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The Christmas Books
THE CHRISTMAS BOOKS
of
MR. M. A. TITMARSH
by William Makepeace Thackeray
CONTENTS.
CHRISTMAS STORIES.
Mrs. Perkins's Ball
Our Street
Dr. Birch and his Young Friends
The Kickleburys on the Rhine
The Rose and the Ring; or, The History of Prince Giglio and Prince
Bulbo
MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.
THE MULLIGAN (OF BALLYMULLIGAN), AND HOW WE WENT TO MRS. PERKINS'S
BALL.
I do not know where Ballymulligan is, and never knew anybody who did.
Once I asked the Mulligan the question, when that chieftain assumed a
look of dignity so ferocious, and spoke of "Saxon curiawsitee" in a
tone of such evident displeasure, that, as after all it can matter
very little to me whereabouts lies the Celtic principality in
question, I have never pressed the inquiry any farther.
I don't know even the Mulligan's town residence. One night, as he
bade us adieu in Oxford Street,--"I live THERE," says he, pointing
down towards Oxbridge, with the big stick he carries--so his abode is
in that direction at any rate. He has his letters addressed to
several of his friends' houses, and his parcels, &c. are left for him
at various taverns which he frequents. That pair of checked trousers,
in which you see him attired, he did me the favor of ordering from my
own tailor, who is quite as anxious as anybody to know the address of
the wearer. In like manner my hatter asked me, "Oo was the Hirish
gent as 'ad ordered four 'ats and a sable boar to be sent to my
lodgings?" As I did not know (however I might guess) the articles
have never been sent, and the Mulligan has withdrawn his custom from
the "infernal four-and-nine-penny scoundthrel," as he calls him. The
hatter has not shut up shop in consequence.
I became acquainted with the Mulligan through a distinguished
countryman of his, who, strange to say, did not know the chieftain
himself. But dining with my friend Fred Clancy, of the Irish bar, at
Greenwich, the Mulligan came up, "inthrojuiced" himself to Clancy as
he said, claimed relationship with him on the side of Brian Boroo, and
drawing his chair to our table, quickly became intimate with us. He
took a great liking to me, was good enough to find out my address and
pay me a visit: since which period often and often on coming to
breakfast in the morning I have found him in my sitting-room on the
sofa engaged with the rolls and morning papers: and many a time, on
returning home at night for an evening's quiet reading, I have
discovered this honest fellow in the arm-chair before the fire,
perfuming the apartment with my cigars and trying the quality of such
liquors as might be found on the sideboard. The way in which he pokes
fun at Betsy, the maid of the lodgings, is prodigious. She begins to
laugh whenever he comes; if he calls her a duck, a divvle, a darlin',
it is all one. He is just as much a master of the premises as the
individual who rents them at fifteen shillings a week; and as for
handkerchiefs, shirt-collars, and the like articles of fugitive
haberdashery, the loss since I have known him is unaccountable. I
suspect he is like the cat in some houses: for, suppose the whiskey,
the cigars, the sugar, the tea-caddy, the pickles, and other groceries
disappear, all is laid upon that edax-rerum of a Mulligan.
The greatest offence that can be offered to him is to call him MR.
Mulligan. "Would you deprive me, sir," says he, "of the title which
was bawrun be me princelee ancestors in a hundred thousand battles?
In our own green valleys and fawrests, in the American savannahs, in
the sierras of Speen and the flats of Flandthers, the Saxon has
quailed before me war-cry of MULLIGAN ABOO! MR. Mulligan! I'll pitch
anybody out of the window who calls me MR. Mulligan." He said this,
and uttered the slogan of the Mulligans with a shriek so terrific,
that my uncle (the Rev. W. Gruels, of the Independent Congregation,
Bungay), who had happened to address him in the above obnoxious
manner, while sitting at my apartments drinking tea after the May
meetings, instantly quitted the room, and has never taken the least
notice of me since, except to state to the rest of the family that I
am doomed irrevocably to perdition.
Well, one day last season, I had received from my kind and most
estimable friend, MRS. PERKINS OF POCKLINGTON SQUARE (to whose amiable
family I have had the honor of giving lessons in drawing, French, and
the German flute), an invitation couched in the usual terms, on satin
gilt-edged note-paper, to her evening-party; or, as I call it, "Ball."
Besides the engraved note sent to all her friends, my kind patroness
had addressed me privately as follows:--
MY DEAR MR. TITMARSH,--If you know any VERY eligible young man, we
give you leave to bring him. You GENTLEMEN love your CLUBS so much
now, and care so little for DANCING, that it is really quite A
SCANDAL. Come early, and before EVERYBODY, and give us the benefit of
all your taste and CONTINENTAL SKILL.
"Your sincere
"EMILY PERKINS."
"Whom shall I bring?" mused I, highly flattered by this mark of
confidence; and I thought of Bob Trippett; and little Fred Spring, of
the Navy Pay Office; Hulker, who is rich, and I knew took lessons in
Paris; and a half-score of other bachelor friends, who might be
considered as VERY ELIGIBLE--when I was roused from my meditation by
the slap of a hand on my shoulder; and looking up, there was the
Mulligan, who began, as usual, reading the papers on my desk.
"Hwhat's this?" says he. "Who's Perkins? Is it a supper-ball, or
only a tay-ball?"
"The Perkinses of Pocklington Square, Mulligan, are tiptop people,"
says I, with a tone of dignity. "Mr. Perkins's sister is married to a
baronet, Sir Giles Bacon, of Hogwash, Norfolk. Mr. Perkins's uncle
was Lord Mayor of London; and he was himself in Parliament, and MAY BE
again any day. The family are my most particular friends. A tay-ball
indeed! why, Gunter . . ." Here I stopped: I felt I was committing
myself.
"Gunter!" says the Mulligan, with another confounded slap on the
shoulder. "Don't say another word: I'LL go widg you, my boy."
"YOU go, Mulligan?" says I: "why, really--I--it's not my party."
"Your hwhawt? hwhat's this letter? a'n't I an eligible young man?-- Is
the descendant of a thousand kings unfit company for a miserable
tallow-chandthlering cockney? Are ye joking wid me? for, let me tell
ye, I don't like them jokes. D'ye suppose I'm not as well bawrun and
bred as yourself, or any Saxon friend ye ever had?"
"I never said you weren't, Mulligan," says I.
"Ye don't mean seriously that a Mulligan is not fit company for a
Perkins?"
"My dear fellow, how could you think I could so far insult you?" says
I. "Well, then," says he, "that's a matter settled, and we go."
What the deuce was I to do? I wrote to Mrs. Perkins; and that kind
lady replied, that she would receive the Mulligan, or any other of my
friends, with the greatest cordiality. "Fancy a party, all
Mulligans!" thought I, with a secret terror.
MR. AND MRS. PERKINS, THEIR HOUSE, AND THEIR YOUNG PEOPLE.
