Chapter Twenty Six.
The Dominie’s bosom grows too warm; so the party and the frost break up—I go with the stream and against it; make money both ways—Coolness between Mary and me—No chance of a Thames’ edition of Abelard and Eloise—Love, learning, and Latin all lost in a fit of the sulks.
“I say, Master Stapleton, suppose we were to knock out half a port,” observed old Tom, after a silence of two minutes; “for the old gentleman blows a devil of a cloud: that is, if no one has an objection.” Stapleton gave a nod of assent, and I rose and put the upper window down a few inches. “Ay, that’s right, Jacob; now we shall see what Miss Mary and he are about. You’ve been enjoying the lady all to yourself, master,” continued Tom, addressing the Dominie.
“Verily and truly,” replied the Dominie, “even as a second Jupiter.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I presume not; still, Jacob will tell thee that the history is to be found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.”
“Never heard of the country, master.”
“Nay, friend Dux, it is a book, not a country, in which thou may’st read how Jupiter at first descended unto Semele in a cloud.”
“And pray, where did he come from, master?”
“He came from heaven.”
“The devil he did. Well, if ever I gets there, I mean to stay.”
“It was love, all-powerful love, which induced him, maiden,” replied the Dominie, turning, with a smiling eye, to Mary.
“’Bove my comprehension altogether,” replied old Tom.
“Human natur’,” muttered Stapleton, with the pipe still between his lips.
“Not the first vessels that have run foul in a fog,” observed young Tom.
“No, boy; but generally there ar’n’t much love between them at those times. But, come, now that we can breathe again, suppose I give you a song. What shall it be, young woman, a sea ditty, or something spooney?”
“Oh, something about love, if you’ve no objection, sir,” said Mary, appealing to the Dominie.
“Nay, it pleaseth me maiden, and I am of thy mind. Friend Dux, let it be Anacreontic.”
“What the devil’s that?” cried old Tom, lifting up his eyes, and taking the pipe out of his mouth.
“Nothing of your own, father, that’s clear; but something to borrow, for it’s to be on tick,” replied Tom.
“Nay, boy, I would have been understood that the song should refer to women or wine.”
“Both of which are to his fancy,” observed young Tom to me, aside.
“Human natur’,” quaintly observed Stapleton.
“Well, then, you shall have your wish. I’ll give you one that might be warbled in a lady’s chamber without stirring the silk curtains:—
“Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright
My heart’s chain wove,
When my dream of life from morn to night
Was Love—still Love.
New hope may bloom, and days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As Love’s young dream;
Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life,
As Love’s young dream.”
The melody of the song, added to the spirits he had drunk and Mary’s eyes beaming on him, had a great effect upon the Dominie. As old Tom warbled out, so did the pedagogue gradually approach the chair of Mary; and as gradually entwine her waist with his own arm, his eyes twinkling brightly on her. Old Tom, who perceived it, had given me and Tom a wink, as he repeated the two last lines; and then we saw what was going on, we burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Boys! boys!” said the Dominie, starting up, “thou hast awakened me, by thy boisterous mirth, from a sweet musing created by the harmony of friend Dux’s voice. Neither do I discover the source of thy cachinnation, seeing that the song is amatory and not comic. Still, it may not be supposed, at thy early age, that thou canst be affected with what thou art too young to feel. Pr’ythee continue, friend Dux, and, boys, restrain thy mirth.”
“Though the bard to a purer fame may soar
When wild youth’s past,
Though he win the wise, who frowned before,
To smile at last,
He’ll never meet a joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman’s ear
His soul-felt flame;
And at every close she blush’d to hear
The once-lov’d name.”
At the commencement of this verse the Dominie appeared to be on his guard; but gradually moved by the power of song, he dropped his elbow on the table, and his pipe underneath it; his forehead sank into his broad palm, and he remained motionless. The verse ended, and the Dominie, forgetting all around him, softly ejaculated, without looking up, “Eheu! Mary.”
“Did you speak to me, sir?” said Mary, who, perceiving us tittering, addressed the Dominie with a half-serious, half-mocking air.
“Speak, maiden? nay, I spoke not; yet thou mayest give me my pipe, which apparently hath been abducted while I was listening to the song.”
“Abducted! that’s a new word; but it means smashed into twenty pieces, I suppose,” observed young Tom. “At all events, your pipe is, for you let it fall between your legs.”
“Never mind,” said Mary, rising from her chair, and going to the cupboard; “here’s another, sir.”
“Well, master, am I to finish, or have you had enough of it?”
“Proceed, friend Dux, proceed; and believe that I am all attention.”
“Oh, that hallowed form is ne’er forgot
Which first love trac’d,
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory’s waste.
’Twas odour fled as soon as shed,
’Twas memory’s winged dream,
’Twas a light that ne’er can shine again
On life’s dull stream;
Oh, ’twas light that ne’er can shine again
On life’s dull stream.”
“Nay,” said the Dominie, again abstracted, “the metaphor is not just. ‘Life’s dull stream.’ ‘Lethe tacitus amnis,’ as Lucan hath it; but the stream of life flows—ay, flows rapidly—even in my veins. Doth not the heart throb and beat—yea, strongly—peradventure too forcibly against my better judgment? ‘Confiteor misere molle cor esse mihi,’ as Ovid saith. Yet must it not prevail! Shall one girl be victorious over seventy boys? Shall I, Dominie Dobbs, desert my post?—Again succumb to—I will even depart, that I may be at my desk at matutinal hours.”
“You don’t mean to leave us, sir?” said Mary, taking the Dominie’s arm.
“Even so, fair maiden, for it waxeth late, and I have my duties to perform,” said the Dominie, rising from his chair.
“Then you will promise to come again.”
“Peradventure I may.”
“If you do not promise me that you will, I will not let you go now.”
“Verily, maiden—”
“Promise,” interrupted Mary.
“Truly, maiden—”
“Promise,” cried Mary.
“In good sooth, maiden—”
“Promise,” reiterated Mary, pulling the Dominie towards her chair.
“Nay, then, I do promise, since thou wilt have it so,” replied the Dominie.
“And when will you come?”
“I will not tarry,” replied the Dominie; “and now good night to all.”
The Dominie shook hands with us, and Mary lighted him downstairs. I was much pleased with the resolution and sense of his danger thus shown by my worthy preceptor, and hoped that he would have avoided Mary in future, who evidently wished to make a conquest of him for her own amusement and love of admiration; but still I felt that the promise exacted would be fulfilled, and I was afraid that a second meeting, and that perhaps not before witnesses, would prove mischievous. I made up my mind to speak to Mary on the subject as soon as I had an opportunity, and insist upon her not making a fool of the worthy old man. Mary remained below a much longer time than was necessary, and when she re-appeared and looked at me, as if for a smile of approval, I turned from her with a contemptuous air. She sat down, and looked confused. Tom was also silent, and paid her no attention. A quarter of an hour passed, when he proposed to his father that they should be off, and the party broke up. Leaving Mary silent and thoughtful, and old Stapleton finishing his pipe, I took my candle and went to bed.
