| 1840.] | APRIL. |
|---|---|
CAUGHT AT CATCHING.
The
Weather-Prophet,
foiled,
doth loudly
vow,
Gentle Sport.
though
wrong before,
I'm sure I've
hit it now;
Taking to their Eels. "The Bailiffs are coming, Oh dear! oh dear!"
APRIL.—The Finishing Touch.
I was always fond of billiards: and in former days, at Grogram's, in Greek Street, where a few jolly lads of my acquaintance used to meet twice a week for a game, and a snug pipe and beer, I was generally voted the first man of the club; and could take five from John the marker himself. I had a genius, in fact, for the game; and now that I was placed in that station of life where I could cultivate my talents, I gave them full play, and improved amazingly. I do say that I think myself as good a hand as any chap in England.
The Count, and his Excellency Baron von Punter, were, I can tell you, astonished by the smartness of my play; the first two or three rubbers Punter beat me, but when I came to know his game, I used to knock him all to sticks; or, at least, win six games to his four: and such was the betting upon me: his Excellency losing large sums to the Count, who knew what play was, and used to back me. I did not play except for shillings, so my skill was of no great service to me.
One day I entered the billiard-room when these three gentlemen were high in words. "The thing shall not be done," I heard Captain Tagrag say. "I won't stand it."
"Vat, begause you would have de bird all to yourzelf, hey?" said the Baron.
"You sall not have a single fezare of him, begar," said the Count. "Ve vill blow you, M. de Taguerague; parole d'honneur, ve vill."
"What's all this, gents," says I, stepping in, "about birds and feathers?"
"Oh," says Tagrag, "we were talking about—about—pigeon-shooting. The Count, here, says he will blow a bird all to pieces at twenty yards, and I said I wouldn't stand it, because it was regular murder."
"Oh, yase, it was bidgeon-shooting," cries the Baron: "and I know no better sport. Have you been bidgeon-shooting, my dear Squire? De fon is gabidal." "No doubt," says I, "for the shooters, but mighty bad sport for the pigeon;" and this joke set them all a laughing ready to die. I didn't know then what a good joke it was, neither; but I gave Master Baron that day a precious good beating, and walked off with no less than fifteen shillings of his money.
As a sporting man, and a man of fashion, I need not say that I took in the "Flare-up," regularly; ay, and wrote one or two trifles in that celebrated publication (one of my papers, which Tagrag subscribed for me, Philo-pestitiæamicus, on the proper sauce for teal and widgeon; and the other, signed Scru-tatos, on the best means of cultivating the kidney species of that vegetable, made no small noise at the time, and got me in the paper a compliment from the editor). I was a constant reader of the Notices to Correspondents, and my early education having been rayther neglected (for I was taken from my studies and set, as is the custom in our trade, to practise on a sheep's-head at the tender age of nine years, before I was allowed to venture on the human countenance), I say, being thus curtailed and cut off in my classical learning, I must confess I managed to pick up a pretty smattering of genteel information from that treasury of all sorts of knowledge, at least sufficient to make me a match in learning for all the noblemen and gentlemen who came to our house. Well, on looking over the "Flare-up" notices to correspondents, I read, one day last April, among the notices, as follows:—
"'Automodon.' We do not know the precise age of Mr. Baker, of Covent Garden Theatre; nor are we aware if that celebrated son of Thespis is a married man.
"'Ducks and Green-peas' is informed, that when A plays his rook to B's second Knight's square, and B, moving two squares with his Queen's pawn, gives check to his adversary's Queen, there is no reason why B's Queen should not take A's pawn, if B be so inclined.
"'F. L. S.' We have repeatedly answered the question about Madame Vestris: her maiden name was Bartolozzi, and she married the son of Charles Mathews, the celebrated comedian.
"'Fair Play.' The best amateur billiard and écarté player in England, is Coxe Tuggeridge Coxe, Esq., of Portland Place, and Tuggeridgeville: Jonathan, who knows his play, can only give him two in a game of a hundred: and at the cards, no man is his superior. Verbum sap.
"'Scipio Americanus' is a blockhead."
