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diff --git a/1462-h/1462-h.htm b/1462-h/1462-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c27551c --- /dev/null +++ b/1462-h/1462-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1487 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Some Roundabout Papers, by William Makepeace Thackeray</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Some Roundabout Papers, by William Makepeace +Thackeray + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Some Roundabout Papers + + +Author: William Makepeace Thackeray + + + +Release Date: February 24, 2013 [eBook #1462] +[This file was first posted on July 16, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME ROUNDABOUT PAPERS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1908 T. N. Foulis edition by Stephen +Rice, email srice01@ibm.net and David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>SOME ROUND-<br /> +ABOUT PAPERS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +WILLIAM MAKEPEACE<br /> +THACKERAY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">T. N. FOULIS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">13–15 FREDERICK STREET</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">EDINBURGH: & 23 BEDFORD</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">STREET, LONDON, W.C.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">1908</p> +<h2>ON SOME CARP AT SANS SOUCI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> have lately made the +acquaintance of an old lady of ninety, who has passed the last +twenty-five years of her old life in a great metropolitan +establishment, the workhouse, namely, of the parish of Saint +Lazarus. Stay—twenty-three or four years ago, she +came out once, and thought to earn a little money by hop-picking; +but being overworked, and having to lie out at night, she got a +palsy which has incapacitated her from all further labour, and +has caused her poor old limbs to shake ever since.</p> +<p>An illustration of that dismal proverb which tells us how +poverty makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows, this poor +old shaking body has to lay herself down every night in her +workhouse bed by the side of some other old woman with whom she +may or may not agree. She herself can’t be a very +pleasant bed-fellow, poor thing! with her shaking old limbs and +cold feet. She lies awake a deal of the night, to be sure, +not thinking of happy old times, for hers never were happy; but +sleepless with aches, and agues, and rheumatism of old age. +“The gentleman gave me brandy-and-water,” she said, +her old voice shaking with rapture at the thought. I never +had a great love for Queen Charlotte, but I like her better now +from what this old lady told me. The Queen, who loved snuff +herself, has left a legacy of snuff to certain poorhouses; and, +in her watchful nights, this old woman takes a pinch of Queen +Charlotte’s snuff, “and it do comfort me, sir, that +it do!” <i>Pulveris exigui munus</i>. Here is a +forlorn aged creature, shaking with palsy, with no soul among the +great struggling multitude of mankind to care for her, not quite +trampled out of life, but past and forgotten in the rush, made a +little happy, and soothed in her hours of unrest by this penny +legacy. Let me think as I write. (The next +month’s sermon, thank goodness! is safe to press.) +This discourse will appear at the season when I have read that +wassail-bowls make their appearance; at the season of pantomime, +turkey and sausages, plum-puddings, jollifications for +schoolboys; Christmas bills, and reminiscences more or less sad +and sweet for elders. If we oldsters are not merry, we +shall be having a semblance of merriment. We shall see the +young folks laughing round the holly-bush. We shall pass +the bottle round cosily as we sit by the fire. That old +thing will have a sort of festival too. Beef, beer, and +pudding will be served to her for that day also. Christmas +falls on a Thursday. Friday is the workhouse day for coming +out. Mary, remember that old Goody Twoshoes has her +invitation for Friday, 26th December! Ninety is she, poor +old soul? Ah! what a bonny face to catch under a +mistletoe! “Yes, ninety, sir,” she says, +“and my mother was a hundred, and my grandmother was a +hundred and two.”</p> +<p>Herself ninety, her mother a hundred, her grandmother a +hundred and two? What a queer calculation!</p> +<p>Ninety! Very good, granny: you were born, then, in +1772.</p> +<p>Your mother, we will say, was twenty-seven when you were born, +and was born therefore in 1745.</p> +<p>Your grandmother was thirty-five when her daughter was born, +and was born therefore in 1710.</p> +<p>We will begin with the present granny first. My good old +creature, you can’t of course remember, but that little +gentleman for whom you mother was laundress in the Temple was the +ingenious Mr Goldsmith, author of a “History of +England,” the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and many +diverting pieces. You were brought almost an infant to his +chambers in Brick Court, and he gave you some sugar-candy, for +the doctor was always good to children. That gentleman who +well-nigh smothered you by sitting down on you as you lay in a +chair asleep was the learned Mr S. Johnson, whose history of +“Rasselas” you have never read, my pour soul; and +whose tragedy of “Irene” I don’t believe any +man in these kingdoms ever perused. That tipsy Scotch +gentleman who used to come to the chambers sometimes, and at whom +everybody laughed, wrote a more amusing book than any of the +scholars, your Mr Burke and your Mr Johnson, and your Dr +Goldsmith. Your father often took him home in a chair to +his lodgings; and has done as much for Parson Sterne in Bond +Street, the famous wit. Of course, my good creature, you +remember the Gordon Riots, and crying No Popery before Mr +Langdale’s house, the Popish distiller’s, and that +bonny fire of my Lord Mansfield’s books in Bloomsbury +Square? Bless us, what a heap of illuminations you have +seen! For the glorious victory over the Americans at +Breed’s Hill; for the peace in 1814, and the beautiful +Chinese bridge in St James’s Park; for the coronation of +his Majesty, whom you recollect as Prince of Wales, Goody, +don’t you? Yes; and you went in a procession of +laundresses to pay your respects to his good lady, the injured +Queen of England, at Brandenburg House; and you remember your +mother told you how she was taken to see the Scotch lords +executed at the Tower. And as for your grandmother, she was +born five months after the battle of Malplaquet, she was; where +her poor father was killed, fighting like a bold Briton for the +Queen. With the help of a “Wade’s +Chronology,” I can make out ever so queer a history for +you, my poor old body, and a pedigree as authentic as many in the +peerage-books.</p> +<p>Peerage-books and pedigrees? What does she know about +them? Battles and victories, treasons, kings, and beheadings, +literary gentlemen, and the like, what have they ever been to +her? Granny, did you ever hear of General Wolfe? Your +mother may have seen him embark, and your father may have carried +a musket under him. Your grandmother may have cried huzza +for Marlborough; but what is the Prince Duke to you, and did you +ever so much as hear tell of his name? How many hundred or +thousand of years had that toad lived who was in the coal at the +defunct exhibition?