombrelli di cotone un tempo verdi, preferendo camminare in città con il orgoglio di mostrare calze bianche e scarpe pulite. I “Dumps”, invece, osservavano tutto questo con profondo disprezzo: il loro trionfo era ormai vicino. Sapevano che se il tempo fosse stato bello per quattro settimane anziché quattro giorni, avrebbe piovuto non appena sarebbero usciti di casa; erano felici della certezza che venerdì sarebbe stata una giornata terribile. E infatti lo fu. “Lo sapevo già”, disse Dumps, mentre si girava davanti alla residenza principale alle undici e mezza di venerdì mattina. “Lo sapevo. A me basta; il resto non mi interessa, ” E certamente l’aspetto di quella giornata era sufficiente per abbattere lo spirito di chiunque avesse un carattere più allegro del suo. Aveva piovuto senza sosta da otto in poi; tutti coloro che passavano lungo Cheapside sembravano bagnati, freddi e sporchi. Ombrelli dimenticati da tempo venivano utilizzati all’improvviso. I taxi si muovevano velocemente, con il “prezzo del viaggio” ben nascosto dietro due tendine di cotone trasparente, proprio come un dipinto misterioso in uno dei castelli descritti da Mrs. Radcliffe. I cavalli degli omnibus fumavano come macchine a vapore; nessuno pensava nemmeno a “fermarsi” sotto porte o archi. Erano tutti convinti che non ci fosse speranza. E così tutti si affrettavano lungo la strada, urtandosi, imprecando, sudando e scivolando, come pattinatori amatoriali dietro sedie di legno sulla Serpentine in una fredda domenica.

Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could ‘pull him up’ in return.

‘Now, sir!’ cried the young gentleman who officiated as ‘cad’ to the ‘Lads of the Village,’ which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed.

‘This vay, sir!’ shouted the driver of the ‘Hark-away,’ pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—‘This vay, sir—he’s full.’ Dumps hesitated, whereupon the ‘Lads of the Village’ commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the ‘Hark-away;’ but the conductor of the ‘Admiral Napier’ settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner, for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle which had just come up and only wanted the sixteenth inside.

‘All right,’ said the ‘Admiral,’ and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled-up bootjack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on the one side, and then on the other, like a ‘Jack-in-the-green,’ on May-day, setting to the lady with a brass ladle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?’ inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time.

‘Anywhere but on my chest, sir,’ replied the old gentleman in a surly tone.

‘Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better,’ suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance.

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that would not shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter.

‘Don’t bang the door so,’ said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; I am very nervous—it destroys me.’

‘Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?’ replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request.

‘I told you not to bang the door so!’ repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions.

‘Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging,’ replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, ‘I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, ‘it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!’ shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—‘Where is the cad?’

‘I think he’s on the box, sir,’ said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink.

‘I want to be set down!’ said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts.

‘I think these cads want to be set down,’ returned the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally.

‘Hollo!’ cried Dumps again.

‘Hollo!’ echoed the passengers. The omnibus passed St. Giles’s church.

‘Hold hard!’ said the conductor; ‘I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if you please,’ he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was ‘all right.’ Dumps’s indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. ‘Drury-lane!’ he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time.

‘Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir.’

Dumps’s passion was paramount: he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded, if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver.

‘Hollo!’ said that respectable person, standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. ‘Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can’t reject that, anyhow.’

The argument was irresistible: Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street.

Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of ‘a few friends’ in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds, on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room, very prettily furnished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables.

I taxi erano sospesi; non gli veniva in mente di camminare, visto che era piuttosto intelligente per l’occasione. Se prendeva un taxi, sicuramente sarebbe stato investito, mentre una vettura a noleggio era troppo costosa per i suoi limitati mezzi finanziari. C’era un omnibus ad aspettare all’angolo opposto. Era davvero un caso disperato: non aveva mai sentito parlare di un omnibus che si ribaltasse o scappasse. E se quel tizio lo investiva, avrebbe potuto “rimetterlo in piedi” a sua volta.

“Ora, signore!” gridò il giovane gentiluomo che fungeva da “controllore” per la macchina appena menzionata, chiamata “I Ragazzi del Villaggio”. Le pile di merci furono smistate rapidamente.

“Subito, signore!” gridò il conducente del “Hark-away”, fermando immediatamente il veicolo proprio di fronte all’ingresso dell’altro treno. “Subito, signore, è pieno.” Dumps esitò, e in quel momento i membri del gruppo dei “Lads of the Village” iniziarono a lanciare insulti contro il “Hark-away”; ma il conducente del “Admiral Napier” risolse la situazione in modo molto soddisfacente per tutte le parti: afferrò Dumps per la vita e lo spinse dentro il proprio veicolo, che aveva appena raggiunto la stazione e aspettava soltanto l’arrivo dell’ultimo passeggero.

“Bene,” disse l’“Ammiraglio”, e la macchina partì come un motore a fuoco al massimo della potenza; all’interno c’era il cliente rapito, che si trovava in una posizione assai scomoda, cadendo di qua e di là ad ogni scossone della macchina, prima da un lato e poi dall’altro, come un “Jack-in-the-green” durante la festa di maggio.

“Per l’amor del cielo, dove dovrei sedermi?”, chiese quell’uomo sfortunato a un anziano gentiluomo nel cui stomaco era appena caduto per la quarta volta.

“Ovunque tranne che sul mio petto, signore,” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo con tono scontroso.

“Forse la scatola sarebbe più adatta per il signore,” suggerì un impiegato legale molto umido, con una camicia rosa e un’espressione beffarda sul viso.

Dopo molte difficoltà e cadute, alla fine Dumps riuscì a infilarsi in un sedile che, oltre al piccolo svantaggio di trovarsi tra una finestra che non si chiudeva e una porta che doveva rimanere aperta, lo metteva in stretto contatto con un passeggero che aveva camminato per tutta la mattina senza ombrello, e che sembrava aver trascorso l’intera giornata immerso in un’enorme quantità d’acqua, solo che ora era ancora più bagnato.

“Non chiudere la porta in quel modo,” disse Dumps al conducente, mentre questi la richiudeva dopo aver fatto scendere quattro passeggeri; “Sono molto nervosa. Mi distrugge completamente.”

“Qualcuno dei generali ha detto qualcosa?” rispose il soldato, infilando la testa dentro e cercando di sembrare non capisse la domanda.

“Ti avevo detto di non sbattere la porta così forte!” ripeté Dumps, con un’espressione del viso simile a quella del jolly in carte da gioco, mentre tremava convulsivamente.

“Ah, signore, c’è una particolarità riguardo a questa porta: non si chiude senza fare rumore,” rispose il portiere; poi aprì la porta completamente e la richiuse con un terribile tonfo, per dimostrare quanto aveva detto.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse un piccolo vecchio gentiluomo, un po’ rigido e con il respiro affannoso, seduto di fronte a Dumps, “perdonatemi; ma avete mai notato, quando vi trovate su un omnibus in una giornata piovosa, che quattro persone su cinque entrano sempre con grandi ombrelli di cotone, senza manico in cima né punta di bronzo nella parte inferiore?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose Dumps, quando sentì l’orologio battere le dodici, “non me n’ero mai accorto prima; ma ora che me lo dite voi. Ehi! Ehi!” gridò il perseguitato, mentre l’omnibus sfrecciava oltre Drury-lane, dove aveva chiesto di essere lasciato. “Dove si è cacciato quel mascalzone?”

“Penso che sia sulla scatola, signore,” disse il giovane gentiluomo prima di essere notato, indossava una camicia rosa, che sembrava bianca con linee tracciate in inchiostro rosso.

“Voglio essere messo giù!”, disse Dumps con voce debole, sopraffatto dagli sforzi fatti prima.

“Penso che questi furfanti vogliano essere messi in riga”, rispose l’impiegato dell’avvocato, ridacchiando della sua battuta.

“Ehi!” gridò di nuovo Dumps.

“Salve!”, risuonò tra i passeggeri. L’omnibus superò la chiesa di San Giacomo.

“Tenetevi forte!”, disse il conducente; “Scommetto che abbiamo dimenticato quel signore che doveva essere lasciato alla Doory-lane. Ora, per favore, si sbrighi”, aggiunse aprendo la porta e aiutando Dumps a scendere con estrema calma, come se tutto fosse normale. Per una volta, l’indignazione di Dumps prevalse sulla sua solita indifferenza cinica. “Drury-lane!”, esclamò, con la voce di un ragazzo che per la prima volta si trovasse in una vasca d’acqua fredda.

“Via laterale, signore? Sì, signore, terza svolta a destra, signore.”

La passione di Dumps era indomabile: stringeva saldamente il suo ombrello e si allontanava con la ferma determinazione di non pagare la tariffa. Per una strana coincidenza, quel farabutto aveva esattamente l’opinione opposta; chissà fino a dove sarebbe arrivata quella discussione, se non fosse stata interrotta in modo efficace e soddisfacente dal conducente.

“Ehi!” disse quella persona rispettabile, alzandosi sul carrello dell’omnibus e appoggiandosi con una mano al tetto dello stesso. “Ehi, Tom! Dì a quel signore che, se si sente offeso, lo porteremo gratuitamente fino alla Strada di Edgeware e lo lasceremo davanti a Doory-lane al nostro ritorno. Non può rifiutare, comunque.”

Quel ragionamento era irrefutabile: i Dumps pagarono quei sei penny contesi e, in un quarto d’ora, si trovarono già sulle scale di casa numero 14 di Great Russell Street.

Tutto indicava che si stavano facendo i preparativi per l’arrivo, quella sera, di “alcuni amici”. Venti bicchieri in più e quattro calici da vino – assolutamente non trasparenti, con dei pezzetti di cannuccia all’interno – erano appena arrivati. Sulle scale aleggiava un forte profumo di noce moscata, vino di Porto e mandorle; i tappeti delle scale erano stati tolti, e la statua di Venus al primo piano sembrava imbarazzata dalla candela decorativa che teneva nella mano destra, il cui colore contrastava bellamente con le tende nere della dea dell’amore. La domestica (che sembrava molto cordiale e impegnata) accompagnò Dumps in un salotto davanti, arredato con grande cura: c’erano molti piccoli cestini, tovaglioli di carta, orologi di porcellana, album rosa e dorati, nonché libri dai colori dell’arcobaleno disposti sui vari tavoli.

‘Ah, uncle!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, ‘how d’ye do? Allow me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle. I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?’

‘Have had the pleasure,’ returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. ‘I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation, is—’

‘I knew you’d say so, my love,’ said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: ‘Bless you!’ The last two words were accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps’s bile.

‘Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one’s mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby.

‘Now, uncle,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, ‘Who do you think he’s like?’

‘He! he! Yes, who?’ said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying.

‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; ‘remarkably small indeed.’

‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. ‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’

‘He’s a dear,’ said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown.

‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell.

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.

‘I really don’t know who he’s like,’ he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him.

‘Don’t you think he’s like me?’ inquired his nephew with a knowing air.

‘Oh, decidedly not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.’

‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly.

‘Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!’ The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle.

‘Well!’ said the disappointed little father, ‘you’ll be better able to tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.

‘Now, my love,’ said Kitterbell to his wife, ‘it’s time we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?’ inquired the anxious husband.

‘No, sweet,’ returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’s proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject.

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—‘and all that sort of thing’—as little Kitterbell said—‘in less than no time;’ and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party.

Evening came—and so did Dumps’s pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a man apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man, who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’s nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will.

‘There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,’ ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.

“Ah, zio!” disse il signor Kitterbell, “come state? Permettetemi di presentarvi. Jemima, cara mia, mio zio. Credo che abbiate già incontrato Jemima in precedenza, signore.”

“Ho avuto il piacere, ”, rispose Big Dumps, con un tono e uno sguardo che lasciavano dubitare se nella sua vita avesse mai provato davvero quella sensazione.

“Ne sono sicura,” disse la signora Kitterbell con un sorriso languido e un leggero colpo di tosse. “Ne sono sicura, beh, qualsiasi amico di Charles, beh, per non parlare di un parente, è, ”

“Sapevo che avresti detto così, mio amore”, disse il piccolo Kitterbell; sebbene sembrasse fissare le case di fronte, in realtà stava guardando sua moglie con un’espressione estremamente affettuosa. “Che tu sia benedetta!”, aggiunse, accompagnando queste parole da un sorriso e da una stretta di mano che fece ribollire tutta la bile dello zio Dumps.

“Jane, dica alla infermiera di portare giù il bambino,” disse la signora Kitterbell rivolgendosi alla domestica. La signora Kitterbell era una giovane donna alta e snella, con i capelli molto biondi e un viso particolarmente pallido; una di quelle giovani donne che, quasi sempre, anche se non si sa bene il perché, fanno venire in mente l’immagine di una fetta fredda di vitello. La domestica uscì, e subito dopo entrò la infermiera, con un pacchetto molto piccolo tra le braccia, avvolto in un mantello blu bordato di pelliccia bianca. Questo era il bambino.

“Ora, zio,” disse il signor Kitterbell, sollevando quella parte del mantello che copriva il viso del bambino, con un tono di grande trionfo, “a chi pensi che assomigli?”

“Ehi! Ehi! Sì, chi è?” disse la signora K., mettendo il braccio intorno a quello di suo marito e alzando lo sguardo verso il viso di Dumps con un’espressione di interesse tanto grande quanto fosse in grado di mostrare.

“Mio Dio, quanto è piccolo!” esclamò lo zio gentile, facendo finta di essere molto sorpreso; “Davvero straordinariamente piccolo.”

“Pensi davvero?” chiese la povera piccola Kitterbell, piuttosto allarmata.
“Rispetto a prima, è diventato un mostro, vero, infermiera?”

“È un caro bambino,” disse la infermiera, stringendo il >bambino e evitando di rispondere alla domanda: non perché avesse remore a nascondere il fatto, ma perché non poteva permettersi di perdere l’opportunità legata alla mezza corona di Dumps.

“Beh, ma com’è fatto?” chiese la piccola Kitterbell.

Dumps guardò quel piccolo mucchio rosa davanti a sé, e in quel momento pensò solo al modo migliore per umiliare quei giovani genitori.

“Non so davvero chi sia,” rispose, sapendo molto bene quale fosse la risposta che si aspettava da lui.

“Non pensi che sia come me?”, chiese suo nipote con un tono allusivo.

“Oh, assolutamente no!” rispose Dumps, con un tono che non doveva essere frainteso. “Assolutamente no come te. Oh, certamente no.”

“Come Jemima?” chiese Kitterbell, con voce debole.

“Oh, no davvero; per niente affatto. Ovviamente non sono un giudice in queste situazioni; ma penso davvero che assomigli di più a una di quelle piccole sculture intagliate che a volte si vedono su una lapide, raffiguranti qualcuno che soffia nella tromba!” L’infermiera si chinò sul >bambino e con grande difficoltà riuscì a impedire che scoppiasse in una risata. I genitori sembravano quasi altrettanto sconsolati quanto il loro affabile zio.

“Beh!”, disse il piccolo padre deluso, “col tempo riuscirai a capire meglio com’è fatto. Lo vedrai stasera senza il suo mantello.”

“Grazie,” disse Dumps, sentendosi particolarmente grato.

“Ora, mio amore”, disse Kitterbell a sua moglie, “è arrivato il momento di andare. Dobbiamo incontrare l’altro padrino e la madrina in chiesa, zio, il signor e la signora Wilson che vivono dall’altra parte della città, persone davvero gentili. Mio amore, sei ben avvolto?”

‘Sì, caro.’

“Sei sicura che non ne vorrai un altro scialle?”, chiese ansiosamente il marito.

“No, caro,” rispose la affascinante madre, accettando il braccio che Dumps le offriva; e il piccolo gruppo salì nella vettura che li avrebbe portati in chiesa. Durante il viaggio, Dumps intrattenne la signora Kitterbell raccontandole in dettaglio dei pericoli legati al morbillo, alla tigna, alla dentizione e ad altre interessanti malattie a cui sono soggetti i bambini.

La cerimonia (che durò circa cinque minuti) si svolse senza incidenti particolari. Il prete doveva pranzare lontano dalla città e in meno di un’ora dovette celebrare due matrimoni, tre battesimi e un funerale. I padrini e le madrine promisero quindi di rinunciare al diavolo e a tutte le sue opere, “e a tutto quel genere di cose”, disse il piccolo Kitterbell, “in meno di niente tempo”. Ad eccezione del fatto che Dumps per poco fece cadere il bambino nella fontana mentre lo porgeva al prete, l’intera cerimonia si svolse nel solito modo efficiente e ordinato. Alle due in punto, Dumps rientrò nei Bank-gates con il cuore pesante, convinto di essere stato “prenotato” per una serata mondana.

Arrivò la sera, e così arrivarono anche le calzature di Dumps, le calze di seta nera e la cravatta bianca che aveva ordinato fossero inviate a Pentonville per mezzo di un ragazzo. Il “patrigno” depresso si vestì nella casa di un amico, da dove, con lo spirito a cinquanta gradi sotto lo zero, uscì, poiché il tempo si era schiarito e la serata era abbastanza bella, per andare a piedi fino a Great Russell Street. Camminò lentamente lungo Cheapside, Newgate Street, giù per Snow Hill e su per Holborn, con un aspetto cupo quanto quello di una testa di nave da guerra, e ad ogni passo scopriva nuove ragioni di miseria. Mentre attraversava l’angolo di Hatton Garden, un uomo chiaramente ubriaco gli corse addosso e avrebbe potuto farlo cadere, se non fosse stato fortunatamente salvato da un giovane molto distinto che si trovava lì per caso in quel momento. Lo shock sconvolse completamente i nervi di Dumps, così come il suo abbigliamento; a malapena riusciva a stare in piedi. Il gentiluomo gli prese il braccio e, con grande cortesia, lo accompagnò fino a Furnival’s Inn. Per la prima volta nella sua vita, Dumps si sentì grato e educato. E lui e quel giovane dall’aspetto distinto si separarono scambiandosi espressioni di buona volontà reciproca.

“Al mondo ci sono almeno alcuni uomini di buone intenzioni,” rifletteva il misantropo Dumps mentre proseguiva verso la sua destinazione.

Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it; and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match.

‘It’s a large party,’ sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded.

‘How are you?’ said little Kitterbell, in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of sawdust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles.

‘Good God!’ said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on, which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. ‘How many people are there up-stairs?’

‘Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what’s the matter?’ continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. ‘What have you lost? Your pocket-book?’

‘No,’ returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth.

‘Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?’ continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning.

‘No! no!’ ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets.

‘Not—not—the mug you spoke of this morning?’

‘Yes, the mug!’ replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

‘How could you have done it?’ inquired Kitterbell. ‘Are you sure you brought it out?’

‘Yes! yes! I see it all!’ said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; ‘miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see it all: it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!’

‘Mr. Dumps!’ shouted the greengrocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. ‘Mr. Dumps!’—everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk.

‘Happy to see you again,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; ‘you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:—my mamma, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters.’ Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.

‘Uncle,’ said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, ‘you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m sure you’ll like him—this way,’—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear.

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French-horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily.

The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed, and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled.

‘Very warm,’ said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something.

‘Yes. It was warmer yesterday,’ returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A general laugh.

‘I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir,’ he continued, addressing Dumps—‘godfather, I mean.’—The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies.

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.)

‘Oh, you dear!’ said one.

‘How sweet!’ cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration.

‘Heavenly!’ added a third.

‘Oh! what dear little arms!’ said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked.

‘Did you ever!’—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats—‘Did you ever!’

‘Never, in my life,’ returned her admirer, pulling up his collar.

‘Oh! do let me take it, nurse,’ cried another young lady. ‘The love!’

‘Can it open its eyes, nurse?’ inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own.

Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-rat—bussò alla porta di Kitterbell imitando il modo in cui un servitore di gentiluomo avrebbe bussato, proprio nel momento in cui Dumps arrivava lì; poi uscirono una vecchia signora con un grande cappello, un vecchio signore in abito blu, e tre donne che assomigliavano molto alla vecchia signora, vestite di rosa e con scarpe abbinate.

“È una festa molto grande, ”, sospirò il patrigno infelice, asciugandosi il sudore dalla fronte e appoggiandosi alla ringhiera del corridoio. Passò un po’ di tempo prima che quell’uomo sfortunato riuscisse a racimolare il coraggio necessario per bussare alla porta; quando finalmente lo fece, l’elegante aspetto del vicino verduriere (assunto apposta per sette scellini e sei pence, il cui solo valore era il doppio di quella somma), la lampada nel corridoio e la statua di Venere sul pianerottolo, uniti al rumore di molte voci e al suono di arpa e due violini, lo convinsero dolorosamente che le sue supposizioni erano più che fondate.

“Come stai?” disse il piccolo Kitterbell, con più fretta del solito; uscì di corsa dalla piccola stanza sul retro, tenendo in mano un cavatappi e diverse particelle di segatura sparse su di lui, che sembravano tantissimi punti e virgole.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Dumps, entrando nella stanza menzionata per mettersi le scarpe che aveva portato nella tasca del cappotto; rimase ancora più sbalordito nel vedere sette tappi di bottiglia appena aperti e un numero corrispondente di decanter. “Quante persone ci sono al piano di sopra?”

“Oh, non più di trentacinque. Abbiamo fatto rimuovere il tappeto nel salotto posteriore; il pianoforte e i tavoli da gioco sono ora nel salone anteriore. Jemima pensava fosse meglio organizzare le cene formali nel salone anteriore, a causa di tutti quei discorsi e cose del genere. Ma, mio Dio! zio, che cosa è successo?” continuò il piccolo uomo eccitato, mentre Dumps stava in piedi con un solo scarpo addosso, frugando nelle sue tasche con un’espressione di terrore sul viso. “Che cosa hai perso? Il tuo portafoglio?”

“No,” rispose Dumps, infilando prima una mano in una tasca e poi nell’altra, parlando con una voce simile a quella di Desdemona, con il cuscino premuto sulla bocca.

“La tua custodia per carte da visita? La tua scatola da tabacco? La chiave del tuo alloggio?” continuò Kitterbell, ponendo domanda dopo domanda con la velocità del fulmine.

“No! No!” esclamò Dumps, continuando a frugare freneticamente nelle sue tasche vuote.

“Non, non è quella tazza di cui parlavi stamattina?”

“Sì, quel bicchiere!” rispose Dumps, sedendosi su una sedia.

“Come diavolo hai potuto farlo?” chiese Kitterbell. “Sei sicuro di averlo portato con te?”

“Sì! Sì! Ora capisco tutto!” esclamò Dumps, illuminandosi non appena quell’idea gli balenò in mente; “Che cane miserabile sono. Sono nato per soffrire. Ora capisco: è stato quel giovane dall’aspetto gentile, ”

“Signor Dumps!”, gridò il verduriere con voce tonante, mentre accompagnava il padrino, ormai un po’ ripresosi, nel salotto mezz’ora dopo quella dichiarazione. “Signor Dumps!” – tutti guardarono verso la porta, e allora entrò Dumps, che si sentiva altrettanto fuori posto come un salmone su un vialetto di ghiaia.

“È un piacere rivederti,” disse la signora Kitterbell, del tutto ignara della confusione e della sofferenza dell’uomo sfortunato; “devo presentarti alcuni dei nostri amici: mia madre, il signor Dumps, mio padre e le mie sorelle.” Dumps strinse calorosamente la mano della madre come se fosse sua parente, fece un inchino alle giovani signore e a un gentiluomo dietro di lui, senza degnarsi nemmeno di notare il padre, che aveva continuato ad inchinarsi ininterrottamente per tre minuti e mezzo.

“Zio,” disse la piccola Kitterbell, dopo che Dumps era stato presentato a una dozzina di persone selezionate, “devi lasciarmi portarti dall’altra parte della stanza per farti conoscere il mio amico Danton. Che persona meravigliosa! Sono sicura che ti piacerà. Da questa parte,” disse, guidando Dumps con la stessa docilità di un orso addomesticato.

Il signor Danton era un giovane di circa venticinque anni, dotato di una notevole dose di sfrontatezza e di pochissime idee reali; era molto amato, soprattutto dalle giovani donne di età compresa tra i sedici e i ventisei anni. Riusciva a imitare con grande abilità il corno francese, cantava canzoni comiche in modo davvero unico, e aveva il modo più insinuante per dire cose impertinenti alle sue adoranti ammiratrici. In qualche modo era riuscito a conquistare la reputazione di essere un grande umorista; quindi, ogni volta che apriva bocca, tutti coloro che lo conoscevano ridevano molto.

L’introduzione ebbe luogo in due modi diversi. Il signor Danton si inchinò e iniziò a girare in modo molto comico un fazzoletto da donna che teneva in mano; tutti sorrisero.

“Molto caldo,” disse Dumps, sentendo di dover dire qualcosa.

“Sì. Ieri faceva più caldo,” rispose il brillante signor Danton. — Risate generali.

“Mi fa grande piacere congratularvi per la vostra prima apparizione nel ruolo di padre, signore,” continuò, rivolgendosi a Dumps – “intendo dire, padrino”. Le giovani donne erano sconvolte, mentre gli uomini erano in estasi.

Un generale mormorio di ammirazione interruppe la conversazione, segnando l’arrivo della infermiera con il bambino. Le giovani signore si precipitarono immediatamente verso di loro. (Le ragazze amano sempre così tanto i bambini in compagnia.)

“Oh, caro!” disse uno di loro.

“Che dolcezza!” esclamò un altro, con un tono basso pieno di ammirazione entusiasta.

“Divino!”, aggiunse un terzo.

“Oh, che adorabili braccini!” disse una quarta, sollevando un braccio e un pugno delle dimensioni e della forma di una gamba di pollame pulitamente spolpata.

“L’hai mai fatto?” disse una piccola civetta con un gran trambusto, che sembrava una litografia francese, rivolgendosi a un gentiluomo con tre gilet, “L’hai mai fatto?”

“Mai, in tutta la mia vita,” rispose il suo ammiratore, alzandosi il colletto.

“Oh! Lasciate che la prenda, infermiera”, gridò un’altra giovane signora. “È l’amore!”

“Riuscirà ad aprire gli occhi, infermiera?”, chiese un altro, con l’aria della massima innocenza. Basta dire che tutte le signore single lo definirono unanimemente un angelo, e anche quelle sposate concordarono sul fatto che fosse senza dubbio il bambino più adorabile che avessero mai visto, tranne i loro propri.

The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself; several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing ‘We met’—‘I saw her at the Fancy Fair’—and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. ‘The young men,’ as Mrs. Kitterbell said, ‘made themselves very agreeable;’ the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again.

The ‘sit-down supper’ was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates did not come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry, and the greengrocer ran about till he thought his seven and sixpence was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible, for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine was drunk, and everybody talked and laughed considerably.

‘Hush! hush!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. ‘My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mamma, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, ‘will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast.’

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked serious.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ slowly continued the ominous Dumps, ‘I’—(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience).

‘Order! order!’ said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter.

‘Order!’ said the gentlemen.

‘Danton, be quiet,’ said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—‘In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!’—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies. ‘That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. (“Hear, hear!” and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in after times the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child”’—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment, after all.

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour.

I quadrilli ripresero con grande entusiasmo. Si riconobbe universalmente che il signor Danton era al di sopra delle sue normali capacità; diverse giovani dame incantarono l’assemblea cantando canzoni sentimentali e interessanti come “Ci siamo incontrati” e “L’ho vista alla fiera”, guadagnandosi così molti ammiratori. I giovani, come disse la signora Kitterbell, si comportarono in modo molto piacevole; anche le ragazze non persero l’occasione per divertirsi. La serata prometteva di riuscire davvero eccezionale. A Dumps non dispiaceva affatto: aveva infatti ideato un suo piano personale per divertirsi a modo suo, e quasi era felice! Giocò a carte e perse ogni singolo punto. Il signor Danton, invece, sosteneva che non avesse potuto perdere tutti quei punti, perché aveva deciso apposta di farlo. Tutti risero molto. Dumps replicò con una battuta ancora più divertente. Ma nessuno rise, tranne il padrone di casa, che sembrava considerare suo dovere ridere a crepapelle di tutto ciò che accadeva. C’era però un piccolo inconveniente: i musicisti non suonavano con lo stesso entusiasmo desiderato. Tuttavia, la ragione venne spiegata in modo soddisfacente: secondo quanto dichiarato da un gentiluomo arrivato da Gravesend nel pomeriggio, i musicisti avevano trascorso l’intera giornata su una nave a vapore, suonando quasi senza sosta per tutto il tragitto fino a Gravesend e poi di ritorno.

La “cena con i piatti posizionati sul tavolo” fu eccellente: c’erano quattro “templi” fatti di zucchero d’orzo sul tavolo, che sarebbero stati bellissimi se non si fossero sciolti all’inizio della cena; inoltre, c’era anche un “mulino ad acqua”, l’unica sua imperfezione era che invece di girare intorno al tavolo, scorreva sopra la tovaglia. C’erano poi polli, lingua, dolci, insalata di aragoste, manzo in scatola, e tutto il resto. La piccola Kitterbell continuava a chiedere piatti puliti, ma non arrivavano mai; allora gli uomini che ne avevano bisogno dissero che non importava, avrebbero preso quelli di una signora; la signora Kitterbell lodò la loro galanteria, mentre il verduriere correva avanti e indietro, convinto che i suoi sette o sei pence fossero stati guadagnati a fatica. Le giovani donne non mangiavano molto per “paura” che non sembrasse romantico; le signore sposate, invece, mangiavano il più possibile per “paura” di non avere abbastanza. Si bevve moltissimo vino, e tutti parlavano e ridevano molto.

“Zitti! Zitti!” disse il signor Kitterbell, alzandosi e assumendo un’aria molto importante. “Mia amata (si rivolgeva così a sua moglie all’altra estremità del tavolo), prenditi cura della signora Maxwell, di tua madre e delle altre signore sposate; gli uomini, sono sicuro, convinceranno le giovani donne a riempirsi i bicchieri.”

“Signore e signori,” disse il lungo Dumps, con una voce molto cupa e un accento pieno di rimorso, alzandosi dalla sedia come lo fantasma in Don Juan, “avreste la gentilezza di riempire i vostri bicchieri? Desidero proporre un brindisi.”

Seguì un silenzio mortale; i bicchieri furono riempiti, e tutti avevano un’espressione seria.

“Signore e signori,” proseguì lentamente il minaccioso Dumps, “io, ” (a questo punto il signor Danton imitò due note del corno francese, in un tono molto alto, che fece letteralmente sobbalzare l’ansioso presentatore del brindisi e scosse profondamente il pubblico).

“Ordine! Ordine!” disse il piccolo Kitterbell, cercando di trattenere la sua risata.

“Ordine!”, dissero i gentiluomini.

“Danton, stai calmo,” disse un amico particolare seduto dall’altra parte del tavolo.

“Signore e signori,” riprese Dumps, ormai un po’ ripreso e non troppo sconvolto, poiché era sempre stato abbastanza bravo nel tenere discorsi, “secondo quanto credo sia l’uso consolidato in queste occasioni, io, come uno dei padrini del signor Frederick Charles William Kitterbell, (a questo punto la voce dell’oratore vacillò, poiché ricordò quella tazza, ) oserei alzarmi per proporre un brindisi. Non c’è bisogno di dire che si tratta della salute e del benessere di quel giovane gentiluomo, il cui evento particolare nella sua vita giovanile stiamo qui celebrando, (applausi). Signore e signori, è impossibile pensare che i nostri amici, dei quali tutti noi desideriamo sinceramente il bene, possano attraversare la vita senza alcune prove, sofferenze considerevoli, afflizioni gravi e perdite pesanti, ” A questo punto l’infido Dumps tirò fuori lentamente un lungo fazzoletto bianco; diverse signore lo imitarono. “Che queste prove vengano risparmiate loro il più a lungo possibile, è la mia più sincera preghiera, il mio desiderio più fervente, ” (un singhiozzo chiaro provenne dalla nonna). “Spero e confido, signore e signori, che il bambino il cui battesimo stiamo celebrando questa sera non venga strappato dalle braccia dei suoi genitori a causa di una morte prematura, che la sua giovane e apparentemente sana corporatura non venga distrutta da malattie persistenti, ” (a questo punto Dumps lanciò uno sguardo sarcastico intorno a sé, poiché tra le signore sposate si era diffusa grande emozione). “Sono sicuro che tutti voi concorderete con me nel desiderare che viva per essere una consolazione e una benedizione per i suoi genitori, ” (“Ascoltate!” e un singhiozzo udibile provenne dal signor Kitterbell.) “Ma se non dovesse essere ciò che potremmo desiderare, se in futuro dimenticasse il dovere che ha verso di loro, se loro dovessero sperimentare quella terribile realtà: ‘quanto più tagliente di un dente di serpente è avere un figlio ingrato’, ” A questo punto la signora Kitterbell, con il fazzoletto sugli occhi e accompagnata da alcune altre signore, corse fuori dalla stanza e scoppiò in una crisi isterica nel corridoio, lasciando il suo compagno in uno stato quasi altrettanto grave. Il tutto contribuì a rafforzare la reputazione di Dumps presso gli astanti; dopotutto, alla gente piacciono queste cose.

Non occorre certo aggiungere che questo episodio pose fine definitivamente all’armonia della serata. Aceto, cardo in polvere e acqua fredda divennero ora altrettanto richiesti quanto poco tempo prima lo erano stati il negus, i dolci di farina e i bon-bons. La signora Kitterbell fu immediatamente portata nel suo appartamento, i musicisti furono fatti tacere, le schermaglie cessarono e la compagnia se ne andò lentamente. Dumps lasciò la casa all’inizio del trambusto e tornò a casa a passi leggeri, con il cuore sereno. La sua padrona di casa, che dormiva nella stanza accanto, giurò di averlo sentito ridere, nel suo modo caratteristico, dopo che aveva chiuso la porta. Tuttavia, questa affermazione è così improbabile e presenta evidenti segni di falsità, che fino ad oggi non ha mai trovato credibilità.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter; and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions. He must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with ‘the most miserable man in the world.’

CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH

We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he ‘knows by sight,’ to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, with a respectable tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?—or cannot any of our readers call to mind from among the list of their quondam acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the pavement in hungry misery—from whom every one turns coldly away, and who preserves himself from sheer starvation, nobody knows how? Alas! such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man’s experience; and but too often arise from one cause—drunkenness—that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and station; and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death.

Some of these men have been impelled, by misfortune and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But by far the greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless.

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled loud bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An elderly woman, with her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman—her daughter—on her arm. But it was not towards her that the was face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped; they pressed the husband’s arm; the eyes so soon to be closed in death rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and death.

A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around, and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantel-shelf; its low ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit.

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights—such nights as only watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart—the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years—poured forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the wanderings of dying men; tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who stood by the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds the very name of which has driven the boldest man away.

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed-side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and moaning alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother’s grasp relaxed, and, turning one look from the children to the father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leant over her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. That heart was broken, and she was dead!

La famiglia del signor Kitterbell è aumentata considerevolmente da quando ne abbiamo parlato; ora ha due figli e una figlia; e poiché si aspetta che, a breve, arrivi un altro membro nella sua numerosa prole, desidera assicurarsi un padrino idoneo per l’occasione. Tuttavia, è deciso ad imporre due condizioni: tale padrino deve impegnarsi solennemente a non tenere alcun discorso dopo cena; inoltre, è indispensabile che non abbia alcuna connessione con “l’uomo più sfortunato del mondo”.

CAPITOLO XII – LA MORTE DEL BEVUTO

Oseremmo dire che quasi nessun uomo, abituato a camminare giorno dopo giorno per le affollate strade di Londra, non riesce a ricordare, tra le persone che “conosce di vista”, alcune di aspetto miserabile e degradato, che un tempo aveva visto in condizioni molto migliori; persone il cui stato peggiorava gradualmente, fino a quando la loro povertà e miseria diventavano evidenti a chiunque le incontrasse. Esiste forse qualcuno che, avendo frequentato spesso la società o dovuto interagire con molte persone, non ricordi casi del genere: individui in stracci, malati e poverissimi, che ora si muovono nella sporcizia della povertà, mentre un tempo erano rispettabili commercianti, impiegati o persone con buone prospettive future? O forse alcuni dei nostri lettori ricordano qualche ex conoscente caduto in rovina, che ora vive nella miseria più estrema, ignorato da tutti. Ahimè! Questi casi sono troppo frequenti per essere considerati eccezioni; spesso derivano da una sola causa: l’alcolismo. Quella furia cieca verso un veleno lento ma sicuro che getta via moglie, figli, amici, felicità e dignità, portando le sue vittime verso la rovina e la morte.

Alcuni di questi uomini sono stati spinti, a causa della sfortuna e della miseria, verso vizi che li hanno degradati. La rovina delle loro aspettative mondane, la morte di coloro che amavano, il dolore che lentamente li consuma ma non spezza il loro cuore, li hanno resi folli; e ora offrono lo spettacolo orribile di individui pazzi che muoiono lentamente per mano propria. Ma la stragrande maggioranza di loro è invece caduta volontariamente, con piena consapevolezza, in quell’abisso dal quale chi una volta vi entra non risale mai più, ma continua ad affondare sempre di più, fino a quando ogni speranza di salvezza svanisce.

Un uomo del genere si trovava un tempo al capezzale di sua moglie morente; i suoi figli erano inginocchiati intorno a lei, mescolando grida di dolore alle loro preghiere innocenti. La stanza era arredata in modo semplice e scarno; bastava uno sguardo al volto pallido dalla cui vita stava rapidamente svanendo per capire che dolore, povertà e ansiosa premura avevano afflitto quel cuore per molti anni. Una donna anziana, con il viso bagnato di lacrime, sosteneva la testa della donna morente – sua figlia – sul proprio braccio. Ma non era a lei che era rivolto il suo sguardo; non era la sua mano che le dita fredde e tremanti stringevano. Le sue mani si appoggiavano al braccio del marito; gli occhi, che presto avrebbero chiuso per l’morte, erano fissi sul suo volto. L’uomo tremava sotto quello sguardo. Il suo abito era trasandato e disordinato; il viso arrossato, gli occhi rossi e gonfi. Era stato trascinato via da qualche orribile baldoria fino al letto del dolore e della morte.

Una lampada con paralume, posizionata accanto al letto, proiettava una luce fioca sulle figure presenti nella stanza; il resto dell’ambiente era avvolto in fitte ombre scure. Il silenzio della notte regnava sovrano; non si udiva alcun suono all’interno della camera. Solo il lieve ticchettio di un orologio rompeva quella profonda quiete, ma era un suono solenne: coloro che lo ascoltavano sapevano bene che, prima ancora che scandisse l’passaggio di un’altra ora, avrebbe segnato la fine di un’anima che se n’era andata.

È una cosa terribile aspettare e osservare l’avvicinarsi della morte; sapere che la >speranza è svanita e che una guarigione è impossibile; sedersi e contare le ore noiose attraverso lunghe, interminabili notti – notti come solo coloro che vegliano accanto al letto di un malato possono conoscere. Fa rabbrividire il >sangue ascoltare i più cari _segreti del cuore, i segreti repressi e nascosti per molti anni, rivelati da una persona inconsapevole e indifesa; e pensare a quanto poco possano servire la prudenza e l’astuzia di un’intera vita quando febbre e delirio strappano finalmente via quella maschera. Sono state raccontate storie strane durante i momenti finali della vita di molte persone; storie piene di colpa e crimine, al punto che coloro che stavano accanto al malato sono fuggiti inorriditi, temendo di impazzire per ciò che avevano sentito e visto; e molti infelici sono morti da soli, delirando su atti il cui solo nome avrebbe spaventato anche l’uomo più coraggioso.

Ma nessun simile pianto si udiva accanto al letto dove i bambini erano in ginocchio. Solo i loro singhiozzi soffocati e i loro lamenti rompevano il silenzio di quella stanza desolata. E quando finalmente la stretta della madre si allentò, e lei, lanciando uno sguardo dai bambini al padre, cercò invano di parlare, poi cadde all’indietro sul cuscino. Tutto era così calmo e tranquillo che sembrava fosse addormentata. I bambini si chinarono su di lei; la chiamarono per nome, dapprima dolcemente, poi con voci alte e disperate. Ma non ci fu alcuna risposta. Ascoltarono il suo respiro, ma non sentirono nulla; cercarono di percepire i battiti del suo cuore, ma non vi fu alcun segno di vita. Quel cuore era spezzato. Lei era morta!

The husband sunk into a chair by the bed-side, and clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow or console the widower.

The time had been when many a friend would have crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heartfelt condolence would have met him in his grief. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relations, the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty, and how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the tavern to her bed-side in time to see her die.

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupefied with drink, and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death! Every one must die, and why not she? She was too good for him; her relations had often told him so. Curses on them! Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home? Well—she was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass—one more! Hurrah! It was a merry life while it lasted; and he would make the most of it.

Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were children no longer. The father remained the same—poorer, shabbier, and more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him; the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old course, and a merry life he led.

One night, as early as ten o’clock—for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public-house—he bent his steps homeward, bethinking himself that if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl alive, if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would let him.

At the back of Fleet-street, and lying between it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars: it was to one of these that he directed his steps.

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from every room.

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out, either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley—all the sluggish odours of which had been called forth by the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the destruction of the whole place.

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness, sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers; and he proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the attic story.

He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously out.

‘Is that you, father?’ said the girl.

‘Who else should it be?’ replied the man gruffly. ‘What are you trembling at? It’s little enough that I’ve had to drink to-day, for there’s no drink without money, and no money without work. What the devil’s the matter with the girl?’

‘I am not well, father—not at all well,’ said the girl, bursting into tears.

‘Ah!’ replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he could. ‘You must get better somehow, for we must have money. You must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine. They’re paid for it, damn ’em. What are you standing before the door for? Let me come in, can’t you?’

‘Father,’ whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing herself before it, ‘William has come back.’

Il marito si lasciò cadere su una sedia accanto al letto e si prese il viso in fiamme tra le mani. Guardava da un >bambino all’altro, ma quando i loro occhi pieni di lacrime incrociavano i suoi, lui tremava sotto quegli sguardi. Nessuna parola di conforto gli veniva sussurrata all’orecchio, nessun gesto di gentilezza appariva sul suo volto. Tutti lo evitavano; e quando finalmente uscì dalla stanza, nessuno cercò di seguirlo o consolarlo.

In quel momento, molti amici avrebbero dovuto circondarlo nel suo dolore, e molte sincere condoglianze sarebbero dovute raggiungerlo nella sua tristezza. Dove erano ora? Uno dopo l’altro, amici, parenti, persino le persone più comuni che lo conoscevano, lo avevano abbandonato. Solo sua moglie gli era rimasta accanto, nei momenti buoni e in quelli cattivi, nella malattia e nella povertà. E come l’aveva ricambiata? Era uscito dalla taverna per correre al suo capezzale proprio nel momento in cui stava morendo.

Uscì di corsa dalla >casa e percorse rapidamente le strade. Rimorso, >paura, vergogna, tutto si affollava nella sua mente. Intontito dall’alcol, confuso da ciò che aveva appena visto, rientrò nel taverna che poco prima aveva lasciato. Un bicchiere dopo l’altro. Il suo >sangue iniziò a ribollire; la testa gli girava vorticosamente. Morte! Tutti devono morire. E perché non anche lei? Era troppo buona per lui; le sue parenti glielo ripetevano spesso. Maledetti loro! Non l’avevano forse abbandonata, lasciandola a passare il tempo da sola a casa? Beh, ora era morta, e forse felice. Era meglio così. Un altro bicchiere, ancora uno! Evviva! La vita era stata divertente finché era durata. E lui ne avrebbe approfittato al massimo.

Il tempo passava; i tre bambini che gli erano rimasti crescevano e non erano più bambini. Il padre restava lo stesso: più povero, più trasandato e dall’aspetto ancora più dissoluto, ma sempre lo stesso ubriacone irrimediabile. I ragazzi, da tempo, se n’erano andati a vagabondare per le strade, lasciandolo solo; la ragazza, sola, continuava a lavorare sodo, e con parole o botte riusciva sempre a procurargli qualcosa da bere al tavernaio. Così lui proseguiva nella sua vecchia vita, conducendo una esistenza spensierata.

Una notte, già alle dieci in punto – poiché la ragazza era malata da molti giorni e quindi non c’era molto denaro da spendere al ristorante pubblico – egli prese la strada di casa, pensando che se solo lei avesse potuto guadagnare qualcosa, sarebbe stato altrettanto utile rivolgersi al chirurgo del paese o, comunque, prendersi la briga di scoprire quale fosse la sua malattia, cosa che fino ad allora non aveva ritenuto necessario fare. Era una notte di dicembre fredda e piovosa; il >vento soffiava gelido e la pioggia cadeva a catene. Chiese qualche mezzo penny a un passante e, dopo aver comprato un piccolo pane (poiché era nel suo interesse che la ragazza rimanesse in vita, se possibile), proseguì il cammino il più velocemente possibile, nonostante il vento e la pioggia.

Nella parte posteriore di Fleet-street, situati tra essa e la riva del fiume, ci sono alcuni cortili piccoli e stretti che fanno parte di Whitefriars; fu verso uno di questi che dirizzò i suoi passi.

Il vicolo in cui svoltò, per la sua sporcizia e miseria, avrebbe potuto competere con l’angolo più oscuro di questo antico santuario nei suoi momenti più sporchi e più disordinati. Le case, alte da due a quattro piani, erano macchiate di ogni colore indescrivibile che una lunga esposizione al tempo, all’umidità e alla decomposizione possa conferire agli edifici costruiti con i materiali più grezzi e scadenti. Le finestre erano riparate con carta e riempite di stracci luridi; le porte stavano per crollare dai cardini; da ogni finestra spuntavano stecche su cui stendere i panni, e da ogni stanza provenivano rumori di litigi o ubriachezze.

La solitaria lampada ad olio al centro del cortile era stata spenta, forse a causa della violenza del >vento o per l’azione di qualche abitante che aveva ottime ragioni per non voler che la sua residenza diventasse troppo evidente; l’unica luce che illuminava il selciato rotto e irregolare proveniva dalle misere candele che, qua e là, tremolavano nelle stanze di quegli abitanti più fortunati che potevano permettersi un lusso così costoso. Un canale di scolo correva lungo il centro del vicolo; tutti gli odori stagnanti erano stati risvegliati dalla pioggia; e mentre il >vento soffiava attraverso le vecchie case, porte e persiane cigolavano sui loro cardini, e le finestre tremavano nei loro telai con tale violenza da sembrare che in ogni momento potesse distruggere l’intero luogo.

L’uomo che abbiamo seguito in questo covo camminava nell’oscurità, a volte inciampando nel canale principale di scolo, altre volte in alcuni raccoglitori di rifiuti formatisi a causa della pioggia, fino a quando non raggiunse l’ultima casa del vicinato. La porta, o meglio ciò che ne rimaneva, era socchiusa, per comodità dei numerosi inquilini; e lui proseguì a tentoni su per la vecchia e rotta scala, fino al piano soffitto.

Era a un passo o due dalla porta della sua stanza, quando questa si aprì e una ragazza, il cui aspetto misero ed emaciato poteva essere paragonato soltanto a quello di una candela che lei stessa nascondeva con la mano, sbirciò fuori ansiosamente.

“Sei tu, padre?”, disse la ragazza.

“Chi altro potrebbe essere?” rispose l’uomo in tono brusco. “Di cosa hai paura? È già abbastanza difficile dover bere oggi. Non si può bere senza soldi, e non ci sono soldi senza lavoro. Che diavolo c’è che non va con quella ragazza?”

“Non sto bene, padre, affatto,” disse la ragazza, scoppiando in lacrime.

“Ah!”, rispose l’uomo, con il tono di chi è costretto ad ammettere un fatto molto sgradevole, di fronte al quale preferirebbe rimanere cieco, se possibile. “Devi guarire in qualche modo, perché abbiamo bisogno di soldi. Devi andare dal medico parrocchiale e fargli prescrivere delle medicine. Per questo vengono pagati, maledetti. Perché stai lì fermo davanti alla porta? Lasciami entrare, per favore.”

“Padre,” sussurrò la ragazza, chiudendo la porta dietro di sé e piazzandosi davanti ad essa, “William è tornato.”

‘Who!’ said the man with a start.

‘Hush,’ replied the girl, ‘William; brother William.’

‘And what does he want?’ said the man, with an effort at composure—‘money? meat? drink? He’s come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the candle—give me the candle, fool—I ain’t going to hurt him.’ He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the room.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered.

‘Fasten the door, Mary,’ said the young man hastily—‘Fasten the door. You look as if you didn’t know me, father. It’s long enough, since you drove me from home; you may well forget me.’

‘And what do you want here, now?’ said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fireplace. ‘What do you want here, now?’

‘Shelter,’ replied the son. ‘I’m in trouble: that’s enough. If I’m caught I shall swing; that’s certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop here; that’s as certain. And there’s an end of it.’

‘You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, then?’ said the father.

‘Yes, I do,’ replied the son. ‘Does it surprise you, father?’ He looked steadily in the man’s face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground.

‘Where’s your brothers?’ he said, after a long pause.

‘Where they’ll never trouble you,’ replied his son: ‘John’s gone to America, and Henry’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not express.

‘Dead,’ replied the young man. ‘He died in my arms—shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for pardon for her youngest son. “I was her favourite boy, Will,” he said, “and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done anything to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will, why was she taken away, and father left?” There’s his dying words, father,’ said the young man; ‘make the best you can of ’em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the morning we ran away; and here’s the end of it.’

The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro.

‘If I am taken,’ said the young man, ‘I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man’s murder. They cannot trace me here, without your assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up to justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to escape abroad.’

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and as the girl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall.

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public-house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered once more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, were on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he entered the public-house, they followed him.

‘You’ll drink with me, master,’ said one of them, proffering him a glass of liquor.

‘And me too,’ said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents.

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger. But they were nothing to the drunkard. He did drink; and his reason left him.

‘A wet night, Warden,’ whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his daughter’s life depended.

‘The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,’ whispered the other.

‘Sit down here,’ said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. ‘We have been looking arter the young un. We came to tell him, it’s all right now, but we couldn’t find him ’cause we hadn’t got the precise direction. But that ain’t strange, for I don’t think he know’d it himself, when he come to London, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ replied the father.

The two men exchanged glances.

‘There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it’s high water,’ resumed the first speaker, ‘and we’ll put him on board. His passage is taken in another name, and what’s better than that, it’s paid for. It’s lucky we met you.’

‘Very,’ said the second.

‘Capital luck,’ said the first, with a wink to his companion.

‘Great,’ replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence.

‘Another glass here; quick’—said the first speaker. And in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the hangman’s hands.

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair; it approached nearer; it reached the landing; and the father staggered into the room.

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed.

“Chi!” esclamò l’uomo, sobbalzando.

“Zitta,” rispose la ragazza, “William, fratello William.”

“E cosa vuole?” disse l’uomo, cercando di mantenere la calma. “Denaro? Cibo? Bevande? Se è per queste cose, è venuto nel negozio sbagliato. Dammi la candela. Dammi la candela, idiota. Non gli farò del male.” Strappò la candela dalle sue mani e entrò nella stanza.

Seduto su una vecchia scatola, con la testa appoggiata sulla mano e lo sguardo fisso su un misero mucchio di cenere che ancora fumigava nel camino, c’era un giovane di circa vent’anni, vestito in modo miserabile con una vecchia giacca e dei pantaloni ruvidi. Si alzò quando suo padre entrò.

“Chiudi la porta, Mary,” disse il giovane in fretta. “Chiudi la porta. Sembri non riconoscermi, padre. È passato abbastanza tempo da quando mi hai cacciato dalla >casa; puoi benissimo avermi dimenticato.”

“E cosa vuoi qui adesso?” disse il padre, sedendosi su uno sgabello dall’altra parte del caminetto. “Cosa vuoi qui adesso?”

“Scudo,” rispose il figlio. “Sono nei guai: basta così. Se vengo catturato, verrò impiccato; è certo. Sarò catturato, a meno che non mi fermi qui; è altrettanto certo. E poi sarà la fine.”

“Quindi vuoi dire che hai commesso furti o omicidi?” disse il padre.

“Sì, lo faccio,” rispose il figlio. “Ti sorprende, padre?” Guardò fisso negli occhi dell’uomo, ma poi distolse lo sguardo e lo abbassò a terra.

“Dove sono i tuoi fratelli?” chiese, dopo un lungo silenzio.

“Lì non ti daranno mai fastidio,” rispose suo figlio: “John è andato in America, e Henry è morto.”

“Morto!”, disse il padre, con un brivido che nemmeno lui riuscì a esprimere completamente.

“Morto,” rispose il giovane. “È morto tra le mie braccia, ucciso come un cane da un cacciatore. Barcollò all’indietro, lo afferrai e il suo sangue iniziò a colare sulle mie mani, sgorgava fuori dal suo fianco come acqua. Era debole, e quella vista lo accecò. Ma si gettò in ginocchio sull’erba e pregò Dio: se sua madre era in cielo, che ascoltasse le sue preghiere per il perdono del suo figlio minore. ‘Ero il suo bambino preferito, Will,’ disse, ‘E sono felice di pensare che, quando stava morendo, anche se allora ero solo un piccolo bambino e il mio cuore quasi scoppiava dal dolore, mi inginocchiai ai piedi del letto e ringraziai Dio per avermi fatto amarla così tanto da non aver mai fatto nulla che potesse farle versare le lacrime. Oh, Will, perché è stata portata via, e nostro padre è rimasto solo?’ Queste sono le sue ultime parole, padre. Usatene al meglio. Quella mattina in cui ci siamo fuggiti, l’avete colpito in faccia, in un attacco di ubriachezza. E questo è stato il suo finale.”

La ragazza pianse ad alta voce; il padre, con la testa tra le ginocchia, si dondolava avanti e indietro.

“Se mi cattureranno,” disse il giovane, “mi riporteranno nel mio paese e mi impiccheranno per l’omicidio di quell’uomo. Senza il vostro aiuto, padre, non possono trovarmi qui. Per quel che ne so, potreste consegnarmi alla giustizia; ma se non lo farete, resterò qui fino a quando non riuscirò a fuggire all’estero.”

Per due interi giorni, i tre rimasero in quella stanza misera, senza muoversi da lì. Tuttavia, la terza sera, la ragazza stava ancora peggio di prima e gli scarsi resti di cibo che avevano erano finiti. Era assolutamente necessario che qualcuno uscisse; poiché la ragazza era troppo debole e malata, fu il padre ad andare, proprio al calar della notte.

Acquistò del medicinale per la ragazza e anche una piccola somma di denaro come aiuto finanziario. Lungo il cammino di ritorno, guadagnò sei pence tenendo un cavallo; così tornò a casa con abbastanza soldi da soddisfare le loro esigenze più urgenti per due o tre giorni. Doveva passare davanti al bordello. Si soffermò per un attimo, poi proseguì, si fermò di nuovo e infine vi entrò. C’erano due uomini che non aveva notato; stavano per arrendersi nella loro ricerca, quando il suo comportamento sospetto attirò la loro attenzione; e quando entrò nel bordello, lo seguirono.

“Beverete con me, padrone,” disse uno di loro, porgendogli un bicchiere di alcol.

“Anch’io,” disse l’altro, riempiendo il bicchiere non appena questo si era svuotato del suo contenuto.

L’uomo pensava ai suoi figli affamati e al pericolo in cui si trovava suo figlio. Ma per quell’ubriaco, tutto ciò non contava nulla. Continuò a bere, e la sua ragione lo abbandonò del tutto.

“In una notte umida, Warden,” sussurrò uno degli uomini all’orecchio di lui, mentre finalmente si girava per andarsene, dopo aver speso metà del denaro che forse era l’unica cosa in grado di salvare la vita di sua figlia in alcol.

“Una notte perfetta per i nostri amici nascosti, Capo Guardiano,” sussurrò l’altro.

“Siediti qui,” disse colui che aveva parlato per primo, trascinandolo in un angolo. “Abbiamo cercato quel ragazzo per tutto questo tempo. Siamo venuti a dirgli che ora va tutto bene, ma non riuscivamo a trovarlo perché non conoscevamo l’indirizzo esatto. Ma non c’è da meravigliarsi: penso che nemmeno lui lo sapesse, quando è arrivato a Londra, vero?”

“No, non l’ha fatto,” rispose il padre.

I due uomini si scambiarono uno sguardo.

“C’è una nave al molo, pronta a salpare a mezzanotte, quando l’acqua sarà alta,” continuò il primo interlocutore, “e lo faremo salire a bordo. Il suo nome utilizzato per il viaggio è falso, e cosa ancora migliore, il pagamento è già stato effettuato. È stata davvero una fortuna incontrarti.”

“Molto bene,” disse il secondo.

“Una fortuna incredibile,” disse il primo, facendo l’occhiolino al suo compagno.

“Fantastico,” rispose il secondo, annuendo leggermente in segno di comprensione.

“Un altro bicchiere, presto” – disse il primo interlocutore. E in altri cinque minuti, il padre aveva inconsapevolmente consegnato suo figlio nelle mani del boia.

Lentamente e pesantemente il tempo trascorreva; i fratello e la sorella, nel loro misero nascondiglio, ascoltavano con ansia ogni minimo rumore. Alla fine si udirono dei passi pesanti sulle scale; si avvicinarono sempre di più, raggiunsero il pianerottolo, e il padre barcollò entrando nella stanza.

La ragazza vide che era ubriaco e si avvicinò a lui tenendo una candela in mano; poi si fermò di colpo, gridò forte e cadde svenuta a terra. Aveva visto l’ombra di un uomo riflessa sul pavimento. Entrambi corsero dentro, e in un attimo il giovane fu catturato e ammanettato.

‘Very quietly done,’ said one of the men to his companion, ‘thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come, it’s no use crying, young woman. It’s all over now, and can’t be helped.’

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity.

‘Listen to me, father,’ he said, in a tone that made the drunkard’s flesh creep. ‘My brother’s blood, and mine, is on your head: I never had kind look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, I never will forgive you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.’ He raised his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave.

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattress on the floor was undisturbed; everything was just as he remembered to have seen it last: and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He rambled through the streets, and scrutinised each wretched face among the crowds that thronged them, with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, and he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate and weary.

For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her!

He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was spent in the old way. A year passed over his head; the roof of a jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under archways, and in brickfields—anywhere, where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb.

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful home—and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again.

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food—they were before him: he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them—and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was coming upon him by inches—and that there were none to care for or help him.

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark! A groan!—another! His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him.

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water’s level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the river.

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water’s surface—but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life—life in any form, poverty, misery, starvation—anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore—but one foot of dry ground—he could almost touch the step. One hand’s breadth nearer, and he was saved—but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant—for one brief instant—the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible—once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar.

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognised and unpitied, it was borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away!

“Fatto molto in silenzio,” disse uno degli uomini al suo compagno, “grazie a quell’uomo anziano. Alza la ragazza, Tom. Su, non serve piangere, giovane donna; ormai è finita e non si può più fare nulla.”

Il giovane si chinò per un istante sulla ragazza, poi si girò bruscamente verso suo padre, che era caduto contro il muro e stava fissando il gruppo con uno sguardo stupido e ubriaco.

“Ascoltami, padre,” disse lui, con un tono che fece rabbrividire il ubriaco. “Il sangue di mio fratello e il mio è sulla tua testa: tu non mi hai mai dato né un gesto gentile, né una parola dolce, né alcuna cura; né vivo né morto ti perdonerò mai. Muori quando vuoi, come vuoi, io sarò sempre con te. Ora parlo come un uomo morto, e ti avverto: proprio come un giorno dovrai presentarti davanti al tuo Creatore, così anche i tuoi figli saranno lì, mano nella mano, a chiedere giustizia contro di te.” Alzò le mani incatenate in un gesto minaccioso, fissò il genitore che si ritraeva impaurito e uscì lentamente dalla stanza. Nessuno dei due lo rivide mai più, da questo lato della >tomba.

Quando la debole e nebbiosa luce di una mattina invernale penetrò nella stretta >corte e si fece strada attraverso la sporca finestra di quella misera stanza, il custode si svegliò dal suo profondo >sogno e si trovò solo. Si alzò e guardò intorno: il vecchio materasso sul pavimento era intatto; tutto era esattamente come se lo ricordava di aver visto la notte precedente. Non c’erano tracce di nessuno, oltre a lui, che avesse occupato quella stanza durante la notte. Chiese in giro agli altri inquilini e ai vicini, ma sua figlia non era stata vista né sentita da nessuno. Percorse le strade, scrutando con occhi ansiosi ogni volto tra la folla. Ma la sua ricerca fu vana; tornò nella sua soffitta quando calò la notte, desolato e stanco.

Per molti giorni continuò a comportarsi allo stesso modo, ma non trovò traccia di sua figlia e nessuna notizia su di lei gli giunse alle orecchie. Alla fine, ritenne che la ricerca fosse senza speranza. Da tempo aveva preso in considerazione la possibilità che lei lo avesse lasciato per cercare di guadagnarsi da vivere in pace altrove. Alla fine, l’aveva abbandonato a morire di fame da solo. Strinse i denti e la maledisse!

Chiedeva l’elemosina di porta in porta. Ogni mezzo penny che riusciva a ottenere dalla pietà o dalla credulità delle persone a cui si rivolgeva veniva speso nello stesso vecchio modo. Un anno passò; per molti mesi, l’unica protezione che gli offrì fu il tetto di una prigione. Dormiva sotto archi e in campi di mattoni, ovunque ci fosse un po’ di calore o riparo dal freddo e dalla pioggia. Ma nella fase più acuta della povertà, della malattia e dell’assoluta miseria, continuava a essere un ubriaco.

Finalmente, una terribile notte, si accasciò sul gradino di una porta, svenuto e malato.
La prematura degradazione dovuta al vizio e alla dissolutezza lo aveva consumato fino alle ossa.
Le sue guance erano scavate e pallide; i suoi occhi erano infossati e la sua vista offuscata.
Le gambe tremavano sotto il suo peso, e un brivido freddo gli percorreva ogni membro.

E ora le scene a lungo dimenticate di una vita sprecata gli si affollarono intorno, dense e rapide. Ricordò il tempo in cui aveva una casa – una casa felice, allegra – e coloro che vi abitavano, che allora erano sempre intorno a lui. Finché le figure dei suoi figli maggiori sembrarono risorgere dalla tomba e materializzarsi intorno a lui: così chiare, così nette, da poterle toccare e sentire. Espressioni che aveva dimenticato da tempo lo fissavano di nuovo; voci ormai silenziate nella )morte risuonavano nelle sue orecchie come la musica delle campane di un villaggio. Ma fu solo per un istante. La pioggia batteva forte su di lui; il freddo e la fame tornarono a tormentargli il cuore.

Si alzò in piedi, e trascinando le sue deboli membra per pochi passi ancora, si trovò in una strada silenziosa e deserta. I pochi passanti che transitavano a quell’ora tarda proseguivano rapidamente il loro cammino, e la sua voce tremante si perdeva nel fragore della tempesta. Di nuovo quel freddo intenso lo invase tutto; il suo >sangue sembrava essersi fermato nel suo flusso. Si rannicchiò in un angolo di porta e cercò di )dormire.

Ma il sonno era fuggito dai suoi occhi spenti e vitrei. La sua mente vagava in modo strano, ma lui era sveglio e cosciente. Il ben noto clamore della baldoria dei ubriachi risuonava nelle sue orecchie; il bicchiere era alle sue labbra, il tavolo era coperto di cibi deliziosi. Erano tutti lì davanti a lui: poteva vederli tutti, bastava che allungasse la mano per prenderli. Eppure, anche se quell’illusione sembrava realtà stessa, sapeva di essere seduto da solo in quella strada deserta, a osservare le gocce di pioggia che cadevano sulle pietre; sapeva che la morte gli stava avvicinando lentamente, e che non c’era nessuno che si curasse di lui o potesse aiutarlo.

All’improvviso iniziò a muoversi, preso da un terrore estremo. Aveva sentito la propria voce gridare nell’aria notturna; non sapeva cosa o perché stesse dicendo. Ascolta! Un gemito, un altro ancora! I suoi sensi stavano abbandonandolo: parole incoerenti e incompiute gli uscivano dalle labbra, mentre le sue mani cercavano di strapparsi la pelle. Stava impazzendo, gridava per chiedere aiuto fino a quando la voce non gli venne meno.

Alzò lo sguardo e osservò quella lunga e desolata strada. Ricordò che persone emarginate come lui, condannate a vagabondare giorno e notte per quelle terribili strade, a volte perdevano la ragione a causa della propria solitudine. Si ricordava anche di aver sentito, molti anni prima, che un senzatetto era stato trovato in un angolo solitario mentre affilava un coltello arrugginito, pronto a pugnalarsi il cuore pur di sfuggire a quella vita interminabile e faticosa. In un istante prese la sua decisione: i suoi muscoli si rinvigorirono, e corse via senza fermarsi fino a raggiungere le rive del fiume.

Si insinuò silenziosamente lungo le ripide scale di pietra che portavano dal punto di inizio del Ponte di Waterloo fino al livello dell’acqua. Si accovacciò in un angolo e trattenne il respiro mentre la pattuglia passava. Mai il cuore di un prigioniero aveva battuto con tanta speranza nella libertà e nella vita, quanto quello di quell’uomo sventurato alla prospettiva della morte. La guardia gli passò vicino, ma non lo notò; e dopo aver atteso che il rumore dei passi si allontanasse in lontananza, scese con cautela e si fermò sotto l’oscura arcata che funge da punto di sbarco dal >fiume.

La marea era alta e l’acqua scorreva ai suoi piedi. La pioggia si era fermata, il >vento taceva; tutto intorno era, per il momento, immobile e silenzioso, così silenzioso che anche il minimo suono dall’altra riva, persino il fruscio dell’acqua contro le barche ancorate lì, risuonava chiaramente alle sue orecchie. Il corso d’acqua scorreva lentamente e pigramente. Strane e fantastiche forme emergevano in superficie, invitandolo ad avvicinarsi; occhi scuri e luminosi lo fissavano dall’acqua, sembrando deridere la sua esitazione, mentre voci sommesse provenienti dal dietro lo spingevano ad andare avanti. Si ritirò per qualche passo, poi corse velocemente e si tuffò nell’>fiume.

Non erano passati nemmeno cinque secondi quando emerse in superficie. Ma che cambiamento era avvenuto in quel breve lasso di tempo, in tutti i suoi pensieri e sentimenti! La vita, la vita in qualsiasi forma: povertà, miseria, fame, qualsiasi cosa tranne la morte. Lottò disperatamente contro le acque che lo sommergevano, gridando per il terrore. La maledizione di suo stesso figlio risuonava nelle sue orecchie. La riva, a soli pochi passi di distanza. Se solo fosse riuscito ad afferrarsi a qualcosa. Un braccio di distanza in meno, e sarebbe stato salvo. Ma la corrente lo trascinò via, sotto gli archi scuri del ponte. E scomparve nel fondo.

Di nuovo emerse in superficie, lottando per la vita. Per un istante – solo un breve istante – gli edifici sulle rive del fiume, le luci sul ponte attraverso cui il corso d’acqua lo aveva trascinato, l’oscura acqua e le nuvole che volavano velocemente divennero chiaramente visibili. Poi scomparve di nuovo sotto la superficie, per riemergere ancora una volta. Luci intense di fuoco si alzarono dalla terra verso il cielo, danzando davanti ai suoi occhi; l’acqua tuonava nelle sue orecchie con un ruggito furioso, stordendolo con il suo fragore assordante.

Una settimana dopo, il corpo fu ritrovato sulla riva del fiume, a qualche chilometro di distanza; era un ammasso gonfio e deformato. Inidentificabile e senza alcuna pietà, fu portato alla >tomba. E lì è rimasto, ormai da molto tempo in decomposizione!

SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

TO THE YOUNG LADIES of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; also THE YOUNG LADIES of the principality of wales, and likewise THE YOUNG LADIES resident in the isles of guernsey, jersey, alderney, and sark, the humble dedication of their devoted admirer,

Sheweth,—

That your Dedicator has perused, with feelings of virtuous indignation, a work purporting to be ‘Sketches of Young Ladies;’ written by Quiz, illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

That after an attentive and vigilant perusal of the said work, your Dedicator is humbly of opinion that so many libels, upon your Honourable sex, were never contained in any previously published work, in twelvemo or any other mo.

That in the title page and preface to the said work, your Honourable sex are described and classified as animals; and although your Dedicator is not at present prepared to deny that you are animals, still he humbly submits that it is not polite to call you so.

That in the aforesaid preface, your Honourable sex are also described as Troglodites, which, being a hard word, may, for aught your Honourable sex or your Dedicator can say to the contrary, be an injurious and disrespectful appellation.

That the author of the said work applied himself to his task in malice prepense and with wickedness aforethought; a fact which, your Dedicator contends, is sufficiently demonstrated, by his assuming the name of Quiz, which, your Dedicator submits, denotes a foregone conclusion, and implies an intention of quizzing.

That in the execution of his evil design, the said Quiz, or author of the said work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence reposed in him by some members of your Honourable sex, otherwise he never could have acquired so much information relative to the manners and customs of your Honourable sex in general.

That actuated by these considerations, and further moved by various slanders and insinuations respecting your Honourable sex contained in the said work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Ladies,’ your Dedicator ventures to produce another work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Gentlemen,’ of which he now solicits your acceptance and approval.

That as the Young Ladies are the best companions of the Young Gentlemen, so the Young Gentlemen should be the best companions of the Young Ladies; and extending the comparison from animals (to quote the disrespectful language of the said Quiz) to inanimate objects, your Dedicator humbly suggests, that such of your Honourable sex as purchased the bane should possess themselves of the antidote, and that those of your Honourable sex who were not rash enough to take the first, should lose no time in swallowing the last,—prevention being in all cases better than cure, as we are informed upon the authority, not only of general acknowledgment, but also of traditionary wisdom.

That with reference to the said bane and antidote, your Dedicator has no further remarks to make, than are comprised in the printed directions issued with Doctor Morison’s pills; namely, that whenever your Honourable sex take twenty-five of Number, 1, you will be pleased to take fifty of Number 2, without delay.

And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c.

THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We found ourself seated at a small dinner party the other day, opposite a stranger of such singular appearance and manner, that he irresistibly attracted our attention.

This was a fresh-coloured young gentleman, with as good a promise of light whisker as one might wish to see, and possessed of a very velvet-like, soft-looking countenance. We do not use the latter term invidiously, but merely to denote a pair of smooth, plump, highly-coloured cheeks of capacious dimensions, and a mouth rather remarkable for the fresh hue of the lips than for any marked or striking expression it presented. His whole face was suffused with a crimson blush, and bore that downcast, timid, retiring look, which betokens a man ill at ease with himself.

There was nothing in these symptoms to attract more than a passing remark, but our attention had been originally drawn to the bashful young gentleman, on his first appearance in the drawing-room above-stairs, into which he was no sooner introduced, than making his way towards us who were standing in a window, and wholly neglecting several persons who warmly accosted him, he seized our hand with visible emotion, and pressed it with a convulsive grasp for a good couple of minutes, after which he dived in a nervous manner across the room, oversetting in his way a fine little girl of six years and a quarter old—and shrouding himself behind some hangings, was seen no more, until the eagle eye of the hostess detecting him in his concealment, on the announcement of dinner, he was requested to pair off with a lively single lady, of two or three and thirty.