The next day the moon changed, the weather changed, and a rapid thaw took place. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” observed old Stapleton; “we watermen will have the river to ourselves again, and the hucksters must carry their gingerbread-nuts to another market.” It was, however, three or four days before the river was clear of the ice, so as to permit the navigation to proceed; and during that time, I may as well observe, that there was dissension between Mary and me. I showed her that I resented her conduct, and at first she tried to pacify me; but finding that I held out longer than she expected, she turned round, and was affronted in return. Short words and no lessons were the order of the day; and as each party seemed determined to hold out, there was little prospect of a reconciliation. In this she was the greatest sufferer, as I quitted the house after breakfast, and did not return until dinner time. At first old Stapleton plied very regularly, and took all the fares; but about a fortnight after we had worked together, he used to leave me to look after employment, and remain at the public-house. The weather was now fine, and, after the severe frost, it changed so rapidly that most of the trees were in leaf, and the horse-chestnuts in full blossom. The wherry was in constant demand, and every evening I handed from four to six shillings over to old Stapleton. I was delighted with my life, and should have been perfectly happy if it had not been for my quarrel with Mary still continuing, she as resolutely refraining from making advances as I. How much may life be embittered by dissension with those you live with, even when there is no very warm attachment; the constant grating together worries and annoys, and although you may despise the atoms, the aggregate becomes insupportable. I had no pleasure in the house; and the evenings, which formerly passed so agreeably, were now a source of vexation, from being forced to sit in company with one with whom I was not on good terms. Old Stapleton was seldom at home till late, and this made it still worse. I was communing with myself one night, as I had my eyes fixed on my book, whether I should make the first advances, when Mary, who had been quietly at work, broke the silence by asking me what I was reading. I replied in a quiet tone.
“Jacob,” said she, in continuation, “I think you have used me very ill to humble me in this manner. It was your business to make it up first.”
“I am not aware that I have been in the wrong,” replied I.
“I do not say that you have; but what matter does that make? You ought to give way to a woman.”
“Why so?”
“Why so! don’t the whole world do so? Do you not offer everything first to a woman? Is it not her right?”
“Not when she is in the wrong, Mary.”
“Yes, when she’s in the wrong, Jacob; there’s no merit in doing it when she’s in the right.”
“I think otherwise; at all events, it depends on how much she has been in the wrong, and I consider you have shown a bad heart, Mary.”
“A bad heart! in what way, Jacob?”
“In realising the fable of the boys and the frogs with the poor old Dominie, forgetting that what may be sport to you is death to him.”
“You don’t mean to say that he’ll die of love,” replied Mary, laughing.
“I should hope not: but you may contrive, and you have tried all in your power, to make him very wretched.”
“And, pray, how do you know that I do not like the old gentleman, Jacob? You appear to think that a girl is to fall in love with nobody but yourself. Why should I not love an old man with so much learning? I have been told that old husbands are much prouder of their wives than young ones, and pay them more attention, and don’t run after other women. How do you know that I am not serious?”
“Because I know your character, Mary, and am not to be deceived. If you mean to defend yourself in that way, we had better not talk any more.”
“Lord, how savage you are! then, suppose I did pay the old gentleman any attention. Did the young ones pay me any? Did either you, or your precious friend, Mr Tom, even speak to me?”
“No; we saw how you were employed, and we both hate a jilt.”
“Oh, you do. Very well, sir; just as you please. I may make both your hearts ache for this some day or another.”
“Forewarned, forearmed, Mary; and I shall take care that they are both forewarned as well as myself. As I perceive that you are so decided, I shall say no more. Only, for your own sake, and your own happiness, I caution you. Recollect your mother, Mary, and recollect your mother’s death.”
Mary covered her face and burst into tears. She sobbed for a few minutes, and then came to me. “You are right, Jacob; and I am a foolish—perhaps wicked—girl; but forgive me, and indeed I will try to behave better. But, as father says, it is human nature in me, and it’s hard to conquer our natures, Jacob.”
“Will you promise me not to continue your advances to the Dominie, Mary?”
“I will not, if I can help it, Jacob. I may forget for the moment, but I’ll do all I can. It’s not very easy to look grave when one is merry, or sour when one is pleased.”
“But what can induce you, Mary, to practise upon an old man like him? If it were young Tom, I could understand it. There might be some credit, and your pride might be flattered by the victory; but an old man—”
“Still, Jacob, old or young, it’s much the same. I would like to have them all at my feet, and that’s the truth. I can’t help it. And I thought it a great victory to bring there a wise old man, who was so full of Latin and learning, and who ought to know better. Tell me Jacob, if old men a how themselves to be caught, as well as young, where is the crime of catching them? Isn’t there as much vanity in an old man, in his supposing that I really could love him, as there is in me, who am but a young, foolish girl, in trying to make him fond of me?”
“That may be; but still recollect that he is in earnest, and you are only joking, which makes a great difference; and recollect further, that in trying at all, we very often lose all.”
“That I would take my chance of, Jacob,” replied Mary, proudly throwing her curly ringlets back with her hand from her white forehead; “but what I now want is to make friends with you. Come, Jacob, you have my promise to do my best.”
“Yes, Mary, and I believe you, so there’s my hand.”
“You don’t know how miserable I have been, Jacob, since we quarrelled,” said Mary, wiping the tears away, which again commenced flowing; “and yet I don’t know why, for I’m sure I have almost hated you this last week—that I have; but the fact is, I like quarrelling very well for the pleasure of making it up again; but not for the quarrel to last so long as this has done.”
“It has annoyed me too, Mary, for I like you very much in general.”
“Well, then, now it’s all over; but Jacob, are you sure you are friends with me?”
“Yes, Mary.”
Mary looked archly at me. “You know the old saw, and I feel the truth of it.”
“What, ‘kiss and make friends?’” replied I; “with all my heart,” and I kissed her, without any resistance on her part.
“No, I didn’t mean that, Jacob.”
“What then?”
“Oh! ’twas another.”
“Well, then, what was the other?”
“Never mind, I forget it now,” said she laughing, and rising from the chair. “Now, I must go to my work again, and you must tell me what you’ve been doing this last fortnight.”
