ARTHUR O’LEARY
HIS WANDERINGS AND PONDERINGS IN MANY LANDS
By Charles James Lever
Edited By His Friend, Harry Lorrequer,
Illustrated By George Cruikshank.
New Edition.
London: Henry Colburn, Publisher,
Great Marlborough Street.
1845.
CONTENTS
[ ARTHUR O’LEARY. ]
[ CHAPTER I. ] THE “ATTWOOD”
[ CHAPTER II. ] THE BOAR’S HEAD AT ROTTERDAM
[ CHAPTER III. ] VAN HOOGENDORP’S TALE
[ CHAPTER IV. ] MEMS. AND MORALIZINGS
[ CHAPTER V. ] ANTWERP—“THE FISCHER’S HAUS.”
[ CHAPTER VI. ] MR. O’KELLY’S TALE
[ CHAPTER VII. ] MR. O’KELLY’S TALE.—CONTINUED
[ CHAPTER VIII. ] MR. O’KELLY’S TALE.—CONCLUDED
[ CHAPTER IX. ] TABLE-TRAITS
[ CHAPTER X. ] A DILEMMA
[ CHAPTER XI. ] A FRAGMENT OF FOREST LIFE
[ CHAPTER XII. ] CHATEAU LIFE
[ CHAPTER XIII. ] THE ABBE’S STORY
[ CHAPTER XIV. ] THE CHASE
[ CHAPTER XV. ] A NARROW ESCAPE
[ CHAPTER XVI. ] A MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE
[ CHAPTER XVII. ] THE BORE—A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE
[ CHAPTER XVIII. ] THE RETREAT FROM LEIPSIC
[ CHAPTER XIX. ] THE TOP OF A DILIGENCE
[ CHAPTER XX. ] BONN AND STUDENT LIFE
[ CHAPTER XXI. ] THE STUDENT
[ CHAPTER XXII. ] SPAS AND GRAND DUKEDOMS
[ CHAPTER XXIII. ] THE TRAVELLING PARTY
[ CHAPTER XXIV. ] THE GAMBLING-ROOM
[ CHAPTER XXV. ] A WATERING-PLACE DOCTOR
[ CHAPTER XXVI. ] SIR HARRY WYCHERLEY
[ CHAPTER XXVII. ] THE RECOVERY HOUSE
[ CHAPTER XXVIII. ] THE ‘DREAM OF DEATH’
[ CHAPTER XXIX. ] THE STRANGE GUEST
[ CHAPTER XXX. ] THE PARK
[ CHAPTER XXXI. ] THE BARON’S STORY
[ CHAPTER XXXII. ] THE WARTBURG AND EISENACH
[ CHAPTER XXXIII. ] "ERFURT”
[ CHAPTER XXXIV. ] THE HERR. DIRECTOR KLUG
NOTICE, PRELIMINARY AND EXPLANATORY,
BY THE EDITOR.
When some years ago we took the liberty, in a volume of our so-called “Confessions,” to introduce to our reader’s acquaintance the gentleman whose name figures in the title page, we subjoined a brief notice, by himself, intimating the intention he entertained of one day giving to the world a farther insight into his life and opinions, under the title of “Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary.”
It is more than probable that the garbled statement and incorrect expression of which we ourselves were guilty respecting our friend had piqued him into this declaration, which, on mature consideration, he thought fit to abandon. For, from that hour to the present one, nothing of the kind ever transpired, nor could we ascertain, by the strictest inquiry, that such a proposition of publication had ever been entertained in the West-End, or heard of in the “Row.”
The worthy traveller had wandered away to “pastures new,” heaven knows where! and, notwithstanding repeated little paragraphs in the second advertizing column of the “Times” newspaper, assuring, “A. O’L. that if he would inform his friends where a letter would reach, all would be forgiven,” &c. the mystery of his whereabouts remained unsolved, save by the chance mention of a north-west passage traveller, who speaks of a Mr. O’Leary as having presided at a grand bottle-nosed whale dinner in Behring’s Straits, some time in the autumn of 1840; and an allusion, in the second volume of the Chevalier de Bertonville’s Discoveries in Central Africa, to an “Irlandais bien original,” who acted as sponsor to the son and heir of King Bullanullaboo, in the Chieckhow territory. That either, or indeed, both, these individuals resolved themselves into our respected friend, we entertained no doubt whatever; nor did the information cause us any surprise, far less unquestionably, than had we heard of his ordering his boots from Hoby, or his coat from Stultz.
Meanwhile time rolled on—and whether Mr. O’Leary had died of the whale feast, or been eaten himself by his godson, no one could conjecture, and his name had probably been lost amid the rust of ages, if certain booksellers, in remote districts, had not chanced upon the announcement of his volume, and their “country orders” kept dropping in for these same “Loiterings,” of which the publishers were obliged to confess they knew nothing whatever.
Now, the season was a dull one; nothing stirring in the literary world; people had turned from books, to newspapers; a gloomy depression reigned over the land. The India news was depressing; the China worse; the French were more insolent than ever; the prices were falling under the new tariff; pigs looked down, and “Repealers” looked up. The only interesting news, was the frauds in pork, which turned out to be pickled negroes and potted squaws. What was to be done? A literary speculation at such a moment was preposterous; for although in an age of temperance, nothing prospered but “Punch.”
It occurred to us, “then pondering,” as Lord Brougham would say, that as these same “Loiterings” had been asked for more than once, and an actual order for two copies had been seen in the handwriting of a solvent individual, there was no reason why we should not write them ourselves. There would be little difficulty in imagining what a man like O’Leary would say, think, or do, in any-given situation. The peculiarities of his character might, perhaps, give point to what dramatic people call “situations,” but yet were not of such a nature as to make their portraiture a matter of any difficulty.
We confess the thing savoured a good deal of book-making. What of that? We remember once in a row in Dublin, when the military were called out, that a sentinel happened to have an altercation with, an old woman of that class, for which the Irish metropolis used to have a patent, in all that regards street eloquence and repartee. The soldier, provoked beyond endurance, declared at last with an oath, “that if she didn’t go away, he’d drive his bayonet through her.” “Oh, then, the devil thank you for that same,” responded the hag, “sure, isn’t it your trade?” Make the application, dear reader, and forgive us for our authorship to order.
Besides, had we not before us the example of Alexandre Dumas, in France, whose practice it is to amuse the world by certain Souvenirs de “Voyage,” which he has never made, not even in imagination but which are only the dressed-up skeletons of other men’s rambles, and which he buys, exactly as the Jews do old uniforms and court suits, for exportation to the colonies. And thus while thousands of his readers are sympathizing with the suffering of the aforesaid Alexandre, in his perilous passage of the great desert, or his fearful encounter with Norwegian wolves, little know they that their hero is snugly established in his “entresol” of the “Rue d’Alger,” lying full length on a spring-cushioned sofa, with a Manilla weed on his lip, and George Sand’s last bulletin of wickedness, half cut before him. These “Souvenirs de Voyage” being nothing more than the adventures and incidents of Messrs. John Doe and Richard Doe, paragraphed, witticized, and spiced for public taste, by Alexandre Dumas, pretty much as cheap taverns give “gravy” and “ox-tail”—the smallest modicum of meat, to the most high-seasoned and hot-flavoured condiments.
If, then, we had scruples, here was a precedent to relieve our minds—here a case perfectly in point, at least so far as the legitimacy of the practice demanded. But, unhappily, it ended there: for although it may be, and indeed is, very practicable for Monsieur Dumas, by the perfection of his “cuisine,” to make the meat itself a secondary part of the matter; yet do we grievously fear that a tureen full of “O’Leary,” might not be an acceptable dish, because there was a bone of “Harry Lorrequer” in the bottom.
With all these pros and cons our vain-glorious boast to write the work in question stared us suddenly in the face; and, really, we felt as much shame as can reasonably be supposed to visit a man, whose countenance has been hawked about the streets, and sold in shilling numbers. What was to be done? There was the public, too; but, like Tony Lumpkin, we felt we might disappoint the company at the Three Jolly Pigeons—but could we disappoint ourselves?
Alas! there were some excellent reasons against such a consummation. So, respected reader, whatever liberties we might take with you, we had to look nearer home, and bethink us of ourselves. After all—and what a glorious charge to the jury of one’s conscience is your after all!—-what a plenary indulgence against all your sins of commission and omission!—what a makepeace to self-accusation, and what a salve to heartfelt repinings!—after all, we did know a great deal about O’Leary: his life and opinions, his habits and haunts, his prejudices, pleasures, and predilections: and although we never performed Boz to his Johnson, still had we ample knowledge of him for all purposes of book-writing; and there was no reason why we should not assume his mantle, or rather his Macintosh, if the weather required it.
Having in some sort allayed our scruples in this fashion, and having satisfied our conscience by the resolve, that if we were not about to record the actual res gesto of Mr. O’Leary, neither would we set down anything which might not have been one of his adventures, nor put into his mouth any imaginary conversations which he might not have sustained; so that, in short, should the volume ever come under the eyes of the respected gentleman himself, considerable mystification would exist, as to whether he did not say, do, and think, exactly as we made him, and much doubt lie on his mind that he was not the author himself.
We wish particularly to lay stress on the honesty of these our intentions—the more, as subsequent events have interfered with their accomplishment; and we can only assure the world of what we would have done, had we been permitted. And here let us observe, en passant, that if other literary characters had been actuated by similarly honourable views, we should have been spared those very absurd speeches which Sallust attributes to his characters in the Catiline conspiracy; and another historian, with still greater daring, assumes the Prince of Orange ought to have spoken, at various epochs in the late Belgian revolution.
With such prospective hopes, then, did we engage in the mystery of these same “Loiterings,” and with a pleasure such as only men of the pen can appreciate, did we watch the bulky pile of MS. that was growing up before us, while the interest of the work had already taken hold of us; and whether we moved our puppets to the slow figure of a minuet, or rattled them along at the slap-dash, hurry-scurry, devil-may-care pace, for which our critics habitually give us credit, we felt that our foot beat time responsively to the measure, and that we actually began to enjoy the performance.