This most flattering salutation from a perfect stranger, would have gratified us not a little as a token of his having held us in high respect, and for that reason been desirous of our acquaintance, if we had not suspected from the first, that the young gentleman, in making a desperate effort to get through the ceremony of introduction, had, in the bewilderment of his ideas, shaken hands with us at random. This impression was fully confirmed by the subsequent behaviour of the bashful young gentleman in question, which we noted particularly, with the view of ascertaining whether we were right in our conjecture.

The young gentleman seated himself at table with evident misgivings, and turning sharp round to pay attention to some observation of his loquacious neighbour, overset his bread. There was nothing very bad in this, and if he had had the presence of mind to let it go, and say nothing about it, nobody but the man who had laid the cloth would have been a bit the wiser; but the young gentleman in various semi-successful attempts to prevent its fall, played with it a little, as gentlemen in the streets may be seen to do with their hats on a windy day, and then giving the roll a smart rap in his anxiety to catch it, knocked it with great adroitness into a tureen of white soup at some distance, to the unspeakable terror and disturbance of a very amiable bald gentleman, who was dispensing the contents. We thought the bashful young gentleman would have gone off in an apoplectic fit, consequent upon the violent rush of blood to his face at the occurrence of this catastrophe.

From this moment we perceived, in the phraseology of the fancy, that it was ‘all up’ with the bashful young gentleman, and so indeed it was. Several benevolent persons endeavoured to relieve his embarrassment by taking wine with him, but finding that it only augmented his sufferings, and that after mingling sherry, champagne, hock, and moselle together, he applied the greater part of the mixture externally, instead of internally, they gradually dropped off, and left him to the exclusive care of the talkative lady, who, not noting the wildness of his eye, firmly believed she had secured a listener. He broke a glass or two in the course of the meal, and disappeared shortly afterwards; it is inferred that he went away in some confusion, inasmuch as he left the house in another gentleman’s coat, and the footman’s hat.

This little incident led us to reflect upon the most prominent characteristics of bashful young gentlemen in the abstract; and as this portable volume will be the great text-book of young ladies in all future generations, we record them here for their guidance and behoof.

If the bashful young gentleman, in turning a street corner, chance to stumble suddenly upon two or three young ladies of his acquaintance, nothing can exceed his confusion and agitation. His first impulse is to make a great variety of bows, and dart past them, which he does until, observing that they wish to stop, but are uncertain whether to do so or not, he makes several feints of returning, which causes them to do the same; and at length, after a great quantity of unnecessary dodging and falling up against the other passengers, he returns and shakes hands most affectionately with all of them, in doing which he knocks out of their grasp sundry little parcels, which he hastily picks up, and returns very muddy and disordered. The chances are that the bashful young gentleman then observes it is very fine weather, and being reminded that it has only just left off raining for the first time these three days, he blushes very much, and smiles as if he had said a very good thing. The young lady who was most anxious to speak, here inquires, with an air of great commiseration, how his dear sister Harriet is to-day; to which the young gentleman, without the slightest consideration, replies with many thanks, that she is remarkably well. ‘Well, Mr. Hopkins!’ cries the young lady, ‘why, we heard she was bled yesterday evening, and have been perfectly miserable about her.’ ‘Oh, ah,’ says the young gentleman, ‘so she was. Oh, she’s very ill, very ill indeed.’ The young gentleman then shakes his head, and looks very desponding (he has been smiling perpetually up to this time), and after a short pause, gives his glove a great wrench at the wrist, and says, with a strong emphasis on the adjective, ‘Good morning, good morning.’ And making a great number of bows in acknowledgment of several little messages to his sister, walks backward a few paces, and comes with great violence against a lamp-post, knocking his hat off in the contact, which in his mental confusion and bodily pain he is going to walk away without, until a great roar from a carter attracts his attention, when he picks it up, and tries to smile cheerfully to the young ladies, who are looking back, and who, he has the satisfaction of seeing, are all laughing heartily.

At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as near the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he smiles at the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps forward to shake hands with more intimate friends: a process which on each repetition seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before. He declines dancing the first set or two, observing, in a faint voice, that he would rather wait a little; but at length is absolutely compelled to allow himself to be introduced to a partner, when he is led, in a great heat and blushing furiously, across the room to a spot where half-a-dozen unknown ladies are congregated together.

‘Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next quadrille.’ Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously. Mr. Hopkins bows, and his fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he too well knows, to make himself agreeable. The young lady more than half expects that the bashful young gentleman will say something, and the bashful young gentleman feeling this, seriously thinks whether he has got anything to say, which, upon mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude he has not, since nothing occurs to him. Meanwhile, the young lady, after several inspections of her bouquet, all made in the expectation that the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her mamma, who is sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young gentleman immediately suspects (and possibly with very good reason) must be about him. In this comfortable condition he remains until it is time to ‘stand up,’ when murmuring a ‘Will you allow me?’ he gives the young lady his arm, and after inquiring where she will stand, and receiving a reply that she has no choice, conducts her to the remotest corner of the quadrille, and making one attempt at conversation, which turns out a desperate failure, preserves a profound silence until it is all over, when he walks her twice round the room, deposits her in her old seat, and retires in confusion.

A married bashful gentleman—for these bashful gentlemen do get married sometimes; how it is ever brought about, is a mystery to us—a married bashful gentleman either causes his wife to appear bold by contrast, or merges her proper importance in his own insignificance. Bashful young gentlemen should be cured, or avoided. They are never hopeless, and never will be, while female beauty and attractions retain their influence, as any young lady will find, who may think it worth while on this confident assurance to take a patient in hand.

Il giovane gentiluomo timido

Un giorno ci trovammo seduti a una piccola cena, di fronte a uno sconosciuto dall’aspetto e dai modi così particolari da attirare inevitabilmente la nostra attenzione.

Era un giovane gentiluomo dai colori vivaci; aveva baffetti biondi e sottili, proprio come si potrebbe desiderare di vedere, e il suo viso era molto vellutato e dall’aspetto morbido. Non usiamo questo termine in modo dispregiativo, ma semplicemente per descrivere guance lisce, piene e dal colore intenso, nonché una bocca che si distingueva soprattutto per il colore fresco delle labbra, piuttosto che per un’espressione particolarmente marcata o evidente. L’intero suo viso era pervaso da un rossore intenso, e aveva quell’aspetto timido, schivo e insicuro tipico di una persona a disagio con se stessa.

In questi sintomi non c’era nulla che potesse destare più di un commento superficiale, ma la nostra attenzione era stata originariamente attratta da quel giovane gentiluomo timido: al suo primo apparire nel salotto al piano di sopra, appena presentato a noi che ci trovavamo vicino alla finestra, ignorò completamente diverse persone che gli si avvicinarono cordialmente. Afferrò la nostra mano con evidente emozione e la strinse convulsivamente per diversi minuti; poi, in modo nervoso, attraversò di corsa la stanza, rovesciando lungo il cammino una graziosa bambina di sei anni e mezzo. Si nascose quindi dietro alcuni tendaggi e non fu più visto, fino a quando l’occhio attento della padrona di casa lo scoprì nel suo nascondiglio. Al momento dell’annuncio del pasto, gli fu chiesto di unirsi a una vivace signorina di circa ventitré anni.

Un saluto così lusinghiero da parte di uno sconosciuto perfetto ci avrebbe certamente fatto molto piacere, come segno del fatto che ci considerasse con grande rispetto e quindi desideroso di conoscerci. Se solo non avessimo subito sospettato che quel giovane, nel tentativo disperato di completare la formalità dell’introduzione, si fosse stretto la mano con noi per errore, a causa della confusione delle sue idee. Questa impressione fu pienamente confermata dal comportamento successivo di quel timido giovane: lo osservammo attentamente nel tentativo di verificare se le nostre congetture fossero corrette.

Il giovane gentiluomo si sedette a tavola con evidenti dubbi; poi, voltandosi di scatto per ascoltare un commento del suo loquace vicino, fece cadere il pane che aveva davanti a sé. Non c’era nulla di particolarmente grave in questo. Se solo avesse avuto la presenza di spirito di lasciar perdere e non dire nulla al riguardo, nessuno, tranne colui che aveva steso la tovaglia, se ne sarebbe accorto. Ma il giovane gentiluomo, nel tentativo più o meno riuscito di impedire che il pane cadesse, lo maneggiò un po’, proprio come fanno alcuni signori per i loro cappelli in una giornata ventosa. Poi, nella sua ansia di riprenderlo, lo colpì con forza, facendolo finire dentro una ciotola di zuppa bianca. Il risultato fu un vero terrore e scompiglio per un gentiluomo calvo e molto amabile che stava servendo la zuppa. Pensammo che quel timido giovane gentiluomo potesse persino avere un attacco apoplettico, a causa dell’improvvisa afflusso di sangue al viso.

Da quel momento percepimmo, per usare le parole della fantasia, che le cose stavano “andando male” per quel timido giovane gentiluomo. E infatti era proprio così. Diverse persone benevole cercarono di alleviare la sua imbarazzo offrendogli da bere, ma si resero conto che ciò non faceva altro che peggiorare le sue sofferenze. Dopo aver mescolato sherry, champagne, hock e mosella, lui applicava la maggior parte di quella miscela esternamente, invece che internamente. Così quelle persone smisero gradualmente di intervenire, lasciandolo completamente alle cure della signora chiacchierona, la quale, non notando lo sguardo folle nei suoi occhi, credeva fermamente di aver trovato un ascoltatore attento. Durante il pasto rompeva uno o due bicchieri, e poco dopo scomparve. Si presume che se ne andasse in preda al panico: infatti lasciò la casa indossando il cappotto di un altro gentiluomo e il cappello del maggiordomo.

Questo piccolo episodio ci ha portato a riflettere sulle caratteristiche più evidenti dei giovani gentiluomini timidi in generale; e poiché questo volume sarà il principale testo di riferimento per le giovani donne di tutte le generazioni future, ne registriamo qui i contenuti al fine di fornire loro indicazioni utili.

Il timido giovane gentiluomo, voltando un angolo di strada, si imbatte improvvisamente in due o tre giovani signore che conosce; nulla può superare la sua confusione e agitazione. Il suo primo impulso è fare una serie di inchini e passargli accanto velocemente, ma notando che loro vogliono fermarlo ma non sono sicure se farlo o meno, finge più volte di tornare indietro, costringendole a fare lo stesso. Dopo molte evitazioni inutili e dopo essersi scontrato con altri passanti, alla fine torna indietro e stringe loro la mano con grande affetto; nel farlo, però, fa cadere dalle loro mani diversi piccoli pacchetti, che raccoglie frettolosamente, ritornando poi molto sudicio e disordinato. A quel punto, il timido giovane gentiluomo osserva che il tempo è molto bello; ricordandosi che solo pochi giorni prima aveva smesso di piovere per la prima volta in quei tre giorni, arrossisce molto e sorride come se avesse detto qualcosa di molto intelligente. La giovane signora che desiderava parlare con lui chiede con grande compassione come stia sua cara sorella Harriet; il giovane gentiluomo risponde senza pensarci troppo, ringraziando e dicendo che lei sta molto bene. “Ma, signor Hopkins!”, esclama la giovane signora, “noi abbiamo sentito che ieri sera le hanno fatto un prelievo di sangue. Siamo state davvero molto in ansia per lei.” “Oh, sì”, dice il giovane gentiluomo, “infatti. Oh, sta molto male, davvero molto male, ” Poi scuote la testa, sembra molto scoraggiato (fino a quel momento aveva continuato a sorridere), e dopo una breve pausa strappa via il guanto dal polso con forza, dicendo con enfasi: “Buongiorno, buongiorno.” Fa poi un’altra serie di inchini in risposta ai messaggi che le giovani signore hanno per sua sorella, indietreggia di qualche passo, e si scontra violentemente contro un lampione, facendo cadere il cappello. Nella sua confusione mentale e nel dolore fisico, sta per andarsene senza riprenderlo, quando un forte rumore proveniente da un carrettiere attira la sua attenzione; raccoglie il cappello e cerca di sorridere alle giovani signore che lo stanno guardando, con grande soddisfazione, vede che tutte stanno ridendo di cuore.

In una festa di quadrille, il timido giovane gentiluomo rimane sempre il più vicino possibile all’ingresso della sala; da quella posizione sorride alle persone che conosce non appena entrano e, a volte, si avvicina per stringere la mano agli amici più intimi. Ogni volta che ripete questo comportamento, sembra diventare ancora più rosso in viso di prima. Rifiuta di ballare i primi due giri, dicendo con voce sommessa che preferisce aspettare un po’; ma alla fine viene costretto ad accettare una partner e, con il viso arrossato fino alle orecchie, viene accompagnato attraverso la sala fino a un punto dove si trovano alcune signore sconosciute.

“Signorina Lambert, permettetemi di presentarvi il signor Hopkins per la prossima quadriglia.”
La signorina Lambert inclina gentilmente la testa. Il signor Hopkins fa un inchino, e la sua affabile compagna scompare, lasciandolo da solo, come lui stesso sa molto bene. La giovane donna si aspetta quasi certamente che quel timido giovanotto dica qualcosa; il timido giovanotto, percependo questa attesa, riflette seriamente se abbia davvero qualcosa da dire. Ma, dopo un’attenta considerazione, conclude che non ne ha affatto, poiché non gli viene in mente nulla. Nel frattempo, la giovane donna, dopo aver controllato più volte il proprio “mazzo di fiori”, sempre nella speranza che il timido giovanotto parli, sussurra qualcosa alla madre seduta accanto a lei. Il timido giovanotto intuisce immediatamente (e probabilmente con buone ragioni) che si tratta di lui. In questa situazione imbarazzante, aspetta fino al momento in cui arriva il momento di “alzarsi”; poi, mormorando “Mi permettete?”, le offre il braccio. Dopo aver chiesto dove desideri stare e aver ricevuto la risposta che non ha scelta, la conduce nell’angolo più remoto della sala. Fa un tentativo di conversazione, ma fallisce miseramente; quindi mantiene un profondo silenzio fino alla fine della quadriglia. Dopodiché la accompagna due volte intorno alla stanza, la riporta al suo posto originale e se ne va in preda al confusione.

Un gentiluomo sposato e timido, perché questi gentiluomini timidi, a volte, si sposano davvero; come ciò possa accadere, per noi rimane un mistero. Un gentiluomo sposato e timido o fa sì che sua moglie appaia più audace in contrasto con lui, oppure mescola l’importanza reale di lei nella propria insignificanza. I giovani gentiluomini timidi dovrebbero essere curati, o evitati. Non sono mai senza speranza, e non lo saranno mai, finché la bellezza e il fascino femminili manterranno il loro potere; qualsiasi giovane donna potrà constatarlo, se deciderà di prendersi il tempo necessario per aiutare un ragazzo timido.

THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Out-and-out young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—those who have something to do, and those who have nothing. I shall commence with the former, because that species come more frequently under the notice of young ladies, whom it is our province to warn and to instruct.

The out-and-out young gentleman is usually no great dresser, his instructions to his tailor being all comprehended in the one general direction to ‘make that what’s-a-name a regular bang-up sort of thing.’ For some years past, the favourite costume of the out-and-out young gentleman has been a rough pilot coat, with two gilt hooks and eyes to the velvet collar; buttons somewhat larger than crown-pieces; a black or fancy neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat, with a low crown; tightish inexpressibles, and iron-shod boots. Out of doors he sometimes carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, for he prefers keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He smokes at all hours, of course, and swears considerably.

The out-and-out young gentleman is employed in a city counting-house or solicitor’s office, in which he does as little as he possibly can: his chief places of resort are, the streets, the taverns, and the theatres. In the streets at evening time, out-and-out young gentlemen have a pleasant custom of walking six or eight abreast, thus driving females and other inoffensive persons into the road, which never fails to afford them the highest satisfaction, especially if there be any immediate danger of their being run over, which enhances the fun of the thing materially. In all places of public resort, the out-and-outers are careful to select each a seat to himself, upon which he lies at full length, and (if the weather be very dirty, but not in any other case) he lies with his knees up, and the soles of his boots planted firmly on the cushion, so that if any low fellow should ask him to make room for a lady, he takes ample revenge upon her dress, without going at all out of his way to do it. He always sits with his hat on, and flourishes his stick in the air while the play is proceeding, with a dignified contempt of the performance; if it be possible for one or two out-and-out young gentlemen to get up a little crowding in the passages, they are quite in their element, squeezing, pushing, whooping, and shouting in the most humorous manner possible. If they can only succeed in irritating the gentleman who has a family of daughters under his charge, they are like to die with laughing, and boast of it among their companions for a week afterwards, adding, that one or two of them were ‘devilish fine girls,’ and that they really thought the youngest would have fainted, which was the only thing wanted to render the joke complete.

If the out-and-out young gentleman have a mother and sisters, of course he treats them with becoming contempt, inasmuch as they (poor things!) having no notion of life or gaiety, are far too weak-spirited and moping for him. Sometimes, however, on a birth-day or at Christmas-time, he cannot very well help accompanying them to a party at some old friend’s, with which view he comes home when they have been dressed an hour or two, smelling very strongly of tobacco and spirits, and after exchanging his rough coat for some more suitable attire (in which however he loses nothing of the out-and-outer), gets into the coach and grumbles all the way at his own good nature: his bitter reflections aggravated by the recollection, that Tom Smith has taken the chair at a little impromptu dinner at a fighting man’s, and that a set-to was to take place on a dining-table, between the fighting man and his brother-in-law, which is probably ‘coming off’ at that very instant.

As the out-and-out young gentleman is by no means at his ease in ladies’ society, he shrinks into a corner of the drawing-room when they reach the friend’s, and unless one of his sisters is kind enough to talk to him, remains there without being much troubled by the attentions of other people, until he espies, lingering outside the door, another gentleman, whom he at once knows, by his air and manner (for there is a kind of free-masonry in the craft), to be a brother out-and-outer, and towards whom he accordingly makes his way. Conversation being soon opened by some casual remark, the second out-and-outer confidentially informs the first, that he is one of the rough sort and hates that kind of thing, only he couldn’t very well be off coming; to which the other replies, that that’s just his case—‘and I’ll tell you what,’ continues the out-and-outer in a whisper, ‘I should like a glass of warm brandy and water just now,’—‘Or a pint of stout and a pipe,’ suggests the other out-and-outer.

The discovery is at once made that they are sympathetic souls; each of them says at the same moment, that he sees the other understands what’s what: and they become fast friends at once, more especially when it appears, that the second out-and-outer is no other than a gentleman, long favourably known to his familiars as ‘Mr. Warmint Blake,’ who upon divers occasions has distinguished himself in a manner that would not have disgraced the fighting man, and who—having been a pretty long time about town—had the honour of once shaking hands with the celebrated Mr. Thurtell himself.

At supper, these gentlemen greatly distinguish themselves, brightening up very much when the ladies leave the table, and proclaiming aloud their intention of beginning to spend the evening—a process which is generally understood to be satisfactorily performed, when a great deal of wine is drunk and a great deal of noise made, both of which feats the out-and-out young gentlemen execute to perfection. Having protracted their sitting until long after the host and the other guests have adjourned to the drawing-room, and finding that they have drained the decanters empty, they follow them thither with complexions rather heightened, and faces rather bloated with wine; and the agitated lady of the house whispers her friends as they waltz together, to the great terror of the whole room, that ‘both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very nice sort of young men in their way, only they are eccentric persons, and unfortunately rather too wild!’

The remaining class of out-and-out young gentlemen is composed of persons, who, having no money of their own and a soul above earning any, enjoy similar pleasures, nobody knows how. These respectable gentlemen, without aiming quite so much at the out-and-out in external appearance, are distinguished by all the same amiable and attractive characteristics, in an equal or perhaps greater degree, and now and then find their way into society, through the medium of the other class of out-and-out young gentlemen, who will sometimes carry them home, and who usually pay their tavern bills. As they are equally gentlemanly, clever, witty, intelligent, wise, and well-bred, we need scarcely have recommended them to the peculiar consideration of the young ladies, if it were not that some of the gentle creatures whom we hold in such high respect, are perhaps a little too apt to confound a great many heavier terms with the light word eccentricity, which we beg them henceforth to take in a strictly Johnsonian sense, without any liberality or latitude of construction.

Il vero e proprio giovane gentiluomo

I giovani signori, in senso stretto, possono essere divisi in due categorie: quelli che hanno qualcosa da fare e quelli che non hanno nulla da fare. Comincerò con i primi, perché questa categoria viene spesso incontro alle attenzioni delle giovani donne, le quali sono il nostro compito di avvertire e istruire.

Il vero e proprio giovane gentiluomo di solito non è molto attento al proprio abbigliamento; le sue istruzioni al sarto si riducono sempre a dire “fai in modo che quel capo sembri davvero elegante”. Negli ultimi anni, il costume preferito da questo tipo di giovane gentiluomo è stato un cappotto spesso, con due ganci dorati sulla collana di velluto; bottoni leggermente più grandi dei soliti; una sciarpa nera o colorata, annodata in modo lento e non troppo stretto; un cappello a tesa larga, con una corona bassa; calzoni piuttosto aderenti e stivali con suole di ferro. All’aperto, a volte porta un grosso bastone di frassino, ma solo in occasioni speciali, poiché preferisce tenere le mani nelle tasche del cappotto. Fuma in qualsiasi momento della giornata e impreca piuttosto spesso.

Questo vero e proprio giovane signore lavora in uno studio di contabili o in un ufficio legale della città; lì fa il minimo indispensabile del suo lavoro. I suoi luoghi preferiti sono le strade, le taverne e i teatri. Di sera, per strada, questi giovani hanno l’abitudine piacevole di camminare in gruppo, spingendo via donne e altre persone innocue, il che li diverte molto, soprattutto quando c’è il rischio concreto di essere investiti. Il loro comportamento è sempre molto scortese nei luoghi pubblici: ognuno si sceglie un posto dove sdraiarsi completamente, con le ginocchia sollevate e i tacchi delle scarpe ben piantati sul cuscino; se qualcuno gli chiede di fare spazio a una signora, si vendica sulla sua gonna senza alcuno sforzo. Indossano sempre il cappello e agitano la loro canna in aria durante lo spettacolo, mostrando un disprezzo dignitoso per la performance. Se riescono a creare un po’ di confusione nei corridoi del teatro, sono nel loro elemento: si stringono, spingono, urlano e scherzano in modo davvero esilarante. Se riescono ad infastidire un gentiluomo che ha delle figlie sotto la sua responsabilità, beh, allora muoiono dalle risate e ne vanno a vantarsi con gli amici per tutta la settimana, aggiungendo che alcune di quelle ragazze erano davvero “meravigliose” e che pensavano proprio che la più giovane sarebbe svenuta, il che, naturalmente, era l’unico modo per rendere la battuta perfetta.

Se quel giovane signore ha una madre e delle sorelle, naturalmente le tratta con un disprezzo appropriato; infatti, loro (povere creature!), non avendo alcuna nozione di vita o allegria, sono troppo deboli di spirito e sempre malinconiche al suo confronto. Tuttavia, a volte, in occasioni come il compleanno o Natale, non può fare a meno di accompagnarle a una festa presso un vecchio amico; dopo averle vestite per un’ora o due, torna a casa con un forte odore di tabacco e alcolici. Si cambia poi il cappotto ruvido con abiti più appropriati (senza però perdere affatto il proprio aspetto “vistoso”), sale in carrozza e per tutto il tragitto si lamenta della propria “buona natura”: i suoi pensieri amari vengono ulteriormente peggiorati dal ricordo che Tom Smith abbia preso il posto d’onore a una cena improvvisata, e che tra il padrone di casa e suo cognato stia per scoppiare una rissa proprio in quel momento.

Poiché questo giovane gentiluomo non si sente affatto a suo agio nella società femminile, si ritira in un angolo del salotto non appena le signore arrivano a casa dell’amico. A meno che una delle sue sorelle non abbia la gentilezza di parlare con lui, rimane lì, indifferente alle attenzioni altrui, finché non scorge, fuori dalla porta, un altro gentiluomo che riconosce immediatamente per il suo modo di comportarsi e il suo aspetto (poiché esiste una sorta di “codice segreto” tra questi giovani). Si avvicina quindi a lui. Dopo aver iniziato a conversare grazie a qualche commento casuale, il secondo giovane gli confida che appartiene al gruppo dei “veri e propri compagni” e che odia quel genere di cose, ma non riesce proprio a evitarle. L’altro risponde che è esattamente la stessa situazione sua; poi aggiunge sottovoce: “A dire il vero, in questo momento mi andrebbe bene un bicchiere di brandy caldo con acqua, ” “O forse una pinta di birra forte e una pipa”, suggerisce l’altro.

Si scopre immediatamente che sono anime simpatetiche; entrambi, nello stesso istante, dicono di capire ciò che l’altro intende; e diventano subito amici intimi, soprattutto quando si scopre che quest’ultimo non è altri che un gentiluomo, ben conosciuto dai suoi familiari come “Mr. Warmint Blake”, il quale in diverse occasioni si è distinto in modi tali da non disonorare affatto un uomo d’armi. Inoltre, essendo stato a lungo in città, aveva anche l’onore di aver stretto la mano al celebre Mr. Thurtell stesso.

A cena, questi signori si distinguono molto: diventano molto più vivaci non appena le signore lasciano la tavola e dichiarano ad alta voce la loro intenzione di trascorrere la serata in modo piacevole. Si ritiene che questo processo venga portato a termine con successo quando si beve molto vino e si fa molto rumore, imprese che quei giovani signori, veri e propri scapestrati, eseguono alla perfezione. Dopo aver prolungato la loro permanenza a tavola ben oltre l’ora in cui il padrone di casa e gli altri ospiti si sono trasferiti nel salotto, e constatando che hanno svuotato tutti i bicchieri, li seguono lì, con il viso arrossito dal vino. E la signora della casa, agitata, sussurra alle sue amiche mentre ballano insieme, suscitando grande terrore in tutta la stanza: “Sia il signor Blake che il signor Dummins sono giovani davvero simpatici, nel loro modo, solo che sono persone un po’ eccentriche, e purtroppo un po’ troppo selvagge!”

La classe rimanente di giovani gentiluomini veri e propri è composta da persone che, non avendo denaro proprio e possedendo un’‘anima troppo nobile per cercare di guadagnarlo, godono comunque di piaceri simili, in modi che nessuno riesce a comprendere. Questi rispettabili gentiluomini, sebbene non puntino tanto all’apparenza esteriore, sono caratterizzati da tutte le stesse qualità amabili e attraenti, in misura uguale o forse maggiore; di tanto in tanto riescono ad entrare nella società grazie all’aiuto della classe precedente di giovani gentiluomini veri e propri, i quali a volte li portano a casa propria e di solito pagano le loro spese al taverniere. Poiché sono ugualmente gentili, intelligenti, arguti e ben educati, non avremmo nemmeno avuto bisogno di raccomandarli alle giovani signore, se non fosse per il fatto che alcune di queste creature dolci e rispettabili tendono a confondere termini piuttosto seri con la parola “eccezionalità”, che da ora in poi dovrebbero essere intesa esclusivamente nel senso proposto da Johnson, senza alcuna interpretazione libera o estensiva.

THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We know—and all people know—so many specimens of this class, that in selecting the few heads our limits enable us to take from a great number, we have been induced to give the very friendly young gentleman the preference over many others, to whose claims upon a more cursory view of the question we had felt disposed to assign the priority.

The very friendly young gentleman is very friendly to everybody, but he attaches himself particularly to two, or at most to three families: regulating his choice by their dinners, their circle of acquaintance, or some other criterion in which he has an immediate interest. He is of any age between twenty and forty, unmarried of course, must be fond of children, and is expected to make himself generally useful if possible. Let us illustrate our meaning by an example, which is the shortest mode and the clearest.

We encountered one day, by chance, an old friend of whom we had lost sight for some years, and who—expressing a strong anxiety to renew our former intimacy—urged us to dine with him on an early day, that we might talk over old times. We readily assented, adding, that we hoped we should be alone. ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ said our friend, ‘not a soul with us but Mincin.’ ‘And who is Mincin?’ was our natural inquiry. ‘O don’t mind him,’ replied our friend, ‘he’s a most particular friend of mine, and a very friendly fellow you will find him;’ and so he left us.

‘We thought no more about Mincin until we duly presented ourselves at the house next day, when, after a hearty welcome, our friend motioned towards a gentleman who had been previously showing his teeth by the fireplace, and gave us to understand that it was Mr. Mincin, of whom he had spoken. It required no great penetration on our part to discover at once that Mr. Mincin was in every respect a very friendly young gentleman.

‘I am delighted,’ said Mincin, hastily advancing, and pressing our hand warmly between both of his, ‘I am delighted, I am sure, to make your acquaintance—(here he smiled)—very much delighted indeed—(here he exhibited a little emotion)—I assure you that I have looked forward to it anxiously for a very long time:’ here he released our hands, and rubbing his own, observed, that the day was severe, but that he was delighted to perceive from our appearance that it agreed with us wonderfully; and then went on to observe, that, notwithstanding the coldness of the weather, he had that morning seen in the paper an exceedingly curious paragraph, to the effect, that there was now in the garden of Mr. Wilkins of Chichester, a pumpkin, measuring four feet in height, and eleven feet seven inches in circumference, which he looked upon as a very extraordinary piece of intelligence. We ventured to remark, that we had a dim recollection of having once or twice before observed a similar paragraph in the public prints, upon which Mr. Mincin took us confidentially by the button, and said, Exactly, exactly, to be sure, we were very right, and he wondered what the editors meant by putting in such things. Who the deuce, he should like to know, did they suppose cared about them? that struck him as being the best of it.

The lady of the house appeared shortly afterwards, and Mr. Mincin’s friendliness, as will readily be supposed, suffered no diminution in consequence; he exerted much strength and skill in wheeling a large easy-chair up to the fire, and the lady being seated in it, carefully closed the door, stirred the fire, and looked to the windows to see that they admitted no air; having satisfied himself upon all these points, he expressed himself quite easy in his mind, and begged to know how she found herself to-day. Upon the lady’s replying very well, Mr. Mincin (who it appeared was a medical gentleman) offered some general remarks upon the nature and treatment of colds in the head, which occupied us agreeably until dinner-time. During the meal, he devoted himself to complimenting everybody, not forgetting himself, so that we were an uncommonly agreeable quartette.

‘I’ll tell you what, Capper,’ said Mr. Mincin to our host, as he closed the room door after the lady had retired, ‘you have very great reason to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!’ ‘Nay, Mincin—I beg,’ interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper unquestionably was particularly sweet. ‘Pray, Mincin, don’t.’ ‘Why not?’ exclaimed Mr. Mincin, ‘why not? Why should you feel any delicacy before your old friend—our old friend, if I may be allowed to call you so, sir; why should you, I ask?’ We of course wished to know why he should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper was a very sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried ‘Bravo!’ and begged to propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our host said, ‘Thank you, Mincin,’ with deep feeling; and gave us, in a low voice, to understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper’s cousin’s life no less than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he considered no common circumstance—an opinion to which we most cordially subscribed.

Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation, Mr. Mincin’s extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he was so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about anything in which he had not the chief concern. We happened to allude to some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged nearly fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded of a joke which our friend had made on that day four years, which he positively must insist upon telling—and which he did tell accordingly, with many pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper said, and how he well remembered that they had been to the play with orders on the very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and the pantomime, and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the lobby, where she smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back again, with many other interesting and absorbing particulars: after which the friendly young gentleman went on to assure us, that our friend had experienced a marvellously prophetic opinion of that same pantomime, which was of such an admirable kind, that two morning papers took the same view next day: to this our friend replied, with a little triumph, that in that instance he had some reason to think he had been correct, which gave the friendly young gentleman occasion to believe that our friend was always correct; and so we went on, until our friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink one glass to his dear friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved the lives of his acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart. Finally, our friend having emptied his glass, said, ‘God bless you, Mincin,’—and Mr. Mincin and he shook hands across the table with much affection and earnestness.

But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased éclat. Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to mention. He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers; but how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin on the carpet riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so judiciously, and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the most punctilious old lady to consider herself neglected. If any young lady, being prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr. Mincin leads her tenderly into the next room, and restores her with port wine, which she must take medicinally. If any gentleman be standing by the piano during the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin seizes him by the arm at one point of the melody, and softly beating time the while with his head, expresses in dumb show his intense perception of the delicacy of the passage. If anybody’s self-love is to be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand. If anybody’s overweening vanity is to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit it. What wonder that people of all stations and ages recognise Mr. Mincin’s friendliness; that he is universally allowed to be handsome as amiable; that mothers think him an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a beau, and fathers a wonder! And who would not have the reputation of the very friendly young gentleman?

Il giovane gentiluomo molto amichevole

Sappiamo – e tutti sanno – di moltissimi esempi di questa categoria; pertanto, nel selezionare quei pochi individui che i nostri limiti ci permettono di scegliere da un gran numero, abbiamo deciso di dare la preferenza a questo giovane gentiluomo molto amichevole, rispetto ad altri molti, ai quali, se avessimo esaminato la questione in modo più superficiale, avremmo potuto assegnare la priorità.

Questo giovane gentiluomo molto amichevole è estremamente cordiale con tutti, ma si lega in modo particolare a due, al massimo tre famiglie: scegliele in base ai loro pasti, al loro cerchio di conoscenze, o ad altri criteri che lo interessano direttamente. Ha un’età compresa tra i venti e i quaranta anni, è ovviamente single, deve amare i bambini e, se possibile, dovrebbe essere d’aiuto a tutti. Per chiarire meglio il nostro punto, facciamo un esempio: è il modo più semplice ed esplicito per spiegarlo.

Un giorno, per caso, incontrammo un vecchio amico di cui non avevamo più notizie da alcuni anni. Egli, esprimendo una forte voglia di ristabilire l’intimità di un tempo, ci invitò ad andare a cena da lui il prima possibile, così da poter parlare dei vecchi tempi. Accettammo subito, aggiungendo che speravamo di essere soli. “Oh, certamente,” disse il nostro amico, “nessun altro sarà con noi se non Mincin.” “E chi è Mincin?” chiedemmo naturalmente. “Ah, non badate a lui,” rispose il nostro amico, “è un mio carissimo amico e una persona molto simpatica; vi piacerà sicuramente.” E così ci lasciò.

Non pensammo più a Mincin fino al giorno seguente, quando ci presentammo finalmente nella >casa. Dopo un caloroso benvenuto, il nostro amico ci indicò un signore che poco prima si trovava vicino al camino, facendoci capire che si trattava proprio di Mr. Mincin di cui aveva parlato. Non fu necessario molto intuito da parte nostra per rendersi subito conto che Mr. Mincin era, sotto ogni aspetto, un giovane gentiluomo molto amichevole.

“Sono molto felice,” disse Mincin, avvicinandosi rapidamente e stringendo calorosamente la nostra mano tra le sue, “sono davvero molto felice di conoscervi, (qui sorrise), molto, molto felice davvero, (qui mostrò un po’ di emozione) Vi assicuro che aspettavo questo momento con ansia da molto tempo, ” Lasciò andare le nostre mani e, strofinandose le sue, osservò che faceva freddo quel giorno, ma che era contento di vedere che anche noi ne eravamo colpiti; poi aggiunse che, nonostante il freddo, quella mattina aveva letto sul giornale un paragrafo estremamente curioso: nel giardino del signor Wilkins di Chichester c’era ora una zucca alta quattro piedi e con un diametro di undici piedi e sette pollici. La considerava davvero una notizia straordinaria. Noi osammo osservare che avevamo vaghi ricordi di aver letto paragrafi simili in precedenza sui giornali; su questo Mincin ci prese confidenzialmente per il bavero e disse: “Esatto, esatto, avete perfettamente ragione. Mi chiedo cosa intendano gli editori pubblicando cose del genere. Chi diavolo pensano che se ne importi qualcuno? Secondo me, è proprio questo il punto.”

La signora di quella casa apparve poco dopo, e la gentilezza del signor Mincin, come si può facilmente immaginare, non diminuì affatto a causa di ciò; egli fece grande sforzo e dimostrò notevole abilità nel spostare una grande poltrona vicino al fuoco. Una volta che la signora vi si fu seduta, lui chiuse attentamente la porta, ravvivò il fuoco e controllò le finestre per assicurarsi che non lasciassero passare aria; essersi assicurato di tutto ciò, si dichiarò molto tranquillo e chiese come si sentisse lei quel giorno. Quando la signora rispose che stava molto bene, il signor Mincin (che a quanto pare era un medico) fece alcune osservazioni generali sulla natura e sul trattamento dei raffreddori alla testa; queste conversazioni ci tennero compagnia in modo piacevole fino all’ora di cena. Durante il pasto, si dedicò a lodare tutti, senza dimenticare se stesso, tanto che formammo un gruppo davvero molto armonioso.

“Voglio dirle una cosa, Capper,” disse il signor Mincin al nostro ospite, dopo che la signora si era ritirata e lui aveva chiuso la porta della stanza. “Ha davvero tutte le ragioni per amare sua moglie. Che donna dolce, la signora Capper!”
“No, Mincin. La prego,” intervenne l’ospite, mentre stavamo per rispondere che la signora Capper era senza dubbio particolarmente gentile. “Per favore, Mincin, non lo faccia.”
“E perché no?” esclamò il signor Mincin. “Perché mai dovrebbe sentirsi imbarazzato davanti al suo vecchio amico, il nostro vecchio amico, se posso chiamarla così, signore. Perché mai dovrebbe farlo?”
Naturalmente volevamo sapere il motivo di questa sua riserva, e allora il nostro amico ammise che la signora Capper era davvero una donna molto gentile. A queste parole, il signor Mincin esclamò “Bravo!” e propose di chiedere la mano della signora Capper con sincero entusiasmo. L’ospite rispose allora: “Grazie, Mincin,” con profonda emozione. E ci sussurrò che il signor Mincin aveva salvato la vita del cugino della signora Capper ben quattordici volte in un anno e mezzo. Un fatto che considerava davvero notevole. Un’opinione alla quale noi aderimmo pienamente.

Ora che eravamo solo in tre a intrattenerci con le nostre conversazioni, l’estrema cordialità di Mr. Mincin divenne sempre più evidente; era davvero così incredibilmente amichevole che risultava impossibile parlare di qualsiasi argomento senza che lui vi fosse direttamente coinvolto. Abbiamo casualmente menzionato alcuni fatti accaduti quasi quattordici anni prima, e in quel momento Mr. Mincin si è improvvisamente ricordato di una barzelletta che il nostro amico aveva raccontato proprio quel giorno. Ha insistito per raccontarcela, aggiungendo molte piacevoli ricordi riguardo a ciò che era stato detto, a ciò che aveva risposto la signora Capper, e al fatto che quella stessa sera erano andati a teatro insieme per vedere “Romeo e Giulietta” e anche la pantomima. La signora Capper si era sentita male, ma poi era tornata nel salone, aveva detto che non era nulla di grave e se n’era andata. Dopo aver raccontato tutto questo, il gentile giovane ci ha assicurato che il nostro amico aveva avuto una previsione straordinariamente accurata riguardo a quella pantomima. Il giorno dopo, due giornali mattutini avevano espresso lo stesso parere. Al che il nostro amico ha risposto, con un certo orgoglio, che in quel caso aveva tutte le ragioni per ritenersi nel giusto. Questo ha fatto sì che il gentile giovane credesse ancora di più che il nostro amico avesse sempre ragione. E così abbiamo continuato a chiacchierare, fino a quando il nostro amico, riempiendo un bicchiere, ha detto che doveva bere un brindisi al suo caro amico Mincin: nessuno, secondo lui, aveva salvato più vite dei suoi conoscenti o possedeva un cuore più gentile di Mincin. Alla fine, dopo aver bevuto il bicchiere, ha detto: “Dio ti benedica, Mincin, ” E Mr. Mincin e lui si sono stretti la mano attraverso il tavolo, con grande affetto e sincerità.

Ma per quanto gentile e affabile sia questo giovane signore, in una situazione come questa lui svolge lo stesso ruolo, solo su scala più ampia e con maggiore “eleganza”. Il signor Mincin viene invitato a una serata con i suoi cari amici i Martin; lì incontra anche i suoi cari amici i Capper e i Watson, oltre ad altre centinaia di persone troppo numerose per essere menzionate tutte. Si sente altrettanto a suo agio tra i Martin quanto tra i Capper; ma con quale abilità bilancia le sue attenzioni tra tutti loro! Se flirta con una delle signorine Watson, c’è sempre qualche bambino dei Martin che gli tira i capelli o che cavalca sulle sue gambe. Con un braccio accompagna la signora Watson a cena, con l’altro la signorina Martin; beve il vino in modo così equilibrato e ordinato che nemmeno la più esigente delle anziane potrebbe sentirsi trascurata. Se una giovane donna, dopo aver cantato, diventa nervosa, il signor Mincin la conduce dolcemente nella stanza accanto e le fa bere del porto, che lei deve assumere “a scopo terapeutico”. Se durante l’esecuzione di una ballata qualche gentiluomo si trova vicino al pianoforte, il signor Mincin gli afferra il braccio in un certo punto della melodia e, battendo leggermente il tempo con la testa, esprime con gesti silenziosi la sua profonda apprezzazione per quella parte musicale. Se qualcuno desidera sentirsi lusingato nel proprio amor proprio, il signor Mincin è sempre pronto ad aiutarlo; se invece qualcuno ha bisogno che la propria vanità venga esaltata, lui non mancherà di farlo. Che meraviglia che persone di ogni ceto e età riconoscano la gentilezza del signor Mincin. Che tutti lo considerino sia attraente che affabile. Che le madri lo ritengano un oracolo, le figlie una persona cara, i fratelli un giovane elegante, e i padri, beh, davvero una meraviglia! E chi non vorrebbe avere la reputazione di questo giovane signore così gentile?

THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that military young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of the young ladies of this kingdom. We cannot think so lightly of them as to suppose that the mere circumstance of a man’s wearing a red coat ensures him a ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the case, it would be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance, because, although the analogy may in some degree hold good in the case of mail coachmen and guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and they are not to our knowledge better received than other men; nor are firemen either, who wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very resplendent and massive badges besides—much larger than epaulettes. Neither do the twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our inquiries be correct, find any peculiar favour in woman’s eyes, although they wear very bright red jackets, and have the additional advantage of constantly appearing in public on horseback, which last circumstance may be naturally supposed to be greatly in their favour.

We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king and country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the inferior classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a little gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure of the audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice spirits who consort with them. But we will not devote these pages to our speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the present moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched by her Majesty’s livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are turned by it. For ‘heads’ we had written ‘brains;’ but upon consideration, we think the former the more appropriate word of the two.

These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—young gentlemen who are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an intense and enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a military life, are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to wear out their existence in some ignoble counting-house. We will take this latter description of military young gentlemen first.

The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are concentrated in his favourite topic. There is nothing that he is so learned upon as uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an instant, what the habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with, what regiment wear stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction how many yards and odd inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign in the Guards; is deeply read in the comparative merits of different bands, and the apparelling of trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed in descanting upon ‘crack regiments,’ and the ‘crack’ gentlemen who compose them, of whose mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of telling.

We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day, after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion of half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the articles of kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly ‘cracked’ regiments would be an improvement upon ‘crack,’ as being a more expressive and appropriate designation, when he suddenly interrupted us by pulling out his watch, and observing that he must hurry off to the Park in a cab, or he would be too late to hear the band play. Not wishing to interfere with so important an engagement, and being in fact already slightly overwhelmed by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns afore-mentioned, we made no attempt to detain the military young gentleman, but parted company with ready good-will.

Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to one of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers mount guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless appearance and eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both man and horse with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind to all that was passing around him. We were not much surprised at the discovery that it was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we were a little astonished when we returned from a walk to South Lambeth to find him still there, looking on with the same intensity as before. As it was a very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young gentleman from his reverie, when he inquired of us with great enthusiasm, whether ‘that was not a glorious spectacle,’ and proceeded to give us a detailed account of the weight of every article of the spectacle’s trappings, from the man’s gloves to the horse’s shoes.

We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging twenty-five. We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour of a very promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the service, which cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a prolonged inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with great curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man were wax-work.

But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and at the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from the barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the way towards the high street. He wears his undress uniform, which somewhat mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how grand, he is! What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and carriage, and how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm, making no more ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella! The lion is sleeping: only think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he’d whip it out of the scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!

But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen, arm-in-arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should cause all peaceful men to quail at heart. They stop to talk. See how the flaxen-haired young gentleman with the weak legs—he who has his pocket-handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places his arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart, and clasps his hands behind him. Well may we inquire—not in familiar jest, but in respectful earnest—if you call that nothing. Oh! if some encroaching foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any of those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as they move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn’t he tremble a little!

And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison—what a splendid sight it is! How sternly the defenders of their country look round the house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may make themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they (the military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are ready for anything. And what a contrast between them, and that stage-box full of grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles about them, who have nothing at all in common with the military young gentlemen, and who—but for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in their looks and bearing—might be common hard-working soldiers for anything they take the pains to announce to the contrary!

Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too, only he doesn’t care to show it just now. Very well done indeed! He talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but one to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same ordeal of criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly inaudible tone, the majority of the female portion of the audience. Oh! a gentleman in the same box looks round as if he were disposed to resent this as an impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman sees his friends at once, and hurries away to them with the most charming cordiality.

Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he was walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young ladies and commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a triumphant bow upon a rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying any military young gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors from that moment three of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen in the whole world.

Il giovane gentiluomo militare

Siamo davvero perplessi nel capire come sia possibile che questi giovani ufficiali militari abbiano ottenuto tanto favore agli occhi delle giovani signore di questo regno. Non possiamo considerarli con troppa leggerezza, pensando che il semplice fatto di indossare un abito rosso basti a garantire loro l’attenzione femminile; e anche se fosse così, questa spiegazione non sarebbe sufficiente, perché, sebbene l’analogia possa in parte valere nel caso dei cocchieri delle diligenze o delle guardie, i postini comuni indossano anch’essi abiti rossi, ma per quanto ne sappiamo non sono più apprezzati delle altre persone; lo stesso vale per i vigili del fuoco, che non solo indossano abiti rossi, ma anche distintivi molto vistosi e ingombranti, molto più grandi delle spalline militari. Nemmeno i ragazzi addetti alle poste, se le nostre indagini sono corrette, godono di qualche particolare favore presso le donne, nonostante indossino giacche rosse brillanti e abbiano il vantaggio di comparire costantemente in pubblico a cavallo, un aspetto che potrebbe naturalmente essere considerato a loro favore.

A volte abbiamo pensato che questo fenomeno possa nascere dal comportamento convenzionale di capitani, colonnelli e altri gentiluomini in abiti rossi sul palco, dove vengono sempre rappresentati come individui eleganti e spavaldi, che parlano solo di ragazze affascinanti, del loro re e della loro patria, del loro .onore e dei loro debiti, e si compiacciono delle classi inferiori della società, trattandole talvolta con piccoli trucchi e inganni, non tanto per il divertimento del pubblico, quanto per la soddisfazione di quegli spiriti raffinati che li frequentano. Ma non dedicheremo queste pagine alle nostre speculazioni su questo argomento, poiché al momento il nostro interesse non riguarda tanto le giovani donne incantate dall’aspetto di questi gentiluomini, quanto i giovani uomini i cui pensieri vengono influenzati da essi. Inizialmente avevamo scritto “menti”, ma dopo riflessione riteniamo che “testa” sia la parola più appropriata tra le due.

Questi giovani signori possono essere divisi in due categorie: da un lato, quelli che effettivamente servono nell’esercito; dall’altro, quelli che, pur provando una profonda e appassionata ammirazione per tutto ciò che riguarda la vita militare, sono costretti, a causa di circostanze sfavorevoli o relazioni negative, a trascorrere la loro esistenza in qualche umiliante ufficio contabile. Prenderemo in considerazione quest’ultima categoria di giovani signori legati al mondo militare per prima cosa.

L’intero cuore e l''anima di questo giovane ufficiale militare sono concentrati nel suo argomento preferito. Non c’è nulla su cui sia così versato come sulle uniformi: vi potrà dire, senza esitazione nemmeno per un istante, quali siano i distintivi di ogni reggimento, quale reggimento indossi strisce sia sul davanti che sul retro delle gambe dell’uniforme, e quante bottoni abbia il giubbotto del Decimo Reggimento; conosce con precisione quante iarde e pollici di pizzo d’oro siano necessari per realizzare una bandiera da ufficiale nella Guardia Reale; è molto esperto anche nel confronto dei meriti diversi delle varie bande musicali militari, nonché nell’abbigliamento dei trombettieri; ed è davvero brillante quando parla dei “reggimenti eccezionali” e degli ufficiali che li compongono, di cui non si stanca mai di raccontare la potenza e la grandezza.

Qualche giorno fa stavamo suggerendo a un giovane ufficiale militare, dopo che ci aveva raccontato diversi esempi straordinari riguardanti l’abbondanza di quegli “onorevoli ufficiali” dai guanti di velluto e dalle scarpe lucide. Gli dicemmo che forse definirli semplicemente “ufficiali corrotti” sarebbe stato più appropriato, poiché tale termine era più esplicito e significativo. Ma lui ci interruppe all’improvviso, tirò fuori l’orologio e disse di dover correre in taxi al Parco, altrimenti sarebbe arrivato troppo tardi per ascoltare l’esecuzione dell’orchestra. Non volendo interferire con un impegno così importante, e essendo già un po’ sopraffatti dalle storie degli “onorevoli ufficiali” di cui aveva parlato, non tentammo nemmeno di trattenerlo, ma ci congedammo da lui con la massima cordialità.

Circa tre o quattro ore dopo, ci trovavamo a camminare lungo Whitehall, sul lato dell’Admiralty; mentre ci avvicinavamo a uno di quei piccoli posti in pietra dove due soldati a cavallo montavano la guardia durante il giorno, fummo attratti dall’aspetto immobile e dallo sguardo attento di un giovane gentiluomo che fissava con grande intensità sia l’uomo che il cavallo, tanto da sembrare sordo e cieco a tutto ciò che lo circondava. Non fummo molto sorpresi nello scoprire che si trattava del nostro amico, quel giovane gentiluomo militare; tuttavia rimanemmo un po’ stupiti quando, tornando da una passeggiata a South Lambeth, lo trovammo ancora lì, intento a osservare con la stessa intensità di prima. Poiché faceva molto vento, decidemmo di “risvegliare” il giovane gentiluomo dalla sua contemplazione; lui ci chiese con grande entusiasmo se “quello non fosse uno spettacolo magnifico”, e poi iniziò a descriverci nei dettagli il peso di ogni singola parte dell’attrezzatura utilizzata per lo spettacolo, dalle mani del soldato ai piedi del cavallo.

Da allora abbiamo preso l’abitudine di portare con noi le guardie a cavallo durante le nostre passeggiate quotidiane; ci siamo resi conto che è consuetudine per i giovani ufficiali militari mettersi di fronte alle sentinelle e osservarle con calma, per periodi che vanno da quindici a cinquanta minuti, con una media di venticinque. Un giorno o due fa ci ha molto colpito il comportamento di un giovane macellaio molto promettente: dimostrando un grande interesse per questo servizio (un interesse che non può essere abbastanza incoraggiato), dopo aver osservato a lungo la sentinella, ha iniziato a esaminare con grande curiosità le sue scarpe, mostrando una calma e indifferenza tali da far pensare che si trattasse di una statua di cera.

Ma quel vero e proprio giovane gentiluomo militare aspetta tutto questo tempo, e nel preciso istante in cui una scusa sta per uscire dalle nostre labbra, lui emerge dal cancello della caserma (è di stanza in una città di guarnigione) e si dirige verso la strada principale. Indossa l’uniforme da riposo, che in qualche modo offusca la maestosità del suo aspetto esteriore; ma comunque, quanto è grande, quanto imponente! Che meravigliosa combinazione di grazia e ferocia nel suo passo e nel suo portamento. E come porta con noncuranza quella terribile _spada sotto il braccio, senza darci minimamente peso, come se fosse un ombrello di seta! Il leone è addormentato. Ma pensate solo: se ci fosse un nemico in vista, quanto in fretta la sguainerebbe dalla custodia. Che terribile individuo sarebbe allora!

Ma lui continua ad andare avanti, pensando soltanto a sangue e stragi; ora vede davanti a sé altri tre giovani ufficiali militari, armati fino ai denti, che avanzano verso di lui, facendo risuonare i tacchi dei loro stivali sul marciapiede e sferrando colpi di spada con un rumore tale da far tremare d’orrore qualsiasi uomo pacifico. Si fermano per parlare. Guardate come quel giovane dai capelli biondi e dalle gambe deboli – quello che ha infilato il fazzoletto nel petto del suo cappotto – guarda con disprezzo quei civili timidi che si soffermano ad ammirare la sua “gloria”; come l’altro giovane alza la testa con aria maestosa e incrocia le braccia; mentre il terzo sta fermo, con le gambe ben divaricate, tenendo le mani dietro la schiena. Beh, possiamo chiedervelo seriamente – non in modo scherzoso, ma con rispetto – se davvero considerate tutto ciò nulla. Oh! Se qualche potenza straniera invasiva, ad esempio l’Imperatore di Russia, potesse vedere quei giovani ufficiali mentre avanzano insieme verso la sala da biliardo, non tremerebbe anche lui un po’?

E poi, al teatro di notte, quando gli spettacoli sono organizzati su ordine del Colonnello Fitz-Sordust e degli ufficiali della guarnigione, che spettacolo meraviglioso! Con quanta determinazione i difensori della loro patria osservano l’ambiente circostante, come se volessero assicurare silenziosamente il pubblico che sono pronti ad affrontare qualsiasi invasione straniera. Quei giovani ufficiali, infatti, stanno all’erta e sono pronti a tutto. E che contrasto con quegli ufficiali anziani, pieni di segni delle molte battaglie combattute, che non hanno assolutamente nulla in comune con loro. Se non per quella sorta di dignità maschile tradizionale nel loro aspetto e nel loro comportamento, potrebbero benissimo essere semplici soldati laboriosi, se non fosse per l’impressione che danno!

Ah! Ecco una famiglia appena entrata che riconosce quel giovane gentiluomo dai capelli biondi; e anche il giovane gentiluomo dai capelli biondi li riconosce, solo che in questo momento non ha voglia di mostrarlo. Davvero molto bene fatto! Parla più ad alta voce con quel piccolo gruppo di giovani ufficiali che stanno accanto a lui, e tossisce per attirare l’attenzione di alcune signore nella fila accanto, affinché anche loro vengano sottoposte allo stesso giudizio critico, espresso, sebbene non in un tono del tutto inaudibile, dalla maggior parte delle donne presenti nell’auditoria. Oh! Un gentiluomo nella stessa fila si gira intorno, come se fosse disposto a considerare questo comportamento una maleducazione; il giovane gentiluomo dai capelli biondi vede subito i suoi amici e corre verso di loro con la massima cordialità.

Tre giovani signore, un giovane uomo e la madre dell’evento accolgono con grande calore e cortesia il giovane ufficiale militare; cinque minuti dopo, spinto dalla madre, il giovane ufficiale presenta gli altri due giovani ufficiali militari con cui aveva passeggiato quella mattina. Questi ultimi prendono posto dietro le giovani signore e iniziano a conversare. A quel punto, la madre si inchina trionfante verso un’altra madre che, non essendo riuscita ad attirare nessun giovane ufficiale militare, considera i suoi ospiti da quel momento in poi come tre dei giovani più eleganti e distinti di tutto il mondo.

THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Once upon a time—not in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more recent period of our history—it was customary to banish politics when ladies were present. If this usage still prevailed, we should have had no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was. But as this good custom in common with many others has ‘gone out,’ and left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.

If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and there are political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he is wholly absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles communicate the same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so the political glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his mental vision, give to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling. The political young gentleman would as soon think of being struck with the beauty of a young lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream of marrying his sister to the opposite member.

If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be very easily got over by the other side. He has also some choice sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at intervals with surprising effect. But his great topic is the constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with much heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the subject, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church and state, and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the fellows on the other side say it isn’t, which is quite a sufficient reason for him to say it is, and to stick to it.

Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people. If a fight takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a few windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a triumphant air, and exclaims, ‘Here’s your precious people!’ If half-a-dozen boys run across the course at race time, when it ought to be kept clear, the young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs you to observe the conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman cries ‘No’ and ‘Shame’ till he is hoarse, and then inquires with a sneer what you think of popular moderation now; in short, the people form a never-failing theme for him; and when the attorney, on the side of his candidate, dwells upon it with great power of eloquence at election time, as he never fails to do, the young gentleman and his friends, and the body they head, cheer with great violence against the other people, with whom, of course, they have no possible connexion. In much the same manner the audience at a theatre never fail to be highly amused with any jokes at the expense of the public—always laughing heartily at some other public, and never at themselves.

If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical deductions therefrom. If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country, the position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance of power. Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of political economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great many parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of aphorisms, none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which will settle the toughest question and leave you nothing to say. He gives all the young ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the greatest woman that ever lived; and when they praise the good looks of Mr. Hawkins the new member, says he’s very well for a representative, all things considered, but he wants a little calling to account, and he is more than half afraid it will be necessary to bring him down on his knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. At this, the young ladies express much wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament is not to be brought upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the political young gentleman smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints regarding the speedy arrival of that day, when Members of Parliament will be paid salaries, and required to render weekly accounts of their proceedings, at which the young ladies utter many expressions of astonishment and incredulity, while their lady-mothers regard the prophecy as little else than blasphemous.

It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about chipping all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got into the Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the crown on their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms in the armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the Minories. Upon these, and many other momentous questions which agitate the public mind in these desperate days, they will discourse with great vehemence and irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving off precisely where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he has got the better of the other.

In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when, thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their favourite discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail. They have recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in churches, but as there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must not be contradicted, whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to hold their tongues until they reach the outer door, though at the imminent risk of bursting in the effort.

As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our advice to discountenance such talkers altogether.

Il giovane gentiluomo politico

C’era una volta, non nei tempi in cui i maiali bevevano vino, ma in un periodo più recente della nostra storia, era consuetudine evitare di parlare di politica quando c’erano donne presenti. Se questa usanza fosse ancora in vigore, non avremmo mai avuto questo capitolo dedicato ai giovani gentiluomini politici: le donne, infatti, non saprebbero nemmeno cosa sia un giovane gentiluomo politico, né gliene importerebbe nulla. Ma poiché questa e molte altre buone usanze sono ormai scomparse senza lasciare traccia del loro passaggio, e poiché i giovani gentiluomini politici non sono affatto rari, abbiamo il dovere, nel rispetto dei nostri compiti più importanti, di non trascurare questa naturale divisione dei temi da trattare.

Se il giovane gentiluomo politico risiede in una città di provincia (e a volte, nelle città di provincia, ci sono davvero giovani gentiluomini politici), è completamente assorbito dalla politica; proprio come un paio di occhiali viola conferiscono lo stesso colore uniforme a tutti gli oggetti, vicini o lontani, anche questi “occhiali politici”, con cui il giovane gentiluomo “aiuta” la propria visione mentale, danno a tutto il colore e il tono dei propri pregiudizi partitici. Il giovane gentiluomo politico non penserebbe mai di essere attratto dalla bellezza di una giovane donna che condivide opinioni opposte alle sue; allo stesso modo, non sognerebbe mai di sposare sua sorella con un membro del partito avversario.

Se quel giovane gentiluomo politico è conservatore, di solito ha alcune idee vaghe riguardo all’Irlanda e al Papa: idee che non riesce a spiegare con precisione, ma sa che sono le giuste e che non possono essere facilmente confutate dall’altra parte. Possiede anche alcune frasi fatte riguardanti la separazione tra chiesa e stato, prese dai manifesti utilizzati alle ultime elezioni; le inserisce nella conversazione a intervalli regolari, con effetti sorprendenti. Ma il suo argomento preferito è la costituzione: ne parla per ore intere, con grande passione e fervore. Non perché abbia informazioni particolari sull’argomento, ma perché sa che la costituzione ha a che fare in qualche modo con chiesa e stato, e che coloro dell’altra parte sostengono il contrario; il che è più che sufficiente per lui per affermare il contrario e attenersi fermamente a questa posizione.

Forse il suo argomento preferito è proprio la gente. Se durante una rissa in una città affollata vengono rotte molte nasi e alcune finestre, quel giovane signore getta a terra il giornale con aria trionfante e esclama: “Ecco la vostra preziosa gente!” Se sei ragazzi corrono attraverso il campo di gara nel bel mezzo della competizione, quando invece dovrebbe essere tenuto libero, quel giovane signore guarda intorno con indignazione e vi chiede di osservare il comportamento della gente. Se il pubblico in platea richiede che durante l’intervallo tra un atto e l’altro si suoni la cornamusa, lo stesso giovane signore grida “No” e “Che vergogna!” fino a perdere la voce, per poi chiedervi con disprezzo cosa pensiate della moderazione popolare. Insomma, la gente rappresenta sempre un argomento ricorrente nelle sue discussioni; e quando l’avvocato, al servizio del suo candidato, si sofferma su questo tema con grande eloquenza durante le elezioni – come fa sempre – quel giovane signore e i suoi amici, insieme al gruppo che guidano, esultano con violenza contro “quella gente”, con la quale, naturalmente, non hanno alcun legame reale. Nello stesso modo, il pubblico in teatro si diverte sempre molto alle battute fatte a scapito del “pubblico”, ridendo sempre di cuore di un altro “pubblico”, mai di se stesso.

Se il giovane signore politico appartiene alla corrente radicale, di solito è davvero una persona molto profonda: ha un’ampia conoscenza di questioni teoriche da porre all’interlocutore, nonché una vasta gamma di casi possibili e deduzioni logiche da esse derivanti. Se appartiene anche alla scuola utilitarista – il che è più che probabile – diventa un compagno particolarmente piacevole: è in grado di formulare osservazioni ingegnose riguardo al principio del volontarismo, nonché varie discussioni divertenti sull’aumento della popolazione, sulla posizione della Gran Bretagna tra le nazioni e sull’equilibrio dei poteri. In tal caso, è estremamente versato in tutte le dottrine dell’economia politica pubblicate sui giornali e conosce a memoria molti discorsi parlamentari; possiede anche una serie di aforismi, ciascuno lungo al massimo due righe, capaci di risolvere anche la questione più complessa, lasciando l’interlocutore senza parole. Fa capire alle giovani signore che Miss Martineau è la donna più grande che sia mai vissuta; e quando queste lodano l’aspetto attraente del nuovo membro del Parlamento, lui afferma che, considerato tutto, sia davvero adatto a ricoprire tale incarico, ma che abbia bisogno di essere “tenuto sotto controllo”, temendo che possa risultare necessario costringerlo a inginocchiarsi per quella votazione sugli stanziamenti vari. Le giovani signore esprimono grande meraviglia, osservando che certamente un membro del Parlamento non dovrebbe essere costretto a inginocchiarsi così facilmente; al che il giovane signore politico risponde con un sorriso cupo, facendo insinuazioni riguardo all’imminente arrivo di quel giorno in cui i membri del Parlamento riceveranno uno stipendio e dovranno presentare ogni settimana rendiconti sulle loro attività. Le giovani signore esprimono ancora più stupore e incredulità, mentre le loro madri considerano questa profezia nient’altro che blasfema.

È estremamente interessante e istruttivo ascoltare due giovani gentiluomini politici, con opinioni diverse, discutere di importanti questioni attorno a un tavolo da pranzo; ad esempio, se, se il pubblico potesse entrare gratuitamente nella Westminster Abbey, porterebbe con sé piccoli scalpelli e martelli per danneggiare le statue; o se, se potesse accedere alla Torre di Londra in cambio di una moneta, non tenterebbe di mettersi la corona da solo e di sparare con tutte le armi presenti nell’armeria, causando grande scompiglio in Whitechapel e nelle zone circostanti. Su queste e molte altre questioni cruciali che agitano l’opinione pubblica in questi tempi difficili, discuteranno con grande fervore per un bel po’, senza mai arrivare a una conclusione definitiva, ognuno convinto di aver avuto la meglio sull’altro.

Nella società, durante le assemblee, i balli e alle rappresentazioni teatrali, questi giovani gentiluomini politici sono costantemente alla ricerca di allusioni politiche, o di qualsiasi cosa possa essere interpretata come tale; non appena trovano l’occasione per esprimere i loro discorsi preferiti, si gettano su di essa con grande entusiasmo. Di recente hanno avuto molte opportunità per farlo nelle chiese, ma poiché lì il clero ha totale libertà di espressione e non può essere contraddetto, indipendentemente dal contenuto dei suoi discorsi politici, questi giovani preferiscono tacere fino a quando non raggiungono l’uscita, anche a rischio di esplodere per la frustrazione.

Poiché simili discussioni non possono piacere a nessuno se non alle parti coinvolte nel discorso, >speriamo che da ora in poi prendano atto di questo e le interrompano; altrimenti, li avvertiamo che le signore ci hanno consigliato di ignorare completamente queste persone.

THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon. We are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he will answer our purpose without another word of comment.

Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother, just within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St. Martin-le-Grand. He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries spectacles for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice, of which he makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady breathing.

The two chief subjects of Felix’s discourse, are himself and his mother, both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting persons. As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and his mother are scarcely ever separate in spirit. If you ask Felix how he finds himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute bulletin of his mother’s state of health; and the good lady in her turn, edifies her acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming account, how he sneezed four times and coughed once after being out in the rain the other night, but having his feet promptly put into hot water, and his head into a flannel-something, which we will not describe more particularly than by this delicate allusion, was happily brought round by the next morning, and enabled to go to business as usual.

Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon which Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought would have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite, for he continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix took out his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed out the fare in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he shut the street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of; and then, roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman knocking a double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he broke with uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl, and running into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at the coachman, and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon says, looking about her for a simile, as white as that ceiling. She never will forget his fury that night, Never!

To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking at you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end of it, adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks afterwards, in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs. Nixon, with an exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would have done to him if he had seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly and clenching his right fist, she exclaims, ‘Goodness gracious!’ with a distracted air, and insists upon extorting a promise that he never will on any account do anything so rash, which her dutiful son—it being something more than three years since the offence was committed—reluctantly concedes, and his mother, shaking her head prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit will lead him into something violent yet. The discourse then, by an easy transition, turns upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix, upon which point Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling anecdote of the time when he used to sit up till two o’clock in the morning reading French, and how his mother used to say, ‘Felix, you will make yourself ill, I know you will;’ and how he used to say, ‘Mother, I don’t care—I will do it;’ and how at last his mother privately procured a doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse, that if he had gone on reading one night more—only one night more—he must have put a blister on each temple, and another between his shoulders; and who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a prescription for a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he wouldn’t answer for the consequences. The recital of these and many other moving perils of the like nature, constantly harrows up the feelings of Mr. Nixon’s friends.

Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance, being a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the unmarried girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of her son, hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but that they must mind their P’s and Q’s, for he is very particular, and terribly severe upon young ladies. At this last caution the young ladies resident in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening there, put their pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are troubled with a short cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and his mother drawing the tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as he takes off his boots in the back parlour that he needn’t mind coming in in his slippers, for there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss Thompson, and she is quite sure they will excuse him, and nodding to the two Miss Greys, she adds, in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a great favourite with Felix, at which intelligence the short cough comes again, and Miss Thompson in particular is greatly troubled with it, till Felix coming in, very faint for want of his tea, changes the subject of discourse, and enables her to laugh out boldly and tell Amelia Grey not to be so foolish. Here they all three laugh, and Mrs. Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage of the proceedings, Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with the grateful herb that ‘cheers but not inebriates,’ removes his cup from his countenance and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are; whereat his admiring mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be sly, which calls forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another smile from Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly satisfied.

Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card. This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties, he brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest Miss Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed. Finally, after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson’s servant to run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her house, five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but one stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes back again, when they call out ‘Very well, Mr. Felix,’ and trip into the passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever played.

Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a thorough old bachelor. He is a favourite with them however, in a certain way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as his peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope that many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good word in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance of his harmless existence.

Il giovane gentiluomo di casa

Facciamo un breve schizzo del nostro simpatico amico, il signor Felix Nixon. Siamo convinti che, se lo mettiamo in questa situazione, lui risponderà perfettamente al nostro scopo senza bisogno di altre parole.

Felix, dunque, è un giovane gentiluomo che vive a >casa con sua madre, proprio all’interno dell’area del distretto postale di tre miglia da St. Martin-le-Grand. Indossa stivali di gomma quando il tempo è umido, e sempre tiene un fazzoletto di seta ben piegato nella tasca destra del suo cappotto, per coprirsi la bocca quando torna a >casa di notte; inoltre, essendo leggermente miope, porta occhiali per occasioni particolari, e ha una voce un po’ tremolante che utilizza molto spesso, perché parla tantissimo, quanto qualsiasi vecchia signora.

I due argomenti principali del discorso di Felix sono lui stesso e sua madre; entrambi sembrano essere persone davvero meravigliose e interessanti. Poiché Felix e sua madre raramente si separano fisicamente, allo stesso modo difficilmente si separano anche spiritualmente. Se chiedete a Felix come si sente oggi, egli inizia la sua risposta con un dettagliato resoconto dello stato di salute di sua madre; e la buona signora, a sua volta, intrattiene le persone che la ascoltano con un racconto circostanziato e allarmante riguardo al fatto che Felix abbia starnutito quattro volte e tossito una volta dopo essere stato sotto la pioggia la sera precedente. Ma poiché i suoi piedi sono stati immediatamente immersi in acqua calda e la sua testa coperta con un panno di flanella – cosa che non descriveremo più in dettaglio – il giorno seguente si è ripreso felicemente e ha potuto tornare alle sue normali attività.

Il nostro amico non è certo una persona avventurosa o impulsiva, ma ha affrontato molti pericoli, come può testimoniare sua madre: c’è in particolare una storia molto interessante riguardo a un cocchiere che, una notte, cercò di fargli pagare di più per riportarli a casa dopo lo spettacolo. Felix lanciò al cocchiere uno sguardo tale che sua madre pensò avrebbe potuto schiacciarlo a terra, ma non fu così: il cocchiere continuò comunque a chiedere altri sei penny, nonostante Felix tirasse fuori il portafoglio e, con l’aiuto di una candela, gli indicasse chiaramente la tariffa stabilita. Il cocchiere, però, ignorò completamente le sue richieste e sbatté la porta con tale forza che sua madre ne ha ancora incubi. Alla fine, esasperato dal comportamento del cocchiere, Felix si allontanò di corsa senza cappello, minacciandolo con il pugno; tornò poi a casa con il viso pallido come il soffitto, dice la signora Nixon. Non dimenticherà mai quell’ira, quella notte. Mai!