—and yet he was not a bit better +informed than toads seven or eight hundred years younger.</p> +<p>“Don’t talk to me your nonsense about Exhibitions, +and Prince Dukes, and toads in coals, or coals in toads, or what +is it?” says granny. “I know there was a good +Queen Charlotte, for she left me snuff; and it comforts me of a +night when I lie awake.”</p> +<p>To me there is something very touching in the notion of that +little pinch of comfort doled out to granny, and gratefully +inhaled by her in the darkness. Don’t you remember +what traditions there used to be of chests of plate, bulses of +diamonds, laces of inestimable value, sent out of the country +privately by the old Queen, to enrich certain relatives in +M-ckl-nb-rg Str-l-tz? Not all the treasure went. +<i>Non omnis moritur</i>. A poor old palsied thing at +midnight is made happy sometimes as she lifts her shaking old +hand to her nose. Gliding noiselessly among the beds where +lie the poor creatures huddled in their cheerless dormitory, I +fancy an old ghost with a snuff-box that does not creak. +“There, Goody, take of my rappee. You will not +sneeze, and I shall not say ‘God bless you.’ +But you will think kindly of old Queen Charlotte, won’t +you? Ah! I had a many troubles, a many +troubles. I was a prisoner almost so much as you are. +I had to eat boiled mutton every day: <i>entre nous</i>, I +abominated it. But I never complained. I swallowed +it. I made the best of a hard life. We have all our +burdens to bear. But hark! I hear the cock-crow, and +snuff the morning air.” And with this the royal ghost +vanishes up the chimney—if there be a chimney in that +dismal harem, where poor old Twoshoes and her companions pass +their nights—their dreary nights, their restless nights, +their cold long nights, shared in what glum companionship, +illumined by what a feeble taper!</p> +<p>“Did I understand you, my good Twoshoes, to say that +your mother was seven-and-twenty years old when you were born, +and that she married your esteemed father when she herself was +twenty-five? 1745, then, was the date of your dear mother’s +birth. I daresay her father was absent in the Low +Countries, with his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, under +whom he had the honour of carrying a halberd at the famous +engagement of Fontenoy—or if not there, he may have been at +Preston Pans, under General Sir John Cope, when the wild +Highlanders broke through all the laws of discipline and the +English lines; and, being on the spot, did he see the famous +ghost which didn’t appear to Colonel Gardner of the +Dragoons? My good creature, is it possible you don’t +remember that Doctor Swift, Sir Robert Walpole (my Lord Orford, +as you justly say), old Sarah Marlborough, and little Mr Pope, of +Twitnam, died in the year of your birth? What a wretched +memory you have! What? haven’t they a library, and +the commonest books of reference at the old convent of Saint +Lazarus, where you dwell?”</p> +<p>“Convent of Saint Lazarus, Prince William, Dr Swift, +Atossa, and Mr Pope, of Twitnam! What is the gentleman +talking about?” says old goody, with a “Ho! +ho!” and a laugh like a old parrot—you know they live +to be as old as Methuselah, parrots do, and a parrot of a hundred +is comparatively young (ho! ho! ho!). Yes, and likewise +carps live to an immense old age. Some which Frederick the +Great fed at Sans Souci are there now, with great humps of blue +mould on their old backs; and they could tell all sorts of queer +stories, if they chose to speak—but they are very silent, +carps are—of their nature <i>peu communicatives</i>. +Oh! what has been thy long life, old goody, but a dole of bread +and water and a perch on a cage; a dreary swim round and round a +Lethe of a pond? What are Rossbach or Jena to those mouldy +ones, and do they know it is a grandchild of England who brings +bread to feed them?</p> +<p>No! Those Sans Souci carps may live to be a thousand +years old and have nothing to tell but that one day is like +another; and the history of friend Goody Twoshoes has not much +more variety than theirs. Hard labour, hard fare, hard bed, +numbing cold all night, and gnawing hunger most days. That +is her lot. Is it lawful in my prayers to say, “Thank +heaven, I am not as one of these”? If I were eighty, +would I like to feel the hunger always gnawing, gnawing? to have +to get up and make a bow when Mr Bumble the beadle entered the +common room? to have to listen to Miss Prim, who came to give me +her ideas of the next world? If I were eighty, I own I +should not like to have to sleep with another gentleman of my own +age, gouty, a bad sleeper, kicking in his old dreams, and +snoring; to march down my vale of years at word of command, +accommodating my tottering old steps to those of the other +prisoners in my dingy, hopeless old gang; to hold out a trembling +hand for a sickly pittance of gruel, and say, “Thank you, +ma’am,” to Miss Prim, when she has done reading her +sermon. John! when Goody Twoshoes comes next Friday, I +desire she may not be disturbed by theological +controversies. You have a fair voice, and I heard you and +the maids singing a hymn very sweetly the other night, and was +thankful that our humble household should be in such +harmony. Poor old Twoshoes is so old and toothless and +quaky, that she can’t sing a bit; but don’t be giving +yourself airs over her, because she can’t sing and you +can. Make her comfortable at our kitchen hearth. Set +that old kettle to sing by our hob. Warm her old stomach +with nut-brown ale and a toast laid in the fire. Be kind to +the poor old school-girl of ninety, who has had leave to come out +for a day of Christmas holiday. Shall there be many more +Christmases for thee? Think of the ninety she has seen +already; the four-score and ten cold, cheerless, nipping New +Years!</p> +<p>If you were in her place, would you like to have a remembrance +of better early days, when you were young and happy, and loving, +perhaps; or would you prefer to have no past on which your mind +could rest? About the year 1788, Goody, were your cheeks +rosy, and your eyes bright, and did some young fellow in powder +and a pigtail look in them? We may grow old, but to us some +stories never are old. On a sudden they rise up, not dead, +but living—not forgotten, but freshly remembered. The +eyes gleam on us as they used to do. The dear voice thrills +in our hearts. The rapture of the meeting, the terrible, +terrible parting, again and again the tragedy is acted +over. Yesterday, in the street, I saw a pair of eyes so +like two which used to brighten at my coming once, that the whole +past came back as I walked lonely, in the rush of the Strand, and +I was young again in the midst of joys and sorrows, alike sweet +and sad, alike sacred and fondly remembered.