Following Mrs. Perkins's orders, the present writer made his
appearance very early at Pocklington Square: where the tastiness of
all the decorations elicited my warmest admiration. Supper of course
was in the dining-loom, superbly arranged by Messrs. Grigs and
Spooner, the confectioners of the neighborhood. I assisted my
respected friend Mr. Perkins and his butler in decanting the sherry,
and saw, not without satisfaction, a large bath for wine under the
sideboard, in which were already placed very many bottles of
champagne.
The BACK DINING-ROOM, Mr. P.'s study (where the venerable man goes to
sleep after dinner), was arranged on this occasion as a tea- room,
Mrs. Flouncey (Miss Fanny's maid) officiating in a cap and pink
ribbons, which became her exceedingly. Long, long before the arrival
of the company, I remarked Master Thomas Perkins and Master Giles
Bacon, his cousin (son of Sir Giles Bacon, Bart.), in this apartment,
busy among the macaroons.
Mr. Gregory the butler, besides John the footman and Sir Giles's large
man in the Bacon livery, and honest Grundsell, carpet-beater and
green-grocer, of Little Pocklington Buildings, had at least half a
dozen of aides-de-camp in black with white neck-cloths, like doctors
of divinity.
The BACK DRAWING-ROOM door on the landing being taken off the hinges
(and placed up stairs under Mr. Perkins's bed), the orifice was
covered with muslin, and festooned with elegant wreaths of flowers.
This was the Dancing Saloon. A linen was spread over the carpet; and
a band--consisting of Mr. Clapperton, piano, Mr. Pinch, harp, and Herr
Spoff, cornet-a-piston arrived at a pretty early hour, and were
accommodated with some comfortable negus in the tea- room, previous to
the commencement of their delightful labors. The boudoir to the left
was fitted up as a card-room; the drawing-room was of course for the
reception of the company,--the chandeliers and yellow damask being
displayed this night in all their splendor; and the charming
conservatory over the landing was ornamented by a few moon-like lamps,
and the flowers arranged so that it had the appearance of a fairy
bower. And Miss Perkins (as I took the liberty of stating to her
mamma) looked like the fairy of that bower. It is this young
creature's first year in PUBLIC LIFE: she has been educated,
regardless of expense, at Hammersmith; and a simple white muslin dress
and blue ceinture set off charms of which I beg to speak with
respectful admiration.
My distinguished friend the Mulligan of Ballymulligan was good enough
to come the very first of the party. By the way, how awkward it is to
be the first of the party! and yet you know somebody must; but for my
part, being timid, I always wait at the corner of the street in the
cab, and watch until some other carriage comes up.
Well, as we were arranging the sherry in the decanters down the
supper-tables, my friend arrived: "Hwhares me friend Mr. Titmarsh?" I
heard him bawling out to Gregory in the passage, and presently he
rushed into the supper-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Perkins and myself
were, and as the waiter was announcing "Mr. Mulligan," "THE Mulligan
of Ballymulligan, ye blackguard!" roared he, and stalked into the
apartment, "apologoizing," as he said, for introducing himself.
Mr. and Mrs. Perkins did not perhaps wish to be seen in this room,
which was for the present only lighted by a couple of candles; but HE
was not at all abashed by the circumstance, and grasping them both
warmly by the hands, he instantly made himself at home. "As friends
of my dear and talented friend Mick," so he is pleased to call me,
"I'm deloighted, madam, to be made known to ye. Don't consider me in
the light of a mere acquaintance! As for you, my dear madam, you put
me so much in moind of my own blessed mother, now resoiding at
Ballymulligan Castle, that I begin to love ye at first soight." At
which speech Mr. Perkins getting rather alarmed, asked the Mulligan
whether he would take some wine, or go up stairs.
"Faix," says Mulligan "it's never too soon for good dhrink." And
(although he smelt very much of whiskey already) he drank a tumbler of
wine "to the improvement of an acqueentence which comminces in a
manner so deloightful."
"Let's go up stairs, Mulligan," says I, and led the noble Irishman to
the upper apartments, which were in a profound gloom, the candles not
being yet illuminated, and where we surprised Miss Fanny, seated in
the twilight at the piano, timidly trying the tunes of the polka which
she danced so exquisitely that evening. She did not perceive the
stranger at first; but how she started when the Mulligan loomed upon
her.
"Heavenlee enchanthress!" says Mulligan, "don't floy at the approach
of the humblest of your sleeves! Reshewm your pleece at that
insthrument, which weeps harmonious, or smoils melojious, as you
charrum it! Are you acqueented with the Oirish Melodies? Can ye
play, 'Who fears to talk of Nointy-eight?' the 'Shan Van Voght?' or
the 'Dirge of Ollam Fodhlah?'"
"Who's this mad chap that Titmarsh has brought?" I heard Master Bacon
exclaim to Master Perkins. "Look! how frightened Fanny looks!"
"O poo! gals are ALWAYS frightened," Fanny's brother replied; but
Giles Bacon, more violent, said, "I'll tell you what, Tom: if this
goes on, we must pitch into him." And so I have no doubt they would,
when another thundering knock coming, Gregory rushed into the room and
began lighting all the candles, so as to produce an amazing
brilliancy, Miss Fanny sprang up and ran to her mamma, and the young
gentlemen slid down the banisters to receive the company in the hall.
EVERYBODY BEGINS TO COME, BUT ESPECIALLY MR. MINCHIN.
"It's only me and my sisters," Master Bacon said; though "only" meant
eight in this instance. All the young ladies had fresh cheeks and
purple elbows; all had white frocks, with hair more or less auburn:
and so a party was already made of this blooming and numerous family,
before the rest of the company began to arrive. The three Miss Meggots
next came in their fly: Mr. Blades and his niece from 19 in the
square: Captain and Mrs. Struther, and Miss Struther: Doctor Toddy's
two daughters and their mamma: but where were the gentlemen? The
Mulligan, great and active as he was, could not suffice among so many
beauties. At last came a brisk neat little knock, and looking into
the hall, I saw a gentleman taking off his clogs there, whilst Sir
Giles Bacon's big footman was looking on with rather a contemptuous
air.
"What name shall I enounce?" says he, with a wink at Gregory on the
stair.
The gentleman in clogs said, with quiet dignity,--
MR. FREDERICK MINCHIN.
"Pump Court, Temple," is printed on his cards in very small type: and
he is a rising barrister of the Western Circuit. He is to be found at
home of mornings: afterwards "at Westminster," as you read on his back
door. "Binks and Minchin's Reports" are probably known to my legal
friends: this is the Minchin in question.
He is decidedly genteel, and is rather in request at the balls of the
Judges' and Serjeants' ladies: for he dances irreproachably, and goes
out to dinner as much as ever he can.