In this position stood matters, when early one morning in December the post brought us an ominous-looking epistle, which, even as we glanced our eye on the outside, conveyed an impression of fear and misgiving to our minds. If there are men in whose countenances, as Pitt remarked, “villany is so impressed, it were impiety not to believe it,” so are there certain letters whose very shape and colour, fold, seal, and superscription have something gloomy and threatening—something of menace and mischief about them. This was one of these: the paper was a greenish sickly-white, a kind of dyspeptic foolscap; the very mill that fabricated it might have had the shaking ague. The seal was of bottle-wax, the impression, a heavy thumb. The address ran, “To H. L.” The writing, a species of rustic paling, curiously interwoven and gnarled, to which the thickness of the ink lent a needless obscurity, giving to the whole the appearance of something like a child’s effort to draw a series of beetles and cockroaches with a blunt stick; but what most of all struck terror to our souls, was an abortive effort at the words “Arthur O’Leary” scrawled in the corner.
What! had he really then escaped the perils of blubber and black men? Was he alive, and had he come back to catch us, in delicto—in the very fact of editing him, of raising our exhausted exchequer at his cost, and replenishing our empty coffers under his credit? Our suspicions were but too true. We broke the seal and spelled as follows—
“Sir—A lately-arrived traveller in these parts brings me intelligence, that a work is announced for publication by you, under the title of ‘The Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary,’ containing his opinions, notions, dreamings, and doings during several years of his life, and in various countries. Now this must mean me, and I should like to know what are a man’s own, if his adventures are not? His ongoings, his ‘begebenheiten,’ as the Germans call them, are they not as much his, as his—what shall I say; his flannel waistcoat or his tobacco-pipe?
“If I have spent many years, and many pounds (of tobacco) in my explorings of other lands, is it for you to reap the benefit? If I have walked, smoked, laughed, and fattened from Trolhatten to Tehran, was it that you should have the profit? Was I to exhibit in ludicrous situations and extravagant incidents, with ‘illustrations by Phiz,’ because I happened to be fat, and fond of rambling? Or was it my name only that you pirated, so that Arthur O’Leary should be a type of something ludicrous, wherever he appeared in company? Or worse still, was it an attempt to extort money from me, as I understand you once before tried, by assuming for one of your heroes the name of a most respectable gentleman in private life? To which of these counts do you plead guilty?
“Whatever is your plan, here is mine: I have given instructions to my man of law to obtain an injunction from the Chancellor, restraining you or any other from publishing these ‘Loiterings.’ Yes; an order of the court will soon put an end to this most unwarrantable invasion of private rights. Let us see then if you’ll dare to persist in this nefarious scheme.
“The Swan-river for you, and the stocks for your publisher, may, perhaps, moderate your literary and publishing ardour—eh! Master Harry? Or do you contemplate adding your own adventures beyond seas to the volume, and then make something of your ‘Confessions of a Convict,’ I must conclude at once: in my indignation this half hour, I have been swallowing all the smoke of my meerschaum, and I feel myself turning round and round like a smoke-jack. Once for all—stop! recall your announcement, burn your MS., and prostrate yourself in abject humility at my feet, and with many sighs, and two pounds of shag (to be had at No. 8, Francis-street, two doors from the lane), you may haply be forgiven by yours, in wrath,
“Arthur O’Leary.
“Address a line, if in penitence, to me here, where the lovely scenery, and the society remind me much of Siberia—
“Edenderry, ‘The Pig and Pot-hooks.’”
Having carefully read and re-read this letter, and having laid it before those whose interests, like our own, were deeply involved, we really for a time became thoroughly nonplussed. To disclaim any or all of the intentions attributed to us in Mr. O’Leary’s letter, would have been perfectly useless, so long as we held to our project of publishing anything under his name. Of no avail to assure him that our “Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary” were not his—that our hero was not himself. To little purpose should we adduce that our Alter Ego was the hero of a book by the Prebend of Lichfield, and “Charles Lever” given to the world as a socialist. He cared for nothing of all this; tenax propositi, he would listen to no explanation—unconditional, absolute, Chinese submission were his only terms, and with these we were obliged to comply. And yet how very ridiculous was the power he assumed. Was any thing more common in practice than to write the lives of distinguished men, even before their death, and who ever heard of the individual seeking legal redress against his biographer except for libel? “Come, come, Arthur,” said we to ourselves, “this threat affrights us not. Here we begin Chap. XIV.—”
Just then we turned our eyes mechanically towards the pile of manuscript at our elbow, and could not help admiring the philosophy with which he spoke of condemning to the flames the fruit of our labour. Still it was evident, that Mr. O’Leary’s was no brutem fulmen, but very respectable and downright thunder; and that in fact we should soon be, where, however interesting it may make a young lady, it by no means suits an elderly gentleman to be, viz.—in Chancery.
“What’s to be done?” was the question, which like a tennis-ball we pitched at each other. “We have it,” said we. “We’ll start at once for Edenderry, and bring this with us,” pointing to our manuscript. “We’ll show O’Leary how near immortality he was, and may still be, if not loaded with obstinacy: We’ll read him a bit of our droll, and some snatches of our pathetic passages. Well show him how the ‘Immortal George’ intends to represent him. In a word, we’ll enchant him with the fascinating position to which we mean to exalt him and before the evening ends, obtain his special permission to deal with him, as before now we have done with his betters, and—print him.”
Our mind made up, no time was to be lost. We took our place in the Grand Canal passage-boat for Edenderry; and wrapping ourselves up in our virtue, and another thin garment they call a Zephyr, began our journey.
We should have liked well, had our object permitted it, to have made some brief notes of our own “Loiterings.” But the goal of our wanderings, as well as of our thoughts, was ever before us, and we spent the day imagining to ourselves the various modes by which we should make our advances to the enemy, with most hope of success. Whether the company themselves did not afford any thing very remarkable, or our own preoccupation prevented our noticing it, certes, we jogged on, without any consciousness that we were not perfectly alone, and this for some twenty miles of the way. At last, however, the cabin became intolerably hot. Something like twenty-four souls were imprisoned in a space ten feet by three, which the humanity of the company of directors kindly limits to forty-eight, a number which no human ingenuity could pack into it, if living. The majority of the passengers were what by courtesy are called ‘small farmers,’ namely, individuals weighing from eighteen to six-and-twenty stone; priests, with backs like the gable of a chapel; and a sprinkling of elderly ladies from the bog towns along the bank, who actually resembled turf clamps in their proportions. We made an effort to reach the door, and having at length succeeded, found to our sorrow that the rain was falling heavily. Notwithstanding this, we remained without, as long as we could venture, the oppressive heat within being far more intolerable than even the rain. At length, however, wet through and cold, we squeezed ourselves into a small corner near the door, and sat down. But what a change had our unpropitious presence evoked. We left our fellow-travellers, a noisy, jolly, semi-riotous party, disputing over the markets, censuring Sir Robert, abusing the poor-rates, and discussing various matters of foreign and domestic policy, from Shah Shoojah to subsoil ploughs. A dirty pack of cards, and even punch, were adding their fascinations to while away the tedious hours; but now the company sat in solemn silence. The ladies looked straight before them, without a muscle of their faces moving; the farmers had lifted the collars of their frieze coats, and concealed their hands within their sleeves, so as to be perfectly invisible; and the reverend fathers, putting on dark and dangerous looks, spoke only in monosyllables, no longer sipped their liquor in comfort, but rang the bell from time to time, and ordered “another beverage,” a curious smoking compound, that to our un-Matthewed senses, savoured suspiciously of whiskey.
It was a dark night when we reached the “Pig and Pot-hooks,” the hostelry whence Mr. O’Leary had addressed us; and although not yet eight o’clock, no appearance of light, nor any stir, announced that the family were about. After some little delay, our summons was answered by a bare-legged handmaiden, who, to our question if Mr. O’Leary stopped there, without further hesitation opened a small door to the left, and introduced us bodily into his august presence.
Our travelled friend was seated, “more suo,” with his legs supported on two chairs, while he himself in chief occupied a third, his wig being on the arm of that one on which he reposed; a very imposing tankard, with a floating toast, smoked on the table, and a large collection of pipes of every grade, from the haughty hubble bubble, to the humble dudeen, hung around on the walls.
“Ha!” said he, as we closed the door behind us, and advanced into the room, “and so you are penitent. Well, Hal, I forgive you. It was a scurvy trick, though; but I remember it no longer. Here, take a pull at the pewter, and tell us all the Dublin news.”
It is not our intention, dear reader, to indulge in the same mystification with you, that we practised on our friend Mr. O’Leary—or, in other words, to invent for your edification, as we confess to have done for his, all the events and circumstances which might have, but did not, take place in Dublin for the preceding month. It is enough to say that about eleven o’clock Mr. O’Leary was in the seventh heaven of conversational contentment, and in the ninth flagon of purl.
“Open it—let me see it. Come, Hal, divulge at once,” said he, kicking the carpet-bag that contained our manuscript. We undid the lock, and emptied our papers before him. His eyes sparkled as the heavy folds fell over each other on the table, his mouth twitched with a movement of convulsive pleasure. “Ring the bell, my lad,” said he; “the string is beside you. Send the master, Mary,” continued he, as the maiden entered.
Peter Mahoon soon made his appearance, rather startled at being summoned from his bed, and evidencing in his toilette somewhat more of zeal than dandyism.
“Is the house insured, Peter?” said Mr. O’Leary.
“No, sir,” rejoined he, with a searching look around the room, and a sniff of his nose, to discover if he could detect the smell of fire.
“What’s the premises worth, Peter?”
“Sorrow one of me knows right, sir. Maybe a hundred and fifty, or it might bring two hundred pounds.”
“All right,” said O’Leary briskly, as seizing my manuscript with both hands he hurled it on the blazing turf fire; and then grasping the poker, stood guard over it, exclaiming as he did so,—“Touch it, and by the beard of the Prophet I’ll brain you. Now, there it goes, blazing up the chimney. Look how it floats up there! I never expected to travel like that anyhow. Eh, Hal? Your work is a brilliant affair, isn’t it?—and as well puffed as if you entertained every newspaper editor in the kingdom? And see,” cried he, as he stamped his foot upon the blaze, “the whole edition is exhausted already—not a copy to be had for any money.”
We threw ourselves back in our chair, and covered our face with our hands. The toil of many a long night, of many a bright hour of sun and wind, was lost to us for ever, and we may be pardoned if our grief was heavy.