</p> +<p>If I tell a tale out of school, will any harm come to my old +school-girl? Once, a lady gave her a half-sovereign, which +was a source of great pain and anxiety to Goody Twoshoes. +She sewed it away in her old stays somewhere, thinking here at +least was a safe investment—(vestis—a vest—an +investment,—pardon me, thou poor old thing, but I cannot +help the pleasantry). And what do you think? Another +pensionnaire of the establishment cut the coin out of +Goody’s stays—<i>an old woman who went upon two +crutches</i>! Faugh, the old witch! What? +Violence amongst these toothless, tottering, trembling, feeble +ones? Robbery amongst the penniless? Dogs coming and +snatching Lazarus’s crumbs out of his lap? Ah, how +indignant Goody was as she told the story! To that pond at +Potsdam where the carps live for hundreds of hundreds of years, +with hunches of blue mould on their back, I daresay the little +Prince and Princess of Preussen-Britannien come sometimes with +crumbs and cakes to feed the mouldy ones. Those eyes may +have goggled from beneath the weeds at Napoleon’s +jack-boots: they have seen Frederick’s lean shanks +reflected in their pool; and perhaps Monsieur de Voltaire has fed +them, and now for a crumb of biscuit they will fight, push, +hustle, rob, squabble, gobble, relapsing into their tranquillity +when the ignoble struggle is over. Sans souci, +indeed! It is mighty well writing “Sans souci” +over the gate; but where is the gate through which Care has not +slipped? She perches on the shoulders of the sentry in the +sentry-box: she whispers the porter sleeping in his arm-chair: +she glides up the staircase, and lies down between the king and +queen in their bed-royal: this very night I daresay she will +perch upon poor old Goody Twoshoes’ meagre bolster, and +whisper, “Will the gentleman and those ladies ask me +again! No, no; they will forget poor old Twoshoes.” +Goody! For shame of yourself! Do not be +cynical. Do not mistrust your fellow-creatures. +What? Has the Christmas morning dawned upon thee ninety +times? For four-score and ten years has it been thy lot to +totter on this earth, hungry and obscure? Peace and goodwill to +thee, let us say at this Christmas season. Come, drink, +eat, rest awhile at our hearth, thou poor old pilgrim! And +of the bread which God’s bounty gives us, I pray, brother +reader, we may not forget to set aside a part for those noble and +silent poor, from whose innocent hands war has torn the means of +labour. Enough! As I hope for beef at Christmas, I +vow a note shall be sent to Saint Lazarus Union House, in which +Mr Roundabout requests the honour of Mrs Twoshoes’ company +on Friday, 26th December.</p> +<h2>DE JUVENTUTE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> who lived before railways, and +survive out of the ancient world, are like Father Noah and his +family out of the Ark. The children will gather round and +say to us patriarchs, “Tell us, grandpapa, about the old +world.” And we shall mumble our old stories; and we +shall drop off one by one; and there will be fewer and fewer of +us, and these very old and feeble. There will be but ten +præ-railroadites left: then three—then two—then +one—then 0! If the hippopotamus had the least +sensibility (of which I cannot trace any signs either in his hide +or his face), I think he would go down to the bottom of his tank, +and never come up again. Does he not see that he belongs to +bygone ages, and that his great hulking barrel of a body is out +of place in these times? What has he in common with the +brisk young life surrounding him? In the watches of the +night, when the keepers are asleep, when the birds are on one +leg, when even the little armadillo is quiet, and the monkeys +have ceased their chatter, he—I mean the +hippopotamus—and the elephant, and the long-necked giraffe, +perhaps may lay their heads together and have a colloquy about +the great silent antediluvian world which they remember, where +mighty monsters floundered through the ooze, crocodiles basked on +the banks, and dragons darted out of the caves and waters before +men were made to slay them. We who lived before railways +are antediluvians—we must pass away. We are growing +scarcer every day; and old—old—very old relicts of +the times when George was still fighting the Dragon.</p> +<p>Not long since, a company of horseriders paid a visit to our +watering-place. We went to see them, and I bethought me +that young Walter Juvenis, who was in the place, might like also +to witness the performance. A pantomime is not always +amusing to persons who have attained a certain age; but a boy at +a pantomime is always amused and amusing, and to see his pleasure +is good for most hypochondriacs.</p> +<p>We sent to Walter’s mother, requesting that he might +join us, and the kind lady replied that the boy had already been +at the morning performance of the equestrians, but was most eager +to go in the evening likewise. And go he did; and laughed +at all Mr Merryman’s remarks, though he remembered them +with remarkable accuracy, and insisted upon waiting to the very +end of the fun, and was only induced to retire just before its +conclusion by representations that the ladies of the party would +be incommoded if they were to wait and undergo the rush and +trample of the crowd round about. When this fact was +pointed out to him, he yielded at once, though with a heavy +heart, his eyes looking longingly towards the ring as we +retreated out of the booth. We were scarcely clear of the +place, when we heard “God save the Queen,” played by +the equestrian band, the signal that all was over. Our +companion entertained us with scraps of the dialogue on our way +home—precious crumbs of wit which he had brought away from +that feast. He laughed over them again as he walked under +the stars. He has them now, and takes them out of the +pocket of his memory, and crunches a bit, and relishes it with a +sentimental tenderness, too, for he is, no doubt, back at school +by this time; the holidays are over; and Doctor Birch’s +young friends have reassembled.</p> +<p>Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple mouths to +grin! As the jaded Merryman uttered them to the old +gentleman with the whip, some of the old folks in the audience, I +daresay, indulged in reflections of their own. There was +one joke—I utterly forget it—but it began with +Merryman saying what he had for dinner. He had mutton for +dinner, at one o’clock, after which “he had to +<i>come to business</i>.” And then came the +point. Walter Juvenis, Esq., Rev. Doctor Birch’s, +Market Rodborough, if you read this, will you please send me a +line, and let me know what was the joke Mr Merryman made about +having his dinner? <i>You</i> remember well enough. +But do I want to know? Suppose a boy takes a favourite, +long-cherished lump of cake out of his pocket, and offers you a +bit? <i>Merci</i>! The fact is, I <i>don’t</i> +care much about knowing that joke of Mr Merryman’s.