He mostly dines at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, of which you can
easily see by his appearance that he is a member; he takes the joint
and his half-pint of wine, for Minchin does everything like a
gentleman. He is rather of a literary turn; still makes Latin verses
with some neatness; and before he was called, was remarkably fond of
the flute.
When Mr. Minchin goes out in the evening, his clerk brings his bag to
the Club, to dress; and if it is at all muddy, he turns up his
trousers, so that he may come in without a speck. For such a party as
this, he will have new gloves; otherwise Frederick, his clerk, is
chiefly employed in cleaning them with India-rubber.
He has a number of pleasant stories about the Circuit and the
University, which he tells with a simper to his neighbor at dinner;
and has always the last joke of Mr. Baron Maule. He has a private
fortune of five thousand pounds; he is a dutiful son; he has a sister
married, in Harley Street; and Lady Jane Ranville has the best opinion
of him, and says he is a most excellent and highly principled young
man.
Her ladyship and daughter arrived just as Mr. Minchin had popped his
clogs into the umbrella-stand; and the rank of that respected person,
and the dignified manner in which he led her up stairs, caused all
sneering on the part of the domestics to disappear.
THE BALL-ROOM DOOR.
A hundred of knocks follow Frederick Minchin's: in half an hour
Messrs. Spoff, Pinch, and Clapperton have begun their music, and
Mulligan, with one of the Miss Bacons, is dancing majestically in the
first quadrille. My young friends Giles and Tom prefer the
landing-place to the drawing-rooms, where they stop all night, robbing
the refreshment-trays as they come up or down. Giles has eaten
fourteen ices: he will have a dreadful stomach-ache to- morrow. Tom
has eaten twelve, but he has had four more glasses of negus than
Giles. Grundsell, the occasional waiter, from whom Master Tom buys
quantities of ginger-beer, can of course deny him nothing. That is
Grundsell, in the tights, with the tray. Meanwhile direct your
attention to the three gentlemen at the door: they are conversing.
1st Gent.--Who's the man of the house--the bald man?
2nd Gent.--Of course. The man of the house is always bald. He's a
stockbroker, I believe. Snooks brought me.
1st Gent.--Have you been to the tea-room? There's a pretty girl in
the tea-room; blue eyes, pink ribbons, that kind of thing.
2nd Gent.--Who the deuce is that girl with those tremendous shoulders?
Gad! I do wish somebody would smack 'em.
3rd Gent.--Sir--that young lady is my niece, sir,--my niece--my name
is Blades, sir.
2nd Gent.--Well, Blades! smack your niece's shoulders: she deserves
it, begad! she does. Come in, Jinks, present me to the Perkinses.--
Hullo! here's an old country acquaintance--Lady Bacon, as I live! with
all the piglings; she never goes out without the whole litter. (Exeunt
1st and 2nd Gents.)
LADY BACON, THE MISS BACONS, MR. FLAM.
Lady B.--Leonora! Maria! Amelia! here is the gentleman we met at Sir
John Porkington's.
[The MISSES BACON, expecting to be asked to dance, smile
simultaneously, and begin to smooth their tuckers.]
Mr. Flam.--Lady Bacon! I couldn't be mistaken in YOU! Won't you
dance, Lady Bacon?
Lady B.--Go away, you droll creature!
Mr. Flam.--And these are your ladyship's seven lovely sisters, to
judge from their likenesses to the charming Lady Bacon?
Lady B.--My sisters, he! he! my DAUGHTERS, Mr. Flam, and THEY dance,
don't you, girls?
The Misses Bacon.--O yes!
Mr. Flam.--Gad! how I wish I was a dancing man!
[Exit FLAM.
MR. LARKINS.
I have not been able to do justice (only a Lawrence could do that) to
my respected friend Mrs. Perkins, in this picture; but Larkins's
portrait is considered very like. Adolphus Larkins has been long
connected with Mr. Perkins's City establishment, and is asked to dine
twice or thrice per annum. Evening-parties are the great enjoyment of
this simple youth, who, after he has walked from Kentish Town to
Thames Street, and passed twelve hours in severe labor there, and
walked back again to Kentish Town, finds no greater pleasure than to
attire his lean person in that elegant evening costume which you see,
to walk into town again, and to dance at anybody's house who will
invite him. Islington, Pentonville, Somers Town, are the scenes of
many of his exploits; and I have seen this good-natured fellow
performing figure-dances at Notting-hill, at a house where I am
ashamed to say there was no supper, no negus even to speak of, nothing
but the bare merits of the polka in which Adolphus revels. To
describe this gentleman's infatuation for dancing, let me say, in a
word, that he will even frequent boarding-house hops, rather than not
go.
He has clogs, too, like Minchin: but nobody laughs at HIM. He gives
himself no airs; but walks into a house with a knock and a demeanor so
tremulous and humble, that the servants rather patronize him. He does
not speak, or have any particular opinions, but when the time comes,
begins to dance. He bleats out a word or two to his partner during
this operation, seems very weak and sad during the whole performance,
and, of course, is set to dance with the ugliest women everywhere.
The gentle, kind spirit! when I think of him night after night,
hopping and jigging, and trudging off to Kentish Town, so gently,
through the fogs, and mud, and darkness: I do not know whether I ought
to admire him, because his enjoyments are so simple, and his
dispositions so kindly; or laugh at him, because he draws his life so
exquisitely mild. Well, well, we can't be all roaring lions in this
world; there must be SOME lambs, and harmless, kindly, gregarious
creatures for eating and shearing. See! even good- natured Mrs.
Perkins is leading up the trembling Larkins to the tremendous Miss
Bunion!
MISS BUNION.
The Poetess, author of "Heartstrings," "The Deadly Nightshade,"
"Passion Flowers," &c. Though her poems breathe only of love, Miss B.
has never been married. She is nearly six feet high; she loves
waltzing beyond even poesy; and I think lobster-salad as much as
either. She confesses to twenty-eight; in which case her first
volume, "The Orphan of Gozo," (cut up by Mr. Rigby, in the Quarterly,
with his usual kindness,) must have been published when she was three
years old.
For a woman all soul, she certainly eats as much as any woman I ever
saw. The sufferings she has had to endure, are, she says, beyond
compare; the poems which she writes breathe a withering passion, a
smouldering despair, an agony of spirit that would melt the soul of a
drayman, were he to read them. Well, it is a comfort to see that she
can dance of nights, and to know (for the habits of illustrious
literary persons are always worth knowing) that she eats a hot
mutton-chop for breakfast every morning of her blighted existence.
She lives in a boardinghouse at Brompton, and comes to the party in a
fly.
MR. HICKS.
It is worth twopence to see Miss Bunion and Poseidon Hicks, the great
poet, conversing with one another, and to talk of one to the other
afterwards. How they hate each other! I (in my wicked way) have sent
Hicks almost raving mad, by praising Bunion to him in confidence; and
you can drive Bunion out of the room by a few judicious panegyrics of
Hicks.