Felix ascolta questa storia con un’espressione solenne, guardandoti di tanto in tanto per vedere quale effetto abbia su di te; quando sua madre finisce di raccontare, aggiunge che, per tre settimane consecutive, ha osservato ogni cocchiere che incontrava nella speranza di rivedere quel mascalzone. A queste parole, la signora Nixon esclama in preda al terrore, chiedendo cosa avrebbe fatto se lo avesse davvero visto; Felix, sorridendo cupamente e stringendo il pugno destro, le fa capire che non si sa mai cosa possa accadere. La madre insiste allora affinché prometta di non commettere mai più simili imprudenze; il figlio, dopo qualche esitazione – essendo trascorsi ormai più di tre anni dall’episodio – acconsente riluttante. La madre, scuotendo la testa con premonizione, teme che il suo spirito lo porti ancora a commettere atti violenti. Il discorso prosegue poi parlando dello “spirito” che arde nel petto di Felix; su questo argomento, Felix stesso diventa eloquente e racconta un’emozionante aneddota del tempo in cui leggeva francese fino alle due di notte: sua madre gli diceva sempre che si sarebbe ammalato, ma lui rispondeva che non gli importava. Alla fine, sua madre fece venire un dottore, il quale, dopo avergli misurato la pulsazione, dichiarò che se avesse continuato a leggere anche solo una notte in più, gli sarebbero apparse vesciche su entrambe le tempie e tra le spalle. Il dottore prescrisse immediatamente un farmaco da assumere senza indugio. La descrizione di questi e molti altri pericoli simili commuove profondamente gli amici del signor Nixon.

La signora Nixon ha un cerchio di conoscenti femminili abbastanza ampio; essendo una persona allegra, loquace e vivace, spesso esalta le virtù di suo figlio davanti alle ragazze single, suggerendo che chi lo conquisterà sarà molto fortunata, ma avverte che devono comportarsi in modo appropriato, perché lui è molto esigente e severo con le giovani donne. A quest’ultima raccomandazione, le ragazze che si trovavano lì quella sera si coprirono la bocca con i fazzoletti e iniziarono a tossire leggermente; proprio in quel momento Felix bussò alla porta. Sua madre, avvicinando il tavolino da tè al fuoco, gli disse che poteva entrare anche in pantofole, poiché c’erano solo le due signorine Grey e la signorina Thompson, e sicuramente loro lo perdonerebbero. Poi, sussurrando alle due signorine Grey, aggiunse che la signorina Thompson era molto amata da Felix. A queste parole, le ragazze iniziarono a tossire ancora di più, soprattutto la signorina Thompson. Ma quando Felix entrò, visibilmente stanco per la mancanza di tè, il discorso cambiò e tutte poterono ridere liberamente, dicendo ad Amelia Grey di non essere così sciocca. Alla fine, la signora Nixon le definì “ragazze birichine”; intanto Felix, che ormai si era ripreso con quella bevanda che “rallegra senza ubriacare”, prese la sua tazza e, con un sorriso complice, dichiarò che tutte le ragazze sono così. Sua madre gli diede una pacca sulla schiena, dicendogli di non essere furbo. Il che scatenò un’altra risata tra le ragazze e un altro sorriso da parte di Felix, che si trovava davvero molto soddisfatto di sé.

Dopo aver finito il tè, le giovani signore riprendono il loro lavoro; Felix insiste nel tenere un gomitolo di seta mentre la signorina Thompson lo avvolge su una cartolina. Una volta completato questo processo, a soddisfazione di tutti, abbassa la sua flauta su richiesta della più giovane delle signorine Grey e suona diverse melodie tratte da un piccolissimo libro musicale, fino all’ora di cena, quando diventa davvero molto scherzoso e loquace. Infine, dopo aver bevuto mezzo bicchiere di sherry caldo e acqua, si infila con galanteria i suoi stivali sopra le pantofole e, chiedendo alla serva della signorina Thompson di andare avanti ad aprire la porta, accompagna quella giovane signora fino a casa sua, situata a cinque porte di distanza. Le altre signorine Grey che abitano nella casa accanto si fermano per spiare con volti felici dalla loro porta finché lui non torna indietro; allora esclamano “Molto bene, signor Felix!” e ridono così forte da far sembrare quel suono più musicale di qualsiasi melodia suonata con una flauta.

Felix ha un aspetto piuttosto rigido; forse è anche un po’ pedante riguardo ai suoi libri e alla sua flauta, oggetti che occupano tutti angoli particolari sugli scaffali della sua camera da letto. Infatti, tutte le sue conoscenti (e sono persone molto giudiziose) lo considerano ormai da tempo un vero e proprio vecchio scapolo. Tuttavia, in un certo senso, è molto apprezzato da loro: è una persona onesta, inoffensiva e dal cuore gentile. Poiché le sue stranezze non danneggiano nessuno, nemmeno lui stesso, possiamo sperare che molte persone che non lo conoscono personalmente presteranno ascolto alle nostre parole a suo favore e acconsentiranno a lasciarlo proseguire la sua vita innocua.

THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society, upon whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over of the subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above appellation. Young ladies mildly call him a ‘sarcastic’ young gentleman, or a ‘severe’ young gentleman. We, who know better, beg to acquaint them with the fact, that he is merely a censorious young gentleman, and nothing else.

The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars of a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer, accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but good-humour. This sets people about thinking what on earth the censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in this way—‘This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep meaning he must have if I can’t find it out!’ It is extraordinary how soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own small circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings accordingly.

As young ladies are generally—not curious, but laudably desirous to acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked about among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him. ‘I wonder,’ exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to turn up the lamp, ‘I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.’ ‘Bless me, dear,’ cries Miss Marshall, ‘what ever made you think of him?’ ‘Really I hardly know,’ replies Miss Greenwood; ‘he is such a very mysterious person, that I often wonder about him.’ ‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ replies Miss Marshall, ‘and so do I.’ Here two other young ladies profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all present appear in the same condition except one young lady, who, not scrupling to state that she considers Mr. Fairfax ‘a horror,’ draws down all the opposition of the others, which having been expressed in a great many ejaculatory passages, such as ‘Well, did I ever!’—and ‘Lor, Emily, dear!’ ma takes up the subject, and gravely states, that she must say she does not think Mr. Fairfax by any means a horror, but rather takes him to be a young man of very great ability; ‘and I am quite sure,’ adds the worthy lady, ‘he always means a great deal more than he says.’

The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the subject of conversation! ‘Well, it really is curious,’ cries ma, ‘we were at that very moment talking about you.’ ‘You did me great honour,’ replies Mr. Fairfax; ‘may I venture to ask what you were saying?’ ‘Why, if you must know,’ returns the eldest girl, ‘we were remarking what a very mysterious man you are.’ ‘Ay, ay!’ observes Mr. Fairfax, ‘Indeed!’ Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of somebody, which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young gentleman is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, ‘Oh, dear, no,’ in a tone, obviously intended to mean, ‘You have me there,’ and which gives them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the very centre of its head.

When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the censorious young gentleman’s behaviour, to the general topics of the day, he sustains his character to admiration. He considers the new tragedy well enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us—well, no matter; he could say a great deal on that point, but he would rather not, lest he should be thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be. ‘But is not Mr. So-and-so’s performance truly charming?’ inquires a young lady. ‘Charming!’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Oh, dear, yes, certainly; very charming—oh, very charming indeed.’ After this, he stirs the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a modest young gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a great thing it must be, to have such a critical judgment. Of music, pictures, books, and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an equally fine conception. As to men and women, he can tell all about them at a glance. ‘Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,’ says some great believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, ‘but don’t be too severe.’ ‘I never am severe,’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Well, never mind that now. She is very lady-like, is she not?’ ‘Lady-like!’ repeats the censorious young gentleman (for he always repeats when he is at a loss for anything to say). ‘Did you observe her manner? Bless my heart and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you observe her manner?—that’s all I ask.’ ‘I thought I had done so,’ rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; ‘I did not observe it very closely perhaps.’ ‘Oh, not very closely,’ rejoins the censorious young gentleman, triumphantly. ‘Very good; then I did. Let us talk no more about her.’ The censorious young gentleman purses up his lips, and nods his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith whispered about, that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced, must be admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker’s manner.

Il giovane gentiluomo troppo critico

C’è un giovane gentiluomo piacevole e affabile che frequenta la società; dopo averlo conosciuto a lungo e aver riflettuto molto su di lui, riteniamo nostro dovere attribuirgli il soprannome sopra menzionato. Le giovani signore lo chiamano scherzosamente “un giovane gentiluomo sarcastico” o “un giovane gentiluomo severo”. Noi, che sappiamo meglio, vorremmo far loro comprendere che in realtà è soltanto un giovane gentiluomo critico e nient’altro.

Il giovane signore critico gode tra i suoi conoscenti della reputazione di essere una persona estremamente intelligente; mantiene questa immagine ricevendo tutte le informazioni e esprimendo ogni opinione con un sorriso beffardo, accompagnato da un mezzo-sorriso che può significare qualsiasi cosa tranne buon umore. Questo induce le persone a chiedersi cosa intenda veramente il giovane signore critico, e rapidamente giungono alla conclusione che debba trattarsi di qualcosa di molto profondo, perché pensano così: “Questo giovane sembra sapere tutto; quindi deve sicuramente intendere qualcosa di importante. E poiché io non sono certo una persona stupida, allora il significato deve essere davvero profondo, se non riesco a capirlo!” È straordinario quanto in fretta un giovane signore critico possa farsi una reputazione nel proprio piccolo cerchio, se tiene a mente questo approccio e regola le proprie azioni di conseguenza.

Poiché le giovani signorine di solito non sono curiose, ma desiderano onestamente acquisire informazioni, il giovane gentiluomo critico viene molto discusso tra loro, e si fanno molte congetture su di lui. “Mi chiedo”, esclama la più anziana delle signorine Greenwood, mettendo da parte il suo lavoro per accendere la lampada, “se il signor Fairfax si sposerà mai”. “Mio Dio, cara”, risponde la signorina Marshall, “che cosa ti ha fatto pensare a lui?”. “Onestamente non lo so proprio”, replica la signorina Greenwood; “è una persona così misteriosa che spesso mi chiedo cose su di lui”. “Beh, per dirti la verità, ”, risponde la signorina Marshall, “anch’io lo faccio”. Altre due giovani signorine affermano di fare lo stesso, e tutte sembrano condividere questa curiosità, tranne una che, senza alcuna esitazione, definisce il signor Fairfax “un orrore”, riducendo così tutte le obiezioni delle altre. Queste obiezioni sono state espresse in molti esclamazioni del tipo “Beh, davvero!, ” o “Oh, Emily, cara, ”, ma quella giovane signora insiste seriamente nel dire che non considera affatto il signor Fairfax un orrore, anzi lo ritiene un giovane di grande capacità; “E sono assolutamente certa”, aggiunge, “che dica sempre molto di più di quanto effettivamente intenda”.

In questo momento la porta si apre, e chi mai potrebbe entrare nella stanza se non proprio il signor Fairfax, di cui stavamo parlando? “Beh, è davvero curioso,” esclama la madre, “poco fa stavamo proprio discutendo di voi.” “Mi avete fatto un grande onore,” risponde il signor Fairfax; “posso chiedervi di cosa parlavate?” “Ebbene, se proprio volete saperlo,” replica la figlia maggiore, “stavamo dicendo quanto siate un uomo misterioso.” “Ah, ah!” commenta il signor Fairfax. Ora, queste parole apparentemente banali, pronunciate con un tono enigmatico e accompagnate da un sorriso ambiguo, convincono ancora di più la madre e le ragazze che lui intenda qualcosa di molto grave; perciò gli dicono che è un uomo davvero pericoloso, che sembra sempre pensare male di qualcuno. Proprio il tipo di carattere che quei giovani critici desiderano tanto diffondere. Allora lui risponde: “Oh, no, ” in un tono che, chiaramente, vuol dire: “Avete colpito nel segno”, confermando loro di aver indovinato esattamente ciò che volevano dire.

Quando la conversazione passa dal mistero che avvolge il comportamento di quel giovane signore critico ai temi più generali della giornata, egli mantiene sempre il proprio carattere, suscitando ammirazione. Ritiene che quella nuova tragedia sia abbastanza interessante da meritare attenzione. Ma, per fortuna, non dice molto al riguardo; preferirebbe evitare di esprimersi, per non essere considerato scortese, come sa bene che accadrebbe. “Ma l’interpretazione del signor tal-de-tale non è davvero incantevole?”, chiede una giovane donna. “Incantevole!”, risponde il giovane signore critico. “Oh, sì, certamente; molto incantevole, davvero molto.” Dopo queste parole, ravviva il fuoco, sorridendo con disprezzo tutto il tempo; mentre un giovane gentiluomo modesto, che ha ascoltato in silenzio, pensa quanto sia straordinario possedere un giudizio così critico. Per quanto riguarda musica, dipinti, libri e poesia, anche su questi argomenti il giovane signore critico ha una visione molto precisa. Quanto agli uomini e alle donne, riesce a capirli tutti in un istante. “Ora sentiamo la tua opinione sulla giovane signora Barker”, dice qualcuno che crede molto nelle capacità del signor Fairfax, “ma non essere troppo severo.” “Io non sono mai severo”, risponde il giovane signore critico. “Beh, lascia stare. È davvero una signora perbene, vero?” “Una signora perbene!”, ripete lui (perché quando non sa cosa dire, tende sempre a ripetere le stesse parole). “Hai notato il suo comportamento? Per l’amor del cielo, signora Thompson, hai davvero notato il suo comportamento? Questo è tutto ciò che voglio sapere.” “Credo di sì, forse non l’ho osservato con molta attenzione”, risponde la povera donna, molto perplessa. “Oh, no, affatto”, ribatte lui trionfante. “Molto bene, allora io l’ho notato. Lasciamo perdere.” Il giovane signore critico stringe le labbra e annuisce saggiamente mentre lo dice; e subito in giro si comincia a sussurrare che il signor Fairfax (che, anche se un po’ prevenuto, deve essere riconosciuto come un giudice eccellente) abbia notato qualcosa di davvero strano nel comportamento della signora Barker.

THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas that ever came.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an old-fashioned party, there was an urn, and a teapot besides—when there came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of—To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital, capital!’ as loud as any of them.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over, he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel jest we all roared once more. ‘You should consider yourself highly honoured, sir,’ said we. ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me proud.’ Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game, and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting other people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed, the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to ‘impertinence,’ and a ‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings in an angry tone—a turn of the conversation which might have been productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper, intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table, that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady, overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.

Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before, insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us that although he had known him since he was that high (something smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such excellent cue.

When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We observed that several young gentlemen—including the young gentleman with the pale countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that they were surprised at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a tiny volume as this, [429] to the very bottom of the outside cover. How he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children, and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr. Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins explained, and how everybody’s good-humour was restored but the child’s;—to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly, would occupy more of our room and our readers’ patience, than either they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject, merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young gentleman’s personal appearance, believing that almost every society has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their particular case.

Il giovane gentiluomo buffo

Un giovane gentiluomo divertente rappresenta, a titolo esemplificativo, tutti i giovani gentiluomini divertenti; il nostro scopo è semplicemente quello di descrivere il comportamento e le azioni di questo individuo, che abbiamo avuto l’occasione di incontrare durante una festa di Natale familiare, proprio durante l’ultima vigilia di Natale che sia mai esistita.

Eravamo tutti seduti intorno a un fuoco scoppiettante che ardeva piacevolmente; gli ospiti chiacchieravano allegramente e l’urna fumava felicemente. Poiché si trattava di una festa all’antica, c’erano davvero un’urna e anche una teiera. Quando improvvisamente bussarono alla porta con tale violenza e rapidità da spaventare tutti, due o tre giovani signore iniziarono a urlare, mostrando chiari segni di terrore. Fino a quando i loro rispettivi innamorati non le rassicurarono più volte che non correvano alcun pericolo. Stavamo appunto per commentare che quel bussare era sicuramente fuori orario, quando il nostro ospite, fino ad allora paralizzato dallo stupore, scoppiò in una risata fragorosa e scommise venti sterline che si trattava proprio di quel buffo cane Griggins. Non appena lo disse, la maggior parte dei presenti, insieme a tutti i bambini della casa, scoppiò anch’essa a ridere. Come se fossero stati colpiti contemporaneamente da una battuta irresistibile! E iniziarono a esclamare: “Certo che è Griggins. Che somiglianza con lui. Che spirito allegro ha sempre!” e altre lodi simili.

Non avendo la fortuna di conoscere Griggins, diventammo estremamente desiderosi di incontrare un uomo così piacevole, soprattutto perché si trattava di un gentiluomo robusto con i capelli incipriati, che sedeva con le fibbie dei calzoni quasi a contatto con il pavimento; ci sussurrò che fosse davvero un uomo molto spiritoso. Quando la porta si aprì e fu annunciato il signor Griggins, questi fece il suo ingresso tra nuove risate e applausi da parte dei giovani presenti. Lui ringraziò per questo caloroso benvenuto con varie espressioni facciali, imitando il clown in una delle nuove pantomime che avevano avuto un enorme successo: uno dei presenti, preso da un attacco di gioia, rotolò su un divano, protestando ad alta voce che, se qualcuno non faceva sì che quel Griggins se ne andasse, lui sarebbe morto. Di fronte a questo, il gruppo rise ancora più forte. E poiché ci piace sempre adeguare il nostro comportamento e lo spirito all’umore della compagnia in cui ci troviamo, ridemmo insieme agli altri, esclamando “Oh! Fantastico!” ad alta voce come tutti gli altri.

Dopo aver completamente divertito tutti i presenti, il signor Griggins ricevette gli auguri e le congratulazioni del gruppo e procedette alle necessarie presentazioni con grande disinvoltura, utilizzando anche molti giochi di parole. Una volta terminata questa cerimonia, dichiarò di volersi sedere in grembo a qualcuno, a meno che le giovani signore non gli facessero spazio sul divano; e così avvenne, dopo molte risate e scherzi. Si insinuò tra loro, paragonando la sua situazione a quella dell’amore tra i rossi fiori di rosa. A questa nuova battuta, scoppiammo tutti a ridere di nuovo. “Dovreste considerarvi molto onorati, signore”, dissero noi. “Signori”, rispose il signor Griggins, “voi mi rendete orgoglioso”. Di nuovo tutti risero; e il gentiluomo robusto accanto al focolare ci sussurrò all’orecchio che Griggins stava chiaramente cercando di approfittare della situazione.

Dopo che le cose relative al tè furono portate via, tutti ci sedemmo per giocare a un gioco circolare; in quell’occasione il signor Griggins si distinse in modo particolare, prendendo i pesci degli altri e esaminando attentamente le loro mani in modo davvero comico. Fece anche una battuta molto divertente: soffiò su una candela, il che equivaleva praticamente a dare fuoco ai capelli di un giovane gentiluomo pallido seduto accanto a lui; dopo si scusò con notevole umorismo. Tuttavia, poiché il giovane gentiluomo non riusciva affatto a comprendere la battuta – forse proprio perché era troppo vicina al suo stesso capo – l’effetto non fu quello sperato; anzi, si sentì il giovane mormorare parole offensive e indicare con tono arrabbiato il numero delle sue stanze. Una situazione che avrebbe potuto finire molto male, se non fosse stato per l’intervento di una giovane signora fidanzata con lui: lei, usando tutto il proprio ascendente, riuscì a farli riappacificare, dichiarando in un sussurro agitato che, se avesse continuato così, non lo avrebbe mai considerato altro che un amico, anche se, in fondo, sempre lo avrebbe considerato tale. Di fronte a questa terribile minaccia, il giovane gentiluomo si calmò immediatamente; la giovane signora, invece, sopraffatta dall’orrore, svenne all’istante.

Per un breve momento, lo spirito di Mr. Griggins fu leggermente depresso da questo risultato inaspettato di una così innocua scherzosa richiesta; tuttavia, grazie alle attenzioni dell’ospite e a alcune coppe di vino, si riprese rapidamente e divenne ancora più vivace del solito. A tal punto che il gentiluomo menzionato in precedenza ci assicurò che, sebbene lo conoscesse da quando era, “così alto” (qualcosa di leggermente più piccolo di un grattugio per noce moscata), non l’aveva mai visto in così buona forma.

Quando il gioco a turno e i vari giochi del “cieco” che seguirono furono terminati, e stavamo per andare a cena, l’inesauribile signor Griggins tirò fuori un piccolo rametto di vischio dalla tasca della sua giacca e iniziò a baciare tutte le donne presenti, causando grande clamore ed eccitazione. Notammo che diversi giovani gentiluomini – compreso quello dal volto pallido – furono profondamente scandalizzati da questo comportamento indecoroso e ne parlarono animatamente tra loro; inoltre, alcune giovani signore, quando rimproverate dai suddetti giovani gentiluomini, si invitarono a vicenda a testimoniare quanto avessero lottato per evitare tali baci, protestando con veemenza che fosse molto scortese e che non riuscissero a sopportarlo, trovandolo assolutamente inaccettabile. Ma tale è la natura gentile e indulgente delle donne. Nonostante cercassimo attentamente, non riuscimmo a individuare il minimo segno di durezza nel comportamento successivo del signor Griggins verso le donne presenti. Anzi, in generale, ci sembrò che tra loro fosse persino più popolare di prima!

Raccontare tutte le buffonate del signor Griggins durante la cena richiederebbe un volume molto più grande di questo, che arrivasse fino alla parte inferiore della copertina esterna. Come beveva dal bicchiere degli altri e mangiava il loro pane; come spaventava a morte un bambino che stava cenando in una sedia alta, nascondendosi sotto il tavolo per poi riapparire all’improvviso con una maschera addosso; come la padrona di casa era davvero sorpresa dal fatto che qualcuno potesse trovare piacere nel tormentare i bambini. E come l’ospite scuoteva la testa, convinto che il signor Griggins avesse agito con le migliori intenzioni. Come poi il signor Griggins si giustificava, e come il buon umore di tutti veniva ripristinato, tranne quello del bambino. Raccontare tutte queste cose, e molte altre ancora, in modo così succinto, richiederebbe molto più spazio e pazienza da parte nostra e dei nostri lettori di quanto possiamo permetterci. Pertanto cambiamo argomento, osservando soltanto che non abbiamo descritto l’aspetto fisico di quel giovane gentiluomo divertente. Poiché crediamo che in quasi ogni società esista qualcuno come il signor Griggins. E lasciamo ai lettori il compito di completare questa descrizione, a seconda delle circostanze particolari del loro caso.

THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

All gentlemen who love the drama—and there are few gentlemen who are not attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our amusements—do not come within this definition. As we have no mean relish for theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly anxious that this should be perfectly understood.

The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on all theatrical topics. ‘Well,’ says he, abruptly, when you meet him in the street, ‘here’s a pretty to-do. Flimkins has thrown up his part in the melodrama at the Surrey.’—‘And what’s to be done?’ you inquire with as much gravity as you can counterfeit. ‘Ah, that’s the point,’ replies the theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; ‘Boozle declines it; positively declines it. From all I am told, I should say it was decidedly in Boozle’s line, and that he would be very likely to make a great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been put up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to take the character. It’s a fine part, too—excellent business, I’m told. He has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over a bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be. Don’t mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first poisoned, and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the greatest thing that has been done these many years.’ With this piece of news, and laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to excite the town with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.

The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all. Thus Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the vic, and the Olympic the pic. Actresses, too, are always designated by their surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented and lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so on. In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions actors, as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford. When he is at a loss for a Christian name, the word ‘old’ applied indiscriminately answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at Vestris’s, old Harley, and old Braham. He has a great knowledge of the private proceedings of actresses, especially of their getting married, and can tell you in a breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names without avowing it. Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the playbills, he will remind you that he let you into the secret six months ago.

The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is connected with the stage department of the different theatres. He would, at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to omitting to pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a curious and searching eye. If he can only identify a popular actor in the street, he is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner meets him, than he hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him, so that he can turn round from time to time, and have a good stare at his features. He looks upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most enchanting festivities ever known; and thinks that to be a member of the Garrick Club, and see so many actors in their plain clothes, must be one of the highest gratifications the world can bestow.

The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one or other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces which display the fullest resources of the establishment. He likes to place implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a show-piece, and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not only to believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also. He considers that if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in any new play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds accordingly. He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an angel or a demon—they both do it occasionally) one of the most interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.

Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors, which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table. Thus he is advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery waiting at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to administer half a pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off, without which assistance he must infallibly have fainted. He knows for a fact, that, after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between two feather beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed, that Mr. Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm toast-and-water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters. He looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of the day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,—in proof whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently produced, of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny editions as fast as they appear.

The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of emotion and redundancy of action. If a father has to curse a child upon the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her face by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts the door behind him. He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young lady, when the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and accompanied by the usual conventional forms, which consist of the old gentleman looking anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it rains, and then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the young lady’s head—soft music playing all the while. Upon these, and other points of a similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a great critic indeed. He is likewise very acute in judging of natural expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod, or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love. If you venture to express a doubt of the accuracy of any of these portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman assures you, with a haughty smile, that it always has been done in that way, and he supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day to please you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose not.

There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom he is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no space to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with calling the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical young gentlemen of their own acquaintance.

Il giovane gentiluomo teatrale

Tutti quei signori che amano il teatro – e ce ne sono pochi che non siano appassionati di questo degli svaghi più intellettuali e razionali che abbiamo – non rientrano in questa definizione. Poiché noi stessi non proviamo alcun piacere particolare negli spettacoli teatrali, desideriamo ardentemente che questa cosa venga compresa perfettamente.

Il giovane signore teatrale possiede informazioni importanti e tempestive su tutti gli argomenti legati al teatro. “Beh,” dice lui all’improvviso quando lo incontri per strada, “ci sono grandi novità: Flimkins ha rifiutato il ruolo nel melodramma che andrà in scena a Surrey, ” “E cosa si può fare?” chiedi con tutta la gravità che riesci a simulare. “Ah, ecco il punto,” risponde il giovane signore teatrale con aria molto seria; “Boozle rifiuta categoricamente. Secondo quanto mi è stato detto, quel ruolo sarebbe perfetto per lui e potrebbe riscuotere un grande successo; ma si oppone perché Flimkins l’ha già ottenuto prima di lui, e dice che nessuna forza al mondo lo convincerà ad accettarlo. È davvero un ottimo ruolo. Mi hanno detto che dovrà uccidere sei persone durante l’opera e combattere sopra un ponte avvolto da fiamme rosse. Una scena davvero spettacolare, credimi. La scena finale, in cui viene avvelenato e poi pugnalato dalla signora Flimkins nel ruolo di Vengedora, sarà sicuramente la più straordinaria che si sia mai vista negli ultimi anni, ” Con queste notizie, il giovane signore teatrale si allontana in fretta, mettendosi un dito sulle labbra per raccomandarti di non diffonderle troppo in giro.

Quel giovane gentiluomo teatrale, essendo spesso frequentatore dei vari teatri, ha per loro nomi affettuosi e familiari: così Covent-Garden diventa semplicemente “il giardino”, Drury-Lane “la strada”, la Victoria “il vicolo”, e l’Olympic “il piccolo vicolo”. Anche le attrici vengono sempre chiamate soltanto con i loro cognomi: Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; quella ragazza talentuosa e gentile come Sheriff, quella creatura intelligente come Horton, e così via. Allo stesso modo, quando menziona gli attori, aggiunge loro nomi di battesimo, come Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred Yates, Paul Bedford. Quando non trova un nome adatto, utilizza semplicemente la parola “vecchio”: vecchio Charley Matthews al Vestris’s, vecchio Harley, vecchio Braham. Conosce molto bene le vicende private delle attrici, soprattutto i loro matrimoni, e può dirti all’istante chi di loro ha cambiato nome senza farlo sapere pubblicamente. Ogni volta che si verifica un simile cambiamento negli annunci teatrali, ti ricorda subito che è stato lui a rivelartelo sei mesi fa.

Questo giovane gentiluomo, appassionato di teatro, nutre un grande rispetto per tutto ciò che riguarda il reparto scenografico dei vari teatri. Sarebbe disposto, in qualsiasi momento, ad aggiungere qualche minuto al proprio tragitto pur di non perdere l’occasione di passare davanti a un ingresso scenico, che osserva sempre con curiosità e attenzione. Se riesce a riconoscere su strada un attore famoso, è letteralmente in estasi; non appena lo incontra, si affretta a seguirlo per qualche passo, in modo da poterlo osservare attentamente da vicino. Considera una cena organizzata dal Garrick Club come uno dei festeggiamenti più incantevoli che esistano, e ritiene che far parte di quel club e vedere tanti attori nei loro abiti civili sia una delle più grandi soddisfazioni che il mondo possa offrire.

Il giovane gentiluomo teatrale è un frequentatore abituale di uno o più teatri, pagando sempre la metà del prezzo normale, e prova un vero piacere per tutte le opere che mettono in mostra al massimo le potenzialità dei teatri stessi. Quando va a vedere un’opera importante, si affida ciecamente alle informazioni presenti sul cartellone e arriva a provare un entusiasmo tale da credere davvero (se così indicato sul cartellone) che nella scena finale ci siano trecentosettantacinque persone sul palco nello stesso momento; inoltre, si infuria molto con chi non condivide questa convinzione. Ritiene che, in qualsiasi nuova opera teatrale, se il palco viene aperto dalla parte dei riflettori fino al muro posteriore, l’opera sia un vero trionfo della scrittura drammatica e applaude di conseguenza. Ha anche una grande considerazione per le porte nascoste utilizzate nei teatri; pensa infatti che qualsiasi personaggio scenda o salga attraverso una di queste porte (sia che si tratti di un angelo o di un demone – entrambi lo fanno occasionalmente) rappresenti uno degli spettacoli più interessanti tra tutte le illusioni sceniche possibili.

Oltre a queste conoscenze, possiede anche diversi resoconti veritieri riguardanti i modi di comportamento e le abitudini personali di vari attori; questi resoconti li condivide solitamente con la sua partner durante le pause dei balletti, o li racconta al vicino a tavola durante una cena. Ad esempio, sa per certo che il signor Liston aveva sempre un valletto in abiti eleganti ad aspettarlo sul lato scenico, con una bottiglia di brandy e un bicchiere, pronto a offrirgli circa mezzo pinta di alcol ogni volta che scendeva dalla scena; senza tale aiuto, sicuramente sarebbe svenuto. Sa anche con certezza che, dopo aver interpretato una parte particolarmente faticosa, il signor George Bennett veniva messo tra due letti imbottiti di piume per assorbire il sudore; inoltre, è stato informato in modo attendibile che il signor Baker, per molti anni, ha seguito un regime costituito principalmente da toast e acqua tiepida, al fine di prepararsi al meglio nell’interpretazione dei suoi personaggi preferiti. Ritiene il signor Fitz Ball il principale genio drammatico e poeta del nostro tempo; tuttavia è convinto che esistano anche altri grandi scrittori, e per dimostrarlo vi invita a leggere i vari drammi e melodrammi prodotti di recente, dei quali acquista tutte le edizioni a sei o tre penny non appena vengono pubblicate.

Il giovane signore teatrale è un grande sostenitore dell’espressione violenta delle emozioni e della ridondanza nelle azioni sceniche. Se un padre deve maledire un bambino sul palco, vuole che ciò avvenga in modo estremamente convincente, senza alcun errore: a tal fine è essenziale che il bambino segua il padre in ginocchio e venga violentemente spinto a terra dal vecchio signore mentre questi entra in una piccola capanna e chiude la porta dietro di sé. Vuole anche vedere che, quando il vecchio signore si pente, si invochi con altrettanta sincerità una benedizione sulla giovane donna, seguendo le solite formalità convenzionali: il vecchio signore guarda ansiosamente verso il cielo per vedere se piove, poi stende “un tovagliolo immaginario” sopra la testa della ragazza, mentre suona musica soft. Su questi e altri aspetti simili, il giovane signore teatrale è davvero un critico esperto. È altrettanto acuto nel giudicare le espressioni naturali delle passioni: sa con precisione quale tipo di sopracciglio corrugato, occhiolino o sorriso significhi ciascuna di esse, e in che modo possano essere interpretate in modi diversi; ad esempio, la gelosia, accompagnata da un deciso movimento del piede destro, diventa rabbia; oppure l’isteria, con le mani premute sul collo invece di strapparsi la parrucca, rappresenta una passione intensa. L’amore. Se osate mettere in dubbio l’accuratezza di queste descrizioni, il giovane signore teatrale vi assicura con un sorriso sprezzante che sempre è stato fatto così, e suppone che non si intenda cambiarlo proprio ora per compiacervi. A questo, naturalmente, rispondete umilmente che probabilmente no.

Esistono innumerevoli discussioni su questa natura, nelle quali i giovani gentiluomini teatrali dimostrano una grande profondità, soprattutto quando si rivolgono alle signore che sono soliti intrattenere; ma poiché non abbiamo spazio per riprenderle più ampiamente, ci limiteremo a richiamare l’attenzione delle giovani donne sulle figure di questi giovani gentiluomini teatrali che conoscono personalmente.

THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars, and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats and dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public. These were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to be inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and too large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently passed away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the number of poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.

We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman. We do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he seldom has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and wanting a kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general observations in which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious impulses, and yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect gilding all earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it is clear to all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.

The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall. When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy, affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other, you may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent upon vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his pocket, puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply, paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful slap upon his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.

The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of things too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical obliquity of vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For instance, when the sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman was affording delicious food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable curiosity of the public, our friend the poetical young gentleman was in ecstasies—not of disgust, but admiration. ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical young gentleman, ‘how grand; how great!’ We ventured deferentially to inquire upon whom these epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts oscillating between the police officer who found the criminal, and the lock-keeper who found the head. ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical young gentleman in a frenzy of poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and thereupon it came out, in a fine torrent of eloquence, that the murderer was a great spirit, a bold creature full of daring and nerve, a man of dauntless heart and determined courage, and withal a great casuist and able reasoner, as was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies with the great and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly signified our indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because we were no match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and secondly, because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be plentifully expended.

This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or the ‘Poets’ Corner’ of some country newspaper; or which, in default of either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady’s album. These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating the Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul’s in a snow-storm; and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him inspiration, he pours forth his soul in a touching address to a violet, or a plaintive lament that he is no longer a child, but has gradually grown up.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that there is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand, however, that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the tiresome play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong desire to make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the reflection, that immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the other great spirits whom earth has chafed and wearied.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest, mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and most pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry; and who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? ‘Mr. Milkwash,’ says a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young gentleman’s original impromptu contribution, ‘how very silent you are! I think you must be in love.’ ‘Love!’ cries the poetical young gentleman, starting from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat who scampers off at full speed, ‘Love! that burning, consuming passion; that ardour of the soul, that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The withering, blighting influence of hope misplaced and affection slighted. Love did you say! Ha! ha! ha!’

Il giovane gentiluomo poetico

C’era un tempo, e non molto tempo fa, in cui un’epidemia singolare imperversava tra i giovani signori: molti di loro, sotto l’influenza di questa malattia, si strappavano le cravatte, si abbassavano il colletto della camicia e si esibivano per le strade aperte con la gola nuda e un’espressione depressa, davanti agli occhi di un pubblico stupito. Questi erano giovani signori “poetici”. Col tempo, questa abitudine fu ritenuta scomoda, poiché richiedeva una grande quantità di biancheria pulita e generava ingenti spese per il lavaggio; di conseguenza, questi comportamenti esteriori sono scomparsi. Tuttavia, siamo portati a credere che il numero di giovani signori “poetici” sia in realtà in aumento.

Conosciamo un giovane gentiluomo molto poetico. Non intendiamo dire che possieda un talento poetico eccezionale, ma il suo volto ha un’espressione malinconica e triste; i suoi modi sono distaccati e rivelano sofferenze interiori. Raramente si fa tagliare i capelli e spesso parla di sentirsi un escluso, in cerca di un’anima affine. Da queste caratteristiche, così come da molte altre osservazioni che fa riguardo a impulsi misteriosi, desideri profondi del cuore e al dominio dell’intelligenza che illumina tutte le cose terrene con il “magico” splendore della poesia immortale, è evidente per tutti i suoi amici che è davvero colpito dal dono della poesia.

L’atteggiamento preferito di questo giovane gentiluomo poetico è quello di sdraiarsi su un divano con lo sguardo fisso sul soffitto, o di sedersi dritto in una sedia a schienale alto, fissando con occhi molto rotondi il muro di fronte. Quando si trova in una di queste posizioni, sua madre – una donna gentile e affettuosa – gli dà un colpetto per attirare la sua attenzione senza disturbarlo, e sussurra scuotendo la testa che l’immaginazione di John è impegnata in qualche cosa di straordinario. Potete crederle sulla parola. A quel punto John assume un’espressione ancora più assorta, afferra una penna dal taschino, scrive tre parole e disegna una croce sul retro di una carta, sospira profondamente, cammina avanti e indietro per la stanza, si dà uno schiaffo molto forte sulla testa e se ne va, con aria malinconica, verso il dormitorio.

Il giovane gentiluomo poetico ha la tendenza ad acquisire concezioni particolari delle cose; concezioni che le persone comuni, prive di quella visione obliqua tipica dei poeti, considererebbero certamente distorte. Ad esempio, quando l’orribile omicidio e la macellazione di una povera donna fornirono argomento per soddisfare la curiosità insaziabile del pubblico, il nostro amico, il giovane gentiluomo poetico, era in estasi, non di disgusto, ma di ammirazione. “Che grandezza! Che magnificenza!” esclamò. Osammo chiedergli a chi fossero rivolti questi elogi; i nostri pensieri oscillavano tra l’agente di polizia che aveva scoperto il colpevole e il custode del carcere che aveva trovato la testa della vittima, “A chi, se non al assassino?” gridò il giovane gentiluomo, in un impeto poetico. E poi, con un flusso di eloquenza, spiegò che l’assassino era un grande spirito, una creatura coraggiosa e piena di audacia, un uomo dal cuore intrepido e da un coraggio indomabile, oltre a essere un abile ragionatore, come dimostravano chiaramente i suoi colloqui filosofici con le persone più nobili e illustri del paese. Noi ci astenemmo dal contraddirlo, riconoscendo di non essere all’altezza delle sue argomentazioni, e soprattutto perché sapevamo che sarebbe stato inutile discutere, essendo perfettamente convinti che quel rispettabile, ma immorale “eroe” non fosse certo il primo, né l’ultimo gentiluomo a essere impiccato a causa della falsa compassione o della curiosità malata del pubblico.

Questo era un vero e proprio volo mistico da parte di quel giovane gentiluomo poetico. Nei momenti più dolci e sereni, di tanto in tanto metteva da parte il fazzoletto da collo e componeva versi che, a volte, finivano su una rivista femminile o nella sezione “Angolo dei Poeti” di un giornale di campagna; oppure, in assenza di tali opportunità per esprimere il proprio genio, questi versi adornavano le pagine colorate di un album da signora. Di solito venivano scritti in occasioni come quella di contemplare la Banca d’Inghilterra a mezzanotte o di ammirare San Paolo durante una tempesta di neve; e quando questi scenari cupi non gli ispiravano nulla, riversava il proprio cuore in messaggi commoventi rivolti a una violetta, o in lamenti malinconici per il fatto di non essere più un “bambino”, ma di essersi gradualmente cresciuto.

Questo giovane gentiluomo poetico ama citare passaggi dei suoi autori preferiti, tutti appartenenti a quella scuola di pensiero cupa e disperata. Ha molto da dire anche sul mondo, e tende spesso a esprimere opinioni, soprattutto dopo aver bevuto qualcosa di forte; sostiene che non ci sia nulla in questo mondo per cui valga la pena vivere. Tuttavia, fa capire che, per il bene della società, intende svolgere la propria parte in questa noiosa “farsa”, resistendo con coraggio al desiderio di soddisfare i propri forti impulsi e andarsene prematuramente; si consola inoltre pensando che l’immortalità abbia sicuramente un angolo riservato a lui e ad altri grandi spiriti che la terra ha offeso e stancato.

Quando il giovane gentiluomo poetico utilizza aggettivi, questi sono sempre superlativi: tutto è descritto come il più grandioso, il più nobile, il più potente; oppure il più meschino, il più oscuro, il più vile e il più miserabile. Non conosce mezzi termini: l’entusiasmo, infatti, è l’anima stessa della poesia. E chi potrebbe essere più entusiasta di un giovane gentiluomo poetico? “Signor Milkwash,” dice una giovane signora aprendo il suo album per ricevere la contribuzione improvvisata del giovane gentiluomo, “che silenzio. Deve essere innamorato!” “L’amore!” esclama il giovane gentiluomo poetico, alzandosi di scatto dal posto accanto al fuoco e spaventando a morte il gatto che fugge via a tutta velocità. “L’amore. Quella passione ardente e divorante. Quel fuoco nel cuore. L’amore. L’influenza distruttiva della speranza mal riposta e dell’affetto trascurato. Ah, l’amore! Ha! ha! ha!”

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only to poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting, semi-atheistical demoniac style, which, like the poetical young gentleman himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is a certain kind of impostor—a bragging, vaunting, puffing young gentleman—against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours. And we are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of our subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen of this class of men. We had been urging all the absurdities of his conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he constantly recounted—to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters—when our fair friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly cried, ‘Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then—’ What then? Throw him off yourself, said we. And so she did, but not at our instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if she had done so at first.

The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of vast property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with some suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description of themselves. The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young gentleman was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the throwing-off young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only yesterday, the deceased baronet’s library, with its long rows of scarce and valuable books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases, reaching from the lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine antique chairs and tables, and the noble old castle of Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect of hill and dale, and wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting stables and the spacious court-yards, ‘and—and—everything upon the same magnificent scale,’ says the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘princely; quite princely. Ah!’ And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen fortunes of his noble house.

The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking, running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games of chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or amateur theatricals, no one can touch him—that is could not, because he gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any opportunity of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just now, and has been for some years. If you mention any beautiful girl of your common acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young gentleman starts, smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was quite involuntary: people do say indeed that they were once engaged, but no—although she is a very fine girl, he was so situated at that time that he couldn’t possibly encourage the—‘but it’s of no use talking about it!’ he adds, interrupting himself. ‘She has got over it now, and I firmly hope and trust is happy.’ With this benevolent aspiration he nods his head in a mysterious manner, and whistling the first part of some popular air, thinks perhaps it will be better to change the subject.

There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young gentleman, which is, that he ‘happens to be acquainted’ with a most extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world. Thus in all disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no argument to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with some distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose testimony decides the point against you, to the great—may we say it—to the great admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who consider the throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young man, and a most charming person.

Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the evening together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit of his glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to equal advantage in the presence of men as in the society of over-credulous young ladies, which is his proper element. It is delightful to hear the number of pretty things the throwing-off young gentleman gives utterance to, during tea, and still more so to observe the ease with which, from long practice and study, he delicately blends one compliment to a lady with two for himself. ‘Did you ever see a more lovely blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?’ asks a young lady who, truth to tell, is rather smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman. ‘Never,’ he replies, bending over the object of admiration, ‘never but in your eyes.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Caveton,’ cries the young lady, blushing of course. ‘Indeed I speak the truth,’ replies the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘I never saw any approach to them. I used to think my cousin’s blue eyes lovely, but they grow dim and colourless beside yours.’ ‘Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!’ replies the young lady, with that perfect artlessness which is the distinguishing characteristic of all young ladies; ‘an affair, of course.’ ‘No; indeed, indeed you wrong me,’ rejoins the throwing-off young gentleman with great energy. ‘I fervently hope that her attachment towards me may be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in childhood, and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon overcome it. I love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I beseech, as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence my choice. The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.’ Here the throwing-off young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper; and the young lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they go up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton’s relations are all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands, riches, and beauty.

We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when he had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an instrument within a mile of the house.

We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a note or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing out of tune, let him try as he would. We have lived to witness the unmasking of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after passing successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for his red whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride, turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small country town, and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we should not yet despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are often swindlers, and always fools. So pray you avoid them.

Con questo, il giovane gentiluomo poetico ride una risata che appartiene soltanto ai poeti e al signor O. Smith del Teatro Adelphi; poi si siede, con la penna in mano, per comporre una o due pagine di versi nello stile tagliente, semi-ateistico e quasi demoniaco, uno stile che, proprio come il giovane gentiluomo stesso, è pieno di suoni e furia, ma che, in realtà, non significa nulla.

Il giovane gentiluomo “scartato”

Esiste un certo tipo di impostore: un giovane signore vanitoso, presuntuoso e arrogante, contro il quale desideriamo mettervi in guardia. Si tratta di quella parte più bella della creazione umana verso la quale dedichiamo con particolare impegno i nostri sforzi. Siamo stati spinti a sottolineare particolarmente questo aspetto del nostro argomento da un breve dialogo avuto poco tempo fa con una stimata giovane signora che conosciamo, riguardante un esempio estremamente rappresentativo di questa categoria di persone. Avevamo messo in evidenza tutte le assurdità del suo comportamento e delle sue parole, nonché le impossibilità che continuava a raccontare. E per queste ragioni non abbiamo esitato ad usare una parola un po’ dura, composta da una sola sillaba e tre lettere. Alla fine, la nostra cara amica, incapace di continuare quella “conversazione”, esclamò riluttante: “Beh, certamente ha l’abitudine di vantarsi in modo eccessivo, ma poi, ” E poi? “Allora fallo tu stessa”, le dicemmo. E lei lo fece, ma non su nostra richiesta; c’erano altre ragioni che la spinsero a farlo. E forse sarebbe stato meglio se l’avesse fatto fin dall’inizio.

Quel giovane signore che si vanta di tali origini ha spesso un padre che possiede immense ricchezze in qualche remota regione d’Irlanda; per questo guardiamo con sospetto tutti quei giovani che si autodefiniscono in questo modo. Il defunto nonno di quel giovane signore era un uomo estremamente ricco, dotato di una fortuna inestimabile; il giovane stesso ricorda, come se fosse stato ieri, la biblioteca del defunto barone: file intere di libri rari e preziosi, con rilegature magnificamente intagliate, disposti all’interno di vetrine che si estendevano dal soffitto alto fino al pavimento in legno di quercia; inoltre, sedie e tavoli antichi di pregio, il nobile vecchio castello di Ballykillbabaloo, con la sua splendida vista su colline, valli, foreste e paesaggi selvaggi, nonché eccellenti stalle da caccia e ampi cortili, “E tutto,” dice quel giovane signore, “su una scala davvero magnifica, regale; assolutamente regale. Ah, ” E sospira, come se piangesse per la decadenza della sua nobile famiglia.

Quel giovane gentiluomo, così abile in tutto ciò che fa, è davvero un genio universale: sia nel camminare, correre, remare, nuotare che pattinare, è insuperabile; in tutti i giochi di fortuna o di abilità, nella caccia, nel tiro a segno, nella pesca, nell’equitazione, nella guida o nelle rappresentazioni teatrali amatoriali, nessuno può competere con lui. O meglio, nessuno poteva farlo, perché lui stesso si assicura che non vi sia alcuna possibilità di mettere alla prova le sue capacità, dicendo chiaramente di essere completamente fuori allenamento da diversi anni. Se menzionate davanti a lui qualche bella ragazza che conoscete, lui sorride e vi prega di non badargli, sostenendo che tutto sia stato del tutto involontario. Si dice infatti che un tempo fossero fidanzati, ma no. Anche se lei è davvero una ragazza molto carina, in quel momento le circostanze non gli permettevano di proseguire quella relazione, “Ma ormai non ha più importanza”, aggiunge interrompendosi. “Lei l’ha superato, e io spero sinceramente che sia felice”. Con questa benevola aspirazione, annuisce in modo misterioso e, fischiando il primo ritornello di una canzone popolare, pensa forse che sia meglio cambiare argomento.

C’è un’altra grande caratteristica di questo giovane gentiluomo che ama sfidare gli altri: lui “accidentalmente” conosce una straordinaria varietà di persone in tutte le parti del mondo. Pertanto, in tutte le questioni contese, quando non ha argomentazioni da presentare, capita sempre che conosca qualcuno lontano, strettamente legato all’argomento in discussione, il cui testimone decide a suo favore. Il che suscita, possiamo dire, grande ammirazione in tre giovani donne su quattro, le quali considerano questo giovane gentiluomo un uomo di grandi contatti e una persona davvero affascinante.

A volte, quel giovane signore che ama fare colpo ha l’occasione di osservare un piccolo circolo di giovani donne che trascorrono tranquillamente la serata insieme. E in quei momenti, davvero, raggiunge il culmine della sua gloria. Bisogna infatti ammettere che, in presenza di uomini, non brilla altrettanto quanto nella compagnia di giovani donne troppo credulone. Il quale ambiente, dopotutto, è il suo vero elemento naturale. È delizioso ascoltare tutte le belle cose che dice durante la cena. E ancora più piacevole osservare con quanta facilità, grazie a lunga pratica e studio, riesca a mescolare abilmente un complimento per una donna con due per sé stesso. “Avete mai visto un blu più bello di questo fiore, signor Caveton?”, chiede una giovane donna che, a dire il vero, è piuttosto affascinata da lui. “Mai”, risponde lui, chinandosi sull’oggetto della sua ammirazione, “Mai, se non nei vostri occhi”. “Oh, signor Caveton. Davvero dico la verità!”, esclama lei arrossendo. “No. In realtà, vi sbagliate completamente”, ribatte lui con grande enfasi. “Spero ardentemente che il suo affetto per me sia soltanto il risultato naturale della nostra stretta intimità d’infanzia. E che, cambiando ambiente e tra nuove persone, possa presto superare questo sentimento. Io la amo! Per favore, non pensate male di me, signorina Lowfield. Non crediate mai che titoli nobiliari, terre, ricchezze o bellezza possano influenzare la mia scelta. È il cuore, il cuore, signorina Lowfield, ” A questo punto, il giovane signore abbassa ancora di più la voce. E la giovane donna, quando tutte le altre vanno di sopra a mettersi i cappelli, racconta a tutti che i parenti del signor Caveton sono estremamente ricchi. E che lui è irrimediabilmente amato, per titoli nobiliari, terre, ricchezze e bellezza.

Abbiamo visto un giovane gentiluomo piuttosto inesperto che, per quanto ne sappiamo, non aveva la minima dimestichezza con la musica e faticava persino a riconoscere una melodia all’orecchio; tuttavia, si è offerto volontario per suonare un brano spagnolo alla chitarra, dopo essersi assicurato che non ci fosse alcun strumento del genere nelle vicinanze della casa.

Abbiamo sentito parlare di un altro giovane presuntuoso che, dopo aver suonato un paio di note al pianoforte e averle accompagnate correttamente con la sua voce (grazie a molta pratica), assicurava ad un gruppo di ascoltatori meravigliati di avere un orecchio così acuto da non essere in grado di cantare stonato, per quanto ci provasse. Abbiamo assistito anche alla “smascherazione” di un altro giovane simile: si presentava con un berretto militare ornato di nastro dorato e piuma; dopo essere stato scambiato per un capitano e lodato senza fine per le sue basette rosse, il suo coraggio, il suo portamento da soldato e la sua “orgogliosità”, si è scoperto che in realtà era il figlio disonesto di un onesto mercante di stoffe in una piccola città di campagna. Se non fosse stato per questa sfortunata rivelazione, forse ancora oggi ci aspetteremmo di incontrarlo come il fortunato marito di qualche ricca ereditiera. Signorelle, i giovani presuntuosi sono spesso truffatori, e sempre sciocchi. Quindi vi preghiamo: evitateli.

THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN

This young gentleman has several titles. Some young ladies consider him ‘a nice young man,’ others ‘a fine young man,’ others ‘quite a lady’s man,’ others ‘a handsome man,’ others ‘a remarkably good-looking young man.’ With some young ladies he is ‘a perfect angel,’ and with others ‘quite a love.’ He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.

The young ladies’ young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every possible opportunity. He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is vulgarly known as sandy, is not considered an objection. If his head and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly. Should his whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile constantly.

There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours last summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest. As we hold that such wild expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors of the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice sample of the young ladies’ young gentleman, whom we were very anxious to have an opportunity of meeting. This determined us, and we went.

We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a trifling company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to the projectors on the box—and to start from the residence of the projectors, Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely. We arrived at the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found the glass coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour blinds, who appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as we might have expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else. Observing that our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some disappointment, we ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we found from the hasty reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than the young ladies’ young gentleman.

‘I cannot imagine,’ said the mamma, ‘what has become of Mr. Balim—always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I am sure I can-not think.’ As these last words were uttered in that measured, emphatic manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not quite made up his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on nevertheless, the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no accident had happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general chorus of ‘Dear Mr. Balim!’ and one young lady, more adventurous than the rest, proposed that an express should be straightway sent to dear Mr. Balim’s lodgings. This, however, the papa resolutely opposed, observing, in what a short young lady behind us termed ‘quite a bearish way,’ that if Mr. Balim didn’t choose to come, he might stop at home. At this all the daughters raised a murmur of ‘Oh pa!’ except one sprightly little girl of eight or ten years old, who, taking advantage of a pause in the discourse, remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might have been married that morning—for which impertinent suggestion she was summarily ejected from the room by her eldest sister.

We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one of the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys usually run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the holidays, and keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of very deep trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced that Mr. Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a hackney-cab; and the intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a minute afterwards by the entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received with repeated cries of ‘Where have you been, you naughty creature?’ whereunto the naughty creature replied, that he had been in bed, in consequence of a late party the night before, and had only just risen. The acknowledgment awakened a variety of agonizing fears that he had taken no breakfast; which appearing after a slight cross-examination to be the real state of the case, breakfast for one was immediately ordered, notwithstanding Mr. Balim’s repeated protestations that he couldn’t think of it. He did think of it though, and thought better of it too, for he made a remarkably good meal when it came, and was assiduously served by a select knot of young ladies. It was quite delightful to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands poured out his coffee, and another put in the sugar, and another the milk; the rest of the company ever and anon casting angry glances at their watches, and the glass coaches,—and the little boys looking on in an agony of apprehension lest it should begin to rain before we set out; it might have rained all day, after we were once too far to turn back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.

However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being accommodated with a hamper between his legs something larger than a wheelbarrow; and the company being packed as closely as they possibly could in the carriages, ‘according,’ as one married lady observed, ‘to the immemorial custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.’ Thinking it very likely it might be (we have never been able to discover the other half), we submitted to be stowed away with a cheerful aspect, and were fortunate enough to occupy one corner of a coach in which were one old lady, four young ladies, and the renowned Mr. Balim the young ladies’ young gentleman.

We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies’ young gentleman hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire whether he had danced to that the night before. ‘By Heaven, then, I did,’ replied the young gentleman, ‘and with a lovely heiress; a superb creature, with twenty thousand pounds.’ ‘You seem rather struck,’ observed another young lady. ‘’Gad she was a sweet creature,’ returned the young gentleman, arranging his hair. ‘Of course she was struck too?’ inquired the first young lady. ‘How can you ask, love?’ interposed the second; ‘could she fail to be?’ ‘Well, honestly I think she was,’ observed the young gentleman. At this point of the dialogue, the young lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young gentleman’s right, struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud, and said he was a vain man—whereupon the young gentleman insisted on having the rosebud, and the young lady appealing for help to the other young ladies, a charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of the young gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud. This little skirmish over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud, smiled sweetly upon the young gentleman, and accused him of being a flirt; the young gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting discussion took place upon the important point whether the young gentleman was a flirt or not, which being an agreeable conversation of a light kind, lasted a considerable time. At length, a short silence occurring, the young ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell suddenly fast asleep; and the young gentleman, winking upon us to preserve silence, won a pair of gloves from each, thereby causing them to wake with equal suddenness and to scream very loud. The lively conversation to which this pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the remainder of the ride, and would have eked out a much longer one.

We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and the bread. The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly drunk at a respectful distance.

We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of young ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their plates and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from its excessive playfulness. His conversation, too, was exceedingly brilliant. In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of a little lively badinage on the subject of ladies’ dresses, he had evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.

As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after dinner entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone into a thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the greater part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes and the young ladies’ young gentleman among them. Nor were we disappointed, for we had not walked far, when, peeping through the trees, we discovered him before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing to contemplate his greatness.

The young ladies’ young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the feet of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so profusely decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty spoils, that he looked like a lamb—or perhaps a calf would be a better simile—adorned for the sacrifice. One young lady supported a parasol over his interesting head, another held his hat, and a third his neck-cloth, which in romantic fashion he had thrown off; the young gentleman himself, with his hand upon his breast, and his face moulded into an expression of the most honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth some choice specimens of vocal music in praise of female loveliness, in a style so exquisitely perfect, that we burst into an involuntary shout of laughter, and made a hasty retreat.

What charming fellows these young ladies’ young gentlemen are! Ducks, dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit. They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men.

Il giovane gentiluomo delle giovani signore

Questo giovane gentiluomo possiede diversi titoli. Alcune giovani signore lo considerano “un bel giovane”, altre “un uomo distinto”, altre ancora “un vero e proprio corteggiatore”, altre “un uomo attraente”, e altre ancora “un giovane di notevole bellezza”. Per alcune giovani signore è “un angelo perfetto”, mentre per altre rappresenta l’incarnazione dell’amore. È inoltre una persona davvero affascinante, e anche un caro amico.

Il giovane gentiluomo delle signorine di solito ha un colorito fresco e denti molto bianchi, e queste ultime caratteristiche, naturalmente, le mostra ogni volta che ne ha l’occasione. Ha i capelli marroni o neri, e se possibile anche le basette dello stesso colore; tuttavia, una leggera sfumatura rossastra, o quel tono comunemente noto come “sabbioso”, non è considerata un difetto. Se la sua testa e il suo viso sono grandi, il naso prominente e la figura snella, allora è davvero un giovane molto attraente e quindi ammirato da tutti. Se le sue basette si incontrano sotto il mento, tanto meglio, anche se questo non è assolutamente un requisito obbligatorio; tuttavia deve indossare sempre una camicia sottostante e sorridere costantemente.

L’anno scorso, durante l’estate, alcuni dei nostri amici appassionati di feste organizzarono una grande festa per andare a cena nella Foresta di Epping. Poiché riteniamo che simili escursioni selvagge non dovrebbero mai essere incoraggiate, tranne che da persone con pochissimi mezzi economici che non hanno nemmeno il pranzo a casa, senza dubbio ci saremmo scusati se non avessimo ricordato che in occasioni del genere i responsabili dell’escursione erano sempre accompagnati da un gruppo selezionato di giovani signore e gentiluomini, persone che desideravamo molto incontrare. Questo ci decise a partecipare.

Dovevamo recarci a Chigwell in quattro carrozze di vetro, ciascuna con un piccolo gruppo di sei o otto persone all’interno, e un bambino che apparteneva ai responsabili dell’organizzazione dell’evento; dovevamo partire esattamente alle dieci e mezza dalla residenza di questi ultimi, situata in Woburn-place, Russell-square. Arrivammo nel luogo dell’appuntamento all’ora stabilita e trovammo le carrozze di vetro e i bambini pronti; diverse giovani signore e gentiluomini osservavano con ansia attraverso le tende del salotto da colazione, ma non sembravano affatto felici del nostro arrivo, anzi, evidentemente avrebbero preferito che fossimo stati qualcun altro. Notando che la nostra presenza causava delusione, osammo chiedere chi ancora mancasse, e dalle risposte affrettate di diverse voci capimmo che si trattava proprio del giovane gentiluomo delle signore in questione.

“Non riesco proprio a immaginare,” disse la mamma, “cosa sia successo al signor Balim, sempre così puntuale, sempre così gentile e piacevole. Sono sicura che non riesca davvero a capirlo, ” Mentre queste ultime parole venivano pronunciate in quel modo misurato ed enfatico che indica chiaramente che la persona che parla non ha ancora deciso esattamente cosa dire, ma è comunque determinata a continuare, la figlia maggiore prese l’iniziativa di parlare dell’argomento, sperando che al signor Balim non fosse accaduto nulla di male. A queste parole seguì un coro generale di “Caro signor Balim!”, e una giovane ragazza, più avventurosa delle altre, propose di inviare immediatamente un treno espresso presso l’abitazione del caro signor Balim. Tuttavia, il padre si oppose fermamente a questa idea, osservando, in quel modo piuttosto brusco che una delle figlie definì “davvero scortese”, che se il signor Balim non desiderava venire, poteva sempre fermarsi a >casa. A queste parole tutte le figlie mormorarono “Oh, papà!”, tranne una vivace bambina di otto o dieci anni che, approfittando di un momento di pausa nel discorso, osservò che forse il signor Balim si era sposato quella mattina. Per questa impertinente osservazione fu immediatamente cacciata dalla stanza dalla sua sorella maggiore.

Eravamo tutti in uno stato di grande mortificazione e disagio, quando uno dei bambini, entrando nella stanza con quella leggerezza tipica dei bambini che durante le vacanze hanno a disposizione una quantità illimitata di cibo, e che quando fanno esercizio tengono costantemente le mani nelle profonde tasche dei pantaloni, annunciò felicemente che il signor Balim stava in quel momento arrivando in strada su una vettura a noleggio; l’informazione fu confermata un minuto dopo dall’arrivo stesso del signor Balim, che fu accolto con ripetuti gridi di “Dove sei stato, tu birichino?”. Il birichino rispose di essere stato a letto a causa di una festa tardiva la sera precedente e di essersi appena alzato. Questa spiegazione suscitò in noi varie paure angosciose: temevamo che non avesse fatto colazione. Dopo un breve controllo, scoprimmo che era proprio così; così facemmo subito preparare la colazione, nonostante le ripetute proteste del signor Balim, che sosteneva di non riuscire a ricordarsela. In realtà se ne ricordava benissimo. E anzi, mangiò molto bene; veniva servito con cura da un gruppo selezionato di giovani donne. Era davvero divertente vederlo mangiare e bere, mentre una coppia di mani belle gli versava il caffè, un’altra aggiungeva lo zucchero, un’altra ancora il latte. Gli altri presenti, intanto, lanciavano occhiate furiose ai loro orologi e alle carrozze. I bambini, invece, guardavano con ansia, temendo che potesse iniziare a piovere prima che partissimo. Ma anche se avesse piovuto tutto il giorno, una volta che fossimo stati troppo lontani per tornare indietro, a loro non sarebbe importato affatto.

Tuttavia, la carovana si mise in movimento; ogni cocchiere aveva tra le gambe un cesto più grande di una carriola; e tutti erano stipati nei carri il più strettamente possibile, “secondo”, come osservò una signora sposata, “quella antica usanza che rappresentava metà del divertimento delle carovane zingare”. Ritenendo molto probabile che fosse così (non siamo mai riusciti a scoprire quale fosse l’altra metà del divertimento), ci lasciammo imbarcare con un atteggiamento sereno e fummo abbastanza fortunati da occupare un angolo di un carro in cui c’erano una vecchia signora, quattro giovani donne e il famoso signor Balim, l’amante delle giovani donne.

Non eravamo ancora del tutto partiti, che il giovane gentiluomo delle signorine iniziò a canticchiare un frammento di una melodia, il che indusse una di loro a chiedergli se avesse ballato quella stessa canzone la sera precedente. “Per Dio, sì,” rispose il giovane gentiluomo, “e con una bellissima ereditiera, una creatura meravigliosa, con ventimila sterline.” “Sembri davvero colpito, ” osservò un’altra signorina. “Dio mio, era davvero una persona adorabile,” replicò il giovane gentiluomo, sistemandosi i capelli. “Naturalmente anche lei doveva essere rimasta colpita, ” chiese la prima signorina. “Come puoi chiederlo, amore mio?” intervenne l’altra; “come avrebbe potuto non esserlo?” “Beh, onestamente credo di sì,” rispose il giovane gentiluomo. A quel punto, la signorina che aveva parlato per prima, seduta alla sua destra, gli diede un forte schiaffetto sul braccio con un bocciolo di rosa, definendolo un uomo vanitoso; il giovane gentiluomo insistette per tenersi il bocciolo, e dopo che la signorina chiamò in aiuto le altre ragazze, ne seguì una graziosa lotta, che si concluse con la vittoria del giovane gentiluomo e la conquista del bocciolo di rosa. Dopo questo piccolo “scontro”, la signora sposata, madre del bocciolo di rosa, sorrise dolcemente al giovane gentiluomo, accusandolo di essere un libertino; lui si dichiarò innocente, e ne seguì una discussione molto interessante su questa importante questione. Una conversazione piacevole e leggera, che durò per un bel po’ di tempo. Alla fine, calò un breve silenzio, e le signorine sedute ai lati del giovane gentiluomo si addormentarono all’improvviso; lui, facendoci segno di mantenere il silenzio, ottenne un paio di guanti da ciascuna di loro, il che le fece svegliare all’istante e gridare ad alta voce. La vivace conversazione che ne seguì continuò per il resto del viaggio, e avrebbe potuto protrarsi ancora a lungo.

Abbiamo cenato in modo piuttosto confortevole rispetto a quanto la gente di solito faccia in simili circostanze: non era rimasto nulla tranne lo svitapatte e il pane. I signori sposati avevano una sete insolita, che attribuirono al caldo del tempo; i bambini mangiavano con difficoltà; le mamme erano molto allegramente, e loro figlie molto affascinanti; inoltre, gli attendenti, essendo uomini ben educati, si ubriacarono completamente a una distanza rispettabile.

Durante la cena, osservavamo attentamente il signor Balim e notammo che se la stava cavando meravigliosamente: era ancora circondato da un piccolo gruppo di giovani donne che lo ascoltavano come un oracolo; intanto lui mangiava dai loro piatti e beveva dai loro bicchieri in modo davvero affascinante, per via della sua eccessiva vivacità. Anche il suo modo di conversare era estremamente brillante. Infatti, una signora anziana ci assicurò che, durante un piccolo scherzo riguardo ai vestiti delle donne, aveva dimostrato di possedere una conoscenza tale da far pensare che fosse nato e cresciuto in una bottega di cappelli.

Tutti quei grassoni che, dopo cena, non si erano addormentati subito iniziarono a giocare a pallone con grande entusiasmo; noi invece ci allontanammo da soli verso una zona più fitta del bosco, nella speranza di incontrare il signor Balim. La maggior parte dei giovani si era già addormentata a gruppi di due o tre, e tra loro c’erano anche i giovani gentiluomini delle ragazze. Non rimanemmo delusi: non avevamo camminato molto quando, spiando attraverso gli alberi, lo scorgemmo davanti a noi. E davvero era una vista piacevole da ammirare la sua grandezza.

Il giovane gentiluomo delle signorine sedeva a terra, ai piedi di alcune ragazze che erano appoggiate a un muretto; era così ricoperto di sciarpe, nastri, >fiori e altri bei ornamenti, che sembrava un >agnellino, o forse un vitello sarebbe stato un paragone più appropriato, adornato per il sacrificio. Una ragazza teneva un ombrello sopra la sua testa; un’altra gli reggeva il cappello, e una terza il fazzoletto che lui, in modo molto romantico, si era tolto dal collo; il giovane gentiluomo stesso, con la mano sul petto e il viso atteggiato a un’espressione di dolcezza estrema, cantava alcune melodie incantevoli per lodare la bellezza femminile, in uno stile così squisitamente perfetto che non potemmo fare a meno di scoppiare a ridere e ci ritirammo in fretta.

Che bei ragazzi sono questi giovani signori e queste giovani signore! Anatre, cari, amati, angeli, tutti questi termini sono insufficienti per esprimere le loro qualità. Sono davvero uomini straordinariamente gentili e meravigliosi.

CONCLUSION

As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust of the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do better than preserve and maintain—we say, as we have done all this, we feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of young gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.

Here we are at a loss. We look over our list, and can neither recommend the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor the very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman, nor the political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman, nor the censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor the theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor the throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies’ young gentleman.

As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a whole, our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a young gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and the worst weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal altar, whether he will or no. And to the young lady who secures him, we beg to tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from many sound passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

‘The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem of your husband. Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to esteem you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and perhaps contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and beauty with more durable qualities. You have but a very few years to be young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so in the eyes of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will, put a sudden end to.’

From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young gentleman to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than ourself. Without in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have merely to observe, that we are ready to receive sealed offers containing a full specification of age, temper, appearance, and condition; but we beg it to be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourself to accept the highest bidder.

These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested to be addressed.

Conclusione

Dato che abbiamo presentato alle giovani signore numerosi esempi di giovani gentiluomini e, nella dedica di questo volume, le abbiamo anche fatto comprendere quanto rispettiamo e ammiriamo le loro numerose virtù e perfezioni; dato che abbiamo fornito loro motivi sufficienti per trattarci con fiducia e eliminare, nel nostro caso, ogni riserva o diffidenza verso il sesso maschile – che, come norma generale di comportamento, è opportuno mantenere – diciamo, avendo fatto tutto ciò, riteniamo che ora, giunti alla fine del nostro compito, possano naturalmente chiederci quale tipo specifico di giovani gentiluomini possiamo consigliare con sincerità.

Eccoci quindi in difficoltà. Esaminiamo la nostra lista e non riusciamo a consigliare né il giovane gentiluomo timido, né quello spensierato, né quello molto amichevole, né quello militare, né quello politico, né quello domestico, né quello troppo critico, né quello divertente, né quello teatrale, né quello poetico, né quello disinvolto. E nemmeno il giovane gentiluomo adatto alle signorine.

Poiché molti di loro presentano aspetti positivi, anche se non sufficientemente numerosi per rendere uno qualsiasi di loro idoneo nel suo insieme, il nostro rispettoso consiglio alle giovani signore è di cercare un giovane gentiluomo che possieda in sé le migliori qualità di tutti e nessuna delle peggiori debolezze, e di condurlo immediatamente all’altare nuziale, che lui lo voglia o no. Alla giovane signora che riuscirà a trovarlo, vorremmo offrire un breve frammento di consigli matrimoniali, tratto da molte altre riflessioni simili presenti in una lettera scritta dal vescovo Swift a una giovane donna riguardo al suo matrimonio.

“L’evento più importante della tua vita sarà conquistare e mantenere la stima di tuo marito. Né una buona natura né la virtù gli permetteranno di stimarti contro il proprio giudizio; e anche se non è capace di trattarti male, col tempo diventerai qualcuno di indifferente, forse persino spregevole, a meno che tu non possa compensare la perdita della giovinezza e della bellezza con qualità più durature. Hai soltanto pochi anni per essere giovane e attraente agli occhi del mondo; e ancora meno mesi per esserlo agli occhi di un marito che non è uno sciocco. Poiché spero che tu non continui a sognare di incantesimi e passioni folli, che il matrimonio ha sempre messo fine, e sempre metterà fine.”

Dall’ansia che esprimiamo riguardo al comportamento appropriato della fortunata signora dopo il matrimonio, si potrebbe presumere che il giovane gentiluomo di cui abbiamo fatto così delicatamente allusione non sia altri che noi stessi. Senza alcun impegno da parte nostra in merito, vogliamo semplicemente precisare che siamo disposti ad accettare offerte scritte contenenti informazioni complete sull’età, sul carattere, sull’aspetto e sulla condizione economica della persona interessata; tuttavia, chiediamo che venga chiaramente inteso che non ci impegniamo ad accettare l’offerta più alta.

Queste offerte possono essere inoltrate ai Editori, i signori Chapman e Hall di Londra; a loro vengono rispettosamente chiesti di ricevere tutte le tavole incise e altri attestati di approvazione provenienti dalle giovani signore.

SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES

AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, (being bachelors or widowers,) THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

Sheweth,—

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and pronounce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most Gracious intention of entering into the bonds of wedlock.

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use and employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’

That the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of marriage to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of the same, under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or satin dress of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or owed) for, by the gentleman.

That these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious communication, which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in this Realm with certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind, that never entered their imagination before.

That a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

That similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the capital and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that unless the excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained in their lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue therefrom; among which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in the population of the country, with which no efforts of the agricultural or manufacturing interest can possibly keep pace.

That there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most extensive plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast numbers of single ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and now extending its ramifications in every quarter of the land; the object and intent of which plainly appears to be the holding and solemnising of an enormous and unprecedented number of marriages, on the day on which the nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are performed.

That such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers, which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

That such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State, cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns. And in further proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here observed, that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the Protestant religion.

For all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import, an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors or widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with which they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap Year, and the additional sensation created among single ladies by the terms of Her Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures, without delay, for resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting their evil designs; And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present Ministers, and to summon to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honourable Professions who, by insulting on all occasions the only Lady in England who can be insulted with safety, have given a sufficient guarantee to Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at least, are qualified to make war with women, and are already expert in the use of those weapons which are common to the lowest and most abandoned of the sex.

THE YOUNG COUPLE

There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace. The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she would dress, if she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful. What day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one perpetual holiday, with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it—of every Sunday being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what pictures of happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in, under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking like the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s mamma in tears, and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be—and there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round her neck, and the other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister Emma should be taken away—and it is all so affecting, that the two servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so that she don’t know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she may be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake, glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully. They agree that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception, there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer. As they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says he knows, for he’s often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush and look confused. She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it’s being early in the morning, it won’t hurt her: so they shut the door and pour out the wine; and Anne drinking lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s wishing you yours, Mr. John,’ drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John, who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’ has the satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this all, for soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and shut the street-door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles, and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma’s papa is at the top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to be the handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All down both sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to possess unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has been very liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may call her an old maid, and so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and never know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of the same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’ The real bride and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention, and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose-leaves in her bosom with nature’s own coquettishness. They have dreamt of each other in their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest. When will there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and charm that hover round such fairy lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such members of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a particularly awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming farewell in every queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps are crowded with servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and they have left it far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh such a angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she ‘can’t tell how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’

Il giovane coppia

Questo mattino ci sarà un matrimonio nell’angolo della casa sul terrazzo. La gente del pasticcere è già stata lì una mezza dozzina di volte; ieri tutto il giorno c’è stato un gran trambusto, e stamattina si sono alzati non appena è sorto il sole. La signorina Emma Fielding sposerà il giovane signor Harvey.

Solo il cielo può sapere con quali vivaci colori questa nozze è dipinta nella mente della piccola cameriera di casa al numero sei, che quasi non ha dormito per tutta la notte a pensarci, e ora sta in piedi sui gradini sporchi della porta, appoggiata alla sua scopa, guardando con malinconia verso quella incantevole >casa. Solo l’onniscienza potrebbe indovinare quali immagini del panettiere, del verduriere o del garzon di bottega così affascinante le passino per la mente: quali pensieri su come si vestirebbe in un’occasione del genere se fosse una signora, su come si vestirebbe se fosse solo una sposa, su come si vestirebbero la cuoca e sua sorella, che sono damigelle d’onore a Fulham, e su come il prete, considerandole tutte signore, si comporterebbe con estrema umiltà e rispetto. Quanti sogni di speranza e felicità, di una vita sempre festiva, senza padroni né padronese che possano negarla o concederla, di ogni )domenica trascorsa in tranquillità, di totale libertà riguardo ai capelli. Quante immagini di felicità, così vaste e imponenti per lei, ma assolutamente ridicole per noi, confondono la mente della piccola cameriera di casa al numero sei, tutte generate da quel matrimonio che si è tenuto all’angolo della strada!

Ridiamo di queste cose, e dovremmo farlo, anche se forse per un motivo migliore di quello che di solito ci viene in mente. Dovrebbe essere piacevole sapere che esistono concetti di felicità così moderati e limitati, poiché coloro che li coltivano riescono facilmente a raggiungere la felicità e la serenità d’animo.

Ma la piccola cameriera viene svegliata dai suoi sogni: dalla porta di quella magica casa corre verso di lei sua amica Jane Adams, tutta agitata e vestita con un bell’abito nuovo e nastri colorati; arriva senza fiato per mantenere la promessa fatta di ospitarla, approfittando della confusione per vedere la tavola imbandita per la colazione. E, cosa ancora più meravigliosa, la sua giovane padrona pronta per andare in chiesa.

E lì, in tutta la sua verità, quando sono salite di sopra in punta di piedi e si sono avvicinate alla porta della camera, c’è Miss Emma, “che sembra la più adorabile delle fanciulle”, con un cappellino bianco e fiori arancioni; tutte le altre eleganze tipiche di una sposa, (con il taglio, la forma e la qualità di ogni singolo abito che la ragazza conosce perfettamente, e non dimenticherà mai fino alla fine dei suoi giorni, ) E c’è anche la mamma di Miss Emma, in lacrime, e il padre che la consola, dicendo quanto lei avesse desiderato questo momento e quanto dovrebbe essere felice. E c’è anche la sorella di Miss Emma, con le braccia intorno al suo collo, e le altre damigelle d’onore, tutte sorridenti e in lacrime, che cercano di calmare i bambini, i quali piangerebbero ancora di più se non fossero così ben vestiti. Eppure continuano a singhiozzare per la paura che loro sorella Emma venga portata via. Tutto questo è così commovente che anche le due cameriere piangono più di chiunque altro; e Jane Adams, seduta sulle scale dopo che tutte se ne sono andate, dichiara che le gambe le tremano tanto da non sapere cosa fare. E aggiunge che parlerà a nome di Miss Emma, dicendo che lei non ha mai ricevuto da lei una parola scortese, e che spera e prega davvero che lei sia felice.

Ma Jane presto torna in sé, e allora certo non è mai esistito nulla di simile al tavolo da colazione, brillante di piatti e porcellane, imbandito con >fiori e dolci, nonché bottiglie dal collo lungo, in modo davvero sontuoso e abbagliante. Al centro c’è anche il grande protagonista della scena: la torta, lucida di zucchero a velo e decorata con estrema cura. Concordano tutti sul fatto che sotto uno dei “templi” fatti di zucchero di canna dovrebbe esserci almeno un Cupido, o meglio ancora due cuori e una freccia; ma, a parte questa piccola eccezione, non c’è nulla che si possa desiderare. Un tavolo così bello non potrebbe essere migliorato. Mentre arrivano a questa conclusione, entra proprio il signor John! Jane gli dice che si tratta soltanto di Anne, quella che abita al numero sei; e John risponde di saperlo bene, perché spesso ha osservato da lontano. Il che fa arrossire Anne e la mette in imbarazzo. Lei sta per andarsene, quando il signor John insiste affinché beva un bicchiere di vino; dice che non importa sia ancora presto al mattino, che non le farà male. Così chiudono la porta e versano il vino. Anne brinda alla salute del signor John, aggiungendo: “E ora auguro anche a voi la stessa cosa”, e beve tutto d’un fiato. Il signor John, intanto, continua a scherzare in modo appropriato all’occasione. Alla fine, il signor John, diventato sempre più audace, fa appello alle usanze nuziali e chiede il diritto di un bacio. Che ottiene dopo qualche momento di “lotta”. Quando poi si sentono dei passi sulle scale, si disperdono immediatamente.

A quest’ora, una carrozza è arrivata per portare la sposa in chiesa; Anne, che si trova al numero sei e sta ancora “pulendo la sua porta”, ha il piacere di vedere la sposa e le damigelle d’onore, nonché i genitori della sposa, affrettarsi a salire sulla carrozza e partire rapidamente. E non è tutto: presto arrivano altre carrozze, con un gruppo di persone vestite in modo elegante; potrebbe stare lì a guardarle per ore. Ma avendo altro da fare, è costretta ad dare un’ultima occhiata e poi chiudere la porta di casa.

E ora tutti sono seduti a colazione; le lacrime hanno lasciato il posto ai sorrisi, perché tutte le bottiglie con il collo lungo hanno avuto il tappo tolto e il loro contenuto sta scomparendo rapidamente. Il padre di Miss Emma è seduto all’estremità della tavola; la madre di Miss Emma all’altro capo; accanto a quest’ultima ci sono Miss Emma stessa e suo marito, riconosciuti da tutti come la coppia più bella e interessante che si sia mai conosciuta. Su entrambi i lati della tavola ci sono anche diverse giovani signore, bellissime da vedere, e diversi giovani gentiluomini che sembrano pensarla allo stesso modo; lì, in una posizione di onore, c’è anche un’zia zitella di Miss Emma, di cui si dice possieda ricchezze inimmaginabili e abbia espresso grandi intenzioni testamentarie riguardo alla sua nipote preferita e al suo nuovo nipote. Questa signora è già stata molto generosa, come testimoniano abbondantemente i gioielli indossati dalla sposa; ma questo non è nulla rispetto a ciò che intende fare, o addirittura a ciò che ha già fatto. Tre mesi fa ha contattato la sarta e si è fatta preparare un intero guardaroba (alcuni capi dei quali sono stati realizzati con le sue stesse mani), degno di una principessa. La gente potrebbe chiamarla zitella, e forse lo è davvero; ma non è né acida né brutta. Al contrario, è molto allegra, piacevole da vedere, gentile e dal cuore tenero. Il che non sorprende affatto, tranne coloro che si lasciano guidare dagli stereotipi senza mai chiedersi il motivo. E che probabilmente non diventeranno mai più saggi, né capiranno mai la verità.

Di tutta la compagnia, nessuno è più piacevole da vedere o più soddisfatto di sé stesso di due bambini piccoli che, in onore di quella giornata, hanno un posto tra gli ospiti. Uno di loro è un ragazzino di sei o otto anni, fratello della sposa; l’altro è una bambina della stessa età, o forse più giovane, che lui chiama “sua moglie”. La vera sposa e lo sposo non sono più devoti di loro: lui la ama e le dedica attenzioni infinite, mentre lei arrossisce e mostra tenerezza, giocando con un piccolo mazzo di fiori che lui le ha regalato quella mattina, e riponendo i petali sparsi del rosa nel suo seno con una grazia naturale e incantevole. In quei loro sogni tranquilli, questi bambini hanno sognato l’uno dell’altro; i loro piccoli cuori si spezzavano quasi ogni volta che colui che mancava veniva preso in giro. Quando mai, nell’aldilà, esisterà un amore così sincero, generoso e vero come il loro? Cosa potrebbe avere, anche nelle sue forme più dolci, la grazia e il fascino che circondano questi piccoli amanti fatati?

A questo momento, la gioia e l’allegria della festa hanno raggiunto il loro apice; tra le damigelle d’onore iniziano a scambiarsi sguardi preoccupanti, e si diffonde la voce che la carrozza destinata a portare la giovane coppia in campagna sia arrivata. Coloro che desiderano prolungare i festeggiamenti fingono di considerare questa notizia un falso allarme, ma in realtà è troppo vera: la situazione viene rapidamente confermata, prima dal ritiro della sposa e di un gruppo ristretto di persone incaricate di prepararla per il viaggio, e poi dallo sgombero delle altre dame presenti. Segue un momento particolarmente imbarazzante: tutti cercano di scherzare, ma nessuno ci riesce; alla fine lo sposo scompare misteriosamente, in risposta a qualche segnale altrettanto enigmatico, e la tavola viene abbandonata.

Ora, da almeno sei settimane, è stato deciso e concordato solennemente che la giovane coppia dovesse andarsene di nascosto; ma non appena compaiono fuori di casa, le finestre del salotto vengono immediatamente bloccate dalle signore che agitano i fazzoletti e baciano loro le mani, mentre le finestre della sala da pranzo mostrano i volti dei gentiluomini che li salutano con espressioni varie e sorprendenti. Il corridoio e la scalinata sono affollati di servitori in abiti bianchi, mescolati con amici e parenti venuti appositamente a dire addio; in prima fila, i piccoli innamorati, mano nella mano, pensano, con il cuore che batte forte, a quanto sarebbe felice partire insieme in quella splendida carrozza e non separarsi mai più.

La sposa ha appena il tempo di gettare un’occhiata frettolosa alla sua vecchia >casa, quando i passi risuonano, la porta si chiude con violenza, i cavalli calpestano il selciato, e se ne sono già andati lontano.

Un gruppo di donne domestiche è ancora riunito nel salone, sussurrando tra loro; c’è naturalmente anche Anne, quella che abita al numero sei, la quale è riuscita a “scappare” ancora una volta per qualche scusa e ha assistito con ammirazione alla partenza di lui. Ci sono due argomenti su cui Anne insiste all’infinito, senza mostrare il minimo segno di stanchezza o intenzione di smettere: uno è che “non ha mai visto in tutta la sua vita un gentiluomo così, oh, un vero angelo come il signor Harvey”; l’altro è che “non riesce a spiegarselo, ma sembra proprio non essere una giornata normale, né nemmeno una domenica, tutto è così caotico e irregolare”.

THE FORMAL COUPLE

The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and unsatisfactory people on the face of the earth. Their faces, voices, dress, house, furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of formality, unrelieved by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness, or nature.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of form. They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to see how you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do honour to you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to theirs. If one of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as sure and punctual in sending to the house as the undertaker; if a friend’s family be increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive than they. The formal couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of testifying their good-breeding and precise observance of the little usages of society; and for you, who are the means to this end, they care as much as a man does for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a figure, or a woman for the milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from time to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited, and to which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time. Here his deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the exact pitch of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought to wear, the melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day. He is perfectly acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed in a mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in the white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head when the ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns home. ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’ ‘No feathers!’ cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere. Her husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. ‘All white wine!’ exclaims his wife. ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband. ‘What! no port?’ ‘Not a drop.’ No port, no plums, and no feathers! ‘You will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of stately reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead and gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly acquainted with the decencies of life. You have now had a good opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I trust you will never go to a funeral there again.’ ‘My dear,’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’ So the informal deceased is cut in his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings are made of, and what their notions of propriety can be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they are not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women; and so exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for anything that appeareth to the contrary. Indeed, they are so acquainted with forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such strict decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in some wild outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any visitor an unspeakable relief and consolation.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected. Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a perfect agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the stage; and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a double construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to express by their looks the great outrage which their feelings have sustained. Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves almost entirely from places of public amusement. They go sometimes to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking than the stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is high time Mr. Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture from certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely dried also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman, who, being highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his own way, and was in great spirits. It was at supper-time that this gentleman came out in full force. We—being of a grave and quiet demeanour—had been chosen to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and, sitting beside her, had a favourable opportunity of observing her emotions.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the first blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady had not felt quite certain whether the being present at such a ceremony, and encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby, was not an act involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but certain we are that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions were made, by a grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he had dandled in his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are that then the formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old gentleman as from a hoary profligate. Still she bore it; she fanned herself with an indignant air, but still she bore it. A comic song was sung, involving a confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had kissed a female, and yet the formal lady bore it. But when at last, the health of the godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather rose to return thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly hinted at babies yet unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of the subject of that festival having brothers and sisters, the formal lady could endure no more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping haughtily past the offender, left the room in tears, under the protection of the formal gentleman.

Il matrimonio di convenienza

La coppia formale è senz’altro la persona più rigida, fredda, immobile e insoddisfacente sulla faccia della terra. I loro volti, le loro voci, i loro abiti, la loro >casa, i loro mobili, il modo in cui camminano e si comportano, tutto rappresenta l’essenza stessa della formalità, privo di qualsiasi tocco di franchezza, cordialità o >natura che possa renderlo più umano.

Tutto ciò che riguarda la coppia formale si riduce, in fondo, a una questione di forma. Non vi chiamano per voi, ma per se stessi; non per vedere come siete voi, ma per mostrare come sono loro: non si tratta di una cerimonia volta ad onorarvi, ma a onorare loro stessi – e non a causa della vostra posizione, ma della loro. Se muore un figlio di un amico, la coppia formale manda i suoi auguri con la stessa puntualità dell’impresario funebre; se una famiglia amica ha un aumento di membri, l’infermiera che viene a fare le visite mensili non è meno attenta di loro. In realtà, la coppia formale coglie con gioia ogni occasione per dimostrare il proprio buon gusto e il rispetto rigoroso delle piccole convenzioni sociali; e per voi, che siete soltanto lo strumento per raggiungere questo scopo, loro provano lo stesso interesse che un uomo prova per il sarto che gli ha permesso di farsi confezionare un abito, o una donna per la modista che l’ha aiutata a ottenere un successo.

Avendo stretti legami con quel tipo di persone che fanno solo conoscenze senza mai stabilire veri amicizie, il gentiluomo formale partecipa, di tanto in tanto, a molte cerimonie funebri a cui viene formalmente invitato e alle quali va anche lui, come risposta a un invito ricevuto in precedenza. In queste occasioni il suo comportamento è impeccabile: sa esattamente quale tono di voce adottare, quale espressione triste mostrare e quale passo malinconico tenere durante la giornata. Conosce perfettamente tutte le formalità noiose che si devono osservare in un carro funebre; sa quando sospirare e quando nascondersi il naso nel fazzoletto bianco. E, al termine della cerimonia, guarda nella tomba e scuote la testa con quella stessa solenne formalità di un muto.

“Che tipo di funerale è stato?” chiede la signora formale quando lui ritorna a >casa. “Oh!” risponde il signore formale, “Non c’è mai stata una tale volgarità e disgustosa mancanza di decoro; non c’erano piume.” “Nessuna piuma!” esclama la signora, come se le persone morte volassero in Cielo su ali di piume nere, e senza di esse dovessero necessariamente andare altrove. Suo marito scuote la testa e aggiunge che al posto del plum-cake c’era stato semolato, e che era stato servito solo vino bianco. “Solo vino bianco!” esclama sua moglie. “Nient’altro che sherry e madeira,” risponde il marito. “Che cosa! Nessun porto?” “Nemmeno una goccia.” Niente porto, nessune prugne, nessuna piuma, “Ricorderai, mia cara,” dice la signora formale con voce severa, “quando abbiamo incontrato per la prima volta quest’uomo povero che ora è morto e se n’è andato, e lui ha avuto l’audacia di rivolgersi a me a cena senza essere stato presentato in precedenza. Ho osato dire che quella famiglia ignorava completamente le regole dell’etichetta e non conosceva affatto le convenzioni della vita. Ora hai avuto l’opportunità di giudicare da sola. E tutto ciò che posso dirti è che spero tu non vada mai più a un funerale lì.” “Mia cara,” risponde il signore formale, “Non lo farò mai più.” Così, l’uomo poco formale viene sepolto nella sua tomba; e la coppia formale, quando racconta questa storia, scuote la testa e si chiede di cosa siano fatti i sentimenti di alcune persone, e quali possano essere le loro concezioni della decenza.

Se la coppia formale ha dei figli (il che talvolta succede), questi non sono bambini, ma uomini e donne piccoli, pallidi, acidi, dal naso affilato; vengono educati in modo così raffinato che potrebbero sembrare dei nanetti molto anziani, anche se a prima vista si direbbe il contrario. Infatti, essi conoscono così bene le forme e le convenzioni sociali, e si comportano con un decoro così rigoroso, che vedere la bambina rompere uno specchio in un impeto improvviso, o il bambino dare calci ai propri genitori, rappresenterebbe per qualsiasi visitatore un vero sollievo e conforto.

La coppia formale è sempre molto attenta a ciò che è rigidamente considerato appropriato, e ha una grande capacità di individuare eventuali improprietà nel linguaggio o nei pensieri altrui, che persone meno scrupolose probabilmente non noterebbero affatto. Pertanto, se vanno al teatro, rimangono seduti lì per tutta la notte, in preda all’angoscia, temendo che dal palco possano provenire cose inappropriate o immorali; e se capita che venga detto qualcosa che può essere interpretato in modo diverso, non mancano mai di sollevare l’argomento direttamente, esprimendo con il loro sguardo la profonda indignazione che provano. Forse questa è proprio la ragione principale per cui evitano quasi del tutto i luoghi di divertimento pubblico. A volte vanno alle mostre della Royal Academy, ma spesso quelle sono ancora più scioccanti del teatro stesso; e la signora formale pensa davvero che sia arrivato il momento che il signor Etty venga processato e diventi un esempio pubblico da seguire.

Non molto tempo fa, durante una festa di battesimo, abbiamo organizzato una simile situazione: tra gli ospiti c’era una coppia formale che subì le torture più acute a causa di alcune battute, tipiche di un evento del genere, e probabilmente anche piuttosto offensive. Una di queste battute proveniva da uno dei padrini di battesimo: un anziano signore dal viso rosso, molto popolare tra gli altri ospiti, che aveva la meglio su tutto e era di ottimo umore. Fu durante la cena che questo signore iniziò davvero a “mettersi in mostra”. Noi, essendo persone di comportamento serio e tranquillo, eravamo stati incaricati di scortare la signora formale al piano di sotto; seduti accanto a lei, avevamo l’opportunità ideale per osservare le sue reazioni.

Abbiamo un sospetto fondato che, fin dall’inizio, e nel primo momento in cui la questione venne sollevata, quella signora perbene non fosse del tutto certa che partecipare a una cerimonia del genere e incoraggiare, per così dire, l’esposizione pubblica di un bambino non rappresentasse un atto piuttosto inappropriato e scortese; tuttavia siamo sicuri che quando la salute del bambino fu menzionata durante la cerimonia, e un gentiluomo anziano fece allusioni al momento in cui aveva tenuto in braccio la madre di quel piccolo Christian, allora quella signora perbene prese paura e si allontanò da quell’uomo come se fosse un individuo dissoluto e indecente. Eppure sopportò tutto; si comportò con aria indignata, ma continuò a tollerare quelle situazioni. Fu cantata anche una canzone comica che conteneva una confessione di un certo gentiluomo secondo cui aveva baciato una donna. Ma quando finalmente il padrino menzionato fu ubriaco e iniziò a ringraziare, facendo allusioni oscure a bambini ancora non nati, persino considerando la possibilità che quel bambino avesse fratelli e sorelle, quella signora perbene non poté più sopportarlo: si inchinò leggermente e, con aria sprezzante, lasciò la stanza in lacrime, sotto la protezione di quel gentiluomo.

THE LOVING COUPLE

There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is presented by a loving couple. Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that two persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but there is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always in a loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal considerations. We grant that to that unfortunate class of society there may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in being compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste interchanges which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of life. But while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to which these unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their biassed evidence, nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered minds. Dispassionate experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays we seek no less to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a timely warning to all rising couples, and even to those who have not yet set forth upon their pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity. ‘You would suppose,’ says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged. Never was such happiness! They are so tender, so affectionate, so attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be more charming!’

‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs. Leaver. ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver. ‘Do, my dove,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and it’s very naughty of you to ask me.’ ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr. Leaver. ‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for you know I have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great pain. You’re a monster, and I hate you. Go away!’ Mrs. Leaver has said ‘go away,’ because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver not doing as he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her, Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs. Leaver, and it being now time for all persons present to look the other way, they look the other way, and hear a still small sound as of kissing, at which Mrs. Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers her neighbour that if all married couples were like that, what a heaven this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad. Indeed upon some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing in person.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly for the purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was our fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared galley, manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same pattern as their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same shade as the whiskers of the stroke oar. A coxswain being appointed, and all other matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into strong paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the compassionate remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it seemed an immense exertion—as indeed it did. At first we raced the other boat, which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found an unpleasant amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of splashing, and rendering the cold pies and other viands very moist, it was unanimously voted down, and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while the second boat followed ingloriously in our wake.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver. There were two firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted; and one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs, was heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her, number two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think you’re winning a boat.’ The greater part of the company had no doubt begun to wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood in need of such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver confirmed the doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still further disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be in a fearful perspiration, and failing visibly. Nor was the general consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’) plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the company, but two violently struggling legs. Mrs. Leaver shrieked again several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead? Tell me the worst. Is he dead?’

Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in a sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds of wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in his hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’ But Mrs. Leaver cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that if Mr. Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his proper share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took part with Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was not strong enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have undertaken it. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at Mrs. Leaver’s feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh Augustus, how could you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my sweet, I never meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are faint, my dear;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and they were very loving indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length Mr. Leaver came forth again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard something said about bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple you are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy together!’ To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of cousins,) observing that hearts beating in unison like that made life a paradise of sweets; and that when kindred creatures were drawn together by sympathies so fine and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did not our souls partake! To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very true,’ or merely sighed, as the case might be. At every new act of the loving couple, the widow’s admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs. Leaver would not permit Mr. Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun should strike to his head, and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually shed tears, and said it reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when we arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty and vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw stones at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the grass, in a most innocent and enchanting manner. At dinner, too, Mr. Leaver would steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver would retaliate upon Mr. Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to take some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying that it made her ill, and she was always sorry for it afterwards, which afforded Mrs. Leaver an opportunity of pretending to be cross, and showing many other prettinesses. But this was merely the smiling surface of their loves, not the mighty depths of the stream, down to which the company, to say the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from the following accident. It chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to propose the bachelors who had first originated the notion of that entertainment, in doing which, he affected to regret that he was no longer of their body himself, and pretended grievously to lament his fallen state. This Mrs. Leaver’s feelings could not brook, even in jest, and consequently, exclaiming aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me not!’ she fell in a very pitiable state into the arms of Mrs. Starling, and, directly becoming insensible, was conveyed by that lady and her husband into another room. Presently Mr. Leaver came running back to know if there was a medical gentleman in company, and as there was, (in what company is there not?) both Mr. Leaver and the medical gentleman hurried away together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his intimate friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as unmedical as might be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very solemn, and in answer to all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked that Augusta was far too sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which the widow subsequently confirmed. Finding that she was in no imminent peril, however, the rest of the party betook themselves to dancing on the green, and very merry and happy they were, and a vast quantity of flirtation there was; the last circumstance being no doubt attributable, partly to the fineness of the weather, and partly to the locality, which is well known to be favourable to all harmless recreations.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat, and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her head upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with great fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a melancholy and sympathetic aspect. The widow sat apart, feigning to be occupied with a book, but stealthily observing them from behind her fan; and the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard by, nudged each other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke. Very few of the party missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily congratulated each other on their disappearance.

Il tenero innamorato

Non esiste un’esempio più concreto e pratico della saggezza antica secondo cui anche una cosa buona può essere presente in eccesso: questo si osserva chiaramente in una coppia amorevole. Senza dubbio è giusto e appropriato che due persone unite in matrimonio siano amorevoli l’una verso l’altra, ed è certamente piacevole saperlo e vederlo; tuttavia, per ogni cosa esiste un momento opportuno. E quelle coppie che sono sempre in uno stato di affetto reciproco davanti agli altri diventano quasi insopportabili.

E assumendo questa posizione, vogliamo che sia chiaramente inteso che non cerchiamo soltanto la simpatia dei celibi, nei cui obiezioni contro le coppie innamorate riconosciamo motivi interessati e considerazioni personali. Ammettiamo che per quella sfortunata classe della società possa esserci qualcosa di molto irritante, provocatorio e frustrante nel dover assistere a quei gesti affettuosi e scambi casti che, per le coppie innamorate, rappresentano semplicemente la norma della vita quotidiana. Tuttavia, sebbene riconosciamo il carattere naturale di questo pregiudizio a cui questi uomini sfortunati sono soggetti, non possiamo né accettare le loro testimonianze parziali, né rivolgerci alle loro menti infiammate e arrabbiate. L’esperienza oggettiva è l’unica guida che abbiamo; e in queste riflessioni morali cerchiamo non solo di riformare coloro che violano i principi coniugali, ma anche di fornire un avvertimento tempestivo a tutte le coppie che si stanno formando, e persino a coloro che ancora non hanno iniziato il loro percorso verso il matrimonio.

Che tutti i coppie, presenti o che arriveranno in futuro, possano trarre beneficio dall’esempio del signor e della signora Leaver, che sono essi stessi una coppia amorevole al massimo grado.

Il signor e la signora Leaver vengono descritti da Mrs. Starling, una donna vedova che perse il marito quando era giovane e, secondo le sue stesse parole, non è mai invecchiata di cinque anni da allora. Un esempio perfetto di felicità coniugale. “Si potrebbe pensare”, dice questa signora romantica, “che siano appena fidanzati. Non c’è mai stata tanta felicità! Sono così teneri, così affettuosi l’uno verso l’altro, così innamorati. Che davvero non ci può essere nulla di più incantevole!”

“Augusta, la mia ‘anima”, dice il signor Leaver. “Augustus, la mia vita”, risponde la signora Leaver. “Canta una canzoncina, tesoro”, le chiede il signor Leaver. “Non potrei davvero, caro mio”, risponde la signora Leaver. “Per favore, colombella mia”, insiste il signor Leaver. “Non potrei assolutamente, mio amore”, ribatte lei; “e è molto cattivo da parte tua chiedermelo”. “Cattivo, tesoro!”, esclama il signor Leaver. “Sì, molto cattivo e molto crudele”, risponde la signora Leaver; “perché sai che ho il mal di gola, e cantare mi causerebbe un grande >dolore. Sei un mostro, e ti odio. Vattene!” La signora Leaver ha detto “vattene” perché il signor Leaver le aveva dato una pacca sotto il mento; ma invece di andarsene, si è seduto accanto a lei. Allora la signora Leaver lo ha schiaffeggiato; e lui, in risposta, l’ha schiaffeggiata a sua volta. In quel momento, tutte le persone presenti hanno girato lo sguardo da un’altra parte, e hanno sentito un lieve suono di baci. La signora Starling ne è rimasta completamente incantata, e sussurra alla sua vicina che se tutti i coppie sposate fossero così, che paradiso sarebbe questa terra!

La coppia innamorata si trova a >casa quando ciò accade, e forse sono presenti solo tre o quattro amici; tuttavia, non essendo abituati a trattenersi in queste occasioni, il loro affetto è praticamente lo stesso anche all’estero. Infatti, in alcune circostanze, come durante un picnic o una festa sul lago, il loro amore si manifesta ancora di più intensamente; ne abbiamo avuto la possibilità l’ultima estate di osservarlo personalmente.

Si tenne una grande festa sul acqua: si andò a Twickenham per pranzare e, dopo, si ballò in una villa vuota situata sulla riva del fiume, affittata appositamente per l’occasione. Tra i partecipanti c’erano il signor e la signora Leaver; fu nostra fortuna avere un posto nello stesso barca, che era una galea a otto rematori, condotta da dilettanti. Il barca aveva un tendone blu a strisce, dello stesso colore delle loro camicie di Guernsey, e una bandiera rossa sbiadita, dello stesso tono dei baffi del rematore che guidava la barca. Una volta nominato il timoniere e sistemati tutti gli altri dettagli, gli otto signori si misero all’opera con grande impegno, spinti dalle commenti incoraggianti delle signore, le quali esclamavano tutte che sembrava un sforzo enorme. E infatti lo era. All’inizio gareggiammo con un’altra barca, che ci raggiunse in modo molto elegante; ma poiché questa attività risultò sgradevole – causando molta schiuma e rendendo umide le pietanze fredde e gli altri cibi – fu unanimemente decisa di abbandonarla. Così noi riuscimmo a prendere il largo, mentre la seconda barca ci seguiva in modo vergognoso.

Fu in quel momento che riconoscemmo per la prima volta il signor Leaver. C’erano due pompieri-saccheggiatori nella barca, sdraiati ad aspettare che qualcuno si stancasse; uno di loro, che aveva assunto il comando delle operazioni, si sentiva gridare con voce rauca: “Forza, numero due, dài tutto, numero due, tira più forte, ora, numero due, pensi davvero di stare vincendo questa barca?” La maggior parte del gruppo iniziava già a chiedersi quale dei Guernsey a strisce avesse bisogno di un tale incoraggiamento, quando un grido soffocato della signora Leaver chiarì ogni dubbio; il signor Leaver, ancora più camuffato con un cappello di paglia e senza cravatta, appariva visibilmente esausto. La confusione generale non diminuì nemmeno quando lo stesso gentiluomo, nel tentativo di compiere un movimento acquatico improvviso chiamato “catturare un granchio”, si ritrovò immerso nell’acqua, mostrando alla compagnia soltanto due gambe che lottavano disperatamente. La signora Leaver gridò ancora più volte, piangendo disperatamente: “È morto? Ditemi la verità. È morto?”

Ora, un attimo di riflessione avrebbe potuto convincere la moglie amorevole che, a meno che suo marito non possedesse qualche straordinaria capacità fisica, non sarebbe mai potuto morire mentre calciava con tanta forza; ma comunque la signora Leaver continuava a gridare: “È morto? È morto?”, e tutti gli altri rispondevano: “No, no, no, ”, fino a quando il signor Leaver non fu riuscito a riprendere una posizione seduta, e la sua pagaia – che fino ad allora aveva compiuto ogni sorta di movimenti disordinati da sola – fu finalmente restituita nelle sue mani grazie agli sforzi dei due vigili del fuoco. Allora il signor Leaver esclamò: “Augustus, mio caro figlio, vieni da me, ”, e aggiunse: “Augusta, mia adorata, calmati. Non sono ferito.” Ma la signora Leaver ricominciò a piangere ancora più disperatamente di prima: “Augustus, mio caro figlio, vieni da me, ” Tutti intorno, temendo che il signor Leaver potesse causare ulteriori problemi se rimaneva lì dove si trovava, si unirono alla sua preoccupazione e dissero che davvero avrebbe dovuto andarsene. Che non era abbastanza forte per sforzi del genere, e che non avrebbe mai dovuto provarci. Con riluttanza, il signor Leaver si allontanò e si sdraiò ai piedi di sua moglie. Lei, chinandosi su di lui, disse: “Oh Augustus. Come hai potuto spaventarmi così?” Lui rispose: “Augusta, mia cara. Non volevo affatto spaventarti, ” Lei continuò: “Stai per svenire, mio caro, ” Lui replicò: “In effetti, sono un po’ stanco, mia adorata, ” E sotto lo sguardo amorevole di sua moglie, rimasero insieme per un po’, fino a quando il signor Leaver non tornò fuori e chiese, con aria curiosa, se qualcuno avesse parlato di birra in bottiglia e panini.

La signora Starling, che faceva parte del gruppo, era assolutamente incantata da questa scena, e spesso mormorava tra sé: “Che coppia amorevole siete!” o “Che gioia vedere marito e moglie così felici insieme!” Per noi, essendo cugini di un certo tipo, le sue parole avevano davvero un tono poetico; osservava infatti che cuori che battevano all’unisono rendevano la vita un paradiso di dolcezza, e che quando creature affini si univano per simpatie così delicate e profonde, quali felicità mortali potessero esistere al di là di quelle? A tutto ciò rispondevamo “Certamente”, o “Assolutamente vero”, oppure semplicemente sospiravamo, a seconda delle circostanze. Ogni volta che la coppia amorevole compiva un nuovo gesto d’affetto, l’ammirazione della vedova si rinnovava; e quando la signora Leaver si rifiutava di permettere al signor Leaver di tenere il cappello abbassato, per paura che il sole gli colpisse la testa e gli causasse una febbre cerebrale, la signora Starling versava davvero le lacrime, dicendo che quella scena le ricordava Adamo ed Eva.

La coppia innamorata continuò ad amarsi lungo tutto il cammino fino a Twickenham, ma quando arrivammo lì (a quell’ora, la compagnia di dilettanti sembrava davvero molto assetata e, un po’ aggressiva), si comportarono ancora più scherzosamente del solito: la signora Leaver lanciò pietre al signor Leaver, che corse all’inseguimento sua sull’erba, in modo davvero innocente e incantevole. Anche a cena, il signor Leaver “rubava” la lingua alla signora Leaver, che a sua volta si vendicava sulle sue pietanze. Quando la signora Leaver cercò di prendere della insalata di aragoste, il signor Leaver non glielo permise, dicendo che le faceva male; lei se ne pentì subito dopo, il che diede alla signora Leaver l’occasione di fingere di essere arrabbiata e mostrare tante altre “dolcezze”. Ma tutto questo era soltanto la superficie del loro amore. Non le profondità del sentimento che, a dire il vero, vennero rivelate in modo piuttosto inaspettato da un incidente successivo. Accadde che il signor Leaver si prese l’incarico di proporre agli uomini che avevano avuto l’idea di quell’intrattenimento. Nel farlo, fingeva di rammaricarsi per non essere più parte di loro. La signora Leaver, naturalmente, non poté sopportare una cosa del genere nemmeno scherzando; esclamò ad alta voce: “Lui non mi ama! Non mi ama!” e cadde in uno stato pietoso tra le braccia della signora Starling. Subito dopo perse i sensi, e fu portata via da quella signora e dal suo marito in un’altra stanza. Poco dopo il signor Leaver tornò di corsa per chiedere se ci fosse un medico presente. E poiché c’era (in quale compagnia non ce n’è mai?), sia lui che il medico si affrettarono a andarsene insieme.

Il dottore fu il primo a tornare; tra i suoi amici intimi si notò che rideva, faceva l’occhiolino e si comportava in modo del tutto poco consono al ruolo di medico. Quando invece tornò il signor Leaver, era molto serio e, di fronte a tutte le domande, scuoteva la testa dicendo che Augusta era troppo sensibile per essere presa in giro. Un’opinione che in seguito anche la vedova confermò. Tuttavia, constatato che Augusta non correva alcun pericolo imminente, il resto del gruppo andò a ballare nel prato; furono molto felici e si verificarono molte scherzose avances. Un’ultima circostanza che, senza dubbio, era dovuta in parte al bel tempo e in parte alla località stessa, ben nota per essere ideale a tutte le attività ricreative innocue.

Nel trambusto di quella scena, il signor e la signora Leaver si avvicinarono furtivamente alla barca e si sistemarono sotto l’ombrello: la signora Leaver appoggiava la testa sulla spalla del marito, mentre lui le stringeva la mano con grande affetto, guardandola di tanto in tanto con un’espressione malinconica e piena di comprensione. La vedova sedeva da parte, fingendo di essere impegnata a leggere un libro, ma osservava loro di nascosto dietro il ventaglio; i due vigili del fuoco, fumando le loro pipe sulla riva, si davano di gomito e sorridevano divertiti da quella scena. Poche persone presenti non notarono quella coppia innamorata; coloro che invece se ne accorsero si congratularono a vicenda per la loro “scomparsa”.

THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE

One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other, could find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is more common than a contradictory couple?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction. They return home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite corner of the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have been seated for at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when the gentleman, raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks silence:

‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you will contradict, Charlotte!’ ‘I contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s just like you.’ ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply. ‘Saying that I contradict you,’ replies the lady. ‘Do you mean to say that you do not contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say that you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’ ‘Do you mean to tell me now, that you have not? I mean to tell you nothing of the kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I shall contradict you.’

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets down her back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to exasperate the gentleman—and does so.

‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’ ‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray. You see how much I contradict you,’ rejoins the lady. ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman. ‘Yes, I did,’ says the lady. ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’ ‘If you call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again, Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not your slave.’ ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’ ‘I mean to say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’ ‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the room with rapid strides. ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s intellect, and drive him mad!’

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand gloomily across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair. There is a long silence, and this time the lady begins. ‘I appealed to Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during tea—’ ‘Morgan, you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman. ‘I do not mean anything of the kind,’ answers the lady. ‘Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and looking upwards in agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it that Morgan is Jenkins!’ ‘Do you take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t know the one from the other? Do you suppose I don’t know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’ ‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in a blue coat! a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but brown!’ ‘Do you dare to charge me with telling an untruth?’ demands the lady, bursting into tears. ‘I charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a monster of contradiction, a monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a blue coat!—what have I done that I should be doomed to hear such statements!’

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr. Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the less contradictory on that account. Master James and Miss Charlotte present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary indulgences. But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon such prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether she is not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should think she was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.’ ‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not tell the child such preposterous nonsense. Six feet high!’ ‘Well,’ replies the lady, ‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my opinion is, that she is six feet high—at least six feet.’ ‘Now you know, Charlotte,’ retorts the gentleman sternly, ‘that that is not your opinion—that you have no such idea—and that you only say this for the sake of contradiction.’ ‘You are exceedingly polite,’ his wife replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry question as anybody’s height, would be no great crime; but I say again, that I believe Mrs. Parsons to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I believe you know her to be full six feet, and only say she is not, because I say she is.’ This taunt disposes the gentleman to become violent, but he cheeks himself, and is content to mutter, in a haughty tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha! Mrs. Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers, ‘Yes, six feet. I am sure I am glad you are amused, and I’ll say it again—six feet.’ Thus the subject gradually drops off, and the contradiction begins to be forgotten, when Master James, with some undefined notion of making himself agreeable, and putting things to rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what the moon’s made of; which gives her occasion to say that he had better not ask her, for she is always wrong and never can be right; that he only exposes her to contradiction by asking any question of her; and that he had better ask his papa, who is infallible, and never can be wrong. Papa, smarting under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the bell, and says, that if the conversation is to proceed in this way, the children had better be removed. Removed they are, after a few tears and many struggles; and Pa having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or two, with a baleful eye, draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face, and composes himself for his after-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time: observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles. But neither the friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.

Il duo contraddittorio

Si potrebbe pensare che due persone che dovranno trascorrere tutta la loro vita insieme, e che inevitabilmente saranno spesso soli l’uno con l’altro, trovino poco piacere nelle reciproche contraddizioni; eppure, cosa c’è di più comune di una coppia piena di contrasti?

La coppia contraddittoria non concorda su nulla se non sulle loro contraddizioni. Tornano a >casa dopo la cena da Mrs. Bluebottle, ognuno seduto in un angolo opposto della carrozza, e non scambiano una parola fino a quando non si sono seduti vicino al fuoco per almeno venti minuti. Solo allora il signore, alzando lo sguardo dal camino, rompe improvvisamente il silenzio.

“Che cosa straordinaria,” dice lui, “che tu debba contraddirmi, Charlotte!” “Io ti contraddico!” esclama la signora, “ma è proprio come fai tu.” “Cosa c’entra questo con me?” chiede bruscamente il gentiluomo. “Il fatto che tu dica che io ti contraddico,” risponde lei. “Vuoi forse dire che non mi hai contraddetto per tutto oggi?” ribatte lui; “vuoi davvero dire che non l’hai mai fatto?” “Non intendo affatto dirlo,” risponde la signora in tono calmo; “quando sbagli, naturalmente ti contraddirò.”

Durante questo dialogo, il signore ha continuato a bere il suo brandy mescolato con acqua, seduto da un lato del camino; la signora, con la sua valigetta da toeletta sul tavolo, si è occupata di arricciarsi i capelli dall’altro lato. Ora si scioglie i capelli della nuca e inizia a spazzolarli, mantenendo nel frattempo un atteggiamento di apparente rettitudine e virtù sofferente, allo scopo di irritare il signore. E ci riesce davvero.

“Credo davvero,” dice lui, togliendo la cucchiaiata dal suo bicchiere e gettandola sul tavolo, “che di tutte le creature testarde, ostinate e sbagliate che siano mai esistite, tu sia la più di tutte, Charlotte.”
“Certo, certo, fai pure come vuoi,” risponde la signora. “Vedi quanto ti contraddico, ”
“Certo che non mi hai contraddetto a cena, oh no, tu no!” dice il gentiluomo.
“Sì, invece l’ho fatto,” ribatte lei.
“Oh, davvero?” esclama lui. “Ammetti quindi di avermi contraddetto?”
“Se lo chiami contraddizione, allora sì,” risponde la signora. “E ti ripeto ancora: Edward, quando so che hai torto, ti contraddirò. Non sono tua schiava.”
“Non mia schiava!” ripete lui amaramente. “E vuoi davvero dire che nella nuova casa dei Blackburn ci siano al massimo quattordici porte, compresa quella della cantina?”
“Voglio dire,” ribatte lei, battendo la spazzola per i capelli sul palmo della mano, “che in quella casa ci sono esattamente quattordici porte, e nessuna di più.”
“Allora, ” esclama lui, alzandosi in preda alla disperazione e camminando avanti e indietro nella stanza. “Per Dio, questo è sufficiente per distruggere l’intelligenza di un uomo e farlo impazzire!”

Dopo un po’, il signore si riprese e, passandosi la mano sulla fronte con aria cupa, tornò a sedersi nella sua sedia. Seguì un lungo silenzio, dopodiché fu la donna ad iniziare a parlare: “Ho chiesto aiuto a Mr. Jenkins, che era seduto accanto a me sul divano in salotto durante il tè, ” “Morgan, intendi,” interruppe il signore. “Non intendo affatto quello,” rispose la donna. “Ora, per tutto ciò che è insopportabile e impossibile da tollerare!” esclamò il signore, stringendo le mani e alzando lo sguardo con dolore, “lei insisterà nel dire che Morgan è Jenkins!” “Pensi davvero che io sia una perfetta stupida”?” gridò la donna. “Pensi forse che non riesca a distinguere l’uno dall’altro? Pensi che non sappia che quell’uomo in abito blu era proprio Mr. Jenkins?” “Jenkins in abito blu!” esclamò il signore con un gemito. “Jenkins in abito blu, un uomo che preferirebbe morire piuttosto che indossare qualcosa di diverso dal marrone!” “Osi accusarmi di dire una bugia?” chiese la donna, scoppiando in lacrime. “Ti accuso io, signora,” ribatté il signore alzandosi in piedi, “di essere un vero e proprio mostro di contraddizione, un mostro capace di causare solo sofferenza. Jenkins in abito blu. Che cosa ho fatto per meritarmi di sentire simili cose?”

Esprimendosi con grande disprezzo e angoscia, il gentiluomo prende la sua candela e si dirige verso il letto. Lì, fingendo di dormire profondamente quando la signora sale le scale, sommersa in lacrime, mormorando lamenti sul proprio duro destino e accennando vagamente all’intenzione di consultare i suoi fratelli, subisce la tortura segreta di sentirla esclamare di tanto in tanto: “So che ci sono soltanto quattordici porte in quella casa, so che era il signor Jenkins, so che indossava un cappotto blu. Lo direi con la stessa certezza anche se fossero le ultime parole che potessi pronunciare!”

Il bambino, com’era, di notte colse una rosa e corse da Oliver.

Gli amici della coppia contraddittoria spesso deplorano le loro frequenti dispute, anche se allo stesso tempo tendono a sottovalutarle; osservano infatti che non c’è alcun >dubbio sul fatto che siano profondamente legati l’uno all’altro e che litighino soltanto per questioni di poco conto. Tuttavia, né gli amici né la coppia stessa riflettono su questo: proprio come i più straordinari fenomeni della >natura non sono altro che enormi aggregati di particelle minuscole, anche le cose più insignificanti e trascurabili contribuiscono in modo determinante alla felicità o al dolore umano.

THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN

The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case, they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’ friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds. They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all in red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday, for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart when she was in the family way with Georgiana. The movable feasts have no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be separated any more. Time was made, according to their creed, not for slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but little children at play.

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever underwent; or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a cast-iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some respect or other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To such an extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were obliged to forego their acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr. Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The slightest remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them. They will come uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been known to be lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out. Nothing can keep down the twins.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’ The friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’ ‘Your talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course, ‘reminds me of the twins. It’s a very extraordinary thing about those babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’ ‘Upon my word,’ the friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact being, that except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary. ‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’ ‘What should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler. The friend glances at him, and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, ‘I should say they were blue—a decided blue.’ ‘To be sure!’ cries Mr. Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would! But what should you say if I was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue and the girl’s hazel, eh?’ ‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be impossible. ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’ cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me tell you, Saunders, that’s not a common thing in twins, or a circumstance that’ll happen every day.’

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon the subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if he had heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children, closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by a ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all their heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, ‘Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’ A breathless silence ensues, and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said ‘No, thank you.’ Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders, begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or Ned’s nose, or Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s calves, or Fanny’s mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be. Whatever the attention of Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in consequence. At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr. Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders ‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who having drunk his father’s wine when he was looking another way, is found to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him. ‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’ Mr. Saunders feels this to be a reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks it in some confusion. ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children, Saunders, make one quite an old man.’ Mr. Saunders thinks that if they were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing. ‘And yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what can equal the engaging ways of children! Saunders, why don’t you get married?’ Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for ever. ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you are a bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit. Will you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’ Mr. Saunders is surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’ ‘I shall be proud and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it? really, I thought they were all christened; or—’ ‘Saunders,’ Mr. Whiffler interposes, ‘they are all christened; you are right. The fact is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’ ‘Not a ninth!’ cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr. Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health? Let us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which was a wrong one. The couple who dote upon their children are in the same predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond. They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every company with their prolixity and absurdity. Mr. Whiffler takes a friend by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a bon mot of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past sufferings and present expectations. In such cases the sins of the fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard them as predestined little bores. The couple who dote upon their children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own. If they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of. Self-love and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition, though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and unpleasant. Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best avoided.

Il coppia che adora i propri figli

La coppia che adora i propri figli di solito ne ha molti: almeno sei o otto. I bambini sono o i più sani del mondo, o i più sfortunati che esistano. In entrambi i casi, rappresentano ugualmente l’oggetto dell’amore dei loro genitori, ma anche una fonte di angoscia e irritazione per gli amici di questi ultimi.

La coppia che adora i propri figli non ricorda alcuna data se non quelle legate alla loro nascita, a incidenti, malattie o imprese straordinarie. Conservano nella memoria un “almanacco” pieno di queste date, tutte scritte in caratteri rossi. Ricordano laultima incoronazione, perché proprio quel giorno il piccolo Tom cadde dalle scale della cucina; l’anniversario del complotto della Polvere da Sparo, perché fu il 5 novembre che Ned chiese se le gambe di legno si facessero in cielo e i cappelli a punta crescessero nei giardini. La signora Whiffler non dimenticherà mai l’ultimo giorno dell’anno vecchio: fu quel giorno che il bambino ebbe quelle quattro macchie rosse sul naso, che loro scambiarono per morbillo; né il giorno di Natale, perché ventuno giorni dopo Natale nacquero i gemelli; né la Venerdì Santo, perché proprio in quella giornata fu spaventata da un carretto trainato da un asino mentre era incinta di Georgiana. Per i signori Whiffler, le feste non hanno alcun significato: rimangono fissate per sempre sulle spalle dei loro figli, dai quali non potranno mai essere separate. Secondo la loro credenza, il tempo è stato creato non per gli schiavi, ma per i bambini. Le sabbie mobili nel loro orologio non sono altro che bambini che giocano.

Come abbiamo già accennato, i figli di questa coppia non possono essere considerati “normali”. Sono o dei prodigi di salute o dei prodigi di cattiva salute; in ogni caso, devono essere considerati dei veri e propri fenomeni. Il signor Whiffler deve sicuramente descrivere nel suo ufficio le atroci sofferenze che il suo figlio maggiore subisce costantemente, sofferenze mai vissute da nessun altro ragazzo; oppure deve essere in grado di affermare che non esiste mai esistito un bambino dotato di una salute così straordinaria, di una costituzione così indomabile e di un fisico così robusto come il suo figlio. I suoi figli devono quindi essere, in qualche modo, superiori ai figli di tutte le altre persone. Questo sentimento è talmente radicato che abbiamo conosciuto una volta una signora e un signore i quali, dopo che il loro figlio minore era caduto da una finestra senza farsi troppo male, hanno iniziato a comportarsi in modo così arrogante e presuntuoso che la maggior parte dei loro amici ha preferito interrompere ogni rapporto con loro. Ma forse questo è un caso estremo, e non dovrebbe essere considerato un esempio da applicare universalmente.

Se un amico dovesse casualmente pranzare in modo cordiale con una di queste coppie che adorano i loro figli, sarebbe quasi impossibile per lui deviare la conversazione dal loro argomento preferito. Ogni cosa ricorda al signor Whiffler Ned, o alla signora Whiffler Mary Anne, oppure il periodo precedente alla nascita di Ned, o l’epoca in cui non si pensava ancora a Mary Anne. Anche il commento più innocuo potrebbe risvegliare ricordi sopiti dei gemelli. È impossibile evitarli: loro emergono sempre, indipendentemente da ciò che faccia quel poveruomo. È capitato che Ned venisse dimenticato per mezz’ora, che Dick venisse completamente ignorato, che il nome di Mary Anne non venisse nemmeno menzionato. Ma i gemelli emergono comunque. Niente può soffocare i ricordi legati a loro.

“È una cosa davvero straordinaria, Saunders,” dice il signor Whiffler al visitatore, “ma, avete visto i nostri piccoli bambini, i gemelli?” Il cuore dell’amico si stringe nel rispondere: “Oh, sì, spesso.” “Il fatto che parliate delle Piramidi,” continua il signor Whiffler, con estrema naturalezza, “mi fa pensare ai gemelli. C’è qualcosa di davvero straordinario in quei bambini. Di che colore direste che siano i loro occhi?” “Per la mia vita,” balbetta l’amico, “non so proprio come rispondere, ” Il fatto è che, a meno che non si ricordasse di aver mai sentito parlare di alcuna deviazione dal normale corso della natura in questo caso, i gemelli avrebbero potuto benissimo non avere occhi affatto, “Non direste che siano rossi, vero?” chiede il signor Whiffler. L’amico esita, poi pensa di sì; ma, notando l’espressione sul viso dell’altro, sorride con sicurezza e risponde: “No, molto diverso da rosso.” “E allora, blu?” insiste il signor Whiffler. L’amico lo guarda, nota un’espressione diversa sul suo volto e osa dire: “Direi che siano blu, di un blu intenso.” “Esatto!” esclama trionfante il signor Whiffler. “Lo sapevo! Ma cosa direste se vi dicessi che gli occhi del ragazzo sono blu e quelli della ragazza marroni?” “Impossibile!” esclama l’amico, senza capire affatto perché sia impossibile. “Eppure è la verità,” insiste il signor Whiffler. “E lasciate che vi dica, Saunders, questo non succede tutti i giorni, nei gemelli.”

In questo dialogo, la signora Whiffler, essendo profondamente responsabile dei gemelli, dei loro fascini e delle loro particolarità, non ha preso parte attiva alla conversazione; tuttavia ora racconta, in un inglese un po’ incerto, uno scherzo fatto da piccolo Dick riguardo all’argomento appena discusso, che diverte il signor Whiffler immensamente e lo spinge a dichiarare che avrebbe giurato fosse stato detto proprio da Dick se l’avesse sentito altrove. Poi chiede alla signora Whiffler di riferire a Saunders ciò che Tom ha detto sui tori pazzi; dopo aver raccontato l’aneddoto, ne scaturisce una discussione sul diverso carattere dell’umorismo di Tom e di Dick: sembra infatti che l’umorismo di Dick sia piuttosto vivace, mentre quello di Tom è asciutto e pungente. Questa conversazione, arricchita da varie illustrazioni, dura a lungo e viene interrotta solo quando la signora Whiffler ordina al valletto di suonare la campanella della nursery, poiché ai bambini era stato promesso che avrebbero potuto scendere a assaggiare il budino.

Il ragazzo impallidisce quando riceve questo ordine, e diventa ancora più pallido quando, poco dopo, si sente un forte rumore di passi sulle scale – simile al suono della pioggia che batte su un lucernario – la porta del salotto si apre con violenza, e compaiono sei bambini piccoli. Subito dopo arriva una robusta tata, con un bambino gemello in braccio per ciascuno. Mentre tutti e otto urlano, gridano o calpestano intorno – alcuni spinti da una fame vorace, altri dal terrore di quel estraneo, altri ancora da un conflitto tra questi due sentimenti – passa un bel po’ di tempo prima che riescano a sedersi tutti intorno al tavolo e che si ristabilisca un minimo di ordine. Nel tentativo di ripristinare la calma, sia la tata che il valletto vengono graffiati gravemente. Alla fine si sente la signora Whiffler dire: “Signor Saunders, le preparo del budino?” Un silenzio carico di attesa cala su tutti; sedici occhi piccoli fissano il ospite in attesa della sua risposta. Un grido di gioia esplode quando lui dice: “No, grazie.” Le cucchiaie si agitano nell’aria, le gambe dei bambini spuntano sopra la tovaglia in un’estasi incontrollabile, e ottanta dita piccole iniziano a mescolare lo sciroppo di ciliegia.

Mentre il budino viene servito, il signor e la signora Whiffler lo osservano con espressioni radiose; il signor Whiffler, dandogli di gomito al suo amico Saunders, gli chiede di notare gli occhi di Tom, il mento di Dick, il naso di Ned, i capelli di Mary Anne, la figura di Emily, le gambe del piccolo Bob, la bocca di Fanny o la testa di Carry, a seconda dei casi. Qualunque cosa attiri l’attenzione di Saunders, lui naturalmente la ammira, anche se a volte si confonde riguardo al sesso dei bambini più piccoli e guarda i figli sbagliati: si rivolge a una ragazza quando il signor Whiffler gli indica un ragazzo, e rimane incantato da un ragazzo invece di una ragazza. Poi arriva il dolce, c’è un gran trambusto per prendere la frutta; succede spesso che il succo delle arance schizza negli occhi dei bambini, causando urla e pianti. Alla fine arriva l’ora in cui la signora Whiffler deve andarsene, tutti i bambini vengono costretti a baciare e ad “amare” il signor Saunders prima di salire al piano di sopra, tranne Tom, che, sdraiato per terra nel corridoio, dichiara che il signor Saunders “è una bestia cattiva”; e Dick, che, avendo bevuto il vino di suo padre mentre quest’ultimo non guardava, si trova ubriaco e viene portato fuori, completamente inerme.

Il signor Whiffler e il suo amico rimangono soli insieme, ma i pensieri del signor Whiffler sono ancora con la sua famiglia, a meno che lei non sia con lui. “Saunders,” dice dopo un breve silenzio, “se non ti dispiace, brindiamo alla salute della signora Whiffler e dei bambini.” Il signor Saunders interpreta questa richiesta come una rimprovera per il fatto che lui stesso non ha espresso lo stesso desiderio, e beve quel bicchiere con un certo imbarazzo. “Ah!” sospira il signor Whiffler, “quei bambini, fanno davvero di uno un vecchio uomo.” Il signor Saunders pensa che se fossero suoi, lo renderebbero davvero molto anziano; ma non dice nulla. “Eppure,” continua il signor Whiffler, “che cosa può eguagliare la felicità domestica? Che cosa possono eguagliare le maniere adorabili dei bambini! Saunders, perché non ti sposi?” Questa è una domanda imbarazzante: il signor Saunders infatti aveva sempre pensato che, se mai avesse avuto intenzioni matrimoniali, la rivelazione di quel giorno le avrebbe sicuramente distrutte per sempre. “Comunque,” dice il signor Whiffler, “sono contento che tu sia ancora scapolo, per un motivo egoistico, lo ammetto. Mi faresti un grande favore se diventassi padrino dei nostri figli?” Il signor Saunders è sorpreso; ma risponde subito: “Con grande piacere.” “Allora,” dice il signor Whiffler in tono solenne, “ti prego di rafforzare ancora di più la nostra amicizia, diventando padrino dei nostri figli.” “Ne sarei orgoglioso e felice,” risponde il signor Saunders. “Di quale bambino si tratta?” “Beh, in realtà, aspettiamo un altro figlio.” “Un nono!” esclama l’amico, sbalordito dall’idea. “Sì,” dice il signor Whiffler con serietà, “un nono. Abbiamo già brindato alla salute della signora Whiffler, beviamoci un altro bicchiere e auguriamole tutto il meglio!”

Il dottor Johnson raccontava spesso la storia di un uomo che aveva soltanto un’idea, e questa era sbagliata. Anche le coppie che adorano i loro figli si trovano nella stessa situazione: a casa o all’estero, in qualsiasi momento e luogo, i loro pensieri sono sempre concentrati su di loro, senza alcuna altra preoccupazione. Raccontano continuamente le cose intelligenti che i loro figli dicono o fanno, annoiando chiunque ascolti la loro prolissità e assurdità. Il signor Whiffler, in una giornata ventosa, afferra un amico per il bavero all’angolo di una strada per raccontargli una “battuta” detta dal suo figlio minore; la signora Whiffler, invece, mentre va a visitare un’amica malata, le racconta con entusiasmo tutte le sue sofferenze passate e le aspettative presenti. In casi del genere, i “peccati” dei genitori finiscono davvero per colpire i figli, poiché la gente tende a considerarli semplicemente noiosi per natura. Non si può dire che queste coppie agiscano guidate da un vero e proprio amore per i loro bambini (il che sarebbe una scusa valida); anzi, spesso sottovalutano gli altri figli e provano gelosia verso quelli propri. Se si esaminasse sinceramente il proprio cuore, si scoprirebbe probabilmente che, alla base di tutto ciò, c’è molto più amore per se stessi ed egoismo di quanto si creda. L’amore per sé stesso ed l’egoismo sono qualità negative: la loro manifestazione incontrollata, anche se a volte può risultare divertente, è sempre noiosa e sgradevole. Pertanto, è meglio evitare queste coppie che adorano i propri figli.

THE COOL COUPLE

There is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other the figure of a lady. When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out and the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady goes in. They never seek each other’s society, are never elevated and depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common. They are the model of a cool couple, except that there is something of politeness and consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in the weather-glass, in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to participate.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing can exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most part drowsy, and the lady silent. If they enter into conversation, it is usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature. Thus, when the gentleman has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more snugly in his easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, ‘Well, I am sure, Charles! I hope you’re comfortable.’ To which the gentleman replies, ‘Oh yes, he’s quite comfortable quite.’ ‘There are not many married men, I hope,’ returns the lady, ‘who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do.’ ‘Nor many wives who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do, I hope,’ retorts the gentleman. ‘Whose fault is that?’ demands the lady. The gentleman becoming more sleepy, returns no answer. ‘Whose fault is that?’ the lady repeats. The gentleman still returning no answer, she goes on to say that she believes there never was in all this world anybody so attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so unwilling to seek a moment’s gratification or pleasure beyond her own fireside as she. God knows that before she was married she never thought or dreamt of such a thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to say again and again, almost every day of his life, ‘Oh, my dear Louisa, if you only marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to consider your happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your disposition, what a treasure he will find in you!’ She supposes her papa knew what her disposition was—he had known her long enough—he ought to have been acquainted with it, but what can she do? If her home is always dull and lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure in her society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is sure) to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine and mope to death, she hopes. ‘Then come, Louisa,’ says the gentleman, waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, ‘stop at home this evening, and so will I.’ ‘I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a pleasure in aggravating me,’ replies the lady; ‘but you know as well as I do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would be an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a seat in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to go.’ ‘Ah! there it is!’ says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I knew that perfectly well. I knew you couldn’t devote an evening to your own home. Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—recollect that I was quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of mine we are not oftener together.’

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his club, and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer’s; and neither thinks of the other until by some odd chance they find themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a quarrelsome one. Quite the contrary. These differences are only occasions for a little self-excuse,—nothing more. In general they are as easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common acquaintances may; for it is neither worth their while to put each other out of the way, nor to ruffle themselves.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in existence. The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady friends, one of whom exclaims, ‘Why, I vow and declare there is your husband, my dear!’ ‘Whose?—mine?’ she says, carelessly. ‘Ay, yours, and coming this way too.’ ‘How very odd!’ says the lady, in a languid tone, ‘I thought he had been at Dover.’ The gentleman coming up, and speaking to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned. ‘What a strange creature you are!’ cries his wife; ‘and what on earth brought you here, I wonder?’ ‘I came to look after you, of course,’ rejoins her husband. This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused, as are all the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing; and while they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again, turns upon his heel, and saunters away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in the very midst of their diversion. It is a hundred chances to one that he remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed by the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,—‘I am sure I never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me? It can scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a particular reason for not wishing him to come home, but he always comes. It’s very provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves me so much alone for his own pleasure, the least he could do would be to do as much for mine.’ Observing what passes in her mind, the gentleman, who has come home for his own accommodation, makes a merit of it with himself; arrives at the conclusion that it is the very last place in which he can hope to be comfortable; and determines, as he takes up his hat and cane, never to be so virtuous again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and the grave has closed over their folly and indifference. Loss of name, station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate their deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each other to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even in the best of times.

Il duo freddo

C’è un vecchio barometro a forma di casa con due porte: in una si trova la figura di un gentiluomo, nell’altra quella di una signora. Quando il tempo sarà bello, la signora uscirà e il gentiluomo entrerà; quando farà freddo, il gentiluomo uscirà e la signora entrerà. Non cercano mai la compagnia l’uno dell’altra, non sono mai influenzati nello stesso modo dalle stesse condizioni meteorologiche e non hanno nulla in comune. Sono il modello di una coppia distaccata, tranne per quel pizzico di cortesia e considerazione che si nota nel comportamento del gentiluomo nel barometro, qualcosa che nessuno dei due membri di questa “coppia fredda” sembra davvero possedere.

La coppia così distaccata raramente trascorre del tempo da sola; e quando lo fa, nulla può superare la loro apatia e monotonia: il signore è per lo più assonnato, mentre la signora rimane in silenzio. Se decidono di conversare, di solito lo fanno in modo ironico o recriminatorio. Ad esempio, dopo che il signore ha sbadigliato a lungo e si è sistemato più comodamente nella sua poltrona, la signora potrebbe dire: “Beh, sono sicura, Charles. Spero tu sia a tuo agio.” Al che il signore risponde: “Oh sì, sono davvero molto a mio agio.” “Non ci sono molti uomini sposati,” replica la signora, “che cercino conforto in soddisfazioni così egoistiche come le tue, ” “E nemmeno molte mogli che cerchino conforto in soddisfazioni così egoistiche come le tue,” ribatte il signore. “Di chi è la colpa?” chiede la signora. Il signore, diventando ancora più assonnato, non risponde. “Di chi è la colpa?” insiste lei. Poiché il signore continua a tacere, lei aggiunge che crede di non esistere al mondo nessuno così attaccato alla propria casa, così devotamente domestico, così riluttante a cercare un momento di piacere al di fuori del proprio ambiente familiare come lei. Dio sa che prima di sposarsi non aveva mai pensato o sognato una cosa del genere; ricorda anche che suo povero padre ripeteva spesso: “Oh, mia cara Louisa. Se solo ti sposassi con un uomo che ti capisca e si impegni a considerare la tua felicità, ad adattarsi un po’ al tuo carattere. Che tesoro troverebbe in te!” Lei suppone che suo padre conoscesse bene il suo carattere. L’aveva conosciuta abbastanza a lungo. Doveva esserne a conoscenza. Ma cosa poteva fare? Se la sua casa era sempre noiosa e solitaria, se suo marito era spesso assente e non trovava piacere nella sua compagnia, naturalmente a volte lei era costretta (ma raramente, ne era sicura) a cercare un po’ di distrazione altrove. Non si aspettava certo di morire di tristezza, “Allora vieni, Louisa,” dice il signore, svegliandosi all’improvviso come quando si era addormentato. “Rimani a casa stasera. Anch’io lo farò.” “Mi dispiacerebbe pensare che tu trovi piacere nel tormentarmi, ” risponde la signora, “Ma sai benissimo, proprio come me, che sono già impegnata con la signora Mortimer. E sarebbe una mancanza di educazione e cortesia rifiutare l’invito della sua compagnia, ” “Ah, ecco il problema!” esclama il signore, scuotendo le spalle. “Lo sapevo benissimo. Sapevo che non avresti potuto dedicare una serata alla tua stessa casa. Quello che voglio dire, Louisa, è che ero davvero disposto a rimanere a casa. E non è certo colpa mia se non trascorriamo più tempo insieme, ”

Con questo, il gentiluomo se ne va per rispettare un vecchio appuntamento nel suo club, mentre la signora si affretta a vestirsi per andare da Mrs. Mortimer; nessuno dei due pensa all’altro fino a quando, per qualche strana coincidenza, non si ritrovano di nuovo da soli.

Ma non si deve pensare che questa coppia tranquilla abbia l’abitudine di litigare. Al contrario: queste differenze sono soltanto occasioni per qualche piccola scusa personale, nient’altro. In generale, sono altrettanto spensierati e negligenti nel loro comportamento, e discutono raramente quanto qualsiasi altra conoscenza comune; infatti, non vale la pena né per loro né l’uno per l’altro creare problemi o innervosirsi a vicenda.

Quando si incontrano in società, quella coppia affascinante rappresenta le persone più raffinate che esistano. La signora è seduta in un angolo insieme a un piccolo gruppo di amiche; una di loro esclama: “Ma guardate, là c’è vostro marito, cara!” “Di chi?. Mio?” risponde lei, con noncuranza. “Ah, sì, il vostro, e sta venendo proprio da questa parte.” “Che strano, ” dice la signora, in tono languido. “Pensavo fosse a Dover.” Quando l’uomo si avvicina e parla con tutte le altre signore, annuendo leggermente verso sua moglie, si scopre che effettivamente è stato a Dover e è appena tornato. “Che persona strana siete, ” esclama sua moglie; “e cosa vi ha spinto ad arrivare qui, mi chiedo davvero?” “Sono venuto, naturalmente, per prendermi cura di voi,” risponde lui. È una battuta così divertente che tutte le signore presenti ne sono molto compiaciute; mentre se la godono appieno, l’uomo annuisce di nuovo, si gira e se ne va con passo disinvolto.

Tuttavia, ci sono momenti in cui la sua compagnia non è affatto piacevole, anche se altrettanto inaspettata; ad esempio quando la signora invita uno o due amici particolari a prendere il tè con lei, e lui arriva proprio nel bel mezzo delle loro attività. È molto probabile che debba rimanere in quella casa per mezz’ora, ma la signora si sente comunque disturbata da questa intrusione. Si dice: “Sicuramente non interferisco mai con lui. Perché dovrebbe interferire lui con me? Non può essere una coincidenza; quasi mai ho un motivo specifico per non voler che venga a casa mia, eppure lui arriva sempre. È davvero irritante e fastidioso. E sono sicura che, quando mi lascia così sola per il suo piacere, almeno potrebbe fare lo stesso per il mio.” Notando ciò che le passa per la mente, il gentiluomo, che è tornato a casa soltanto per sistemarsi, ne trae le sue conclusioni: quel posto non è certo il luogo adatto per sentirsi a proprio agio. E, prendendo cappello e bastone, decide di non essere mai più così “virtuoso” in futuro.

Ecco come molti coppie “fredde” continuano a esserlo fino a quando non diventano davvero coppie fredde; la tomba ha ormai sigillato la loro follia e indifferenza. La perdita di nome, status sociale, reputazione, persino della vita stessa, è stata causata da motivi così banali in passato; e quando le chiacchiere diffondono queste storie, esagerandone gli aspetti negativi, quelle coppie alzano le mani e le sopracciglia, invitando tutti a testimoniare quanto siano sempre state “fredde”, anche nei momenti migliori.

THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE

The plausible couple have many titles. They are ‘a delightful couple,’ an ‘affectionate couple,’ ‘a most agreeable couple, ‘a good-hearted couple,’ and ‘the best-natured couple in existence.’ The truth is, that the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew very little of the trade.