I read this out to the Count and Tagrag, and both of them wondered how the Editor of that tremendous Flare-up should get such information; and both agreed that the Baron, who still piqued himself absurdly on his play, would be vastly annoyed by seeing me preferred thus to himself. We read him the paragraph, and preciously angry he was. "Id is," he cried, "the tables (or 'de dabels,' as he called them), de horrid dabels; gom viz me to London, and dry a slate-table, and I vill beat you." We all roared at this; and the end of the dispute was, that, just to satisfy the fellow, I agreed to play his Excellency at slate-tables, or any tables he chose.
"Gut," says he, "gut; I lif, you know, at Abednego's, in de Quadrant; his dabels is goot; ve vill blay dere, if you vill;" and I said, I would: and it was agreed that, one Saturday night, when Jemmy was at the Opera, we should go to the Baron's rooms, and give him a chance.
We went, and the little Baron had as fine a supper as ever I saw; lots of champagne (and I didn't mind drinking it), and plenty of laughing and fun. Afterwards, down we went to billiards. "Is dish Mishter Coxsh, de shelebrated player?" says Mr. Abednego, who was in the room, with one or two gentlemen of his own persuasion, and several foreign noblemen, dirty, snuffy, and hairy, as them foreigners are. "Is dish Mishter Coxsh? blesh ma hart, it is a honer to see you, I have heard so much of your play."
"Come, come," says I, "sir;" for I'm pretty wide awake; "none of your gammon; you're not going to hook me."
"No, begar, dis fish you not catch," says Count Mace.
"Dat is gut! haw! haw!" snorted the Baron: "hook him! lieber himmel, you might dry and hook me as well. Haw! haw!"
Well, we went to play. "Fife to four on Coxe," screams out the Count.—"Done and done," says another nobleman. "Ponays," says the Count.—"Done," says the nobleman. "I vill take your six crowns to four," says the Baron.—"Done," says I; and, in the twinkling of an eye, I beat him;—once making thirteen off the balls without stopping.
We had some more wine after this; and if you could have seen the long faces of the other noblemen, as they pulled out their pencils and wrote I O U's for the Count. "Va toujours, mon cher," says he to me, "you have von for me tree hundred pounds."
"I'll blay you guineas dis time," says the Baron. "Zeven to four you must give me, though;" and so I did: and in ten minutes that game was won, and the Baron handed over his pounds. "Two hundred and sixty more, my dear, dear Coxe," says the Count; "you are mon ange gardien!" "Wot a flat Mishter Coxsh ish, not to back his luck," I heard Abednego whisper to one of the foreign noblemen.
"I'll take your seven to four, in tens," said I to the Baron. "Give me three," says he, "and done." I gave him three, and lost the game by one. "Dobbel, or quits," says he. "Go it," says I, up to my mettle; "Sam Coxe never says no;"—and to it we went. I went in, and scored eighteen to his five. "Holy Moshesh!" says Abednego, "dat little Coxsh is a vonder! who'll take odds?"
"I'll give twenty to one," says I, "in guineas."
"Ponays, yase, done," screams out the Count.
"Bonies, done," roars out the Baron: and before I could speak, went in, and, would you believe it?—in two minutes he somehow made the game!
Oh, what a figure I cut when my dear Jemmy heard of this afterwards!—In vain I swore it was guineas: the Count and the Baron swore to ponies; and when I refused, they both said their honour was concerned, and they must have my life, or their money. So when the Count showed me actually that, in spite of this bet (which had been too good to resist) won from me, he had been a very heavy loser by the night; and brought me the word of honour of Abednego, his Jewish friend, and the foreign noblemen, that ponies had been betted;—why, I paid one thousand pounds sterling of good and lawful money;—but I've not played for money since: no, no; catch me at that again, if you can.
| MAY. | [1840. |
|---|---|
MEMBERS OF THE LONDON PRESS.
while forced
his dwindling
victims
to confess,
A Carriage Sweep.
"small by
degrees, and
beautifully
less."
4. Exhibition of the Royal Academy opens, at the National Gallery.
408. Portrait of the President. ☞
409. Red Deer, after Landseer.
MAY.—A New Drop Scene at the Opera.