Hicks first burst upon the astonished world with poems, in the Byronic
manner: "The Death-Shriek," "The Bastard of Lara," "The Atabal," "The
Fire-Ship of Botzaris," and other works. His "Love Lays," in Mr.
Moore's early style, were pronounced to be wonderfully precocious for
a young gentleman then only thirteen, and in a commercial academy, at
Tooting.
Subsequently, this great bard became less passionate and more
thoughtful; and, at the age of twenty, wrote "Idiosyncracy" (in forty
books, 4to.): "Ararat," "a stupendous epic," as the reviews said; and
"The Megatheria," "a magnificent contribution to our pre- Adamite
literature," according to the same authorities. Not having read these
works, it would ill become me to judge them; but I know that poor
Jingle, the publisher, always attributed his insolvency to the latter
epic, which was magnificently printed in elephant folio.
Hicks has now taken a classical turn, and has brought out "Poseidon,"
"Iacchus," "Hephaestus," and I dare say is going through the
mythology. But I should not like to try him at a passage of the Greek
Delectus, any more than twenty thousand others of us who have had a
"classical education."
Hicks was taken in an inspired attitude regarding the chandelier, and
pretending he didn't know that Miss Pettifer was looking at him.
Her name is Anna Maria (daughter of Higgs and Pettifer, solicitors,
Bedford Row); but Hicks calls her "Ianthe" in his album verses, and is
himself an eminent drysalter in the city.
MISS MEGGOT.
Poor Miss Meggot is not so lucky as Miss Bunion. Nobody comes to
dance with HER, though she has a new frock on, as she calls it, and
rather a pretty foot, which she always manages to stick out.
She is forty-seven, the youngest of three sisters, who live a mouldy
old house, near Middlesex Hospital, where they have lived for I don't
know how many score of years; but this is certain: the eldest Miss
Meggot saw the Gordon Riots out of that same parlor window, and tells
the story how her father (physician to George III.) was robbed of his
queue in the streets on that occasion. The two old ladies have taken
the brevet rank, and are addressed as Mrs. Jane and Mrs. Betsy: one of
them is at whist in the back drawing-room. But the youngest is still
called Miss Nancy, and is considered quite a baby by her sisters.
She was going to be married once to a brave young officer, Ensign
Angus Macquirk, of the Whistlebinkie Fencibles; but he fell at Quatre
Bras, by the side of the gallant Snuffmull, his commander. Deeply,
deeply did Miss Nancy deplore him.
But time has cicatrized the wounded heart. She is gay now, and would
sing or dance, ay, or marry if anybody asked her.
Do go, my dear friend--I don't mean to ask her to marry, but to ask
her to dance.--Never mind the looks of the thing. It will make her
happy; and what does it cost you? Ah, my dear fellow! take this
counsel: always dance with the old ladies--always dance with the
governesses. It is a comfort to the poor things when they get up in
their garret that somebody has had mercy on them. And such a handsome
fellow as YOU too!
MISS RANVILLE, REV. MR. TOOP, MISS MULLINS, MR. WINTER.
Mr. W. Miss Mullins, look at Miss Ranville: what a picture of good
humor.
Miss M.--Oh, you satirical creature!
Mr. W.--Do you know why she is so angry? she expected to dance with
Captain Grig, and by some mistake, the Cambridge Professor got hold of
her: isn't he a handsome man?
Miss M.--Oh, you droll wretch!
Mr. W.--Yes, he's a fellow of college--fellows mayn't marry, Miss
Mullins--poor fellows, ay, Miss Mullins?
Miss M.--La!
Mr. W.--And Professor of Phlebotomy in the University. He flatters
himself he is a man of the world, Miss Mullins, and always dances in
the long vacation.
Miss M.--You malicious, wicked monster!
Mr. W.--Do you know Lady Jane Ranville? Miss Ranville's mamma. A
ball once a year; footmen in canary-colored livery: Baker Street; six
dinners in the season; starves all the year round; pride and poverty,
you know; I've been to her ball ONCE. Ranville Ranville's her
brother, and between you and me--but this, dear Miss Mullins, is a
profound secret,--I think he's a greater fool than his sister.
Miss M.--Oh, you satirical, droll, malicious, wicked thing you!
Mr. W.--You do me injustice, Miss Mullins, indeed you do.
[Chaine Anglaise.]
MISS JOY, MR. AND MRS. JOY, MR. BOTTER.
Mr. B.--What spirits that girl has, Mrs. Joy!
Mr. J.--She's a sunshine in a house, Botter, a regular sunshine. When
Mrs. J. here's in a bad humor, I . . .
Mrs. J.--Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Joy.
Mrs. B.--There's a hop, skip, and jump for you! Why, it beats
Ellsler! Upon my conscience it does! It's her fourteenth quadrille
too. There she goes! She's a jewel of a girl, though I say it that
shouldn't.
Mrs. J. (laughing).--Why don't you marry her, Botter? Shall I speak
to her? I dare say she'd have you. You're not so VERY old.
Mr. B.--Don't aggravate me, Mrs. J. You know when I lost my heart in
the year 1817, at the opening of Waterloo Bridge, to a young lady who
wouldn't have me, and left me to die in despair, and married Joy, of
the Stock Exchange.
Mrs. J. Get away, you foolish old creature.
[MR. JOY looks on in ecstasies at Miss Joy's agility. LADY JANE
RANVILLE, of Baker Street, pronounces her to be an exceedingly forward
person. CAPTAIN DOBBS likes a girl who has plenty of go in her; and
as for FRED SPARKS, he is over head and ears in love with her.]
MR. RANVILLE RANVILLE AND JACK HUBBARD.
This is Miss Ranville Ranville's brother, Mr. Ranville Ranville, of
the Foreign Office, faithfully designed as he was playing at whist in
the card-room. Talleyrand used to play at whist at the "Travellers',"
that is why Ranville Ranville indulges in that diplomatic recreation.
It is not his fault if he be not the greatest man in the room.
If you speak to him, he smiles sternly, and answers in monosyllables
he would rather die than commit himself. He never has committed
himself in his life. He was the first at school, and distinguished at
Oxford. He is growing prematurely bald now, like Canning, and is
quite proud of it. He rides in St. James's Park of a morning before
breakfast. He dockets his tailor's bills, and nicks off his
dinner-notes in diplomatic paragraphs, and keeps precis of them all.
If he ever makes a joke, it is a quotation from Horace, like Sir
Robert Peel. The only relaxation he permits himself, is to read
Thucydides in the holidays.
Everybody asks him out to dinner, on account of his brass-buttons with
the Queen's cipher, and to have the air of being well with the Foreign
Office. "Where I dine," he says solemnly, "I think it is my duty to
go to evening-parties." That is why he is here. He never dances,
never sups, never drinks. He has gruel when he goes home to bed. I
think it is in his brains.