</p> +<p>But whilst he was talking about his dinner, and his mutton, +and his landlord, and his business, I felt a great interest about +Mr M. in private life—about his wife, lodgings, earnings, +and general history, and I daresay was forming a picture of those +in my mind:—wife cooking the mutton; children waiting for +it; Merryman in his plain clothes, and so forth; during which +contemplation the joke was uttered and laughed at, and Mr M., +resuming his professional duties, was tumbling over head and +heels. Do not suppose I am going, <i>sicut est mos</i>, to +indulge in moralities about buffoons, paint, motley, and +mountebanking. Nay, Prime Ministers rehearse their jokes; +Opposition leaders prepare and polish them: Tabernacle preachers +must arrange them in their minds before they utter them. +All I mean is, that I would like to know any one of these +performers thoroughly, and out of his uniform: that preacher, and +why in his travels this and that point struck him; wherein lies +his power of pathos, humour, eloquence;—that Minister of +State, and what moves him, and how his private heart is +working;—I would only say that, at a certain time of life +certain things cease to interest: but about <i>some</i> things +when we cease to care, what will be the use of life, sight, +hearing? Poems are written, and we cease to admire. +Lady Jones invites us, and we yawn; she ceases to invite us, and +we are resigned. The last time I saw a ballet at the +opera—oh! it is many years ago—I fell asleep in the +stalls, wagging my head in insane dreams, and I hope affording +amusement to the company, while the feet of five hundred nymphs +were cutting flicflacs on the stage at a few paces distant. +Ah, I remember a different state of things! <i>Credite +posteri</i>. To see these nymphs—gracious powers, how +beautiful they were! That leering, painted, shrivelled, +thin-armed, thick-ankled old thing, cutting dreary capers, coming +thumping down on her board out of time—<i>that</i> an +opera-dancer? Pooh! My dear Walter, the great +difference between my time and yours, who will enter life some +two or three years hence, is that, now, the dancing women and +singing women are ludicrously old, out of time, and out of tune; +the paint is so visible, and the dinge and wrinkles of their +wretched old cotton stockings, that I am surprised how anybody +can like to look at them. And as for laughing at me for +falling asleep, I can’t understand a man of sense doing +otherwise. In my time, <i>à la bonne +heure</i>. In the reign of George IV., I give you my +honour, all the dancers at the opera were as beautiful as +Houris. Even in William IV.’s time, when I think of +Duvernay prancing in as the Bayadère,—I say it was a +vision of loveliness such as mortal eyes can’t see +nowadays. How well I remember the tune to which she used to +appear! Kaled used to say to the Sultan, “My lord, a +troop of those dancing and singing gurls called Bayaderes +approaches,” and, to the clash of cymbals, and the thumping +of my heart, in she used to dance! There has never been +anything like it—never. There never will be—I +laugh to scorn old people who tell me about your Noblet, your +Montessu, your Vistris, your Parisot—pshaw, the senile +twaddlers! And the impudence of the young men, with their +music and their dancers of to-day! I tell you the women are +dreary old creatures. I tell you one air in an opera is +just like another, and they send all rational creatures to +sleep. Ah, Ronzi de Begnis, thou lovely one! Ah, +Caradori, thou smiling angel! Ah, Malibran! Nay, I +will come to modern times, and acknowledge that Lablache was a +very good singer thirty years ago (though Porto was the boy for +me): and they we had Ambrogetti, and Curioni, and Donzelli, a +rising young singer.</p> +<p>But what is most certain and lamentable is the decay of stage +beauty since the days of George IV. Think of Sontag! +I remember her in <i>Otello</i> and the <i>Donna del Lago</i> in +’28. I remember being behind the scenes at the opera +(where numbers of us young fellows of fashion used to go), and +seeing Sontag let her hair fall down over her shoulders previous +to her murder by Donzelli. Young fellows have never seen +beauty like <i>that</i>, heard such a voice, seen such hair, such +eyes. Don’t tell <i>me</i>! A man who has been +about town since the reign of George IV., ought he not to know +better than you young lads who have seen nothing? The +deterioration of women is lamentable; and the conceit of the +young fellows more lamentable still, that they won’t see +this fact, but persist in thinking their time as good as +ours.</p> +<p>Bless me! when I was a lad, the stage was covered with angels, +who sang, acted, and danced. When I remember the Adelphi, +and the actresses there: when I think of Miss Chester, and Miss +Love, and Mrs Serle at Sadler’s Wells, and her forty +glorious pupils—of the Opera and Noblet, and the exquisite +young Taglioni, and Pauline Leroux, and a host more! One +much-admired being of those days I confess I never cared for, and +that was the chief <i>male</i> dancer—a very important +personage then, with a bare neck, bare arms, a tunic, and a hat +and feathers, who used to divide the applause with the ladies, +and who has now sunk down a trap-door for ever. And this +frank admission ought to show that I am not your mere twaddling +<i>laudator temporis acti</i>—your old fogey who can see no +good except in his own time.</p> +<p>They say that claret is better nowadays, and cookery much +improved since the days of <i>my</i> monarch—of George +IV. <i>Pastry Cookery</i> is certainly not so good. I +have often eaten half-a-crown’s worth (including, I trust, +ginger-beer) at our school pastrycook’s, and that is a +proof that the pastry must have been very good, for could I do as +much now? I passed by the pastrycook’s shop lately, +having occasion to visit my old school. It looked a very +dingy old baker’s; misfortunes may have come over +him—those penny tarts certainly did not look so nice as I +remember them: but he may have grown careless as he has grown old +(I should judge him to be now about ninety-six years of age), and +his hand may have lost its cunning.</p> +<p>Not that we were not great epicures. I remember how we +constantly grumbled at the quantity of the food in our +master’s house—which on my conscience I believe was +excellent and plentiful—and how we tried once or twice to +eat him out of house and home. At the pastrycook’s we +may have over-eaten ourselves (I have admitted +half-a-crown’s worth for my own part, but I don’t +like to mention the <i>real</i> figure for fear of perverting the +present generation of boys by my monstrous confession)—we +may have eaten too much, I say. We did; but what +then? The school apothecary was sent for: a couple of small +globules at night, a trifling preparation of senna in the +morning, and we had not to go to school, so that the draught was +an actual pleasure.</p> +<p>For our amusements, besides the games in vogue, which were +pretty much in old times as they are now (except cricket <i>par +exemple</i>—and I wish the present youth joy of their +bowling, and suppose Armstrong and Whitworth will bowl at them +with light field-pieces next), there were novels—ah! I +trouble you to find such novels in the present day! O +Scottish Chiefs, didn’t we weep over you! O Mysteries of +Udolpho, didn’t I and Briggs Minor draw pictures out of +you, as I have said? Efforts, feeble indeed, but still +giving pleasure to us and our friends. “I say, old +boy, draw us Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition,” or, +“Draw us Don Quixote and the windmills, you know,” +amateurs would say, to boys who had a love of drawing. +“Peregrine Pickle” we liked, our fathers admiring it, +and telling us (the sly old boys) it was capital fun; but I think +I was rather bewildered by it, though “Roderick +Random” was and remains delightful. I don’t +remember having Sterne in the school library, no doubt because +the works of that divine were not considered decent for young +people. Ah! not against thy genius, O father of Uncle Toby +and Trim, would I say a word in disrespect. But I am +thankful to live in times when men no longer have the temptation +to write so as to call blushes on women’s cheeks, and would +shame to whisper wicked allusions to honest boys. Then, +above all, we had <span class="smcap">Walter Scott</span>, the +kindly, the generous, the pure—the companion of what +countless delightful hours; the purveyor of how much happiness; +the friend whom we recall as the constant benefactor of our +youth! How well I remember the type and the brownish paper of the +old duodecimo “Tales of My Landlord!” I have +never dared to read the “Pirate,” and the +“Bride of Lammermoor,” or “Kenilworth,” +from that day to this, because the finale is unhappy, and people +die, and are murdered at the end. But +“Ivanhoe,” and “Quentin Durward”! +Oh! for a half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of those +books again! Those books, and perhaps those eyes with which +we read them; and, it may be, the brains behind the eyes! It may +be the tart was good; but how fresh the appetite was! If +the gods would give me the desire of my heart, I should be able +to write a story which boys would relish for the next few dozen +of centuries. The boy-critic loves the story: grown up, he +loves the author who wrote the story. Hence the kindly tie +is established between writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearly +for life. I meet people now who don’t care of Walter +Scott, or the “Arabian Nights”; I am sorry for them, +unless they in their time have found <i>their</i> +romancer—their charming Scheherazade. By the way, +Walter, when you are writing, tell me who is the favourite +novelist in the fourth form now? Have you got anything so +good and kindly as dear Miss Edgeworth’s +<i>Frank</i>? It used to belong to a fellow’s sisters +generally; but though he pretended to despise it, and said, +“Oh, stuff for girls!” he read it; and I think there +were one or two passages which would try my eyes now, were I to +meet with the little book.</p> +<p>As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is only my witty way of calling +Tom and Jerry), I went to the British Museum the other day on +purpose to get it; but somehow, if you will press the question so +closely, on reperusal, Tom and Jerry is not so brilliant as I had +supposed it to be. The pictures are just as fine as ever; +and I shook hands with broad-backed Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian +Tom with delight, after many year’s absence. But the +style of the writing, I own, was not pleasing to me; I even +thought it a little vulgar—well! well! other writers have +been considered vulgar—and as a description of the sports +and amusements of London in the ancient times, more curious than +amusing.</p> +<p>But the pictures!—oh! the pictures are noble +still! First, there is Jerry arriving from the country, in +a green coat and leather gaiters, and being measured for a +fashionable suit at Corinthian House, by Corinthian Tom’s +tailor. Then away for the career of pleasure and +fashion. The park! delicious excitement! The theatre! the +saloon!! the green-room!!! Rapturous bliss—the opera +itself! and then perhaps to Temple Bar, to <i>knock down a +Charley</i> there! There are Jerry and Tom, with their +tights and little cocked hats, coming from the opera—very +much as gentlemen in waiting on royalty are habited now. +There they are at Almack’s itself, amidst a crowd of +high-bred personages, with the Duke of Clarence himself looking +at them dancing. Now, strange change, they are in Tom +Cribb’s parlour, where they don’t seem to be a whit +less at home than in fashion’s gilded halls; and now they +are at Newgate, seeing the irons knocked off the +malefactors’ legs previous to execution. What +hardened ferocity in the countenance of the desperado in yellow +breeches! What compunction in the face of the gentleman in +black (who, I suppose, has been forging), and who clasps his +hands, and listens to the chaplain! Now we haste away to +merrier scenes: to Tattersall’s (ah gracious powers! what a +funny fellow that actor was who performed Dicky Green in that +scene in the play!); and now we are at a private party, at which +Corinthian Tom is waltzing (and very gracefully too, as you must +confess) with Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob Logic, the Oxonian, is +playing on the piano!</p> +<p>“After,” the text says, “<i>the Oxonian</i> +had played several pieces of lively music, he requested as a +favour that Kate and his friend Tom would perform a waltz. +Kate without any hesitation immediately stood up. Tom +offered his hand to his fascinating partner, and the dance took +place. The plate conveys a correct representation of the +‘gay scene’ at that precise moment. The anxiety +of the <i>Oxonian</i> to witness the attitudes of the elegant +pair had nearly put a stop to their movements. On turning +round from the pianoforte and presenting his comical <i>mug</i>, +Kate could scarcely suppress a laugh.”</p> +<p>And no wonder; just look at it now (as I have copied it to the +best of my humble ability), and compare Master Logic’s +countenance and attitude with the splendid elegance of Tom! +Now every London man is weary and <i>blasé</i>. +There is an enjoyment of life in these young bucks of 1823 which +contrasts strangely with our feelings of 1860. Here, for +instance, is a specimen of their talk and walk, “If,’ +says <span class="smcap">Logic</span>—‘if +<i>enjoyment</i> is your <i>motto</i>, you may make the most of +an evening at Vauxhall, more than at any other place in the +metropolis. It is all free and easy. Stay as long as +you like, and depart when you think +proper.’—‘Your description is so +flattering,’ replied <span class="smcap">Jerry</span>, +‘that I do not care how soon the time arrives for us to +start.’ <span class="smcap">Logic</span> proposed a +‘<i>bit of a stroll</i>’ in order to get rid of an +hour or two, which was immediately accepted by Tom and +Jerry. A <i>turn</i> or two in Bond Street, a <i>stroll</i> +through Piccadilly, a <i>look in</i> at <span +class="smcap">Tattersall</span>’s, a <i>ramble</i> through +Pall Mall, and a <i>strut</i> on the Corinthian path, fully +occupied the time of our heroes until the hour for dinner +arrived, when a few glasses of <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>’s rich wines soon put them on the +<i>qui vive</i>. <span class="smcap">Vauxhall</span> was +then the object in view, and the <span class="smcap">Trio</span> +started, bent upon enjoying the pleasures which this place so +amply affords.”</p> +<p>How nobly those inverted commas, those italics, those +capitals, bring out the writer’s wit and relieve the +eye! They are as good as jokes, though you mayn’t +quite preceive the point. Mark the varieties of lounge in +which the young men indulge—now a <i>stroll</i>, then a +<i>look in</i>, then a <i>ramble</i>, and presently a +<i>strut</i>. When George, Prince of Wales, was twenty, I +have read in an old Magazine, “the Prince’s +lounge” was a peculiar manner of walking which the young +bucks imitated. At Windsor George III. had a <i>cat’s +path</i>—a sly early walk which the good old king took in +the grey morning before his household was astir. What was +the Corinthian path here recorded? Does any antiquary +know? And what were the rich wines which our friends took, +and which enable them to enjoy Vauxhall? Vauxhall is gone, +but the wines which could occasion such a delightful perversion +of the intellect as to enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, +what were they?