“Cheer up, old fellow,” said he, as the last flicker of the burning paper expired. “You know the thing was bad: it couldn’t be other. That d——d fly-away harum-scarum style of yours is no more adapted to a work of real merit, than a Will-o’-the-wisp would be for a light-house. Another jug, Peter—bring two. The truth is, Hal, I was not so averse to the publication of my life as to the infernal mess you’d have made of it. You have no pathos, no tenderness—damn the bit.”
“Come, come,” said we: “it is enough to burn our manuscript, but, really, as to playing the critic in this fashion——”
“Then,” continued he, “all that confounded folly you deal in, laughing at the priests—Lord bless you, man! they have more fun, those fellows, than you, and a score like you. There’s one Father Dolan here would tell two stories for your one; ay, better than ever you told.”
“We really have no ambition to enter the lists with your friend.”
“So much the better—you’d get the worst of it; and as to knowledge of character, see now, Peter Mahoon there would teach you human nature; and if I liked myself to appear in print—”
“Well,” said we, bursting out into a fit of laughter, “that would certainly be amusing.”
“And so it would, whether you jest or no. There’s in that drawer there, the materials of as fine a work as ever appeared since Sir John Carr’s Travels; and the style is a happy union of Goldsmith and Jean Paul—simple yet aphoristic—profound and pleasing—sparkling like the can before me, but pungent and racy in its bitterness. Hand me that oak box, Hal. Which is the key? At this hour one’s sight becomes always defective. Ah, here it is look there!”
We obeyed the command, and truly our amazement was great, though possibly not for the reason that Mr. O’Leary could have desired; for instead of anything like a regular manuscript, we beheld a mass of small scraps of paper, backs of letters, newspapers, magazines, fly-leaves of books, old prints, &c., scrawled on, in the most uncouth fashion; and purporting from the numbers appended to be a continued narration of one kind or other.
“What’s all this?” said we.
“These,” said he, “are really ‘The Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary.’ Listen to this. Here’s a bit of Goldsmith for you—
“‘I was born of poor but respectable parents in the county———.’ What are you laughing at? Is it because I did’nt open with—‘The sun was setting, on the 25th of June, in the year 1763, as two travellers were seen,’ &c., &c,? Eh? That’s your way, not mine. A London fellow told me that my papers were worth five hundred pounds. Come, that’s what I call something. Now I’ll go over to the ‘Row.’”
“Stop a bit. Here seems something strange about the King of Holland.”
“You mustn’t read them, though. No, no. That’ll never do—no, Hal; no plagiarism. But, after all, I have been a little hasty with you, Perhaps I ought not to have burned that thing; you were not to know it was bad.”
“Eh! how?”
“Why, I say, you might not see how absurd it was; so here’s your health, Hal: either that tankard has been drugged, or a strange change has come over my feelings. Harry Lorrequer, I’ll make your fortune, or rather your son’s, for you are a wasteful creature, and will spend the proceeds as fast as you get them; but the everlastingly-called-for new editions will keep him in cash all his life. I’ll give you that box and its contents; yes, I repeat it, it is yours. I see you are overpowered; there, taste the pewter and you’ll get better presently. In that you’ll find—a little irregular and carelessly-written perhaps—the sum of my experience and knowledge of life—all my correspondence, all my private notes, my opinions on literature, fine arts, politics, and the drama.”
But we will not follow our friend into the soaring realms of his imaginative flight, for it was quite evident that the tankard and the tobacco were alone responsible for the lofty promises of his production. In plain English, Mr. O’Leary was fuddled, and the only intelligible part of his discourse was, an assurance that his papers were entirely at our service; and that, as in some three weeks time, he hoped to be in Africa, having promised to spend the Christmas with Abd-el-Kader, we were left his sole literary executor, with full power to edit him in any shape it might please us, lopping, cutting, omitting—anything, even to adding, or interpolating.
Such were his last orders, and having given them, Mr. O’Leary refilled his pipe, closed his eyes, stretched out his legs to their fullest extent, and although he continued at long intervals to evolve a blue curl of smoke from the corner of his mouth, it was evident he was lost in the land of dreams.
In two hours afterwards we were on our way back to Dublin, bearing with us the oaken box, which, however, it is but justice to ourselves to say, we felt as a sad exchange for our own carefully-written manuscript. On reaching home, our first care was to examine these papers, and see if anything could be made of them, which might prove readable; unfortunately, however, the mass consisted of brief memoranda, setting forth how many miles Mr. O’Leary had walked on a certain day in the November of 1803, and how he had supped on camel’s milk with an amiable family of Bedouins, who had just robbed a caravan in the desert. His correspondence, was for the most part an angry one with washerwomen and hotel-keepers, and some rather curious hieroglyphic replies to dinner invitations from certain people of rank in the Sandwich Islands. Occasionally, however, we chanced on little bits of narrative, fragments of stories, some of which his fellow-travellers had contributed, and brief sketches of places and people that were rather amusing; but so disjointed, broken up, and unconnected were they all, it was almost impossible to give them anything like an arrangement, much less anything like consecutive interest.
All that lay in our power was to select from the whole, certain portions, which, from their length, promised more of care than the mere fragments about them, and present them to our readers with this brief notice of the mode in which we obtained them—our only excuse for a most irregular and unprecedented liberty in the practice of literature. With this apology for the incompleteness and abruptness of “the O’Leary Papers”—which happily we are enabled to make freely, as our friend Arthur has taken his departure—we offer them to our readers, only adding, that in proof of their genuine origin, the manuscript can be seen by any one so desiring it, on application to our publishers; while, for all their follies, faults, and inaccuracies, we desire to plead our irresponsibility, as freely, as we wish to attribute any favour the world may show them, to their real author: and with this last assurance, we beg to remain, your ever devoted and obedient servant,
ARTHUR O’LEARY.
CHAPTER I. THE “ATTWOOD.”
Old Woodcock says, that if Providence had not made him a Justice of the Peace, he’d have been a vagabond himself. No such kind interference prevailed in my case. I was a vagabond from my cradle. I never could be sent to school, alone, like other children—they always had to see me there safe, and fetch me back again. The rambling bump monopolized my whole head. I’m sure my god-father must have been the wandering Jew, or a king’s messenger. Here I am again, en route, and sorely puzzled to know whither? There’s the fellow for my trunk.
“What packet, sir?”
“Eh? What packet? The vessel at the Tower stairs?”
“Yes, sir; there are two with the steam up, the Rotterdam and the Hamburgh.”
“Which goes first?”
“Why, I think the Attwood, sir.”
“Well, then, shove aboard the Attwood. Where is she for?”
“She’s for Rotterdam.——He’s a queer cove too,” said the fellow under his teeth, as he moved out of the room, “and don’t seem to care where he goes.”
A capital lesson in life may be learned from the few moments preceding departure from an inn. The surly waiter that always said “coming” when he was leaving the room, and never came, now grown smiling and smirking; the landlord expressing a hope to see you again, while he watches your upthrown eyebrows at the exorbitancy of his bill: the boots attentively looking from your feet to your face, and back again; the housemaid passing and repassing a dozen times, on her way, no where, with a look half saucy, half shy; the landlord’s son, an abortion of two feet high, a kind of family chief remembrancer, that sits on a high stool in the bar, and always detects something you have had, that was not “put down in the bill”—two shillings for a cab, or a “brandy and water;” a curse upon them all; this poll-tax upon travellers is utter ruin; your bill, compared to its dependencies, is but Falstaffs “pennyworth of bread,” to all the score for sack.
Well, here I am at last. “Take care I say! you’ll upset us. Shove off, Bill; ship your oar,” splash, splash. “Bear a hand. What a noise, they make,” bang, crash, buzz; what a crowd of men in pilot coats and caps; women in plaid shawls and big reticules, band-boxes, bags, and babies, and what higgling for sixpences with the wherrymen.
All the places round the companion are taken by pale ladies in black silk, with a thin man in spectacles beside them; the deck is littered with luggage, and little groups seated thereon; some very strange young gentlemen with many-coloured waistcoats are going to Greenwich, and one as far as Margate; a widow and daughters, rather prettyish girls, for Herne Bay; a thin, bilious-looking man of about fifty, with four outside coats, and a bearskin round his legs, reading beside the wheel, occasionally taking a sly look at the new arrivals.—I’ve seen him before; he is the Secretary of Embassy at Constantinople; and here’s a jolly-looking, rosy-cheeked fellow, with a fat florid face, and two dashing-looking girls in black velvet. Eh! who’s this? Sir Peter, the steward calls him; a London Alderman going up the Rhine for two months—he’s got his courier, and a strong carriage, with the springs well corded for the pavé;—but they come too fast for counting: so now I’ll have a look after my berth.
Alas! the cabin has been crowded all the while by some fifty others, wrangling, scolding, laughing, joking, complaining, and threatening, and not a berth to be had.
“You’ve put me next the tiller,” said one; “I’m over the boiler,” screamed another.
“I have the pleasure of speaking to Sir Willoughby Steward,” said the captain, to a tall, gray-headed, soldier-like figure, with a closely-buttoned blue, frock. “Sir Willoughby, your berth is No. 8.”
“Eh! that’s the way they come it,” whispers a Cockney to his friend. “That ere chap gets a berth before us all.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says the baronet mildly, “I took mine three days ago.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean anything,” stammers out the other, and sneaks off.
“Laura-Mariar—where’s Laurar?” calls out a shrill voice from the aft-cabin.
“Here, Ma,” replies a pretty girl, who is arranging her ringlets at a glass, much to the satisfaction of a young fellow in a braided frock, that stands gazing at her in the mirror with something very like a smile on his lip.
There’s no mistaking that pair of dark-eyed fellows with aquiline noses and black ill-shaven beards—Hamburgh or Dutch Jews, dealers in smuggled lace, cigars, and Geneva watches, and occasionally small money-lenders. How they scan the company, as if calculating the profit they might turn them to! The very smile they wear seems to say, ‘Comment c’est doux de tromper les Chrétiens.’ But, holloa! there was a splash! we are moving, and the river is now more amusing than the passengers.