He is such an ass and so respectable, that one wonders he has not
succeeded in the world; and yet somehow they laugh at him; and you and
I shall be Ministers as soon as he will.
Yonder, making believe to look over the print-books, is that merry
rogue, Jack Hubbard.
See how jovial he looks! He is the life and soul of every party, and
his impromptu singing after supper will make you die of laughing. He
is meditating an impromptu now, and at the same time thinking about a
bill that is coming due next Thursday. Happy dog!
MRS. TROTTER, MISS TROTTER, MISS TOADY, LORD METHUSELAH.
Dear Emma Trotter has been silent and rather ill-humored all the
evening until now her pretty face lights up with smiles. Cannot you
guess why? Pity the simple and affectionate creature! Lord
Methuselah has not arrived until this moment: and see how the artless
girl steps forward to greet him!
In the midst of all the selfishness and turmoil of the world, how
charming it is to find virgin hearts quite unsullied, and to look on
at little romantic pictures of mutual love! Lord Methuselah, though
you know his age by the peerage--though he is old, wigged, gouty,
rouged, wicked, has lighted up a pure flame in that gentle bosom.
There was a talk about Tom Willoughby last year; and then, for a time,
young Hawbuck (Sir John Hawbuck's youngest son) seemed the favored
man; but Emma never knew her mind until she met the dear creature
before you in a Rhine steamboat. "Why are you so late, Edward?" says
she. Dear artless child!
Her mother looks on with tender satisfaction. One can appreciate the
joys of such an admirable parent!
"Look at them!" says Miss Toady. "I vow and protest they're the
handsomest couple in the room!"
Methuselah's grandchildren are rather jealous and angry, and
Mademoiselle Ariane, of the French theatre, is furious. But there's
no accounting for the mercenary envy of some people; and it is
impossible to satisfy everybody.
MR. BEAUMORIS, MR. GRIG, MR. FLYNDERS.
Those three young men are described in a twinkling: Captain Grig of
the Heavies; Mr. Beaumoris, the handsome young man; Tom Flinders
(Flynders Flynders he now calls himself), the fat gentleman who
dresses after Beaumoris.
Beaumoris is in the Treasury: he has a salary of eighty pounds a year,
on which he maintains the best cab and horses of the season; and out
of which he pays seventy guineas merely for his subscriptions to
clubs. He hunts in Leicestershire, where great men mount him; he is a
prodigious favorite behind the scenes at the theatres; you may get
glimpses of him at Richmond, with all sorts of pink bonnets; and he is
the sworn friend of half the most famous roues about town, such as Old
Methuselah, Lord Billygoat, Lord Tarquin, and the rest: a respectable
race. It is to oblige the former that the good-natured young fellow
is here to-night; though it must not be imagined that he gives himself
any airs of superiority. Dandy as he is, he is quite affable, and
would borrow ten guineas from any man in the room, in the most jovial
way possible.
It is neither Beau's birth, which is doubtful; nor his money, which is
entirely negative; nor his honesty, which goes along with his
money-qualification; nor his wit, for he can barely spell,--which
recommend him to the fashionable world: but a sort of Grand Seigneur
splendor and dandified je ne scais quoi, which make the man he is of
him. The way in which his boots and gloves fit him is a wonder which
no other man can achieve; and though he has not an atom of principle,
it must be confessed that he invented the Taglioni shirt.
When I see these magnificent dandies yawning out of "White's," or
caracoling in the Park on shining chargers, I like to think that
Brummell was the greatest of them all, and that Brummell's father was
a footman.
Flynders is Beaumoris's toady: lends him money: buys horses through
his recommendation; dresses after him; clings to him in Pall Mall, and
on the steps of the club; and talks about 'Bo' in all societies. It
is his drag which carries down Bo's friends to the Derby, and his
cheques pay for dinners to the pink bonnets. I don't believe the
Perkinses know what a rogue it is, but fancy him a decent, reputable
City man, like his father before him.
As for Captain Grig, what is there to tell about him? He performs the
duties of his calling with perfect gravity. He is faultless on
parade; excellent across country; amiable when drunk, rather slow when
sober. He has not two ideas, and is a most good-natured,
irreproachable, gallant, and stupid young officer.
CAVALIER SEUL.
This is my friend Bob Hely, performing the Cavalier seul in a
quadrille. Remark the good-humored pleasure depicted in his
countenance. Has he any secret grief? Has he a pain anywhere? No,
dear Miss Jones, he is dancing like a true Briton, and with all the
charming gayety and abandon of our race.
When Canaillard performs that Cavalier seul operation, does HE flinch?
No: he puts on his most vainqueur look, he sticks his thumbs into the
armholes of his waistcoat, and advances, retreats, pirouettes, and
otherwise gambadoes, as though to say, "Regarde moi, O monde! Venez,
O femmes, venez voir danser Canaillard!"
When De Bobwitz executes the same measure, he does it with smiling
agility, and graceful ease.
But poor Hely, if he were advancing to a dentist, his face would not
be more cheerful. All the eyes of the room are upon him, he thinks;
and he thinks he looks like a fool.
Upon my word, if you press the point with me, dear Miss Jones, I think
he is not very far from right. I think that while Frenchmen and
Germans may dance, as it is their nature to do, there is a natural
dignity about us Britons, which debars us from that enjoyment. I am
rather of the Turkish opinion, that this should be done for us. I
think . . .
"Good-by, you envious old fox-and-the-grapes," says Miss Jones, and
the next moment I see her whirling by in a polka with Tom Tozer, at a
pace which makes me shrink back with terror into the little boudoir.
M. CANAILLARD, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR.
LIEUTENANT BARON DE BOBWITZ.
Canaillard. Oh, ces Anglais! quels hommes, mon Dieu! Comme ils sont
habilles, comme ils dansent!
Bobwitz.--Ce sont de beaux hommes bourtant; point de tenue militaire,
mais de grands gaillards; si je les avais dans ma compagnie de la
Garde, j'en ferai de bons soldats.
Canaillard.--Est-il bete, cet Allemand! Les grands hommes ne font pas
toujours de bons soldats, Monsieur. Il me semble que les soldats de
France qui sont de ma taille, Monsieur, valent un peu mieux . . .
Bobwitz.--Vous croyez?
Canaillard.--Comment! je le crois, Monsieur? J'en suis sur! Il me
semble, Monsieur, que nous l'avons prouve.
Bobwitz (impatiently).--Je m'en vais danser la Bolka. Serviteur,
Monsieur.
Canaillard.--Butor! (He goes and looks at himself in the glass, when
he is seized by Mrs. Perkins for the Polka.)
THE BOUDOIR.
MR. SMITH, MR. BROWN, MISS BUSTLETON.
Mr. Brown.--You polk, Miss Bustleton? I'm SO delaighted.