</p> +<p>So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry Hawthorn, the +rustic, is fairly knocked up by all this excitement and is forced +to go home, and the last picture represents him getting into the +coach at the “White Horse Cellar,” he being one of +six inside; whilst his friends shake him by the hand; whilst the +sailor mounts on the roof; whilst the Jews hang round with +oranges, knives, and sealing-wax: whilst the guard is closing the +door. Where are they now, those sealing-wax vendors? where +are the guards? where are the jolly teams? where are the coaches? +and where the youth that climbed inside and out of them; that +heard the merry horn which sounds no more; that saw the sun rise +over Stonehenge; that rubbed away the bitter tears at night after +parting as the coach sped on the journey to school and London; +that looked out with beating heart as the milestones flew by, for +the welcome corner where began home and holidays.</p> +<p>It is night now: and here is home. Gathered under the +quiet roof elders and children lie alike at rest. In the +midst of a great peace and calm, the stars look out from the +heavens. The silence is peopled with the past; sorrowful +remorses for sins and shortcomings—memories of passionate +joys and griefs rise out of their graves, both now alike calm and +sad. Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me, that have long +ceased to shine. The town and the fair landscape sleep +under the starlight, wreathed in the autumn mists. +Twinkling among the houses a light keeps watch here and there, in +what may be a sick chamber or two. The clock tolls sweetly +in the silent air. Here is night and rest. An awful +sense of thanks makes the heart swell, and the head bow, as I +pass to my room through the sleeping house, and feel as though a +hushed blessing were upon it.</p> +<h2>ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS TREE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> kindly Christmas tree, from +which I trust every gentle reader has pulled out a bonbon or two, +is yet all aflame whilst I am writing, and sparkles with the +sweet fruits of its season. You young ladies, may you have +plucked pretty giftlings from it; and out of the cracker +sugar-plum which you have split with the captain or the sweet +young curate may you have read one of those delicious conundrums +which the confectioners introduce into the sweetmeats, and which +apply to the cunning passion of love. Those riddles are to +be read at <i>your</i> age, when I daresay they are +amusing. As for Dolly, Merry, and Bell, who are standing at +the tree, they don’t care about the love-riddle part, but +understand the sweet-almoned portion very well. They are +four, five, six years old. Patience, little people! A +dozen merry Christmases more, and you will be reading those +wonderful love-conundrums, too. As for us elderly folks, we +watch the babies at their sport, and the young people pulling at +the branches: and instead of finding bonbons or sweeties in the +packets which we pluck off the boughs, we find enclosed Mr +Carnifex’s review of the quarter’s meat; Mr +Sartor’s compliments, and little statement for self and the +young gentlemen; and Madame de Sainte-Crinoline’s respects +to the young ladies, who encloses her account, and will sent on +Saturday, please; or we stretch our hand out to the educational +branch of the Christmas tree, and there find a lively and amusing +article from the Rev. Henry Holyshade, containing our dear +Tommy’s exceedingly moderate account for the last +term’s school expenses.</p> +<p>The tree yet sparkles, I say. I am writing on the day +before Twelfth Day, if you must know; but already ever so many of +the fruits have been pulled, and the Christmas lights have gone +out. Bobby Miseltow, who has been staying with us for a +week (and who has been sleeping mysteriously in the bath-room), +comes to say he is going away to spend the rest of the holidays +with his grandmother—and I brush away the manly tear of +regret as I part with the dear child. “Well, Bob, +good-bye, since you <i>will</i> go. Compliments to +grandmamma. Thank her for the turkey. Here’s +—” (<i>A slight pecuniary transaction takes +place at this juncture</i>, <i>and Bob nods and winks</i>, <i>and +puts his hand in his waistcoat pocket</i>.) “You have +had a pleasant week?”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bob</span>.—“Haven’t +I!” (<i>And exit</i>, <i>anxious to know the amount +of the coin which has just changed hands</i>.)</p> +<p>He is gone, and as the dear boy vanishes through the door +(behind which I see him perfectly), I too cast up a little +account of our past Christmas week. When Bob’s +holidays are over, and the printer has sent me back this +manuscript, I know Christmas will be an old story. All the +fruit will be off the Christmas tree then; the crackers will have +cracked off; the almonds will have been crunched; and the +sweet-bitter riddles will have been read; the lights will have +perished off the dark green boughs; the toys growing on them will +have been distributed, fought for, cherished, neglected, +broken. Ferdinand and Fidelia will each keep out of it (be +still, my gushing heart!) the remembrance of a riddle read +together, of a double almond munched together, and of the moiety +of an exploded cracker. . . . The maids, I say, will have +taken down all that holly stuff and nonsense about the clocks, +lamps, and looking-glasses, the dear boys will be back at school, +fondly thinking of the pantomime fairies whom they have seen; +whose gaudy gossamer wings are battered by this time; and whose +pink cotton (or silk is it?) lower extremities are all dingy and +dusty. Yet but a few days, Bob, and flakes of paint will +have cracked off the fairy flower-bowers, and the revolving +temples of adamantine lustre will be as shabby as the city of +Pekin. When you read this, will Clown still be going on +lolling his tongue out of his mouth, and saying, “How are +you to-morrow?” To-morrow, indeed! He must be +almost ashamed of himself (if that cheek is still capable of the +blush of shame) for asking the absurd question. To-morrow, +indeed! To-morrow the diffugient snows will give place to +spring; the snowdrops will lift their heads; Ladyday may be +expected, and the pecuniary duties peculiar to that feast; in +place of bonbons, trees will have an eruption of light green +knobs; the whitebait season will bloom . . . as if one need go on +describing these vernal phenomena, when Christmas is still here, +though ending, and the subject of my discourse!