I should like to see the man that ever saw London from the Thames; or any part of it, save the big dome of St. Paul’s, the top of the Monument, or the gable of the great black wharf inscribed with “Hodson’s Pale Ale.” What a devil of a row they do make. I thought we were into that fellow. See, here’s a wherry actually under our bow; where is she now? are they all lost already? No! there they go bobbing up and down, and looking after us, as if asking, why we didn’t sail over them. Ay! there comes an Indiaman, and that little black slug that ‘s towing her up against the stream, is one of the Tug Company’s craft; and see how all the others at anchor keep tossing and pitching about, as we pass by, like an awkward room full of company, rising at each new arrival.
There’s Greenwich! a fine thing Greenwich. I like the old fellows that the first lord always makes stand in front, without legs or arms; a cheery sight: and there’s a hulk, or an hospital ship, or something of that kind.
“That’s the Hexcellent,” saith a shrill voice behind me.
“Ah! I know her, she’s a revenue cruizer.”
Lord, what liars are the Cockneys! The plot thickens every moment; here come little bright green and gold things, shooting past, like dragon-flies skimming the water, steaming down to Gravesend. What a mob of parasols cover the deck, and what kissing of hands and waving of handkerchiefs to anonymous acquaintances nowhere. More steamers—here’s the “Boulogne boat,” followed by the Ostender, and there, rounding the reach, comes the Ramsgate; and a white funnel, they say, is the Cork packet; and yonder, with her steam escaping, is the Edinburgh, her deck crowded with soldiers.
“Port—port it is—steady there—steady.”
“Do you dine, sir!” quoth the steward to the pale gentleman. A faint “Yes,” “And the ladies too?” A more audible “No.”
“I say, steward,” cries Sir Peter, “what’s the hour for dinner?”
“Four o’clock, sir, after we pass Gravesend.”
“Bring me some brandy and water and a biscuit, then.”
“Lud, Pa!”
“To be sure, dear, we shall be sick in the pool. They say there’s a head wind.”
How crowded they are on the fore-part of the vessel! six carriages and eight horses; the latter belong to a Dutch dealer, who, by-the-by, seems a shrewd fellow, who, well knowing the extreme sympathy between horses and asses, leaves the care of his, to some Cockneys, who come down every half hour to look after the tarpaulins, inspect the coverings, see the knee-caps safe, find ask if they want “‘ay;” and all this, that to some others on board, they may appear as sporting characters, well versed in turf affairs, and quite up to stable management.
When the life and animation of the crowded river is passed, how vexatious it is to hear for the thousandth time the dissertation’s on English habits, customs, and constitution, delivered by some ill-informed, underbred fellow or other, to some eager German—a Frenchman happily is too self-sufficient ever to listen—who greedily swallows the farrago of absurdity, which, according to the politics of his informant, represents the nation in a plethora of prosperity, or the last stage of inevitable ruin. I scarcely know which I detest the more: the insane toryism of the one, is about as sickening as the rabid radicalism of the other. The absurd misapprehensions foreigners entertain about us, are, in nine cases out of ten, communicated by our own people; and in this way, I have always remarked a far greater degree of ignorance about England and the English, to prevail among those who have passed some weeks in the country, than, among such, as had never visited our shores. With the former the Thames Tunnel is our national boast; raw beef and boxing our national predilections; the public sale of our wives a national practice.
“But what’s this? our paddles are backed. Anything wrong, steward?”
“No, sir, only another passenger coming aboard.” “How they pull, and there’s a stiff sea tunning too. A queer figure that is in the stern sheets; what a beard he has!”
I had just time for the observation, when a tall, athletic man, wrapped in a wide blue cloak, sprang on the deck—his eyes were shaded by large green spectacles and the broad brim of a very projecting hat; a black beard, a rabbi might have envied, descended from his chin, and hung down upon his bosom; he chucked a crown-piece to the boatman as he leaned over the bulwark, and then turning to the steward, called out—“Eh, Jem! all right?”
“Yes, sir, all right,” said the man, touching his hat respectfully! The tall figure immediately disappeared down the companion-ladder, leaving me in the most puzzling state of doubt as to what manner of man he could possibly be. Had the problem been more easy of solution I should scarcely have resolved it when he again emerged—but how changed! The broad beaver had given place to a blue cloth foraging cap with a gold band around it; the beard had disappeared totally, and left no successor save a well-rounded chin; the spectacles also had vanished, and a pair of sharp, intelligent, grey eyes, with a most uncommon degree of knowingness in their expression, shone forth; and a thin and most accurately-curled moustache graced his upper lip and gave a character of Vandykism to his features, which were really handsome. In person he was some six feet two, gracefully but strongly built; his costume, without anything approaching conceit, was the perfection of fashionable attire—even to his gloves there was nothing which D’Orsay could have criticised; while his walk was the very type of that mode of progression which is only learned thoroughly by a daily stroll down St. James Street, and the frequent practice of passing to and from Crockford’s, at all hours of the day and night.
The expression of his features was something so striking, I cannot help noting it: there was a jauntiness, an ease, no smirking, half-bred, self-satisfied look, such as a London linendraper might wear on his trip to Margate; but a consummate sense of his own personal attractions and great natural advantages, had given a character to his features which seemed to say—it’s quite clear there’s no coming up to me; don’t try it—nascitur non fit. His very voice implied it. The veriest commonplace fell from him with a look, a smile, a gesture, a something or other that made it tell; and men repeated his sayings without knowing, that his was a liquor, that was lost in decanting. The way he scanned the passengers, and it was done in a second, was the practised observance of one, who reads character at a glance. Over the Cockneys, and they were numerous, his eyes merely passed without bestowing any portion of attention; while to the lady part of the company his look was one of triumphant satisfaction, such as Louis XIV. might have bestowed when he gazed at the thousands in the garden of Versailles, and exclaimed, “Oui! ces sont mes sujets.” Such was the Honourable Jack Smallbranes, younger son of a peer, ex-captain in the Life Guards, winner of the Derby, but now the cleared-out man of fashion flying to the Continent to escape from the Fleet, and cautiously coming aboard in disguise below Gravesend, to escape the bore of a bailiff, and what he called the horror of bills “detested.”
We read a great deal about Cincinnatus cultivating his cabbages, and we hear of Washington’s retirement when the active period of his career had passed over, and a hundred similar instances are quoted for our admiration, of men, who could throw themselves at once from all the whirlwind excitement of great events, and seek, in the humblest and least obtrusive position, an occupation and an enjoyment. But I doubt very much if your ex-man of fashion, your ci-devant winner of the Derby—the adored of Almack’s—the enfant chéri of Crockford’s and the Clarendon, whose equipage was a model, whose plate was perfection, for whom life seemed too short for all the fascinations wealth spread around him, and each day brought the one embarrassment how to enjoy enough. I repeat it, I doubt much if he, when the hour of his abdication arrives—and that it will arrive sooner or later not even himself entertains a doubt—when Holditch protests, and Bevan proceeds; when steeds are sold at Tattersall’s, and pictures at Christie’s; when the hounds pass over to the next new victim, and the favourite for the St. Léger, backed with mighty odds, is now entered under another name; when in lieu of the bright eyes and honied words that make life a fairy tale, his genii are black-whiskered bailiffs and auctioneers’ appraisers—if he, when the tide of fortune sets in so strong against him, can not only sustain himself for a while against it, and when too powerful at last, can lie upon the current and float as gaily down, as ever he did joyously, up, the stream—then, say I, all your ancient and modern instances are far below him: all your warriors and statesmen are but poor pretenders compared to him, they have retired like rich shopkeepers, to live on the interest of their fortune, which is fame; while he, deprived of all the accessories which gave him rank, place, and power, must seek within his own resources for all the future springs of his pleasure, and be satisfied to stand spectator of the game, where he was once the principal player. A most admirable specimen of this philosophy was presented by our new passenger, who, as he lounged against the binnacle, and took a deliberate survey of his fellow-travellers, seemed the very ideal of unbroken ease and undisturbed enjoyment: he knew he was ruined; he knew he had neither house in town, or country; neither a steed, nor a yacht, nor a preserve; he was fully aware, that Storr and Mortimer, who would have given him a mountain of silver but yesterday, would not trust him with a mustard-pot today; that even the “legs” would laugh at him if he offered the odds on the Derby; and yet if you were bound on oath to select the happiest fellow on board, by the testimony of your eyes, the choice would not have taken you five minutes. His attitude was ease itself: his legs slightly crossed, perhaps the better to exhibit a very well-rounded instep, which shone forth in all the splendour of French varnish: his travelling cap jauntily thrown on one side, so as to display to better advantage his perfumed locks, that floated in a graceful manner somewhat lengthily on his neck; the shawl around his neck had so much of negligence, as to show that the splendid enamel pin that fastened it, was a thing of little moment to the wearer: all were in keeping with the nonchalant ease, and self-satisfaction of his look, as with half-drooping lids he surveyed the deck, caressing with his jewelled fingers the silky line of his moustache, and evidently enjoying in his inmost soul the triumphant scene of conquest his very appearance excited. Indeed, a less practised observer than himself could not fail to remark the unequivocal evidences the lady portion of the community bore to his success: the old ones looked boldly at him with that fearless intrepidity that characterizes conscious security—their property was insured, and they cared not how near the fire came to them; the very young participated in the sentiment from an opposite reason—theirs was the unconsciousness of danger; but there was a middle term, what Balzac calls, “la femme de trente ans,” and she either looked over the bulwarks, or at the funnel, or on her book, any where in short but at our friend, who appeared to watch this studied denial on her part, with the same kind of enjoyment the captain of a frigate would contemplate the destruction his broadsides were making on his enemy’s rigging—and perhaps the latter never deemed his conquest more assured by the hauling down of he enemy’s colours, than did the “Honourable Jack,” when a letdown veil convinced him that the lady could bear no more.
I should like to have watched the proceedings on deck, where, although no acquaintance had yet been formed, the indications of such were clearly visible: the Alderman’s daughters evincing a decided preference for walking on that side where Jack was standing, he studiously performing some small act of courtesy from time to time as they passed, removing a seat, kicking any small fragment of rope, &c.; but the motion of the packet began to advertize me that note-taking was at an end, and the best thing I could do would be to compose myself.
“What’s the number, sir?” said the steward, as I staggered down the companion.
“I have got no berth,” said I mournfully.
“A dark horse, not placed,” said the Honourable Jack, smiling pleasantly as he looked after me, while I threw myself on a sofa, and cursed the sea.
CHAPTER II. THE BOAR’S HEAD AT ROTTERDAM.
If the noise and bustle which attend a wedding, like trumpets in a battle, are intended as provisions against reflection, so firmly do I feel, the tortures of sea-sickness, are meant as antagonists to all the terrors of drowning, and all the horrors of shipwreck.
Let him who has felt the agonies of that internal earthquake which the “pitch and toss” motion of a ship communicates—who knows what it is, to have his diaphragm vibrating between his ribs and the back of his throat, confess, how little to him was all the confusion which he listened to, over head! how poor the interest he took in the welfare of the craft wherein he was “only a lodger,” and how narrowed were all his sympathies within the small circle of bottled porter, and brandy and water, the steward’s infallibles in suffering.
I lay in my narrow crib, moody pondering over these things, now wondering within myself, what charms of travel could recompense such agonies as these; now muttering a curse, “not loud, but deep,” on the heavy gentleman, whose ponderous tread on the quarter-deck seemed to promenade up and down the surface of my own pericranium: the greasy steward, the jolly captain, the brown-faced, black-whiskered king’s messenger, who snored away on the sofa, all came in for a share of my maledictions, and took out my cares, in curses upon the whole party. Meanwhile I could distinguish, amid the other sounds, the elastic tread of certain light feet that pattered upon the quarter-deck; and I could not mistake the assured footstep which accompanied them, nor did I need the happy roar of laughter that mixed with the noise, to satisfy myself that the “Honourable Jack” was then cultivating the Alderman’s daughters, discoursing most eloquently upon the fascinations of those exclusive circles wherein he was wont to move, and explaining, on the clearest principles, what a frightful chasm his absence must create in the London world—how deplorably flat would the season go off, where he was no actor—and wondering, who, among the aspirants of high ambition, would venture to assume his line of character, and supply his place, either on the turf, or at the table.
But at length the stage of semi-stupor came over me; the noises became commixed in my head, and I lost all consciousness so completely, that, whether from brandy or sickness, I fancied I saw the steward flirting with the ladies, and the “Honourable Jack” skipping about with a white apron, uncorking porter bottles, and changing sixpences.
***** *****
The same effect which the announcement of dinner produces on the stiff party in the drawing-room, is caused by the information of being alongside the quay, to the passengers of a packet. It is true the procession is not so formal in the latter as in the former case: the turbaned dowagers that take the lead in one, would, more than probably, be last in the other: but what is lost in decorum, is more than made up in hilarity. What hunting for carpet-bags! what opening and shutting of lockers! what researches into portmanteaus, to extricate certain seizable commodities, and stow them away upon the person of the owner, till at last he becomes an impersonation of smuggling, with lace in his boots, silk stockings in his hat, brandy under his waistcoat, and jewelry in the folds of his cravat. There is not an item in the tariff that might not be demonstrated in his anatomy: from his shoes to his night-cap, he is a living sarcasm upon the revenue. And, after all, what is the searching scrutiny of your Quarterly Reviewer, to the all-penetrating eye of an excise officer? He seems to look into the whole contents, of your wardrobe before you have unlocked the trunk “warranted solid leather,” and with a glance appears to distinguish the true man from the knave, knowing, as if by intuition, the precise number of cambric handkerchiefs that befits your condition in life, and whether you have transgressed the bounds of your station, by a single bottle.
What admirable training for a novelist would a year or two spent in such duties afford; what singular views of life; what strange people must he see; how much of narrative would even the narrow limits of a hat-box present to him; and how naturally would a story spring from the rosy-cheeked old gentleman, paying his duty upon a “pâté de fois-gras” to his pretty daughter, endeavouring, by a smile, to diminish the tariff on her French bonnet, and actually captivate a custom-house officer by the charms of her “robe a la Victorine.”
The French “douaniers,” are droll fellows, and are the only ones I have ever met who descend from the important gravity of their profession, and venture upon a joke. I shall never forget entering Valenciennes late one night, with a large “Diligence” party, among which was a corpulent countryman of my own, making his first continental tour. It was in those days when a passport presented a written portrait of the bearer; when the shape of your nose, the colour of your hair, the cut of your beard, and the angle of incidence of your eyebrow, were all noted down and commented on, and a general summing up of the expression of your features, collectively, appended to the whole; and you went forth to the-world with an air “mild,” or “military;” “feeble,” “fascinating,” or “ferocious,” exactly as the foreign office deemed it. It was in those days, I say, when, on entering the fortress of Valenciennes, the door of the “Diligence” was rudely thrown open, and, by the dim nicker of a lamp, we beheld a moustached, stern-looking fellow, who rudely demanded our passports. My fat companion, suddenly awakened from his sleep, searched his various pockets with all the trepidation of a new traveller, and at length, produced his credentials, which he handed, with a polite bow, to the official. Whatever the nature of the description I cannot say, but it certainly produced the most striking effect on the passport officers, who laughed loud and long as they read it over.
“Descendez, Monsieur” said the chief of the party, in a tone of stern command.
“What does he say?” said the traveller, in a very decided western accent.
“You must get out, sir” said he.
“Tare-an-ages,” said Mr. Moriarty, “what’s wrong?”
After considerable squeezing, for he weighed about twenty stone, he disengaged himself from the body of the “Diligence,” and stood erect upon the ground. A second lantern was now produced, and while one of the officers stood on either side of him, with a light beside his face, a third read out the clauses of the passport, and compared the description with the original. Happily, Mr. Moriarty’s ignorance of French saved him from the penalty of listening to the comments which were passed upon his “nez retroussé” “bouche ouverte” &c.; but what was his surprise when, producing some yards of tape, they proceeded to measure him round the body, comparing the number of inches his circumference made, with the passport.
“Quatre-vingt-dix pouces,” said the measurer, looking at the document, “Il en a plus,” added he, rudely.
“What is he saying, sir, if I might be so bowld?” said Mr. Moriarty to me, imploringly.
“You measure more than is set down in your passport,” said I, endeavouring to suppress my laughter.
“Oh, murther! that dish of boiled beef and beet-root will be the ruin of me. Tell them, sir, I was like a greyhound before supper.”
As he said this, he held in his breath, and endeavoured, with all his might, to diminish his size; while the Frenchmen, as if anxious to strain a point in his favour, tightened the cord round him, till he almost became black in the face.
“C’est ça” said one of the officers, smiling blandly as he took off his hat; “Monsieur peut continuer sa route.”
“All right,” said I, “you may come in, Mr. Moriarty.”
“‘Tis civil people I always heard they wor,” said he; “but it’s a sthrange country where it’s against the laws to grow fatter.”
I like Holland;—it is the antipodes of France. No one is ever in a hurry here. Life moves on in a slow majestic stream, a little muddy and stagnant, perhaps, like one of their own canals, but you see no waves, no breakers—not an eddy, nor even a froth-bubble breaks the surface. Even a Dutch child, as he steals along to school, smoking his short pipe, has a mock air of thought about him. The great fat horses, that wag along, trailing behind them some petty, insignificant truck, loaded with a little cask, not bigger than a life-guardsman’s helmet, look as though Erasmus was performing duty as a quadruped, and walking about his own native city in harness. It must be a glorious country to be born in. No one is ever in a passion; and as to honesty, who has energy enough to turn robber? The eloquence, which in other lands might wind a man from his allegiance, would be tried in vain here. Ten minutes’ talking would set any audience asleep, from Zetland to Antwerp. Smoking, beer-drinking, stupifying, and domino-playing, go on, in summer, before, in winter, within, the cafés, and every broad flat face that you look upon, with its watery eyes and muddy complexion, seems like a coloured chart of the country that gave it birth.
How all the industry, that has enriched them, is ever performed—how all the cleanliness, for which their houses are conspicuous, is ever effected, no one can tell. Who ever saw a Dutchman labour? Every thing in Holland seems typified by one of their own drawbridges, which rises as a boat approaches, by invisible agency, and then remains patiently aloft, till a sufficiency of passengers arrives to restore it to its place, and Dutch gravity seems the grand centre of all prosperity.
When, therefore, my fellow-passengers stormed and swore because they were not permitted to land their luggage; when they heard that until nine o’clock the following morning, no one would be astir to examine it; and that the Rhine steamer sailed at eight, and would not sail again for three days more, and cursed the louder thereat; I chuckled to myself that I was going no where, that I cared not how long I waited, nor where, and began to believe that something of very exalted philosophy must have been infused into my nature without my ever being aware of it.
For twenty minutes and more, Sir Peter abused the Dutch; he called them hard names in English, and some very strong epithets in bad French. Meanwhile, his courier busied himself in preparations for departure, and the “Honourable Jack” undertook to shawl the young ladies, a performance which, whether from the darkness of the night, or the intricacy of the muffling, took a most unmerciful time to accomplish.
“We shall never find the hotel at this hour,” said Sir Peter, angrily.
“The house will certainly be closed,” chimed in the young ladies.
“Take your five to two on the double event,” replied Jack, slapping the Alderman on the shoulder, and preparing to book the wager.
I did not wait to see it accepted, but stepped over the side, and trudged along the “Boomjes,” that long quay, with its tall elm trees, under whose shade many a burgomaster has strolled at eve, musing over the profits which his last venture from Batavia was to realize; and then, having crossed the narrow bridge at the end, I traversed the Erasmus Plata, and rang boldly, as an old acquaintance has a right to do, at the closed door of the “Schwein Kopf.” My summons was not long unanswered, and following the many-petticoated handmaiden along the well-sanded passage, I asked, “Is the Holbein chamber unoccupied?” while I drew forth a florin from my purse.
“Ah, Mynheer knows it then,” said she, smiling. “It is at your service. We have had no travellers for some days past, and you are aware, that, except greatly crowded, we never open it.”
This I knew well, and having assured her that I was an habitué of the Schwein Kopf, in times long past, I persuaded her to fetch some dry wood and make me a cheerful fire, which, with a “krug of schiedam” and some “canastre,” made me as happy as a king.
The “Holbeiner Kammer” owes its name, and any repute that it enjoys, to a strange, quaint portrait, of that master seated at a fire, with a fair headed, handsome child, sitting cross-legged on the hearth before him. A certain half resemblance seems to run through both faces, although the age and colouring are so different. But the same contemplative expression, the deep-set eye, the massive forehead and pointed chin, are to be seen in the child, as in the man.