Miss Bustleton.--[Smiles and prepares to rise.]
Mr. Smith.--D--- puppy.
(Poor Smith don't polk.)
GRAND POLKA.
Though a quadrille seems to me as dreary as a funeral, yet to look at
a polka, I own, is pleasant. See! Brown and Emily Bustleton are
whirling round as light as two pigeons over a dovecot; Tozer, with
that wicked whisking little Jones, spins along as merrily as a May-day
sweep; Miss Joy is the partner of the happy Fred Sparks; and even Miss
Ranville is pleased, for the faultless Captain Grig is toe and heel
with her. Beaumoris, with rather a nonchalant air, takes a turn with
Miss Trotter, at which Lord Methuseleh's wrinkled chops quiver
uneasily. See! how the big Baron de Bobwitz spins lightly, and
gravely, and gracefully round; and lo! the Frenchman staggering under
the weight of Miss Bunion, who tramps and kicks like a young
cart-horse.
But the most awful sight which met my view in this dance was the
unfortunate Miss Little, to whom fate had assigned THE MULLIGAN as a
partner. Like a pavid kid in the talons of an eagle, that young
creature trembled in his huge Milesian grasp. Disdaining the
recognized form of the dance, the Irish chieftain accommodated the
music to the dance of his own green land, and performed a double
shuffle jig, carrying Miss Little along with him. Miss Ranville and
her Captain shrank back amazed; Miss Trotter skirried out of his way
into the protection of the astonished Lord Methuselah; Fred Sparks
could hardly move for laughing; while, on the contrary, Miss Joy was
quite in pain for poor Sophy Little. As Canaillard and the Poetess
came up, The Mulligan, in the height of his enthusiasm, lunged out a
kick which sent Miss Bunion howling; and concluded with a tremendous
Hurroo!--a war-cry which caused every Saxon heart to shudder and
quail.
"Oh that the earth would open and kindly take me in!" I exclaimed
mentally; and slunk off into the lower regions, where by this time
half the company were at supper.
THE SUPPER.
The supper is going on behind the screen. There is no need to draw
the supper. We all know that sort of transaction: the squabbling, and
gobbling, and popping of champagne; the smell of musk and
lobster-salad; the dowagers chumping away at plates of raised pie; the
young lassies nibbling at little titbits, which the dexterous young
gentlemen procure. Three large men, like doctors of divinity, wait
behind the table, and furnish everything that appetite can ask for. I
never, for my part, can eat any supper for wondering at those men. I
believe if you were to ask them for mashed turnips, or a slice of
crocodile, those astonishing people would serve you. What a contempt
they must have for the guttling crowd to whom they minister--those
solemn pastry-cook's men! How they must hate jellies, and game-pies,
and champagne, in their hearts! How they must scorn my poor friend
Grundsell behind the screen, who is sucking at a bottle!
This disguised green-grocer is a very well-known character in the
neighborhood of Pocklington Square. He waits at the parties of the
gentry in the neighborhood, and though, of course, despised in
families where a footman is kept, is a person of much importance in
female establishments.
Miss Jonas always employs him at her parties, and says to her page,
"Vincent, send the butler, or send Desborough to me;" by which name
she chooses to designate G. G.
When the Miss Frumps have post-horses to their carriage, and pay
visits, Grundsell always goes behind. Those ladies have the greatest
confidence in him, have been godmothers to fourteen of his children,
and leave their house in his charge when they go to Bognor for the
summer. He attended those ladies when they were presented at the last
drawing-room of her Majesty Queen Charlotte.
GEORGE GRUNDSELL,
GREEN-GROCER AND SALESMAN,
9, LITTLE POCKLINGTON BUILDINGS,
LATE CONFIDENTIAL SERVANT IN THE FAMILY OF
THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON.
Carpets Beat.--Knives and Boots cleaned per contract.--Errands
faithfully performed--G. G. attends Ball and Dinner parties, and from
his knowledge of the most distinguished Families in London,
confidently recommends his services to the distinguished neighbourhood
of Pocklington Square.
Mr. Grundsell's state costume is a blue coat and copper buttons, a
white waistcoat, and an immense frill and shirt-collar. He was for
many years a private watchman, and once canvassed for the office of
parish clerk of St. Peter's Pocklington. He can be intrusted with
untold spoons; with anything, in fact, but liquor; and it was he who
brought round the cards for MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.
AFTER SUPPER.
I do not intend to say any more about it. After the people had
supped, they went back and danced. Some supped again. I gave Miss
Bunion, with my own hands, four bumpers of champagne: and such a
quantity of goose-liver and truffles, that I don't wonder she took a
glass of cherry-brandy afterwards. The gray morning was in
Pocklington Square as she drove away in her fly. So did the other
people go away. How green and sallow some of the girls looked, and
how awfully clear Mrs. Colonel Bludyer's rouge was! Lady Jane
Ranville's great coach had roared away down the streets long before.
Fred Minchin pattered off in his clogs: it was I who covered up Miss
Meggot, and conducted her, with her two old sisters, to the carriage.
Good old souls! They have shown their gratitude by asking me to tea
next Tuesday. Methuselah is gone to finish the night at the club.
"Mind to-morrow," Miss Trotter says, kissing her hand out of the
carriage. Canaillard departs, asking the way to "Lesterre Squar."
They all go away--life goes away.
Look at Miss Martin and young Ward! How tenderly the rogue is
wrapping her up! how kindly she looks at him! The old folks are
whispering behind as they wait for their carriage. What is their
talk, think you? and when shall that pair make a match? When you see
those pretty little creatures with their smiles and their blushes, and
their pretty ways, would you like to be the Grand Bashaw?
"Mind and send me a large piece of cake," I go up and whisper archly
to old Mr. Ward: and we look on rather sentimentally at the couple,
almost the last in the rooms (there, I declare, go the musicians, and
the clock is at five)--when Grundsell, with an air effare, rushes up
to me and says, "For e'v'n sake, sir, go into the supper-room: there's
that Hirish gent a-pitchin' into Mr. P."
THE MULLIGAN AND MR. PERKINS.
It was too true. I had taken him away after supper (he ran after Miss
Little's carriage, who was dying in love with him as he fancied), but
the brute had come back again. The doctors of divinity were putting
up their condiments: everybody was gone; but the abominable Mulligan
sat swinging his legs at the lonely supper- table!
Perkins was opposite, gasping at him.
The Mulligan.--I tell ye, ye are the butler, ye big fat man. Go get
me some more champagne: it's good at this house.
Mr. Perkins (with dignity).--It IS good at this house; but--
The Mulligan.--Bht hwhat, ye goggling, bow-windowed jackass? Go get
the wine, and we'll dthrink it together, my old buck.
Mr. Perkins.--My name, sir, is PERKINS.
The Mulligan.--Well, that rhymes with jerkins, my man of firkins; so
don't let us have any more shirkings and lurkings, Mr. Perkins.