</p> +<p>We have all admired the illustrated papers, and noted how +boisterously jolly they become at Christmas time. What +wassail-bowls, robin-redbreasts, waits, snow landscapes, bursts +of Christmas song! And then to think that these festivities +are prepared months before—that these Christmas pieces are +prophetic! How kind of artists and poets to devise the +festivities beforehand, and serve them pat at the proper time! We +ought to be grateful to them, as to the cook who gets up at +midnight and sets the pudding a-boiling, which is to feast us at +six o’clock. I often think with gratitude of the +famous Mr Nelson Lee—the author of I don’t know how +many hundred glorious pantomimes—walking by the summer wave +at Margate, or Brighton perhaps, revolving in his mind the idea +of some new gorgeous spectacle of faëry, which the winter +shall see complete. He is like cook at midnight (<i>si +parva licet</i>). He watches and thinks. He pounds +the sparkling sugar of benevolence, the plums of fancy, the +sweetmeats of fun, the figs of—well, the figs of fairy +fiction, let us say, and pops the whole in the seething cauldron +of imagination, and at due season serves up the <span +class="smcap">Pantomime</span>.</p> +<p>Very few men in the course of nature can expect to see +<i>all</i> the pantomimes in one season, but I hope to the end of +my life I shall never forego reading about them in that delicious +sheet of <i>The Times</i> which appears on the morning after +Boxing-day. Perhaps reading is even better than +seeing. The best way, I think, is to say you are ill, lie +in bed, and have the paper for two hours, reading all the way +down from Drury Lane to the Britannia at Hoxton. Bob and I +went to two pantomimes. One was at the Theatre of Fancy, +and the other at the Fairy Opera, and I don’t know which we +liked the best.</p> +<p>At the Fancy, we saw “Harlequin Hamlet, or Daddy’s +Ghost and Nunky’s Pison,” which is all very +well—but, gentlemen, if you don’t respect Shakspeare, +to whom will you be civil? The palace and ramparts of +Elsinore by moon and snowlight is one of Loutherbourg’s +finest efforts. The banqueting hall of the palace is +illuminated: the peaks and gables glitter with the snow: the +sentinels march blowing their fingers with the cold—the +freezing of the nose of one of them is very neatly and +dexterously arranged: the snow storm rises: the winds howl +awfully along the battlements: the waves come curling, leaping, +foaming to shore. Hamlet’s umbrella is whirled away +in the storm. He and his two friends stamp on each +other’s toes to keep them warm. The storm-spirits +rise in the air, and are whirled howling round the palace and the +rocks. My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots fly hurtling +through the air! As the storm reaches its height (here the +wind instruments come in with prodigious effect, and I compliment +Mr Brumby and the violoncellos)—as the snow storm rises +(queek, queek, queek, go the fiddles, and then thrumpty thrump +comes a pizzicato movement in Bob Major, which sends a shiver +into your very boot-soles), the thunder-clouds deepen (bong, +bong, bong, from the violoncellos). The forked lightning +quivers through the clouds in a zig-zag scream of +violins—and look, look, look! as the frothing, roaring +waves come rushing up the battlements, and over the reeling +parapet, each hissing wave becomes a ghost, sends the +gun-carriages rolling over the platform, and plunges into the +water again.</p> +<p>Hamlet’s mother comes on to the battlements to look for +her son. The storm whips her umbrella out of her hands, and +she retires screaming in pattens.</p> +<p>The cabs on the stand in the great market-place at Elsinore +are seen to drive off, and several people are drowned. The +gas-lamps along the street are wrenched from their foundations, +and shoot through the troubled air. Whist, rush, hish! how +the rain roars and pours! The darkness becomes awful, +always deepened by the power of the music—and see—in +the midst of a rush, and whirl, and scream of spirits of air and +wave—what is that ghastly figure moving hither? It +becomes bigger, bigger, as it advances down the +platform—more ghastly, more horrible, enormous! It is +as tall as the whole stage. It seems to be advancing on the +stalls and pit, and the whole house screams with terror, as the +Ghost of <span class="smcap">the Late Hamlet</span> comes in, and +begins to speak. Several people faint, and the +light-fingered gentry pick pockets furiously in the darkness.</p> +<p>In the pitchy darkness, this awful figure throwing his eyes +about, the gas in the boxes shuddering out of sight, and the +wind-instruments bugling the most horrible wails, the boldest +spectator must have felt frightened. But hark! what is that +silver shimmer of the fiddles? Is it—can it +be—the grey dawn peeping in the stormy east? The +ghost’s eyes look blankly towards it, and roll a ghastly +agony. Quicker, quicker ply the violins of Phoebus +Apollo. Redder, redder grow the orient clouds. +Cockadoodledoo! crows that great cock which has just come out on +the roof of the palace. And now the round sun himself pops +up from behind the waves of night. Where is the +ghost? He is gone! Purple shadows of morn +“slant o’er the snowy sward,” the city wakes up +in life and sunshine, and we confess we are very much relieved at +the disappearance of the ghost. We don’t like those +dark scenes in pantomimes.</p> +<p>After the usual business, that Ophelia should be turned into +Columbine was to be expected; but I confess I was a little +shocked when Hamlet’s mother became Pantaloon, and was +instantly knocked down by Clown Claudius. Grimaldi is +getting a little old now, but for real humour there are few +clowns like him. Mr Shuter, as the gravedigger, was chaste +and comic, as he always is, and the scene-painters surpassed +themselves.</p> +<p>“Harlequin Conqueror and the Field of Hastings,” +at the other house, is very pleasant too. The irascible +William is acted with great vigour by Snoxall, and the battle of +Hastings is a good piece of burlesque. Some trifling +liberties are taken with history, but what liberties will not the +merry genius of pantomime permit himself? At the battle of +Hastings, William is on the point of being defeated by the Sussex +volunteers, very elegantly led by the always pretty Miss Waddy +(as Haco Sharpshooter), when a shot from the Normans kills +Harold. The Fairy Edith hereupon comes forward, and finds +his body, which straightway leaps up a live harlequin, whilst the +Conqueror makes an excellent clown, and the Archbishop of Bayeux +a diverting pantaloon, &c. &c. &c.</p> +<p>Perhaps these are not the pantomimes we really saw; but one +description will do as well as another. The plots, you see, +are a little intricate and difficult to understand in pantomimes; +and I may have mixed up one with another. That I was at the +theatre on Boxing-night is certain—but the pit was so full +that I could only see fairy legs glittering in the distance, as I +stood at the door. And if I was badly off, I think there +was a young gentleman behind me worse off still. I own that +he has good reason (though others have not) to speak ill of me +behind my back, and hereby beg his pardon.</p> +<p>Likewise to the gentleman who picked up a party in Piccadilly, +who had slipped and fallen in the snow, and was there on his +back, uttering energetic expressions: that party begs to offer +thanks, and compliments of the season.