‘But is it really possible to please the world!’ says some doubting reader. It is indeed. Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy. The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low. What then? A man need but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and when his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the world is meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall please it, never fear.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its twistings and twinings, a plausible man and woman, or, in other words, a plausible couple, playing into each other’s hands, and acting in concert, have a manifest advantage. Hence it is that plausible couples scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and hence it is that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the next full stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of acquaintance, and to search particularly for some man and wife with a large connexion and a good name, not easily referable to their abilities or their wealth, he or she (that is, the male or female reader) will certainly find that gentleman or lady, on a very short reflection, to be a plausible couple.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most sensitive people—to merit—on the face of the earth. Nothing clever or virtuous escapes them. They have microscopic eyes for such endowments, and can find them anywhere. The plausible couple never fawn—oh no! They don’t even scruple to tell their friends of their faults. One is too generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all people like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a fourth is kind-hearted to a fault. ‘We never flatter, my dear Mrs. Jackson,’ say the plausible couple; ‘we speak our minds. Neither you nor Mr. Jackson have faults enough. It may sound strangely, but it is true. You have not faults enough. You know our way,—we must speak out, and always do. Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we repeat it,—you have not faults enough!’

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third parties. They are always loving and harmonious. The plausible gentleman calls his wife ‘darling,’ and the plausible lady addresses him as ‘dearest.’ If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is ‘Lavinia, darling,’ and Mr. Widger is ‘Bobtail, dearest.’ Speaking of each other, they observe the same tender form. Mrs. Widger relates what ‘Bobtail’ said, and Mr. Widger recounts what ‘darling’ thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of you—she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a flatterer. You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady immediately launches out in their praise. She quite loves the Clickits. Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people—such a gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank, unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in short, so little spoiled by the world as they are? ‘As who, darling?’ cries Mr. Widger, from the opposite side of the table. ‘The Clickits, dearest,’ replies Mrs. Widger. ‘Indeed you are right, darling,’ Mr. Widger rejoins; ‘the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable couple.’ Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent upon this subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly whenever such people as the Clickits and some other friends of his (here he glances at the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are an honour to human nature, and do one good to think of. ‘You know the Clickits, Mrs. Jackson?’ he says, addressing the lady of the house. ‘No, indeed; we have not that pleasure,’ she replies. ‘You astonish me!’ exclaims Mr. Widger: ‘not know the Clickits! why, you are the very people of all others who ought to be their bosom friends. You are kindred beings; you are one and the same thing:—not know the Clickits! Now will you know the Clickits? Will you make a point of knowing them? Will you meet them in a friendly way at our house one evening, and be acquainted with them?’ Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted; nothing would give her more pleasure. ‘Then, Lavinia, my darling,’ says Mr. Widger, ‘mind you don’t lose sight of that; now, pray take care that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know the Clickits without loss of time. Such people ought not to be strangers to each other.’ Mrs. Widger books both families as the centre of attraction for her next party; and Mr. Widger, going on to expatiate upon the virtues of the Clickits, adds to their other moral qualities, that they keep one of the neatest phaetons in town, and have two thousand a year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person, without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody, without turning their depreciation to the same account. Their friend, Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art, and made it thoroughly and completely his own;—Fithers, it is to be observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere. Is Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Why, there indeed you ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately. She is no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer, they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can’t help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time, perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt extremely handsome,—very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the features,—but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air altogether—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy and good will. The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned out a finer one than it promised to be. ‘Oh dear!’ cries the plausible lady, ‘you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor Mrs. Finching—she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby should be a fine child—and very naturally, because she was very much here at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among mothers—that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for her.’ ‘Is it weak or plain, or what?’ inquires the other. ‘Weak or plain, my love,’ returns the plausible lady, ‘it’s a fright—a perfect little fright; you never saw such a miserable creature in all your days. Positively you must not let her see one of these beautiful dears again, or you’ll break her heart, you will indeed.—Heaven bless this child, see how she is looking in my face! can you conceive anything prettier than that? If poor Mrs. Finching could only hope—but that’s impossible—and the gifts of Providence, you know—What did I do with my pocket-handkerchief!’

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her lord that evening on the plausible lady’s engaging qualities and feeling heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger an immediate invitation to dinner?

Il possibile coppia

La coppia che sembra perfetta ha molti nomi: “una coppia deliziosa”, “una coppia affettuosa”, “una coppia davvero piacevole”, “una coppia dal cuore gentile” e persino “la coppia dalla natura più mite che esista”. La verità è che queste coppie sono solitamente persone che cercano di compiacere il mondo circostante; o forse i metodi per farlo sono diventati molto più semplici rispetto ai tempi dell’uomo anziano e del suo asino, oppure quell’uomo era semplicemente maldestro in questo campo e conosceva molto poco di quella pratica.

“Ma è davvero possibile compiacere il mondo?”, chiedono alcuni lettori scettici. Sì, è possibile. Anzi, non solo molto possibile, ma anche molto facile. I metodi per raggiungere questo scopo possono essere tortuosi, a volte addirittura spregevoli. E allora? Un uomo deve semplicemente strisciare sulle mani e sulle ginocchia, sapere quando chiudere gli occhi o le orecchie, quando inchinarsi o stare dritto in piedi; e se per “mondo” si intende quell’ambiente in cui vive, allora riuscirà sicuramente a compiacerlo, senza mai temere nulla.

Ora sarà facilmente comprensibile che, se un uomo o una donna convincenti dispongono di mezzi semplici per compiacere il mondo adattando il proprio comportamento alle sue infinite sfaccettature, allora tali individui – o, in altre parole, una coppia convincente – godono chiaramente di un vantaggio significativo. Ecco perché le coppie del genere raramente falliscono nell’ottenere un grande successo; e ecco perché, se il lettore, mettendo da parte questo ponderoso volume, si prenderà la briga di esaminare i propri conoscenti, cercando in particolare coppie con ampie relazioni sociali e buona reputazione, ma le cui qualità o ricchezze non sembrino essere direttamente legate a tali fattori, scoprirà sicuramente che si tratta di coppie davvero convincenti.

La coppia più sincera è sicuramente la più felice al mondo: le persone più sensibili, per natura, meritano davvero tutto ciò che hanno. Niente di astuto o virtuoso può sfuggire loro; possiedono una capacità straordinaria nel riconoscere tali qualità e riescono a trovarle ovunque. Questa coppia non si adula mai, anzi, non esita nemmeno a parlare dei difetti degli altri con i propri amici. Uno è troppo generoso, un altro troppo franco; un terzo tende a pensare che tutti gli esseri umani siano come lui e considera l’umanità un insieme di angeli; il quarto, invece, è troppo buono d’animo. “Non ci lusinghiamo mai, cara signora Jackson”, dicono, “Diciamo sempre la verità. Né lei né il signor Jackson hanno abbastanza difetti. Può sembrare strano, ma è vero: non avete abbastanza difetti! Conoscete il nostro modo di essere, dobbiamo dire ciò che pensiamo, e lo faremo sempre. Se volete, potete arrabbiarvi per questo. Ma ripetiamo ancora una volta: non avete abbastanza difetti!”

La coppia apparentemente perfetta è altrettanto affettuosa l’uno con l’altro quanto lo sono con terzi. Sono sempre pieni di amore e armonia: il gentiluomo la chiama “cara”, mentre lei lo chiama “amato”. Se si tratta del signor e della signora Bobtail Widger, la signora Widger lo chiama “Lavinia, cara”, e il signor Widger la chiama “Bobtail, amato”. Quando parlano l’uno dell’altro, utilizzano sempre gli stessi affettuosi termini. La signora Widger racconta ciò che “Bobtail” ha detto, mentre il signor Widger ricorda ciò che “cara” ha pensato e fatto.

Se ti siedi accanto a una signora perbene a tavola, lei approfitta subito dell’occasione per dirti che è certa tu conosca i Clickits; è sicura di averli sentiti parlare di te. Ma non ti dirà in quali termini, altrimenti penseresti che stia cercando di lusingarti. Ammetti di conoscere i Clickits, e la signora perbene inizia immediatamente a elogiarli con entusiasmo. Le piacciono davvero molto. Esistono davvero persone così sincere, ospitali ed eccellenti? Una donna così gentile e interessante come la signora Clickit, o un uomo così franco e naturale come il signor Clickit? Due persone, insomma, così poco corrotte dal mondo, “Di chi parli, cara?” chiede il signor Widger dall’altra parte del tavolo. “Dei Clickits, caro,” risponde la signora Widger. “Hai proprio ragione, cara,” aggiunge il signor Widger; “i Clickit sono davvero una coppia nobile, meritevole e stimabile.” La signora Widger osserva che Bobtail diventa sempre molto eloquente quando si parla di loro; il signor Widger ammette di provare un profondo rispetto per persone come i Clickit e alcuni altri suoi amici. Perché rappresentano un vero onore per la natura umana, e pensare a loro ci fa del bene. “Conosci davvero i Clickits, signora Jackson?” chiede al padrona di casa. “No, affatto; non abbiamo questa fortuna,” risponde lei. “Mi sorprendi!” esclama il signor Widger: “Non conoscere i Clickits. Ma tu sei proprio la persona che dovrebbe essere loro amica intima! Siete esseri simili. Eppure non li conosci? Allora, vuoi davvero conoscerli? Vuoi incontrarli una sera a casa nostra in modo amichevole e fare loro conoscenza?” La signora Jackson ne sarà molto felice; nulla le darebbe più piacere. “Allora, Lavinia mia cara,” dice il signor Widger, “fai attenzione a non dimenticarlo. E assicurati che anche la signora e il signor Jackson conoscano i Clickit al più presto possibile. Persone del genere non dovrebbero rimanere sconosciute l’una all’altra.” La signora Widger organizza quindi la prossima festa, facendo dei Clickit il punto focale dell’incontro; e il signor Widger, continuando a elogiare le loro virtù, aggiunge che possiedono anche uno dei phaeton più eleganti in città, e guadagnano duemila sterline all’anno.

Quel matrimonio apparentemente felice non mai elogia i meriti di nessuno assente, ma trova sempre il modo che le sue lodi vadano a beneficio di qualcuno presente; allo stesso modo, non mai denigra nulla o nessuno, facendo sì che tali critiche riguardino sempre la stessa persona. Dicono che il loro amico, il signor Slummery, sia senza dubbio un pittore abile e che sicuramente avrebbe grande successo, vendendo le sue opere a prezzi elevati, se quel crudele signor Fithers non gli avesse anticipato nel campo dell’arte, rendendolo praticamente il monopolista in quella disciplina. Il signor Fithers, bisogna notare, era presente e poteva sentire tutto; Slummery, invece, si trovava altrove. Ma la signora Tabblewick è davvero così bella come dicono tutti? Beh, questa è davvero una domanda molto difficile da rispondere. Non c’è dubbio che sia una donna molto affascinante, e loro la conoscono bene da tempo. È senza dubbio bellissima, anzi, un tempo pensavano fosse la donna più bella che avessero mai visto; tuttavia, se insistete per una risposta onesta, dovranno ammettere che questo era prima di aver incontrato la nostra adorabile amica sul divano, (il divano si trova proprio lì vicino, e la nostra adorabile amica sicuramente può sentire queste parole sussurrate, ) Da allora, forse, non sono più stati giudici imparziali. La signora Tabblewick non è certo estremamente attraente, anzi, assomiglia molto alla nostra amica per lineamenti del viso; ma per quanto riguarda l’espressione, lo spirito, la figura e l’intera personalità, oh, no!

Ma mentre questa coppia apparentemente sincera perde di valore agli occhi degli altri, fa comunque attenzione a mantenere un’immagine di gentilezza e affetto; anzi, spesso proprio questa perdita di valore deriva dalla loro eccessiva simpatia e buona volontà. La donna apparentemente sincera va a far visita a un’altra signora che adora i suoi figli: trova quest’ultima seduta con una bambina in grembo, incantata dalle sue risposte ingenui, e le dice quanto le piaccia conversare con quelle “fate”. Quando l’altra signora chiede se abbia visto di recente la giovane signora Finching e se il bambino sia davvero così bello come si sperava, la donna apparentemente sincera esclama: “Oh cara! Non potete immaginare quante volte io e Bobtail abbiamo parlato della povera signora Finching. È una persona davvero meravigliosa, e era così ansiosa che il bambino fosse sano e bellissimo. Naturalmente, essendo stata spesso qui, e dato che tra le madri esiste sempre una sorta di competizione naturale, beh, non so nemmeno come potervi descrivere quanto ci sia affezionata a lei.” “È debole o brutta, o cosa?” chiede l’altra signora. “Debole o brutta? Mia cara, è terribile. Una creatura davvero misera. Non dovete assolutamente farle vedere di nuovo queste bambine bellissime, altrimenti le spezzereste il cuore, ” “Che Dio benedica questa bambina. Guardate come sorride mentre mi guarda in faccia! Riuscite a immaginare qualcosa di più bello? Se solo la povera signora Finching potesse sperare. Ma è impossibile. E poi ci sono i doni della Provvidenza, ” “E cosa ho fatto con il mio fazzoletto da tasca?” aggiunge, pensierosa.

Cosa spinge la madre, che adora i suoi figli, a commentare quella sera con il suo signore le qualità affascinanti e il cuore sincero di quella gentildonna, e cosa fa sì che il signor e la signora Bobtail Widger ricevano immediatamente un invito a cena?

THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE

A custom once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the company with a story. As we find ourself in the predicament of not being able to describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in the abstract, we purpose telling in this place a little story about a nice little couple of our acquaintance.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question. Mr. Chirrup has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of a small bird. Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and has the prettiest little figure conceivable. She has the neatest little foot, and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile, and the tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the quietest little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most engaging of all little women, dead or alive. She is a condensation of all the domestic virtues,—a pocket edition of the young man’s best companion,—a little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing quantity of goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space. Little as she is, Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral equipment of a score of housewives, six feet high in their stockings—if, in the presence of ladies, we may be allowed the expression—and of corresponding robustness.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes on that he don’t. Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather fortunate in having her to wife. We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed toss of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in his mind as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a speaking-trumpet. Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup ‘my dear;’ and—for he is of a jocose turn—of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself. Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a marvellously contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and the sorrow of his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs. Chirrup—all of which circumstances combine to show the secret triumph and satisfaction of Mr. Chirrup’s soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an incomparable housewife. In all the arts of domestic arrangement and management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body. She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a special hand at marketing to the very best advantage. But if there be one branch of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly unparalleled and unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of carving. A roast goose is universally allowed to be the great stumbling-block in the way of young aspirants to perfection in this department of science; many promising carvers, beginning with legs of mutton, and preserving a good reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb, fowls, and even ducks, have sunk before a roast goose, and lost caste and character for ever. To Mrs. Chirrup the resolving a goose into its smallest component parts is a pleasant pastime—a practical joke—a thing to be done in a minute or so, without the smallest interruption to the conversation of the time. No handing the dish over to an unfortunate man upon her right or left, no wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint, no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off in despair; all is confidence and cheerfulness. The dish is set upon the table, the cover is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you observe that Mrs. Chirrup’s attention is distracted; she smiles, but heareth not. You proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife is slowly upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup’s wrists are slightly but not ungracefully agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then breaks into a smile, and all is over. The legs of the bird slide gently down into a pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the breast separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more complicated parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of stuffing is revealed, and the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in the world. Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his own days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached. Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend of Mrs. Chirrup’s, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend. It would put any reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup’s face, a bustling hospitality oozing as it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a patronising enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part of the bachelor friend, which is quite delightful. On these occasions Mr. Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on being single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married, at which moments some single young ladies present are like to die of laughter; and we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon the friend, which convinces us that his position is by no means a safe one, as, indeed, we hold no bachelor’s to be who visits married friends and cracks jokes on wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among traps and nets and pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down upon their knees at the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded wives, before they know anything about the matter.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup’s, who talks, and laughs, and drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time to repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs. Chirrup prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible little fish into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr. Chirrup to assist her, which Mr. Chirrup does. As they stand side by side, you find that Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade taller than Mrs. Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and best-matched little couple that can be, which the chances are ten to one against your observing with such effect at any other time, unless you see them in the street arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day trotting along under a very small umbrella. The round game (at which Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the party) being done and over, in course of time a nice little tray appears, on which is a nice little supper; and when that is finished likewise, and you have said ‘Good night,’ you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as you ride home, that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in small bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they are diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for use, we don’t know, but as a general rule,—strengthened like all other rules by its exceptions,—we hold that little people are sprightly and good-natured. The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and hope that they may increase and multiply.

Il carino piccolo couple

Un tempo, nei circoli all’antica, era consuetudine che quando una signora o un gentiluomo non riusciva a cantare una canzone, lui o lei cercasse di animare l’atmosfera raccontando una storia. Poiché ci troviamo nella situazione imbarazzante di non essere in grado di descrivere, a nostro soddisfazione, coppie carine in modo astratto, abbiamo deciso di raccontare qui una piccola storia su una bella coppia che conosciamo.

Il signor e la signora Chirrup sono proprio quella gentile coppia di cui si parla. Il signor Chirrup possiede l’intelligenza e quel modo vivace e rapido tipico di un piccolo uccello; la signora Chirrup, invece, è la più bella tra tutte le donne minute: ha la figura più incantevole che si possa immaginare. Ha i piedini più delicati, la voce più dolce, il sorriso più affabile, i riccioli più ordinati, gli occhi più luminosi e un comportamento estremamente tranquillo. In breve, è davvero una delle donne più deliziose che esistano, viventi o morte. Rappresenta in sé tutte le virtù domestiche: è la compagna ideale per un giovane uomo, una donna minuta ma piena di bontà e utilità, capace di fornire spunti morali a molte casalinghe, se solo ci fosse permesso esprimerci così in presenza di signore.

Nessuno conosce tutto questo meglio di Mr. Chirrup, anche se lui preferisce far credere il contrario. Per questo motivo è molto orgoglioso della sua compagna e, evidentemente, si considera, come tutti gli altri lo considerano, piuttosto fortunato ad averla per moglie. Diciamo “evidentemente” perché Mr. Chirrup è un uomo dal cuore caldo; e se lo sorprendete mentre, in compagnia di altre persone, lancia occhiate furtive a sua moglie, nei suoi occhi si legge uno sguardo compiaciuto, forse accompagnato da un lieve cenno del capo che, chiaramente, rivela ciò che gli passa per la mente, come se lo avesse espresso a parole ad alta voce. Inoltre, Mr. Chirrup ha l’abitudine di chiamare sua moglie “mia cara” in modo particolarmente dolce e affettuoso; e, essendo incline al gioco di parole, le dice spesso piccole battute spiritose e la prende spesso come oggetto di scherzi innocui, che nessuno apprezza di più di lei stessa. Di tanto in tanto, Mr. Chirrup finge di rimpiangere i suoi giorni da scapolo e si lagna (con un’espressione di meravigliosa soddisfazione) della perdita della sua “libertà” e del dolore che prova nel sentirsi “catturato” da sua moglie. Tutto ciò, in realtà, rivela il segreto trionfo e la profonda soddisfazione nascosti nell’animo di Mr. Chirrup.

Abbiamo già avuto l’occasione di osservare che la signora Chirrup è una casalinga incomparabile. In tutte le arti dell’organizzazione e della gestione domestica, in tutti i segreti della preparazione di dolci, del conservamento degli alimenti, non esiste mai stata un’esperta così completa come quella deliziosa signora Chirrup. È inoltre molto abile nel lavorare il mussolina e la seta fine, e sa come vendere i propri prodotti al meglio possibile. Ma se c’è una branca della gestione domestica in cui eccelle in modo assolutamente senza precedenti, è sicuramente quella della preparazione dei cibi. Si ritiene comunemente che il tacchino arrosto rappresenti un grande ostacolo per i giovani che desiderano raggiungere la perfezione in questo campo; molti talentuosi cuochi, partendo da pezzi di carne più semplici come le cosce di agnello o i filetti di vitella, hanno perso ogni possibilità di successo davanti al tacchino arrosto. Per la signora Chirrup, invece, smontare un tacchino nelle sue parti più minute è un piacevole passatempo, una sorta di scherzo pratico che si può eseguire in pochi minuti, senza interrompere affatto la conversazione. Nessun problema nel passare il piatto a qualcuno accanto a lei, nessun affilamento frenetico del coltello, nessun rumore o disordine durante l’operazione. Solo tranquillità e competenza. Il piatto viene servito sul tavolo, la copertura viene rimosso; per un attimo soltanto, sembra che la signora Chirrup distragga la sua attenzione. Ma poi tutto è pronto: le cosce del tacchino si dispongono ordinatamente nel piatto, le ali sembrano sciogliersi dal corpo dell’animale, il petto si divide in fette succose. E il tacchino è pronto per essere servito!

Cenare con il signor e la signora Chirrup è una delle cose più piacevoli al mondo. Il signor Chirrup ha un amico scapolo che visse con lui ai tempi della sua solitudine e a cui è molto legato. Contrariamente alla consuetudine, anche questo amico scapolo è considerato un vero amico anche dalla signora Chirrup; quindi, ogni volta che si cena da loro, si incontra anche quest’uomo. È davvero divertente osservare l’unanimità totale che regna tra questi tre: sul viso della signora Chirrup appare un sorriso cordiale, il signor Chirrup dimostra una grande ospitalità, e l’amico scapolo partecipa con gioia a questa armonia. In queste occasioni, il signor Chirrup non manca mai di scherzare sull’essere single, mentre l’amico ribatte dicendo che lui è sposato; in quei momenti, alcune giovani presenti ridono fino alle lacrime. E abbiamo più volte notato che queste ragazze lanciano occhiate all’amico scapolo, il che ci fa pensare che la sua situazione non sia affatto sicura. Infatti, chi frequenta amici sposati e scherza sul matrimonio di certo si trova in mezzo a innumerevoli pericoli. E spesso finisce per ritrovarsi davanti all’altare, credendo che la persona con cui sta per sposarsi sia effettivamente sua moglie, senza nemmeno rendersene conto.

Tuttavia, questa non è affatto una questione che riguardi il signor Chirrup: lui parla e ride, beve il suo vino, ride di nuovo e continua a parlare, fino a quando non arriva l’ora di tornare in salotto. Lì, dopo aver servito il caffè, la signora Chirrup prepara un gioco: mette i pesciolini più belli nei “laghetti” più adatti e chiede al signor Chirrup di aiutarla, cosa che lui fa volentieri. Standogli accanto, si nota che il signor Chirrup è leggermente più alto della signora Chirrup, e che insieme formano la coppia più armoniosa e ben assortita che si possa immaginare. Le probabilità che si noti tutto questo in un altro momento sono praticamente nulle, a meno di vederli per strada abbracciati o incontrarli in una giornata piovosa mentre camminano sotto un ombrello minuscolo. Una volta terminato il gioco (e il signor Chirrup è senz’altro il più felice della compagnia), dopo un po’ appare un delizioso vassoio con la cena; e quando anche quella è finita, mentre si rincasa, non si può fare a meno di ripetere più volte quanto sia meravigliosa questa piccola coppia: il signor e la signora Chirrup.

Che sia perché queste qualità piacevoli, essendo raccolte in corpi più piccoli che in quelli più grandi, siano più facilmente a portata di mano rispetto quando sono distribuite su un’area più ampia e richiedono uno sforzo per essere utilizzate, non lo sappiamo; ma come regola generale – rafforzata, come tutte le altre regole, dalle sue eccezioni – riteniamo che le persone di piccola statura siano vivaci e di buon carattere. Più persone vivaci e di buon carattere abbiamo, meglio è; pertanto, auguriamo il bene a tutte le coppie di piccole dimensioni e speriamo che possano aumentare e moltiplicarsi.

THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE

Egotism in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by two examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or ill to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family at all. There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be known and avoided. They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding against them. No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against an egotistical couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is susceptible. You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple anything they don’t know, or describe to them anything they have not felt. They have been everything but dead. Sometimes we are tempted to wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments, which are few and far between.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to encounter an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in ignorance of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the house brought them into active and vigorous operation. The inquiry was of course touching the lady’s health, and the answer happened to be, that she had not been very well. ‘Oh, my dear!’ said the egotistical lady, ‘don’t talk of not being well. We have been in such a state since we saw you last!’—The lady of the house happening to remark that her lord had not been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in: ‘Never let Briggs complain of not being well—never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs. Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six weeks. He doesn’t know what it is to be ill, he hasn’t the least idea of it; not the faintest conception.’—‘My dear,’ interposed his wife smiling, ‘you talk as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to have been as ill as we have been, instead of feeling thankful to Providence that both he and our dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful ignorance of real suffering.’—‘My love,’ returned the egotistical gentleman, in a low and pious voice, ‘you mistake me;—I feel grateful—very grateful. I trust our friends may never purchase their experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they never may!’

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the Dowager Lady Snorflerer. On our replying in the negative, he presumed we had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on intimate terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Finding that we were equally unable to lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile, inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed potatoes. ‘Who, my dear?’ returned the egotistical lady, ‘why Sir Chipkins, of course; how can you ask! Don’t you remember his applying it to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?’ ‘To be sure, I remember that,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘but are you quite certain that didn’t apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of Austria and the pump?’ ‘Upon my word then, I think it did,’ replied his wife. ‘To be sure it did,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘it was Slang’s story, I remember now, perfectly.’ However, it turned out, a few seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman’s memory was rather treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had been told by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined there; but there appearing, on further consideration, strong circumstantial evidence tending to show that this couldn’t be, inasmuch as the Dowager Lady Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question, wholly engrossed by the egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman recanted this opinion; and after laying the story at the doors of a great many great people, happily left it at last with the Duke of Scuttlewig:—observing that it was not extraordinary he had forgotten his Grace hitherto, as it often happened that the names of those with whom we were upon the most familiar footing were the very last to present themselves to our thoughts.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but that scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for many years with which they had not been in some way or other connected. Thus we learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of George the Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the egotistical gentleman’s grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the first man who collared him; and that the egotistical lady’s aunt, sitting within a few boxes of the royal party, was the only person in the audience who heard his Majesty exclaim, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte, don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened; they’re letting off squibs, they’re letting off squibs.’ When the fire broke out, which ended in the destruction of the two Houses of Parliament, the egotistical couple, being at the time at a drawing-room window on Blackheath, then and there simultaneously exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole party—‘It’s the House of Lords!’ Nor was this a solitary instance of their peculiar discernment, for chancing to be (as by a comparison of dates and circumstances they afterwards found) in the same omnibus with Mr. Greenacre, when he carried his victim’s head about town in a blue bag, they both remarked a singular twitching in the muscles of his countenance; and walking down Fish Street Hill, a few weeks since, the egotistical gentleman said to his lady—slightly casting up his eyes to the top of the Monument—‘There’s a boy up there, my dear, reading a Bible. It’s very strange. I don’t like it.—In five seconds afterwards, Sir,’ says the egotistical gentleman, bringing his hands together with one violent clap—‘the lad was over!’

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the same kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of what weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet disagreed with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what time went to bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy too numerous to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their leave, and afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class, for all the lady’s egotism is about her husband, and all the gentleman’s about his wife. For example:—Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical gentleman, and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do. If you happen to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so engaged, Mrs. Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn whisper, as if there were at least three or four particular friends up-stairs, all upon the point of death, implores you to be very silent, for Mr. Sliverstone is composing, and she need not say how very important it is that he should not be disturbed. Unwilling to interrupt anything so serious, you hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but this Mrs. Sliverstone will by no means allow, observing, that she knows you would like to see him, as it is very natural you should, and that she is determined to make a trial for you, as you are a great favourite. So you are led up-stairs—still on tip-toe—to the door of a little back room, in which, as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr. Sliverstone always writes. No answer being returned to a couple of soft taps, the lady opens the door, and there, sure enough, is Mr. Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair, powdering away with pen, ink, and paper, at a rate which, if he has any power of sustaining it, would settle the longest sermon in no time. At first he is too much absorbed to be roused by this intrusion; but presently looking up, says faintly, ‘Ah!’ and pointing to his desk with a weary and languid smile, extends his hand, and hopes you’ll forgive him. Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down beside him, and taking his hand in hers, tells you how that Mr. Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine o’clock in the morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she knows it cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it. Unto this Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that ‘It must be done;’ which agonizes Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that such were Mr. Sliverstone’s labours last week—what with the buryings, marryings, churchings, christenings, and all together,—that when he was going up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on by the rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew. Mr. Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, ‘Not quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!’ he admits though, on cross-examination, that he was very near falling upon the verger who was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty as a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone, and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who launches into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone’s worth and excellence, to which he listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word of self-denial relative to some question of fact, as—‘Not seventy-two christenings that week, my dear. Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.’ At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink within him? Is it he alone who toils and suffers? What has she gone through, he should like to know? What does she go through every day for him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and thus the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not. The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits. Perhaps this is the worst kind of egotism. It has not even the poor excuse of being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice aforethought. Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust.

La coppia egoista

L’egoismo nelle coppie si presenta in due forme principali; il nostro scopo è dimostrarlo attraverso due esempi.

La coppia egoista può essere giovane, anziana, di mezza età, benestante o meno; può avere una famiglia piccola, grande, o nessuna affatto. Non esiste alcun segno esteriore che permetta di riconoscere e evitare una coppia egoista. Si presentano all’improvviso, senza alcuna possibilità di difendersi. Nessun uomo può prevederle o prepararsi contro di loro.

La coppia egoista ha affrontato ogni sorta di calamità ed ha sperimentato tutte le sensazioni piacevoli e dolorose a cui la nostra >natura è suscettibile. Non esiste nulla che si possa dire a questa coppia che non sappia già, né nulla che si possa descrivere loro che non abbiano già provato. Hanno vissuto praticamente tutto, tranne la morte. A volte ci viene il desiderio che siano almeno morti, ma solo in quei momenti di cattiveria verso di loro, che sono rari e sporadici.

Un giorno, durante una telefonata mattutina, ci siamo imbattuti in una coppia egocentrica; non abbiamo avuto il tempo di rimanere all’oscuro della situazione, perché la nostra prima domanda rivolta alla padrona di casa ha immediatamente attivato la loro reazione. Naturalmente, la domanda riguardava la salute della signora, e la risposta è stata che non si sentiva molto bene. “Oh, mio caro!” esclamò la donna egocentrica, “non dite che non state bene. Siamo in uno stato terribile da quando vi abbiamo visto l’ultima volta!” La padrona di casa osservò poi che anche il suo marito non si sentiva molto bene; allora l’uomo intervenne: “Non lasciate mai che Briggs si lamenti di stare male. Mai, cara signora Briggs, dopo tutto ciò che ho sopportato in queste sei settimane. Lui non sa nemmeno cosa significhi essere malati. Non ne ha la minima idea.” “Mio caro,” intervenne sua moglie sorridendo, “parlate come se fosse quasi un crimine per il signor Briggs non essere stato altrettanto malato di noi. Dovremmo invece essere grati alla Provvidenza che sia lui che nostra cara signora Briggs ignorino completamente quanto possa essere terribile la vera sofferenza.” “Mia cara,” rispose l’uomo con voce bassa e devota, “mi fraintendete. Sono grato. Molto grato. Spero che i nostri amici non debbano mai pagare un prezzo così alto per le loro esperienze come abbiamo dovuto farlo noi. Lo spero davvero.”

Dopo aver affrontato questo argomento con la signora Briggs e aver risolto così la questione, il gentiluomo egocentrico si rivolse a noi e, dopo alcune osservazioni preliminari tutte volte a introdurre il tema che aveva in mente, ci chiese se conoscessimo per caso la duchessa Snorflerer. Quando rispondemmo di no, suppose che avessimo sicuramente incontrato Lord Slang, o addirittura che fossimo in rapporti intimi con Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Vedendo che nemmeno noi eravamo in grado di affermare di conoscere alcuno di questi due personaggi, esprime grande sorpresa e, rivolgendosi alla moglie con un sorriso nostalgico, le chiese chi fosse stato ad inventare quella storia sulle patate schiacciate. “Chi, cara?” rispose la signora egocentrica, “ma certo Sir Chipkins; come puoi dubitarne! Non ricordi che l’ha raccontata riguardo alla nostra cuoca, dicendo che tu e io assomigliavamo così tanto al principe e alla principessa da poter quasi giurare che eravamo loro?” “Certo che me lo ricordo,” disse il gentiluomo egocentrico, “ma sei sicura che non si riferisse anche all’altra storia sull’imperatore d’Austria e la pompa?” “Te lo giuro, credo di sì,” rispose sua moglie. “Assolutamente sì,” insistette lui, “era senz’altro una storia di Slang. Ora me ne ricordo chiaramente.” Tuttavia, pochi secondi dopo, il gentiluomo egocentrico iniziò a dubitare che quella storia fosse stata raccontata proprio dalla duchessa Snorflerer l’ultima volta che avevano pranzato lì; ma, dopo ulteriori riflessioni, trovò prove sufficienti a dimostrare che ciò non era possibile, poiché in quell’occasione la duchessa Snorflerer era completamente assorbita dalla conversazione con sua moglie. Alla fine, il gentiluomo egocentrico abbandonò questa ipotesi e, dopo aver raccontato quella storia a molte persone importanti, la lasciò finalmente al duca di Scuttlewig, osservando che non era affatto strano che fino ad allora se ne fosse dimenticato, poiché spesso i nomi delle persone con cui siamo più in confidenza sono proprio gli ultimi a venirci in mente.

Non solo sembrava che quella coppia egoista conoscesse tutti, ma anche che da molti anni non fosse accaduto alcun evento importante o noto di cui non fossero in qualche modo coinvolti. Così apprendemmo che quando avvenne l’attentato contro la vita di Giorgio III al teatro Drury Lane, il nonno del signore egoista sedeva al suo fianco destro ed fu il primo ad arrestarlo; inoltre, la zia della signora egoista, che si trovava nelle file vicine alla famiglia reale, fu l’unica persona nell’auditorium a sentire Sua Maestà esclamare: “Charlotte, Charlotte, non avere paura, stanno sparando petardi!” Quando scoppiò l’incendio che distrusse le due Camere del Parlamento, quella coppia egoista, trovandosi in quel momento davanti a una finestra nel quartiere di Blackheath, esclamò contemporaneamente, con grande stupore di tutti i presenti: “È la Camera dei Lord!” Questo non fu l’unico caso di tale strana perspicacia da parte loro: un giorno, trovandosi nello stesso omnibus del signor Greenacre (come verificarono in seguito confrontando date e circostanze), notarono entrambi un movimento insolito nei muscoli del suo viso mentre portava la testa della sua vittima per la città in una borsa blu; poche settimane dopo, camminando lungo Fish Street Hill, il signore egoista disse alla moglie, alzando lo sguardo verso la cima del Monumento: “C’è un ragazzo lassù che sta leggendo la Bibbia. È molto strano. Non mi piace.” Cinque secondi dopo, aggiunse: “Il ragazzo è sparito, ”

Diversificando questi argomenti introducendo molti altri dello stesso genere, e intrattenendoci nel frattempo con brevi descrizioni di quale clima e alimentazione fossero adatti a loro, e quali invece non lo fossero; inoltre, indicando a che ora si alzassero solitamente e a che ora andassero a letto, insieme a molte altre particolariità della loro vita quotidiana troppo numerose per essere menzionate tutte; alla fine, quella coppia egocentrica se ne andò, lasciandoci così l’opportunità di fare lo stesso.

Il signor e la signora Sliverstone sono una coppia egocentrica di un altro tipo: l’egocentrismo della donna riguarda esclusivamente suo marito, mentre quello dell’uomo riguarda esclusivamente sua moglie. Ad esempio: il signor Sliverstone è un funzionario e occasionalmente scrive prediche, come fanno i funzionari del suo genere. Se per caso riuscite ad entrare in casa loro quando lui è impegnato in questo lavoro, la signora Sliverstone appare in punta di piedi e parla sottovoce in modo solenne, come se ci fossero almeno tre o quattro amici particolari al piano di sopra, tutti sul punto di morire, e vi supplica di stare molto zitti, perché il signor Sliverstone sta componendo e non deve essere disturbato. Riluttanti ad interrompere qualcosa di così importante, vi affrettate a uscire scusandovi; ma la signora Sliverstone non permette assolutamente che ve ne andiate, osservando che sa bene che vorreste vederlo, poiché è del tutto naturale, e che è decisa a fare uno sforzo per voi, visto che siete i suoi favoriti. Vi accompagna quindi al piano di sopra, in punta di piedi, fino alla porta di una piccola stanza sul retro; lì, come vi spiega sottovoce, il signor Sliverstone scrive sempre. Dopo aver bussato delicatamente più volte senza ricevere risposta, la signora apre la porta e, effettivamente, trova il signor Sliverstone con i capelli in disordine, impegnato a scrivere con una velocità tale che, se riuscisse a mantenerla, potrebbe completare anche la predica più lunga in un attimo. All’inizio è così assorto nel suo lavoro da non accorgersi dell’intrusione; ma dopo aver alzato lo sguardo, dice debolmente: “Ah!”, e indicando con un sorriso stanco il proprio tavolo, vi tende la mano chiedendovi scusa. La signora Sliverstone si siede accanto a lui, prende la sua mano tra le sue e vi racconta quanto il signor Sliverstone sia stato costretto a rimanere lì dentro fin dalle nove di mattina (in questo momento sono già le dodici di mezzogiorno), e quanto lei sia preoccupata per la sua salute. Il signor Sliverstone risponde con fermezza che “deve essere fatto”; il che angoscia ancora di più la signora Sliverstone, che continua a raccontarvi quanto fosse impegnato la settimana scorsa con i funerali, i matrimoni, le cerimonie religiose, tanto che domenica sera, mentre saliva sul pulpito, è stato costretto ad aggrapparsi alle ringhiere per non cadere nella sua stessa panca. Il signor Sliverstone, che ha ascoltato tutto sorridendo mansuettamente, ammette che “non è stato così grave”, ma aggiunge che, se necessario, avrebbe dovuto proprio cadere addosso al sagrestano che lo seguiva per chiudere la porta, e che, come cristiano, avrebbe dovuto essere orgoglioso di farlo.

Questo sentimento infonde nuovo slancio in Mrs. Sliverstone, la quale inizia a elogiare nuovamente il valore e l’eccellenza di Mr. Sliverstone; lui ascolta in quel medesimo silenzio umile, tranne quando interviene per esprimere un po’ di auto-sacrificio riguardo a qualche questione concreta, come ad esempio: “Non settantadue battesimi quella settimana, cara. Solo settantuno.” Alla fine lei finisce di parlare, e allora lui pensa: “Perché dovrebbe rimpiangere, perché dovrebbe cedere, perché dovrebbe permettere che il suo cuore si spezzi dentro di lui? È forse solo lui ad affaticarsi e soffrire? Che cosa ha passato lei. Vorrebbe saperlo. Che cosa deve sopportare ogni giorno per lui e per la società?”

Con un tale esordio, il signor Sliverstone inizia a elogiare calorosamente il comportamento della signora Sliverstone nella crescita di otto bambini piccoli, nonché nell’educazione e nel loro sostegno successivi; così il marito esalta la moglie, e la moglie il marito.

Sarebbe abbastanza se il signor e la signora Sliverstone tenessero questa cosa per sé, o al massimo tra loro e uno o due amici; ma non lo fanno. Più ascoltatori hanno, più diventano egocentrici, e più sono desiderosi di far credere in i propri meriti. Forse questo è il peggior tipo di egoismo: non ha nemmeno l’scusa patetica di essere spontaneo, ma è il risultato di un piano deliberato e di malizia premeditata. La semplice presunzione sciocca suscita in noi compassione, mentre l’ipocrisia ostentata provoca disgusto.

THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES

Mrs. Merrywinkle’s maiden name was Chopper. She was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Chopper. Her father died when she was, as the play-books express it, ‘yet an infant;’ and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head. Mrs. Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder. The venerable Mrs. Chopper—who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her marriage, which was some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who lurks behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease, respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say, ‘That’s my complaint.’ Indeed, the absence of authentic information upon the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper’s greatest ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and hearty gentlewoman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel, and have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural extent. They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds, and rub themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated spirits and other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism, or lumbago.

Mr. Merrywinkle’s leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet morning is a very elaborate affair. He puts on wash-leather socks over his stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under his waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin. Besides these precautions, he winds a thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a large silk handkerchief. Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a great-coat and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets; travelling in severe weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve the circulation, and bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath, but very seldom, and with the utmost caution. His office-door opened, he shoots past his clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own private room, closes the door, examines the window-fastenings, and gradually unrobes himself: hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the fender to air, and determining to write to the newspapers about the fog, which, he says, ‘has really got to that pitch that it is quite unbearable.’

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day. If anybody happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must assuredly be mad, and her first salutation is, ‘Why, what in the name of goodness can bring you out in such weather? You know you must catch your death.’ This assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who adds, in further confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual of her acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel circumstances, and being then in the best health and spirits, expired in forty-eight hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory disorders. The visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by this and other precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr. Merrywinkle, but by so doing brings about no change of the subject; for Mr. Merrywinkle’s name is inseparably connected with his complaints, and his complaints are inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle’s; and when these are done with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her time, cuts in with the chronic disorder—a subject upon which the amiable old lady never leaves off speaking until she is left alone, and very often not then.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner. He is received by Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel. Rubbed they are, one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had been smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient, provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner. Now, the dinner is always a good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls ‘tittivation;’ the secret of which is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and which process is so successfully performed in the present instance, that both Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and even the afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of the spirit and elasticity of youth. But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire to gratify his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a bottle of carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a little pair of scales in which to weigh it out. Neither in his anxiety to take care of his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal part, as he always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be made truly thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as possible, eats and drinks to the utmost.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of this constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two or three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed his eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise. It is on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms prevail; for then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly bound round with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as if she had made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs. Chopper as if cold water were running down her back, and oyster-knives with sharp points were plunging of their own accord into her ribs. Symptoms like these are enough to make people peevish, and no wonder that they remain so until supper-time, doing little more than doze and complain, unless Mr. Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant ‘to keep that draught out,’ or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist in the countenance of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a knock as he had just performed at the door of a private gentleman with nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative; and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and again—done honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and abetted by Mrs. Chopper. After supper, it is ten to one but the last-named old lady becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the chronic complaint in full vigour. Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having administered to her a warm cordial, which is something of the strongest, then repair to their own room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water, superintends the mulling of some wine which he is to drink at the very moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in garments whose nature is unknown to and unimagined by all but married men, takes four small pills with a spasmodic look between each, and finally comes to something hot and fragrant out of another little saucepan, which serves as her composing-draught for the night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at a cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their visitors too. It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:—that all couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,—that they charge upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every vapour that hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own imprudence or the gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,—and that all men and women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into exclusive habits of self-indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy and close connexion with everybody and everything in the world around them, not only neglect the first duty of life, but, by a happy retributive justice, deprive themselves of its truest and best enjoyment.

Il coppia che si coccola a vicenda

Il cognome da nubile di Mrs. Merrywinkle era Chopper. Era l’unica figlia di Mr. e Mrs. Chopper. Suo padre morì quando lei era, come dicono i libri di testo teatrali, “ancora un bambino”; per questo, quando sua figlia si sposò, la vecchia Mrs. Chopper fece della casa di suo genero la propria casa da quel momento in poi, stabilendo lì la propria dimora con Mr. e Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Il signor e la signora Merrywinkle sono una coppia che si viziaggia continuamente; e la rispettabile signora Chopper è anch’essa complice di questo comportamento.

Il signor Merrywinkle è un gentiluomo piuttosto magro e dal collo lungo, di mezza età e di statura media; spesso soffre di raffreddore alla testa. La signora Merrywinkle, invece, è una donna dall’aspetto delicato, con i capelli molto biondi, e anch’ella è soggetta frequentemente allo stesso fastidioso disturbo. La rispettabile signora Chopper – che ha pieno diritto a questo titolo, poiché sua figlia non è più molto giovane; altrimenti, tale denominazione sarebbe solo un segno di cortesia, data la data del suo matrimonio, avvenuto alcuni anni fa – è una vecchia signora misteriosa che si nasconde dietro un paio di occhiali e soffre di una malattia cronica. Ha consultato molti medici e letto numerosi libri di medicina, ma non è riuscita a trovare alcuna descrizione dei sintomi che corrispondesse esattamente ai suoi problemi, né a individuare una diagnosi che le permettesse di dire: “Ecco la mia malattia”. In realtà, l’assenza di informazioni accurate su questo argomento sembra rappresentare il suo vero problema; per il resto, è senz’altro una donna straordinariamente in salute e vivace.

Sia il signor che la signora Chopper indossano una quantità straordinaria di flanella e hanno l’abitudine di mettere i piedi in acqua calda in modo eccessivo. Inoltre, consumano regolarmente tè alla camomilla e simili bevande, e si ungono con alcolici profumati di camphora o altre lozioni indicate per malattie come le orecchie infette, il mal di gola, il reumatismo o il lombago, non appena si sentono anche solo un po’ stanchi.

Il signor Merrywinkle, quando lascia la sua casa per andare a svolgere i suoi affari in una mattina umida o bagnata, segue un rituale molto particolare. Si infila calze di cuoio sopra le gambe e scarpe di gomma indiana sopra gli stivali; sotto il gilet indossa una corazza di pelle d’lepre. Oltre a queste precauzioni, si avvolge attorno al collo uno scialle spesso e si copre la bocca con un grande fazzoletto di seta. Così equipaggiato, e munito anche di cappotto e ombrello, affronta i pericoli delle strade: cammina a passo veloce in condizioni meteorologiche avverse, per mantenere meglio la circolazione del sangue; apre la bocca solo di rado e con estrema cautela. Appena entra nel suo ufficio, supera il suo impiegato allo stesso ritmo, si rifugia nella sua stanza privata, chiude la porta, controlla le serrature delle finestre e inizia a spogliarsi: appende il fazzoletto al paravento per farlo asciugare e decide di scrivere ai giornali riguardo alla nebbia, che, a suo dire, “è davvero arrivata a un livello insopportabile”.

In questa ultima opinione, la signora Merrywinkle e sua madre concordano pienamente; poiché non sono presenti, i loro pensieri e le loro parole riguardano sempre lo stesso argomento, che costituisce il tema principale di tutta la giornata. Se qualcuno dovesse bussare alla porta, la signora Merrywinkle ritenerebbe certamente che quella persona fosse pazza, e la sua prima domanda sarebbe: “Ma per l’amor del cielo, cosa vi ha spinto a uscire con questo tempo? Sapete bene che dovete prendervi la morte, ” Questa affermazione viene confermata anche dalla signora Chopper, la quale aggiunge, a sostegno della sua tesi, una triste storia riguardante una persona che lei conosceva: questa persona, avendo bussato alla porta in circostanze analoghe e trovandosi in ottima salute, morì quarantotto ore dopo a causa di complicazioni dovute a malattie infiammatorie. L’ospite, forse un po’ preoccupato da questi esempi, chiede con grande affetto notizie del signor Merrywinkle, ma così facendo non riesce a cambiare argomento; il nome del signor Merrywinkle è infatti strettamente legato alle sue lamentele, e queste lamentele sono a loro volta strettamente legate alla signora Merrywinkle. Quando queste conversazioni finiscono, la signora Chopper, che ha aspettato il suo turno con pazienza, interviene subito parlando del disturbo cronico di cui soffre il signor Merrywinkle. Un argomento su cui questa gentile anziana non smette mai di parlare, finché non rimane da sola. E spesso nemmeno allora.

Ma il signor Merrywinkle torna a casa per cena. Viene accolto dalla signora Merrywinkle e dalla signora Chopper; quando egli osserva che i suoi piedi sono bagnati, loro impallidiscono e lo portano di sopra, pregandolo di farseli strofinare immediatamente con un asciutto panno ruvido. Glieli strofinano, una la signora Merrywinkle e l’altra la signora Chopper, fino a quando il movimento non fa fare al signor Merrywinkle espressioni orribili, come se avesse annusato cipolle molto forti; quando smettono, e il paziente, munito di calze spesse di lana grossa e pantofole con suole morbide per maggiore sicurezza, viene portato di nuovo giù a cena. Ora, la cena è sempre ottima: gli appetiti dei commensali sono delicati e richiedono quel che la signora Merrywinkle chiama “un po’ di stimolazione”; il segreto di tale preparazione risiede in una cucina eccellente e nell’uso di spezie gustose. In questo caso, tutto viene eseguito con tale successo che sia il signor che la signora Merrywinkle mangiano molto bene, e persino la povera signora Chopper usa forchetta e coltello con grande energia e vivacità. Ma il signor Merrywinkle, nel suo desiderio di saziare il proprio appetito, non trascura affatto la propria salute: tiene sempre a portata di mano una bottiglia di carbonato di sodio per addolcire il suo vino, e utilizza anche delle bilance per dosarlo con precisione. Nella sua attenzione verso il proprio corpo, non dimentica nemmeno il benessere della sua “parte immortale”: prega sempre affinché possa essere veramente grato per ciò che sta per ricevere; e per essere il più grato possibile, mangia e beve in abbondanza.

Sia per aver mangiato e bevuto troppo, sia a causa di questa particolare debolezza fisica, il signor Merrywinkle, dopo due o tre bicchieri di vino, si addormenta immediatamente; appena chiude gli occhi, anche la signora Merrywinkle e la signora Chopper cadono nel sonno. È proprio al risveglio, all’ora del tè, che i loro sintomi più preoccupanti diventano evidenti: il signor Merrywinkle ha l’impressione che le tempie siano strette saldamente da una catena, la signora Merrywinkle si sente come se avesse mangiato mezzo chilo di cibo pesante, mentre la signora Chopper prova come se dell’acqua fredda le scorresse lungo la schiena, e come se coltelli affilati le penetrassero involontariamente nelle costole. Sintomi del genere sono più che sufficienti per rendere le persone irritabili. E non c’è da meravigliarsi se rimangono in questo stato fino all’ora di cena, passando il tempo a sonnecchiare e lamentarsi, a meno che il signor Merrywinkle non chiami ad alta voce un servitore perché “tenga lontana quella corrente d’aria”, o non corra nel corridoio per minacciare con il pugno il postino che osa bussare così forte alla porta di un gentiluomo.

La cena, che segue il pasto principale, dovrebbe consistere in qualcosa di leggermente provocatorio; quindi l’arte di stimolare i desideri viene nuovamente utilizzata. E ancora una volta – con grande ’onore da parte del signor e della signora Merrywinkle, sempre incoraggiati e aiutati dalla signora Chopper. Dopo cena, è quasi certo che la suddetta anziana donna peggiori; viene quindi portata a letto con i suoi sintomi cronici ancora molto intensi. Il signor e la signora Merrywinkle le somministrano un liquido caldo e forte, poi si ritirano nella loro stanza. Lì, il signor Merrywinkle, con gambe e piedi immersi in acqua calda, si occupa di preparare del vino da bere proprio prima di andare a letto; intanto la signora Merrywinkle, indossando abiti il cui tipo è sconosciuto e inimmaginabile per chiunque tranne che gli uomini sposati, prende quattro piccole pillole, con uno sguardo di sofferenza tra una e l’altra. Infine prepara qualcosa di caldo e profumato da bere durante la notte.

Esiste un altro tipo di coppie che si coccolano a vicenda, ma lo fanno spendendo meno e con una dieta più frugale, perché sono avare e parsimoniose; per questo motivo sono anche disposte a coccolare i propri ospiti. Non è necessario descriverle in dettaglio, poiché i nostri lettori possono essere certi dell’accuratezza di questi principi generali: tutte le coppie che si coccolano a vicenda sono egoiste e pigre; imputano a ogni vento che soffia, a ogni pioggia che cade e a ogni umidità presente nell’aria i mali derivanti dalla loro stessa imprudenza o l’oscurità generata dai loro caratteri; inoltre, tutti gli uomini e le donne, sia in coppia che da soli, che cadono in abitudini di autoindulgenza e dimenticano la propria naturale simpatia e il legame stretto con tutte le persone e le cose che li circondano, non solo trascurano il primo dovere della vita, ma, per una giustizia riparativa, si privano anche del suo vero e più autentico godimento.

THE OLD COUPLE

They are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey, their step tottering and infirm. Is this the lightsome pair whose wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so soon!

It seems but yesterday—and yet what a host of cares and griefs are crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens out into a century! How many new associations have wreathed themselves about their hearts since then! The old time is gone, and a new time has come for others—not for them. They are but the rusting link that feebly joins the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday—and yet three of their children have sunk into the grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old. One was an infant—they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too delicate for earth—her loss was hard indeed to bear. The third, a man. That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday—and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground! Faint likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved. They are of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures. White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded. Do you wonder, child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate. It is the work of hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question. He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy—so they tell him. He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad, or died. It is a long while ago, and he don’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived servant with the old lady’s father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off. She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more. Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great deal of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over that, and is happy now—quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current. It has filled the void in the poor creature’s heart, and replaced the love of kindred. Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented. Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does, as well—as if it was only yesterday. You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as smart a young girl then as you’d wish to see. She recollects she took a friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name was—ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived—it has quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a bad husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house. Dear, dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

And the old couple—have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence? See them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls on points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of herself in her young days—how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a ‘barring-out’ achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help letting them know was very pleasant too—especially when he kissed the master’s niece. This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to talk about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing to observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful. So the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece said afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to posterity.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day—‘Eighty years old, Crofts, and never had a headache,’ he tells the barber who shaves him (the barber being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint). ‘That’s a great age, Crofts,’ says the old gentleman. ‘I don’t think it’s sich a wery great age, Sir,’ replied the barber. ‘Crofts,’ rejoins the old gentleman, ‘you’re talking nonsense to me. Eighty not a great age?’ ‘It’s a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active as you are,’ returns the barber; ‘but my grandfather, Sir, he was ninety-four.’ ‘You don’t mean that, Crofts?’ says the old gentleman. ‘I do indeed, Sir,’ retorts the barber, ‘and as wiggerous as Julius Caesar, my grandfather was.’ The old gentleman muses a little time, and then says, ‘What did he die of, Crofts?’ ‘He died accidentally, Sir,’ returns the barber; ‘he didn’t mean to do it. He always would go a running about the streets—walking never satisfied his spirit—and he run against a post and died of a hurt in his chest.’ The old gentleman says no more until the shaving is concluded, and then he gives Crofts half-a-crown to drink his health. He is a little doubtful of the barber’s veracity afterwards, and telling the anecdote to the old lady, affects to make very light of it—though to be sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in some parts of England, ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common age.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old times as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many passages in their past lives which the day brings to mind. The old lady reads aloud, in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old gentleman with his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect. When the book is closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards resume their conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead children, as a subject not unsuited to that they have just left. By degrees they are led to consider which of those who survive are the most like those dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less solemn strain, and become cheerful again.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest son’s to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns, is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old couple no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully attired, than there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the younger branches with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books, pencil-cases, pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles, worked-slippers, watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter article being presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who exhibits it in great triumph as an extraordinary variety. The old couple’s emotion at these tokens of remembrance occasions quite a pathetic scene, of which the chief ingredients are a vast quantity of kissing and hugging, and repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with small square pocket-handkerchiefs, which don’t come at all easily out of small pockets. Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as he presents the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from his own finger, that he’ll be de’ed if he doesn’t think he looks younger than he did ten years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on the table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are all gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then—the glasses being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast—that two great-grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return, dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and trembling with age and pleasure. Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse and story-teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as she, striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of pleasure steal down her withered cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday indeed. Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly again upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of those about them.

Il vecchio coppia

Sono nonno e nonna di una dozzina di persone adulte e hanno anche pronipoti; i loro corpi sono curvi, i loro capelli sono grigi, i loro passi incerti e deboli. È davvero questa la coppia allegra la cui cerimonia nuziale fu così gioiosa. E quei giovani sposi sono davvero invecchiati così in fretta!

Sembra che sia stato solo ieri. Eppure quante preoccupazioni e dolori si sono accumulati nel corso di quel tempo intermedio, che, secondo loro, si è allungato fino a diventare un secolo! Quanti nuovi legami si sono creati nei loro cuori da allora. Il vecchio tempo è passato, e per altri è arrivato un nuovo tempo. Ma non per loro. Loro non sono che quel anello arrugginito che, debolmente, collega i due momenti del passato e del presente; quell’anello che, silenziosamente, sta allentando la sua presa e staccandosi.

Sembra fosse solo ieri. Eppure tre dei loro figli sono già caduti nella tomba, e l’albero che li ombreggia è ormai molto invecchiato. Uno di loro era un infante; per lui hanno pianto. Un altro era una ragazza, una giovane fragile e delicata. La sua perdita è stata davvero insopportabile. Il terzo era un uomo. Quello è stato il caso più tragico di tutti, ma anche quel dolore ora si è attenuato.

Sembra fosse solo ieri. Eppure, quanto sono cambiate e scomparse le facce gioiose e sorridenti di quella splendida mattina! Rimangono ancora alcune vaghe tracce di esse, ma molto deboli, quasi impossibili da individuare. Le altre si vedono soltanto nei >sogni, e anche lì sono diverse da come erano, agli occhi di chi è così vecchio e offuscato nella vista.

Uno o due abiti dell’armadio da sposa sono ancora conservati. Sono di uno stile antico e pittoresco, e si vedono raramente se non in foto. Il bianco è diventato giallo, e i colori più vivaci si sono sbiaditi. Ti chiedi, >bambino? Quel viso rugoso un tempo era liscio come il tuo, gli occhi altrettanto luminosi, la pelle raggrinzita altrettanto bianca e delicata. È il risultato del lavoro di mani che hanno accumulato polvere in tutti questi anni.

Dove sono i fatati amanti di quel giorno felice, il cui ritorno annuale giunge ancora dal vecchio e sua moglie, come l’eco di una campana di villaggio da tempo silenziosa? Lasciate che quel noioso scapolo, tormentato dai dolori reumatici e in continuo conflitto con il mondo, risponda a questa domanda. Ricorda qualcosa riguardo alla sua compagna di giochi preferita; si chiamava Lucy, così gli dicono. Non è sicuro se sia sposata, partita all’estero o morta. È passato molto tempo, e non se ne ricorda più.

Niente è più come una volta; nessuno prova, pensa o agisce più come nei tempi passati. Sì, c’è una donna anziana che un tempo lavorava come serva per il padre della vecchia signora e ora vive in un ospizio non lontano da qui. È ancora legata a quella famiglia e li ama tutti; ha coccolato i bambini sulle sue ginocchia e si è presa cura di loro, anche quando erano malati. La sua ex padrona conserva ancora tracce di giovinezza negli occhi; le giovani signore assomigliano a lei, ma non sono altrettanto belle, e gli uomini non sono più imponenti come il signor Harvey un tempo. Ha vissuto molte difficoltà: suo marito e suo figlio sono morti da molto tempo. Ma è riuscita a superare tutto e ora è felice, davvero felice.

Se mai il suo attaccamento ai suoi vecchi protettori fosse stato turbato da nuove preoccupazioni e speranze, molto tempo fa esso aveva ripreso il suo precedente slancio. Aveva colmato il vuoto nel cuore di quella povera creatura, sostituendo l’amore per i parenti. La morte non l’aveva lasciata sola, e questo, con un tetto sopra la testa e un caldo focolare dove sedersi, la rendeva felice e soddisfatta. Ricorda ancora il matrimonio di sua bisnonna? Sì, lo ricorda molto bene, come se fosse stato solo ieri. Non si direbbe guardandola ora, e forse non dovrebbe dirlo nemmeno lei stessa, ma allora era una giovane ragazza davvero graziosa. Ricorda di aver portato un’amica al piano di sopra per vedere la signorina Emma vestita per andare in chiesa; il suo nome, ah! se lo è dimenticato, ma ricorda che era una ragazza molto carina, e che poco dopo si sposò. Non ricorda più dove abitasse, ma sa di aver avuto un marito cattivo che la trattava male, e che morì nel rifugio per poveri di Lambeth. Povera, povera, nel rifugio per poveri di Lambeth!

E quella vecchia coppia, non hanno alcun conforto o piacere nell’esistenza? Guardateli tra i loro nipoti e pronipoti: quanto chiacchierano, come si confrontano a vicenda, insistendo su somiglianze che nessun altro riesce a notare; con quanta dolcezza la vecchia signora insegna alle ragazze le regole del comportamento e dell’eleganza, raccontando aneddoti della sua giovinezza per impartire lezioni di morale. E il vecchio signore ride delle imprese infantili e dei trucchi birichini dei ragazzi, narrando lunghe storie riguardo a una “vittoria” ottenuta a scuola. Una cosa molto sbagliata, dice loro, che ovviamente non deve mai essere imitata. Ma non può fare a meno di raccontar loro quanto fosse divertente. Soprattutto quando baciava la nipote del maestro. Quest’ultimo aspetto, tuttavia, è qualcosa di cui la vecchia signora parla con grande delicatezza: ritiene che sia una cosa scioccante e inappropriata discuterne, e lo dice sempre ogni volta che ne viene menzionato, sottolineando che lui dovrebbe essere molto pentito per aver commesso un simile peccato. Così il vecchio signore non va oltre. E ciò che la nipote del maestro disse in seguito, beh, questo rimarrà per sempre sconosciuto alle generazioni future.

Il vecchio signore oggi ha ottant’anni: “Ottant’anni, e mai un mal di testa”, dice al barbiere che lo rade (il barbiere è un giovane e soffre spesso di questo problema). “È davvero un’età considerevole, Crofts”, osserva il vecchio signore. “Non credo che sia poi così grande, signore”, risponde il barbiere. “Crofts, stai dicendo sciocchezze. Ottant’anni non sono un’età grande?”, insiste il vecchio signore. “È davvero un’età considerevole, signore, per essere così in salute e attivi come lei. Ma mio nonno, signore, ne aveva novantaquattro”, replica il barbiere. “Non dici sul serio, Crofts?”, chiede il vecchio signore. “Certo che sì, signore. E era anche più coraggioso di Giulio Cesare”, aggiunge il barbiere. Il vecchio signore riflette per un po’, poi chiede: “Di cosa è morto, Crofts?” “È morto per un incidente, signore. Non l’ha voluto. Gli piaceva camminare per le strade; non riusciva mai a stare fermo. Ed è andato a sbattere contro un palo ed è morto per una ferita al petto”, risponde il barbiere. Il vecchio signore non dice più nulla fino alla fine del ritocco, e poi dà a Crofts mezza corona da bere in suo onore. In seguito, però, comincia a dubitare della veridicità delle parole del barbiere. E quando racconta l’aneddoto alla vecchia signora, finge di prenderla alla leggera. Anche se, aggiunge, esiste davvero il caso dell’anziano Parr. E in alcune parti d’Inghilterra, novantacinque anni sono un’età abbastanza comune. Davvero molto comune.

Stamattina la vecchia coppia è allegra ma seria; ricordano i tempi passati nel modo più chiaro che riescono e riflettono su molti momenti delle loro vite precedenti che quel giorno hanno riportato alla mente. La signora legge ad alta voce, con una voce tremante, da un grande Vangelo, mentre il vecchio signore, tenendosi l’orecchio con una mano, ascolta con profondo rispetto. Quando il libro viene chiuso, rimangono in silenzio per un po’, poi riprendono a conversare, forse parlando dei loro figli defunti, un argomento perfettamente adatto al contesto. Gradualmente, iniziano a riflettere su chi tra coloro che sono ancora vivi assomigli di più a quelle persone tanto care e ricordate; così il tono della loro conversazione diventa meno solenne e tornano ad essere felici.

Quante persone in totale – nipoti, pronipoti e uno o due amici intimi della famiglia – si riuniscono oggi a cena presso il figlio maggiore per congratularsi con la vecchia coppia e augurarle tanti anni felici? È un calcolo al di fuori delle nostre possibilità; ma sappiamo una cosa: non appena la vecchia coppia si presenta, vestita con cura e in modo molto elegante, scoppia un gran clamore e tutti i membri più giovani della famiglia corrono avanti regalando ogni sorta di cose: portafogli, custodie per penne, pulisci-penne, calendari da tasca, cuscini da cucito, fermagli per maniche, pantofole fatte a mano, protezioni per orologi. L’ultimo regalo viene presentato da un bambino molto paffuto, che lo mostra con grande orgoglio come una cosa davvero straordinaria. L’emozione della vecchia coppia di fronte a questi segni di affetto crea una scena davvero commovente: ci sono molti baci e abbracci, e le lacrime vengono asciugate ripetutamente con piccoli fazzoletti quadrati che non riescono proprio ad uscire facilmente dalle tasche minuscole. Anche il solitario scapolo si commuove; mentre regala al vecchio signore un anello antico preso dal proprio dito, dice che non riuscirà a credere di non sembrare più giovane di dieci anni fa.

Ma il vero momento migliore arriva dopo cena, quando il dolce e il vino sono già sul tavolo – che viene spinto indietro per lasciare più spazio – e tutti si riuniscono in un grande cerchio intorno al >focolare. È allora che, mentre i bicchieri vengono riempiti e tutti sono pronti a brindare, due pronipoti escono di corsa su un segnale prestabilito e poco dopo tornano trascinando con sé la vecchia Jane Adams, che si appoggia al suo bastone e tremola per l’età, ma anche per la gioia. Chi potrebbe essere più amato della povera vecchia Jane, tata e narratrice di storie per due generazioni? E chi potrebbe essere più felice di lei, mentre cerca con fatica di piegare le sue gambe rigide in un inchino, mentre lacrime di gioia le scendono lungo le guance avvizzite?

La vecchia coppia siede uno accanto all’altro, e quei lontani tempi sembrano davvero ieri. Guardando indietro al percorso che hanno intrapreso, la sua polvere e le sue ceneri scompaiono; i >fiori che un tempo appassirono fioriscono di nuovo lungo i suoi bordi, e sembrano rivivere insieme alla gioventù delle persone intorno a loro.

CONCLUSION

We have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on hand, open to the inspection of all comers. These samples are intended for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous deformities, only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those young ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the church, awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of attraction shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of addressing a few last words.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their hopes of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them cherish the faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the love of home engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity; let them believe that round the household gods, contentment and tranquillity cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and that many weary hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have learnt this truth too late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet mind only at home at last.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character may be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly—how much of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of vanishing every day—are questions too weighty for discussion here, but well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples nevertheless.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of nations are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for an example. From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they are, may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the splendour of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in their power of conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue. From that one young couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire, costly and jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a Queen to the plain gold ring that links her woman’s nature to that of tens of thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman’s heart one secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be that it knows no Royalty save Nature’s own, and no pride of birth but being the child of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth, when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts—

God bless them.

Conclusione

Abbiamo scelto come soggetti degli articoli morali precedenti dodici coppie sposate, selezionate con cura da un vasto gruppo a disposizione e aperte all’ispezione di chiunque desideri. Queste coppie sono state selezionate al fine di giovare alla futura generazione di entrambi i sessi; per facilitarne la consultazione e rendere l’informazione più accessibile, sono state etichettate in modo chiaro e ordinato, come potete vedere.

Abbiamo intenzionalmente escluso dalla considerazione quei casi in cui la donna ha un ruolo dominante e supremo; riteniamo che tali situazioni siano di natura molto innaturale, e simili a nascite orribili o altre deformità mostruose, dovrebbero essere presentate solo con discrezione e moderazione.

E qui il compito che ci eravamo imposti sarebbe terminato, ma per quelle giovani signore e gentiluomini che ancora girano da sole intorno alla chiesa, aspettando l’arrivo di quel momento in cui le misteriose leggi dell’attrazione le porteranno l’una verso l’altra a coppie, desideriamo rivolgere alcune ultime parole.

Prima e dopo il matrimonio, che imparino a concentrare tutte le loro speranze di felicità vera e duratura intorno al proprio focolare; che coltivino la >fede nel fatto che nella >casa, e in tutte le virtù inglesi generate dall’amore per la >casa, si trovi l’unica vera fonte di felicità domestica; che credano che, intorno agli dèi della famiglia, il contentamento e la tranquillità si manifestino nelle loro forme più dolci e graziose; e che molti, che hanno cercato invano la felicità in questo mondo rumoroso, abbiano imparato questa verità troppo tardi, trovando finalmente un animo sereno e una mente tranquilla soltanto nella >casa.

Quanto tutto ciò possa dipendere dall’educazione delle figlie e dal comportamento delle madri; quanto della parte più luminosa del nostro vecchio carattere nazionale possa essere preservata dalla loro saggezza o distrutta dalla loro follia. Quanto di esso sia già andato perduto, e quanto altro rischi di scomparire ogni giorno. Sono questioni troppo importanti per essere discusse qui, ma che tuttavia meritano una seria riflessione da parte di tutte le giovani coppie.

A quel giovane coppia la cui luminosa sorte attira l’attenzione di tutte le nazioni, possa la gioventù d’Inghilterra guardare con sincero rispetto e trovare in loro un esempio da seguire. Da quella giovane coppia, benedetta e favorita dal destino, possano imparare che anche lo splendore di una corte, l’eleganza di un palazzo e la maestosità di un trono non possono eguagliare il potere di donare felicità che derivano dai valori domestici e dalla virtù. Da quella giovane coppia possano comprendere che la corona di un grande impero, per quanto costosa e adornata di gioielli, viene superata, nell’affetto di una regina, dal semplice anello d’oro che unisce la sua natura femminile a quella di decine di migliaia dei suoi sudditi umili; quell’anello custodisce nel suo cuore un tesoro di tenerezza, e il suo più grande orgoglio è non conoscere altra nobiltà se non quella della Natura stessa, né altro orgoglio derivante dal lignaggio, ma essere semplicemente la figlia del cielo!

Anche la più nobile giovane coppia di questo paese, una volta almeno, ascolterà la verità», quando gli uomini leveranno i loro cappelli in segno di rispetto e grideranno con voci piene d’amore.

Che Dio li benedica.

THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES

PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG

Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog—more than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country’s good.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to ‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of the country,’ and ‘productive power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.

Il fango e altre storie

la vita pubblica del signor Tulrumble: un tempo sindaco di Mudfrog

Mudfog è una città piacevole – davvero molto piacevole – situata in una graziosa conca accanto a un fiume; da questo fiume Mudfog trae un gradevole profumo di resina, catrame, carbone e filati. C’è anche una popolazione numerosa che indossa cappelli di gomma; inoltre, vi è un costante afflusso di mercanti ubriachi, oltre ad altri vantaggi legati alla vita marittima. A Mudfog c’è abbastanza acqua, ma non si tratta certo della tipica città adatta a locali di divertimento. L’acqua, in ogni caso, è un elemento capriccioso; in estate si prosciuga completamente, diventando verde. E anche se il verde è un bel colore, soprattutto per l’erba, non è certo adatto all’acqua. Non si può negare che questa piccola caratteristica riduca notevolmente la bellezza di Mudfog. Tuttavia, Mudfog è un luogo sano. Forse un po’ umido, ma questo non lo rende meno salutare. È un errore credere che l’umidità sia nociva: le piante crescono meglio in ambienti umidi, e perché gli esseri umani dovrebbero essere diversi? Gli abitanti di Mudfog sono tutti d’accordo nel sostenere che non esista una razza migliore al mondo. Qui abbiamo quindi una contraddizione evidente e veritiera rispetto agli errori comuni. Quindi, anche ammettendo che Mudfog sia umido, possiamo affermare con certezza che è un luogo salutare.