No lady is a lady without having a box at the Opera: so my Jemmy, who knew as much about music,—bless her!—as I do about sanscrit, algebra, or any other foreign language, took a prime box on the second tier. It was what they called a double box; it really could hold two, that is, very comfortably; and we got it a great bargain—for five hundred a year! Here, Tuesdays and Saturdays we used regularly to take our places, Jemmy and Jemimarann sitting in front; me, behind: but as my dear wife used to wear a large fantail gauze hat, with ostrich feathers, birds of paradise, artificial flowers, and tags of muslin or satin, scattered all over it, I'm blest if she didn't fill the whole of the front of the box; and it was only by jumping and dodging, three or four times in the course of the night, that I could manage to get a sight of the actors. By kneeling down, and looking steady under my darling Jemmy's sleeve, I did contrive, every now and then, to have a peep of Senior Lablash's boots, in the Puritanny, and once saw Madame Greasi's crown and head-dress in Annybalony.
What a place that Opera is, to be sure! and what enjoyments us aristocracy used to have! Just as you have swallowed down your three courses (three curses I used to call them; for so, indeed, they are, causing a deal of heartburns, headaches, doctor's bills, pills, want of sleep, and such like)—just, I say, as you get down your three courses, which I defy any man to enjoy properly, unless he has two hours of drink and quiet afterwards, up comes the carriage, in bursts my Jemmy, as fine as a duchess, and scented like our shop. "Come, my dear," says she, "it's Normy to-night (or Annybalony, or the Nosey di Figaro, or the Gazzylarder, as the case may be); Mr. Coster strikes off punctually at eight, and you know it's the fashion to be always present at the very first bar of the aperture;" and so off we budge, to be miserable for five hours, and to have a headache for the next twelve, and all because it's the fashion!
After the aperture, as they call it, comes the opera, which, as I am given to understand, is the Italian for singing. Why they should sing in Italian, I can't conceive; or why they should do nothing but sing: bless us, how I used to long for the wooden magpie in the Gazzylarder, to fly up to the top of the church-steeple, and see the chaps with the pitchforks to come in and carry off that wicked Don June. Not that I don't admire Lablash, and Rubini, and his brother, Tomrubini, him who has that fine bass voice, I mean, and acts the Corporal in the first piece, and Don June in the second; but three hours is a little too much, for you can't sleep on those little rickety seats in the boxes.
The opera is bad enough; but what is that to the bally? You should have seen my Jemmy the first night when she stopped to see it; and when Madamsalls Fanny and Theresa Hustler came forward, along with a gentleman, to dance, you should have seen how Jemmy stared, and our girl blushed, when Madamsall Fanny, coming forward, stood on the tips of only five of her toes, and raising up the other five, and the foot belonging to them, almost to her shoulder, twirled round, and round, and round, like a teetotum, for a couple of minutes or more; and as she settled down, at last, on both feet, in a natural decent posture, you should have heard how the house roared with applause, the boxes clapping with all their might, and waving their handkerchiefs; the pit shouting, "Bravo!" Some people, who, I suppose, were rather angry at such an exhibition, threw bunches of flowers at her; and what do you think she did? why, hang me, if she did not come forward, as though nothing had happened, gather up the things they had thrown at her, smile, press them to her heart, and began whirling round again, faster than ever!—Talk about coolness, I never saw such in all my born days.
"Nasty thing!" says Jemmy, starting up in a fury; "if women will act so, it serves them right to be treated so."
"O, yes! she acts beautifully," says our friend, his Excellency, who, along with Baron von Punter, and Tagrag, used very seldom to miss coming to our box.
"She may act very beautifully, Munseer, but she don't dress so; and I am very glad they threw that orange-peel and all those things at her, and that the people waved to her to get off."
Here his Excellency, and the Baron, and Tag, set up a roar of laughter. "My dear Mrs. Coxe," says Tag, "those are the most famous dancers in the world; and we throw myrtle, geraniums, and lilies, and roses, at them, in token of our immense admiration!"