This was Holbein and his nephew, Franz von Holbein, who in after years served with distinction in the army of Louis Quatorze. The background of the picture represents a room exactly like the chamber—a few highly-carved oak chairs, the Utrecht velvet-backs glowing with their scarlet brilliancy, an old-fashioned Flemish bed, with groups of angels, neptunes, bacchanals, and dolphins, all mixed up confusedly in quaint carving; and a massive frame to a very small looking-glass, which hung in a leaning attitude over the fire-place, and made me think, as I gazed at it, that the plane of the room was on an angle of sixty-five, and that the least shove would send me clean into the stove.
“Mynheer wants nothing?” said the Vrow with a courtsy.
“Nothing,” said I, with my most polite bow.
“Good night, then,” said she; “schlaf wohl, and don’t mind the ghost.”
“Ah, I know him of old,” replied I, striking the table three times with my cane. The woman, whose voice the moment before was in a tone of jest, suddenly grew pale, and, as she crossed herself devoutly, muttered—“Nein! Nein! don’t do that;” and shutting the door, hurried down stairs with all the speed she could muster.
I was in no hurry to bed, however. The “krug” was racy, the “canastre” excellent: so, placing the light where it should fall with good effect on the Holbein, I stretched out my legs to the blaze; and, as I looked upon the canvas, began to muse over the story with which it was associated, and which I may as well jot down here, for memory’s sake.
Frank Holbein, having more ambition and less industry than the rest of his family, resolved to seek his fortune; and early in the September of the year 1681, he found himself wandering in the streets of Paris, without a liard in his pocket, or any prospects of earning one. He was a fine-looking, handsome youth, of some eighteen or twenty years, with a sharp, piercing look, and that Spanish cast of face for which so many Dutch families are remarkable. He sat down, weary and hungry, on one of the benches of the Pont de la Cité, and looked about him wistfully, to see what piece of fortune might come to his succour. A loud shout, and the noise of people flying in every direction, attracted him. He jumped up, and saw persons running hither and thither to escape from a calèche, which a pair of runaway horses were tearing along at a frightful rate. Frank blessed himself, threw off his cloak, pressed his cap firmly upon his brow, and dashed forward. The affrighted animals slackened their speed as he stood before them, and endeavoured to pass by; but he sprang to their heads, and with one vigorous plunge, grasped the bridle; but though he held on manfully, they continued their way; and, notwithstanding his every effort, their mad speed scarcely felt his weight, as he was dragged along beside them. With one tremendous effort, however, he wrested the near horse’s head from the pole, and, thus compelling him to cross his fore-legs, the animal tripped, and came headlong to the ground with a smash, that sent poor Frank spinning some twenty yards before them. Frank soon got up again; and though his forehead was bleeding, and his hand severely cut, his greatest grief was, his torn doublet, which, threadbare before, now hung around him in ribbons.
“It was you who stopped them?—are you hurt?” said a tall, handsome man, plainly but well dressed, and in whose face the trace of agitation was clearly marked.
“Yes, sir,” said Frank, bowing respectfully. “I did it; and see how my poor doublet has suffered!”
“Nothing worse than that?” said the other, smiling blandly. “Well, well, that is not of so much moment. Take this,” said he, handing him his purse; “buy yourself a new doublet, and wait on me to-morrow by eleven.”
With these words the stranger disappeared in a calèche, which seemed to arrive at the moment, leaving Frank in a state of wonderment at the whole adventure.
“How droll he should never have told me where he lives!” said he, aloud, as the bystanders crowded about him, and showered questions upon him.
“It is Monsieur le Ministre, man—M. de Louvois himself, whose life you’ve saved. Your fortune is made for ever.”
The speech was a true one. Before three months from that eventful day, M. de Louvois, who had observed and noted down certain traits of acuteness in Frank’s character, sent for him to his bureau.
“Holbein,” said he, “I have seldom been deceived in my opinion of men—you can be secret, I think.”
Frank placed his hand upon his breast, and bowed in silence.
“Take the dress you will find on that chair: a carriage is now ready, waiting in the court-yard—get into it, and set out for Bâle. On your arrival there, which will be—mark me well—about eight o’clock on the morning of Thursday, you’ll leave the carriage, and send it into the town, while you must station yourself on the bridge over the Rhine, and take an exact note of everything that occurs, and every one that passes, till the cathedral clock strikes three. Then, the calèche will be in readiness for your return; and lose not a moment in repairing to Paris.”
It was an hour beyond midnight, in the early part of the following week, that a calèche, travel-stained and dirty, drove into the court of the minister’s hotel, and five minutes after, Frank, wearied and exhausted, was ushered into M. de Louvois’ presence.
“Well, Monsieur,” said he impatiently, “what have you seen?”
“This, may it please your Excellency,” said Frank, trembling, “is a note of it; but I am ashamed that so trivial an account——”
“Let us see—let us see,” said the minister.
“In good truth, I dare scarcely venture to read such a puerile detail.”
“Read it at once, Monsieur,” was the stern command.
Frank’s face became deep-red with shame, as he began thus:—
“Nine o’clock.—I see an ass coming along, with a child leading him. The ass is blind of one eye.—A fat German sits on the balcony, and is spitting into the Rhine——”
“Ten.—A livery servant from Bâle rides by, with a basket. An old peasant in a yellow doublet——”
“Ah, what of him?
“Nothing remarkable, save that he leans over the rails, and strikes three blows with his stick upon them.
“Enough, enough,” said M. de Louvois, gaily. “I must awake the king at once.”
The minister disappeared, leaving Frank in a state of bewilderment. In less than a quarter of an hour he entered the chamber, his face covered with smiles.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you have rendered his majesty good service. Here is your brevet of colonel.—The king has this instant signed it.”
In eight days after, was the news known in Paris, that Strasburg, then invested by the French army, had capitulated, and been reunited to the kingdom. The three strokes of the cane being the signal, which announced the success of the secret negotiation between the ministers of Louis XIV., and the magistrates of Strasburg.
This, was the Franz Holbein of the picture, and if the three coups de bâton are not attributable to his ghost, I can only say, I am totally at a loss to say where they should be charged; for my own part, I ought to add, I never heard them, conduct which I take it was the more ungracious on the ghost’s part, as I finished the schiedam, and passed my night on the hearth rug, leaving the feather-bed with its down coverlet quite at master Frank’s disposal.
Although the “Schwein Kopf” stands in one of the most prominent squares of Rotterdam, and nearly opposite the statue of Erasmus, it is comparatively little known to English travellers. The fashionable hotels which are near the quay of landing, anticipate the claims of this more primitive house; and yet, to any one desirous of observing the ordinary routine of a Dutch family, it is well worth a visit. The buxsom Vrows who trudge about with short but voluminous petticoats, their heads ornamented by those gold or silver circlets, which no Dutch peasant seems ever to want, are exactly the very types of what you see in an Ostade or a Teniers. The very host himself, old Hoogendorp, is a study; scarcely five feet in height, he might measure nearly nine, in circumference, and in case of emergency could be used as a sluicegate, should any thing happen to the dykes. He was never to be seen before one o’clock in the day, but exactly as the clock tolled that hour, the massive soup-tureen, announcing the commencement of the table d’hôte, was borne in state before him, while with “solemn step and slow,” ladle in hand, and napkin round his neck, he followed after. His conduct at table was a fine specimen of Dutch independence of character—he never thought of bestowing those petty attentions which might cultivate the good-will of his guests; he spoke little, he smiled never; a short nod of recognition bestowed upon a townsman, was about the extent of royal favour he was ever known to confer; or occasionally, when any remark made near him seemed to excite his approbation, a significant grunt of approval ratified the wisdom of the speech, and made a Solon of the speaker. His spoon descended into the soup, and emerged therefrom with the ponderous regularity of a crane into the hold of a ship. Every function of the table was performed with an unbroken monotony, and never, in the course of his forty years’ sovereignty, was he known to distribute an undue quantity of fat, or an unseemly proportion of beet-root sauce, to any one guest in preference to another.
The table d’hôte, which began at one, concluded a little before three, during which time our host, when not helping others, was busily occupied in helping himself, and it was truly amazing to witness the steady perseverance with which he waded through every dish, making himself master in all its details of every portion of the dinner, from the greasy soup, to that acmé of Dutch epicurism—Utrecht cheese. About a quarter before three, the long dinner drew to its conclusion. Many of the guests, indeed, had disappeared long before that time, and were deep in all their wonted occupations of timber, tobacco, and train-oil. A few, however, lingered on to the last. A burly major of infantry, who, unbuttoning his undress frock, towards the close of the feast, would sit smoking, and sipping his coffee, as if unwilling to desert the field; a grave, long-haired professor; and, perhaps, an officer of the excise, waiting for the re-opening of the custom-house, would be the extent of the company. But even these dropped off at last, and, with a deep bow to mine host, passed away to their homes, or their haunts. Meanwhile, the waiters hurried hither and thither, the cloth was removed, in its place a fresh one was spread, and all the preliminaries for a new dinner were set about with the same activity as before. The napkins inclosed in their little horn cases, the decanters of beer, the small dishes of preserved fruit, without which no Dutchman dines, were all set forth, and the host, without stirring from his seat, sat watching the preparations with calm complacency. Were you to note him narrowly, you could perceive that his eyes alternately opened and shut, as if relieving guard, save which, he gave no other sign of life, nor even at last, when the mighty stroke of three rang out from the cathedral, and the hurrying sound of many feet proclaimed the arrival of the guests of the second table, did he ever exhibit the slightest show or mark of attention, but sat calm, and still, and motionless.
For the next two hours, it was merely a repetition of the performance which preceded it, in which the host’s part was played with untiring energy, and all the items of soup, fish, bouilli, fowl, pork, and vegetables, had not to complain of any inattention to their merits, or any undue preference for their predecessors, of an hour before. If the traveller was astonished at his appetite during the first table, what would he say to his feats at the second? As for myself, I honestly confess I thought that some harlequin trick was concerned, and that mine host of the “Schwein Kopf” was not a real man, but some mechanical contrivance by which, with a trapdoor below him, a certain portion of the dinner was conveyed to the apartments beneath. I lived, however, to discover my error; and after four visits to Rotterdam, was at length so far distinguished as actually to receive an invitation to pass an evening with “Mynheer” in his own private den, which, I need scarcely say, I gladly accepted.