La città di Mudfog è estremamente pittoresca. Anche Limehouse e Ratcliff Highway assomigliano in qualche modo a Mudfog, ma offrono solo un’idea molto vaga di essa. A Mudfog ci sono moltissimi pub: ne trovereste più che in Ratcliff Highway e Limehouse messi insieme. Anche gli edifici pubblici sono davvero imponenti. Riteniamo che il municipio sia uno dei migliori esempi esistenti di architettura semplice e funzionale: rappresenta una combinazione tra elementi tipici delle stalle per maiali e delle strutture utilizzate nei giardini per il tè; la semplicità del suo design raggiunge livelli di straordinaria bellezza. L’idea di posizionare un grande finestrino su un lato della porta e uno più piccolo sull’altro è particolarmente ingegnosa. Inoltre, ci sono anche elementi architettonici in stile dorico che contribuiscono al carattere distintivo della città, in perfetta armonia con l’insieme dell’ambiente.

In questa stanza si riuniscono il sindaco e il consiglio comunale di Mudfog per deliberazioni solenni nel interesse pubblico. Seduti sulle massicce panche di legno – che, insieme al tavolo al centro, costituiscono l’unico arredamento dell’appartamento intonacato – questi saggi uomini trascorrono ore e ore in riflessioni serie. Qui decidono a quale ora delle notti chiudere i pub, a che ora del mattino permetterne la riapertura, quando sia legale consumare la cena nei giorni feriali, e altre questioni politiche di grande rilevanza. A volte, molto dopo che è calata la silenzio nella città e le luce delle botteghe e delle case hanno smesso di brillare come lontane stelle, l’illuminazione nelle due finestre della sala del consiglio avverte gli abitanti di Mudfog che i loro piccoli legislatori, proprio come un organo più grande e noto dello stesso genere – molto più rumoroso, ma certo non più profondo – stanno patriotticamente discutendo fino a tarda notte per il bene del loro paese.

Tra questo gruppo di saggi e eruditi, nessuno fu mai così eccezionalmente distinto, per molti anni, per la tranquilla modestia del proprio aspetto e comportamento, quanto Nicholas Tulrumble, il ben noto commerciante di carbone. Quanto più appassionante fosse l’argomento della discussione, quanto più animato fosse il tono dei dibattiti, o quanto più calorose fossero le opinioni scambiate (e anche a Mudfog, a volte, si esprimono opinioni personali), Nicholas Tulrumble rimaneva sempre lo stesso. A dire la verità, essendo un uomo laborioso e sempre puntuale, aveva l’abitudine di addormentarsi non appena iniziava un dibattito e di continuare a dormire fino alla sua fine; poi si svegliava completamente riposato e votava con grande tranquillità. Il fatto è che Nicholas Tulrumble, sapendo che tutti i presenti avevano già preso una decisione in precedenza, considerava quelle discussioni semplicemente un lungo e inutile disturbo; e fino ad oggi rimane da chiedersi se, su questo punto, Nicholas Tulrumble non avesse avuto quasi sempre ragione.

Il tempo, che sparge argento sulla testa di un uomo, a volte riempie le sue tasche d’oro. Mentre prestava gradualmente un servizio utile a Nicholas Tulrumble, fu abbastanza premuroso da non trascurare nemmeno l’altro aspetto delle cose. Nicholas iniziò la sua vita in una stanzetta di legno di quattro piedi quadrati, con un capitale di due sterline e nove pence e un magazzino contenente tre bushel e mezzo di carbone, escludendo quel grosso blocco di carbone che pendeva all’esterno della porta come insegna. Poi ampliò il suo negozio, acquistò un carro; successivamente lasciò sia il negozio che il carro, e si procurò un asino e una moglie, la signora Tulrumble. In seguito traslocò di nuovo e acquistò un carretto; poco dopo lo scambiò per un vagone. Continuò così, proprio come il suo grande predecessore Whittington, solo senza una gatta come compagna di affari. Cresceva continuamente in ricchezza e fama, fino a quando alla fine smise del tutto con gli affari e si ritirò con la signora Tulrumble e la sua famiglia nella dimora che aveva fatto costruire lui stesso, una casa situata su quella che cercava di convincersi fosse una “collina”, a circa un quarto di miglio dalla città di Mudfog.

Intorno a quell’epoca, in Mudfog iniziarono a circolare voci secondo cui Nicholas Tulrumble stava diventando vanitoso e presuntuoso; che la prosperità e il successo avessero corrotto la semplicità dei suoi modi e contaminato la bontà naturale del suo cuore; in breve, che si stesse preparando a diventare una figura pubblica di rilievo, un vero gentiluomo, e che cominciasse a guardare con disprezzo i suoi vecchi compagni. Che queste voci fossero fondate o meno, è certo che poco dopo la signora Tulrumble acquistò una carrozza a quattro ruote, guidata da un cocchiere alto con un cappello giallo; che il giovane signor Tulrumble iniziò a fumare sigari e a chiamare il cameriere “ragazzo”; e che da quel momento in poi non si lo vide più seduto nel suo solito angolo vicino al camino del pub Lighterman’s Arms di notte. Tutto ciò sembrava preoccupante. Ma ancora più sorprendente fu notare che il signor Nicholas Tulrumble partecipava sempre più frequentemente alle riunioni della comunità; che non andava più a dormire come faceva da tanti anni, ma si teneva gli occhi aperti con i due diti delle mani; che leggeva i giornali da solo a casa; e che aveva l’abitudine di fare allusioni enigmatiche riguardo alle “masse popolari”, alla “proprietà del paese”, alla “forza produttiva” e agli “interessi finanziari”: tutto ciò indicava chiaramente che Nicholas Tulrumble era pazzo, o qualcosa di ancora peggiore. E questo lasciava davvero perplessi le brave persone di Mudfog.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain. The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour-all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated ‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a show.’

‘I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’ said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure to come.

Infine, verso la metà del mese di ottobre, il signor Tulrumble e la sua famiglia andarono a Londra; poiché, come la signora Tulrumble disse alle sue conoscenti a Mudfog, la metà di ottobre rappresentava proprio l’apice della stagione alla moda.

In qualche modo, proprio in questo momento, nonostante l’aria salutare di Mudfog, il Sindaco morì. Fu una circostanza davvero straordinaria: aveva vissuto a Mudfog per ottantacinque anni. L’assemblea comunale non riusciva affatto a comprenderne le ragioni; anzi, fu con grande difficoltà che si riuscì a dissuadere un anziano signore, molto attento alle formalità, dal proporre una mozione di censura per un comportamento così incomprensibile. Stranamente, comunque, il Sindaco morì senza nemmeno accorgersi dell’esistenza dell’assemblea comunale; e quest’ultima fu quindi costretta ad eleggere il suo successore. Così fecero: essendo all’epoca molto interessati a Nicholas Tulrumble – che era una persona di grande importanza – lo elevarono al ruolo di nuovo Sindaco e inviarono immediatamente un messaggio a Londra per comunicargli la sua nomina.

Ora che era novembre e il signor Nicholas Tulrumble si trovava nella capitale, gli capitò di assistere alla cerimonia e al banchetto organizzati dal Lord Mayor. Di fronte a tutta quella gloria e splendore, il signor Tulrumble provò un profondo senso di umiliazione: si rese conto che, se fosse nato a )Londra invece che a Mudfog, avrebbe potuto anche lui diventare Lord Mayor, trattare con affabilità i giudici, essere cordiale con il Lord Cancelliere, mantenere rapporti amichevoli con il Primo Ministro, mostrarsi distaccato e sprezzante verso il Segretario al Tesoro. E avrebbe anche potuto pranzare con una bandiera alle sue spalle, compiendo molte altre azioni tipiche dei Lord Mayor di )Londra. Più ci pensava, più il Lord Mayor gli sembrava una figura davvero invidiabile. Essere un Re era certamente qualcosa di meraviglioso. Ma cosa significava, dopotutto, essere un Re rispetto a un Lord Mayor? Quando il Re teneva un discorso, tutti sapevano che era scritto da qualcun altro; mentre il Lord Mayor, invece, parlava per mezz’ora intera utilizzando esclusivamente le proprie idee, tra gli entusiasti applausi di tutta l’assemblea. Mentre era noto a tutti che il Re poteva parlare al proprio parlamento per ore senza ricevere nemmeno un applauso. Con questi pensieri in mente, al signor Nicholas Tulrumble il Lord Mayor di )Londra sembrava il sovrano più grande del mondo: superava di gran lunga l’Imperatore di Russia e lasciava il Grande Mogol molto indietro.

Il signor Nicholas Tulrumble rifletteva su queste cose, maledicendo in cuor suo il destino che aveva fatto sì che la sua cava di carbone si trovasse a Mudfog, quando gli fu consegnata la lettera della società. Un rossore intenso si diffuse sul suo viso mentre la leggeva, perché già immagini di prosperità iniziavano a prendere forma nella sua immaginazione.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Tulrumble alla sua moglie, “mi hanno eletto sindaco di Mudfog.”

“Lor-a-mussy!”, esclamò la signora Tulrumble, “ma che fine ha fatto il vecchio Sniggs?”

“Il defunto signor Sniggs, signora Tulrumble,” disse il signor Tulrumble in tono secco, poiché assolutamente non approvava l’idea di chiamare con disinvoltura un gentiluomo che ricopriva la nobile carica di sindaco “Vecchio Sniggs”; “Il defunto signor Sniggs, signora Tulrumble, è morto.”

La comunicazione fu del tutto inaspettata; ma la signora Tulrumble esclamò soltanto “Lor-a-mussy!” un’altra volta, come se un sindaco fosse semplicemente un cristiano qualunque. Il signor Tulrumble, a queste parole, fece una smorfia cupa.

“Che peccato che non siate a Londra, vero?”, disse la signora Tulrumble dopo una breve pausa; “che peccato che non siate a Londra, dove avreste potuto avere un grande successo.”

“Potrei anche avere uno spettacolo a Mudfog, se decidessi di farlo,” disse misteriosamente il signor Tulrumble.

“Ah! Forse potreste farlo,” rispose la signora Tulrumble.

“E anche molto bella,” disse il signor Tulrumble.

“Delizioso!” esclamò la signora Tulrumble.

“Uno che preferirebbe stupire quelle persone ignoranti laggiù,” disse il signor Tulrumble.

“Li ucciderebbe di invidia,” disse la signora Tulrumble.

Fu quindi concordato che i sudditi di Sua Maestà a Mudfog dovessero essere stupiti dallo splendore e uccisi dall’invidia; inoltre, si decise che lo spettacolo organizzato dovesse essere qualcosa di mai visto prima in quella città, né in nessun’altra – no, nemmeno a Londra stessa.

Il giorno stesso dopo aver ricevuto la lettera, arrivò il alto postiglione su una berlina da viaggio: non cavalcava nessuno dei cavalli, ma si trovava all’interno della vettura. Si fermò proprio davanti all’ingresso del municipio, dove si erano riuniti i cittadini, e consegnò una lettera scritta chissà da chi e firmata da Nicholas Tulrumble. In quella lettera, Nicholas dichiarava, su quattro pagine intere di carta da posta dorata e stampata con cura, di rispondere con grande gioia alla richiesta dei suoi concittadini; di accettare l’onorevole incarico loro affidatogli; di non esitare mai a adempiere ai propri doveri; e di impegnarsi a svolgerli con tutta la dignità che ne richiedevano la portata e l’importanza. Ma non era ancora tutto: il postiglione tirò fuori dalla propria scarpa destra una copia umida dell’edizione pomeridiana del giornale della contea; su quella copia, in caratteri grandi che occupavano l’intera prima colonna, c’era un lungo messaggio di Nicholas Tulrumble indirizzato agli abitanti di Mudfog. In esso dichiarava di essere felice di accontentare la loro richiesta e, per evitare qualsiasi equivoco, ribadiva ancora una volta quanto fosse una persona eccezionale, esattamente con gli stessi termini utilizzati nella lettera precedente.

La corporazione si guardò intorno con grande perplessità, poi sembrò cercare una spiegazione dal postiglione alto; ma poiché quest’ultimo era completamente assorto nella contemplazione della piuma d’oro sulla sommità del suo cappello giallo, e non avrebbe potuto fornire alcuna spiegazione, si accontentò di tossire in modo poco convincente e di assumere un’espressione molto seria. Il postiglione alto consegnò poi un’altra lettera nella quale Nicholas Tulrumble comunicava alla corporazione che intendeva recarsi in municipio il lunedì pomeriggio seguente, con grande sfarzo e una processione imponente. A queste parole, la corporazione assunse un’aria ancora più solenne; tuttavia, poiché la lettera terminava con un invito formale a tutti i membri della corporazione a pranzare con il sindaco quel giorno stesso presso la Mudfog Hall, situata sul Mudfog Hill, cominciarono a vedere il lato divertente della situazione e risposero confermando la loro partecipazione.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.

‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed.

‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.

‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.’

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor.

‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned, ‘you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.’

‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.

‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor. ‘I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.’

‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit.

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.

‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor. ‘You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?’

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.

‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’

‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.

‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.

‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble; ‘perfectly sober.’ Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there.

A Mudfog, come capita spesso in quasi tutte le città dei domini britannici – e forse anche in quelli stranieri; lo pensiamo molto probabile, ma non essendo un grande viaggiatore, non posso dirlo con certezza – c’era un vagabondo di indole allegra, dal viso simpatico e dalla vita dissipata. Odiava profondamente il lavoro manuale e aveva una passione incontrollabile per la birra forte e gli alcolici. Tutti lo conoscevano, ma nessuno, tranne sua moglie, si prendeva la briga di litigare con lui. Aveva ereditato dal padre il nome di Edward Twigger e veniva chiamato scherzosamente “Bottle-nosed Ned”. In media, beveva una volta al giorno e si pentiva con uguale frequenza; quando si pentiva, era sempre nel peggiore stato di ubriachezza. Era un tipo trasandato, irrequieto e rumoroso, di corporatura robusta, con un’intelligenza pronta e la capacità di occuparsi di qualsiasi lavoro desiderasse. Non aveva assolutamente nulla in contrario al duro lavoro: avrebbe potuto lavorare per giorni interi a una partita di cricket, correndo, afferrando, battendo palle e godendosi uno sforzo che avrebbe esaurito anche un schiavo. Sarebbe stato di grande aiuto in un ufficio antincendio: nessuno aveva un talento naturale maggiore del suo nel manovrare pompe, arrampicarsi su scale o gettare mobili fuori dalle finestre. E non era questa l’unica sua dote: era davvero una risorsa preziosa per la comunità: un vero e proprio “salvagente umano”. Nel corso del tempo, aveva salvato più persone dall’annegamento di quante ne avesse fatte il barchino di salvataggio di Plymouth o l’apparecchio inventato dal Capitano Manby. Nonostante la sua vita dissoluta, Bottle-nosed Ned era molto amato dalla gente di Mudfog; le autorità, ricordando i suoi numerosi servizi alla comunità, gli permettevano di ubriacarsi a suo piacimento, senza il rischio di multe o prigione. Aveva una “licenza generale” per bere alcolici, e ne approfittava al massimo.

Abbiamo descritto con tanta cura il carattere e le abitudini di Bottle-nosed Ned perché ci permette di introdurre questo fatto in modo delicato, senza presentarlo al lettore in modo brusco e indecente; inoltre, ci aiuta a raccontare, in modo naturale, che proprio la stessa sera in cui il signor Nicholas Tulrumble e la sua famiglia tornarono a Mudfog, il nuovo segretario di Tulrumble – appena arrivato da Londra, con il viso pallido e le basette sottili – entrò nel locale della Lighterman’s Arms e chiese se ci fosse un certo Ned Twigger lì dentro; si presentò come portatore di un messaggio del signor Tulrumble, che richiedeva la sua immediata presenza nell’atrio per affari privati e urgenti. Poiché non era affatto nel interesse di Ned Twigger offendere il sindaco, si alzò dal camino con un leggero sospiro e seguì il segretario lungo le strade fangose e bagnate di Mudfog, fino all’atrio della città, senza ulteriori indugi.

Il signor Nicholas Tulrumble era seduto in una piccola grotta dotata di un lucernario, che chiamava la sua “biblioteca”; su un grande foglio di carta stava disegnando il piano della processione. Il segretario fece entrare Ned Twigger nella grotta.

“Beh, Twigger!”, disse Nicholas Tulrumble in tono condiscendente.

C’era un tempo in cui Twigger avrebbe risposto: “Beh, Nick!”, ma quello era ai tempi del camion, e alcuni anni prima dell’arrivo del asino; quindi si limitò a inchinarsi.

“Voglio che tu inizi l’addestramento, Twigger,” disse il signor Tulrumble.

“Perché, signore?”, chiese Ned, guardandolo con curiosità.

“Zitta, zitta, Twigger!”, disse il Sindaco. “Chiuda la porta, signor Jennings. Guarda qui, Twigger.”

Mentre il Sindaco diceva queste parole, aprì un armadio alto e ne tirò fuori un intero set di armature in bronzo, di dimensioni gigantesche.

“Voglio che tu lo indossi lunedì prossimo, Twigger,” disse il Sindaco.

“Che il vostro cuore e la vostra ‘anima siano benedetti, signore!” rispose Ned, “potreste altrettanto bene chiedermi di indossare un cannone da settantacinque libbre o una caldaia di ferro.”

“Sciocchezze, Twigger, sciocchezze!” disse il Sindaco.

“Non ce la farei mai, signore,” disse Twigger; “mi ridurrebbe in poltiglia se ci provassi.”

“Puf, puf, Twigger!” rispose il Sindaco. “Te lo dico io: l’ho visto con i miei occhi, a Londra, e quell’uomo non era nemmeno la metà di un uomo come te.”

“Avrei dovuto pensare subito che un uomo potesse indossare una custodia da orologio da otto giorni per proteggere i suoi vestiti,” disse Twigger, lanciando uno sguardo preoccupato alla tuta di ottone.

“È la cosa più facile del mondo,” ribatté il Sindaco.

“Non è nulla,” disse il signor Jennings.

“Quando ci si abitua,” aggiunse Ned.

“Si fa poco alla volta,” disse il Sindaco. “Domani si inizia con un pezzo, il giorno dopo con due, e così via, finché non se ne è completata la costruzione. Signor Jennings, dia a Twigger un bicchiere di rum. Prova adesso il petto protettivo, Twigger. Aspetta: bevi prima un altro bicchiere di rum. Aiutami a sollevarlo, signor Jennings. Stai fermo, Twigger! Ecco, non è affatto così pesante come sembra, vero?”

Twigger era un uomo robusto e forte; quindi, dopo molte tentativi incerti, riuscì a rimanere in piedi all’interno della corazza, e con l’aiuto di un altro bicchiere di rum addirittura riuscì a camminarci dentro, indossando anche i guanti. Provò anche il casco, ma non ebbe lo stesso successo: cadde immediatamente a terra. Un incidente che il signor Tulrumble spiegò chiaramente come dovuto al fatto che le sue gambe non avevano un contrappeso di rame.

“Ora, indossa quella con grazia e decoro lunedì prossimo,” disse Tulrumble, “e ti farò diventare ricco.”

“Farò del mio meglio, signore,” disse Twigger.

“Deve essere tenuto un segreto profondo,” disse Tulrumble.

“Certo, signore,” rispose Twigger.

“E devi essere sobrio,” disse Tulrumble; “assolutamente sobrio.” Il signor Twigger promise immediatamente di essere sobrio quanto un giudice, e Nicholas Tulrumble ne fu soddisfatto. Anche se, se fossimo stati noi al posto di Nicholas, avremmo sicuramente richiesto promesse più specifiche; infatti, avendo assistito più volte alle udienze serali a Mudfog, possiamo testimoniare con certezza che alcuni giudici presentavano evidenti segni di aver mangiato molto prima dell’inizio delle udienze. Ma questo non c’entra nulla con la questione principale.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder!

The day—the Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback. This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.

On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble. ‘Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master in.

Il giorno dopo, e quello successivo ancora, Ned Twigger rimase chiuso a chiave nella piccola caverna illuminata dalla luce del cielo, impegnato a lavorare sull’armatura. Ogni volta che riusciva ad assemblare un nuovo pezzo dell’armatura in modo che stesse dritto, riceveva un altro bicchiere di rum; e finalmente, dopo molte tentativi falliti, riuscì a completare l’intero set e a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, come una statua ubriaca proveniente dall’Abbazia di Westminster.

Nessun uomo fu mai così felice come Nicholas Tulrumble; nessuna donna fu mai così incantata come la moglie di Nicholas Tulrumble. Che spettacolo per la gente comune di Mudfog. Un uomo vivo, vestito interamente d’armatura di bronzo! Ah, sarebbero impazziti dallo stupore!

Il giorno arrivò, il lunedì.

Se la mattina fosse stata creata su misura, non avrebbe potuto essere migliore, né più adatta allo scopo per cui era stata preparata. Non si era mai visto una nebbia più densa a Londra nel giorno del Lord Mayor di quella che avvolse la città di Mudfog in quell’occasione memorabile. Era sorta lentamente e in modo costante dall’acqua verde e stagnante, con i primi raggi dell’alba, fino a raggiungere un’altezza leggermente superiore alle cime dei lampioni; poi si era fermata lì, con una ostinazione pigra e sonnolenta, sfidando il sole che, con gli occhi rossi per la stanchezza, sembrava essere stato a una festa tutta la notte e ora svolgesse le sue mansioni con la massima grazia possibile. La densa nebbia umida avvolgeva la città come un enorme velo di garza; tutto appariva cupo e desolato. Le guglie delle chiese avevano detto addio temporaneamente al mondo sottostante; ogni oggetto di minor importanza – case, granai, siepi, alberi, barche – era stato avvolto nel velo della nebbia.

L’orologio della chiesa suonò le una. Da un trombone rotto, situato nel giardino anteriore di Mudfog Hall, provenne un suono debole e tremolante, come se qualcuno asmatico avesse tossito accidentalmente dentro di esso; il cancello si aprì di scatto e ne uscì un gentiluomo, montato su un cavallo dipinto di colore simile al zucchero umido: l’animale sembrava destinato a rappresentare un araldo, ma in realtà assomigliava molto di più a un cortigiano a cavallo. Si trattava di uno dei membri del circo che ogni anno, in quel periodo dell’anno, venivano a Mudfog e che erano stati ingaggiati appositamente da Nicholas Tulrumble per l’occasione. Il cavallo agitava la coda, si bilanciava sulle zampe posteriori e muoveva le zampe anteriori in modo tale da commuovere certamente qualsiasi pubblico ragionevole. Ma il pubblico di Mudfog non era mai stato né ragionevole, né probabilmente lo sarebbe mai diventato. Invece di散布 foglie di nebbia con i loro gridi – come avrebbero sicuramente dovuto fare, e come Nicholas Tulrumble aveva previsto che facessero – non appena riconobbero quell’“araldo”, iniziarono a esprimere il loro più totale disprezzo all’idea che potesse cavalcare come un uomo qualunque. Se fosse uscito camminando sulla testa, saltando attraverso un anello, volando dentro un tamburo arroventato, o anche stando in piedi su una gamba con l’altra nella bocca, forse avrebbero avuto qualcosa da dirgli. Ma che un gentiluomo professionista si sedesse normalmente in sella, con i piedi nei staffili, beh, quella era davvero una battuta troppo pesante. Così, l’“araldo” fallì miseramente e il pubblico lo accolse con grida di disapprovazione mentre se ne andava in modo ignominioso.

Nella processione c’erano. Temiamo di dover dire quante persone vestite con camicie a strisce e cappelli di velluto nero partecipassero, imitando i barcaioli di Londra; temiamo anche di dover descrivere quante fossero le ridicole imitazioni dei portatori di bandiere, o quanto fosse difficile far sì che queste bandiere mostrassero chiaramente le loro iscrizioni a causa della pesantezza dell’atmosfera. Ancor meno siamo disposti a raccontare come coloro che suonavano gli strumenti a fiato, guardando verso il cielo (intendiamo la nebbia) con grande fervore musicale, camminassero attraverso pozzanghere d’acqua e mucchi di fango, finendo per bagnare i capelli dei portatori di bandiere. Scene curiose, ma certamente non decorative. O come il suonatore dell’organo a canne premesse il tasto sbagliato, suonando una melodia mentre l’intera banda ne suonava un’altra. O ancora come i cavalli, abituati alle arene e non alle strade, si fermassero e “ballavano” invece di proseguire la loro corsa. Tutti questi dettagli potrebbero essere descritti più ampiamente, ma noi non abbiamo affatto l’intenzione di farlo.

Oh! Era davvero uno spettacolo grandioso e bellissimo vedere quella processione composta da carrozze di vetro, fornite esclusivamente a spese di Nicholas Tulrumble, avanzare lentamente, come un corteo funebre. Era anche interessante osservare i tentativi della compagnia di apparire solenne e imponente; Nicholas Tulrumble stesso, nella sua carrozza a quattro ruote con il cocchiere in alto, seguiva la processione insieme a Mr. Jennings, che sembrava un cappellano, e a un altro individuo armato di una vecchia spada da salvaguardia, che imitava il ruolo di un portabandiera. E poi c’erano le risate della folla. Era davvero bello! Lo stesso valeva per l’aspetto di Mrs. Tulrumble e suo figlio: mentre si inchinavano con dignità dal finestrino della loro carrozza a tutte quelle facce sporche che ridevano intorno a loro. Ma non è di questo che dobbiamo parlare. Bensì del momento in cui la processione si fermò improvvisamente, su un altro squillo di tromba. Seguì un profondo silenzio, e tutti gli sguardi si rivolsero verso Mudfog Hall, nell’attesa fiduciosa di qualche nuovo “miracolo”.

“Ora non rideranno più, signor Jennings,” disse Nicholas Tulrumble.

“Non credo proprio, signore,” disse il signor Jennings.

“Vedete quanto siano desiderosi,” disse Nicholas Tulrumble. “Ahah! Ora sarà la nostra volta di ridere, vero, signor Jennings?”

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo, signore,” rispose il signor Jennings; e Nicholas Tulrumble, in uno stato di piacevole eccitazione, si alzò nella carrozza a quattro ruote e comunicò la sua soddisfazione alla sindaca seduta dietro di lui.

Mentre tutto ciò stava accadendo, Ned Twigger era sceso in cucina di Mudfog Hall con l’intento di offrire ai servitori l’opportunità di ammirare da vicino quella novità che presto avrebbe fatto notizia in tutta la città. In qualche modo, il valletto si rivelò molto socievole, la cameriera gentile e la cuoca cordiale; così Ned non poté resistere all’offerta di sedersi e bere qualcosa, proprio per brindare al successo del suo padrone.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. ‘Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts.

‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, ‘go back.’

‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.’

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of ‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’

‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. ‘I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.’ Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature.

‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.

‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.’

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own.

‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be suffocated.’

‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; ‘but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it from the way he put it on.’

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.

‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.’ At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry him, they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.

Sì, Ned Twigger si sedette sulla cima del tavolo da cucina, indossando la sua uniforme di rame; poi, con una tazza di qualcosa di forte – pagato dall’inconscio Nicholas Tulrumble e fornito dal gentile valletto – brindò al sindaco e alla sua processione. Mentre Ned posava il suo elmo per bere quel liquido forte, il valletto se lo mise in testa, causando grande gioia alla cuoca e alla cameriera. Il valletto era molto scherzoso con Ned, che a sua volta trattava con grande gentilezza la cuoca e la cameriera. Erano tutti molto a loro agio; e quel liquido forte veniva consumato rapidamente.

Finalmente, Ned Twigger fu chiamato ad alta voce dalla folla che lo accompagnava; dopo che il suo elmo fu sistemato con grande cura dal servitore premuroso, dalla gentile cameriera e dal cordiale cuoco, uscì solennemente e si presentò davanti alla folla.

La folla urlava: non era per lo stupore, né per la sorpresa; era decisamente, senza alcun dubbio, per il riso.

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Tulrumble, alzandosi dalla poltrona a quattro ruote.
“Ridere? Se ridono di un uomo vestito con vera armatura di bronzo, rideranno anche quando i loro stessi padri staranno morendo. Perché non va nel suo posto, il signor Jennings? Che cosa sta facendo qui? Non ha alcun diritto di essere qui!”

“Temo, signore, ” balbettò il signor Jennings.

“Di cosa dovrei avere paura, signore?”, chiese Nicholas Tulrumble, alzando lo sguardo verso il viso del segretario.

“Temo che sia ubriaco, signore,” rispose il signor Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble gettò un solo sguardo a quella figura straordinaria che si stava avvicinando a loro; poi, afferrando il braccio della sua segretaria, emise un grido di angoscia.

È un fatto melancolico che il signor Twigger, avendo pieno diritto di chiedere un bicchiere di rum ogni volta che veniva indossato un pezzo dell’armatura, per qualche motivo, nella fretta e nel caos delle preparazioni, ne abbia bevuti circa quattro invece di uno, per non parlare di quei liquori forti che venivano aggiunti sopra. Se l’armatura in bronzo ostacolasse la naturale traspirazione del corpo, impedendo così alla bevanda di evaporare, non siamo abbastanza esperti per saperlo; ma, qualunque ne fosse la causa, il signor Twigger, appena uscito dal cancello di Mudfog Hall, si trovò in uno stato di ebbrezza piuttosto grave; da qui il suo strano modo di muoversi. Questo era già abbastanza grave, ma come se destino e fortuna avessero congiurato contro Nicholas Tulrumble, il signor Twigger, non essendo pentito per un intero mese, decise proprio in quel momento di essere particolarmente sentimentale, proprio quando la sua penitenza avrebbe potuto essere facilmente ignorata. Immense lacrime scorrevano lungo le sue guance, e cercava invano di nascondere il suo dolore applicandosi sugli occhi un fazzoletto di cotone blu a pois bianchi, un oggetto che, a dire il vero, non era affatto adatto a un abito da armatura vecchio di circa trecento anni.

“Twigger, tu malvagio!” disse Nicholas Tulrumble, dimenticando completamente la propria dignità, “torna indietro.”

“Mai,” disse Ned. “Sono un miserabile pezzetto di merda. Non ti lascerò mai.”

I spettatori, naturalmente, accolsero questa dichiarazione con esclamazioni di “Esatto, Ned; non farlo!”

“Non intendo farlo,” disse Ned, con tutta la testardaggine di un uomo molto ubriaco. “Sono molto infelice. Sono il povero padre di una famiglia sfortunata; ma sono molto fedele, signore. Non vi abbandonerò mai.” Dopo aver ripetuto questa promessa devota, Ned continuò a parlare in modo incoerente, esortando la folla riguardo al numero di anni che aveva trascorso a Mudfog, all’eccessiva rispettabilità del suo carattere e ad altri argomenti simili di natura.

“Eccolo qui! C’è qualcuno che possa portarlo via?” disse Nicholas: “Se dopo mi chiederanno aiuto, li ricompenserò bene.”

Due o tre uomini fecero un passo avanti con l’intenzione di portare via Ned, quando il segretario intervenne.

“Stia attento! Stia attento!” disse il signor Jennings. “Mi scusi, signore; ma sarebbe meglio che non si avvicinassero troppo a lui, perché, se dovesse cadere, sicuramente schiaccerebbe qualcuno.”

A questo segnale, la folla si ritirò su tutti i lati, mantenendo una distanza molto rispettosa, e lasciò Ned, come il Duca di Devonshire, in un piccolo cerchio tutto suo.

“Ma, signor Jennings,” disse Nicholas Tulrumble, “soffocherà.”

“Mi dispiace molto, signore,” rispose il signor Jennings; “ma nessuno può togliersi quell’armatura senza il proprio aiuto. Ne sono assolutamente certo, dal modo in cui l’ha indossata.”

Qui Ned piangeva amaramente, scuotendo la testa coperta dall’elmo, in un modo che avrebbe potuto commuovere anche il cuore di una pietra; ma la folla non aveva cuori di pietra, e rideva di cuore.

“Mio Dio, signor Jennings,” disse Nicholas, impallidendo all’idea che Ned potesse soffocare indossando quel suo abito antico, “Mio Dio, signor Jennings, non si può fare nulla per lui?”

“Niente affatto,” rispose Ned, “niente affatto. Signori, sono un povero disgraziato. Sono soltanto un corpo, signori, racchiuso in una bara di bronzo.” Di fronte a questa immagine poetica che lui stesso aveva creato, Ned pianse così tanto che la gente iniziò a provare compassione e chiese cosa intendesse Nicholas Tulrumble mettendo un uomo in una simile “macchina”; uno in particolare, con un gilet peloso simile al coperchio di un baule, che aveva precedentemente espresso l’opinione che se Ned non fosse stato povero, Nicholas non avrebbe osato farlo, suggerì addirittura la possibilità di rompere quella strana “carrozza a quattro ruote”, o la testa di Nicholas, o entrambe le cose. L’ultima proposta sembrò essere molto gradita dalla folla.

Tuttavia, non venne preso alcun provvedimento, poiché appena l’argomento fu sollevato, la moglie di Ned Twigger apparve improvvisamente nel piccolo gruppo; Ned, non appena intravide il suo viso e la sua figura, per semplice abitudine si mise subito in cammino verso casa il più velocemente possibile. Ma nemmeno in questo caso fu molto veloce, poiché, per quanto pronte fossero le sue gambe a portarlo avanti, non riuscivano affatto a muoversi con agilità sotto quella pesante armatura di bronzo. Così, la signora Twigger ebbe tutto il tempo necessario per denunciare apertamente Nicholas Tulrumble, definirlo un vero e proprio “mostro” e minacciare che, se il suo maltrattato marito subiva qualche danno a causa di quell’armatura, avrebbe fatto ricorso alla legge contro di lui per omicidio. Dopo aver detto tutto questo con grande veemenza, lo seguì mentre si trascinava avanti con fatica, lamentandosi amaramente della sua sfortuna.

What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’ He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings. If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed, bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

Che pianti e urla suscitarono i figli di Ned quando finalmente tornò a >casa! La signora Twigger provò a togliergli l’armatura, prima in un punto e poi in un altro, ma non riuscì; così lo gettò a letto, con elmo, armatura e guanti tutti quanti. Il letto scricchiolava terribilmente sotto il peso di Ned nel suo nuovo equipaggiamento. Ma non si rompeva! Lì giacque, come una nave anonima nella Baia di Biscaglia, per tutta la notte, bevendo acqua d’orzo e sembrando davvero infelice; ogni volta che gemeva, sua moglie gli diceva che se l’era meritato. E questa fu l’unica consolazione che Ned Twigger ricevette.

Nicholas Tulrumble e la maestosa processione continuarono insieme verso il municipio, tra gli sibili e i mormori di tutti gli spettatori, che all’improvviso avevano deciso di considerare povero Ned un martire. Nicholas fu ufficialmente insediato nella sua nuova carica; in occasione di questa cerimonia tenne un discorso preparato dal segretario – molto lungo e, senza dubbio, molto buono – ma il rumore della folla all’esterno impedì a chiunque di ascoltarlo, tranne che a Nicholas Tulrumble stesso. Dopo di ciò, la processione tornò alla Mudfog Hall il più velocemente possibile; Nicholas e i membri del consiglio si sedettero a cena.

Ma la cena fu noiosa, e Nicholas ne rimase deluso. Quella compagnia era composta da vecchi uomini noiosi e sonnolenti. Nicholas tenne discorsi lunghi quanto quelli del Lord Mayor di Londra; anzi, disse esattamente le stesse cose che aveva detto il Lord Mayor di Londra, eppure nessuno mostrò il minimo interesse per i suoi discorsi. C’era solo una persona nella compagnia che fosse completamente sveglia, ed era scortese, chiamandolo “Nick”. “Nick!” Che conseguenze avrebbe avuto, pensò Nicholas, se qualcuno osasse chiamare “Nick” il Lord Mayor di Londra? Gli sarebbe piaciuto molto sapere cosa ne avrebbero detto l’uomo con la spada, il segretario comunale, il responsabile dei brindisi, o qualsiasi altro alto funzionario della città. Lo avrebbero sicuramente picchiato.

Ma queste non erano le peggiori azioni di Nicholas Tulrumble. Se lo fossero state, forse sarebbe ancora sindaco oggi e continuerebbe a parlare fino a perdere la voce. Acquisì una vera passione per le statistiche e iniziò a riflettere filosoficamente; queste statistiche, unite alla sua filosofia, lo portarono ad compiere un atto che aumentò ulteriormente la sua impopolarità e accelerò la sua rovina.

Alla fine della strada principale di Mudfog, proprio accanto al lato del >fiume, sorge la casa “Jolly Boatmen”: un vecchio edificio con tetti bassi e finestre ad arco, che funge da bar, cucina e sala da bere. In una grande stufa c’è anche una pentola per preparare bevande calde; nelle fredde notti invernali, i lavoratori si riuniscono lì, rinfrescati da bei boccali di birra forte e accompagnati dal suono della violina e del tamburello. La casa “Jolly Boatmen” possiede infatti una licenza ufficiale rilasciata dal sindaco e dal consiglio comunale per esibirsi con questi strumenti, e i più anziani abitanti di Mudfog non hanno mai avuto dubbi al riguardo. Ora, Nicholas Tulrumble aveva letto diversi pamphlet sul crimine e sui resoconti parlamentari, o meglio, aveva fatto leggerli a qualcuno per lui; in ogni caso, si rese subito conto che il suono della violina e del tamburello doveva aver contribuito molto a demoralizzare la gente di Mudfog, più di qualsiasi altra causa negativa potesse immaginare. Così decise di approfondire l’argomento e di intervenire pubblicamente non appena fosse stata presentata nuovamente la richiesta per ottenere quella licenza.

Arrivò il giorno dell’approvazione della licenza, e il proprietario dal viso rosso del Jolly Boatmen entrò nel municipio, con un aspetto quanto mai gioioso; in realtà, per quella notte aveva preparato appositamente un’altra viola per commemorare l’anniversario della licenza musicale del Jolly Boatmen. La domanda era stata presentata in regola di forma, e stava per essere approvata senza problemi, quando improvvisamente Nicholas Tulrumble intervenne con un discorso appassionato. Descrisse con toni accesi l’indegenerazione crescente della sua città natale, Mudfog, e gli eccessi commessi dalla sua popolazione. Raccontò poi di quanto fosse rimasto sorpreso nel vedere barili di birra che ogni settimana finivano nel seminterrato del Jolly Boatmen; aveva anche passato due giorni interi seduto davanti alla finestra opposta al locale, a contare le persone che entravano per comprare birra tra le dodici e l’una di notte, che, tra l’altro, era proprio l’ora in cui la maggior parte dei abitanti di Mudfog pranzava. Continuò poi sostenendo che il numero delle persone che uscivano con i boccali di birra ammontava in media a ventuno ogni cinque minuti; moltiplicando questo valore per dodici, si ottenevano duecentocinquantadue persone al giorno, e moltiplicandolo ancora per quindici ore (il numero di ore in cui il locale era aperto), si arrivava a tremila settecentottanta persone al giorno, ovvero ventiseimilaquattrocentosessanta persone alla settimana. Infine dimostrò che la suonata della viola fosse strettamente legata a tendenze malvagie e degenerate. Tutti questi argomenti li supportò con frequenti riferimenti a un grosso libro con copertina blu, nonché a citazioni tratte dai verbali dei magistrati di Middlesex. Alla fine, il consiglio comunale, messo di fronte a queste cifre, stanco del lungo discorso e soprattutto affamato, decise di rifiutare la licenza musicale al Jolly Boatmen.

Ma sebbene Nicholas avesse trionfato, il suo trionfo fu breve. Continuò la sua lotta contro le bottiglie di birra e gli strumenti musicali, dimenticando i tempi in cui era felice di bere dalla prima e di ballare al suono del secondo, fino a quando la gente iniziò ad odiarlo e i suoi vecchi amici lo evitarono. Si stancò della solitudine e della magnificenza di Mudfog Hall; il suo cuore anelava alle serate tranquille nella bottega di carbone, ai momenti trascorsi nell’angolo accanto al camino. Avrebbe voluto non essere mai diventato una figura pubblica. E sospirava per i bei tempi passati.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog.

FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary exertions to place before our readers a complete and accurate account of the proceedings at the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the town of Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in the shape of various communications received from our able, talented, and graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the purpose, who has immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, and the association, all at one and the same time. We have been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who will transmit the greatest name to posterity; ourselves, who sent our correspondent down; our correspondent, who wrote an account of the matter; or the association, who gave our correspondent something to write about. We rather incline to the opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, inasmuch as the notion of an exclusive and authentic report originated with us; this may be prejudice: it may arise from a prepossession on our part in our own favour. Be it so. We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned in this mighty assemblage is troubled with the same complaint in a greater or less degree; and it is a consolation to us to know that we have at least this feeling in common with the great scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose speculations we record.

We give our correspondent’s letters in the order in which they reached us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful whole, would only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich vein of picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.

‘Mudfog, Monday night, seven o’clock.

‘We are in a state of great excitement here. Nothing is spoken of, but the approaching meeting of the association. The inn-doors are thronged with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals; and the numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses, intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very animated and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety of colours, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by every possible size and style of hand-writing. It is confidently rumoured that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have engaged three beds and a sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box. I give you the rumour as it has reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its accuracy. The moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain information upon this interesting point, you may depend upon receiving it.’

‘Half-past seven.

I have just returned from a personal interview with the landlord of the Pig and Tinder-box. He speaks confidently of the probability of Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at his house during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds have been yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the chambermaid—a girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance. The boots denies that it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put up here; but I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the opposition hotel. Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to arrive at the real truth; but you may depend upon receiving authentic information upon this point the moment the fact is ascertained. The excitement still continues. A boy fell through the window of the pastrycook’s shop at the corner of the High-street about half an hour ago, which has occasioned much confusion. The general impression is, that it was an accident. Pray heaven it may prove so!’

Alla fine, il vecchio Nicholas, essendo profondamente sconsolato, decise di agire con coraggio: pagò al segretario un quarto dello stipendio in anticipo e lo accompagnò con il primo treno disponibile verso Londra. Dopo aver preso questa decisione, si mise il cappello e, con la sua orgoglio nascosto nel petto, tornò nella vecchia stanza presso l’ostello Lighterman’s Arms. Lì c’erano soltanto due degli altri anziani; quando Nicholas loro tese la mano, lo guardarono con freddo distacco.

“Intende mettere dei tubi, signor Tulrumble?”, chiese uno di loro.

“O forse si può far risalire l’ascesa del crimine alla ‘uva’?”, ringhiò un altro.

“Nessuno dei due,” rispose Nicholas Tulrumble stringendo la mano a entrambi, “che lo vogliano o no. Sono venuto per scusarmi sinceramente di aver fatto la figura dello idiota e spero che mi restituiate quella vecchia sedia.”

Gli anziani aprirono gli occhi, e altri tre o quattro anziani aprirono la porta; anche a loro Nicholas, con le lacrime agli occhi, tese la mano e raccontò la stessa storia. Esultarono di gioia, tanto che le campane della vecchia torre della chiesa vibrarono di nuovo. Poi portarono la vecchia sedia in un angolo caldo, fecero sedere Nicholas e ordinarono immediatamente una ciotola enorme di punch caldo, accompagnato da un numero illimitato di cannucce.

Il giorno dopo, i “Jolly Boatmen” ottennero la licenza, e la notte seguente, il vecchio Nicholas e la moglie di Ned Twigger guidarono una danza al suono della viola e del tamburello; il tono delle loro musiche sembrava davvero migliorato dopo un po’ di riposo, perché non avevano mai suonato così allegramente prima. Ned Twigger era nel pieno del suo splendore: suonava la cornamusa, manteneva in equilibrio le sedie sul mento e le canne sul naso, fino a quando l’intera compagnia, compresa tutta la corporazione, rimase incantata dall’eleganza delle sue performance.

Il signor Tulrumble junior non riusciva a decidere di essere altro che magnifico, quindi andò a Londra e emise assegni su conto di suo padre; quando esaurì i fondi e si indebitò, si pentì e tornò a casa.

Per quanto riguarda il vecchio Nicholas, mantenne la sua parola: dopo sei settimane di vita pubblica, non ci provò più mai. Alla riunione successiva, andò a dormire nel municipio; e, come piena dimostrazione della sua sincerità, ci ha chiesto di scrivere questo resoconto fedele. Speriamo che possa servire a ricordare ai Tulrumbles che quell’arroganza esagerata non è dignità, e che maledire le piccole gioie che un tempo apprezzavano soltanto per dimenticare i tempi in cui erano di condizione inferiore, li rende oggetto di disprezzo e derisione.

Questa è la prima volta che pubblichiamo alcune delle informazioni reperite da questa particolare fonte. Forse, in un futuro, potremo osare aprire le cronache di Mudfog.

Rapporto completo della prima riunione dell’Associazione Mudfrog
per la promozione di ogni cosa possibile

Abbiamo compiuto gli sforzi più imparagonabili ed eccezionali per presentare ai nostri lettori un resoconto completo e accurato degli avvenimenti della recente e importante riunione dell’Associazione Mudfog, tenutasi nella città di Mudfog. Ci rende molto felici poter condividere con loro il risultato di questo lavoro, grazie alle varie comunicazioni ricevute dal nostro abile, talentuoso e descrittivo corrispondente, inviato appositamente per questa missione; quest’ultimo ha reso immortali sia noi che Mudfog stessa, nonché l’intera associazione. Per alcuni giorni, infatti, abbiamo avuto difficoltà a capire chi tra di noi avrebbe lasciato il nome più grande alla posterità: se siamo stati noi ad inviare il corrispondente, o lui stesso che ha redatto il resoconto, oppure l’associazione stessa che gli ha fornito argomenti su cui scrivere. Tendiamo piuttosto a ritenere di essere noi la figura più importante in questa vicenda, poiché l’idea di un resoconto esclusivo e autentico è nata proprio da noi. Ma potrebbe trattarsi di un pregiudizio, o forse di una preferenza personale da parte nostra. Comunque sia, non abbiamo alcun dubbio che ogni gentiluomo coinvolto in questa importante riunione condivida, più o meno intensamente, la stessa considerazione; e per noi è un conforto sapere di condividerla almeno con queste grandi figure scientifiche, questi luminari straordinari le cui riflessioni registriamo.

Pubblichiamo le lettere del nostro corrispondente nell’ordine in cui ci sono arrivate. Qualsiasi tentativo di unirle in un tutto armonioso distruggerebbe soltanto quel tono vivace, quella nota di selvaggia spontaneità e quell’abbondante ricchezza di elementi pittoreschi che le caratterizzano.

“Mudfog, lunedì sera, le sette di sera.”

“Qui regna un grande fermento. Non si parla d’altro che dell’imminente riunione dell’associazione. All’interno delle locande ci sono camerieri che cercano con ansia le persone attese; inoltre, i numerosi cartelli esposti alle finestre delle case private, che annunciano l’affitto di letti, danno alle strade un aspetto molto vivace e allegro. I cartelli presentano una grande varietà di colori, e la monotonia dei testi stampati viene mitigata da scritture a mano di tutte le dimensioni e stili possibili. Si vocifera con certezza che i professori Snore, Doze e Wheezy abbiano prenotato tre letti e un salotto presso il “Pig and Tinder-box”. Vi riferisco questa notizia così com’è arrivata a me; tuttavia, al momento non posso garantirne l’accuratezza. Non appena avrò ottenuto informazioni certe su questo argomento, ve le comunicherò senza esitazione.”

“Le sette e mezza.”

Sono appena tornato da un colloquio personale con il proprietario dell’hotel “Pig and Tinder-box”. Parla con fiducia della probabilità che i professori Snore, Doze e Wheezy si stabiliscano nella sua casa durante la riunione dell’associazione, ma nega che i letti siano già stati prenotati; in questa affermazione è confermato anche dalla cameriera di servizio, una ragazza dal comportamento semplice e dall’aspetto interessante. L’altro proprietario degli hotel concorrenti nega categoricamente che sia possibile che questi professori soggiornino qui; tuttavia ho motivo di credere che quest’uomo sia stato corrotto dal proprietario dell’hotel “Original Pig”. In mezzo a tali testimonianze contraddittorie, è difficile arrivare alla verità; ma potete essere certi che riceverete informazioni autentiche non appena la situazione sarà chiarita. L’agitazione continua: circa mezz’ora fa un ragazzo è caduto dalla finestra del negozio di pasticceria all’angolo della strada principale, causando grande confusione. L’impressione generale è che si sia trattato di un incidente. Prego il cielo che sia davvero così!

‘Tuesday, noon.

‘At an early hour this morning the bells of all the churches struck seven o’clock; the effect of which, in the present lively state of the town, was extremely singular. While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig, drawn by a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right eyelid, proceeded at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables; it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here for the purpose of attending the association, and, from what I have heard, I consider it extremely probable, although nothing decisive is yet known regarding him. You may conceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to the arrival of the four o’clock coach this afternoon.

‘Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no outrage has yet been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion of the police, who are nowhere to be seen. A barrel-organ is playing opposite my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale, parade the streets. With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I trust will continue so.’

‘Five o’clock.

‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This intelligence is exclusive; and I leave you and your readers to draw their own inferences from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world, should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and Tinder-box, it is not easy to conceive. The professor is a man who should be above all such petty feelings. Some people here openly impute treachery, and a distinct breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze; while others, again, are disposed to acquit them of any culpability in the transaction, and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with Professor Wheezy. I own that I incline to the latter opinion; and although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure or disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements, still I am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if all the reports which have reached my ears be true, I really do not well know what to make of the matter.

‘Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, arrived this afternoon by the four o’clock stage. His complexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing constantly. He looked extremely well, and appeared in high health and spirits. Mr. Woodensconce also came down in the same conveyance. The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep on his arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he had been so the whole way. He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching fatigues; but what gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a man when his body is in a state of torpidity!

‘The influx of visitors increases every moment. I am told (I know not how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the Original Pig within the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow, containing three carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and Tinder-box no longer ago than five minutes since. The people are still quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a wildness in their eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of their countenances, which shows to the observant spectator that their expectations are strained to the very utmost pitch. I fear, unless some very extraordinary arrivals take place to-night, that consequences may arise from this popular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling would deplore.’

‘Twenty minutes past six.

‘I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window last night has died of the fright. He was suddenly called upon to pay three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution, it seems, was not strong enough to bear up against the shock. The inquest, it is said, will be held to-morrow.’

‘Three-quarters part seven.

‘Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the hotel door; they at once ordered dinner with great condescension. We are all very much delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with which they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life. Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and privately requested him to purchase a live dog,—as cheap a one as he could meet with,—and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and fork, and a clean plate. It is conjectured that some experiments will be tried upon the dog to-night; if any particulars should transpire, I will forward them by express.’

‘Half-past eight.

‘The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog, of rather intelligent appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs. He has been tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.’

‘Ten minutes to nine.

‘The dog has just been rung for. With an instinct which would appear almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal seized the waiter by the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and made a desperate, though ineffectual resistance. I have not been able to procure admission to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentlemen; but, judging from the sounds which reached my ears when I stood upon the landing-place outside the door, just now, I should be disposed to say that the dog had retreated growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping the professors at bay. This conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of the ostler, who, after peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he distinctly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle of prussic acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair, obstinately declined to smell. You cannot imagine the feverish state of irritation we are in, lest the interests of science should be sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creature, who is not endowed with sufficient sense to foresee the incalculable benefits which the whole human race may derive from so very slight a concession on his part.’

“Martedì, mezzogiorno.”

‘All’alba di questa mattina, le campane di tutte le chiese suonarono le sette; l’effetto di questo evento, in considerazione dello stato vivace della città in quel momento, fu estremamente singolare. Mentre facevo colazione, una carrozza gialla, trainata da un cavallo di colore grigio scuro con una macchia bianca sull’occhio destro, si dirigeva a velocità verso gli stalli del “Porco Originale”; si dice che questo signore sia arrivato qui allo scopo di partecipare all’associazione. Da quanto ho sentito, ritengo molto probabile che venga; anche se al momento non si conosce nulla di certo su di lui. Potete immaginare l’ansia con cui tutti aspettiamo l’arrivo della carrozza alle quattro di questo pomeriggio.’

Nonostante lo stato di eccitazione della folla, non sono ancora stati commessi atti di violenza, grazie alla meravigliosa disciplina e discrezione della polizia, la quale non si vede da nessuna parte. Davanti alla mia finestra suona un organo a barile, e gruppi di persone che offrono pesce e verdure in vendita passeggiano per le strade. A parte queste eccezioni, tutto è tranquillo, e spero che continui così.

‘Le cinque in punto.’

“È ormai certo, al di là di ogni >dubbio, che i professori Snore, Doze e Wheezy non si recheranno presso la ‘Casa del Maiale e della Scatola da Fuoco’, ma hanno effettivamente preso in affitto appartamenti presso l’originale ‘Casa del Maiale’. Questa informazione è esclusiva; lascio a voi e ai vostri lettori il compito di trarne le vostre conclusioni. Perché proprio il professor Wheezy, tra tutte le persone al mondo, dovrebbe scegliere la ‘Casa dell’Origine’ invece della ‘Casa del Maiale e della Scatola da Fuoco’, non è facile da capire. Il professor Wheezy è un uomo che dovrebbe essere al di sopra di simili considerazioni meschine. Alcuni qui attribuiscono apertamente ai professori Snore e Doze tradimento e una chiara mancanza di fede; altri, invece, sono disposti a scagionarli da qualsiasi colpa in questa faccenda, sostenendo che la responsabilità ricada interamente sul professor Wheezy. Io personalmente tendo alla seconda opinione; e anche se mi costa molto parlare con critiche o disapprovazione di un uomo dal genio e dalle conoscenze così eccezionali, devo comunque dire che, se i miei sospetti sono ben fondati e tutte le notizie che ho ricevuto sono vere, davvero non so come interpretare questa situazione, ”

‘Il signor Slug, così celebre per le sue ricerche statistiche, è arrivato questa sera alle quattro in punto con il treno. La sua pelle ha un colore viola scuro, e ha l’abitudine di sospirare continuamente. Sembrava estremamente in buona salute, pieno di energia e spirito. Anche il signor Woodensconce è arrivato con lo stesso mezzo di trasporto. Il distinto gentiluomo dormiva profondamente al suo arrivo; il guardiano mi ha detto che era così per tutto il tragitto. Senza dubbio stava preparandosi alle fatiche imminenti. Ma quali gigantesche visioni devono attraversare la mente di un uomo del genere quando il suo corpo è in uno stato di torpore!’

‘L’afflusso di visitatori aumenta di continuo. Mi è stato detto (non so se con certezza) che nelle ultime mezz’ora sono arrivate due carrozze postali presso il “Porco Originale”; inoltre, ho visto personalmente un carretto contenente tre borse di velluto e un fagotto entrare nel cortile del “Porco” e della “Scatola di Tizzi” meno di cinque minuti fa. La gente continua a svolgere le proprie attività quotidiane in silenzio; tuttavia, nei loro occhi c’è una frenesia insolita, e i muscoli dei loro volti mostrano una rigidità straordinaria. Questo indica chiaramente che le loro aspettative sono portate al limite massimo. Temo che, se entro la notte non avvengono eventi davvero eccezionali, possano derivare conseguenze negative da questa situazione di tensione popolare. Qualsiasi persona sensata e compassionevole ne deplorerebbe l’esistenza.’

“Sono venti minuti dopo le sei.”

“Ho appena saputo che il ragazzo che è caduto attraverso la finestra del pasticcere la scorsa notte è morto per lo shock. Gli è stato improvvisamente chiesto di pagare tre penny e sei centesimi per i danni causati, e sembra che la sua costituzione non fosse abbastanza forte da resistere a tale shock. Si dice che l’inchiesta avverrà domani.”

“Tre quarti parte sette.”

“I professori Muff e Nogo sono appena arrivati davanti all’ingresso dell’hotel; hanno subito ordinato la cena con grande distinzione. Siamo tutti molto soddisfatti della loro raffinatezza nei modi e della facilità con cui si adattano alle forme e alle cerimonie della vita quotidiana. Appena arrivati, hanno chiamato il capocameriere e gli hanno chiesto in privato di comprare un cane vivo – il più economico possibile – e di farlo portare su dopo cena, insieme a un vassoio, un coltello, una forchetta e un piatto pulito. Si ipotizza che stasera verranno fatti alcuni esperimenti sul cane; se dovesse emergere qualche dettaglio, ve lo comunicherò immediatamente via espresso.”

“Otto e mezza.”

L’animale è stato procurato. È un barboncino, dall’aspetto abbastanza intelligente, in buone condizioni fisiche e con zampe molto corte. È stato legato a un gancio per tende in una stanza buia, e sta ululando terribilmente.

“Dieci minuti alle nove.”

‘Il cane è appena stato chiamato. Con un istinto che sembrerebbe quasi il risultato della ragione, quell’animale sagace afferrò il cameriere per la gamba quando questi si avvicinò per prenderlo e oppose una resistenza disperata, sebbene inefficace. Non sono riuscito a ottenere l’autorizzazione di entrare nell’appartamento occupato dai signori scienziati; tuttavia, giudicando dai suoni che ho sentito poco fa mentre mi trovavo sul pianerottolo fuori dalla porta, direi che il cane si sia ritirato ringhiando sotto qualche mobile, tenendo a bada i professori. Questa congettura viene confermata dal testimone del locanda, il quale, dopo aver spiato attraverso la serratura, mi ha assicurato di aver visto chiaramente il Professor Nogo in ginocchio, che teneva in mano una piccola bottiglia di acido prussico; l’animale, accovacciato sotto un divano, si rifiutava ostinatamente di annusarla. Non potete immaginare lo stato di agitazione in cui ci troviamo: non possiamo permettere che gli interessi della scienza vengano sacrificati ai pregiudizi di una creatura brutale, priva della capacità di comprendere i benefici incalcolabili che l’intera umanità potrebbe trarre da un piccolo compromesso da parte sua.’

‘Nine o’clock.

‘The dog’s tail and ears have been sent down-stairs to be washed; from which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more. His forelegs have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens the supposition.’

‘Half after ten.

‘My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place in the course of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength to detail the rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those who are cognizant of their occurrence. It appears that the pug-dog mentioned in my last was surreptitiously obtained,—stolen, in fact,—by some person attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resident in this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her favourite, the lady rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the most heart-rending and pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore her, her Augustus,—for so the deceased was named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover of his mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, which renders the circumstances additionally affecting. I am not yet in a condition to inform you what circumstance induced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to the hotel which had witnessed the last struggles of her protégé. I can only state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his detached members were passing through the passage on a small tray. Her shrieks still reverberate in my ears! I grieve to say that the expressive features of Professor Muff were much scratched and lacerated by the injured lady; and that Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several severe bites, has lost some handfuls of hair from the same cause. It must be some consolation to these gentlemen to know that their ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned these unpleasant consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful country will sufficiently reward them. The unfortunate lady remains at the Pig and Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious state.

‘I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catastrophe has cast a damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration; natural in any case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of the deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected by the whole of his acquaintance.’

‘Twelve o’clock.

‘I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to inform you that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window is not dead, as was universally believed, but alive and well. The report appears to have had its origin in his mysterious disappearance. He was found half an hour since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had been announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and where—a sufficient number of members not having been obtained at first—he had patiently waited until the list was completed. This fortunate discovery has in some degree restored our gaiety and cheerfulness. It is proposed to get up a subscription for him without delay.

‘Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow will bring forth. If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I have left strict directions to be called immediately. I should have sat up, indeed, but the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.

‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It is very strange!’

‘Wednesday afternoon.

‘All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am at length enabled to set the minds of your readers at rest. The three professors arrived at ten minutes after two o’clock, and, instead of taking up their quarters at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the course of yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the Pig and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and openly announced their intention of remaining. Professor Wheezy may reconcile this very extraordinary conduct with his notions of fair and equitable dealing, but I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he presumes too far upon his well-earned reputation. How such a man as Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary, such an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to be mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will naturally inquire. Upon this head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but forbear to give utterance to them just now.’

‘Four o’clock.

‘The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been offered for a bed and refused. Several gentlemen were under the necessity last night of sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which they were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed to prison as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I understand to be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill, who had forwarded a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical Science, on the construction of pipkins with copper bottoms and safety-values, of which report speaks highly. The incarceration of this gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any discussion on the subject.

‘The bills are being taken down in all directions, and lodgings are being secured on almost any terms. I have heard of fifteen shillings a week for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can scarcely believe it. The excitement is dreadful. I was informed this morning that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of popular feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be under arms; and that, with the view of not irritating the people unnecessarily by their presence, they had been requested to take up their position before daybreak in a turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile from the town. The vigour and promptness of these measures cannot be too highly extolled.

“Le nove in punto.”

La coda e le orecchie del cane sono state portate giù per essere lavate; da questo possiamo dedurre che l’animale non è più vivo. Le sue zampe anteriori sono state consegnate ai calzolai per essere pulite, il che conferma questa ipotesi.

“Mezzanotte e mezza.”

“I miei sentimenti sono completamente sopraffatti da quanto è accaduto nell’arco dell’ultima ora e mezza; non ho quasi la forza di descrivere con precisione la rapida successione di eventi che hanno lasciato tutti coloro che ne erano a conoscenza completamente sconcertati. Sembra che il cagnolino menzionato nella mia ultima comunicazione sia stato ottenuto in modo furtivo, rubato, in realtà, da qualcuno appartenente al personale dello stallo, da una signorina single residente in questa città. Quando scoprì la scomparsa del suo animale preferito, la signorina uscì di casa in preda al panico, chiamando disperatamente i passanti affinché le restituissero il suo Augustus, così era chiamato il cagnolino, in ricordo affettuoso di un ex amante della sua padrona, con cui assomigliava molto, il che rende la situazione ancora più commovente. Non sono ancora in grado di spiegarvi quale circostanza abbia portato la signorina a recarsi all’hotel dove avevano avuto luogo gli ultimi momenti di vita del suo cagnolino. Posso solo dire che è arrivata proprio nel momento in cui i suoi resti stavano essere trasportati su un vassoio. I suoi strilli risuonano ancora nelle mie orecchie. Con dolore devo aggiungere che i tratti del viso del Professor Muff sono stati gravemente graffiati e lacerati dalla signorina; il Professor Nogo, inoltre, ha subito diversi morsi gravi e ha perso alcune ciocche di capelli per la stessa causa. Dovrebbe essere un conforto per questi signori sapere che la loro appassionata dedizione alle ricerche scientifiche è stata l’unica causa di queste spiacevoli conseguenze. Una nazione grata ricompenserà sicuramente il loro impegno. La sfortunata signorina rimane ancora in condizioni molto precarie.”

“Non c’è bisogno che vi dica quanto questa improvvisa tragedia abbia gettato ombra su di noi nel bel mezzo della nostra gioia; una situazione del tutto naturale, in ogni caso, ma resa ancora più tragica dal carattere amabile dell’animale scomparso, che sembra essere stato molto stimato da tutti coloro che lo conoscevano.”

“Le dodici in punto.”

“Approfitto dell’ultima opportunità prima di sigillare il mio pacco per informarvi che il ragazzo che è caduto attraverso la finestra del pasticcere non è morto, come tutti credevano, ma è vivo e in buona salute. La notizia sembra essere nata dalla sua misteriosa scomparsa. È stato ritrovato mezz’ora dopo presso un negozio di dolciumi, dove era stata annunciata una lotteria per vincere un cappello di pelle e una tamburina; poiché all’inizio non si era raggiunto il numero sufficiente di partecipanti, aveva pazientemente atteso che la lista fosse completa. Questa fortunata scoperta ha in qualche modo ripristinato la nostra allegria. Si propone di avviare immediatamente una raccolta fondi per lui.”

“Tutti sono nervosamente ansiosi di vedere cosa porterà domani. Se qualcuno dovesse arrivare durante la notte, ho lasciato istruzioni precise affinché venga chiamato immediatamente. In realtà avrei dovuto restare sveglio, ma gli eventi agitanti di oggi sono stati troppo per me.”

“Nessuna notizia ancora né del Professor Snore né del Professor Doze, né del Professor Wheezy. È davvero strano!”

“Mercoledì pomeriggio.”

“Tutto è ormai finito; e, almeno su un punto, sono finalmente riuscito a tranquillizzare i vostri lettori. I tre professori arrivarono dieci minuti dopo le due, e invece di recarsi all’Original Pig, come tutti si aspettavano ieri, andarono direttamente al Pig and Tinder-box, dove immediatamente si tolsero la maschera e annunciarono apertamente la loro intenzione di rimanere. Il professor Wheezy potrà anche giustificare questo comportamento così insolito in base alle sue concezioni di equità e onestà, ma consiglierei al professor Wheezy di stare attento a non abusare troppo della sua ben meritata reputazione. Come possa una persona come il professor Snore, o ancora più stranamente una persona come il professor Doze, permettersi di essere coinvolta in simili faccende, è qualcosa che naturalmente vi chiederete. A questo proposito, le voci sono silenziose; ho le mie ipotesi, ma preferisco non esprimerle per ora.”

‘Le quattro in punto.’

La città si sta riempiendo rapidamente; sono stati offerti diciotto penny per una brandina, ma sono stati rifiutati. Vari signori, la scorsa notte, hanno dovuto dormire nei campi di mattoni o sui gradini delle porte. Questo mattina sono stati portati davanti ai magistrati e rinchiusi in prigione come vagabondi per periodi diversi. Uno di questi uomini, a quanto so, è un rispettabilissimo artigiano, molto abile nel suo mestiere; aveva inviato una relazione al Presidente della Sezione D di Scienze Meccaniche riguardo alla costruzione di zucca con fondo in rame e dispositivi di sicurezza, e la relazione ne parla molto bene. È davvero un peccato che questo gentiluomo sia stato rinchiuso, poiché la sua assenza impedirà qualsiasi discussione sull’argomento.

‘I cartelli vengono rimossi in tutte le direzioni, e si riesce a trovare alloggi quasi a qualsiasi condizione. Ho sentito parlare di quindici scellini a settimana per due stanze, esclusi carbone e servizi, ma fatico a crederci. L’agitazione è terribile. Questa mattina mi è stato detto che le autorità civili, preoccupate per possibili manifestazioni popolari, avevano ordinato a un sergente di reclutamento e a due caporali di mettersi in allerta; e affinché la loro presenza non irritasse inutilmente la gente, era stato chiesto loro di assumere le loro posizioni prima dell’alba in un posto di controllo situato a circa un quarto di miglio dalla città. La prontezza e l’efficienza di queste misure meritano senza dubbio grandi elogi.’

‘Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly female, in a state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her intention to “do” for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns compiled by that gentleman, relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this place, are supposed to be the cause of the wretch’s animosity. It is added that this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate Mr. Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of “Stick-in-the-mud!” It is earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that power which is vested in them by the constitution of our common country.’

‘Half-past ten.

‘The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been completely quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. She had a pail of cold water thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great contrition and uneasiness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of the association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having its illustrious members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go off peaceably. I shall send you a full report of to-morrow’s proceedings by the night coach.’

‘Eleven o’clock.

‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I folded it up.’

‘Thursday.

‘The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I did not observe anything particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except that he appeared to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened fancy) to shine with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent lustre upon the town, such as I had never observed before. This is the more extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At half-past nine o’clock the general committee assembled, with the last year’s president in the chair. The report of the council was read; and one passage, which stated that the council had corresponded with no less than three thousand five hundred and seventy-one persons, (all of whom paid their own postage,) on no fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics, was received with a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress. The various committees and sections having been appointed, and the more formal business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at eleven o’clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupying a most eligible position at that time, in

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

President—Professor Snore. Vice-Presidents—Professors Doze and Wheezy.

‘The scene at this moment was particularly striking. The sun streamed through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole scene with its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages of the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some with red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some with black heads, some with block heads, presented a coup d’oeil which no eye-witness will readily forget. In front of these gentlemen were papers and inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches extending as far as the forms could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole world. The contrast between their fair faces and the dark coats and trousers of the scientific gentlemen I shall never cease to remember while Memory holds her seat.

‘Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occasioned by the falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside, the president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication entitled, “Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations on the importance of establishing infant-schools among that numerous class of society; of directing their industry to useful and practical ends; and of applying the surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for them a comfortable and respectable maintenance in their old age.”

‘The author stated, that, having long turned his attention to the moral and social condition of these interesting animals, he had been induced to visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by the designation of “The Industrious Fleas.” He had there seen many fleas, occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could fail to regard with sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the level of a beast of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a particularly small effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden model of his great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte. Some, brought up as mountebanks and ballet-dancers, were performing a figure-dance (he regretted to observe, that, of the fleas so employed, several were females); others were in training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians,—mere sporting characters—and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded and barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity recoiled with horror and disgust. He suggested that measures should be immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and parcel of the productive power of the country, which might easily be done by the establishment among them of infant schools and houses of industry, in which a system of virtuous education, based upon sound principles, should be observed, and moral precepts strictly inculcated. He proposed that every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music, or dancing, or any species of theatrical entertainment, without a licence, should be considered a vagabond, and treated accordingly; in which respect he only placed him upon a level with the rest of mankind. He would further suggest that their labour should be placed under the control and regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits, a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, their widows and orphans. With this view, he proposed that liberal premiums should be offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; from which—as insect architecture was well known to be in a very advanced and perfect state—we might possibly derive many valuable hints for the improvement of our metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public edifices.

“Mi è appena stata comunicata un’informazione secondo cui una donna anziana, in stato di ebbrezza, ha dichiarato apertamente in strada la sua intenzione di ‘fare qualcosa’ per il signor Slug. Si ritiene che alcuni dati statistici compilati da quel gentiluomo riguardanti il consumo di alcolici in questo luogo siano alla base dell’animosità di quell’individuo. Aggiunge si che questa dichiarazione è stata acclamata ad alta voce da una folla radunatasi sul posto; inoltre, un uomo ha avuto la sfacciataggine di chiamare pubblicamente il signor Slug con l’epiteto offensivo di ‘Stick-in-the-mud!’ Si spera sinceramente che ora, quando è arrivato il momento che intervengano, i magistrati non esitino a esercitare quel potere che la costituzione del nostro paese conferisce loro.”

“Mezzanotte e mezza.”

“Con piacere vi comunico che il disordine è stato completamente sedato e la responsabile della situazione è stata arrestata. Prima di essere rinchiusa, le è stata gettata addosso una secchia d’acqua fredda; ora esprime grande pentimento e ansia. Tutti noi siamo in uno stato di grande attesa per domani. Ma ora che mancano solo poche ore all’incontro dell’associazione, e finalmente possiamo essere orgogliosi di avere tra noi i suoi membri illustri, spero davvero che tutto proceda pacificamente. Vi invierò un resoconto completo degli eventi di domani tramite il treno notturno.”

‘Le undici in punto.’

“Aperto la mia lettera, scopro che da quando l’ho ripiegata non è successo assolutamente nulla.”

“Giovedì.”