Mary and I entered into a long and amicable conversation till her father came home, when we retired to bed. “I think,” said old Stapleton, the next morning, “that I’ve had work enough; and I’ve belonged to two benefit clubs for so long as to ’title me to an allowance. I think, Jacob, I shall give up the wherry to you, and you shall in future give me one-third of your earnings, and keep the rest to yourself. I don’t see why you’re to work hard all day for nothing.” I remonstrated against this excess of liberality; but old Stapleton was positive, and the arrangement was made. I afterwards discovered, what may probably occur to the reader, that Captain Turnbull was at the bottom of all this. He had pensioned old Stapleton that I might become independent by my own exertions before I had served my apprenticeship; and after breakfast, old Stapleton walked down with me to the beach, and we launched the boat. “Recollect, Jacob,” said he, “one-third, and honour bright;” so saying, he adjourned to his old quarters, the public-house, to smoke his pipe and think of human natur’. I do not recollect any day of my life on which I felt more happy than on this: I was working for myself, and independent. I jumped into my wherry, and, without waiting for a fare, I pushed off, and, gaining the stream, cleaved through the water with delight as my reward; but after a quarter of an hour I sobered down with the recollection that, although I might pull about for nothing for my own amusement, that as Stapleton was entitled to one-third, I had no right to neglect his interest; and I shot my wherry into the row, and stood with my hand and fore-finger raised, watching the eye of every one who came towards the hard. I was fortunate that day, and when I returned, was proceeding to give Stapleton his share, when he stopped me. “Jacob, it’s no use dividing now; once a-week will be better. I likes things to come in a lump; cause, d’ye see—it’s—it’s—human natur’.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A good fare—Eat your pudding and hold your tongue—The Dominie crossed in love—The crosser also crossed—I find that “all the world’s a stage,” not excepting the stern sheets of my wherry—Cleopatra’s barge apostrophised on the River Thames.
I consider that the present was the period from which I might date my first launching into human life. I was now nearly eighteen years old, strong, active, and well-made, full of spirits, and overjoyed at the independence which I had so much sighed for. Since the period of my dismissal from Mr Drummond’s my character had much altered. I had become grave and silent, brooding over my wrongs, harbouring feelings of resentment against the parties, and viewing the world in general through a medium by no means favourable. I had become in some degree restored from this unwholesome state of mind from having rendered an important service to Captain Turnbull, for we love the world better as we feel that we are more useful in it; but the independence now given to me was the acme of my hopes and wishes. I felt so happy, so buoyant in mind, that I could even think of the two clerks in Mr Drummond’s employ without feelings of revenge. Let it, however, be remembered that the world was all before me in anticipation only.
“Boat, sir?”
“No, thanky, my lad. I want old Stapleton—is he here?”
“No, sir, but this is his boat.”
“Humph, can’t he take me down?”
“No, sir; but I can, if you please.”
“Well, then, be quick.”
A sedate-looking gentleman, about forty-five years of age, stepped into the boat, and in a few seconds I was in the stream, shooting the bridge with the ebbing tide.
“What’s the matter with deaf Stapleton?”
“Nothing, sir; but he’s getting old, and has made the boat over to me.”
“Are you his son?”
“No, sir, his ’prentice.”
“Humph! sorry deaf Stapleton’s gone.”
“I can be as deaf as he, sir, if you wish it.”
“Humph!”
The gentleman said no more at the time, and I pulled down the river in silence; but in a few minutes he began to move his hands up and down, and his lips, as if he was in conversation. Gradually his action increased, and words were uttered. At last he broke out:— “It is with this conviction, I may say important conviction, Mr Speaker, that I now deliver my sentiments to the Commons’ house of Parliament, trusting that no honourable member will decide until he has fully weighed the importance of the arguments which I have submitted to his judgment.” He then stopped, as if aware that I was present, and looked at me; but, prepared as I was, there was nothing in my countenance which exhibited the least sign of merriment; or, indeed, of having paid any attention to what he had been saying, for I looked carelessly to the right and left at the banks of the river. He again entered into conversation.
“Have you been long on the river?”
“Born on it, sir.”
“How do you like the profession of a waterman?”
“Very well, sir; the great point is to have regular customers.”
“And how do you gain them?”
“By holding my tongue; keeping their counsel and my own.”
“Very good answer, my boy. People who have much to do cannot afford to loose even their time on the water. Just now I was preparing and thinking over my speech in the House of Commons.”
“So I supposed, sir, and I think the river is a very good place for it, as no one can overhear you except the person whose services you have hired—and you need not mind him.”
“Very true, my lad; but that’s why I liked deaf Stapleton: he could not hear a word.”
“But sir, if you’ve no objection, I like to hear it very much; and you may be sure that I should never say anything about it, if you will trust me.”
“Do you my lad? well, then I’ll just try it over again. You shall be the speaker—mind you hold your tongue, and don’t interrupt me.”
The gentleman then began: “Mr Speaker, I should not have ventured to address the House at this late hour, did I not consider that the importance of the question now before it is—so important—no, that won’t do—did I not consider that the question now before it is of that, I may say, paramount importance as to call forth the best energies of every man who is a well-wisher to his country. With this conviction, Mr Speaker, humble individual as I am, I feel it my duty, I may say, my bounden duty, to deliver my sentiments upon the subject. The papers which I now hold in my hand, Mr Speaker, and to which I shall soon have to call the attention of the House, will, I trust, fully establish—”
“I say, waterman, be you taking that chap to Bedlam?” cried a shrill female voice close to us. The speech was stopped; we looked up, and perceived a wherry with two females passing close to us. A shout of laughter followed the observation, and my fare looked very much confused.
I had often read the papers in the public-house, and remembering what was usual in the house in case of interruption, called out, “Order, order!” This made the gentleman laugh, and as the other wherry was now far off, he recommenced his oration, with which I shall not trouble my readers. It was a very fair speech, I have no doubt, but I forget what it was about.
I landed him at Westminster Bridge, and received treble my fare. “Recollect,” said he, on paying me, “that I shall look out for you when I come again, which I do every Monday morning, and sometimes oftener. What’s your name?”
“Jacob, sir.”
“Very well; good morning, my lad.”
This gentleman became a very regular and excellent customer, and we used to have a great deal of conversation, independent of debating, in the wherry; and I must acknowledge that I received from him not only plenty of money, but a great deal of valuable information.
A few days after this I had an opportunity of ascertaining how far Mary would keep her promise. I was plying at the river side as usual, when old Stapleton came up to me, with his pipe in his mouth, and said, “Jacob, there be that old gentleman up at our house with Mary. Now, I sees a great deal, but I says nothing. Mary will be her mother over again, that’s sartain. Suppose you go and see your old teacher, and leave me to look a’ter a customer. I begin to feel as if handling the sculls a little would be of sarvice to me. We all think idleness be a very pleasant thing when we’re obliged to work but when we are idle, then we feel that a little work be just as agreeable—that’s human natur’.”