"Well, I never!" said my wife; and poor Jemimarann slunk behind the curtain, and looked as red as it almost. After the one had done, the next begun; but when, all of a sudden, a somebody came skipping and bounding in, like an Indian-rubber ball, flinging itself up at least six feet from the stage, and there shaking about its legs like mad, we were more astonished than ever!
"That's Anatole," says one of the gentlemen.
"Anna who?" says my wife, and she might well be mistaken; for this person had a hat and feathers, a bare neck and arms, great black ringlets, and a little calico frock, which came down to the knees.
"Anatole; you would not think he was sixty-three years old, he's as active as a man of twenty."
"He!" shrieked out my wife; "what, is that there a man? For shame! Munseer. Jemimarann, dear, get your cloak, and come along; and I'll thank you, my dear, to call our people and let us go home."
You wouldn't think, after this, that my Jemmy, who had shown such a horror at the bally, as they call it, should ever grow accustomed to it; but she liked to hear her name shouted out in the crush-room, and so would stop till the end of everything; and, law bless you! in three weeks from that time she could look at the ballet as she would at a dancing-dog in the streets, and would bring her double-barrelled opera-glass up to her eyes as coolly as if she had been a born duchess. As for me, I did at Rome as Rome does, and precious fun it used to be, sometimes.
My friend the Baron insisted, one night, on my going behind the scenes, where, being a subscriber, he said I had what they call my ontray. Behind then I went; and such a place you never saw nor heard of! Fancy lots of young and old gents, of the fashion, crowding round and staring at the actresses practising their steps. Fancy yellow, snuffy foreigners, chattering always, and smelling fearfully of tobacco. Fancy scores of Jews, with hooked noses, and black muzzles, covered with rings, chains, sham diamonds, and gold waistcoats. Fancy old men, dressed in old night-gowns, with knock-knees, and dirty flesh-coloured cotton stockings and dabs of brickdust on their wrinkled old chops, and tow wigs (such wigs!) for the bald ones, and great tin spears in their hands, mayhap, or else shepherd's crooks, and fusty garlands of flowers, made of red and green baize! Fancy troops of girls, giggling, chattering, pushing to and fro, amidst old black canvas, Gothic halls, thrones, pasteboard Cupids, dragons, and such like; such dirt, darkness, crowd, confusion, and gabble of all conceivable languages was never known!
If you could but have seen Munseer Anatole! Instead of looking twenty, he looked a thousand. The old man's wig was off, and a barber was giving it a touch with the tongs; Munseer was taking snuff himself, and a boy was standing by, with a pint of beer from the public-house at the corner of Charles-street.
I met with a little accident, during the three-quarters of an hour which they allow for the entertainment of us men of fashion on the stage, before the curtain draws up for the bally, while the ladies in the boxes are gaping, and the people in the pit are drumming with their feet and canes in the rudest manner possible, as though they couldn't wait.
Just at the moment before the little bell rings, and the curtain flies up, and we scuffle off to the sides (for we always stay till the very last moment), I was in the middle of the stage, making myself very affable to the fair figgerantys which was spinning and twirling about me, and asking them if they wasn't cold, and such like politeness, in the most condescending way possible, when a bolt was suddenly withdrawn, and down I popped, through a trap in the stage, into the place below. Luckily, I was stopped by a piece of machinery, consisting of a heap of green blankets, and a young lady coming up as Venus rising from the sea. If I had not fallen so soft, I don't know what might have been the consequence of the collusion. I never told Mrs. Coxe, for she can't bear to hear of my paying the least attention to the fair sex.
GAME IN SEASON.
2. Epsom Races.—"Surrey for the Field."
Death of Desdemona.
Foul—from the Moor.
to
bear-o,
♌ ♄ ☿ ♒
Faro
that's
unfair-o.
High game.
5. Boniface, (first Alderman of Port-soken?)
Cordial reception.
Caught in his own gin.
12. Mr. Wakley declared, that Gin was his best friend—it was equal to 1000 inquests a year.
JUNE.—Striking a Balance.
