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diff --git a/1462-0.txt b/1462-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c8e803 --- /dev/null +++ b/1462-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1290 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Some Roundabout Papers, by William Makepeace +Thackeray + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Some Roundabout Papers + + +Author: William Makepeace Thackeray + + + +Release Date: February 24, 2013 [eBook #1462] +[This file was first posted on July 16, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME ROUNDABOUT PAPERS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1908 T. N. Foulis edition by Stephen Rice, email +srice01@ibm.net and David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + SOME ROUND- + ABOUT PAPERS + + + BY + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE + THACKERAY + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + T. N. FOULIS + 13–15 FREDERICK STREET + EDINBURGH: & 23 BEDFORD + STREET, LONDON, W.C. + + 1908 + + + + +ON SOME CARP AT SANS SOUCI + + +WE have lately made the acquaintance of an old lady of ninety, who has +passed the last twenty-five years of her old life in a great metropolitan +establishment, the workhouse, namely, of the parish of Saint Lazarus. +Stay—twenty-three or four years ago, she came out once, and thought to +earn a little money by hop-picking; but being overworked, and having to +lie out at night, she got a palsy which has incapacitated her from all +further labour, and has caused her poor old limbs to shake ever since. + +An illustration of that dismal proverb which tells us how poverty makes +us acquainted with strange bed-fellows, this poor old shaking body has to +lay herself down every night in her workhouse bed by the side of some +other old woman with whom she may or may not agree. She herself can’t be +a very pleasant bed-fellow, poor thing! with her shaking old limbs and +cold feet. She lies awake a deal of the night, to be sure, not thinking +of happy old times, for hers never were happy; but sleepless with aches, +and agues, and rheumatism of old age. “The gentleman gave me +brandy-and-water,” she said, her old voice shaking with rapture at the +thought. I never had a great love for Queen Charlotte, but I like her +better now from what this old lady told me. The Queen, who loved snuff +herself, has left a legacy of snuff to certain poorhouses; and, in her +watchful nights, this old woman takes a pinch of Queen Charlotte’s snuff, +“and it do comfort me, sir, that it do!” _Pulveris exigui munus_. Here +is a forlorn aged creature, shaking with palsy, with no soul among the +great struggling multitude of mankind to care for her, not quite trampled +out of life, but past and forgotten in the rush, made a little happy, and +soothed in her hours of unrest by this penny legacy. Let me think as I +write. (The next month’s sermon, thank goodness! is safe to press.) +This discourse will appear at the season when I have read that +wassail-bowls make their appearance; at the season of pantomime, turkey +and sausages, plum-puddings, jollifications for schoolboys; Christmas +bills, and reminiscences more or less sad and sweet for elders. If we +oldsters are not merry, we shall be having a semblance of merriment. We +shall see the young folks laughing round the holly-bush. We shall pass +the bottle round cosily as we sit by the fire. That old thing will have +a sort of festival too. Beef, beer, and pudding will be served to her +for that day also. Christmas falls on a Thursday. Friday is the +workhouse day for coming out. Mary, remember that old Goody Twoshoes has +her invitation for Friday, 26th December! Ninety is she, poor old soul? +Ah! what a bonny face to catch under a mistletoe! “Yes, ninety, sir,” +she says, “and my mother was a hundred, and my grandmother was a hundred +and two.” + +Herself ninety, her mother a hundred, her grandmother a hundred and two? +What a queer calculation! + +Ninety! Very good, granny: you were born, then, in 1772. + +Your mother, we will say, was twenty-seven when you were born, and was +born therefore in 1745. + +Your grandmother was thirty-five when her daughter was born, and was born +therefore in 1710. + +We will begin with the present granny first. My good old creature, you +can’t of course remember, but that little gentleman for whom you mother +was laundress in the Temple was the ingenious Mr Goldsmith, author of a +“History of England,” the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and many diverting +pieces. You were brought almost an infant to his chambers in Brick +Court, and he gave you some sugar-candy, for the doctor was always good +to children. That gentleman