I thought that Mary was very likely to forget all her good resolutions, from her ardent love of admiration, and I was determined to go and break up the conference. I, therefore, left the boat to Stapleton, and hastened to the house. I did not like to play the part of an eavesdropper, and was quite undecided how I should act; whether to go in at once or not, when, as I passed under the window, which was open, I heard very plainly the conversation that was going on. I stopped in the street, and listened to the Dominie in continuation—“But, fair maiden, omnia vincit amor—here am I, Dominie Dobbs, who have long passed the grand climacteric, and can already muster three score years—who have authority over seventy boys, being Magister Princeps et Dux of Brentford Grammar School—who have affectioned only the sciences, and communed only with the classics—who have ever turned a deaf ear to the allurements of thy sex, and ever hardened my heart to thy fascination—here am I, even I, Dominie Dobbs, suing at the feet of a maiden who had barely ripened into womanhood, who knoweth not to read or write, and whose father earns his bread by manual labour. I feel it all—I feel that I am too old—that thou art too young—that I am departing from the ways of wisdom, and am regardless of my worldly prospects. Still, omnia vincit amor, and I bow to the all-powerful god, doing him homage through thee, Mary. Vainly have I resisted—vainly have I, as I have lain in bed, tried to drive thee from my thoughts, and tear thine image from my heart. Have I not felt thy presence everywhere? Do not I astonish my worthy coadjutor, Mistress Bately, the matron, by calling her by the name of Mary, when I had always before addressed her by her baptismal name of Deborah? Nay, have not the boys in the classes discovered my weakness, and do they not shout out Mary in the hours of play? Mare periculosum et turbidum hast thou been to me. I sleep not—I eat not—and every sign of love which hath been adduced by Ovidius Naso, whom I have diligently collated, do I find in mine own person. Speak, then, maiden. I have given vent to my feelings, do thou the same, that I may return, and leave not my flock without their shepherd. Speak, maiden.”
“I will, sir, if you will get up,” replied Mary, who paused, and then continued. “I think, sir, that I am young and foolish, and you are old and—and—”
“Foolish, thou wouldst say.”
“I had rather you said it, sir, than I; it is not for me to use such an expression towards one so learned as you are. I think, sir, that I am too young to marry; and that perhaps you are—too old. I think, sir, that you are too clever—and that I am very ignorant; that it would not suit you in your situation to marry; and that it would not suit me to marry you—equally obliged to you all the same.”
“Perhaps thou hast in thy reply proved the wiser of the two,” answered the Dominie; “but why, maiden, didst thou raise those feelings, those hopes in my breast, only to cause me pain, and make me drink deep of the cup of disappointment? didst thou appear to cling to me in fondness, if thou felt not a yearning towards me?”
“But are there no other sorts of love besides the one you would require, sir? May I not love you because you are so clever, and so learned in Latin. May I not love you as I do my father?”
“True, true, child; it is all my own folly, and I must retrace my steps in sorrow. I have been deceived—but I have been deceived only by myself. My wishes have clouded my understanding, and have obscured my reason; have made me forgetful of my advanced years, and of the little favour I was likely to find in the eyes of a young maiden. I have fallen into a pit through blindness, and I must extricate myself, sore as will be the task. Bless thee, maiden, bless thee! May another be happy in thy love, and never feel the barb of disappointment. I will pray for thee, Mary—that Heaven may bless thee.” And the Dominie turned away and wept.
Mary appeared to be moved by the good old man’s affliction, and her heart probably smote her for her coquettish behaviour. She attempted to console the Dominie, and appeared to be more than half crying herself. “No, sir, do not take on so, you make me feel very uncomfortable. I have been wrong—I feel I have—though you have not blamed me, I am a very foolish girl.”
“Bless thee, child—bless thee!” replied the Dominie, in a subdued voice.
“Indeed, sir, I don’t deserve it—I feel I do not; but pray do not grieve, sir; things will go cross in love. Now, sir, I’ll tell you a secret, to prove it to you. I love Jacob—love him very much, and he does not care for me—I am sure he does not; so, you sir, you are not the only one—who is—very unhappy;” and Mary commenced sobbing with the Dominie.
“Poor thing!” said the Dominie; “and thou lovest Jacob? truly is he worthy of thy love. And, at thy early age, thou knowest what it is to have thy love unrequited. Truly is this a vale of tears—yet let us be thankful. Guard well thy heart, child, for Jacob may not be for thee; nay I feel that he will not be.”
“And why so, sir?” replied Mary, despondingly.
“Because, maiden—but nay, I must not tell thee; only take my warning, Mary—fare thee well? I come not here again.”
“Good-bye, sir, and pray forgive me; this will be a warning to me.”
“Verily, maiden, it will be a warning to us both. God bless thee!”
I discovered by the sound that Mary had vouchsafed to the Dominie a kiss, and heard soon afterwards his steps as he descended the stairs. Not wishing to meet him I turned round the corner, and went down to the river, thinking over what had passed. I felt pleased with Mary, but I was not in love with her.
The spring was now far advanced, and the weather was delightful. The river was beautiful, and parties of pleasure were constantly to be seen floating up and down with the tide. The Westminster boys, the Funny Club, and other amateurs in their fancy dresses, enlivened the scene; while the races for prize wherries, which occasionally took place, rendered the water one mass of life and motion. How I longed for my apprenticeship to be over, that I might try for a prize! One of my best customers was a young man, who was an actor at one of the theatres, who, like the M.P., used to rehearse the whole time he was in the boat; but he was a lively, noisy personage, full of humour, and perfectly indifferent as to appearances. He had a quiz and a quirk for everybody that passed in another boat, and would stand up and rant at them until they considered him insane. We were on very intimate terms, and I was never more pleased than when he made his appearance, as it was invariably the signal for mirth. The first time I certainly considered him to be a lunatic, for playhouse phraseology was quite new to me. “Boat, sir,” cried I to him as he came to the hard.
“My affairs do even drag me homeward. Go on; I’ll follow thee,” replied he, leaping into the boat. “Our fortune lies in this jump.”
I shoved off the wherry: “Down, sir?”
“Down,” replied he; pointing downwards with his finger, as if pushing at something.
“Down, down to hell, and say I sent you there.”
“Thanky, sir, I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Our tongue is rough, coz—and my condition is not smooth.” We shot the bridge, and went rapidly down with the tide, when he again commenced:—
“Thus with imagin’d wing our soft scene flies,
In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought.”