Next door to us, in Portland-place, lived the Right Honourable the Earl of Kilblazes, of Kilmacrasy Castle, county Kildare, and his mother, the Dowager Countess. Lady Kilblazes had a daughter, Lady Juliana Matilda Mac Turk, of the exact age of our dear Jemimarann; and a son, The Honourable Arthur Wellington Anglesea Blucher Bulow Mac Turk, only ten months older than our boy, Tug.
My darling Jemmy is a woman of spirit, and, as became her station, made every possible attempt to become acquainted with the Dowager Countess of Kilblazes, which her ladyship (because, forsooth, she was the daughter of the Minister, and the Prince of Wales's great friend, the Earl of Portansherry) thought fit to reject. I don't wonder at my Jemmy growing so angry with her, and determining, in every way, to put her ladyship down. The Kilblazes' estate is not so large as the Tuggeridge property, by two thousand a-year, at least; and so my wife, when our neighbours kept only two footmen, was quite authorized in having three; and she made it a point, as soon as ever the Kilblazes' carriage-and-pair came round, to have her own carriage-and-four.
Well, our box was next to theirs at the Opera; only twice as big. Whatever masters went to Lady Juliana, came to my Jemimarann; and what do you think Jemmy did? she got her celebrated governess, Madam de Flicflac, away from the Countess, by offering a double salary. It was quite a treasure, they said, to have Madame Flicflac; she had been (to support her father, the Count, when he emigrated) a French dancer at the Italian Opera. French dancing, and Italian, therefore, we had at once, and in the best style: it is astonishing how quick and well she used to speak—the French especially.
Master Arthur Mac Turk was at the famous school of the Reverend Clement Coddler, along with a hundred and ten other young fashionables, from the age of three to fifteen; and to this establishment Jemmy sent our Tug, adding forty guineas to the hundred and twenty paid every year for the boarders. I think I found out the dear soul's reason, for, one day, speaking about the school to a mutual acquaintance of ours and the Kilblazes, she whispered to him, that "she never would have thought of sending her darling boy at the rate which her next-door neighbour paid; their lad, she was sure, must be starved: however, poor people! they did the best they could on their income."
Coddler's, in fact, was the tip-top school near London; he had been tutor to the Duke of Buckminster, who had set him up in the school, and, as I tell you, all the peerage and respectable commoners came to it. You read in the bill (the snopsis, I think Coddler called it), after the account of the charges for board, masters, extras, &c.: "Every young nobleman (or gentleman) is expected to bring a knife and fork, spoon, and goblet, of silver (to prevent breakage), which will not be returned; a dressing-gown and slippers; toilet-box, pomatum, curling-irons, &c. &c. The pupil must, on NO ACCOUNT, be allowed to have more than ten guineas of pocket-money, unless his parents particularly desire it, or he be above fifteen years of age. Wine will be an extra charge; as are warm, vapour, and douche baths; carriage exercise will be provided at the rate of fifteen guineas per quarter. It is earnestly requested that no young nobleman (or gentleman) be allowed to smoke. In a place devoted to the cultivation of polite literature, such an ignoble enjoyment were profane
To this establishment our Tug was sent. "Recollect, my dear," said his mamma, "that you are a Tuggeridge by birth, and that I expect you to beat all the boys in the school, especially that Wellington Mac Turk, who though he is a lord's son, is nothing to you, who are the heir of Tuggeridgeville."
Tug was a smart young fellow enough, and could cut and curl as well as any young chap of his age; he was not a bad hand at a wig either, and could shave, too, very prettily; but that was in the old time, when we were not great people: when he came to be a gentleman, he had to learn Latin and Greek, and had a deal of lost time to make up for on going to school.
However we had no fear; for the Reverend Mr. Coddler used to send monthly accounts of his pupils' progress, and if Tug was not a wonder of the world, I don't know who was. It was
| General behaviour | excellent |
| English | very good |
| French | très bien |
| Latin | optimé. |
and so on; he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month for money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he had been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler, one of the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bed-rooms and eating rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them), which were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. "It is a holiday to-day," said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In the dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards ("all tip-top nobility," observed Mr. Coddler);—in the bed-rooms there was only one gent; he was lying on his bed, reading a novel and smoking cigars. "Extraordinary genius!" whispered Coddler; "Honourable Tom Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the sweetest poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know, genius must have its way." "Well, upon my word," says Jemmy, "if that's genus, I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge remained a dull fellow."