who well-nigh smothered you by sitting down +on you as you lay in a chair asleep was the learned Mr S. Johnson, whose +history of “Rasselas” you have never read, my pour soul; and whose +tragedy of “Irene” I don’t believe any man in these kingdoms ever +perused. That tipsy Scotch gentleman who used to come to the chambers +sometimes, and at whom everybody laughed, wrote a more amusing book than +any of the scholars, your Mr Burke and your Mr Johnson, and your Dr +Goldsmith. Your father often took him home in a chair to his lodgings; +and has done as much for Parson Sterne in Bond Street, the famous wit. +Of course, my good creature, you remember the Gordon Riots, and crying No +Popery before Mr Langdale’s house, the Popish distiller’s, and that bonny +fire of my Lord Mansfield’s books in Bloomsbury Square? Bless us, what a +heap of illuminations you have seen! For the glorious victory over the +Americans at Breed’s Hill; for the peace in 1814, and the beautiful +Chinese bridge in St James’s Park; for the coronation of his Majesty, +whom you recollect as Prince of Wales, Goody, don’t you? Yes; and you +went in a procession of laundresses to pay your respects to his good +lady, the injured Queen of England, at Brandenburg House; and you +remember your mother told you how she was taken to see the Scotch lords +executed at the Tower. And as for your grandmother, she was born five +months after the battle of Malplaquet, she was; where her poor father was +killed, fighting like a bold Briton for the Queen. With the help of a +“Wade’s Chronology,” I can make out ever so queer a history for you, my +poor old body, and a pedigree as authentic as many in the peerage-books. + +Peerage-books and pedigrees? What does she know about them? Battles and +victories, treasons, kings, and beheadings, literary gentlemen, and the +like, what have they ever been to her? Granny, did you ever hear of +General Wolfe? Your mother may have seen him embark, and your father may +have carried a musket under him. Your grandmother may have cried huzza +for Marlborough; but what is the Prince Duke to you, and did you ever so +much as hear tell of his name? How many hundred or thousand of years had +that toad lived who was in the coal at the defunct exhibition?—and yet he +was not a bit better informed than toads seven or eight hundred years +younger. + +“Don’t talk to me your nonsense about Exhibitions, and Prince Dukes, and +toads in coals, or coals in toads, or what is it?” says granny. “I know +there was a good Queen Charlotte, for she left me snuff; and it comforts +me of a night when I lie awake.” + +To me there is something very touching in the notion of that little pinch +of comfort doled out to granny, and gratefully inhaled by her in the +darkness. Don’t you remember what traditions there used to be of chests +of plate, bulses of diamonds, laces of inestimable value, sent out of the +country privately by the old Queen, to enrich certain relatives in +M-ckl-nb-rg Str-l-tz? Not all the treasure went. _Non omnis moritur_. +A poor old palsied thing at midnight is made happy sometimes as she lifts +her shaking old hand to her nose. Gliding noiselessly among the beds +where lie the poor creatures huddled in their cheerless dormitory, I +fancy an old ghost with a snuff-box that does not creak. “There, Goody, +take of my rappee. You will not sneeze, and I shall not say ‘God bless +you.’ But you will think kindly of old Queen Charlotte, won’t you? Ah! +I had a many troubles, a many troubles. I was a prisoner almost so much +as you are. I had to eat boiled mutton every day: _entre nous_, I +abominated it. But I never complained. I swallowed it. I made the best +of a hard life. We have all our burdens to bear. But hark! I hear the +cock-crow, and snuff the morning air.” And with this the royal ghost +vanishes up the chimney—if there be a chimney in that dismal harem, where +poor old Twoshoes and her companions pass their nights—their dreary +nights, their restless nights, their cold long nights, shared in what +glum companionship, illumined by what a feeble taper! + +“Did I understand you, my good Twoshoes, to say that your mother was +seven-and-twenty years old when you were born, and that she married your +esteemed father when she herself was twenty-five? 1745, then, was the +date of your dear mother’s birth. I daresay her father was absent in the +Low Countries, with his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, under whom +he had the honour of carrying a halberd at the famous engagement of +Fontenoy—or if not there, he may have been at Preston Pans, under General +Sir John Cope, when the wild Highlanders broke through all the laws of +discipline and the English lines; and, being on the