Then his attention was drawn by a collier’s boat, pulled by two men as black as chimney-sweeps, with three women in the stern-sheets. They made for the centre of the river, to get into the strength of the tide, and were soon abreast and close to the wherry, pulling with us down the stream.
“There’s a dandy young man,” said one of the women, with an old straw bonnet and very dirty ribbons, laughing, and pointing to my man.
“Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not;
At Ephesus I am but two hours old,
As strange unto your town as to your talk.”
“Well, he be a reg’lar rum cove, I’ve a notion,” said another of the women, when she witnessed the theatrical airs of the speaker, who immediately recommenced—
“The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,
Burn’d on the water—the poop was beaten gold,
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tunes of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water, which they beat, to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar’d all description.”
“Come, I’ll be blowed but we’ve had enough of that, so just shut your pan,” said one of the women, angrily.
“Her gentlewomen, like the Naiades,
So many mermaids tend her.”
“Mind what you’re arter, or your mouth will tend to your mischief, young fellow.”
“From the barge
A strange, invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs.”
“Jem, just run him alongside, and break his head with your oar.”
“I thinks as how I will, if he don’t mend his manners.”
“I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public streets.”
“You lie, you liver-faced rascal. I never walked the streets in my life. I’m a lawful married woman. Jem, do you call yourself a man, and stand this here?”
“Well, now, Sal, but he’s a nice young man. Now an’t he?” observed one of the other women.
“Away,
Away, you trifler. Love! I know thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips;
We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns.”
“I’ve a notion you will, too, my hearty,” interrupted one of the colliers. “That ’ere long tongue of yours will bring you into disgrace. Bill, give her a jerk towards the wherry, and we’ll duck him.”
“My friend,” said the actor, addressing me:—
“Let not his unwholesome corpse come between the wind
And my nobility.
“Let us exeunt, OP.”
Although I could not understand his phrases, I knew very well what he meant, and pulling smartly, I shoved towards the shore, and ahead. Perceiving this, the men in the boat, at the intimation of the women, who stood up waving their bonnets, gave chase to us, and my companion appeared not a little alarmed. However, by great exertion on my part, we gained considerably, and they abandoned the pursuit.
“Now, by two-headed Janus,” said my companion, as he looked back upon the colliers—
“Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time,
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper,
And others of such a vinegar aspect
That they’ll not show their teeth by way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
“And now,” continued he, addressing me, “what’s your name, sir? Of what condition are you—and of what place, I pray?”
Amused with what had passed, I replied, “That my name was Jacob—that I was a waterman, and born on the river.”
“I find thee apt; but tell me, art thou perfect that our ship hath touched upon the deserts of Bohemia?”
“Do you land at Westminster, sir?”
“No: at Blackfriars—there attend my coming.
“Base is the slave who pays; nevertheless, what is your fare, my lad?
“What money’s in my purse? Seven groats and twopence.
“By Jove, I am not covetous of gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost.
“But—
“I can get no remedy for this consumption of the purse.
“Here my lad—is that enough?”
“Yes, sir, I thank you.”
“Remember poor Jack, sir,” said the usual attendant at the landing place, catching his arm as he careened the wherry on getting out.
“If he fall in, good-night—or sink or swim.
“Jack, there is a penny for you. Jacob, farewell—we meet again;” and away he went, taking three of the stone steps at each spring. This gentleman’s name was, as I afterwards found out, Tinfoil, an actor of second-rate merit on the London boards. The Haymarket Theatre was where he principally performed, and, as we became better acquainted, he offered to procure me orders to see the play when I should wish to go there.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The pic-nic party—Sufferings by oil, ice, fire, and water—Upon the whole the “divarting vagabonds,” as the Thespian heroes and heroines are classically termed, are very happy, excepting Mr Winterbottom, whose feelings are by sitting down, down to zero.
One morning he came down to the hard, and, as usual, I expected that he would go down the river. I ran to my boat, and hauled in close.
“No, Jacob, no; this day you will not carry Caesar and his fortunes, but I have an order for you.”
“Thank you; sir; what is the play?”
“The play—pooh! no play; but I hope it will prove a farce, nevertheless, before it’s over. We are to have a pic-nic party upon one of those little islands up the river by Kew. All sock and buskin, all theatricals: if the wherries upset, the Hay-market may shut up, for it will be ‘exeunt omnes’ with all its best performers. Look you, Jacob, we shall want three wherries, and I leave you to pick out the other two—oars in each, of course. You must be at Whitehall steps exactly at nine o’clock, and I daresay the ladies won’t make you wait more than an hour or two, which, for them, is tolerably punctual.”
Mr Tinfoil then entered into the arrangement for remuneration, and walked away; and I was conning over in my mind whom I should select from my brother watermen, and whether I should ask old Stapleton to take the other oar in my boat, when I heard a voice never to be mistaken by me—
“Life is like a summer day
Warmed by a sunny ray.
“Lower away yet, Tom. That’ll do, my trump.
“Sometimes a dreary cloud,
Chill blast, or tempest loud.
“Look out for Jacob, Tom,” cried the old man, as the head of the lighter, with her mast lowered down, made its appearance through the arch of Putney Bridge, with bright blue streaks on her sides.
“Here he is, father,” replied Tom, who was standing forward by the windlass, with the fall in his hand.
I had shoved off, on hearing old Tom’s voice, and was alongside almost as soon as the lighter had passed under the bridge, and discovered old Tom at the helm. I sprang on the deck, with the chain-painter of the wherry in my hand, made it fast, and went aft to old Tom, who seized my hand.
“This is as it should be, my boy, both on the look-out for each other. The heart warms when we know the feeling is on both sides. You’re seldom out of our thoughts, boy, and always in our hearts. Now, jump forward, for Tom’s fretting to greet you, I see, and you may just as well help him to sway up the mast when you are there.”
I went forward, shook hands with Tom, and then clapped on the fall, and assisted him to hoist the mast. We then went aft to his father and communicated everything of interest which had passed since our last meeting at the house of old Stapleton.
“And how’s Mary?” inquired Tom; “she’s a very fine lass, and I’ve thought of her more than once; but I saw that all you said about her was true. How she did flam the poor old Dominie!”
“I have had a few words with her about it, and she has promised to be wiser,” replied I; “but as her father says, ‘in her it’s human natur’.’”
“She’s a fine craft,” observed old Tom, “and they always be a little ticklish. But, Jacob, you’ve had some inquiries made after you, and by the women, too.”
“Indeed!” replied I.
“Yes; and I have had the honour of being sent for into the parlour. Do you guess now?”