"Impossible, my dear madam." said Coddler. "Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe couldn't be stupid if he tried."
Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of Allycompane. We were introduced instantly, "Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr. and Mrs. Coxe:" the little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very low, and so did Mr. Coddler, who, as he saw my lord making for the play-ground, begged him to show us the way.—"Come along," says my lord; and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the beautiful holes in his jacket and elsewhere.
About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a pastrycook's shop, at the end of the green. "That's the grub-shop," said my lord, "where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick."
Then he passed a poor red-haired usher, sitting on a bench alone. "That's Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am," says my lord, "we keep him, for he's very useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when there's a fight, or a game at cricket.—Well, Hicks, how's your mother? what's the row now?" "I believe, my lord," said the usher, very meekly, "there is a pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises—the Honourable Mr. Mac——"
"O! come along," said Lord Lollypop, "come along, this way, ma'am! Go it, ye cripples!" and my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the kindest and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily pleased to be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went running across the green. "Who is it, Petitoes?" screams my lord. "Turk and the barber," pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastrycook's like mad. "Turk and the ba—," laughs out my lord, looking at us: "hurrah! this way, ma'am;" and, turning round a corner he opened a door into a court-yard, where a number of boys were collected and a great noise of shrill voices might be heard. "Go it, Turk!" says one "Go it, barber!" says another. "Punch hith life out," roars another, whose voice was just cracked, and his clothes half a yard too short for him!
Fancy our horror, when, on the crowd making way, we saw Tug pummelling away at the Honourable Master Mac Turk! My dear Jemmy, who don't understand such things, pounced upon the two at once, and, with one hand tearing away Tug, sent him spinning back into the arms of his seconds, while, with the other, she clawed hold of Master Mac Turk's red hair, and, as soon as she got her second hand free, banged it about his face and ears like a good one.
"You nasty—wicked—quarrelsome—aristocratic (each word was a bang)—aristocratic, oh! oh! oh!" Here the words stopped; for, what with the agitation, maternal solicitude, and a dreadful kick on the shins which, I am ashamed to say, Master Mac Turk administered, my dear Jemmy could bear it no longer, and sunk, fainting away, in my arms.
See Swithin spout
The water out;
A Wiper-snake pattern
While wet sustains
Highgate.
THE MARCH TO FINCHLEY.
Rains and drains.
23. Newspaper born, 1588.—Editor I.
30. William Penn died, 1718.
JULY.—Down at Beulah.
Although there was a regular cut between the next-door people and us, yet Tug and the Honourable Master Mac Turk kept up their acquaintance over the back-garden wall, and in the stables, where they were fighting, making friends, and playing tricks from morning to night, during the holidays. Indeed, it was from young Mac that we first heard of Madame de Flicflac, of whom my Jemmy robbed Lady Kilblazes, as I before have related. When our friend, the Baron, first saw Madame, a very tender greeting passed between them, for they had, as it appeared, been old friends abroad. "Sapristie," said the Baron, in his lingo, "que fais tu ici, Aménaïde?" "Et toi, mon pauvre Chicot," says she, 'est ce qu'on t'a mis à la retraite? Il parait, que tu n'est plus Général chez Franco—" "Chut!" says the Baron, putting his finger to his lips.
"What are they saying, my dear?" says my wife to Jemimarann, who had a pretty knowledge of the language by this time.
"I don't know what 'Sapristie' means, mamma; but the Baron asked Madame what she was doing here? and Madame said, 'And you, Chicot, you are no more a general at Franco.' Have I not translated rightly, Madame?"
"Oui, mon chou, mon ange; yase, my angel, my cabbage, quite right. Figure yourself, I have known my dear Chicot dis twenty years."
"Chicot is my name of baptism," says the Baron; "Baron Chicot de Punter is my name." "And, being a general at Franco," says Jemmy, "means, I suppose, being a French General?"
"Yes, I vas," said he, "General Baron de Punter, n'est il pas, Aménaïde?"
