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request every one did something to help, a scene of confusion was the consequence, and numerous pieces of crockery were invalided ere the cloth was properly spread, and the dishes, plates, and glasses distributed. But for the feast. Mr. Snodgrass's basket was opened, and out of it were taken four remarkably fine chickens, and a tongue--uncooked! There was but one mode of accounting for this trifiing omission. Mr. Snodgrass's Betty was a downright matter-of-fact person, who obeyed orders to the very letter. Having been told, the evening before, to get four fine chickens for roasting, together with a tongue, and to pack them, next morning, in a basket, she did so literally and strictly ; but, as she had received no distinct orders to dress them, to have done so she would have deemed an impertinent departure from her instructions. Well; since people in a high state of civilization, like Mr. Claudius Bagshaw and his friends, cannot eat raw chickens, they did the only thing they could under the circumstances--they grumbled exceedingly, and put them back again into the basket. This was a serious deduction in the important point of quantity, and Uncle John felt a slight touch of remorse at having thrown, as he thought, his friend's Italian sausage into the Thames. However, there was still provision in the garrison. But the run of luck in events, as at a game of whist, may be against you; and when it is so, be assured that human prudence and foresight (remarkable as even Mrs. Bagshaw's who bespoke her pigeons seven weeks before she wanted them,) avail but little. When the packages were first stowed in the boat, the pigeon-pie was inadvertently placed at the bottom, and every thing else, finishing with the large heavy hamper of crockery, with Carlo on that, upon it; so that when it was taken up it appeared a chaotic mass of pie-crust, broken china, pigeons, brown paper, beef-steak, eggs, and straw! “Now this is enough to provoke a saint,” said Bagshaw; and no one attempting to deny the position, with this salvo for his own character of philosophic patience, he indulged himself in the full expression of his vexation and sorrow. After a minute examination, he declared the pie to be “a complete squash," and that nobody could venture to eat it but at the imminent risk of being choked. As he was about to throw it over the hedge, Miss Snubbleston, seized with an unusual fit of generosity, called out to him, “ What are you doing? Though it isn't fit for us to eat, it will be quite a treat to the poor watermen. I dare say, poor souls, they don't often get pigeon-pie.” But the good genius of Mr. Carlo prevailed ; and the truth of the adage, “ 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good,” was confirmed in his mind as he found himself busily employed in the ingenions operation of separating pigeon from porcelain. It was, doubiless, extremely ill-bred in one dog not to invite another, and Cupid expressed his sense of the slight by a long-continued yell, which drew down upon him, from the equally disappointed bipeds of the company, sundry wishes, the positive accomplishment of which would not have tended much to his personal happiness. The next basket was opened. Things were not altogether in a desperate state. Mr. Wrench's ham was in perfect order, and that, with Miss Snubbleston's salad, and some bread and Could it be possible! After so much preparation, and Mr. Bagshaw's committee of " provender” to boot, that no one should have thought of so obvious a requisite as bread! There would not be time to send Mr. Bagshaw to Twickenham town to procure some, for it was getting late; and if they lost the tide, they should be on the water till midnight, and they did not like the appearance of the sky, which was by no means so blue as it had hitherto been. However, the want of bread did not much signify: they could make a shift with Miss Snubbleston's biscuits and pound-cakes. But Uncle John did not come out on an excursion of pleasure to make shift; no more did Bagshaw, . nor more did any of the others. There was nothing else to be done : so where is Miss Snubbleston's basket ? And where is Master Charles ? Gracious! Don't be alarmed, the precious rarity is in no danger. He was soon discovered behind a tree, whither he had dragged the fruit and cakes, and was engaged with all his might and main in an endeavour, with a piece of stick, to force out an apple. In this attempt, as it was presently seen, the interesting child had cracked a bottle, the contents of which-merely a preparation of oil, vinegar, and mustard, for the salad -were quietly dribbling through the pound-cakes, biscuits, and fruit. Similar aspirations to those which had lately been so cordially expressed for the Dutch pug, were now most devoutly formed in behalf of Master Charles. “ This comes of people bringing their plaguey brats with them,” said Uncle and Bagshaw.
While this scene was going on, Jack Richards, perceiving that the service of the table was incomplete, bethought him of Uncle John's silver-handled knives and forks, and spoons. He felt first in one pocket, then in the other; then he ran down to search the boat, then he rummaged the baskets. "Jack, my boy," hallooed Uncle John, “don't trouble yourself, you'll never see that again.”—“What, Sir ?"--"I could not bear the smell of it any longer, so I slyly drew it out of your pocket, and dexterously let it fall into the deepest part of the Thames.” And here Uncle John chuckled, and looked about him for applause. “Bless me, Sir! Don't say so-why-bless my heart! you don't know !--before we got into the boat, I put the sausage into your pocket, and your case of cutlery into my own!". There was a general burst of laughter against Uncle John. He turned as pale as
-nay, paler than any thing that has ever yet been dragged into the comparison ; for an instant he stood stock-still, then thrust his hand into his pocket, drew forth the unfortunate substitute, and at the same time exclaiming “D-ation!” dashed it violently to the ground. He next buttoned his coat from the bottom to the top, pulled down his cuffs, whispered to his no-longer-admired Jack Richards—" You shall hear from me, Mr. — ;" and saying aloud to Bagshaw, “ This comes of your confounded party of pleasure, Sir," away he went, and returned to town outside a Twickenham coach : resolving by the way to call out that Mr. Richards, and to eject the Bagshaws from the snug corner they held in his last will and testament.
This explosion seemed to have banished pleasure for that day. They were all, more or less, out of humour; and instead of making the best of things, as they had hitherto done, they now made the worst of them. Sir Thomas's hamper of his choice wine (which, by the by, he purchased at a cheap shop for the occasion,) was opened ; and slices of ham were cut with their only knife and fork. Jack Richards tried to be facetious, but it would not do. He gave Bagshaw a poke in the ribs, which was received with a very formal"Sir, I must beg-," To Mr. Wrench, junior, he said, “ You have not spoken much to-day—but you have made amends for your silence-d'ye take ?-Your ham is good, though your
tongue is not worth much!” Instead of laughing, Mr. Wrench simpered some thing about “impertinent liberties,” and “ satisfaction." On being invited by Sir Thomas to a second glass of his “old East India,” he said that one was a dose had rather not double the Cape ; and at the first glass of champagne, he inquired whether there had been a plentiful supply of gooseberries that year. In short, whether it were that the company knew not how to appreciate his style of wit and pleasantry, or that he was in reality a very disagreeable person, the fact is that— But hold ! let us say nothing ill of him: he died last week, at Folkstone, of a surfeit of goose, in the forty-ninth year of his age. For the consolation of such as were amused by him, and regret his loss, be it re membered that there are still to be found many Jack Richardses in this world.
As we have said, they now seemed resolved to make the worst of every thing: the grass was damp, the gnats were troublesome, Carlo's nose was in every body's face, Cupid's teeth at every body's calves, and Master Charles was ill of too many sour apples; it was growing late, and no good could come of sitting longer in the open air. They re-embarked. By the time they reached Putney, it was pitch dark, and the tide was setting against them. They moved on in mute impatience, for there was a slight sprinkling of rain. It now fell in torrents. Master Charles grew frightened and screamed, Cupid yelped, and Carlo howled. · Accompanied the rest of the way by these pleasing sounds, at one in the morning (two hours and a half later than they had intended;) they arrived at Westminster-stairs, dull, dreary, drowsy, discontented, and drenched..
How this day's excursion failed of being “ the pleasantest thing that ever was," after the pains, trouble, labour, inconvenience, and bodily suffering he had endured to make it so, Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, with all his literature, science, and philosophy, is still utterly at a loss to discover ; but he is resolved to renew the experiment once again, on the 24th of August next ensuing; and to secure an additional chance in favour of its success—he will commence his preparations at Christmas.
UNPUBLISHED LINES ON DR. JOHNSON.
By the late Dr. Wolcot.
Heaven's awful thunder, or a rumbling cart !
The author of “ Pelham," The Disowned,” and “ Devereux," is undoubtedly a man of intellect, and even of wit. His first work won for him almost universally the good word of the critics. Those cruel birds of prey, who are so ready to pounce upon the unfledged brood of young poets and prosers, forbore to stoop from their midway Aight, and left “ Pelham” to sail on unmolested. It was read and admired, and the author naturally enough was induced to try his powers again. He produced the “ Disowned," a work of a more ambitious tendency, but inartificially constructed ; and, with all its merit, not equal, we think, to the first book. It was apparently a more hasty production than the other, and aimed at a higher station. The double plot, each having its alternate chapter, was a decided error, and told against the author, if we mistake not, more than such oversight deserved. But the besetting sin of Mr. Bulwer is the introduction and discussion of philosophical matters. The didactic air of all such books is offensive, and they are all infallibly tedious. There is no book of this character, (we will not except any of the works of the authors of “ Tremaine,” or “ Pelham,”') which is not in this respect radically bad. We have a dislike-and we will, some day or other, have our revenge upon all those wise authors and authoresses, who have seduced us into a sermon, or a serious essay, under the guise of an honest-looking novel. If we see on the back of a volume, “ Butler's Sermons,” or “ Locke's Essay,” we know what we have to do. We brace our understanding (or our patience) up to the proper pitch, and let the author do his worst with our brains. But to have these things thrust upon us—to have these deadly drugs, sweetened over and encrusted with sugar, insinuated into our systems, is a dangerous and detestable practice. Miss Hannah More herself, and all the authors and authoresses of Celebses and Celibias, and Countesses and Gertrudes, and such sage matters, who have at various times made us at once so sleepy and splenetic, are alike reprehensible. Half these good folks endeavour to hide their want of wit in the cheap wisdom in which their books abound; the sins of the others arise from their vanities alone.