</p> +<p>Bob’s behaviour on New Year’s day, I can assure Dr +Holyshade, was highly creditable to the boy. He had +expressed a determination to partake of every dish which was put +on the table; but after soup, fish, roast-beef, and roast-goose, +he retired from active business until the pudding and mince-pies +made their appearance, of which he partook liberally, but not too +freely. And he greatly advanced in my good opinion by +praising the punch, which was of my own manufacture, and which +some gentlemen present (Mr O’M—g—n, amongst +others) pronounced to be too weak. Too weak! A bottle of +rum, a bottle of Madeira, half a bottle of brandy, and two +bottles and a half of water—<i>can</i> this mixture be said +to be too weak for any mortal? Our young friend amused the +company during the evening, by exhibiting a two-shilling +magic-lantern, which he had purchased, and likewise by singing +“Sally, come up!” a quaint, but rather monotonous +melody, which I am told is sung by the poor negro on the banks of +the broad Mississippi.</p> +<p>What other enjoyments did we proffer for the child’s +amusement during the Christmas week? A great philosopher +was giving a lecture to young folks at the British +Institution. But when this diversion was proposed to our +young friend Bob, he said, “Lecture? No, thank +you. Not as I knows on,” and made sarcastic signals +on his nose. Perhaps he is of Dr Johnson’s opinion +about lectures: “Lectures, sir! what man would go to hear +that imperfectly at a lecture, which he can read at leisure in a +book?” <i>I</i> never went, of my own choice, to a +lecture; that I can vow. As for sermons, they are +different; I delight in them, and they cannot, of course, be too +long.</p> +<p>Well, we partook of yet other Christmas delights besides +pantomime, pudding, and pie. One glorious, one delightful, +one most unlucky and pleasant day, we drove in a brougham, with a +famous horse, which carried us more quickly and briskly than any +of your vulgar railways, over Battersea Bridge, on which the +horse’s hoofs rung as if it had been iron; through suburban +villages, plum-caked with snow; under a leaden sky, in which the +sun hung like a red-hot warming-pan; by pond after pond, where +not only men and boys, but scores after scores of women and +girls, were sliding, and roaring, and clapping their lean old +sides with laughter, as they tumbled down, and their hobnailed +shoes flew up in the air; the air frosty with a lilac haze, +through which villas, and commons, and churches, and plantations +glimmered. We drive up the hill, Bob and I; we make the +last two miles in eleven minutes; we pass that poor, armless man +who sits there in the cold, following you with his eyes. I +don’t give anything, and Bob looks disappointed. We +are set down neatly at the gate, and a horse-holder opens the +brougham door. I don’t give anything; again +disappointment on Bob’s part. I pay a shilling +apiece, and we enter into the glorious building, which is +decorated for Christmas, and straightway forgetfulness on +Bob’s part of everything but that magnificent scene. +The enormous edifice is all decorated for Bob and +Christmas. The stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts, +statues, splendours, are all crowned for Christmas. The +delicious negro is singing his Alabama choruses for Christmas and +Bob. He has scarcely done, when, Tootarootatoo! Mr +Punch is performing his surprising actions, and hanging the +beadle. The stalls are decorated. The +refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains +“<span class="smcap">Mulled Claret</span>” is written +up in appetizing capitals. “Mulled Claret—oh, +jolly! How cold it is!” says Bob; I pass on. +“It’s only three o’clock,” says +Bob. “No, only three,” I say meekly. +“We dine at seven,” sighs Bob, “and it’s +so-o-o coo-old.” I still would take no hints. +No claret, no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for +Bob. At last I am obliged to tell him all. Just +before we left home, a little Christmas bill popped in at the +door and emptied my purse at the threshold. I forgot all +about the transaction, and had to borrow half-a-crown from John +Coachman to pay for our entrance into the palace of +delight. <i>Now</i> you see, Bob, why I could not treat you +on that second of January when we drove to the palace together; +when the girls and boys were sliding on the ponds at Dulwich; +when the darkling river was full of floating ice, and the sun was +like a warming-pan in the leaden sky.</p> +<p>One more Christmas sight we had, of course; and that sight I +think I like as well as Bob himself at Christmas, and at all +seasons. We went to a certain garden of delight, where, +whatever your cares are, I think you can manage to forget some of +them, and muse, and be not unhappy; to a garden beginning with a +Z, which is as lively as Noah’s ark; where the fox has +brought his brush, and the cock has brought his comb, and the +elephant has brought his trunk, and the kangaroo has brought his +bag, and the condor his old white wig and black satin hood. +On this day it was so cold that the white bears winked their pink +eyes, as they plapped up and down by their pool, and seemed to +say, “Aha, this weather reminds us of dear +home!” “Cold! bah! I have got such a warm +coat,” says brother Bruin, “I don’t +mind”; and he laughs on his pole, and clucks down a +bun. The squealing hyænas gnashed their teeth and +laughed at us quite refreshingly at their window; and, cold as it +was, Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, glared at us red-hot through +his bars, and snorted blasts of hell. The woolly camel +leered at us quite kindly as he paced round his ring on his +silent pads. We went to our favourite places. Our +dear wambat came up, and had himself scratched very +affably. Our fellow-creatures in the monkey room held out +their little black hands, and piteously asked us for Christmas +alms. Those darling alligators on their rock winked at us +in the most friendly way. The solemn eagles sat alone, and +scowled at us from their peaks; whilst little Tom Ratel tumbled +over head and heels for us in his usual diverting manner. +If I have cares in my mind, I come to the Zoo, and fancy they +don’t pass the gate. I recognise my friends, my +enemies, in countless cages. I entertained the eagle, the +vulture, the old billy-goat, and the black-pated, crimson-necked, +blear-eyed, baggy, hook-beaked old marabou stork yesterday at +dinner; and when Bob’s aunt came to tea in the evening, and +asked him what he had seen, he stepped up to her gravely, and +said—</p> +<blockquote><p>“First I saw the white bear, then I saw the +black,<br /> +Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chorus of Children</i>.</p> +<p>Then I saw the camel with a <span class="GutSmall">HUMP</span> +upon his back!</p> +<p>Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;<br /> +Then I saw the wambat waddle in the straw;<br /> +Then I saw the elephant with his waving trunk,<br /> +Then I saw the monkeys—mercy, how unpleasantly +they—smelt!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There. No one can beat that piece of wit, can he +Bob? And so it is over; but we had a jolly time, whilst you +were with us, hadn’t we? Present my respects to the +doctor; and I hope, my boy, we may spend another merry Christmas +next year.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME ROUNDABOUT PAPERS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1462-h.htm or 1462-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/1462 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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