"O, yes!" said Madame Flicflac, and laughed; and I and Jemmy laughed out of politeness: and a pretty laughing matter it was, as you shall hear.
About this time my Jemmy became one of the Ladies-Patronesses of that admirable Institution, "The Washerwoman's Orphans' Home;" Lady de Sudley was the great projector of it; and the manager and chaplain, the excellent and Reverend Sidney Slopper. His salary, as chaplain, and that of Doctor Leitch, the physician (both cousins of her Ladyship's), drew away five hundred pounds from the six subscribed to the Charity: and Lady de Sudley thought a fête at Beulah Spa, with the aid of some of the foreign Princes who were in town last year, might bring a little more money into its treasury. A tender appeal was accordingly drawn up, and published in all the papers:
"APPEAL.
"BRITISH WASHERWOMAN'S ORPHANS' HOME.
"The 'Washerwoman's Orphans' Home' has now been established seven years; and the good which it has effected is, it may be confidently stated, incalculable. Ninety-eight orphan children of washerwomen have been lodged within its walls. One hundred and two British washerwomen have been relieved when in the last state of decay. One hundred and ninety-eight thousand articles of male and female dress have been washed, mended, buttoned, ironed, and mangled, in the Establishment. And, by an arrangement with the governors of the Foundling, it is hoped that the Baby-linen of that Hospital will be confided to the British Washerwoman's Home!
"With such prospects before it, is it not sad, is it not lamentable to think, that the Patronesses of the Society have been compelled to reject the applications of no less than three thousand eight hundred and one British Washerwomen, from lack of means for their support? Ladies of England! Mothers of England! to you we appeal. Is there one of you that will not respond to the cry in behalf of these deserving members of our sex?
"It has been determined by the Ladies-Patronesses to give a fête at Beulah Spa, on Thursday, July 25; which will be graced with the first foreign and native TALENT, by the first foreign and native RANK; and where they beg for the attendance of every WASHERWOMAN'S FRIEND."
Her Highness the Princess of Schloppenzollernschwigmaringen, the Duke of Sacks Tubbingen, His Excellency Baron Strumpff, His Excellency Lootf-Allee-Koolee-Bismillah-Mohamed-Rusheed-Allah, the Persian Ambassador, Prince Futtee-Jaw, Envoy from the King of Oude, His Excellency Don Alonzo Di Cachachero-y-Fandango-y-Castañete, the Spanish Ambassador, Count Ravioli, from Milan, the Envoy of the Republic of Topinambo, and a host of other fashionables, promised to honour the festival: and their names made a famous show in the bills.
I leave you to fancy what a splendid triumph for the British Washerwoman's Home was to come off on that day. A beautiful tent was erected, in which the Ladies-Patronesses were to meet; it was hung round with specimens of the skill of the washerwomen's orphans, ninety-six of whom were to be feasted in the gardens, and waited on by the Ladies-Patronesses.
There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm a-piece to Madame and Jemimarann. Whilst they were walking whom should they light upon but poor Orlando Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting.
"Orlando!" says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out her hand.
"Jemimar!" says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum.
"Sir!" says Jemmy, as stately as a Duchess.
"What! madame," says poor Crump, "don't you remember your shopboy?"
"Dearest mamma, don't you recollect Orlando?" whimpers Jemimarann.
"Miss Tuggeridge Coxe," says Jemmy, "I'm surprised of you. Remember, sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more familiarity."
"Insolent fellow!" says the Baron; "vat is dis canaille?"
"Canal yourself, Mounseer," says Orlando, now grown quite furious; he broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd. Jemimarann, as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma, therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in order to join us.
It appears they had not been seated very long when Madame Flicflac suddenly sprung up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed forward to a friend whom she saw pass.
The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann; and, whether it was the champagne, or that my dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, I don't know; but Madame Flicflac had not been gone a minute when the Baron dropped on his knees, and made her a regular declaration.
Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by this time, and was standing by my side, listening, as melancholy as possible, to the famous Bohemian Minne-singers, who were singing the celebrated words of the poet Gothy: