Various
Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers
"We should like some cake after dinner," answered Master Harry, folding his arms, putting out one leg and looking straight at him, "and two apples,—and jam. With dinner we should like to have some toast and water. But Norah has always been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine at dessert. And so have I."
"It shall be ordered at the bar, sir," says Cobbs; and away he went.
Boots has the feeling as fresh upon him at this minute of speaking as he had then, that he would far rather have it out in half a dozen rounds with the Governor, then have combined with him; and that he wished with all his heart there was any impossible place where those two babies could make an impossible marriage, and live impossibly happy ever afterwards. However, as it couldn't be, he went into the Governor's plans, and the Governor set off for York in half an hour.
The way in which the women of that house—without exception—every one of 'em—married and single—took to that boy when they heard the story, Boots considers surprising. It was as much as he could do to keep 'em from dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at him through a pane of glass. They were seven deep at the keyhole. Ihey were out of their minds about him and his bold spirit.
In the evening, Boots went into the room to see how the runaway couple was getting on. The gentleman was on the window-seat, supporting the lady in his arms, she had tears upon her face, and was lying very tired and half asleep, with her head upon his shoulder.
"Mrs. Henry Walmers, Junior, fatigued, sir?" says Cobbs.
"Yes, she is tired, Cobbs: but she is not used to be away from home, and she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a biffin, please?"
"I ask your pardon, sir," says Cobbs. "What was it you—?"
"I think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs. She is very fond of them."
Boots withdrew in search of the required restorative, and when he brought it in, the gentleman handed it to the lady, and fed her with a spoon, and took a little himself; the lady being heavy with sleep, and rather cross. "What should you think, sir," says Cobbs, "of a chamber candlestick?" The gentleman approved; the chamber-maid went first, up the great staircase; the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, followed, gallantly escorted by the gentleman; the gentleman embraced her at her door, and retired to his own apartment, where Boots softly locked him up.
Boots couldn't but feel with increased acuteness what a base deceiver he was, when they consulted him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-and-water, and toast and currant jelly, over-night), about the pony. It really was as much as he could do, he don't mind confessing to me, to look them two young things in the face, and think what a wicked old father of lies he had grown up to be. Howsomever, he went on a lying like a Trojan about the pony. He told 'em that it did so unfort'nately happen that the pony was half clipped, you see, and that he couldn't be taken out in that state, for fear it should strike to his inside. But that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that to-morrow morning at eight o'clock the pheayton would be ready. Boots's view of the whole case, looking back upon it in my room, is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and its getting in her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Master Harry. He set behind his breakfast-cup, a tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his own father.
After breakfast, Boots is inclined to consider that they drawed soldiers,—at least, he knows that many such were found in the fireplace, all on horseback. In the course of the morning, Master Harry rang the bell,—it was surprising how that there boy did carry on,—and said, in a sprightly way, "Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighborhood?"
"Yes, sir," say Cobbs. "There's Love Lane."
"Get out with you, Cobbs;"—that was that there boy's expression,– "you're joking."
"Begging your pardon, sir," says Cobbs, "there really is Love Lane. And a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior."
"Norah, dear," said Master Harry, "this is curious. We really ought to see Love Lane. Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go there with Cobbs."
Boots leaves me to judge what a beast he felt himself to be, when that young pair told him, as they jogged along together, that they had made up their minds to give him two thousand guineas a year as head gardener, on account of his being so true a friend to 'em. Boots could have wished at that moment that the earth would have opened and swallered him up, he felt so mean, with their beaming eyes a-looking at him, and believing him. Well, sir, he turned the conversation as well as he could, and he took 'em down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and there Master Harry would have drownded himself, in half a moment more, a getting out a water-lily for her,—but nothing daunted that boy. Well, sir, they were tired out. All being so new and strange to 'em, they was tired as tired could be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the children of the wood, leastways meadows, and fell asleep.
Boots don't know—perhaps I do,—but never mind, it don't signify either way—why it made a man fit to make a fool of himself to see them two pretty babies a lying there in the clear, still, sunny day, not dreaming half so hard when they was asleep as they done when they was awake. But, Lord! when you come to think of yourself, if you know, and what game you have been up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor sort of a chap you are, and how it's always either Yesterday with you, or else To-morrow, and never To-day, that's where it is!
Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty clear to Boots, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmerses, Junior's temper was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said he "teased her so;" and when he says, "Norah, my young May Moon, your Harry tease you?" she tells him, "Yes; and I want to go home!"
A biled fowl, and baked bread-and-butter pudding, brought Mrs. Walmers up a little; but Boots could have wished, he must privately own to me, to have seen her more sensible of the voice of love, and less abandoning of herself to currants. However, master Harry, he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk, and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated.
About eleven or twelve at night comes back the Governor in a chaise, along with Mr. Walmers and an elderly lady. Mr. Walmers looks amused and very serious, both at once, and says to our missis, "We are much indebted to you, ma'am for your kind care of our little children, which we can never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray ma'am, where is my boy?" Our missis says, "Cobbs has the dear child in charge, sir, Cobbs, show Forty!" Then he says to Cobbs, "Ah, Cobbs! I am glad to see you. I understood you was here!" And Cobbs says, "Yes, sir. Your most obedient sir."
I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps; but Boots assures me that his heart beat like a hammer, going up stairs. "I beg your pardon, sir," says he, while unlocking the door; "I hope you are not angry with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will do you credit and honor." And Boots signifies to me, that, if the fine boy's father had contradicted him in that daring state of mind in which he then was, he thinks he should have "fetched him a crack," and taken the consquence.
But Mr. Walmers only says, "No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow. Thank you!" And the door being opened, goes in. Boots goes in too, holding the light, and he sees Mr. Walmers go up to the bedside, bend gently down, and kiss the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it (they do say he ran away with Mrs. Walmers); and then he gently shakes the little shoulder.
"Harry, my dear boy! Harry!"
Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at Cobbs too. Such is the honor of that mite, that he looks at Cobbs, to see whether he has brought him into trouble.
"I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home."
"Yes, pa."
Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast begins to swell when he has nearly finished, and it swells more and more as he stands at last, a looking at his father: his father standing looking at him, the quiet image of him.
"Please may I"—the spirit of that little creature, and the way he kept his rising tears down!—"please dear pa—may I—kiss Norah before I go?"
"You may, my child."
So he takes Master Harry by his hand, Boots leads the way with the candle, and they come to that other bedroom, where the elderly lady is seated by the bed and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmer, Junior, is fast asleep. There the father lifts the child up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor unconscious little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to him—a sight so touching to the chamber-maids who are peeping through the door, that one of them calls out, "It's a shame to part 'em!" But the chamber-maid was always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it.
Finally, Boots says, that's all about it. Mr. Walmers drove away in the chaise, having hold of Master Harry's hand. The elderly lady and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, that was never to be (she married a Captain long afterwards, and died in India), went off next day. In conclusion, Boots puts it to me whether I hold with him in two opinions: firstly, that there are not many couples on their way to be married who are half as innocent of guile as those two children; secondly, that it would be a jolly good thing for a great many couples on their way to be married, if they could only be stopped in time, and brought back separately.
CHARLES DICKENS.
THE ENTHUSIAST IN ANATOMY
The youth whom we shall call "Tom"—and nothing but "Tom," was one of those individuals who labor with a fierce, burning anxiety to burst through the trammels imposed upon them by a limited education,—one of those votaries of science, whose energy seems to grow all the more, because it has nothing to feed upon. He was very slightly formed, and had eyes so bright and shining that when one gazed on him, one was inclined to overlook all his other thin, sharply defined features. Never was there a more complete appearance of a clear intelligence in a corporeal form.
The few half-pence which Tom was enabled to save from his scanty earnings at a laborious trade, he regularly expended at the bookstall; and on one occasion was highly delighted at picking up a small book on anatomy. The work was one of those that had long been superseded by more modern and better treatises, and the little plates were as ill and coarsely done as possible. Nevertheless, with him it had not the disadvantage of comparison. He thought it a mine of science yet unexplored, and he suffered his whole soul to be absorbed by it.
In a few weeks he had transferred the entire contents of the work into his own brain; and though he invariably carried the book in his pocket, it was more out of respect to it, as an old friend, than from any further benefit to be derived from it. The names of eery bone, cartilage, ligament, and muscle of which he had read, were deeply imprinted in his mind; and he could have passed with glory through the sharpest examination, provided it had been based on the contents of the little book.
But Tom, in spite of his knowledge, was too intelligent not to perceive the defective state of his acquirements. He soon felt that his anatomy was after all, a science of names, rather than of things—that though he could have described accurately all the intricate bones of the skull, and all the muscles of the extremities, his descriptions would have been little more than a repetition of words committed to memory. He had not seen a single real object connected with his science. If he could but have set eyes upon a skeleton, what an advantage it would have been.
We once read of a celebrated anatomist, who, far from admiring human beauty, regarded the skin, as an impertinent obstacle to the acquisition of science, concealing, as it does, the play of the muscles. Whether such a clear notion as this ever entered the mind of our hero, we cannot say, but certainly if some tall, lean beggar passed him on the road, he would clutch convulsively at his knife, and follow the man with a sad, wistful look.
One autumnal evening he sat in the ale-house parlor, watching the smoke of his pipe, and indulging in his own reflections; for though the conversation in the room was noisy and animated, it had no interest for him. Devoted to his own pursuits, births, deaths and marriages were to him things of nought, and he paid no heed to the constant discussions which were held in the village, on the extraordinary case of old Ebenezer Grindstone, who had been thought extremely rich, but in whose house not a farthing had been found after his decease, to the great disappointment of his creditors.
Soon, however, there was such a violent dash of rain against the window, that even Tom was compelled to start, when he saw the door open, and a stranger enter, completely muffled in a cloak. The new comer stood before the fire as if to dry himself, and seemed to be of the same taciturn disposition as Tom, for he made no answer to the different questions that were addressed to him, nor did he even condescend to look at the speakers. The shower having ceased, the moon shining brightly through the window, the stranger walked out again, without the sign of leave-taking.
"That be a queer chap," said the ostler, "I'll run and see where he's going," and he followed the stranger, who had awakened a curiosity in every one except Tom. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, when the ostler rushed into the room, pale as death.
"Udds buddikins!" said he, and it was not before a glass of spirits had been poured down his throat, that he could state the cause of his alarm. "Old chap just gone out got no proper face like—only a death's head—he just looked around on me in the moonlight."
"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Tom, "that he is nothing but a skeleton?"
"Aye, sure I do," said the ostler.
"And which way did he go?"
"Why, towards the church-yard, sure," said the ostler. Tom waited for no more, but, dashing down his pipe, he rushed out of the room, and tore along the road to the churchyard. When he had got there, he saw the stranger standing by the tomb of old Ebenezer Grindstone. The moon was shining full upon him, and, as Tom approached, the cloak fell down, leaving nothing but a bare skeleton before him.
"Thank my stars!" exclaimed Tom, "I have seen a skeleton at last!"
"Young man!" said the skeleton, in a hollow voice, while it hideously moved its jaws, "attend!"
"How beautifully," cried Tom, enraptured, "can I see the play of the lower maxillary!"
"Attend!" repeated the skeleton; "but, rash man! what are you about?" it added, turning suddenly round. The fact is, Tom was running his fingers down the vertebrae, and counting to see if their number corresponded with that given in his book. "Seven cervical, twelve dorsal!" he cried with immense glee.
The skeleton lost all patience, and, raising its arm, shook its fist angrily at Tom, who, with his eyes fixed on the elbow, merely shouted his joy, at perceiving the "ginglymoid" movement.
The skeleton, who had been accustomed to terrify other people, was completely amazed at the scientific position taken by the young anatomist. In fact, the most extraordinary scene that can be conceived presently occurred; for the apparition, feeling panic-struck at Tom's coolness and scientific spirit, darted away from him, and endeavored to escape by dodging among the tomb-stones. Tom was too anxious to pursue his studies to allow himself to be baffled in this way; and putting forth all his strength, soon overtook the skeleton, and held him tight, a conversation ensued, in the course of which the skeleton explained that he was old Grindstone himself, who had buried a quantity of money underground, and could not rest in peace till it was dug up and distributed among the creditors. This office he requested Tom to perform.
"It will be some trouble," said Tom, "and the affair is none of mine— but lookye—I'm willing to comply with your request, if, as a reward, you will allow me to come and study you every night for the next month. You may then retire to rest for as long a time as you please."
"Agreed," said the skeleton; and, quite recovered from his alarm, he shook hands with Tom in ratification of the bargain.
Tom found the money, distributed it among the creditors, and passed every night for the next month in the old churchyard, observing his beloved skeleton, which as it moved into any position he desired, gave him an opportunity of studying the motion of the bones, in a way that had not been enjoyed by any other anatomist.
The young enthusiast, sitting at midnight with the strange assistant to his pursuits, would have been a delightful sight, had any one possessed the courage to stop and look at the party. When the month had expired, Tom and his good friend shook hands and parted with great regret; but Tom had completely retained in his mind all he had seen and laid the foundation of that profound anatomical science by which he was afterwards so much distinguished.
It is needless to add that this is the true account of the early career of the celebrated Dr.–, and that all others are baseless fabrications.
JOHN OXENFORD.
"THE LIGHT PRINCESS"
CHAPTER I
WHAT! NO CHILDREN?
Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children.
"And the king said to himself: 'All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, and some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used.' So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good, patient queen, as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one too.
"'Why don't you have any daughters, at least?' said he, 'I don't say sons; that might be too much to expect.'
"'I am sure, clear king, I am very sorry,' said the queen.
"'So you ought to be,' retorted the king; 'you are not going to make a virtue of that, surely.'
"But he was not an ill-tempered king; and, in any matter of less moment, he would have let the queen have her own way, with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of state.
"The queen smiled.
"'You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king,' said she.
"She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately.
"The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter,—as lovely a little princess as ever cried."
CHAPTER II
WON'T I, JUST?
The day drew near when the infant must be christened. The king wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of course somebody was forgotten.
"Now it does not generally matter, if somebody is forgotten; but you must mind who. Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending it; and the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward; for the princess was the king's own sister, and he ought not to have forgotten her. But she made herself so disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgotten her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in writing his invitations. But poor relations don't do anything to keep you in mind of them. Why don't they? The king could not see into the garret she lived in, could he? She was a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at a christening. And then she was so disgracefully poor! She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have managed that, if she had not somehow got used to herself. But what made it highly imprudent in the king to forget her, was—that she was awfully clever. In fact, she was a witch; and when she bewitched anybody, he very soon had enough of it: for she beat all the wicked fairies in wickedness, and all the clever ones in cleverness. She despised all the modes we read of in history, in which offended fairies and witches have taken their revenges; and, therefore, after waiting and waiting in vain for an invitation, she made up her mind at last to go without one, and make the whole family miserable, like a princess and a philosopher.
"She put on her best gown, went to the palace, was kindly received by the happy monarch, who forgot that he had forgotten her, and took her place in the procession to the royal chapel. When they were all gathered around the font, she contrived to get next to it, and throw something into the water. She maintained a very respectful demeanor till the water was applied to the child's face. But at that moment she turned round in her place three times, and muttered the following words, loud enough for those beside her to hear:—
"Light of spirit, by my charms, Light of body, every part, Never weary human arms—Only crush thy parent's heart!"
"They all thought she had lost her wits, and was repeating some foolish nursery rhyme; but a shudder went through the whole of them. The baby, on the contrary, began to laugh and crow; while the nurse gave a start and a smothered cry, for she thought she was struck with paralysis; she could not feel the baby in her arms. But she clasped it tight, and said nothing.
"The mischief was done."