I have a note of that evening some where—ay, here it is—“Mynheer is waiting supper,” said a waiter to me, as I sat smoking my cigar, one calm evening in autumn, in the porch of the “Schwein Kopf.” I followed the man through a long passage, which, leading to the kitchen, emerged on the opposite side, and conducted us through a little garden to a small summer-house. The building, which was of wood, was painted in gaudy stripes of red, blue, and yellow, and made in some sort to resemble those Chinese pagodas, we see upon a saucer. Its situation was conceived in the most perfect Dutch taste—one side, flanked by the little garden of which I have spoken, displayed a rich bed of tulips and ranunculuses, in all the gorgeous luxuriance of perfect culture—it was a mass of blended beauty, and perfume, superior to any thing I have ever witnessed. On the other flank, lay the sluggish, green-coated surface, of a Dutch canal, from which rose the noxious vapours of a hot evening, and the harsh croakings of ten thousand frogs, “fat, gorbellied knaves,” the very burgomasters of their race, who squatted along the banks, and who, except for the want of pipes, might have been mistaken for small Dutchmen enjoying an evening’s promenade. This building was denominated “Lust und Rust,” which, in letters of gold, was displayed on something resembling a sign-board, above the door, and intimated to the traveller, that the temple was dedicated to pleasure, and contentment. To a Dutchman, however, the sight of the portly figure, who sat smoking at the open window, was a far more intelligible illustration of the objects of the building, than any lettered inscription. Mynheer Hoogendorp, with his long Dutch pipe, and tall flagon, with its shining brass lid, looked the concentrated essence of a Hollander, and might have been hung out, as a sign of the country, from the steeple of Haarlem.
The interior was in perfect keeping with the designation of the building: every appliance that could suggest ease, if not sleep, was there; the chairs were deep, plethoric-looking, Dutch chairs, that seemed as if they had led a sedentary life, and throve upon it; the table was a short, thick-legged one, of dark oak, whose polished surface reflected the tall brass cups, and the ample features of Mynheer, and seemed to hob-nob with him when he lifted the capacious vessel to his lips; the walls were decorated with quaint pipes, whose large porcelain bowls bespoke them of home origin; and here and there a sea-fight, with a Dutch three-decker hurling destruction on the enemy. But the genius of the place was its owner, who, in a low fur cap and slippers, whose shape and size might have drawn tears of envy from the Ballast Board, sat gazing upon the canal in a state of Dutch rapture, very like apoplexy. He motioned me to a chair without speaking—he directed me to a pipe, by a long whiff of smoke from his own—he grunted out a welcome, and then, as if overcome by such unaccustomed exertion, he lay back in his chair, and sighed deeply.
We smoked till the sun went down, and a thicker haze, rising from the stagnant ditch, joined with the tobacco vapour, made an atmosphere, like mud reduced to gas. Through the mist, I saw a vision of soup tureens, hot meat, and smoking vegetables. I beheld as though Mynheer moved among the condiments, and I have a faint dreamy recollection of his performing some feat before me; but whether it was carving, or the sword exercise, I won’t be positive.
Now, though the schiedam was strong, a spell was upon me, and I could not speak; the great green eyes that glared on me through the haze, seemed to chill my very soul; and I drank, out of desperation, the deeper.
As the evening wore on, I waxed bolder: I had looked upon the Dutchman so long, that my awe of him began to subside, and I at last grew bold enough to address him.
I remember well, it was pretty much with that kind of energy, that semi-desperation, with which a man nerves himself to accost a spectre, that I ventured on addressing him: how or in what terms I did it, heaven knows! Some trite every-day observation about his great knowledge of life—his wonderful experience of the world, was all I could muster; and when I had made it, the sound of my own voice terrified me so much, that I finished the can at a draught, to reanimate my courage.
“Ja! Ja!” said Van Hoogendorp, in a cadence as solemn as the bell of the cathedral; “I have seen many strange things; I remember what few men living can remember: I mind well the time when the ‘Hollandische Vrow’ made her first voyage from Batavia, and brought back a paroquet for the burgomaster’s wife; the great trees upon the Boomjes were but saplings when I was a boy; they were not thicker than my waist;” here he looked down upon himself with as much complacency as though he were a sylph. “Ach Gott! they were brave times, schiedam cost only half a guilder the krug.”
I waited in hopes he would continue, but the glorious retrospect he had evoked, seemed to occupy all his thoughts, and he smoked away without ceasing.
“You remember the Austrians, then?” said I, by way of drawing him on.
“They were dogs!” said he, spitting out.
“Ah!” said I, “the French were better then?”
“Wolves!” ejaculated he, after glowing on me fearfully.
There was a long pause after this; I perceived that I had taken a wrong path to lead him into conversation, and he was too deeply overcome with indignation to speak. During this time, however, his anger took a thirsty form, and he swigged away at the schiedam most manfully.
The effect of his libations became at last evident, his great green stagnant eyes flashed and flared, his wide nostrils swelled and contracted, and his breathing became short and thick, like the convulsive sobs of a steam-engine when they open and shut the valves alternately; I watched these indications for some time, wondering what they might portend, when at length he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and with such a tone of voice as he might have used, if confessing a bloody and atrocious murder, he said—
“I will tell you a story.”
Had the great stone figure of Erasmus beckoned to me across the marketplace, and asked me the news “on change,” I could not have been more amazed; and not venturing on the slightest interruption, I refilled my pipe, and nodded sententiously across the table, while he thus began.
CHAPTER III. VAN HOOGENDORP’S TALE.
It was in the winter of the year 1806, the first week of December, the frost was setting in, and I resolved to pay a visit to my brother, whom I hadn’t seen for forty years; he was burgomaster of Antwerp. It is a long voyage and a perilous one, but with the protection of Providence, our provisions held out, and on the fourth night after we sailed, a violent shock shook the vessel from stem to stern, and we found ourselves against the quay of Antwerp.
When I reached my brother’s house I found him in bed, sick; the doctors said it was a dropsy, I don’t know how that might be, for he drank more gin than any man in Holland, and hated water all his life. We were twins, but no one would have thought so, I looked so thin and meagre beside him.
Well, since I was there, I resolved to see the sights of the town; and the next morning, after breakfast, I set out by myself, and wandered about till evening. Now there were many things to be seen—very strange things too; the noise, and the din, and the bustle, addled and confused me; the people were running here and there, shouting as if they were mad, and there were great flags hanging out of the windows, and drums beating, and, stranger than all, I saw little soldiers with red breeches and red shoulder-knots, running about like monkeys.
“What is all this?” said I to a man near me.
“Methinks,” said he, “the burgomaster himself might well know what it is.”
“I am not the burgomaster,” quoth I, “I am his brother, and only came from Rotterdam yesterday.”
“Ah! then,” said another, with a strange grin, “you didn’t know these preparations were meant to welcome your arrival.”
“No,” said I; “but they are very fine, and if there were not so much noise, I would like them well.”
And so, I sauntered on till I came to the great Platz, opposite the cathedral—that was a fine place—and there was a large man carved in cheese over one door, very wonderful to see; and there was a big fish, all gilt, where they sold herrings; but, in the town-hall there seemed something more than usual going on, for great crowds were there, and dragoons were galloping in and galloping out, and all was confusion.
“What’s this?” said I. “Are the dykes open?”
But not one would mind me; and then suddenly I heard some one call out my name.
“Where is Van Hoogendorp?” said one; and then another cried, “Where is Van Hoogendorp?”
“Here am I,” said I; and the same moment two officers, covered with gold lace, came through the crowd, and took me by the arms.
“Come along with us, Monsieur de Hoogendorp,” said they, in French; “there is not a moment to lose; we have been looking for you every where.”
Now, though I understand that tongue, I cannot speak it myself, so I only said “Ja, Ja,” and followed them.
They led me up an oak stair, and through three or four large rooms, crowded with officers in fine uniforms, who all bowed as I passed, and some one went before us, calling out in a loud voice, “Monsieur de Hoogendorp!”
“This is too much honour,” said I, “far too much;” but as I spoke in Dutch, no one minded me. Suddenly, however, the wide folding-doors were flung open, and we were ushered into a large hall, where, although above a hundred people were assembled, you might have heard a pin drop; the few who spoke at all, did so, only in whispers.
“Monsieur de Hoogendorp!” shouted the man again.
“For shame,” said I; “don’t disturb the company;” and I thought some of them laughed, but he only bawled the louder, “Monsieur de Hoogendorp!”
“Let him approach,” said a quick, sharp voice, from the fireplace.
“Ah!” thought I, “they are going to read me an address. I trust it may be in Dutch.”
They led me along in silence to the fire, before which, with his back turned towards it, stood a short man, with a sallow, stern countenance, and a great, broad forehead, his hair combed straight over it. He wore a green coat with white facings, and over that a grey surtout with fur. I am particular about all this, because this little man was a person of consequence.
“You are late, Monsieur de Hoogendorp,” said he, in French; “it is half-past four;” and so saying, he pulled out his watch, and held it up before me.
“Ja!” said I, taking out my own, “we are just the same time.”
At this he stamped upon the ground, and said something I thought was a curse.
“Where are the Echevins, monsieur?” said he.
“God knows,” said I; “most probably at dinner.”
“Ventrebleu!——”
“Don’t swear,” said I. “If I had you in Rotterdam, I’d fine you two guilders.”
“What does he say?” while his eyes flashed fire. “Tell La grande morue, to speak French.”
“Tell him I am not a cod fish,” said I.
“Who speaks Dutch here?” said he. “General de Ritter, ask him where are the Echevins, or, is the man a fool?”
“I have heard,” said the General, bowing obsequiously—“I have heard, your Majesty, that he is little better.”
“Tonnerre de Dieu!” said he; “and this is their chief magistrate! Maret, you must look to this to-morrow; and as it grows late now, let us see the citadel at once; he can show us the way thither, I suppose”; and with this he moved forward, followed by the rest, among whom I found myself hurried along, no one any longer paying me the slightest respect, or attention.