“Yes,” said I, a gloom coming over my countenance. “I presume it is Drummond and Sarah whom you refer to?”
“Exactly.”
Tom then informed me that Mrs Drummond had sent for him, and asked a great many questions about me, and desired him to say that they were very glad to hear that I was well and comfortable, and hoped that I would call and see her and Sarah when I came that way. Mrs Drummond then left the room, and Tom was alone with Sarah, who desired him to say, that her father had found out that I had not been wrong; that he had dismissed both the clerks; and that he was very sorry he had been so deceived—“and then,” said Tom, “Miss Sarah told me to say from herself, that she had been very unhappy since you had left them, but that she hoped that you would forgive and forget some day or another, and come back to them; and that I was to give you her love, and call next time we went up the river for something that she wanted to send to you. So you perceive, Jacob, that you are not forgotten, and justice has been done to you.”
“Yes,” replied I, “but it has been too late; so let us say no more about it. I am quite happy as I am.”
I then told them of the pic-nic party of the next day, upon which Tom volunteered to take the other oar in my boat, as he would not be wanted while the barge was at the wharf. Old Tom gave his consent, and it was agreed he should meet me next morning at daylight.
“I’ve a notion there’ll be some fun, Jacob,” said he, “from what you say.”
“I think so, too; but you’ve towed me two miles, and I must be off again, or I shall lose my dinner; so good-bye;” I selected two other wherries in the course of the afternoon, and then returned home.
It was a lovely morning when Tom and I washed out the boat, and, having dressed ourselves in our neatest clothes, we shoved off in company with the two other wherries, and dropped leisurely down the river with the last of the ebb. When we pulled in to the stairs at Whitehall, we found two men waiting for us with three or four hampers, some baskets, an iron saucepan, a frying-pan, and a large tin pail with a cover, full of rough ice to cool the wines. We were directed to put all these articles into one boat; the others to be reserved for the company.
“Jacob,” said Tom, “don’t let us be kitchen; I’m togged out for the parlour.”
This point had just been arranged, and the articles put into the wherry, when the party made their appearance, Mr Tinfoil acting as master of the ceremonies.
“Fair Titania,” said he to the lady who appeared to demand, and therefore received, the most attention, “allow me to hand you to your throne.”
“Many thanks, good Puck,” replied the lady; “we are well placed; but dear me, we haven’t brought, or we have lost, our vinaigrette; we positively cannot go without it. What can our women have been about?”
“Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed are much to blame,” replied Tinfoil; “but shall I run back for it?”
“Yes,” replied the lady, “and be here again ere the leviathan can swim a league.”
“I’ll put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes,” replied the gentleman, stepping out of the boat.
“Won’t you be a little out of breath before you come back, sir?” said Tom, joining the conversation.
This remark, far from giving offence, was followed by a general laugh. Before Mr Tinfoil was out of sight, the lost vinaigrette was dropped out of the lady’s handkerchief; he was therefore recalled; and the whole of the party being arranged in the two boats, we shoved off; the third boat, in which the provender had been stowed, followed us, and was occupied by the two attendants, a call-boy and scene-shifter, who were addressed by Tinfoil as Caliban and Stephano.
“Is all our company here?” said a pert-looking, little pug-nosed man, who had taken upon himself the part of Quince the carpenter, in the Midsummer Night’s Dream. “You, Nick Bottom,” continued he, addressing another, “are set down for Pyramus.”
The party addressed did not, however, appear to enter into the humour. He was a heavy-made, rather corpulent, white-faced personage, dressed in white jean trousers, white waistcoat, brown coat, and white hat. Whether anything had put him out of humour I know not, but it is evident that he was the butt of the ladies and of most of the party.
“I’ll just thank you,” replied this personage, whose real name was Winterbottom, “to be quiet, Mr Western, for I shan’t stand any of your nonsense.”
“Oh, Mr Winterbottom, surely you are not about to sow the seeds of discord so early. Look at the scene before you—hear how the birds are singing, how merrily the sun shines and how beautifully the water sparkles! Who can be cross on such a morning as this?”
“No, miss,” replied Mr Winterbottom, “not at all—not at all—only my name’s Winterbottom, and not Bottom. I don’t wear an ass’s head to please anybody—that’s all. I won’t be bottom—that’s flat.”
“That depends upon circumstances, sir,” observed Tom.
“What business have you to shove your oar in, Mr Waterman?”
“I was hired for the purpose,” replied Tom, dipping his oar in the water, and giving a hearty stroke.
“Stick to your own element, then—shove your oar into the water, but not into our discourse.”
“Well, sir, I won’t say another word, if you don’t like it.”
“But you may to me,” said Titania, laughing, “whenever you please.”
“And to me too,” said Tinfoil, who was amused with Tom’s replies.
Mr Winterbottom became very wroth, and demanded to be put on shore directly, but the Fairy Queen ordered us to obey him at our peril, and Mr Winterbottom was carried up the river very much against his inclination.
“Our friend is not himself,” said Mr Tinfoil, producing a key bugle; “but—
“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
To soften rocks, and rend the knotted oak.
“And, therefore, will we try the effect of it upon his senses.” Mr Tinfoil then played the air in “Midas”:—
“Pray, Goody, please to moderate,” etcetera.
During which Mr Winterbottom looked more sulky than ever. As soon as the air was finished, another of the party responded with his flute, from the other boat—while Mr Quince played what he called base, by snapping his fingers. The sounds of the instruments floated along the flowing and smooth water, reaching the ears and attracting the attention of many who, for a time, rested from their labour, or hung listlessly over the gunnels of the vessels, watching the boats, and listening to the harmony. All was mirth and gaiety—the wherries kept close to each other, and between the airs the parties kept up a lively and witty conversation, occasionally venting their admiration upon the verdure of the sloping lawns and feathering trees with which the banks of the noble river are so beautifully adorned; even Mr Winterbottom had partially recovered his serenity, when he was again irritated by a remark of Quince, who addressed him.
“You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man—a proper man as one shall see on a summer’s day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore, you must needs play Pyramus.”
“Take care I don’t play the devil with your physiognomy, Mr Western,” retorted Winterbottom.
Here Caliban, in the third boat, began playing the fiddle and singing to it—
“Gaffer, Gaffer’s son, and his little jackass,
Were trotting along the road.”
The chorus of which ditty was “Ee-aw, Ee-aw!” like the braying of a jackass.
“Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee; thou art translated,” cried Quince, looking at Winterbottom.
“Very well—very well, Mr Western. I don’t want to upset the wherry, and therefore you’re safe at present, but the reckoning will come—so I give you warning.”