Mr. Perkins (with apoplectic energy).--Sir, I am the master of this
house; and I order you to quit it. I'll not be insulted, sir. I'll
send for a policeman, sir. What do you mean, Mr. Titmarsh, sir, by
bringing this--this beast into my house, sir?
At this, with a scream like that of a Hyrcanian tiger, Mulligan of the
hundred battles sprang forward at his prey; but we were beforehand
with him. Mr. Gregory, Mr. Grundsell, Sir Giles Bacon's large man,
the young gentlemen, and myself, rushed simultaneously upon the tipsy
chieftain, and confined him. The doctors of divinity looked on with
perfect indifference. That Mr. Perkins did not go off in a fit is a
wonder. He was led away heaving and snorting frightfully.
Somebody smashed Mulligan's hat over his eyes, and I led him forth
into the silent morning. The chirrup of the birds, the freshness of
the rosy air, and a penn'orth of coffee that I got for him at a stall
in the Regent Circus, revived him somewhat. When I quitted him, he
was not angry but sad. He was desirous, it is true, of avenging the
wrongs of Erin in battle line; he wished also to share the grave of
Sarsfield and Hugh O'Neill; but he was sure that Miss Perkins, as well
as Miss Little, was desperately in love with him; and I left him on a
doorstep in tears.
"Is it best to be laughing-mad, or crying-mad, in the world?" says I
moodily, coming into my street. Betsy the maid was already up and at
work, on her knees, scouring the steps, and cheerfully beginning her
honest daily labor.
OUR STREET
BY MR. M. A TITMARSH.
Our street, from the little nook which I occupy in it, and whence I
and a fellow-lodger and friend of mine cynically observe it, presents
a strange motley scene. We are in a state of transition. We are not
as yet in the town, and we have left the country, where we were when I
came to lodge with Mrs. Cammysole, my excellent landlady. I then took
second-floor apartments at No. 17, Waddilove Street, and since,
although I have never moved (having various little comforts about me),
I find myself living at No. 46A, Pocklington Gardens.
Why is this? Why am I to pay eighteen shillings instead of fifteen?
I was quite as happy in Waddilove Street; but the fact is, a great
portion of that venerable old district has passed away, and we are
being absorbed into the splendid new white-stuccoed Doric-porticoed
genteel Pocklington quarter. Sir Thomas Gibbs Pocklington, M. P. for
the borough of Lathanplaster, is the founder of the district and his
own fortune. The Pocklington Estate Office is in the Square, on a
line with Waddil--with Pocklington Gardens I mean. The old inn, the
"Ram and Magpie," where the market- gardeners used to bait, came out
this year with a new white face and title, the shield, &c. of the
"Pocklington Arms." Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard,
Cavendish, De Ros, De la Zouche, all mingled together.
Even our house, 46A, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in
compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of
impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs,
Sir Thomas's agent and nephew, is furious at our daring to take the
title which belongs to our betters. The very next door (No. 46, the
Honorable Mrs. Mountnoddy,) is a house of five stories, shooting up
proudly into the air, thirty feet above our old high-roofed low-roomed
old tenement. Our house belongs to Captain Bragg, not only the
landlord but the son-in-law of Mrs. Cammysole, who lives a couple of
hundred yards down the street, at "The Bungalow." He was the
commander of the "Ram Chunder" East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with
the Pocklingtons ever since he bought houses in the parish.
He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit of
the times. He it is who, though he made the widow Cammysole change
the name of her street, will not pull down the house next door, nor
the baker's next, nor the iron-bedstead and feather warehouse ensuing,
nor the little barber's with the pole, nor, I am ashamed to say, the
tripe-shop, still standing. The barber powders the heads of the great
footmen from Pocklington Gardens; they are so big that they can
scarcely sit in his little premises. And the old tavern, the "East
Indiaman," is kept by Bragg's ship-steward, and protests against the
"Pocklington Arms."
Down the road is Pocklington Chapel, Rev. Oldham Slocum--in brick,
with arched windows and a wooden belfry: sober, dingy, and hideous. In
the centre of Pocklington Gardens rises St. Waltheof's, the Rev. Cyril
Thuryfer and assistants--a splendid Anglo-Norman edifice, vast, rich,
elaborate, bran new, and intensely old. Down Avemary Lane you may
hear the clink of the little Romish chapel bell. And hard by is a
large broad-shouldered Ebenezer (Rev. Jonas Gronow), out of the
windows of which the hymns come booming all Sunday long.
Going westward along the line, we come presently to Comandine House
(on a part of the gardens of which Comandine Gardens is about to be
erected by his lordship); farther on, "The Pineries," Mr. and Lady
Mary Mango: and so we get into the country, and out of Our Street
altogether, as I may say. But in the half-mile, over which it may be
said to extend, we find all sorts and conditions of people--from the
Right Honorable Lord Comandine down to the present topographer; who
being of no rank as it were, has the fortune to be treated on almost
friendly footing by all, from his lordship down to the tradesman.
OUR HOUSE IN OUR STREET
We must begin our little descriptions where they say charity should
begin--at home. Mrs. Cammysole, my landlady, will be rather surprised
when she reads this, and finds that a good-natured tenant, who has
never complained of her impositions for fifteen years, understands
every one of her tricks, and treats them, not with anger, but with
scorn--with silent scorn.
On the 18th of December, 1837, for instance, coming gently down
stairs, and before my usual wont, I saw you seated in my arm-chair,
peeping into a letter that came from my aunt in the country, just as
if it had been addressed to you, and not to "M. A. Titmarsh, Esq."
Did I make any disturbance? far from it; I slunk back to my bedroom
(being enabled to walk silently in the beautiful pair of worsted
slippers Miss Penelope J--s worked for me: they are worn out now, dear
Penelope!) and then rattling open the door with a great noise,
descending the stairs, singing "Son vergin vezzosa" at the top of my
voice. You were not in my sitting-room, Mrs. Cammysole, when I
entered that apartment.
You have been reading all my letters, papers, manuscripts, brouillons
of verses, inchoate articles for the Morning Post and Morning
Chronicle, invitations to dinner and tea--all my family letters, all
Eliza Townley's letters, from the first, in which she declared that to
be the bride of her beloved Michelagnolo was the fondest wish of her
maiden heart, to the last, in which she announced that her Thomas was
the best of husbands, and signed herself "Eliza Slogger;" all Mary
Farmer's letters, all Emily Delamere's; all that poor foolish old Miss
MacWhirter's, whom I would as soon marry as ----: in a word, I know
that you, you hawk- beaked, keen-eyed, sleepless, indefatigable old
Mrs. Cammysole, have read all my papers for these fifteen years.
I know that you cast your curious old eyes over all the manuscripts
which you find in my coat-pockets and those of my pantaloons, as they
hang in a drapery over the door-handle of my bedroom.