Il sole è sorto questa mattina all’ora solita. Non ho notato nulla di particolare nell’aspetto di questo splendido pianeta, se non che mi è sembrato (forse era un’illusione della mia immaginazione eccitata) brillare con una luminosità insolita, diffondendo su tutta la città un bagliore intenso come non l’avevo mai visto prima. Questo è ancora più straordinario, poiché il cielo era completamente sereno e l’atmosfera particolarmente limpida. Alle nove e mezza, il comitato generale si riunì, con il presidente dell’anno precedente alla presidenza. Fu letto il rapporto del consiglio; un passaggio in particolare, che indicava come il consiglio avesse scambiato corrispondenza con ben tremila cinquecentosettantuno persone (tutte le quali avevano pagato di loro spese la posta), su non meno di settemila duecentoquaranta e tre argomenti, fu accolto con un entusiasmo tale da essere impossibile contenere. Dopo che furono nominati i vari comitati e si svolsero le procedure più formali, le principali attività della riunione iniziarono esattamente alle undici. In quel momento, ebbi la fortuna di occupare una posizione molto vantaggiosa.

‘SEZIONE A – ZOLOGIA E BOTANICA. GRANDE STANZA, MAiale e Scatola di Esca.’

Presidente – Professore Ronfolo. Vice-Presidenti – Professori Sonnellino e Soffocato.

La scena in quel momento era particolarmente suggestiva. Il sole filtrava attraverso le finestre degli appartamenti, tingendo l’intera atmosfera con i suoi raggi brillanti; i volti nobili dei professori e dei gentiluomini scientifici, alcuni calvi, altri rossi di capelli, altri castani o grigi, alcuni con i capelli neri, offrivano un quadro che nessun testimone oculare avrebbe facilmente dimenticato. Davanti a loro c’erano fogli e calamai; intorno alla stanza, su panche rialzate raggiungibili da tutte le postazioni, si era radunata una splendida folla di quelle donne incantevoli ed eleganti per cui Mudfog è giustamente riconosciuto come ineguagliabile in tutto il mondo. Il contrasto tra i loro volti belli e i cappotti scuri dei gentiluomini scientifici rimarrà per sempre nella mia memoria, finché essa esisterà.

Dopo che il tempo necessario per placare la leggera confusione causata dalla caduta della maggior parte delle piattaforme si fu esaurito, il presidente chiamò uno dei segretari perché leggesse un comunicato intitolato: “Alcuni commenti sulle pulci laboriose, con riflessioni sull’importanza di istituire scuole materne tra quella numerosa classe della società; su come indirizzare il loro impegno verso scopi utili e pratici; e su come utilizzare i frutti derivanti da tale attività per garantire loro un sostentamento confortevole e rispettabile in vecchiaia.”

“L’autore affermò che, avendo da tempo dedicato la sua attenzione alla condizione morale e sociale di questi interessanti animali, era stato spinto a visitare un’esposizione in Regent Street, Londra, comunemente conosciuta con il nome di ‘Le Pulci Industrievoli’. Lì aveva visto molte pulci impegnate in varie attività, ma, doveva aggiungere, in modi che nessun uomo dallo spirito ben regolato avrebbe potuto non considerare con tristezza e rimorso. Una pulce, ridotta al rango di animale da soma, trainava una piccola carrozza contenente una statuina particolarmente minuscola del Duca di Wellington; un’altra barcollava sotto il peso di una modellina d’oro del suo grande avversario Napoleone Bonaparte. Alcune, allevate come acrobati e ballerine, eseguivano danze, purtroppo, tra queste, molte erano femmine; altre venivano addestrate in piccole scatole di cartone per servire da ‘spettacoli’ per i passanti, due addirittura si dedicavano all’atroce e barbaro sport del duello. Suggerì quindi che si prendessero immediati provvedimenti per sfruttare il lavoro di queste pulci come parte integrante della forza produttiva del paese, cosa facilmente realizzabile istituendo tra loro scuole materne e centri di formazione, dove venisse attuato un sistema educativo virtuoso basato su principi solidi e si inculcassero rigorosamente precetti morali. Propose inoltre che ogni pulca che osasse offrire, a pagamento, spettacoli musicali, danze o qualsiasi forma di intrattenimento teatrale senza licenza fosse considerata una vagabonda e trattata di conseguenza, in questo modo la metteva esattamente allo stesso livello del resto dell’umanità. Suggerì infine che il loro lavoro venisse sottoposto al controllo e alla regolamentazione dello Stato, il quale avrebbe dovuto destinare una parte dei profitti a sostegno delle pulci anziane o disabili, nonché delle loro vedove e orfani. A tal fine propose di offrire generosi premi per i tre progetti migliori per l’istituzione di un ospizio pubblico, da questi, dato che si sapeva che l’architettura degli insetti era a uno stadio molto avanzato e perfetto, si sarebbero potuti trarre molti spunti utili per il miglioramento delle nostre università, gallerie d’arte nazionali e altri edifici pubblici.”

‘The President wished to be informed how the ingenious gentleman proposed to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first instance, so that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages they must necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and applying themselves to honest labour. This appeared to him, the only difficulty.

‘The Author submitted that this difficulty was easily overcome, or rather that there was no difficulty at all in the case. Obviously the course to be pursued, if Her Majesty’s government could be prevailed upon to take up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary the individual to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in Regent-street at the period of his visit. That gentleman would at once be able to put himself in communication with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct them in pursuance of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by Parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among them were advanced enough to officiate as teachers to the rest.

‘The President and several members of the section highly complimented the author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and important treatise. It was determined that the subject should be recommended to the immediate consideration of the council.

‘Mr. Wigsby produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than a chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means than the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure. He explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new and delicious species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in principle something similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at once obtained; the stalk of course being kept downwards. He added that he was perfectly willing to make a descent from a height of not less than three miles and a quarter; and had in fact already proposed the same to the proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in the handsomest manner at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an early day next summer for the undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the cauliflower should be previously broken in three or four places to ensure the safety of the descent.

‘The President congratulated the public on the grand gala in store for them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the establishment alluded to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety of human life, both of which did them the highest honour.

‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

‘Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional lamps.

‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

‘Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most interesting and valuable paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,” which produced a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The account stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby, but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives in the profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen victims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his indeed, had with very great labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles, and shortly afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to conjecture that he had been converted into sausages. The disorder of the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching dissolution, was recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable company with his performances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to point out the hour, deliberately passed his snout twice round the dial. In precisely four-and-twenty hours from that time he had ceased to exist!

‘Professor Wheezy inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal of his little property.

‘Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was accustomed to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood that he wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had accordingly been pawned by the same individual.

‘The President wished to know whether any Member of the section had ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a golden trough.

‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the sanctity of private life.

‘The President begged pardon. He had considered the pig-faced lady a public character. Would the honourable member object to state, with a view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way connected with the learned pig?

‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his half-brother, he must decline answering it.

“Il Presidente desiderava essere informato su come quel gentiluomo ingegnoso avesse intenzione di stabilire un contatto con le pulci, al fine di far loro comprendere appieno i vantaggi che deriverebbero necessariamente dal cambiare modo di vivere e dedicarsi a un lavoro onesto. Questo gli sembrava l’unico ostacolo da superare.”

‘L’Autore ha sostenuto che questa difficoltà potesse essere facilmente superata, o meglio, che in realtà non esistesse alcuna difficoltà nel caso in questione. Ovviamente, il percorso da seguire, qualora fosse stato possibile convincere il governo di Sua Maestà ad adottare questo piano, sarebbe stato quello di assicurare a quella persona di cui aveva parlato – quella che avrebbe dovuto presiedere all’esposizione in Regent Street al momento della sua visita – uno stipendio remunerativo. Tale signore avrebbe potuto immediatamente mettersi in contatto con la maggior parte di quegli individui e istruirli secondo un piano generale di educazione da approvare dal Parlamento, fino a quando i più intelligenti tra loro non fossero stati abbastanza avanzati da poter svolgere il ruolo di insegnanti per gli altri.’

Il Presidente e diversi membri della sezione hanno espresso grandi lodi all’autore del saggio appena letto, per il suo trattato estremamente ingegnoso e importante. È stato deciso di raccomandare questo argomento all’esame immediato del consiglio.

‘Il signor Wigsby produsse un cavolfiore di dimensioni leggermente superiori a quelle di un ombrellone da giardino; la sua crescita non fu dovuta ad alcun mezzo artificiale, ma soltanto all’uso di acqua gassata come fertilizzante. Spiegò che, rimuovendo la “testa” del cavolfiore – che avrebbe potuto fornire un alimento nuovo e delizioso per i poveri – si otteneva immediatamente qualcosa di simile a un paracadute, costruito in pratica nello stesso modo di quello ideato dal signor Garnerin; naturalmente, il gambo veniva tenuto rivolto verso il basso. Aggiunse di essere assolutamente disposto a effettuare una discesa da un’altezza non inferiore a tre miglia e un quarto, e aveva già proposto l’idea ai proprietari dei Vauxhall Gardens, i quali acconsentirono immediatamente e fissarono per la prossima estate la data dell’esperimento; stabilirono tuttavia che il bordo del cavolfiore dovesse essere precedentemente spezzato in tre o quattro punti al fine di garantire la sicurezza della discesa.’

“Il Presidente congratulò il pubblico per la grande gala che li aspettava e lodò calorosamente i proprietari dell’istituto menzionato per il loro amore per la scienza e per la loro attenzione alla sicurezza della vita umana, qualità che gli valsero la più alta onorificenza.”

Un membro del gruppo voleva sapere con quante migliaia di lampade in più la proprietà reale sarebbe stata illuminata la notte successiva alla discesa.

Il signor Wigsby rispose che la questione non era ancora stata definitivamente decisa; ma riteneva che fosse stato proposto, oltre alle solite misure di illuminazione, di installare otto milioni e mezzo di lampade aggiuntive in diversi punti.

“Il membro si è detto molto soddisfatto di questa notizia.”

‘Il signor Blunderum deliziò l’assemblea con un articolo molto interessante e prezioso “sui ultimi momenti di quel maestro porco”, che lasciò una profonda impressione su tutti. Il resoconto, basato sulle memorie personali del suo attendente preferito, affermava in termini categorici che il nome dell’animale non era Toby, ma Solomon; inoltre dimostrava chiaramente che quel porco non aveva alcun parente nella stessa professione, come avevano falsamente sostenuto molte persone malintenzionate: infatti suo padre, sua madre, suoi fratelli e sue sorelle erano tutti morti per mano del macellaio in momenti diversi. Un suo zio, effettivamente, fu ritrovato con grande difficoltà in una stalla a Somers Town; ma essendo in condizioni molto precarie a causa del morbillo, scomparve poco dopo, il che faceva pensare con ogni probabilità che fosse stato trasformato in salsicce. L’infermità di quel “maestro porco” era originariamente un grave raffreddore, che, aggravato dall’eccessivo consumo di cibo, si diffuse ai polmoni, causando infine il declino generale della sua salute. Fu registrato anche un esempio “melancolico” di premonizione da parte dell’animale riguardo alla propria imminente morte: dopo aver intrattenuto un numeroso pubblico con le sue performance, senza mostrare alcun segno di declino, fissò lo sguardo sul biografo e, rivolgendo l’attenzione all’orologio posato a terra – che utilizzava per indicare l’ora – passò deliberatamente il muso due volte intorno al quadrante. Esattamente ventiquattro ore dopo, quel porco cessò di esistere!’

Il professor Wheezy chiese se, prima della sua morte, l’animale avesse espresso, con segni o in altro modo, qualche desiderio riguardo alla disposizione dei suoi piccoli beni.

‘Il signor Blunderum rispose che, quando il biografo prese il mazzo di carte alla fine dello spettacolo, l’animale grugnì diverse volte in modo significativo e annuì con la testa, come faceva sempre quando era soddisfatto. Da questi gesti si capì che desiderava che l’assistente tenesse le carte, cosa che da allora è stata fatta. Non aveva espresso alcun desiderio riguardo al suo orologio, il quale fu quindi messo in pegno dalla stessa persona.’

“Il Presidente voleva sapere se qualche membro di quella sezione avesse mai visto o parlato con quella donna dal viso porcino, di cui si diceva che indossasse una maschera di velluto nero e che mangiasse da un trogolo d’oro.”

Dopo qualche esitazione, un membro rispose che quella donna dal viso rotondo era sua suocera, e che confidava nel fatto che il Presidente non avrebbe violato la sacralità della vita privata.

“Il Presidente chiese scusa. Considerava quella signora dal viso rotondo una figura pubblica. L’onorevole membro avrebbe obiettato a chiarire, al fine del progresso della scienza, se lei fosse in qualche modo collegata a quel ‘maestro’ dei porci?”

“Il membro rispose con lo stesso tono sommesso, dicendo che poiché la domanda sembrava implicare il sospetto che quel ‘sapiente maiale’ potesse essere suo fratellastro, doveva rifiutarsi di rispondere.”

‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

President—Dr. Toorell. Vice-Presidents—Professors Muff and Nogo.

Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the patient on the 1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular, his step firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit of eating three meals per diem, and of drinking at least one bottle of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the course of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful medicine, low diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for only one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruel, weak broth, and barley-water, led to their entire disappearance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the present moment he was restored so far as to walk about, with the slight assistance of a crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the section to learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honourable member upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient still bled freely?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee.—And you found that he bled freely during the whole course of the disorder?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.

‘Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen rejoined, certainly not.

‘Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated habits, being present at the post mortem examination, found means to escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character, who made a new key from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the medical student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently tried and executed.

‘The President wished to know what became of the original key after the lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually devoured it.

‘Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opinion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s stomach.

‘Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy of remark, perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a wine-cellar door.

‘Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill, and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months. This man was a hard drinker. He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink the whole. What was the result? Before he had drunk a quart, he was in a state of beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead drunk with the remainder.

‘The President wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of soda-water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that the twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each patient, would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked that this was a most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen would patronize it immediately.

‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same satisfying effect as their present allowance.

‘Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional reputation on the perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

‘Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a very extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide street, was at once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state. He was followed to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms of the hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without intermission for ten hours.

‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS. HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.

President—Mr. Woodensconce. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered.

‘Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calculations he had made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant education among the middle classes of London. He found that, within a circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:—

‘Jack the Giant-killer

‘SEZIONE B – ANATOMIA E MEDICINA. CASA DEL COCHIERE, MAIALI E SCATOLE PER LA SPARAGGIO DELLA TORBA.’

Presidente—Dottor Toorell. Vicepresidenti—Professori Muff e Nogo.

Il dottor Kutankumagen (di Mosca) lesse alla sezione un resoconto di un caso avvenuto nella sua stessa pratica clinica; il caso illustrava in modo evidente il potere della medicina, come dimostrato dal suo successo nel trattare una malattia particolarmente grave. Era stato chiamato a visitare il paziente il 1° aprile 1837. Il paziente presentava sintomi davvero allarmanti per qualsiasi medico: era di corporatura robusta e muscolosa, aveva un passo deciso ed elastico, guance rosee e piene, voce forte, appetito buono, e il polso era pieno e regolare. Aveva l’abitudine di mangiare tre pasti al giorno e di bere almeno una bottiglia di vino, oltre a un bicchiere di liquori alcolici diluiti in acqua, nell’arco delle ventiquattro ore. Rideva costantemente, e con tale intensità che era davvero spaventoso ascoltarlo. Grazie a farmaci potenti, a una dieta rigorosa e a flebozioni, i sintomi diminuirono notevolmente nel corso di tre giorni. Mantenendo lo stesso trattamento per un’altra settimana, associandolo a piccole dosi di porridge acquoso, brodo leggero e orzo in acqua, i sintomi scomparvero completamente. Dopo un mese era sufficientemente guarito da poter scendere le scale con l’aiuto di due infermiere e godersi una passeggiata in carrozza, sostenuto da cuscini morbidi. Al momento era in grado di camminare, sebbene avesse bisogno dell’aiuto di un bastone e di un ragazzo. Forse sarebbe stato interessante per la sezione sapere che mangiava poco, beveva poco, dormiva pochissimo, e che non si udiva mai ridere da lui.

“Dottor W. R. Fee, nel complimentare l’onorevole membro per la cura riuscita, chiese se il paziente continuasse ancora a sanguinare liberamente.”

“Il dottor Kutankumagen rispose affermativamente.”

“Dottor W. R. Fee. E ha scoperto che sanguinava liberamente per tutta la durata della malattia?”

“Dottor Kutankumagen. Oh, sì, certamente; con grande libertà.”

Il dottor Neeshawts riteneva che, se il paziente non si fosse sottomesso con grande disponibilità e perseveranza al processo di sanguinamento, una cura così straordinaria non sarebbe mai stata possibile. Il dottor Kutankumagen replicò: “Certamente no”.

‘Il dottor Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) mostrò una preparazione in cera dell’interno dello stomaco di un gentiluomo che, in giovane età, aveva ingerito accidentalmente una chiave di casa. Fu un fatto curioso: uno studente di medicina, dalle abitudini dissolute, presente durante l’autopsia, riuscì a uscire dalla stanza senza essere visto; su quella parte dello stomaco era chiaramente impresso il modello preciso dell’oggetto ingerito. Quell’allievo medico si recò quindi da un fabbro di dubbia reputazione, che realizzò una nuova chiave basandosi su quel modello. Con questa nuova chiave entrò nell’>casa del defunto gentiluomo e commise un furto di notevoli dimensioni; per questo crimine fu successivamente processato e giustiziato.’

“Il Presidente voleva sapere cosa fosse successo alla chiave originale dopo tutti questi anni. Il signor Knight Bell rispose che quel gentiluomo aveva l’abitudine di usare il martello per forzare le serrature, e si presumeva che l’acido avesse gradualmente distrutto la chiave.”

Il dottor Neeshawts e alcuni altri membri erano dell’opinione che quel “chiave” dovesse essere stato molto freddo e pesante sullo stomaco di quell’uomo.

All’inizio, il signor Knight Bell credeva davvero che fosse così. È degno di nota che, per alcuni anni, questo gentiluomo fu afflitto da un incubo notturno; a causa suo, si immaginava sempre di essere la porta di una cantina.

Il professor Muff presentò una prova molto straordinaria e convincente dell’efficacia meravigliosa del sistema delle dosi infinitesimali; il gruppo di persone presente era senza dubbio a conoscenza del fatto che tale sistema si basasse sulla teoria secondo cui la quantità minima possibile di qualsiasi farmaco, distribuita correttamente nel corpo umano, avrebbe prodotto esattamente lo stesso risultato di una dose molto più grande somministrata in modo tradizionale. Così, si riteneva che un quarantesimo di granello di calomel fosse equivalente a una pillola da cinque grani di calomel, e così via, in proporzione per l’intera gamma dei farmaci. Il professor Muff provò questo sistema su un osteo che era stato portato in ospedale con una ferita alla testa; quest’ultimo fu guarito nel giro di soli tre mesi grazie a tale metodo. Quell’uomo aveva l’abitudine di bere molto alcolici. Il professor Muff distribuì tre gocce di rum in un secchio pieno d’acqua e chiese all’osteo di berne tutta la quantità; il risultato? Prima ancora di aver bevuto un quarto del secchio, l’uomo era già in uno stato di intossicazione estrema; inoltre, altre cinque persone morirono per eccesso di alcol a causa dei resti dell’acqua contaminata.

“Il Presidente voleva sapere se una dose infinitesimale di soda e acqua avrebbe potuto farli riprendere conoscenza. Il Professor Muff rispose che un ventiquattresimo di cucchiaino, somministrato correttamente a ciascun paziente, lo avrebbe riportato immediatamente in sé. Il Presidente osservò che si trattava di una scoperta di grande importanza e sperava che il Lord Mayor e la >Corte dei Consiglieri ne prendessero immediatamente atto.”

Un membro chiese di sapere se fosse possibile fornire, ad esempio, il ventesimo di un granello di pane e formaggio a tutti i poveri adulti, e il quarantesimo di questi alimenti ai bambini, ottenendo lo stesso effetto soddisfacente rispetto all’attuale razione.

Il professor Muff era disposto a rischiare la sua reputazione professionale scommettendo sulla perfetta adeguacy di tale quantità di cibo per sostenere la vita umana negli ospizi di mendicità; l’aggiunta di un quindicesimo di grano di budino due volte a settimana avrebbe reso tale alimentazione particolarmente nutriente.

‘Il professor Nogo attirò l’attenzione del gruppo su un caso molto straordinario di magnetismo animale. Un guardiano notturno, semplicemente osservato dall’operatore dall’altra parte di una larga strada, mostrò immediatamente segni di sonnolenza e debolezza. Fu accompagnato fino alla sua postazione e, dopo essere stato leggermente strofinato sulle palme delle mani, cadde in un sonno profondo che durò per dieci ore consecutive.’

‘SEZIONE C – STATISTICI.
HAY-LOFT, MAiale originale.’

Presidente—Signor Woodensconce. Vicepresidenti—Signor Ledbrain e Signor Timbered.

‘Il signor Slug comunicò alla sezione il risultato di alcuni calcoli che aveva effettuato con grande difficoltà e impegno, riguardo allo stato dell’educazione infantile nelle classi medie di Londra. Scoprì che, in un raggio di tre miglia dall’Elephant and Castle, i seguenti erano i nomi e i numeri dei libri per bambini più diffusi in quel territorio:—

“Jack lo sterminatore di giganti”

7,943

Ditto and Bean-stalk 8,621

Ditto and Eleven Brothers

7,943

Dittto e Bambù di Fagioli

8.621

Titolo:
Lo stesso e undici fratelli

2,845

Ditto and Jill 1,998

Total

2,845

Dittto e Jill

1.998

Totale

21,407

‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied, “Taint George of Ingling.” Another, a little boy of eight years old, was found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of dragons, and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up, to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses, and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the number interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring whether he was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and others whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park. They had not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager that the world had ever produced.

‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very outset of the tale, were depicted as going up a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the family linen was being washed, for instance.

‘Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was personally chastised by her mother

“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”

besides, the whole work had this one great fault, it was not true.

‘The President complimented the honourable member on the excellent distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very forcibly remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

‘Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respecting the dogs’-meat barrows of London. He found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each dogs’-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained. Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of London; which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use of her Majesty’s navy, to be called “The Royal Skewer,” and to become under that name the terror of all the enemies of this island.

‘Mr. X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, from which it appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. From this calculation it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person,—that ten thousand individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes.

‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE. COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.

President—Mr. Carter. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

‘Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway, neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket. By attaching this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

‘The President was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

‘Professor Queerspeck explained that City gentlemen would run in trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at eight, nine, and ten o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and various other places in which City gentlemen are accustomed to reside. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had provided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that the circumstances would admit of, should be taken through the sewers which undermine the streets of the metropolis, and which, well lighted by jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them, would form a pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the purposes to which these arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be allowed to interfere with so great an undertaking.

21,407

Scoprì che il rapporto tra i personaggi di Robinson Crusoe e Philip Quarlls era di quattro e mezzo a uno; inoltre, la preponderanza di Valentine e Orson rispetto a “Goody Two Shoes” era di tre ottavi del primo rispetto a mezza unità del secondo. Anche il confronto tra i personaggi dei “Sette Campioni” e quelli di “Simple Simons” diede lo stesso risultato. L’ignoranza che regnava in quel contesto era davvero deplorevole. Un >bambino, quando gli fu chiesto se preferisse essere San Giorgio d’Inghilterra o un rispettabile commerciante di sego, rispose immediatamente: “Taint George of Ingling”. Un altro bambino, di otto anni, era fermamente convinto dell’esistenza dei draghi e dichiarò apertamente che, una volta cresciuto, avrebbe impugnato la spada per liberare principesse prigioniere e uccidere i giganti. Nessuno dei bambini interrogati aveva mai sentito parlare di Mungo Park: alcuni chiedevano se fosse in qualche modo legato all’uomo nero che aveva attraversato il fiume; altri, invece, si chiedevano se avesse qualche rapporto con Regent’s Park. Non avevano la minima idea dei principi più elementari della matematica e consideravano Sindbad il Marinaio il viaggiatore più intraprendente che il mondo avesse mai conosciuto.

Un membro del gruppo, che deplorava vivamente l’uso di tutti gli altri libri menzionati, suggerì che Jack e Jill potessero essere esentati da questa condanna generale, poiché il protagonista e la protagonista femminile, fin dall’inizio della storia, venivano descritti come persone che salivano su una collina per prendere un secchio di acqua, un’attività faticosa ma utile, supponendo, ad esempio, che si stesse lavando la biancheria della famiglia.

Il signor Slug temeva che l’effetto morale di questo passaggio non venisse compensato da un altro presente in una parte successiva del poema, nel quale venivano fatte allusioni molto esplicite al modo in cui l’eroina veniva punita personalmente dalla sua madre.

“Per aver riso della sfortuna di Jack, ”

Inoltre, l’intero lavoro presentava un grande difetto: non era vero.

“Il Presidente complimentò l’onorevole membro per l’eccellente distinzione che aveva dimostrato. Anche diversi altri membri sottolinearono l’enorme e urgente necessità di alimentare la mente dei bambini soltanto con fatti e cifre; un processo che, secondo il Presidente, aveva reso possibile che quei membri diventassero ciò che erano oggi.”

‘Il signor Slug fece allora alcuni calcoli curiosi riguardo ai carri che trasportavano carne per cani a Londra. Scoprì che il numero totale di carri e carretti utilizzati per fornire cibo ai gatti e ai cani della città era di mille settecento quarantatré. Il numero medio di spiedini consegnati quotidianamente da ogni carro era di trentasei. Moltiplicando il numero totale di spiedini per il numero di carri, si otteneva un totale giornaliero di sessantadue migliaia settecento quarantotto spiedini. Supponendo che, di questi sessantadue mila settecento quarantotto spiedini, i duemila settecento quarantotto venissero accidentalmente consumati insieme alla carne dai cani più voraci tra quelli forniti, ne derivava che sessantamila spiedini al giorno, ovvero un numero enorme di ventuno milioni novecentomila spiedini all’anno, andavano sprecati nei canili e nelle discariche di Londra. Se questi spiedini venissero raccolti e immagazzinati, in dieci anni si otterrebbe una quantità di legno più che sufficiente per costruire una nave da guerra di prim’ordine da utilizzare nella marina reale; questa nave, chiamata “La Spada Reale”, diventerebbe il terrore di tutti i nemici di quest’isola.’

‘Il signor X. Ledbrain lesse un comunicato molto ingegnoso, dal quale risultava che il numero totale di gambe appartenenti alla popolazione “produttiva” di una grande città dello Yorkshire ammontasse, a cifre tondo, a quarantamila; mentre il numero totale di gambe di sedie e sgabelli presenti nelle loro case era soltanto di trentamila. Calcolando su un’ottima media di tre gambe per ogni sedile, ne risultavano in totale soltanto diecimila. Da questo calcolo si deduceva che, senza considerare le gambe di legno o di sughero e assumendo che ogni persona avesse due gambe, diecimila individui (la metà dell’intera popolazione) fossero o del tutto privi di posti dove riposare le gambe, oppure trascorressero tutto il loro tempo libero seduti su scatole.’

‘SEZIONE D.—SCIENTIA MECCANICA. COCHERIA, MAiale Originale.’

Presidente—Signor Carter. Vicepresidenti—Signor Truck e Signor Waghorn.

Il professor Queerspeck espose un elegante modello di ferrovia portatile, ben montato in una custodia verde, adatta per essere riposta nella tasca del gilet. Attaccando questo bellissimo strumento alle proprie scarpe, qualsiasi impiegato di banca o ufficio pubblico avrebbe potuto spostarsi dalla propria abitazione al luogo di lavoro a una velocità di sessantacinque miglia all’ora, il che rappresenterebbe un vantaggio inestimabile per persone con uno stile di vita sedentario.

“Il Presidente voleva sapere se fosse necessario disporre di una superficie pianeggiante su cui il signore potesse correre.”

‘Il professor Queerspeck spiegò che i signori della città viaggiavano in treno, legati insieme per evitare confusione o inconvenienti. Ad esempio, i treni partivano ogni mattina alle otto, alle nove e alle dieci, da Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney e altre zone dove i signori della città avevano l’abitudine di risiedere. Sarebbe stato necessario disporre di un percorso pianeggiante, ma il professor Queerspeck aveva previsto anche questa difficoltà proponendo di utilizzare i canali fognari presenti sotto le strade della metropoli. Questi canali, ben illuminati dai tubi del gas situati immediatamente sopra di loro, avrebbero formato un percorso piacevole e comodo da utilizzare, soprattutto durante l’inverno, quando l’inconveniente uso degli ombrelli, ormai così diffuso, sarebbe stato del tutto superfluo. In risposta a un’altra domanda, il professor Queerspeck dichiarò che al momento non gli era ancora venuto in mente alcun sostituto per gli scopi per cui questi percorsi erano attualmente utilizzati, ma sperava che nessuna obiezione fantasiosa potesse ostacolare un’iniziativa così importante.’

‘Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The instrument was in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of the company to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he had never once known it to fail.

‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty. He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement? Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be blown up, but that was the only objection to it.

‘Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was quite ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the escape without falling into the street. The Professor stated that the number of boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from houses which were not on fire, was almost incredible. Not a conflagration had occurred in the whole of London for many months past to which the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and put in action before a concourse of persons.

‘The President inquired whether there was not some difficulty in ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in cases of pressing emergency.

‘Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be expected to act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire; but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether the top were up or down.’

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit. It is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed; of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which they have elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to read, to consider, and to profit.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope at this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that we may be once more the means of placing his communications before the world. Until that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this number of our Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to the trade, without any advance upon our usual price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,—that Professors and Members have had balls, and soirées, and suppers, and great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next year!

Signed Boz.

FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held its first great half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire. We announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most remarkable Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society should take place, we should be found again at our post, renewing our gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once more making the world ring with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense remarkability of our account of its proceedings. In redemption of this pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th instant), the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former report, and who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself,—has forwarded a series of letters, which, for faithfulness of description, power of language, fervour of thought, happiness of expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal in the epistolary literature of any age or country. We give this gentleman’s correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached our office.

‘Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, half-past eight.

‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was leaving London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of loneliness and a sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts, and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence of my carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect nature composed!

‘Il signor Jobba ideò un ingegnoso strumento basato su un piano originale, al fine di far aumentare premiamente il valore delle azioni ferroviarie quotate in borsa. L’strumento aveva l’aspetto di un elegante orologio da parete dorato, estremamente attraente a vedersi; all’interno, dei fili venivano utilizzati per azionarlo, proprio come in uno spettacolo di pantomima. Questi fili erano sempre controllati dai dirigenti della società a cui apparteneva l’strumento. Il mercurio all’interno dell’orologio era posizionato in modo così ingegnoso che, quando i dirigenti effettivamente possedevano azioni della società, sul vetro apparivano cifre che indicavano spese molto basse e profitti elevati; tuttavia, non appena questi dirigenti vendevano le loro azioni, la stima delle spese necessarie aumentava improvvisamente in modo drastico, mentre i calcoli relativi ai profitti diminuivano nella stessa misura. Il signor Jobba affermò che l’strumento fosse stato utilizzato costantemente negli ultimi mesi e che non aveva mai funzionato male.’

Un membro espresse il suo parere, dicendo che tutto era estremamente ordinato e bello. Voleva sapere se ci fosse il rischio di malfunzionamenti accidentali. Il signor Jobba rispose che l’intera macchina poteva senza dubbio esplodere, ma quella era l’unica obiezione possibile.

Il professor Nogo arrivò dal reparto di anatomia per esporre un modello di sistema di fuga antincendio sicuro, che poteva essere installato in qualsiasi momento, in meno di mezz’ora; grazie a esso, le persone più giovani o più deboli avrebbero potuto salvarsi semplicemente reggendosi per pochi minuti sul davanzale della finestra della propria camera da letto e uscire senza cadere in strada. Il professor Nogo dichiarò che il numero di ragazzi salvati durante il giorno grazie a questo sistema, nelle case che non erano in fiamme, era quasi incredibile. Negli ultimi mesi, in tutta Londra non si era verificata nessuna incendio per cui questo sistema non fosse stato immediatamente attivato davanti a un gran numero di persone.

“Il Presidente chiese se non ci fossero difficoltà nel capire quale parte della macchina fosse la parte superiore e quale quella inferiore, in caso di emergenze urgenti.”

Il professor Nogo spiegò che, naturalmente, non si poteva aspettare che funzionasse esattamente allo stesso benissimo modo quando c’era un incendio, rispetto a quando non c’era; tuttavia, nel primo caso, secondo lui, il risultato sarebbe stato lo stesso indipendentemente dal fatto che la parte superiore fosse rivolta verso l’alto o verso il basso.

Con la última sección, nuestro corresponsal concluye su informe más exhaustivo y fidedigno, que sin duda seguirá honrando su reputación por sus logros científicos, así como el espíritu emprendedor de nosotros mismos. No es necesario revisar nuevamente los temas tratados, ni el modo en que fueron examinados, ni las grandes verdades que se desvelaron a través de ellos. Ahora están al alcance del mundo entero; nos limitamos a dejarlos para que sean leídos, reflexionados y aprovechados por todos.

Il luogo dell’incontro per l’anno prossimo è stato oggetto di discussioni e, alla fine, è stato scelto in base alla qualità dei suoi vini, all’approvvigionamento dei suoi mercati, all’ospitalità dei suoi abitanti e alla qualità degli hotel presenti. Speriamo che anche questa volta il nostro corrispondente sia presente a quell’incontro, affinché possiamo nuovamente far conoscere le sue comunicazioni al mondo intero. Fino ad allora, abbiamo deciso di permettere la vendita al dettaglio o all’ingrosso di questo numero della nostra pubblicazione, senza aumentare il prezzo rispetto a quello abituale.

Dobbiamo solo aggiungere che i comitati sono ora sciolti e che Mudfog ha nuovamente ritrovato la sua solita tranquillità; i professori e i membri hanno partecipato a balli, serate e cene, scambiandosi molti complimenti reciproci, e infine si sono dispersi ognuno per la propria casa, dove li attendono buoni desideri e gioie, fino al prossimo anno!

Firmato Boz.

Rapporto completo della seconda riunione dell’Associazione Mudfrog
per la promozione di ogni cosa

Nell’ottobre dello scorso anno, ci siamo resi un immortale onore registrando, a un enorme costo e con sforzi senza precedenti nella storia della pubblicazione periodica, i verbali dell’Associazione Mudfog per il Progresso di Tutto Ciò che Esiste; quell’associazione aveva infatti tenuto nel mese stesso la sua prima grande riunione semestrale, suscitando lo stupore e la gioia di tutto l’impero. Alla fine di quel rapporto straordinario e davvero notevole, annunciammo che, quando si sarebbe tenuta la seconda riunione dell’associazione, ci saremmo nuovamente trovati al nostro posto, riprendendo i nostri sforzi giganteschi e appassionati per far risuonare il mondo ancora una volta della precisione, autenticità, incomparabile superiorità e straordinaria rilevanza dei nostri resoconti. Per mantenere questa promessa, inviammo per ferrovia a Oldcastle – dove si tenne effettivamente la seconda riunione il 20 dello stesso mese – lo stesso gentiluomo dotato di capacità straordinarie che aveva fornito il rapporto precedente; quest’ultimo, donato dalla natura con abilità eccezionali e assistito da un gruppo di collaboratori quasi altrettanto competenti, inviò una serie di lettere le quali, per la fedeltà delle descrizioni, la forza del linguaggio, la passione nel pensiero, la felicità nell’espressione e l’importanza degli argomenti trattati, non hanno eguali nella letteratura epistolare di alcuna epoca o nazione. Presentiamo dunque l’intera corrispondenza di questo gentiluomo, nella sequenza in cui ci è arrivata.

“Saloon of Steamer, giovedì sera, le otto e mezza.”

Quando questa sera lasciai New Burlington Street a bordo del calessino con tettuccio aperto, numero quattromila duecento ottantacinque, provai sensazioni così nuove e al contempo opprimenti. Una consapevolezza dell’importanza della missione che avevo intrapreso, il fatto di starmene lasciando Londra, e, cosa ancora più strana, di dirigermi verso un altro luogo. Un senso di solitudine e le scosse del veicolo confusero completamente i miei pensieri, al punto che per un po’ non mi resi nemmeno conto della presenza della mia borsa da viaggio e della scatola per il cappello. Sarò sempre grato all’autista di un omnibus di Blackwall che, infilando il palo del suo veicolo attraverso la piccola porta del calessino, mi risvegliò da quel tumulto di pensieri completamente indescrivibili. Ma è proprio di materiali del genere che è fatta la nostra imperfetta >natura!

‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I hear that he has got the steam up.

‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On Mr. Slug’s bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter, carefully closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful instrument of a new construction, doubtless.’

‘Ten minutes past nine.

‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again. I learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as opportunities arise.’

‘Half past nine.

‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a travelling carriage.’

‘A quarter to ten.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Half-past ten.

The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal distances down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs; but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He is a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or a mulatto, but I think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery. Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his humane efforts prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable, there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time, and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the passengers’ supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities. Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities!’

‘Half-past eleven.

‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed that gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.’

‘Twenty minutes to twelve.

‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

‘Twelve o’clock.

‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor Woodensconce ought to have come off victorious. There is an exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.’

“Sono felice di poter dire di essere il primo passeggero a bordo, e quindi sarò in grado di raccontarvi tutto ciò che accade nell’ordine in cui avviene. La ciminiera fuma molto, così come l’equipaggio; inoltre, mi è stato detto che il capitano è molto ubriaco in una piccola casa sul ponte, qualcosa di simile a un posto di ristoro lungo la strada. Da tutto ciò che sento, deduco che abbia già messo in funzione i motori a vapore.”

‘Potete facilmente immaginare con quali sentimenti abbia appena scoperto che la mia cuccetta si trova nello stesso armadio di quelle riservate al Professor Woodensconce, al signor Slug e al Professor Grime. Il Professor Woodensconce ha preso lo scaffale sopra di me, mentre il signor Slug e il Professor Grime hanno occupato gli scaffali opposti. I loro bagagli sono già arrivati; sul letto del signor Slug c’è un lungo tubo di latta, di circa tre pollici di diametro, chiuso con cura alle due estremità. Cosa può contenere? Senza dubbio, qualche strumento potente di nuova concezione.’

“Nove minuti passati dalle nove.”

‘Nessuno è ancora arrivato, e nulla di fresco mi è capitato sotto mano, tranne alcune coste di manzo e agnello; da questo deduco che per domani sarà preparato un buon pasto semplice. C’è un odore strano laggiù sotto, all’inizio mi ha messo a disagio, ma poiché lo steward dice che è sempre presente e non scompare mai, ora mi sento di nuovo a mio agio. Da quest’uomo ho appreso che le varie porzioni verranno distribuite nei luoghi chiamati Black Boy, Stomach-Ache, Boot-Jack e Countenance. Se questa informazione è vera (e non ho motivo di dubitarne), i vostri lettori potranno trarre le conclusioni che i loro diversi punti di vista suggeriranno.’

“Scrivo queste osservazioni non appena mi vengono in mente, o non appena vengo a conoscenza dei fatti, affinché le mie prime impressioni non perdano nulla della loro vividezza originale. Le invierò una dopo l’altra non appena ne avrò l’occasione.”

“Mezzanotte e mezza.”

“Qualcosa di scuro è appena apparso sul molo. Penso sia una carrozza in movimento.”

‘Quaranta minuti a mezzanotte.’

“No, non lo è.”

“Mezzanotte e mezza.”

I passeggeri stanno affluendo in continuazione. Quattro autobus pieni sono appena arrivati al molo, e c’è un gran trambusto ovunque. Il rumore e la confusione sono davvero molto forti. Vengono stesi teli nelle cabine, e il cameriere sistema piatti blu, sui quali sono disposte delle fette di formaggio a distanze uguali lungo il centro dei tavoli. Ne perde molte, ma essendo abituato a farlo, le raccoglie con grande destrezza e, dopo averle pulite sulla manica, le rimette nei piatti. È un giovane dall’aspetto estremamente attraente, o forse è sporco, o magari è mulatto, ma penso che sia il primo caso.

“Un interessante vecchio signore, che è arrivato al molo in un omnibus, ha appena avuto una violenta lite con i portieri e ora barcolla verso la nave tenendo un grande baule tra le braccia. Spero davvero che riesca ad arrivarci sano e salvo; ma il ponte che deve attraversare è stretto e scivoloso. È stato quel rumore d’acqua? Oh, mio Dio!”

“Sono appena tornato dal ponte. Il baule si trova sull’estremità del molo, ma non si vede da nessuna parte quel vecchio signore. Il custode non è sicuro se sia sceso giù o meno, ma promette di cercarlo domani mattina all’alba. Possano i suoi sforzi umanitari avere successo!”

“Il professor Nogo, con il suo bicchiere di liquore notturno sotto il cappello, ha ordinato un bicchiere di brandy freddo e acqua, accompagnati da un biscotto duro e una bacinella, poi è andato direttamente a letto. Cosa può significare questo?”

‘Gli altri tre signori scienziati di cui ho già parlato sono saliti a bordo e hanno tutti provato i loro letti, ad eccezione del professor Woodensconce, che dorme in uno dei letti superiori e non riesce a entrarci; il signor Slug, che dorme nell’altro letto superiore, non riesce a uscirne e dovrà farsi portare la cena da un ragazzo. Ho avuto l’onore di presentarmi a questi signori e abbiamo concordato amichevolmente l’ordine in cui ci ritireremo a riposare; è necessario stabilire questo ordine, perché, sebbene la cabina sia molto confortevole, non c’è spazio per più di un signore che possa essere fuori dal letto allo stesso momento, e anche lui dovrà togliersi le scarpe nel corridoio.’

‘Come mi aspettavo, i pezzi di formaggio erano stati preparati per la cena dei passeggeri e ora stanno venendo consumati. I vostri lettori saranno sorpresi nell’apprendere che il Professor Woodensconce si astiene dal mangiare formaggio da otto anni, anche se consuma grandi quantità di burro. Il Professor Grime, avendo perso diversi denti, non riesce a mangiare le croste del formaggio senza prima immergerle nel suo porto in bottiglia. Che caratteristiche interessanti!’

“Mezzanotte e un quarto.”

‘I professori Woodensconce e Grime, con un certo grado di buon umorismo che ci diverte tutti, hanno appena deciso di giocare a testa o croce per vincere una bottiglia di porto al calore. C’è stata qualche discussione su se il risultato dovesse essere determinato dal primo lancio o dal miglior risultato tra tre tentativi; alla fine è stato scelto quest’ultimo metodo. Vorrei davvero che entrambi i signori vincessero; ma poiché ciò è impossibile, devo ammettere che le mie preferenze personali (parlo a titolo individuale, senza voler compromettere né voi né i vostri lettori con queste parole) sono per il professor Woodensconce. Ho scommesso diciotto penny su di lui.’

“Venti minuti alle dodici.”

“Il professor Grime ha accidentalmente fatto cadere la sua mezza corona da una delle finestre della cabina; è stato deciso che lo steward provi a raccoglierla per lui. Si accettano scommesse su qualsiasi importo, ma nessuno vuole partecipare.”

“Il professor Woodensconce ha appena detto ‘donna’; ma la moneta, essendo rimasta incastrata in un trave, impiegherà molto tempo per cadere di nuovo. L’interesse e l’emozione di questo momento sono al di là di qualsiasi cosa si possa immaginare.”

“Le dodici in punto.”

Il porto al vino caldo fuma davanti a me sul tavolo, e il Professore Grime ha vinto. Il gioco dei dadi è puramente casuale; ma in ogni ambito, sia pubblico che privato, che si tratti di doti intellettuali o di successi scientifici, non posso fare a meno di esprimere la mia opinione: il Professore Woodensconce avrebbe dovuto uscire vincitore. C’è una sorta di euforia intorno al Professore Grime che, temo, non sia compatibile con vera grandezza.

‘A quarter past twelve.

‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he knew it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded in plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will do well to look to this.’

‘One o’clock.

‘I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide, the noise of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear. With these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr. Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest. What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

‘A quarter past one.

‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I am prepared for the worst.’

‘Five minutes later.

‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

‘Twenty minutes before two.

‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

‘Three o’clock.

‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under the impression that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I am assured that the scene which ensued baffles all description. There were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation, that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be situated, the machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the association.’

‘Half-past ten.

‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes. It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

‘Friday afternoon, six o’clock.

‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail. He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost immediately afterwards.’

‘Half-past six.

‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

‘Seven o’clock.

‘A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him. Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he will eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

‘Black Boy and Stomach-ache, Oldcastle, Saturday noon.

‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings and hotels are filled with savans of both sexes. The tremendous assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in the last degree overwhelming.

‘Le dodici e un quarto.’

‘Il professor Grime continua a esultare e a vantarsi della sua vittoria in termini piuttosto esagerati, sostenendo di vincere sempre e che già da prima sapeva che sarebbe stata una “vittoria decisiva”, accompagnando queste affermazioni con molte altre osservazioni dello stesso tenore. Sicuramente questo signore non è così privo di ogni senso della decenza e del decoro da non rendersi conto della superiorità del professor Woodensconce. È forse pazzo, o preferisce che gli venga ricordato in termini chiari quale sia la sua vera posizione nella società, nonché il livello preciso delle sue conoscenze e capacità? A mio parere, al professor Grime farebbe bene di prendere in considerazione questo aspetto.’

‘Le una.’

“Sto scrivendo a letto. La piccola cabina è illuminata dalla debole luce di una lampada che tremola appesa al soffitto; il Professor Grime giace sul ripiano opposto, disteso sulla schiena, con la bocca spalancata. La scena è indescrivibilmente solenne. Il rumore delle onde, i passi dei marinai sopra la mia testa, le voci roche lungo il fiume, i cani sulla riva, il russare dei passeggeri e il costante scricchiolio di ogni tavola della barca. Questi sono gli unici suoni che raggiungono le mie orecchie. A parte questi, regna un profondo silenzio.”

“La mia curiosità è stata molto stimolata nell’ultimo momento. Il signor Slug, che si trova sopra il professor Grime, ha cautamente tirato indietro le tende della sua cuccetta e, dopo aver guardato fuori con ansia, come per assicurarsi che i suoi compagni dormissero, ha preso quel tubo di latta di cui ho parlato prima e lo sta osservando con grande interesse. Quale rara combinazione meccanica può essere contenuta in quella misteriosa scatola? È evidente che si tratti di un segreto profondo, sconosciuto a tutti.”

‘Le una e quarto.’

Il comportamento del signor Slug diventa sempre più misterioso. Ha svitato il coperchio del tubo e ora riprende le sue osservazioni sui suoi compagni, evidentemente per assicurarsi di non essere visto. È chiaramente all’alba di qualche grande esperimento. Prego che non sia pericoloso; ma gli interessi della scienza devono essere promossi, e sono pronto al peggio.

‘Cinque minuti dopo.’

Ha preparato un paio di forbici grandi e ha tirato fuori dalla scatola di latta un rotolo di una sostanza che assomiglia molto alla pergamena. L’esperimento sta per iniziare. Devo sforzarmi al massimo per seguire ogni singola sua fase.

“Venti minuti prima delle due.”

‘Finalmente sono riuscito a verificare che quel tubo di latta contiene alcuni metri di una certa pasta famosa, raccomandata – come leggo attentamente sull’etichetta con il mio monocolo – come rimedio contro il mal di mare. Il signor Slug l’ha tagliata in piccoli pezzi e ora se la sta applicando su tutto il corpo.’

“Le tre in punto.”

‘Esattamente un quarto d’ora fa abbiamo levato l’ancora, e le macchine si sono improvvisamente messe in movimento con un rumore così terribile che il Professor Woodensconce (che era salito nella sua cabina utilizzando una piattaforma fatta di borse di velluto disposte secondo principi geometrici da lui stesso) è schizzato fuori dalla sua cuccetta a testa in avanti; recuperato l’equilibrio con la velocità tipica del terrore estremo, è corso nella cabina delle signore, convinto che stessimo affondando, emettendo grida disperate per chiedere aiuto. Sono certo che la scena che ne è seguita sia al di là di ogni descrizione. A quell’ora, c’erano centoquarantasette signore nelle loro rispettive cabine.’

‘Il signor Slug ha osservato, come ulteriore esempio dell’estrema ingegnosità della macchina a vapore applicata ai fini della navigazione, che in qualsiasi parte della nave si trovi la cabina di un passeggero, la macchinaria sembra sempre essere esattamente sotto il suo cuscino. Intende presentare questa scoperta molto bella, sebbene semplice, all’associazione.’

“Mezzanotte e mezza.”

“Siamo ancora in acque tranquille; voglio dire, in acque così tranquille quanto possano esserlo quelle di una nave a vapore, perché, come ha osservato con erudizione il professor Woodensconce (che si è appena svegliato), un altro grande aspetto ingegnoso delle navi a vapore è che portano sempre con sé un po’ di ‘tempesta’. È quasi impossibile immaginare quanto possa essere emozionante la pulsazione improvvisa della nave. È davvero difficile riuscire a addormentarsi.”

“Venerdì pomeriggio, le sei in punto.”

“Mi dispiace comunicarvi che la gessoia del signor Slug non ha avuto alcun effetto. Sta soffrendo molto, ma ha comunque applicato diversi pezzi di gesso aggiuntivi. Quanto commovente è questa estrema dedizione alla scienza e alla ricerca della conoscenza, anche nelle circostanze più difficili!”

‘Stamattina eravamo estremamente felici, e la colazione è stata davvero una delle più piacevoli che abbiamo mai avuto. Niente di sgradevole è accaduto fino a mezzogiorno, ad eccezione del fatto che l’ombrello di seta marrone e il cappello bianco del Dottor Foxey si sono impigliati nella macchinaria mentre spiegava alle signore il funzionamento della macchina a vapore. Temo che la zuppa di carne per pranzo non sia stata una scelta saggia. Poco dopo abbiamo perso molti passeggeri.’

“Le sei e mezza.”

“Sono di nuovo a letto. Niente è mai stato così straziante da vedere come le sofferenze del signor Slug.”

“Le sette in punto.”

“Un messaggero è appena sceso per prendere un fazzoletto pulito dalla borsa del professor Woodensconce: quel povero signore non riesce affatto a lasciare il ponte e continua a supplicare di essere gettato in mare. Da quest’uomo ho saputo che il professor Nogo, sebbene in uno stato di estrema spossatezza, si aggrappa debolmente ai biscotti duri, al brandy freddo e all’acqua, convinto che questi possano ancora ristabilirlo. Ecco il trionfo della mente sulla materia.”

‘Il professor Grime è a letto; a prima vista sembra stare piuttosto bene; ma mangia comunque, e è davvero spiacevole vederlo in quello stato. Questo signore non prova alcuna compassione per le sofferenze dei suoi simili? Se sì, su quale principio può chiedere di essere servito costolette di agnello, e sorridere?’

“Black Boy e mal di stomaco,
Oldcastle, sabato a mezzogiorno.”

“Sarà felice di sapere che finalmente sono arrivato qui sano e salvo. La città è estremamente affollata, e tutte le locande private e gli hotel sono pieni di sapienti di entrambi i sessi. L’enorme concentrazione di intelletto che si incontra in ogni strada è davvero sopraffacente.”

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements. Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw-dust with which the floors are sprinkled. The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

‘Half-past nine.

‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr. Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet through, and looked extremely intelligent.’

‘Sunday, two o’clock, p.m.

‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to ascertain the truth from him.’

‘Half-past six.

‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence, passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such event had recently occurred there. From this point I proceeded—passing the gas-works and tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to me as the beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed, that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police regulation, and added with peculiar significance “Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit. After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say, behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in italics) that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning at the Boot-jack and Countenance, to keep off the boys; and that he had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed, with the same object, at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle, without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn that a beadle can be called out by any civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor law regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of the street is not free and open to any man, boy, or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not.’

‘Nine o’clock.

‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian’s eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.’

‘Nonostante la folla numerosa qui intorno, sono stato abbastanza fortunato da trovare un alloggio molto confortevole a condizioni molto ragionevoli: ho ottenuto un divano nel corridoio del primo piano per una ghinea a notte, con il permesso di consumare i pasti al bar, a condizione che in tutti gli altri momenti camminassi per le strade per lasciare spazio ad altri gentiluomini nella stessa situazione. Ho visitato anche le strutture destinate ad accogliere i vari gruppi, sia qui che al Boot-jack e al Countenance, ed sono molto soddisfatto degli arrangiamenti fatti. Niente può superare l’aspetto fresco dei pavimenti, puliti con la polvere di segatura. I mobili sono realizzati in legno non levigato, e l’effetto complessivo, come potete facilmente immaginare, è estremamente bello.’

“Le nove e mezza.”

‘Il numero e la rapidità di questi arrivi sono davvero sconcertanti. Negli ultimi dieci minuti, un treno viaggiante si è fermato davanti alla porta, pieno fino all’orlo di personaggi illustri: il signor Muddlebranes, il signor Drawley, il professor Muff, il signor X. Misty, il signor X. X. Misty, il signor Purblind, il professor Rummun, l’onorevole e reverendo signor Long Eers, il professor John Ketch, sir William Joltered, il dottor Buffer, il signor Smith (di Londra), il signor Brown (di Edimburgo), sir Hookham Snivey e il professor Pumpkinskull. Gli ultimi dieci gentiluomini menzionati erano completamente bagnati e sembravano estremamente intelligenti.’

Domenica, due ore pomeridiane

“L’onorevole e rispettabile signor Long Eers, accompagnato da sir William Jolter, ha camminato e viaggiato questa mattina. Ha compiuto il primo atto indossando stivali, mentre per il secondo ha utilizzato una carrozza noleggiata. Naturalmente, questo ha scatenato molte discussioni.”

“Ho appena saputo che è avvenuta un’intervista presso il Boot-jack and Countenance tra Sowster, l’attiva e intelligente custode di questo luogo, e il Professor Pumpkinskull, che, come i vostri lettori sicuramente sanno, è un membro influente del consiglio. Rinuncio per ora a diffondere qualsiasi voce possa derivare da questo straordinario evento, fino a quando non avrò incontrato Sowster e cercato di conoscere la verità direttamente da lui.”

“Le sei e mezza.”

Poco dopo aver scritto quanto sopra, noleggiai una carrozza trainata da un mulo e partii al trotto verso la residenza di Sowster, attraversando un bellissimo paesaggio rurale con edifici in mattoni rossi su entrambi i lati. Mi fermai nel mercato per osservare il luogo dove ieri il cappello del signor Kwakley era stato soffiato via dal vento. Il selciato in quel punto era irregolare, ma non presentava alcun segno che potesse far pensare che un evento del genere fosse avvenuto di recente lì. Proseguii oltre, superando le fabbriche di gas e i laboratori per la produzione di sego, fino a raggiungere una stradina che mi era stata indicata come residenza del sagrestano; non avevo percorso nemmeno dodici metri quando ebbi la fortuna di incontrare Sowster stesso mentre si avvicinava a me.

‘Sowster è un uomo grasso, con quella particolare conformazione del viso che comunemente viene definita “doppio mento”, una caratteristica più evidente di qualsiasi altra abbia mai visto prima. Ha anche il naso molto rosso; attribuisce questo colore all’abitudine di alzarsi presto la mattina. Così rosso, in effetti, che se non fosse per questa spiegazione, avrei pensato che derivasse da occasionali ubriachezze. Mi ha detto di non sentirsi libero di raccontare ciò che è accaduto tra lui e il Professor Pumpkinskull, ma non aveva obiezioni ad affermare che la cosa fosse legata a questioni di ordine pubblico. E ha aggiunto, con un tono particolarmente significativo: “Non si erano mai visti tempi del genere!”

“Potrete facilmente credere che questa notizia mi abbia causato notevole sorpresa, non del tutto priva di ansia; non ho perso dunque tempo ad andare dal Professor Pumpkinskull per esporre lo scopo della mia visita. Dopo alcuni momenti di riflessione, il professor – devo dire che si è comportato con la massima cortesia – ammise apertamente (sottolineo questo passaggio in grassetto) che aveva chiesto a Sowster di recarsi lunedì mattina al Boot-jack and Countenance per tenere lontani i ragazzi; inoltre, aveva anche desiderato che il sotto-baile fosse messo di guardia, allo stesso scopo, al Black Boy and Stomach-ache!”

“Ora lascio questa procedura incostituzionale ai vostri commenti e all’esame dei vostri lettori. Non ho ancora appreso che un beadle, al di fuori dei confini di una chiesa, di un cimitero o di un centro assistenziale, e agendo senza l’esplicita autorizzazione dei funzionari ecclesiastici riuniti in consiglio, abbia alcun potere legittimo per far rispettare la legge nei confronti delle persone che si recano nella parrocchia o di altri trasgressori. Non ho ancora appreso che un beadle possa essere chiamato da un civile per esercitare dominio e dispotismo sui ragazzi della Gran Bretagna. Non ho ancora appreso che i funzionari incaricati della regolamentazione degli assistenti sociali permettano a un beadle di logorare le suole e i tacchi delle sue scarpe interferendo illegalmente con le libertà delle persone che non sono state riconosciute povere o colpevoli di altri reati. Non ho ancora appreso che un beadle abbia il potere di bloccare a piacimento la strada della Regina, né che l’intera larghezza della strada non sia libera e aperta a qualsiasi uomo, ragazzo o donna esistente, fino alle stesse pareti delle case. Che siano questi ‘Black Boys’ o ‘Stomach-aches’, ‘Boot-jacks’ o ‘Countenances’, non mi interessa.”

“Le nove in punto.”

Ho fatto venire un artista locale affinché realizzasse uno schizzo fedele di Sowster, il tiranno. Visto che ha ottenuto questa fama infame, sicuramente vorrete che venga inciso, in modo da poterlo includere insieme a ogni copia della vostra prossima pubblicazione. Vielo allegare.

immagine che non può essere riprodotta

Il vice-cappellano ha acconsentito a scrivere la storia della sua vita, ma dovrà essere fatto in modo strettamente anonimo.

‘L’immagine che accompagna il racconto proviene naturalmente dalla sua vita reale ed è completa sotto ogni aspetto. Anche se fossi stato completamente all’ignaro del vero carattere di quell’uomo, e se mi fosse stata mostrata senza alcuna spiegazione, avrei rabbrividito involontariamente. Nelle sue sembianze c’è un’intensa malvagità nell’espressione, e nello sguardo di quel furfante si legge una ferocia minacciosa che incute terrore e disgusto. L’intera sua aria trasuda crudeltà; anche il suo comportamento riflette appieno le sue tendenze demoniache.’

‘Monday.

‘The great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears, nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies and proceed to the account.

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Sir William Joltered. Vice-Presidents—Mr. Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley.

‘Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the disappearance of dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace, gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until not one remained to create a taste for natural history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed. One bear, indeed,—a brown and ragged animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted to add that a similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to monkeys. These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to three organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments, and the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the deepest importance, in connection with national education, that the people should not lose such opportunities of making themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of two most interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly intellectual amusements.

‘The President inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to attain this most desirable end?

‘The Author submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘Professor Mull doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject. He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to which the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came by nature. He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed the want of encouragement the bears had met with to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of ability on the part of the bears themselves?

‘Mr. X. X. Misty replied, that he could not bring himself to believe but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.

‘Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity of calling the attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know whether it were possible that a constant outward application of bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly infused into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which, without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘The President highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity, which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly verging into a generation of bears.

“Lunedì”.

“Il grande giorno è finalmente arrivato. Non ho occhi, né orecchie, né pensieri, né inchiostro, né carta. Nulla se non per descrivere questi meravigliosi eventi che hanno sconvolto i miei sensi. Lasciate che raccolga le mie energie e proceda con il resoconto.”

‘SEZIONE A – ZOLOGIA E BOTANICA. SALONE D’INGRESSO, IL RAGAZZO NERO E I DOLORI ADDOMINALI.’

Presidente—Sir William Jolter. Vicepresidenti—Signor Muddlebranes e Signor Drawley.

‘Il signor X. X. Misty ha espresso alcune osservazioni riguardo alla scomparsa degli orsi ballerini dalle strade di Londra, nonché commenti sull’esposizione di scimmie in relazione agli organi a barile. L’autore ha riferito, con profondo dolore e rammarico, che alcuni anni fa si è verificato un improvviso e inspiegabile cambiamento nei gusti del pubblico riguardo agli orsi itineranti: questi, disdegnati dalla gente comune, sono gradualmente scomparsi una dopo l’altra dalle strade della metropoli, fino a quando non ne è rimasto nessuno a suscitare nell’animo dei poveri e degli ignoranti alcun interesse per la “storia naturale”. Un orso, in particolare – un animale marrone e malandato – continuava ancora a girovagare nei luoghi dove un tempo aveva riscosso successo, con un aspetto stanco e depresso e arti deboli; tentava ancora di esibirsi davanti alla folla con il suo bastone, ma la fame e l’assenza di qualsiasi ricompensa adeguata per le sue capacità lo hanno infine costretto a lasciare quel mestiere. Ed è molto probabile che sia diventato vittima della crescente preferenza per gli alimenti grassi. L’autore si rammarica inoltre che un cambiamento simile, e altrettanto deplorevole, si sia verificato anche riguardo alle scimmie: queste deliziose animali un tempo erano quasi così numerose quanto gli organi musicali su cui avevano l’abitudine di sedersi; nel 1829, secondo i dati parlamentari, il rapporto era di una scimmia ogni tre organi. Tuttavia, a causa del cambiamento dei gusti nella musica e della sostituzione, in gran parte, degli organi con piccoli strumenti musicali chiusi, le scimmie hanno perso completamente questa fonte di divertimento per il pubblico. Ritenendo che sia di estrema importanza, in relazione all’educazione nazionale, evitare che la gente perda queste opportunità di conoscere i comportamenti e le abitudini di due specie di animali così interessanti, l’autore propone che vengano immediatamente adottate misure per ripristinare questi piacevoli e davvero intellettuali divertimenti.’

“Il Presidente chiese con quali mezzi il rispettabile membro intendesse raggiungere questo scopo tanto desiderabile.”

“L’Autrice sostiene che ciò potrebbe essere realizzato in modo più completo e soddisfacente se il Governo di Sua Maestà facesse trasferire in Inghilterra, a spese pubbliche e per divertimento del pubblico, un numero sufficiente di orsi in modo che ogni quartiere della città potesse essere visitato almeno tre volte a settimana. Non ci sarebbero alcun problema nell’organizzare un luogo adatto per ospitare questi animali, poiché si potrebbe costruire un comodo giardino degli orsi nelle immediate vicinanze di entrambe le Camere del Parlamento: ovviamente il luogo più appropriato e idoneo per una simile iniziativa.”

Il professor Mull dubitava molto che alcune idee corrette sulla storia naturale venissero diffuse attraverso i mezzi di cui l’onorevole membro aveva parlato con tanta abilità. Al contrario, riteneva che quei mezzi avessero contribuito a diffondere nozioni molto errate e imperfette sull’argomento. Si basava su osservazioni personali ed esperienze dirette quando affermava che molti bambini di grande talento fossero stati indotti a credere, in base a ciò che avevano visto per strada, che tutti i scimmioni nascessero con giacche rosse e decorazioni luccicanti, e che anche i loro cappelli e piume derivassero dalla >natura. Voleva sapere con certezza se l’onorevole gentiluomo attribuisse la mancanza di incoraggiamenti ricevuti dai orsi al declino del gusto pubblico in quel campo, o piuttosto a una carenza di capacità da parte degli stessi orsi.

“Il signor X. X. Misty rispose che non riusciva a crederci, ma che doveva esserci un gran numero di persone con talento ‘fluttuante’ tra orsi e scimmie in generale; queste persone, in assenza di qualsiasi incoraggiamento adeguato, finivano per dispersarsi in altre direzioni.”

‘Il Professor Pumpkinskull volle cogliere l’occasione per attirare l’attenzione del pubblico su un punto estremamente importante e grave. L’autore del trattato appena letto aveva accennato al diffuso uso dell’olio di orso come mezzo per promuovere la crescita dei capelli, pratica che, a suo parere, era diffusa in misura molto ampia e preoccupante. Ogni gentiluomo presente non poteva non rendersi conto del fatto che i giovani d’oggi, dal loro comportamento per le strade e in tutti i luoghi di ritrovo pubblico, dimostravano una notevole mancanza di quella cortesia e di quei modi da gentiluomini che, in tempi meno illuminati, erano considerati appropriati. Il professor Pumpkinskull voleva sapere se fosse possibile che l’uso costante di olio di orso da parte dei giovani cittadini avesse, in modo insospettato, influenzato negativamente il loro comportamento, conferendo loro qualcosa della “natura” e delle caratteristiche dell’orso stesso. Rabbrividì mentre formulava questa ipotesi; ma se, dopo ulteriori indagini, si fosse dimostrata fondata, avrebbe spiegato molte di quelle stranezze comportamentali che, altrimenti, sarebbero rimaste del tutto inspiegabili.’

“Il Presidente elogiò molto il gentiluomo per la sua preziosa proposta, che ebbe un grande impatto sull’assemblea; e osservò che solo una settimana prima aveva visto alcuni giovani uomini in teatro fissare con intensità una fila di signore, un comportamento che poteva essere spiegato soltanto da un appetito primitivo. È terribile pensare che la nostra gioventù stia rapidamente trasformandosi in una generazione di individui rozzi e brutali.”

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration of the council.

‘The President wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given to understand that since that period they had supported themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shakspeare, which has taken root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine Shakspeare, by which name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘The President wished to know what botanical definition the honourable gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a decided plant.

‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE. LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

President—Mr. Mallett. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the section buttoning their pockets,

‘The President narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction. Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘Mr. Crinkles stated that, after encountering some preliminary difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to its being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have the inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘The President hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘Professor Grime suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘Mr. Crinkles said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to recognise the utility of the invention.

‘The President observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement. His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant working.

‘Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a proposition of great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models, and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled “Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His proposition was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be further provided with whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night, and regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose, every day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when they were humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside any article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if they liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoyment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the event of their being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other, the inventor had turned his attention to the construction of an entirely new police force, composed exclusively of automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not stop even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds for noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they would repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic investigation would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite equal to life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they would be previously provided for the purpose. This office would be furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to very little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.

Dopo un momento di entusiasmo scientifico, si decise che questa importante questione dovesse essere immediatamente sottoposta all’esame del consiglio.

“Il Presidente voleva sapere se qualcuno potesse informare il gruppo su cosa fosse accaduto ai cani danzanti, ”

Un membro rispose, dopo qualche esitazione, che il giorno successivo all’arresto di tre cantanti di canzoni allegre come criminali da parte di un magistrato di polizia estremamente zelante della capitale, i >cani avevano abbandonato le loro mansioni professionali e si erano dispersi in diverse zone della città per guadagnarsi da vivere con metodi meno pericolosi. Gli fu spiegato che da allora si sostentavano tendendo agguati e derubando i cani dei ciechi.

‘Il signor Flummery mostrò un rametto, sostenendo che si trattasse di un vero e proprio ramo di quel nobile albero conosciuto dagli scienziati come Shakespeare, che ha radici in ogni terra e clima, e sotto l’ombra dei suoi ampi rami verdi ha raccolto tutta la grande famiglia dell’umanità. Il dottore osservò che quel rametto senza dubbio era stato chiamato con altri nomi in passato; ma che una vecchia signora del Warwickshire, dove quell’albero era cresciuto, gli aveva indicato proprio quello come un germoglio autentico di Shakespeare, e per questo motivo egli chiese di poter presentarlo ai suoi connazionali con quel nome.’

“Il Presidente desiderava sapere quale definizione botanica l’onorevole gentiluomo potesse fornire di questa curiosità.”

“Il signor Flummery espresse il suo parere secondo cui si trattava di una pianta decisamente particolare.”

‘SEZIONE B – MOSTRA DI MODELLI E SCIENZE MECCANICHE. STANZA AMPIA, ATTREZZATA CON APPARECCHI PER IL MANIPOLAMENTO DEI MODELLI E ALTRI STRUMENTI.’

Presidente—Signor Mallett. Vicepresidenti—Signori Leaver e Scroo.

‘Il signor Crinkles mostrò una macchina davvero bellissima e delicata, di dimensioni leggermente superiori a quelle di una comune scatola da tabacco; era stata interamente costruita da lui stesso ed era composta esclusivamente di acciaio. Con il suo aiuto si potevano rubare più tasche in un’ora rispetto al lento e noioso processo attuale, che richiedeva ventiquattro ore. L’inventore precisò che tale macchina veniva già utilizzata attivamente in Fleet Street, nella Strand e in altre strade principali, e che non si era mai verificato alcun problema con il suo funzionamento.’

“Dopo un breve ritardo, causato dal fatto che i vari membri del gruppo si sistemavano le tasche, ”

Il Presidente esaminò attentamente l’invenzione e dichiarò di non aver mai visto una macchina con costruzione più bella ed elegante. L’inventore sarebbe stato così gentile da informare il dipartimento su eventuali misure adottate per renderla operativa a livello generale?

‘Il signor Crinkles dichiarò che, dopo aver incontrato alcune difficoltà iniziali, era riuscito a mettersi in contatto con il signor Fogle Hunter e altri gentiluomini legati a quella cerchia di persone influenti, i quali avevano dato all’invenzione la più alta e incondizionata approvazione. Tuttavia, si rammaricò di dover dire che questi illustri esperti, insieme a un certo signor Gimlet-eyed Tommy e ad altri membri di rango inferiore della professione che, a quanto pare, rappresentava anche lui, avevano un’opposizione insormontabile all’introduzione generale dell’invenzione. Secondo loro, essa avrebbe avuto l’effetto inevitabile di sostituire quasi completamente il lavoro manuale, mandando così moltissime persone meritevoli senza lavoro.’

“Il Presidente sperava che obiezioni così fantasiose non venissero tollerate, al fine di non ostacolare un così importante miglioramento pubblico.”

Anche il signor Crinkles lo sperava; ma temeva che, se i membri di quella folla ostile avessero continuato a opporsi, non si sarebbe potuto fare nulla.

Il professor Grime suggerì che, sicuramente, in quel caso, si potrebbe convincere il Governo di Sua Maestà ad occuparsene.

“Il signor Crinkles disse che, se si fosse rivelato impossibile superare l’obiezione, avrebbe presentato una richiesta al Parlamento, convinto che quest’ultimo non potesse fare a meno di riconoscere l’utilità dell’invenzione.”

“Il Presidente osservò che, fino a questo momento, il Parlamento se l’era certamente cavata molto bene senza di essa; ma poiché svolgeva le proprie attività su larga scala, non aveva alcun >dubbio che avrebbe accolto con piacere questa innovazione. La sua unica >paura era che la macchina potesse usurarsi a causa di un utilizzo costante.”