The author of “ Pelham" need not have recourse to such means to lift himself into notoriety. He has excellent materiel about him--has an eye for character, a lively and buoyant style, wit, learning, invention-and can handle the higher passions themselves. It would be too much if he were without faults; and accordingly we find them amongst his writings, of the same vigorous growth and prominent appearance as the excellences themselves. All this is as it should be. We do not think that we should like a book without faults, if such a monster should ever be born of the press. We are apt to sympathize with the mental and moral infirmities, as with bodily ones. A man perfect in all points, perfectly wise, perfectly moral, perfectly beautiful, would, we dare to say, offend our self-love. We are sure that he would do so, were he to attempt to be didactic with us. Let Mr. Bulwer leave these small vanities to inferior writers, and crown his good works with a novel such as we think he can do. We shall be deceived if he does not take a flight that is not easily approached. We do not know that Mr. Bulwer is a poet, (we have never seen any thing to justify such an imputation,) but he is a man of intellect, shrewd, witty, and observant, and may fairly aim at a high station amongst the better writers in English fiction.
The last work of our author is the one which appears at the head of the present article, namely,.“ Devereux," and to this we will now turn our attention.
Devereux is a piece of autobiography,-like Caleb Williams, and Saint Leon, Edgar Huntley, and others of that class ; differing with them, it is
• Devereux. By the Author of “ Pelham," and " The Disowned.” post 8vo.
In 3 vols. true, in various important respects, but essentially of the same order. It is less sententious than the stories of Mr. Godwin, and possesses more vivacity than the novels of that celebrated author, or those of his imitator, Brockden Brown. It is, also, more familiar in its style, and avoids--wisely we thinkthat perpetual reference to the motives of the actor, which affects us almost to weariness in the others' works. At the same time it must be admitted, that “Devereux" is fashioned of slighter materials, and has not quite the natural vigour of “ Caleb Williams," nor the solid magnificence of “St. Leon." Perhaps it is as likely to please the general taste as either of those wellknown books, but it is of a less imposing character, and we question whether it is likely to make so durable an impression.
We would not be understood to undervalue the talents of our author, which, in fact, we are impliedly admitting, by comparing him with the first writer of this particular species of fiction. Neither must we be thought to insist on the propriety or general efficacy of the opposite style, which distinguishes the “St. Leon,” and the novels of Brown. We consider our author's to be the more natural vein, and we like him best in his least ambitious humour. But Mr. Godwin's books are more deliberate compositions, and being the opinions of a profound thinker, aiming to inculcate his peculiar notions, the style, which amounts frequently almost to the didactic, sheds a grander, or certainly a graver lustre upon the works themselves. This is what we would be understood. to say; and with this we dismiss Mr. Godwin. .
“Devereux” is, as we have observed, a pleasant piece of autobiography. The bero and his family are introduced to the reader in a way that leaves him nothing to wish for. Indeed, we are not sure but that the early part of the first volume possesses as much merit as any other portion of the book. The account of Sir William Devereux, who goes up to the moral court of Charles the Second to be knighted and polished, is particularly vivacious and good. We think that we have seen gentlemen somewhat like Sir William before ; yet not precisely, perhaps; and, at all events he is an excellent and amusing person. He might have been Sir Roger de Coverley's elder brother, but that he has too strong a dash of the rake in him, and the period in which he lived forbids us, we believe, to hope that he could by any possibility, have been so nearly related to that celebrated knight.
Sir William Devereux was fashioned of that clay which country gentlemen are made of, when custom and the bad example of his ancestors drove him up to London. In London he might have sunk into the insignificance of a courtier, or a mere man upon town, had not accident and my Lord Rochester helped him. That he should have quitted his March beer for champagne, and his musty volumes for the plays of Etheredge, seems reasonable enough; but that he should take a wife whom Rochester recommended, almost staggers our belief in his simplicity. Yet this was the real case. He married one of the beauties of the Court of King Charles the Second, and encountered a fate which we should think any of his contemporaries might have anticipated without much of the spirit of prophecy. His fortune is told in a few words. His wife ran away from him six weeks after a six months' child was born, and he recoiled into a country gentleman once more-wrote no more plays, meddled no more with brawls or fashions, but turned his rapier into a ploughshare, left the atmosphere of taverns for country air, and governed his wide possessions like a just master. But our biographer must be heard on this subject. He knew him in his old age, it seems, and is entitled to speak of him, not only on that, the ground of his intimacy, but also because what he says is said well.
“ He had the old man's weakness, garrulity; and he told the wittiest stories in the world, without omitting any thing in them but the point. This omission did not arise from the want either of memory or of humour ; but solely from a deficiency in the malice natural to all jesters. He could not persuade his lips to repeat a sarcasm hurting even the dead or the ungrateful; and when he came to the drop of gall which should have given zest to the story, the milk of human kindness broke its barrier despite of himself, and washed it away. He was a fine wreck, a little