I know that you count the money in my green and gold purse, which Lucy
Netterville gave me, and speculate on the manner in which I have laid
out the difference between to-day and yesterday.
I know that you have an understanding with the laundress (to whom you
say that you are all-powerful with me), threatening to take away my
practice from her, unless she gets up gratis some of your fine linen.
I know that we both have a pennyworth of cream for breakfast, which is
brought in in the same little can; and I know who has the most for her
share.
I know how many lumps of sugar you take from each pound as it arrives.
I have counted the lumps, you old thief, and for years have never said
a word, except to Miss Clapperclaw, the first-floor lodger. Once I
put a bottle of pale brandy into that cupboard, of which you and I
only have keys, and the liquor wasted and wasted away until it was all
gone. You drank the whole of it, you wicked old woman. You a lady,
indeed!
I know your rage when they did me the honor to elect me a member of
the "Poluphloisboiothalasses Club," and I ceased consequently to dine
at home. When I DID dine at home,--on a beefsteak let us say,--I
should like to know what you had for supper. You first amputated
portions of the meat when raw; you abstracted more when cooked. Do
you think I was taken in by your flimsy pretences? I wonder how you
could dare to do such things before your maids (you a clergyman's
daughter and widow, indeed), whom you yourself were always charging
with roguery.
Yes, the insolence of the old woman is unbearable, and I must break
out at last. If she goes off in a fit at reading this, I am sure I
shan't mind. She has two unhappy wenches, against whom her old tongue
is clacking from morning till night: she pounces on them at all hours.
It was but this morning at eight, when poor Molly was brooming the
steps, and the baker paying her by no means unmerited compliments,
that my landlady came whirling out of the ground-floor front, and sent
the poor girl whimpering into the kitchen.
Were it but for her conduct to her maids I was determined publicly to
denounce her. These poor wretches she causes to lead the lives of
demons; and not content with bullying them all day, she sleeps at
night in the same room with them, so that she may have them up before
daybreak, and scold them while they are dressing.
Certain it is, that between her and Miss Clapperclaw, on the first
floor, the poor wenches lead a dismal life.
It is to you that I owe most of my knowledge of our neighbors; from
you it is that most of the facts and observations contained in these
brief pages are taken. Many a night, over our tea, have we talked
amiably about our neighbors and their little failings; and as I know
that you speak of mine pretty freely, why, let me say, my dear Bessy,
that if we have not built up Our Street between us, at least we have
pulled it to pieces.
THE BUNGALOW--CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG.
Long, long ago, when Our Street was the country--a stagecoach between
us and London passing four times a day--I do not care to own that it
was a sight of Flora Cammysole's face, under the card of her mamma's
"Lodgings to Let," which first caused me to become a tenant of Our
Street. A fine good-humored lass she was then; and I gave her lessons
(part out of the rent) in French and flower- painting. She has made a
fine rich marriage since, although her eyes have often seemed to me to
say, "Ah, Mr. T., why didn't you, when there was yet time, and we both
of us were free, propose--you know what?" "Psha! Where was the
money, my dear madam?"
Captain Bragg, then occupied in building Bungalow Lodge--Bragg, I say,
living on the first floor, and entertaining sea-captains, merchants,
and East Indian friends with his grand ship's plate, being
disappointed in a project of marrying a director's daughter, who was
also a second cousin once removed of a peer,--sent in a fury for Mrs.
Cammysole, his landlady, and proposed to marry Flora off-hand, and
settle four hundred a year upon her. Flora was ordered from the
back-parlor (the ground-floor occupies the second- floor bedroom), and
was on the spot made acquainted with the splendid offer which the
first-floor had made her. She has been Mrs. Captain Bragg these
twelve years.
Bragg to this day wears anchor-buttons, and has a dress-coat with a
gold strap for epaulets, in case he should have a fancy to sport them.
His house is covered with portraits, busts, and miniatures of himself.
His wife is made to wear one of the latter. On his sideboard are
pieces of plate, presented by the passengers of the "Ram Chunder" to
Captain Bragg: "The 'Ram Chunder' East Indiaman, in a gale, off Table
Bay;" "The Outward-bound Fleet, under convoy of her Majesty's frigate
'Loblollyboy,' Captain Gutch, beating off the French squadron, under
Commodore Leloup (the 'Ram Chunder,' S.E. by E., is represented
engaged with the 'Mirliton' corvette);" "The 'Ram Chunder' standing
into the Hooghly, with Captain Bragg, his telescope and
speaking-trumpet, on the poop;" "Captain Bragg presenting the Officers
of the 'Ram Chunder' to General Bonaparte at St. Helena--TITMARSH"
(this fine piece was painted by me when I was in favor with Bragg); in
a word, Bragg and the "Ram Chunder" are all over the house.
Although I have eaten scores of dinners at Captain Bragg's charge, yet
his hospitality is so insolent, that none of us who frequent his
mahogany feel any obligation to our braggart entertainer.
After he has given one of his great heavy dinners he always takes an
opportunity to tell you, in the most public way, how many bottles of
wine were drunk. His pleasure is to make his guests tipsy, and to
tell everybody how and when the period of inebriation arose. And Miss
Clapperclaw tells me that he often comes over laughing and giggling to
her, and pretending that he has brought ME into this condition--a
calumny which I fling contemptuously in his face.
He scarcely gives any but men's parties, and invites the whole club
home to dinner. What is the compliment of being asked, when the whole
club is asked too, I should like to know? Men's parties are only good
for boys. I hate a dinner where there are no women. Bragg sits at the
head of his table, and bullies the solitary Mrs. Bragg.
He entertains us with stories of storms which he, Bragg,
encountered--of dinners which he, Bragg, has received from the
Governor-General of India--of jokes which he, Bragg, has heard; and
however stale or odious they may be, poor Mrs. B. is always expected
to laugh.
Woe be to her if she doesn't, or if she laughs at anybody else's
jokes. I have seen Bragg go up to her and squeeze her arm with a
savage grind of his teeth, and say, with an oath, "Hang it, madam, how
dare you laugh when any man but your husband speaks to you? I forbid
you to grin in that way. I forbid you to look sulky. I forbid you to
look happy, or to look up, or to keep your eyes down to the ground. I
desire you will not be trapesing through the rooms. I order you not
to sit as still as a stone." He curses her if the wine is corked, or
if the dinner is spoiled, or if she comes a minute too soon to the
club for him, or arrives a minute too late. He forbids her to walk,
except upon his arm. And the consequence of his ill treatment is,
that Mrs. Cammysole and Mrs. Bragg respect him beyond measure, and
think him the first of human beings.
"I never knew a woman who was constantly bullied by her husband who
did not like him the better for it," Miss Clapperclaw says. And
though this speech has some of Clapp's usual sardonic humor in it, I
can't but think there is some truth in the remark.