“To the citadel,” said one.
“To the citadel,” cried another.
“Come, Hoogendorp, lead the way,” cried several together; and so they pushed me to the front, and, notwithstanding all I said, that I did not know the citadel, from the Dome Church, they would listen to nothing, but only called the louder, “Step out, old ‘Grande culotte,’” and hurried me down the street, at the pace of a boar-hunt.
“Lead on,” cried one. “To the front,” said another. “Step out,” roared three or four together; and I found myself at the head of the procession, without the power to explain or confess my ignorance.
“As sure as my name is Peter van Hoogendorp, I’ll give you all a devil’s dance,” said I to myself; and with that, I grasped my staff, and set out as fast as I was able. Down, one narrow street we went, and up, another; sometimes we got into a cul de sac, where there was no exit, and had to turn back again; another time, we would ascend a huge flight of steps, and come plump into a tanner’s yard, or a place where they were curing fish, and so, we blundered on, till there wasn’t a blind alley, nor crooked lane, of Antwerp, that we didn’t wade through, and I was becoming foot-sore, and tired myself, with the exertion.
All this time the Emperor—for it was Napoleon—took no note of where we were going; he was too busy conversing with old General de Ritter, to mind anything else. At last, after traversing a long narrow street, we came down upon an arm of the Scheldt, and so overcome was I then, that I resolved I would go no further without a smoke, and I sat myself down on a butter firkin, and took out my pipe, and proceeded to strike a light with my flint. A titter of laughter from the officers now attracted the Emperor’s attention, and he stopped short, and stared at me as if I had been some wonderful beast.
“What is this?” said he. “Why don’t you move forward?”
“It ‘s impossible,” replied I, “I never walked so far, since I was born.”
“Where is the citadel?” cried he in a passion.
“In the devil’s keeping,” said I, “or we should have seen it long ago.”
“That must be it yonder,” said an aide-de-camp, pointing to a green, grassy eminence, at the other side of the Scheldt.
The Emperor took the telescope from his hand, and looked through it steadily for a couple of minutes.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s it: but why have we come all this round, the road lay yonder.”
“Ja!” said I, “so it did.”
“Ventre bleu!” roared he, while he stamped his foot upon the ground, “ce gaillard se moque de nous.”
“Ja!” said I again, without well knowing why.
“The citadel is there! It is yonder!” cried he, pointing with his finger.
“Ja!” said I once more.
“En avant! then,” shouted he, as he motioned me to descend the flight of steps which led down to the Scheldt; “if this be the road you take, par Saint Denis ! you shall go first.”
Now the frost, as I have said, had only set in a few days before, and the ice on the Scheldt would scarcely have borne the weight of a drummer-boy; so I remonstrated at once, at first in Dutch, and then in French, as well as I was able, but nobody would mind me. I then endeavoured’ to show the danger his Majesty himself would incur; but they only laughed at this, and cried—
“En avant, en avant toujours,” and before I had time for another word, there was a corporal’s guard behind me, with fixed bayonets; the word “march” was given, and out I stepped.
I tried to say a prayer, but I could think of nothing but curses upon the fiends, whose shouts of laughter behind put all my piety to flight. When I came to the bottom step I turned round, and, putting my hand to my sides, endeavoured by signs to move their pity; but they only screamed the louder at this, and at a signal from an officer, a fellow touched me with a bayonet.
“That was an awful moment,” said old Hoogendorp, stopping short in his narrative, and seizing the can, which for half an hour he had not tasted. “I think I see the river before me still, with its flakes of ice, some thick and some thin, riding on each other; some whirling along in the rapid current of the stream; some lying like islands where the water was sluggish. I turned round, and I clenched my fist, and I shook it in the Emperor’s face, and I swore by the bones of the Stadtholder, that if I had but one grasp of his hand, I’d not perform that dance without a partner. Here I stood,” quoth he, “and the Scheldt might be, as it were, there. I lifted my foot thus, and came down upon a large piece of floating ice, which, the moment I touched it, slipped away, and shot out into the stream.”
At this moment Mynheer, who had been dramatizing this portion of his adventure, came down upon the waxed floor, with a plump, that shook the pagoda to its centre, while I, who had during the narrative been working double tides at the schiedam, was so interested at the catastrophe, that I thought he was really in the Scheldt, in the situation he was describing. The instincts of humanity were, I am proud to say, stronger in me than those of reason. I kicked off my shoes, threw away my coat, and plunged boldly after him. I remember well, catching him by the throat, and I remember too, feeling, what a dreadful thing was the grip of a drowning man; for both his hands were on my neck, and he squeezed me fearfully. Of what happened after, the waiters, or the Humane Society may know something: I only can tell, that I kept my bed, for four days, and when I next descended to the table d’hôte, I saw a large patch of black sticking-plaster across the bridge of old Hoogendorp’s nose—and I never was a guest in “Lust und Rust” afterwards.
The loud clanking of the table d’hôte bell aroused me, as I lay dreaming of Frank Holbein and the yellow doublet. I dressed hastily and descended to the saal; everything was exactly as I left it ten years before; even to the cherry-wood pipe-stick that projected from Mynheer’s breeches-pocket, nothing was changed. The clatter of post-horses, and the heavy rattle of wheels drew me to the window, in time to see the Alderman’s carriage with four posters, roll past; a kiss of the hand was thrown me from the rumble. It was the “Honourable Jack” himself, who somehow, had won their favour, and was already installed, their travelling companion.
“It is odd enough,” thought I, as I arranged my napkin across my knee, “what success lies in a well-curled whisker—particularly if the wearer be a fool.”
CHAPTER IV. MEMS. AND MORALIZINGS.
He who expects to find these “Loiterings” of mine of any service as a “Guide Book” to the Continent, or a “Voyager’s Manual,” will be sorely disappointed; as well might he endeavour to devise a suit of clothes from the patches of cloth scattered about a tailor’s shop, there might be, indeed, wherewithal to repair an old garment, or make a pen-wiper, but no more.
My fragments, too, of every shape and colour—sometimes showy and flaunting, sometimes a piece of hodden-grey or linsey-wolsey—are all I have to present to my friends; whatever they be in shade or texture, whether fine or homespun, rich in Tyrian dye, or stained with russet brown, I can only say for them, they are all my own—I have never “cabbaged from any man’s cloth.” And now to abjure decimals, and talk like a unit of humanity: if you would know the exact distance between any two towns abroad—the best mode of reaching your destination—the most comfortable hotel to stop at, when you have got there—who built the cathedral—who painted the altar-piece—who demolished the town in the year fifteen hundred and—fiddlestick—then take into your confidence the immortal John Murray, he can tell you all these, and much more; how many kreutzers make a groschen, how many groschen make a gulden, reconciling you to all the difficulties of travel by historic associations, memoirs of people who lived before the flood, and learned dissertations on the etymology of the name of the town, which all your ingenuity can’t teach you how to pronounce.
Well, it’s a fine thing, to be sure, when your carriage breaks down in a chaussée, with holes large enough to bury a dog—it’s a great satisfaction to know, that some ten thousand years previous, this place, that seems for all the world like a mountain torrent, was a Roman way. If the inn you sleep in, be infested with every annoyance to which inns are liable—all that long catalogue of evils, from boors to bugs—never mind, there’s sure to be some delightful story of a bloody murder connected with its annals, which will amply repay you for all your suffering.
And now, in sober seriousness, what literary fame equals John Murray’s? What portmanteau, with two shirts and a night-cap, hasn’t got one “Hand-book?” What Englishman issues forth at morn, without one beneath his arm? How naturally, does he compare the voluble statement of his valet-de-place, with the testimony of the book. Does he not carry it with him to church, where, if the sermon be slow, he can read a description of the building? Is it not his guide at table-d’hôte, teaching him, when to eat, and where to abstain? Does he look upon a building, a statue, a picture, an old cabinet, or a manuscript, with whose eyes does he see it? With John Murray’s to be sure! Let John tell him, this town is famous for its mushrooms, why he’ll eat them, till he becomes half a fungus himself; let him hear that it is celebrated for its lace manufactory, or its iron work—its painting on glass, or its wigs; straightway he buys up all he can find, only to discover, on reaching home, that a London shopkeeper can undersell him in the same articles, by about fifty per cent.
In all this, however, John Murray is not to blame; on the contrary, it only shows his headlong popularity, and the implicit trust, with which is received, every statement he makes. I cannot conceive anything more frightful than the sudden appearance of a work which should contradict everything in the “Hand-book,” and convince English people that John Murray was wrong. National bankruptcy, a defeat at sea, the loss of the colonies, might all be borne up against; but if we awoke one morning to hear that the “Continent” was no longer the Continent we have been accustomed to believe it, what a terrific shock it would prove. Like the worthy alderman of London, who, hearing that Robinson Crusoe was only a fiction, confessed he had lost one of the greatest pleasures of his existence; so, should we discover that we have been robbed of an innocent and delightful illusion, for which no reality of cheating waiters and cursing Frenchmen, would ever repay us.
Of the implicit faith with which John and his “Manual” are received, I remember well, witnessing a pleasant instance a few years back on the Rhine.
On the deck of the steamer, amid that strange commingled mass of Cockneys and Dutchmen, Flemish boors, German barons, bankers and blacklegs, money-changers, cheese-mongers, quacks, and consuls, sat an elderly couple, who, as far apart from the rest of the company as circumstances would admit, were industriously occupied in comparing the Continent with the “Hand-book,” or, in other words, were endeavouring to see, if nature had dared to dissent from the true type, they held in their hands.
“‘Andernach, formerly. Andemachium,’” read the old lady aloud. “Do you see it, my dear?”
“Yes,” said the old gentleman, jumping up on the bench, and adjusting his pocket telescope—“yes,” said he, “go on. I have it.”
“‘Andernach,’” resumed she, “‘is an ancient Roman town, and has twelve towers——‘”
“How many did you say?”
“Twelve, my dear—”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the old gentleman; while, with outstretched finger, he began to count them, one, two, three, four, and so on till he reached eleven, when he came to a dead stop, and then dropping his voice to a tone of tremulous anxiety, he whispered, “There’s one a-missing.”
“You don’t say so!” said the lady, “dearee me, try it again.”
The old gentleman shook his head, frowned ominously, and recommenced the score.