“Slaves of my lamp, do my bidding. I will have no quarrelling here. You, Quince, shut your mouth; you, Winterbottom, draw in your lips, and I, your queen, will charm you with a song,” said Titania, waving her little hand. The fiddler ceased playing, and the voice of the fair actress rivetted all our attention.
“Wilt thou waken, bride of May,
While flowers are fresh, and sweet bells chime,
Listen and learn from my roundelay
How all life’s pilot boats sailed one day
A match with Time!
“Love sat on a lotus-leaf aloft,
And saw old Time in his loaded boat,
Slowly he crossed Life’s narrow tide,
While Love sat clapping his wings, and cried,
‘Who will pass Time?’
“Patience came first, but soon was gone,
With helm and sail to help Time on;
Care and Grief could not lend an oar,
And Prudence said (while he staid on shore),
‘I wait for Time.’
“Hope filled with flowers her cork-tree bark,
And lighted its helm with a glow-worm’s spark;
Then Love, when he saw his bark fly past,
Said, ‘Lingering Time will soon be passed,
Hope outspeeds time.’
“Wit went nearest Old Time to pass,
With his diamond oar and boat of glass
A feathery dart from his store he drew,
And shouted, while far and swift it flew,
‘O Mirth kills Time!’
“But Time sent the feathery arrow back,
Hope’s boat of Amaranthus miss’d its track;
Then Love bade its butterfly pilots move,
And laughing, said ‘They shall see how Love
Can conquer Time.’”
I need hardly say that the song was rapturously applauded, and most deservedly so. Several others were demanded from the ladies and gentlemen of the party, and given without hesitation; but I cannot now recall them to my memory. The bugle and flute played between whiles, and all was laughter and merriment.
“There’s a sweet place,” said Tinfoil, pointing to a villa on the Thames; “Now, with the fair Titania and ten thousand a-year, one could there live happy.”
“I’m afraid the fair Titania must go to market without the latter encumbrance,” replied the lady; “The gentleman must find the ten thousand a-year, and I must bring as my dowry—”
“Ten thousand charms,” interrupted Tinfoil—“that’s most true, and pity ’tis ’tis true. Did your fairyship ever hear my epigram on the subject?
“Let the lads of the East love the maids of Cash-meer,
Nor affection with interests clash;
Far other idolatry pleases us here,
We adore but the maids of Mere Cash.”
“Excellent, good Puck! Have you any more?”
“Not of my own, but you have heard what Winterbottom wrote under the bust of Shakespeare last Jubilee?”
“I knew not that Apollo had ever visited him.”
“You shall hear:—
“In this here place the bones of Shakespeare lie,
But that ere form of his shall never die;
A speedy end and soon this world may have,
But Shakespeare’s name shall bloom beyond the grave.”
“I’ll trouble you, Mr Tinfoil, not to be so very witty at my expense,” growled out Winterbottom. “I never wrote a line of poetry in my life.”
“No one said you did, Winterbottom; but you won’t deny that you wrote those lines.”
Mr Winterbottom disdained a reply. Gaily did we pass the variegated banks of the river, swept up with a strong flood-tide, and at last arrived at a little island agreed upon as the site of the pic-nic. The company disembarked, and were busy looking for a convenient spot for their entertainment, Quince making a rapid escape from Winterbottom, the latter remaining on the bank. “Jenkins,” said he to the man christened Caliban, “you did not forget the salad?”
“No, sir, I brought it myself. It’s on the top of the little hamper.”
Mr Winterbottom, who, it appears, was extremely partial to salad, was satisfied with the reply, and walked slowly away.
“Well,” said Tom to me, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. I only wish father had been here. I hope that young lady will sing again before we part.”
“I think it very likely, and that the fun is only begun,” replied I. “But come, let’s lend a hand to get the prog out of the boat.”
“Pat! pat! and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage,” cried Quince, addressing the others of the party.
The locality was approved of, and now all were busy in preparation. The hampers were unpacked, and cold meats, poultry, pies of various kinds, pastry, etcetera, appeared in abundance.
“This is no manager’s feast,” said Tinfoil; “the fowls are not made of wood, nor is small beer substituted for wine. Don Juan’s banquet to the Commendador is a farce to it.”
“All the manager’s stage banquets are farces, and very sorry jokes into the bargain,” replied another.
“I wish old Morris had to eat his own suppers.”
“He must get a new set of teeth, or they’ll prove a deal too tough.”
“Hiss! turn him out! he’s made a pun.”
The hampers were now empty; some laid the cloth upon the grass, and arranged the plates, and knives and forks. The ladies were as busy as the gentlemen—some were wiping the glasses, others putting salt into the salt-cellars. Titania was preparing the salad. Mr Winterbottom, who was doing nothing, accosted her; “May I beg as a favour that you do not cut the salad too small? It loses much of its crispness.”
“Why, what a Nebuchadnezzar you are! However, sir, you shall be obeyed.”
“Who can fry fish?” cried Tinfoil. “Here are two pairs of soles and some eels. Where’s Caliban?”
“Here I am, sir,” replied the man on his knees, blowing up a fire which he had kindled. “I have got the soup to mind.”
“Where’s Stephano?”
“Cooling the wine, sir.”
“Who, then, can fry fish, I ask?”
“I can, sir,” replied Tom; “but not without butter.”
“Butter shalt thou have, thou disturber of the element. Have we not Hiren here?”
“I wasn’t hired as a cook, at all events,” replied Tom: “but I’m rather a dab at it.”
“Then shalt thou have the place,” replied the actor.
“With all my heart and soul,” cried Tom, taking out his knife, and commencing the necessary operation of skinning the fish.
In half-an-hour all was ready: the fair Titania did me the honour to seat herself upon my jacket, to ward off any damp from the ground. The other ladies had also taken their respective seats, as allotted by the mistress of the revels; the tables were covered by many of the good things of this life; the soup was ready in a tureen at one end, and Tom had just placed the fish on the table, while Mr Quince and Winterbottom, by the commands of Titania, were despatched for the wine and other varieties of potations. When they returned, eyeing one another askance, Winterbottom looking daggers at his opponent, and Quince not quite easy even under the protection of Titania, Tom had just removed the frying-pan from the fire with its residuary grease still bubbling. Quince having deposited his load, was about to sit down, when a freak came into Tom’s head, which, however, he dared not put into execution himself; but “a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” says the proverb. Winterbottom stood before Tom, and Quince with his back to them. Tom looked at Winterbottom, pointing slily to the frying-pan, and then to the hinder parts of Quince. Winterbottom snatched the hint and the frying-pan at the same moment. Quince squatted himself down with a serge, as they say at sea, quoting at the time—“Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy”—but putting his hands behind him, to soften his fall, they were received into the hot frying-pan, inserted behind him by Winterbottom.
“Oh, Lord! oh! oh!” shrieked Mr Quince, springing up like lightning, bounding in the air with the pain, his hands behind him still adhering to the frying-pan.
At the first scream of Mr Quince, the whole party had been terrified; the idea was that a snake had bitten him, and the greatest alarm prevailed; but when they perceived the cause of the disaster, even his expressions of pain could not prevent their mirth. It was too ludicrous. Still the gentlemen and ladies condoled with him, but Mr Quince was not to be reasoned with. He walked away to the river-side, Mr Winterbottom slily enjoying his revenge, for no one but Tom had an idea that it was anything but an accident. Mr Quince’s party of pleasure was spoiled, but the others did not think it necessary that theirs should be also. A “really very sorry for poor Western,” and a half-dozen “poor fellows!” intermingled with tittering, was all that his misfortunes called forth after his departure; and then they set to like French falconers. The soup was swallowed, the fish disappeared, joints were cut up, pies delivered up their hidden treasures, fowls were dismembered like rotten boroughs, corks were drawn, others flew without the trouble, and they did eat and were filled. Mr Winterbottom kept his eye upon the salad, his favourite condiment, mixed it himself, offered it to all, and was glad to find that no one would spare time to eat it; but Mr Winterbottom could eat for everybody, and he did eat. The fragments were cleared away, and handed over to us. We were very busy, doing as ample justice to them as the party had done before us, when Mr Winterbottom was observed to turn very pale, and appeared very uneasy.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr Tinfoil.
“I’m—I’m not very well—I—I’m afraid something has disagreed with me. I’m very ill,” exclaimed Mr Winterbottom, turning as white as a sheet, and screwing up his mouth.
“It must be the salad,” said one of the ladies; “no one has eaten it but yourself, and we are all well.”
“I—rather think—it must be—oh—I do recollect that I thought the oil had a queer taste.”
“Why there was no oil in the castors,” replied Tinfoil. “I desired Jenkins to get some.”
“So did I, particularly,” replied Winterbottom. “Oh!—oh, dear—oh, dear!”
“Jenkins,” cried Tinfoil, “where did you get the oil for the castors? What oil did you get?—are you sure it was right?”
“Yes, sir, quite sure,” replied Jenkins. “I brought it here in a bottle, and put it into the castors before dinner.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“At the chemist’s, sir. Here’s the bottle;” and Jenkins produced a bottle with castor oil in large letters labelled on the side.
The murder was out. Mr Winterbottom groaned, rose from his seat, for he felt very sick indeed. The misfortunes of individuals generally add to the general quota of mirth, and Mr Winterbottom’s misfortune had the same effect as that of Mr Quince. But where was poor Mr Quince all this time? He had sent for the iron kettle in which the soup had been warmed up, and filling it full of Thames water, had immersed the afflicted parts in the cooling element. There he sat with his hands plunged deep, when Mr Winterbottom made his appearance at the same spot and Mr Quince was comforted by witnessing the state of his enemy. Indeed, the sight of Winterbottom’s distress did more to soothe Mr Quince’s pain than all the Thames water in the world. He rose, and leaving Winterbottom, with his two hands to his head, leaning against a tree, joined the party, and pledged the ladies in succession, till he was more than half tipsy.
In the space of half-an-hour Mr Winterbottom returned, trembling and shivering as if he had been suffering under an ague. A bumper or two of brandy restored him, and before the day closed in, both Winterbottom and Quince, one applying stimulants to his stomach, and the other drowning his sense of pain in repeated libations, were in a state (to say the least of it) of incipient intoxication. But there is a time for all things, and it was time to return. The evening had passed freely; song had followed song. Tinfoil had tried his bugle, and played not a little out of tune; the flute also neglected the flats and sharps as of no consequence; the ladies thought the gentlemen rather too forward, and, in short, it was time to break up the party. The hampers were repacked, and handed half-empty, into the boat. Of wine there was a little left; and by the direction of Titania, the plates, dishes, etcetera, only were to be returned, and the fragments divided among the boatmen. The company re-embarked in high spirits, and we had the ebb-tide to return with. Just as we were shoving off, it was remembered that the ice-pail had been left under the tree, besides a basket with sundries. The other wherries had shoved off, and they were in consequence brought into our boat, in which we had the same company as before, with the exception of Mr Western, alias Quince, who preferred the boat which carried the hampers, that he might loll over the side, with his hands in the water. Mr Winterbottom soon showed the effects of the remedy he had taken against the effects of the castor oil. He was uproarious, and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to sit still in the boat, much to the alarm of Titania and the other ladies. He would make violent love to the fairy queen; and as he constantly shifted his position to address her and throw himself at her feet, there was some danger of the boat being upset. At last Tom proposed to him to sit on the pail before her, as then he could address her with safety; and Winterbottom staggered up to take the seat. As he was seating himself, Tom took off the cover, so that he was plunged into the half-liquid ice; but Mr Winterbottom was too drunk to perceive it. He continued to rant and to rave, and protest and vow, and even spout for some time, when suddenly the quantity of caloric extracted from him produced its effect.
“I—I—really believe that the night is damp—the dew falls—the seat is damp, fair Titania.”
“It’s only fancy, Mr Winterbottom,” replied Titania who was delighted with his situation. “Jean trousers are cool in the evening; it’s only an excuse to get away from me, and I never will speak again to you if you quit your seat.”
“The fair Titania, the mistress of my soul, and body too, if she pleases—has—but to command—and her slave obeys.”
“I rather think it is a little damp,” said Tinfoil; “allow me to throw a little sand upon your seat;” and Tinfoil pulled out a large paper bag full of salt, which he strewed over the ice.
Winterbottom was satisfied, and remained; but by the time we had reached Vauxhall Bridge, the refrigeration had become so complete that he was fixed on the ice, which the application of the salt had made solid. He complained of cold, shivered, attempted to rise, but could not extricate himself; at last his teeth chattered, and he became almost sober; but he was helpless from the effects of the castor oil, his intermediate intoxication, and his present state of numbness. He spoke less and less; at last he was silent, and when we arrived at Whitehall stairs he was firmly fixed in the ice. When released he could not walk, and he was sent home in a hackney-coach.
“It was cruel to punish him so, Mr Tinfoil,” said Titania.
“Cruel punishment! Why, yes; a sort of impailment,” replied Mr Tinfoil, offering his arm.
The remainder of the party landed and walked home, followed by the two assistants, who took charge of the crockery; and thus ended the pic-nic party, which, as Tom said, was the very funniest day he had ever spent in his life.