‘Il signor Coppernose attirò l’attenzione del pubblico su una proposta di grande importanza e interesse, illustrata da un gran numero di modelli, e esposta con grande chiarezza e precisione in un trattato intitolato “Suggerimenti pratici sulla necessità di fornire ai giovani nobili d’Inghilterra distrazioni innocue e salutari”. La sua proposta prevedeva l’acquisto di un terreno non inferiore a dieci miglia di lunghezza e quattro di larghezza, da parte di una nuova società costituita per legge parlamentare, e delimitato da mura in mattoni alte almeno dodici piedi. Si proponeva inoltre di predisporre nel terreno strade principali, pedaggi, ponti, villaggi in miniatura e ogni elemento che potesse contribuire al comfort e alla gloria dei club dedicati alle gite a quattro cavalli, in modo che i membri di tali club non avessero bisogno di recarsi altrove per divertirsi. Questo delizioso rifugio sarebbe stato dotato di stalle molto comode e spaziose, per il piacere di quei nobili e gentiluomini che amavano occuparsi personalmente delle loro cavalcature, nonché di locali di intrattenimento arredati con estrema eleganza. Sarebbero state inoltre fornite strade intere piene di campanelli e maniglie di porta di dimensioni particolarmente grandi, facilmente rimuovibili di notte e riposizionabili ogni giorno da personale appositamente incaricato. Ci sarebbero state lampade a gas realizzate in vetro, facili da sostituire in caso di rottura, e un ampio marciapiede per i gentiluomini che volessero passeggiare con i loro cabrioletti; per il divertimento degli spettatori, sarebbero stati reperiti passanti dal ricovero per indigenti a un costo molto basso. Poiché il luogo sarebbe stato completamente recintato e protetto dalla presenza del pubblico, non ci sarebbero state obiezioni se i gentiluomini avessero deciso di togliersi qualsiasi indumento che potesse ostacolare le loro attività ludiche, o addirittura di girovagare completamente nudi, se così preferivano. In breve, sarebbero state fornite tutte le opportunità per il divertimento più raffinato. Tuttavia, anche queste facilitazioni sarebbero risultate incomplete senza un sistema che permettesse ai nobili e gentiluomini di dimostrare le loro abilità dopo cena; quindi l’inventore aveva pensato di creare una nuova forza di polizia composta esclusivamente da figure automatizzate, realizzate con grande precisione dal signor Gagliardi di Windmill-street, nel Haymarket. Queste figure, quando attaccate da sei o otto nobili o gentiluomini, emettevano grida e suppliche di pietà, rendendo l’illusione ancora più realistica e il divertimento perfetto. Oltre a ciò, sarebbero state costruite stazioni di polizia dotate di letti confortevoli per i nobili durante la notte; al mattino, questi si sarebbero recati in un ufficio di polizia dove avvenivano “indagini” condotte da magistrati automatizzati, che li multavano con una certa somma di denaro previamente stabilita. L’ufficio era anche dotato di una piana inclinata, per permettere ai nobili di portare i loro cavalli come testimoni; inoltre, i “prigionieri” avrebbero potuto interrompere liberamente i querelanti e fare qualsiasi commento ritenessero opportuno. Il costo di questi divertimenti sarebbe stato molto simile a quello attuale, e l’inventore sosteneva che il pubblico ne avrebbe tratto grande beneficio.

‘Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of automaton police force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘Mr. Coppernose replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘The President, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘Professor Muff.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials it is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘Mr. Coppernose.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can possibly be obtained.

‘Professor Muff.—I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

‘Professor Nogo.—I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that the magistrates ought to talk.

‘Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause that the invention was complete; and the President, much excited, retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his return,

‘Mr. Tickle displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance, and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was, he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the principle of the human eye.

‘The President required some information upon this point. He had yet to learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the President could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must know, too, with what quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour’s faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If the President differed from the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were made.

‘Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk and water.

‘Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to be so ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went on at all.

‘Mr. Blank.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.

‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Dr. Soemup. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting case of monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment, although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to the necessary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient’s appetite was affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the chest, and another on the back; having done which, and administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were removed. The next day she improved still further, and on the next again. On the fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel, and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred within two hours, the patient’s head should be immediately shaved to the very last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial change had been effected in her whole temperament and condition.

“Il professor Nogo desiderava essere informato su quale fosse l’entità delle forze di polizia automatizzate che si proponeva di aumentare inizialmente.”

“Mr. Coppernose rispose che si proponeva di iniziare con sette divisioni di polizia, ciascuna composta da venti agenti, denominate dalle lettere A fino a G. Si suggeriva che non più della metà di questo numero fosse messa in servizio attivo, mentre il resto dovesse essere tenuto nei locali della polizia, pronto ad essere chiamato in qualsiasi momento.”

Il Presidente, riconoscendo il massimo merito al gentiluomo ingegnoso che aveva avuto l’idea, dubitava che la polizia automata potesse davvero rispondere alle esigenze previste. Temeva inoltre che i nobili e gli altri gentiluomini potessero preferire l’eccitazione derivante dal punire esseri viventi.

‘Il signor Coppernose sostenne che, poiché nelle normali circostanze di questo tipo il rapporto numerico era di dieci nobili o gentiluomini contro un poliziotto o un autista di taxi, non faceva quasi alcuna differenza, in termini di “emozione”, che quel poliziotto o autista fosse un uomo o una statua di pietra. Il grande vantaggio sarebbe stato che, anche se a un poliziotto venissero spezzate tutte le membra, potrebbe comunque svolgere il proprio dovere il giorno dopo. Anzi, potrebbe persino rilasciare la sua testimonianza il mattino seguente, tenendosi la testa tra le mani, e farlo altrettanto bene.’

“Professore Muff. Le permetterebbe di rispondermi, per favore, di quali materiali dovranno essere composte le teste dei magistrati?”

“Signor Coppernose. I magistrati avranno sicuramente teste di legno, e saranno realizzate con i materiali più resistenti e spessi che si possano trovare.”

“Professore Muff. Sono assolutamente soddisfatto. Questa è un’invenzione straordinaria.”

“Professore Nogo. Vedo soltanto un’obiezione in merito. A mio parere, i magistrati dovrebbero parlare.”

Non appena il signor Coppernose sentì questa proposta, premette un piccolo meccanismo nascosto in entrambi i modellini di magistrati posizionati sul tavolo; uno dei personaggi iniziò immediatamente a esclamare con grande fervore quanto gli dispiacesse vedere gentiluomini in una tale situazione, mentre l’altro manifestò la >paura che il poliziotto fosse ubriaco.

“La sezione, all’unanimità, dichiarò con un applauso che l’invenzione era completata; il Presidente, molto eccitato, si ritirò insieme al signor Coppernose per presentarla al consiglio. Al suo ritorno, ”

‘Il signor Tickle mostrò i suoi occhiali appena inventati, che permettevano al loro portatore di vedere gli oggetti a grande distanza in colori molto vividi, ma rendevano completamente cieco ciò che si trovava immediatamente davanti a lui. Disse che si trattava di un’invenzione estremamente preziosa e utile, basata rigorosamente sui principi funzionamenti dell’occhio umano.’

Il Presidente richiedeva alcune informazioni su questo argomento. Non aveva ancora appreso che l’occhio umano presentasse quelle particolarità di cui il gentiluomo aveva parlato.

‘Mr. Tickle rimase piuttosto sorpreso nell’udire queste parole; il Presidente, infatti, non poteva ignorare che un gran numero di persone eccellenti e grandi statisti fossero in grado di vedere, a occhio nudo, orrori straordinari nelle piantagioni delle Indie Occidentali, mentre non riuscivano a percepire assolutamente nulla all’interno delle filature di cotone di Manchester. Doveva anche sapere con quanta rapidità la maggior parte delle persone riesca a individuare i difetti del proprio prossimo, e quanto invece siano cieche riguardo ai propri. Se il Presidente si discostava dalla grande maggioranza degli uomini in questo senso, allora il suo “occhio” era difettoso, ed erano proprio questi occhiali a essere stati creati per aiutare la sua vista.’

Il signor Blank mostrò un modello di un calendario alla moda, realizzato interamente con lastre di rame, foglia d’oro e tavole di seta, e lavorato esclusivamente con latte e acqua.

“Signor Prosee, dopo aver esaminato la macchina, dichiarò che era così ingegnosamente costruita da non riuscire affatto a capire come funzionasse.”

“Signor Blank. Nessuno può farlo, ed è proprio in questo che risiede la sua bellezza.”

‘SEZIONE C – ANATOMIA E MEDICINA. BAR, RAGAZZO NERO E DOLORE AL STOMACO.’

Presidente—Dottor Soemup. Vicepresidenti—Signori Pessell e Mortair.

Il dottor Grummidge descrisse alla classe un caso molto interessante di monomania, illustrando il percorso terapeutico che aveva seguito con perfetto successo. La paziente era una donna sposata di medio ceto sociale; dopo aver visto un’altra donna a una serata in abito completo di perle, le era sorto improvvisamente il desiderio di possedere lo stesso ornamento, nonostante le finanze del marito non fossero affatto sufficienti a coprire tale spesa. Non avendo visto realizzato il proprio desiderio, si ammalò e i sintomi divennero così preoccupanti che fu chiamato il dottor Grummidge. In quel periodo, i segni più evidenti del disturbo erano la malinconia, l’incapacità totale di svolgere compiti domestici, una grande irritabilità e un’estrema debolezza, tranne quando venivano menzionate le perle: in quei momenti il polso accelerava, gli occhi si illuminavano, le pupille si dilatavano e la paziente, dopo varie esclamazioni incoerenti, scoppiava in lacrime, dichiarando che a nessuno importava di lei e che avrebbe preferito morire. Notando che l’appetito della paziente peggiorava in presenza di altre persone, il dottor Grummidge ordinò di astenersi completamente da ogni sostanza stimolante e di limitare la dieta esclusivamente a zuppe deboli; inoltre prelevò venti once di %sangue, applicò delle vesciche sotto entrambe le orecchie, una sul petto e un’altra sulla schiena. Dopo aver somministrato cinque grani di calomel, lasciò la paziente riposare. Il giorno seguente stava un po’ meglio, ma decisamente più in forma; tutti i segni di irritabilità erano scomparsi. Nei giorni successivi il miglioramento continuò fino al quarto giorno, quando riapparvero alcuni sintomi precedenti. Non appena questi si manifestarono, il dottor Grummidge le somministrò un’altra dose di calomel e impartì l’ordine rigoroso che, se entro due ore non si verificava un miglioramento significativo, la testa della paziente dovesse essere rasata completamente. Da quel momento in poi il suo stato peggiorò nuovamente, ma in meno di ventiquattro ore tornò completamente guarita. Ora non mostrava più alcuna reazione emotiva alla vista o al menzionare perle o altri ornamenti; era allegra e di buon umore, e nel suo carattere e nella sua salute si era verificato un cambiamento davvero positivo.

‘Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would occasion the disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a remarkable circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn employed a woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe), placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him. What was the obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which case, had his instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been brought to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith. But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry.

‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS. OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President—Mr. Slug. Vice-Presidents—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious statistical inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world, and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that every member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating the exact amount of freehold property possessed by a column of legislators, in which he had included himself. It appeared from this table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore solemnly—of course as a mere matter of form. He argued from these data that it was wholly unnecessary for members of Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they had none the public could get them so much cheaper.

‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

President—Mr. Grub. Vice Presidents—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary appearance above described. The pony had one distinct eye, and it had been pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and whisked at the same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering; and the author proposed to constitute it of the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious. It certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony with one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the same moment.

‘Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his eye, and likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the mere question of his one organ of vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having been literally half asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed only one eye.

‘The President observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake, and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and, some difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of manner, “Walker!”

‘The President begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘Professor Ketch.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell you. It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has been a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’ down ’ere vile the ’sociation’s in the town. Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s, or a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble triumphs without repeating a bon mot of Professor Woodensconce’s, which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks—propitiatory sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury odours. “Ah!” said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is what we meet for; this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us onward; this is the spread of science, and a glorious spread it is.”’

‘Il signor Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) lesse un breve ma molto interessante comunicato nel quale cercava di dimostrare la totale convinzione del signor William Courtenay, alias Thorn, recentemente deceduto a Canterbury, riguardo al sistema omeopatico. È importante ricordare che una delle dottrine omeopatiche sostiene che dosi infinitesimali di qualsiasi medicina che possa causare la malattia da cui soffre il paziente, purché quest’ultimo si trovi in uno stato di salute, siano in grado di curarla. Ora, è una circostanza degna di nota – dimostrata dalle prove presentate – che il defunto Thorn facesse seguire da una donna una brocca d’acqua per tutto il giorno, assicurandole che una goccia soltanto (un rimedio omeopatico puro, come si osserva nel comunicato) posta sulla sua lingua dopo la morte lo avrebbe riportato in vita. Qual è dunque la conclusione ovvia? Che Thorn, che si muoveva costantemente in zone paludose e fangose, aveva l’intuizione che potesse annegare; in tal caso, se le sue istruzioni fossero state seguite, sarebbe certamente stato immediatamente riportato in vita dal proprio stesso rimedio. Invece, se quella donna o chiunque altro avesse somministrato una dose infinitesimale di piombo e polvere da sparo subito dopo la sua morte, lui si sarebbe ripreso all’istante. Purtroppo, però, la donna in questione non possedeva la capacità di ragionare attraverso analogie o di applicare principi scientifici; così, quel povero signore fu vittima dell’ignoranza della gente comune.’

‘SEZIONE D.—STATISTICI.
Fuori dall’ospedale, casi di bambini neri e disturbi addominali.’

Presidente—Signor Slug. Vicepresidenti—Signori Noakes e Styles.

‘Il signor Kwakley presentò i risultati di alcune ricerche statistiche molto ingegnose riguardanti la differenza tra il valore dichiarato pubblicamente delle qualifiche possedute da diversi membri del Parlamento e la loro vera >natura e entità. Dopo aver ricordato alla platea che ogni membro del Parlamento per una città o un distretto doveva possedere una proprietà immobiliare redditizia di almeno trecento sterline all’anno, l’onorevole signore suscitò grande divertimento e risate annunciando l’esatta entità della proprietà immobiliare posseduta da un certo numero di legislatori, tra cui lui stesso. Da questo elenco risultava che l’importo di tale reddito per ciascuno di loro era di 0 sterline, 0 scellini e 0 pence, con una media esattamente uguale. (Gran risate.) Era abbastanza noto che esistessero gentiluomini disposti a fornire ai nuovi membri del Parlamento qualifiche temporanee, delle quali giuravano solennemente di essere i proprietari, ovviamente solo per formalità. Basandosi su questi dati, il signor Kwakley concluse che fosse del tutto inutile che i membri del Parlamento possedessero alcuna proprietà, soprattutto perché, quando non ne avevano nessuna, il pubblico poteva ottenerli a prezzi molto più bassi.’

‘SEZIONE SUPPLEMENTARE, E.—UMBLOGIA E IDROLOGIA DEI CANALETTI.’

Presidente—Signor Grub. Vicepresidenti—Signori Dull e Dummy.

“Un articolo fu letto dal segretario; esso descriveva un pony con un solo occhio, che l’autore aveva visto in un carretto di macellaio all’angolo di Newgate Market. L’articolo raccontava anche come, lo scorso estate, un sabato mattina, l’autore si fosse recato da Somers Town a Cheapside nel corso delle sue attività commerciali; durante il viaggio aveva notato l’insolita caratteristica di quel pony. Il pony aveva un occhio solo, e il suo amico, il Capitano Blunderbore dei Marines a Cavallo, che lo aveva aiutato nelle ricerche, gli aveva spiegato che ogni volta che quell’occhio sbatteva, il pony scuoteva la coda (forse per scacciare le mosche), ma che faceva sempre entrambe le cose contemporaneamente. L’animale era magro, tremolante e barcollante; l’autore propose quindi di classificarlo nella famiglia dei Fitfordogsmeataurious. Gli venne certamente in mente che non esistesse alcun caso documentato di un pony con un organo visivo ben definito che sbatteva e scuoteva la coda nello stesso istante.”

‘Il signor Q. J. Snuffletoffle aveva sentito parlare di un pony che sbatteva l’occhio e, allo stesso modo, di un pony che scodinzolava, ma se si trattasse di due pony diversi o dello stesso pony, non avrebbe potuto affermarlo con certezza. In ogni caso, non conosceva alcun esempio verificato di un pony che contemporaneamente sbatteva l’occhio e scodinzolava; quindi, non poteva fare a meno di dubitare dell’esistenza di un tale pony straordinario, soprattutto considerando tutte quelle leggi naturali che governano i pony. Tuttavia, riguardo soltanto al suo unico organo di vista, avrebbe potuto ipotizzare che quel pony, nel momento in cui fu visto, fosse letteralmente mezzo addormentato e avesse chiuso soltanto un occhio.’

“Il Presidente osservò che, che il pony fosse semiaddormentato o profondamente addormentato, non poteva esserci alcun >dubbio sul fatto che l’associazione fosse completamente sveglia; quindi era meglio concludere rapidamente le loro faccende e andare a cena. Certamente non aveva mai visto nulla di simile a quel pony, ma non era disposto ad >dubitare della sua esistenza; anzi, nel corso della sua vita aveva visto molti pony ancora più strani, anche se non si vantava di aver mai incontrato asini più straordinari di quelli presenti intorno a lui.”

Il professor John Ketch fu quindi chiamato a mostrare il cranio del defunto signor Greenacre; lo tirò fuori da una borsa blu e, quando gli fu chiesto di esprimere eventuali osservazioni, commentò: “Posso dirvi con certezza che quella sezione cranica non ha mai visto nulla di più strano in tutta la mia esperienza”.

Seguì una discussione molto animata su questo interessante reperto; e poiché sorse qualche divergenza di opinione riguardo alla vera natura del defunto signor Blubb, quest’ultimo tenne una lezione sul cranio davanti a loro, dimostrando chiaramente che il signor Greenacre possedeva l’organo della distruzione in misura estremamente insolita, con uno sviluppo particolarmente notevole dell’organo della capacità di distruggere. Sir Hookham Snivey stava appunto per contraddire questa opinione, quando il professor Ketch interruppe bruscamente la discussione esclamando, con grande eccitazione: “Walker!”

“Il Presidente pregò di far chiamare il gentiluomo erudito per ristabilire l’ordine.”

“Professore Ketch, — ‘Ma che diavolo! Avete preso la persona sbagliata, vi dico io. Non è affatto un professore; è solo un tizio che lavora con i noci di cocco, come mio cognato, per decorare il suo nuovo negozio di torte che aprirà presto in città. Datemelo, per favore!’”

Con queste parole, il Professor Ketch riprese rapidamente il guscio di cocco e tirò fuori il cranio, che aveva esposto per errore. Ne seguì una conversazione molto interessante; tuttavia, poiché sorse qualche >dubbio riguardo al fatto che quel cranio appartenesse effettivamente al signor Greenacre, a un paziente dell’ospedale, a un povero, a un uomo, a una donna o a una scimmia, non si arrivò a nessuna conclusione definitiva.

“Non posso,” dice alla fine il nostro talentuoso corrispondente, “non posso concludere questo resoconto di queste ricerche gigantesche e di questi trionfi sublimi e nobili senza ripetere una bellezza di parole del Professor Woodensconce, che dimostra come anche le menti più grandi possano talvolta rilassarsi quando la verità viene presentata ad orecchie attente, avvolta in una forma attraente e giocosa. Ero lì quando, dopo una settimana di banchetti, quel gentiluomo erudito, accompagnato da un intero gruppo di uomini straordinari, entrò ieri nella sala dove era stato preparato un pranzo sontuoso; dove i vini più pregiati brillavano sulle tavole, e i maiali grassi – sacrifici propiziatori all’apprendimento – diffondevano i loro odori deliziosi. ‘Ah!’ disse il Professor Woodensconce, strofinandosi le mani, ‘Ecco ciò che cerchiamo; ecco ciò che ci ispira; ecco ciò che ci mantiene uniti e ci spinge avanti; questa è la diffusione della scienza, e una diffusione gloriosa.’”

THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to a chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally, although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is the secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman, comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly, and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob; how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic dramatis personae, we consider the pantaloon the most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain, constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until the affair has blown over. His amorous propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his mode of addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right improper, being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be) of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for years past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual attempts to be young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the Café de l’Europe in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he stops—’tis at the milliner’s window. He peeps through one of the large panes of glass; and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls, directs his attentions to the young girl with the band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window also. See! he draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and, retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

La pantomima della vita

Prima di immergerci completamente in questo articolo, confessiamo apertamente una profonda affezione per le pantomime: un sentimento di gentile simpatia verso i clown e i personaggi comici; un’ammirazione incondizionata per gli arlecchini e le figure buffe; un piacere sincero per ogni gesto della loro breve esistenza, per quanto vario e colorato possa essere, anche se talvolta contraddice quelle rigide e formali regole di decoro che governano il comportamento delle menti più limitate. Ci deliziamo nelle pantomime non perché abbaglino con i loro ornamenti di lustrini e foglia d’oro; non perché ci rivelino ancora una volta quei volti disegnati con la gesso e quegli occhi spalancati della nostra infanzia; nemmeno perché, come il Natale, la Vigilia di Capodanno o il proprio compleanno, si presentino a noi solo una volta all’anno. La nostra affezione per le pantomime si basa su una ragione più profonda e molto diversa. Per noi, la pantomima è uno specchio della vita; anzi, sosteniamo che lo sia anche per il pubblico in generale, sebbene esso non se ne renda conto, e che proprio questa circostanza costituisca la vera ragione del loro divertimento e piacere.

Prendiamo un piccolo esempio. La scena si svolge in una strada: appare un anziano gentiluomo dal viso largo e dai tratti marcati. Il suo volto irradia un sorriso radioso, e sulle sue guance rosse e piene c’è sempre una fossetta. È evidente che si tratti di un anziano signore agiato, benestante e soddisfatto della propria condizione sociale. Non trascura certo l’abbigliamento: è vestito in modo elegante, se non addirittura vistoso; inoltre, il fatto che si strofini felicemente lo stomaco indica chiaramente che sta andando a casa per cena. Nel pieno della sua serenità, nella sicurezza derivante dalla ricchezza e nel godimento di tutte le cose belle della vita, l’anziano gentiluomo improvvisamente perde l’equilibrio e inciampa. L’auditorio scoppia in risate! Una folla chiassosa e invadente lo assale, colpendolo senza pietà; urlano di gioia ogni volta che lui cerca di rialzarsi, ma i suoi persecutori lo ribaltano nuovamente a terra. Gli spettatori sono travolti dall’ilarità. E quando finalmente l’anziano gentiluomo riesce a rimettersi in piedi, barcollando e privo di cappello, parrucca e abiti, mentre il suo orologio e i suoi soldi sono andati persi, tutti esprimono la loro allegria con applausi scroscianti.

È questa la vita? Cambiate la scena in qualsiasi strada reale: alla Borsa Valori, nell’ufficio di un banchiere cittadino, nella contabilità di un commerciante, o persino nel negozio di un artigiano. Osservate uno qualsiasi di questi uomini cadere. Più improvvisamente, e più vicino al culmine della sua orgoglio e delle sue ricchezze, meglio ancora. Che clamore selvaggio suscita la folla urlante intorno al suo corpo prostrato; come gridano e esultano mentre giace umiliato sotto di loro! Notate quanto avidamente lo assalgano non appena cade. E come lo deridano e lo scherniscano mentre si allontana furtivamente. Beh, è proprio una pantomima, letteralmente.

Di tutte le figure pantomimiche, riteniamo il pagliaccio la più inutile e corrotta. Indipendentemente dal disgusto che si prova naturalmente nel vedere un gentiluomo della sua età impegnato in attività del tutto inappropriate alla sua dignità e alla sua età, non possiamo negare che sia un vecchio malvagio, egoista e mondano, che spinge costantemente il suo compagno più giovane, il clown, a commettere furti o piccoli reati, osservando poi con distacco i risultati delle sue azioni. Se queste riuscissero, non dimentica mai di prendersi la sua parte del bottino; se falliscono, si ritira immediatamente con grande cautela e si tiene a debita distanza fino a quando la situazione non si è calmata. Anche le sue tendenze amorose sono estremamente sgradevoli; il modo in cui si avvicina alle signore per strada, a mezzogiorno, è assolutamente inappropriato: di solito si limita a fare una sorta di “grattino” sulle loro cosce, dopodiché si allontana visibilmente imbarazzato dal proprio comportamento indecoroso e temerario; tuttavia continua comunque a fissarle e a far loro segni da lontano in modo molto sgradevole e immorale.

Esiste davvero un uomo che non sia in grado di contare una dozzina di quei pantaloni nel proprio ambiente sociale? Esiste davvero un uomo che non li abbia mai visti affollarsi nella zona ovest della città, in una giornata soleggiata o in una serata estiva, mentre compiono le più strane e ridicole acrobazie, con un’energia eccessiva e senza alcuna riserva, come se fossero davvero sul palcoscenico? Possiamo contare, su una mano, una dozzina di questi individui che conosciamo: uomini che, da anni, si esibiscono in ogni sorta di stranezze, divertendo molto i loro amici e conoscenti; e che ancora oggi continuano a tentare, in modo comico ed inefficace, di comportarsi come giovani dissoluti, tanto che tutti coloro che li vedono rischiano davvero di morire dal ridere.

Prendiamo quel vecchio signore che è appena uscito dal Café de l’Europe in Haymarket, dove ha cenato a spese del giovane che vive in città; si stringono la mano all’uscita della taverna. Quel calore affettato nella stretta di mano, quel cenno cortese, il ricordo evidente della cena, il sapore ancora persistente sulle sue labbra, tutto ciò rappresenta caratteristiche tipiche del suo “grande prototipo”. Si allontana zoppicando, canticchiando un’aria d’opera e facendo girare la canna avanti e indietro con aria di noncuranza. All’improvviso si ferma, davanti alla vetrina del negozio di modista. Guarda attraverso i grandi pannelli di vetro; le signore all’interno sono nascoste dalle sciarpe indiane, quindi rivolge la sua attenzione alla giovane ragazza con la scatola da musica in mano, che sta guardando anche lei fuori dalla finestra. Ecco, si avvicina a lei. Tossisce; lei si gira dall’altra parte. Si avvicina di nuovo; lei lo ignora. Con un sorriso compiaciuto le dà una pacca sotto il mento, poi si allontana di qualche passo e fa cenno con gesti esagerati, mentre la ragazza gli lancia uno sguardo sprezzante sul suo viso rugoso. Si allontana con aria indignata, e il vecchio signore la segue ridacchiando senza denti. Che buffone!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr. Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far, and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith as did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says the young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the ‘Delphi.’ Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing shirt-collar, we do not mean either the performer who so grotesquely burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public, who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on earth it is we do mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory are those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler, the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured, kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine, baskets of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house of the Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the captain himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned, than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and assisted by the faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for, although the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all. After various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are both taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown; Do’em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well done either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best days, ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have been before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd, lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there, and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see it all, now. They are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been thrust into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over each other, and running their heads against all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it, he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do the corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden eye—the same unmeaning, vacant stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in at precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had not the slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table again and again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to class him with. How very odd that this never occurred to us before!

Ma la straordinaria somiglianza tra i clown di scena e quelli della vita di tutti i giorni è davvero incredibile. Alcuni si lamentano con rammarico del declino della pantomima e menzionano il nome di Grimaldi con toni tristi e cupi. Non intendiamo affatto insultare questo nobile e eccellente anziano quando affermiamo che tutto ciò è pura sciocchezza: ogni giorno compaiono clown che superano di gran lunga Grimaldi in abilità, eppure nessuno li apprezza. Che peccato!

“So a chi vi riferite,” dice un cliente dal viso sporco del signor Osbaldistone, posando il giornale dopo aver letto fino a quel punto e lanciando uno sguardo significativo verso lo spazio vuoto davanti a lui; “intendete C. J. Smith, proprio come Guy Fawkes e George Barnwell al ‘Garden’.” Appena queste parole sono state pronunciate, vengono interrotte da un giovane signore senza colletto e con un cappotto di Petersham. “No, no,” dice il giovane; “intendete Brown, King e Gibson al ‘Delphi’.” Ora, con grande rispetto sia per il gentiluomo dal viso sporco che per quello senza colletto, non intendiamo affatto l’artista che ha parodizzato in modo grottesco quel presunto cospiratore papista, né quei tre individui che, sotto diversi titoli imponenti, hanno continuato a compiere le stesse azioni negli ultimi cinque o sei anni. Non appena facciamo questa dichiarazione, il pubblico, fino ad allora silenzioso testimone della discussione, chiede di cosa ci stiamo effettivamente riferendo; e noi, con tutto il dovuto rispetto, proseguiamo a spiegarglielo.

È molto noto a tutti gli spettatori e agli amanti delle pantomime che le scene in cui un clown teatrale raggiunge l’apice della sua gloria sono proprio quelle descritte nei cartelloni come “Negozio di formaggio e magazzino di stoviglie”, o “Negozio di sartoria e pensione della signora Queertable”, o luoghi simili. Il vero divertimento in queste scene consiste nel fatto che il “protagonista” si affitta una stanza senza alcuna intenzione di pagarla, ottiene merci con false pretese, ruba la merce del rispettabile negoziante accanto, deruba i portatori dei magazzini mentre questi passano sotto la sua finestra, o, in breve, truffa chiunque gli capiti a tiro. È interessante notare che più ampia è l’entità della truffa e più sfacciata è l’impudenza del truffatore, maggiore è l’eccitazione dello spettatore. Ora, è un fatto davvero straordinario che proprio questo tipo di cose accada nella vita reale, giorno dopo giorno, senza che nessuno ne percepisca il lato umoristico. Per illustrare meglio questo punto, analizziamo la trama di questa parte della pantomima, non quella del teatro, ma quella della vita reale.

L’onorevole Capitano Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, accompagnato dal suo servitore Do’em – un individuo davvero rispettabile da vedere, il cui colore dei capelli è diventato grigio a forza di servire la famiglia del capitano – si impossessa della casa non arredata, situata in una certa strada. Tutti i commercianti del quartiere competono accanitamente per ottenere i suoi ordini; il capitano è una persona di buon carattere, gentile e disponibile, e per evitare di deludere nessuno, dà sempre istruzioni in modo molto generoso. Cesti di vino, cestini di provviste, carri pieni di mobili, scatole piene di gioielli e altre merci di lusso di altissimo costo affluiscono nella casa dell’onorevole Capitano Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, dove vengono accolti con grande disponibilità dal rispettabile Do’em. Il capitano stesso si comporta con un’aria di superiorità e sete di potere tipica di un ufficiale militare, suscitando ammirazione, e anche terrore tra la gente comune. Ma non appena i commercianti se ne vanno, il capitano, con tutta l’eccentricità tipica di una mente geniale e con l’aiuto del fedele Do’em, si assicura che tutto venga venduto a un prezzo molto superiore al costo reale, poiché lui stesso non ha speso nulla per acquistare quelle merci. Dopo varie manovre, l’inganno viene scoperto: Fitz-Whisker e Do’em vengono riconosciuti come complici e portati in commissariato, dove si radunano tutte le loro vittime.

Chi potrebbe non riconoscere in questo l’esatta controparte della parte migliore di una pantomima teatrale: Fitz-Whisker Fiercy interpretato dal clown, Do’em dai personaggi secondari, e i “supernumerari” dai commercianti? La cosa più divertente è anche che proprio quel mercante di carbone che si lamenta più forte della persona che lo ha truffato, è lo stesso uomo che la scorsa notte sedeva nella prima fila del teatro e rideva più forte proprio di questa stessa situazione, anzi, forse nemmeno così bene interpretata. Parliamo ancora di Grimaldi: nei suoi giorni migliori, ha mai fatto qualcosa del genere paragonabile a ciò che fece Da Costa?

Il ricordo di questo clown così ampiamente celebrato ci fa pensare all’ultima sua umoristica performance: quella volta in cui riuscì ad ottenere, in modo fraudolento, alcune ricevute timbrate da un giovane ufficiale dell’esercito. Appena avevamo posato la penna per riflettere per qualche momento su questa straordinaria rappresentazione di uno scherzo pratico, ci è improvvisamente balenata in mente una nuova possibilità riguardante il nostro argomento. Quindi ne riprendiamo immediatamente l’esame.

Tutti coloro che hanno lavorato dietro le quinte, e la maggior parte delle persone che li hanno preceduti, sanno che nella rappresentazione di una pantomima molti uomini vengono messi sul palco esclusivamente con lo scopo di essere ingannati, abbattuti, o entrambe le cose. Fino a poco fa, non riuscivamo proprio a capire per quale motivo fosse stato creato un numero così elevato di uomini strani, pigri e dal cranio grande, che si incontrano ovunque. Ora lo comprendiamo: sono i “personaggi supplementari” nella pantomima della vita; persone che vi vengono inserite soltanto per cadere continuamente l’una addosso all’altra e sbattere la testa contro ogni sorta di cose strane. Solo la scorsa settimana eravamo seduti a tavola di fronte a uno di questi uomini. Ora che ci penso, assomigliava esattamente ai personaggi delle pantomime teatrali con le teste e i volti di cartone; lo stesso sorriso stupido e vacuo, lo stesso sguardo ottuso e privo di significato. Qualunque cosa venisse detta o fatta, lui arrivava sempre nel momento sbagliato o si scontrava con qualcosa che non aveva assolutamente nulla a che fare con ciò che stava accadendo. Abbiamo guardato quell’uomo più e più volte, senza riuscire a capire a quale categoria di esseri dovesse essere classificato. Che strano. Prima non ci era mai venuto in mente!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin. We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away in light and trivial amusements. On reflection, however, we remembered that harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent property, generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours. On a more mature consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion that the harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or degree, on whom a certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances, confers the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime of public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then conclude—merely premising in this place that we decline any reference whatever to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of her connection with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any means clear that we should be justified in introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of ‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how frequently this speech is made, immediately after the change too, the parallel is quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at Sadler’s Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority either, because he had never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too, would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the faculty of speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he will become all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust. These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with whom we confess we have no fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just mentioned. The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the colour of a man’s coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who, having this wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from side to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity and dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions. Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of the temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—

Ammetteremo francamente di essere stati molto preoccupati dal personaggio del pagliaccio. Nella pantomima reale esistono tanti tipi diversi di pagliacci che quasi non sappiamo quale scegliere come rappresentante ideale di questo ruolo teatrale. Per un certo periodo abbiamo pensato che il pagliacco fosse, in sostanza, un giovane di buona famiglia e con mezzi economici propri, che se n’era andato con una ballerina d’opera e trascorreva la sua vita in divertimenti frivoli. Tuttavia, riflettendoci meglio, ci siamo resi conto che i pagliacci a volte compiono gesti arguti e persino intelligenti; per questo tendiamo a scagionare questi giovani di buona famiglia da eventuali colpe del genere. Dopo un’ulteriore riflessione, abbiamo concluso che i “pagliacci” della vita reale siano semplicemente persone ordinarie, che non appartengono a nessuna categoria particolare; è solo una determinata situazione o combinazione di circostanze a conferire loro quel “bastone magico” che permette loro di agire in un certo modo. Questo ci porta a dire alcune parole sulla pantomima della vita pubblica e politica, ma prima di concludere, ribadisco che rifiutiamo categoricamente qualsiasi riferimento alla “colombina”, poiché non siamo affatto convinti della natura del suo rapporto con il suo “amante dai colori vivaci”, e non vediamo alcun motivo per includerla tra le donne virtuose e rispettabili che leggono le nostre riflessioni.

Riteniamo che l’inizio di una sessione parlamentare non sia altro che l’apertura del sipario di una grandiosa pantomima comica; inoltre, il discorso molto gentile di Sua Maestà all’occasione può essere paragonato senza improprietà al discorso introduttivo del clown che esclama: “Eccoci qui! Signori e gentiluomini, eccoci qui!” A nostro avviso, tale discorso rappresenta in modo molto efficace il contenuto e lo scopo del messaggio del governo. Se ricordiamo quanto spesso venga pronunciato, anche subito dopo i cambiamenti di governo, questa analogia diventa ancora più evidente, e persino sorprendente.

Forse il cast della nostra pantomima politica non è mai stato più ricco di oggi. Siamo particolarmente forti nei clown: in nessun altro periodo abbiamo avuto acrobati così straordinari, o artisti così pronti a esibirsi al servizio di un pubblico ammirato. La loro estrema disponibilità ad esibirsi, tuttavia, ha suscitato alcune critiche negative; si è infatti osservato che, esibendosi gratuitamente in giro per il paese quando i teatri sono chiusi, questi artisti si degradano al livello dei saltimbanchi, contribuendo così a diminuire la rispettabilità della loro professione. Certamente Grimaldi non ha mai fatto cose del genere; e sebbene Brown, Re, e Gibson siano andati a divertirsi nel Surrey durante le vacanze, e il signor C. J. Smith abbia lavorato in teatri rurali come Sadler’s Wells, non esiste alcun precedente storico di questo tipo di attività itinerante. L’unico caso simile riguarda un gentiluomo il cui nome è sconosciuto; egli eseguiva acrobazie al servizio del defunto signor Richardson, ma nemmeno lui può essere considerato un’autorità in materia, poiché non aveva mai lavorato regolarmente in teatro.

Ma, mettendo da parte questa questione che, dopotutto, riguarda soltanto il gusto personale, possiamo riflettere con orgoglio e soddisfazione sulle abilità dei nostri clown, così ben dimostrate durante questa stagione. Notte dopo notte, si contorceranno e rotoleranno per due, tre, quattro ore del mattino, esibendo le più strane buffonate e dando l’uno all’altro le battute di scherzo più divertenti che si possano immaginare, senza mostrare il minimo segno di stanchezza. I suoni strani, il caos, gli urli e i rumori che accompagnano tutto ciò metterebbero in ombra anche la più turbolenta folla che abbia mai gridato durante una serata di pugilato.

È particolarmente curioso osservare uno di questi clown costretti a compiere le contorsioni più straordinarie sotto l’influenza irresistibile della “bacchetta del potere” che il loro leader tiene sopra la testa. Sotto l’effetto di questo incantesimo meraviglioso, diventa completamente immobile: non muove mani, piedi né dita, e persino perde la capacità di parlare all’istante; oppure, al contrario, si riempie di vita e vitalità, riversando un flusso ininterrotto di parole prive di senso, compiendo le contorsioni più folli e fantasiose, e persino strisciando per terra e leccando la polvere. Queste esibizioni sono piuttosto curiose, ma non necessariamente piacevoli; anzi, a volte risultano addirittura disgustose, tranne che per gli appassionati di queste cose, con i quali confessiamo di non condividere alcuna emozione.

Trucchi strani, davvero strani, vengono anche eseguiti dal pagliaccio che, per il momento attuale, possiede la bacchetta magica di cui abbiamo appena parlato. Bastà agitarla davanti agli occhi di una persona perché tutte le idee precedentemente immagazzinate nella sua mente vengano cancellate e sostituite da un insieme completamente nuovo di pensieri; un semplice colpetto sulla schiena può cambiare completamente il colore del suo cappotto; inoltre, ci sono alcuni artisti esperti che, tenendo questa bacchetta prima da una parte e poi dall’altra, riescono a ruotare su se stessi con tale rapidità e destrezza che nemmeno l’occhio più attento riesce a percepire i loro movimenti. Di tanto in tanto, il genio che dona questa bacchetta la strappa dalle mani del suo temporaneo possessore e la passa a un altro artista; in questi casi, tutti i personaggi cambiano “lato”, e allora la competizione e le lotte riprendono da capo.

Avremmo potuto allungare molto questo capitolo; avremmo potuto estendere il confronto anche alle professioni liberali; avremmo potuto dimostrare, come in realtà era il nostro scopo originale, che ciascuna di queste professioni rappresenta in sé una sorta di “pantomima”, con scene e personaggi propri, completi. Tuttavia, temiamo di essere già stati abbastanza prolissi, quindi lascieremo questo capitolo così com’è. Un gentiluomo, non del tutto sconosciuto come poeta drammatico, scrisse qualcosa del genere un anno o due fa.

‘All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players:’

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all actors in The Pantomime of Life.

SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker’s. But we have seen some under the influence of captivity, and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well; he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us! what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar, fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a lion coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear, Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’ from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again) was in such cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon them.

“Tutto il mondo è un teatro,
e tutti gli uomini e le donne non sono altro che attori.”

E noi, seguendo le sue orme su quella distanza appena degna di essere menzionata – di pochi milioni di leghe alle sue spalle – osiamo aggiungere, come nuova interpretazione dei fatti, che lui intendeva con ciò una “Pantomima”, e che tutti noi siamo attori in questa “Pantomima della Vita”.

Alcuni particolari riguardanti un leone

Nutriamo un grande rispetto per i leoni in generale. Come la maggior parte delle altre persone, abbiamo sentito e letto molte storie riguardanti il loro coraggio e la loro generosità. Ammiriamo profondamente quel nobile spirito di auto-sacrificio e quella affascinante filantropia che li spinge a non mangiare mai le persone se non quando hanno fame, e siamo rimasti profondamente colpiti dal loro noto senso di cortesia verso le signore single di una certa condizione sociale. Tutte le storie naturali sono piene di aneddoti che illustrano le loro eccellenti qualità; in particolare, un vecchio libro di ortografia racconta un toccante episodio di un vecchio leone, di alta dignità morale e principi rigorosi, il quale ritenne suo dovere assoluto divorare un giovane che aveva preso l’abitudine di imprecare, come esempio eloquente per la generazione futura.

Tutto ciò è estremamente piacevole da riflettere su, e in effetti dimostra molto a favore dei leoni nel loro insieme. Tuttavia, dobbiamo ammettere che quei singoli esemplari di leone che abbiamo avuto l’opportunità di incontrare non hanno mostrato caratteristiche particolarmente notevoli, né si sono comportati secondo il ruolo cavalleresco che i loro cronisti gli attribuiscono. Certamente, non abbiamo mai visto un leone nel cosiddetto suo stato naturale: cioè, non abbiamo mai incontrato un leone che camminasse nella foresta o si accovacciasse nella sua tana sotto il sole tropicale, in attesa che la sua “cena” arrivasse, calda appena uscita dal forno. Ma ne abbiamo visti alcuni sotto l’influenza della cattività e della sfortuna; e dobbiamo dire che ci sono sembrati individui molto apatici e lenti di riflessi.

Ad esempio, il leone dello Zoo: è davvero in ottima forma; ha una criniera imponente e sembra molto feroce. Ma, per l’amor del cielo! Anche i leoni del mondo “fashionable” sembrano altrettanto feroci, e in realtà sono le creature più inoffensive che esistano. Un leone che si trova in un ambiente ostile può assumere un aspetto terribile e ruggire minacciosamente se lo si provoca; ma non morde mai, e se gli si affronta con coraggio, di solito scappa via. Probabilmente questi animali viaggiano a gruppi, e se incontrano qualcuno che sembra particolarmente mite e pacifico, cercano di spaventarlo. Ma anche la minima resistenza è sufficiente per farli fuggire. Sono caratteristiche davvero interessanti. Mentre noi, invece, presentiamo questi animali come creature pigre, sonnolente e lente a reagire.

Non ricordiamo di aver mai visto nessuno di loro completamente sveglio, tranne durante i momenti del pasto. In ogni senso, difendiamo questi leoni bipedi rispetto ai loro omonimi a quattro zampe, e affrontiamo con coraggio eventuali controversie sull’argomento.

Con queste opinioni, è facile immaginare quanto fossero grandi la nostra curiosità e il nostro interesse quel giorno in cui una signora che conoscevamo ci fece visita e rifiutò decisamente di accettare il nostro rifiuto dell’invito a una serata; “Perché,” disse, “ho invitato un leone.” Subito ritrattammo la scusa del precedente impegno e diventammo altrettanto desiderosi di andare, quanto prima eravamo stati riluttanti ad accettare l’invito.

Siamo arrivati presto e ci siamo sistemati in una parte adatta del salotto, da dove speravamo di poter vedere chiaramente quell’animale interessante. Trascorsero due o tre ore: iniziarono i balli, la sala si riempì, ma nessun leone comparve. La padrona di casa divenne molto preoccupata, perché uno dei “privilegi” particolari di questi leoni è proprio quello di fissare appuntamenti solenni e poi non mantenerli mai. Quando all’improvviso si udì un colpo fortissimo alla porta d’ingresso; il padrone di casa, uscito furtivamente per spiare attraverso la balaustra (senza essere visto), rientrò nella stanza ridendo felicemente e annunciò con voce solenne: “Mia cara, il signor. [il nome del leone) è appena arrivato.”

A questo punto, tutti gli sguardi si rivolsero verso la porta, e osservammo che diverse giovani signore, che poco prima avevano riso e chiacchierato con grande allegria e buon umorismo, divennero improvvisamente molto silenziose e malinconiche; mentre alcuni giovani signori, che fino ad allora si erano comportati in modo scherzoso e frivolo, persero immediatamente la stima del gruppo e furono guardati con grande freddezza e indifferenza. Anche il giovane che era stato mandato dalla bottega di musica a suonare il pianoforte sembrò essere profondamente turbato, e commise diversi errori nel suonare, a causa dell’eccitazione.

In tutto questo tempo c’era molto chiasso fuori; più di una volta si udiva una risata forte, insieme a esclamazioni del tipo “Oh! Fantastico! Eccellente!”, il che ci fece capire che il leone era di umore giocoso e che quelle reazioni derivavano dall’entusiasmo del suo custode e del nostro ospite. Non ci sbagliavamo: quando finalmente il leone apparve, sentimmo il suo custode, un uomo piuttosto rigido, sussurrare a diversi conoscenti, alzando le mani e mostrando tutto il proprio ammiramento trattenuto, che, (riprendendo a nominare il leone) era davvero in una forma così eccellente per la sera!

Il leone era uno di quelli presenti nelle opere letterarie. Naturalmente, c’erano molte persone lì presenti che avevano ammirato i suoi ruggiti e erano desiderose di conoscerlo; fu davvero piacevole vederle avvicinarsi a lui per questo scopo e osservare la dignità paziente con cui accettava tutti quei gesti di affetto. Questo ci fece ricordare, in modo particolare, quanto spesso avevamo assistito alle fiere campestri, dove gli altri leoni venivano costretti a subire tutte quelle formalità di cortesia che loro stessi non conoscevano, proprio nel momento in cui gruppi di persone venivano a vederli.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously. To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course, rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small, or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key, as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal’s mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact which is highly creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to his heart’s content on the first violin.

MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’

Mentre il leone si comportava in questo modo, il suo custode non se ne stava certo con le mani in mano: si mescolava tra la folla e diffondeva con grande zelo i suoi elogi su quell’animale nobile. A un signore sussurrò qualcosa di molto interessante riguardo a ciò che l’animale aveva detto proprio mentre saliva le scale, il che rendeva ancora più straordinario il suo comportamento; a un altro raccontò in fretta di un grande banchetto tenutosi il giorno prima, durante il quale ventisette signori si erano alzati tutti insieme per chiedere un altro brindisi in onore del leone; e alle signore fece varie promesse riguardo al fatto che avrebbe cercato di ottenere per loro l’autografo di quell’imponente animale da aggiungere ai loro album. Poi ci furono anche piccole conversazioni private in angoli diversi, riguardanti l’aspetto esteriore e la statura del leone: se fosse più basso o più alto di quanto si aspettassero, più magro o più grasso, più giovane o più vecchio; se assomigliasse al suo ritratto o meno; e quale fosse esattamente il colore dei suoi occhi – nero, blu, marrone, verde, giallo, o una miscela di questi. In tutte queste discussioni il custode partecipava attivamente; insomma, il leone era l’unico argomento di conversazione fino a quando non lo fecero sedere per suonare il fischietto. Dopodiché la gente tornò ai suoi soliti argomenti di discussione: se stessa e gli altri.

Dobbiamo ammettere che aspettavamo con notevole impazienza l’annuncio dell’ora di cena; perché se volete vedere un leone addomesticato in circostanze particolarmente favorevoli, l’ora dei pasti è senza dubbio il momento migliore per osservarlo. Fu quindi con grande gioia che notammo una certa agitazione tra gli ospiti, e subito dopo vedemmo il leone scortare la padrona di casa giù per le scale. Offrimmo il nostro braccio a una signora anziana che conosciamo bene; povera vecchia anima, è davvero la persona migliore che esista! Qualunque sia la dimensione della stanza o il numero degli ospiti, lei riesce sempre, grazie a un’intuizione innata, ad avvicinarsi ai piatti migliori presenti sul tavolo. Così facemmo anche noi: scendendo le scale poco dopo il leone, fummo fortunati ad ottenere un posto quasi di fronte a lui.

Naturalmente, il custode era già lì. Si era posizionato esattamente a quella distanza dal suo “animale sotto la sua responsabilità”, il che gli forniva un pretesto perfetto per alzare la voce quando si rivolgeva a esso, con un tono così alto da attirare inevitabilmente l’attenzione di tutta l’assemblea. Subito dopo iniziò seriamente nel suo compito: far uscire il leone e fargli eseguire tutte le sue manovre. I “bagliori d’intelligenza” che riusciva a suscitare nel leone erano davvero notevoli! Iniziarono con battute sul sale, poi sul petto di un uccello. Ma le migliori battute riguardavano decisamente la insalata di aragoste; sull’argomento il leone si esprimeva con particolare vivacità, e, a giudizio delle autorità più competenti, riusciva davvero a distinguersi. Questo è davvero un ottimo modo per brillare in società. E, secondo noi, si basa sul modello classico dei dialoghi tra il signor Punch e il suo amico, il proprietario del locale: quest’ultimo si occupa di tutto il lavoro preparatorio, mentre il signor Punch si limita a partecipare alle battute e ai scambi di repliche. E ciò gli permette sempre di guadagnare grande credito e di suscitare molta risata. Qualunque sia la base su cui si fonda questo metodo, lo consigliamo a tutti i “leoni”, presenti o futuri. In questo caso, infatti, ha riscosso ammirazione da parte di tutti gli ascoltatori.

Quando la saliera, il petto di pollame, le altre piccole cose e la insalata di aragoste furono tutte esaurite, e non ci fu più spazio nemmeno per un altro scherzo, l’addestratore compì quell’atto estremamente rischioso che ancora oggi viene eseguito con alcuni leoni delle carovane, anche se in un caso si è concluso tragicamente: infilò la testa nella bocca dell’animale, mettendosi completamente alla sua miseria. Boswell racconta spesso casi tristi e tragici di conseguenze negative di questo comportamento; altri addestratori e individui audaci sono stati gravemente feriti a causa della loro temerarietà. Bisogna dire, però, che il nostro leone si è degnato di essere preso in giro, nel modo più gentile possibile, e alla fine se n’è andato tranquillamente con l’organizzatore dello spettacolo in una vettura a noleggio: completamente pacifico, ma leggermente stordito.

Nel momento in cui eravamo in vena di riflessione, mentre tornavamo a casa, ci venne da considerare il carattere e il comportamento di questo genere di leoni; non passò molto che giungemmo alla conclusione che la nostra precedente impressione positiva su di loro fosse stata notevolmente rafforzata e confermata da quanto avevamo visto di recente. Mentre gli altri leoni accettano compagnia e complimenti in modo cupo, malinconico, per non dire minaccioso, questi sembrano essere lusingati dalle attenzioni che ricevono; mentre quelli si nascondono il più possibile dallo sguardo comune, questi cercano di attrarre l’attenzione del pubblico e, a differenza dei loro simili che solo la forza esterna può spingere ad impegnarsi, sono sempre pronti a mostrare le proprie capacità alla folla curiosa. Abbiamo conosciuto orsi di indubbia abilità che, quando le aspettative del pubblico erano al massimo, rifiutavano categoricamente di esibirsi; scimmie ben addestrate che, senza motivo, si opponevano a esibirsi sulla fune tesa; e elefanti di genio indiscutibile che improvvisamente smettevano di suonare l’organo a canne. Ma non abbiamo mai conosciuto, né sentito parlare di un leone bipede – letterato o meno – che, quando ne avesse l’occasione, non approfittasse con entusiasmo di qualsiasi opportunità gli venisse offerta per esibirsi al meglio della sua capacità. E lo affermiamo come un fatto che onora davvero l’intera specie.

Il signor Robert Bolton: “Il gentiluomo legato alla stampa”

In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the press,’ which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert Bolton’s regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face, and never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill hem! The conversation sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character, and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse. ‘I lends nothing on the security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they’re cheats; as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I never have nothing to do with blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead bear’s about as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope, Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the hottergruff of Pope.

“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope; For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”

All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my son says, we’re bound to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the hairdresser’s grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I think, I says I think—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I think, you see, that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my master had the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don’t think I’m proud on it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I’ve no more respect for a Lord’s footman than I have for any respectable tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip! (bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope died. And it’s a logical interference to defer, that they neither of them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope never had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have ’eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to reward you for the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying anything more—partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just entered. I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’ said the object of the above remark, as he entered. ‘I never excuse a man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and mental excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were composed of an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity, newness, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the winter, the other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut, the D’Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while his tout ensemble was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short, spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation took place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first observation.

Nel salotto del Green Dragon, una taverna pubblica situata nelle immediate vicinanze del Westminster Bridge, tutti parlano di politica ogni sera; l’autorità politica di riferimento è il signor Robert Bolton, un individuo che si definisce “un gentiluomo legato al mondo editoriale”, una definizione particolarmente vaga. Il cerchio regolare di ammiratori e ascoltatori del signor Bolton comprende un becchino, un verduriere, un parrucchiere, un panettiere, e anche un uomo magro in nero, il cui nome, professione e occupazioni sono sconosciuti. Quest’ultimo si siede sempre nella stessa posizione, mostra sempre lo stesso volto lungo e vuoto, e non apre mai le labbra; tuttavia, quando intorno a lui scoppiano conversazioni appassionate, lui emette soltanto dense nuvole di fumo di tabacco o lancia esclamazioni secche, sonore e stridule. A volte la conversazione si sposta sulla letteratura – il signor Bolton è infatti un uomo colto in questo campo – oppure su notizie del giorno che soltanto lui conosce. Una sera mi trovai per caso nel Green Dragon e fui divertito dalla seguente conversazione, quindi decisi di ricordarla.

“Puoi prestarmi una banconota da dieci sterline fino a Natale?” chiese il parrucchiere allo stomaco.

“Dove è la sua sicurezza, signor Clip?”

“La mia merce principale, ne ho abbastanza, credo, signor Thicknesse: circa cinquanta parrucche, due pali, mezza dozzina di blocco per la testa, e un orso morto.”

“No, allora non lo farò,” ringhiò Thicknesse. “Non presto mai denaro garantito dai whigs o dai polacchi. Per quanto riguarda i whigs, sono truffatori; per quanto riguarda i polacchi, non hanno soldi. Non ho mai nulla a che fare con gli idioti, a meno che non sia inevitabile (ironia della sorte), e un orso morto non mi è di alcun utilità, proprio come io non lo sarei per un orso morto.”

“Beh, allora,” insistette l’altro, “c’è un libro che apparteneva al Papa, i Poesie di Byron, valutato quaranta sterline, perché ha lo stesso segno lasciato dal Papa sul dorso; che ne pensi come misura di sicurezza?”

“Beh, sicuramente sì!” esclamò il panettiere. “Ma cosa intendete dire, signor Clip?”

“Cattivo! Perché ha lo stesso carattere irascibile di Papa.”

“Non rubare questo libro, per paura della corda del boia; appartiene infatti ad Alexander Pope.”

Tutto ciò che è scritto all’interno della rilegatura del libro. Quindi, come dice mio figlio, siamo obbligati a crederci.

“Beh, signore,” osservò rispettosamente l’impresario di pompe funebri, sussurrando quasi, chinandosi sopra il tavolo e rovesciando nel frattempo il liquore del parrucchiere mentre parlava, “quell’argomentazione può essere facilmente confutata.”

“Forse, signore,” disse Clip, un po’ agitato, “pagherete per il primo disastro prima ancora di pensare al prossimo.”

“Ora,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, inchinandosi amichevolmente al parrucchiere, “penso, scusate, signor Clip, penso che questo non andrà bene con il pubblico presente. Purtroppo, mio padrone ebbe l’onore di realizzare la bara della cameriera di quella casa lordile, non più di vent’anni fa. Non pensiate che ne sia orgoglioso, signori; altri forse lo sarebbero; ma io odio ogni tipo di distinzione sociale. Non rispetto affatto un valletto di un lord tanto quanto rispetto qualsiasi commerciante rispettabile in questa stanza. E non rispetto nemmeno il signor Clip!” (inchinandosi nuovamente). “Quindi, quel lord deve essere nato molto dopo la morte di Papa. E è logico che nessuno dei due abbia vissuto nella stessa epoca. Quello che voglio dire, insomma, è che Papa non ha mai posseduto un libro, né seminato, né sentito, né annusato nulla che appartenesse a quel lord. E, signori, considerando quanto pazientemente abbiate ascoltato le mie idee, sento di dovervi ringraziare per la gentilezza dimostrata. Quindi mi siederò senza dire altro. Soprattutto perché noto che è appena entrato un visitatore più degno di me. Non ho l’abitudine di fare complimenti, signori; quindi, quando lo faccio, spero di colpire con doppio effetto, ”

“Ah, signor Murgatroyd! Di cosa si tratta, questo attacco di rabbia con una >doppia intensità?” disse la persona a cui era rivolta quella osservazione, entrando nella stanza. “Non scuso mai che un uomo perda le staffe durante l’>Inverno, nemmeno quando si trova così vicino al >focolare come voi. È davvero imprudente causarsi una tale sudorazione. Qual è la causa di questa estrema agitazione fisica e mentale, signore?”

Ecco il discorso assai filosofico del signor Robert Bolton, un stenografo, come si autodefiniva. Un po’ di eufemismo comune tra i suoi colleghi; per chi non ne fosse a conoscenza, quel termine avrebbe potuto far pensare all’esistenza di un organo ministeriale ufficiale. Ma per coloro che ne erano a conoscenza, significava semplicemente che nessun giornale poteva rivendicare il diritto di utilizzare i suoi servizi. Il signor Bolton era un giovane dall’aspetto piuttosto malaticcio e dissoluto; il suo abbigliamento rappresentava un’“eccezionale combinazione” di raffinatezza, trascuratezza, presunzione, semplicità, e anche un certo aspetto “veterano”. Metà del suo abbigliamento sembrava adatto all’inverno, l’altra metà all’estate; il cappello era della moda più recente, di tipo D’Orsay; i pantaloni erano stati bianchi, ma il fango e l’inchiostro li avevano resi di un colore grigiastro. Intorno al collo portava una cravatta nera molto rigida; tutto il suo abbigliamento era nascosto sotto le enormi pieghe di un vecchio cappotto marrone con colletto a papillon, chiuso strettamente fino alla cravatta. Le sue dita spuntavano dalle estremità dei guanti di pelle nera. E anche due delle dita dei suoi piedi facevano lo stesso. I misteri del suo abbigliamento interno rimangono un segreto, ben custodito tra le pareti nude del suo seminterrato. Era un uomo basso e magro, dal comportamento piuttosto sciatto. Tutti sembravano essere influenzati dal suo ingresso nella stanza; il modo in cui salutava ogni persona aveva un tono paternalistico. Il parrucchiere gli fece spazio tra sé e lo stomaco di qualcuno. Un minuto dopo, si era già procurato la sua pinta di birra e la sua pipa. La conversazione si interruppe per un momento. Tutti aspettavano con ansia il suo primo commento.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective emphasis; ‘boiled him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one looked at the baker present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being his son, also was necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the morrow’s dawn beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the reporter that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) ‘The son came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear maternal shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female. The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested the knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs, shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position he was found with a ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house, and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards. The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and, with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker was apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street, lighting his pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only broken after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of wonderments connected with the subject; among which not the least wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and information of Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question, when I took up my hat, and left.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD aged two years and two months

My Child,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,—to dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any company by talking politics—always assuring you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew older,—to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair appearance—your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel (when they travel at all) inside and in a portable stable invented for the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire—the glass of foaming ale—the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl—his pride in days of yore—the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate practical joke.

“Un orribile omicidio a Westminster stamattina,” osservò il signor Bolton.

Tutti cambiarono posizione. Tutti gli sguardi erano fissi su quell’uomo.

“Un panettiere ha ucciso suo figlio bollendolo in un pentolone di rame,” disse il signor Bolton.

“Mio Dio!” esclamarono tutti, simultaneamente, in preda all’orrore.

“Lo abbiamo bollito, signori!” aggiunse il signor Bolton con la massima enfasi possibile; “lo abbiamo bollito!”

“E i dettagli, signor B, ”, chiese la parrucchiera. “I dettagli precisi?”

Il signor Bolton bevve un lungo sorso di birra e fumò due o tre dozzine di sigarette, probabilmente per far comprendere alla compagnia l’importanza dei gentiluomini legati al mondo editoriale; poi disse.

“Quell’uomo era un panettiere, signori.” (Tutti guardarono il panettiere presente, che fissava Bolton.) “La sua vittima, essendo suo figlio, era necessariamente anche lei figlia di un panettiere. Quel miserabile assassino aveva una moglie, e spesso, quando era ubriaco, aveva l’abitudine di calciarla, picchiarla, lanciarle tazze addosso, buttarla a terra e quasi ucciderla a letto, infilandole nella bocca una grande quantità di lenzuola o coperte.”

Il parlante bevve un altro sorso; tutti si guardarono intorno e esclamarono: “Orribile!”

“Si evince dalle prove, signori,” continuò il signor Bolton, “che la sera di ieri, il panettiere Sawyer tornò a casa in uno stato deplorevole a causa dell’alcol. La signora S., considerata nel suo ruolo coniugale, lo portò in quella condizione al piano di sopra, nella sua camera, e lo affidò al loro letto coniugale. Dopo un minuto o due, lei stessa si addormentò accanto all’uomo che, l’indomani all’alba, sarebbe stato scoperto come assassino, ” (Un silenzio totale fece capire al relatore che il racconto aveva ottenuto esattamente l’effetto desiderato.) “Il figlio tornò a casa circa un’ora dopo, aprì la porta e andò a letto. Appena si era spogliato, (Signori, immaginate i suoi sentimenti di terrore, ), udì delle grida che, per un orecchio esperto, sembravano quelle di una madre in preda al panico. Si rivestì immediatamente e corse giù per le scale. Entrò nella camera da letto dei genitori. Suo padre stava danzando sopra sua madre. Che sentimenti doveva provare! Nell’orrore di quel momento, si gettò addosso al proprio genitore maschio proprio mentre quest’ultimo stava per pugnalare la moglie. La madre gridò; il padre afferrò il figlio (che aveva strappato il coltello dalle sue mani), lo portò giù per le scale, lo gettò in una pentola piena d’acqua bollente insieme a del bucato, chiuse il coperchio e saltò sopra di esso. Fu trovato in quella posizione, con un’espressione feroce, dalla madre, che arrivò nella triste lavanderia proprio nel momento in cui si era sistemato così.”

“Dov’è mio figlio?”, gridò la madre.

“Nel quel metallo bollente, ”, rispose con calma il gentile padre.

Colpita da quell’intelligenza terribile, la madre fuggì di corsa dalla casa, allarmando l’intero quartiere. La polizia arrivò poco dopo. Il padre, essendo fuggito attraverso la porta della lavanderia, si era nascosto anch’egli. Estrassero il corpo senza vita del panettiere dal calderone e, con una prontezza degna di lode per persone della loro posizione, lo portarono immediatamente alla stazione di polizia. In seguito, il panettiere fu arrestato mentre sedeva in cima a un lampione in Parliament Street, intento ad accendere la sua pipa.

Tutta quell’orribile idealità dei “Misteri di Udolpho”, condensata nell’effetto incisivo di un paragrafo di dieci righe, non avrebbe mai potuto influenzare così profondamente l’ascoltatore. Il silenzio, il più puro e nobile dei tipi di applauso, fu la prova evidente della barbarie di quel panettiere, così come del talento narrativo di Bolton; solo dopo alcuni minuti furono interrotti da espressioni di intensa indignazione da parte di tutti i presenti. Il panettiere si chiedeva come un panettiere britannico potesse umiliare a tal punto se stesso e la nobile professione a cui apparteneva; gli altri, invece, nutrivano varie perplessità riguardo all’intera vicenda. Tra queste, non ultima era quella suscitata dal genio e dalle conoscenze del signor Robert Bolton: dopo aver elogiato se stesso e il proprio indiscutibile ascendente sulla stampa quotidiana, proseguì con un’espressione molto solenne nell’ascoltare i pro e i contro riguardo alla questione dell’autografo di Papa Pio XII. Quando poi presi il cappello e me ne andai.

Lettera familiare di un genitore a un >bambino di due anni e due mesi

Mio bambino,

Raccontare con quanta difficoltà vi abbia cresciuto; con quale occhio ansioso abbia seguito i vostri progressi; quanto spesso e fino a tarda notte abbia lavorato per voi; quante migliaia di lettere abbia ricevuto e scritto alle vostre varie parenti e amici, molti dei quali erano di carattere petulante e irritabile. Parlare dell’ansia e della premura con cui ho controllato e selezionato il vostro cibo, rifiutando tutto ciò che fosse indigestibile o pesante – cose che alcune vecchie signore, per quanto benintenzionate, vi avrebbero fatto ingoiare – e conservando soltanto alimenti leggeri e gradevoli, che ritenevo potessero preservarvi da ogni disturbo fisico e rendervi un bambino piacevole da avere intorno, apprezzato dalla società in generale. Insomma, descrivere con precisione la costanza con cui ho evitato che frequentaste compagnie sgradevoli, parlando sempre di politica e assicurandovi che un giorno, crescendo, mi sareste stati grati per questo. Tutto ciò, oltre ad essere al di fuori dello scopo principale della mia esposizione, non può fare a meno di suscitare in me la più viva soddisfazione e gioia nel vedere il vostro bell’aspetto, la vostra salute robusta e la circolazione sanguigna regolare – fattori che ritengo siano la vera ragione della vostra bellezza.

È un’osservazione banale, e sicuramente, essendo così giovane, l’avrai sentita ripetere molte volte: viviamo in tempi strani, in giorni di continui cambiamenti e trasformazioni. Solo una settimana o due fa ho avuto un’altra occasione per rifletterci su. Tornavo da Manchester a Londra con il treno espresso quando, all’improvviso, mi sono ritrovato immerso in profonde riflessioni, spinto dal comportamento cupo e desolato del guardiano dell’ufficio postale. Ci trovavamo in una stazione dove si rifornivano d’acqua; lui scese lentamente dalla sua piccola cabina, seduto lì come una macabra parodia della sua vecchia condizione, con pistola e fucile accanto a sé, pronto a sparare al primo “ladro di strada” (o ferroviario) che osasse fermare i cavalli. I quali ora viaggiano, quando mai lo fanno, all’interno di una stalla portatile appositamente inventata per questo scopo. Scese lentamente e tristemente dal suo posto, guardandosi intorno con aria malinconica, come se ricordasse con nostalgia quelle vecchie osterie lungo la strada. Il fuoco ardente nei camini, le pinte di birra schiumosa, le cameriere formose e gli avventurieri che si aggiravano intorno alle stalle. Tutti questi aspetti della vita passata sembravano ormai svaniti per sempre. Si allontanò un po’, appoggiandosi a un palo di segnalazione, e osservò il locomotore con uno sguardo misto di dolore e disgusto. Il suo mantello rosso e i suoi nastri dorati erano macchiati dal fumo; fiocchi di fuliggine si erano depositati sul suo scialle verde brillante. L’umidità del vapore condensato nel tunnel in cui avevamo appena lasciato il treno gli aveva bagnato il cappello come se fosse piovuto. Il suo sguardo rivelava che stava pensando al cocchiere. E quando si posò sul proprio sedile e sulla propria divisa ormai logora, fu evidente che sentiva di non avere più nulla a che fare con quel ruolo, né con quella vita. Era tutto solo uno scherzo crudele e elaborato.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have given place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I, ‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his trained animals in a mock mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany, and never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, your guard is at home in his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you in loco parentis as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,

Boz.

Footnotes:

[122] This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of half-a-crown, was abolished.

[161] The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered-greatly for the better—since this sketch was first published. Even the construction of the prison itself has been changed.

[165] These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was respited during his Majesty’s pleasure.

[429] [In its original form.]

Mentre ci allontanavamo velocemente, fui inconsapevolmente portato ad anticipare quei giorni futuri in cui i guardiani delle diligenze non sarebbero più giudici della “carne equina”, in cui un guardiano di diligenza non avrebbe mai nemmeno visto un cavallo; in cui le stazioni avrebbero sostituito gli stalli, e il grano il carbone. “In quei tempi nascenti”, pensai, “le sale espositive saranno piene di ritratti del locomotore preferito da Sua Maestà, di caldaie progettate secondo i principi della Natura da futuri ingegneri. Qualcuno, ancora non nato, riuscirà a domare cavalli selvaggi con il suo potere magico; e vestito come un guardiano di diligenza, esibirà gli animali che avrà addestrato all’interno di una falsa diligenza. Allora, folle meravigliate osserveranno come, ad eccezione del frustino, tutto ciò che possiede dipenda soltanto dai suoi occhi. E sovrani li vedranno nutrirsi di avena, mentre i commessi fuggiranno spaventati quando i cavalli nitriscono, ”

Ecco, mio figlio, quali riflessioni mi spinsero a svegliarmi soltanto allora, proprio come ora, dalla necessità di occuparmi di questioni presenti, anche se di minore importanza. Non chiedo scusa per questa digressione, poiché mi conduce naturalmente al tema del cambiamento, che è appunto l’argomento di cui desidero parlare.

In effetti, mio >bambino, sei passato sotto la custodia di qualcun altro. Da ora in poi ti affido alla protezione e al cura di uno dei miei amici più cari e preziosi, il signor Ainsworth; con lui, come con te, i miei migliori desideri e i miei sentimenti più calorosi rimarranno sempre. Non traevo alcun vantaggio o beneficio separandomi da te, né sarà necessario alcun trasferimento dei tuoi beni, poiché, in questo senso, tu sei sempre stato letteralmente “il miscuglio di Bentley”, e mai mio.

A differenza del conducente dell’antico servizio postale di Manchester, io considero questo cambiamento nelle cose con sentimenti di piacere e soddisfazione misti.

A differenza della guardia del nuovo servizio postale di Manchester, la tua guardia si trova a >casa, nel suo nuovo ambiente, e ha sempre a disposizione banditi e audaci fuorilegge pronti ad aiutarla. E se potessi paragonarti, mio >bambino, a una locomotiva, non una locomotiva conservatrice né liberale, ma una macchina veloce e potente; i tuoi amici e sostenitori potrebbero essere considerati passeggeri; e colui che ora agisce nei tuoi confronti come un abile ingegnere e supervisore di tutto il sistema, chiederei umilmente il permesso di posticipare per un breve istante la partenza del “treno” lungo il suo nuovo e promettente percorso. Così, con il cappello in mano, mi avvicinerei al tuo fianco insieme all’amico che ha viaggiato con me lungo l’antica strada, per chiederti favore e gentilezza a nome suo e del suo nuovo “incarico”, sia per il loro bene che per quello dell’ex cocchiere.

Boz.

Note a piè di pagina

[122] Questo articolo fu scritto prima che venisse abolita la pratica di esporre i membri del Parlamento, insieme ad altre curiosità, al piccolo costo di mezza corona.

[161] Le regole della prigione relative al confinamento dei prigionieri durante il giorno, al loro riposo di notte, al consumo dei pasti e ad altre questioni legate all’amministrazione del carcere sono state tutte modificate – in modo significativo e positivo – da quando questo abbozzo è stato pubblicato per la prima volta. Anche la struttura stessa della prigione è stata modificata.

[165] Questi due uomini furono giustiziati poco dopo. L’altro, invece, ricevette clemenza per volontà del Sovrano.

[429] [Nella sua forma originale.]