spot, did he see the +famous ghost which didn’t appear to Colonel Gardner of the Dragoons? My +good creature, is it possible you don’t remember that Doctor Swift, Sir +Robert Walpole (my Lord Orford, as you justly say), old Sarah +Marlborough, and little Mr Pope, of Twitnam, died in the year of your +birth? What a wretched memory you have! What? haven’t they a library, +and the commonest books of reference at the old convent of Saint Lazarus, +where you dwell?” + +“Convent of Saint Lazarus, Prince William, Dr Swift, Atossa, and Mr Pope, +of Twitnam! What is the gentleman talking about?” says old goody, with a +“Ho! ho!” and a laugh like a old parrot—you know they live to be as old +as Methuselah, parrots do, and a parrot of a hundred is comparatively +young (ho! ho! ho!). Yes, and likewise carps live to an immense old age. +Some which Frederick the Great fed at Sans Souci are there now, with +great humps of blue mould on their old backs; and they could tell all +sorts of queer stories, if they chose to speak—but they are very silent, +carps are—of their nature _peu communicatives_. Oh! what has been thy +long life, old goody, but a dole of bread and water and a perch on a +cage; a dreary swim round and round a Lethe of a pond? What are Rossbach +or Jena to those mouldy ones, and do they know it is a grandchild of +England who brings bread to feed them? + +No! Those Sans Souci carps may live to be a thousand years old and have +nothing to tell but that one day is like another; and the history of +friend Goody Twoshoes has not much more variety than theirs. Hard +labour, hard fare, hard bed, numbing cold all night, and gnawing hunger +most days. That is her lot. Is it lawful in my prayers to say, “Thank +heaven, I am not as one of these”? If I were eighty, would I like to +feel the hunger always gnawing, gnawing? to have to get up and make a bow +when Mr Bumble the beadle entered the common room? to have to listen to +Miss Prim, who came to give me her ideas of the next world? If I were +eighty, I own I should not like to have to sleep with another gentleman +of my own age, gouty, a bad sleeper, kicking in his old dreams, and +snoring; to march down my vale of years at word of command, accommodating +my tottering old steps to those of the other prisoners in my dingy, +hopeless old gang; to hold out a trembling hand for a sickly pittance of +gruel, and say, “Thank you, ma’am,” to Miss Prim, when she has done +reading her sermon. John! when Goody Twoshoes comes next Friday, I +desire she may not be disturbed by theological controversies. You have a +fair voice, and I heard you and the maids singing a hymn very sweetly the +other night, and was thankful that our humble household should be in such +harmony. Poor old Twoshoes is so old and toothless and quaky, that she +can’t sing a bit; but don’t be giving yourself airs over her, because she +can’t sing and you can. Make her comfortable at our kitchen hearth. Set +that old kettle to sing by our hob. Warm her old stomach with nut-brown +ale and a toast laid in the fire. Be kind to the poor old school-girl of +ninety, who has had leave to come out for a day of Christmas holiday. +Shall there be many more Christmases for thee? Think of the ninety she +has seen already; the four-score and ten cold, cheerless, nipping New +Years! + +If you were in her place, would you like to have a remembrance of better +early days, when you were young and happy, and loving, perhaps; or would +you prefer to have no past on which your mind could rest? About the year +1788, Goody, were your cheeks rosy, and your eyes bright, and did some +young fellow in powder and a pigtail look in them? We may grow old, but +to us some stories never are old. On a sudden they rise up, not dead, +but living—not forgotten, but freshly remembered. The eyes gleam on us +as they used to do. The dear voice thrills in our hearts. The rapture +of the meeting, the terrible, terrible parting, again and again the +tragedy is acted over. Yesterday, in the street, I saw a pair of eyes so +like two which used to brighten at my coming once, that the whole past +came back as I walked lonely, in the rush of the Strand, and I was young +again in the midst of joys and sorrows, alike sweet and sad, alike sacred +and fondly remembered. + +If I tell a tale out of school, will any harm come to my old school-girl? +Once, a lady gave her a half-sovereign, which was a source of great pain +and anxiety to Goody Twoshoes. She sewed it away in her old stays +somewhere, thinking here at least was a safe investment—(vestis—a vest—an +investment,—pardon me, thou poor old thing, but I cannot help the +pleasantry). And what do you think? Another pensionnaire of the +establishment cut the coin out of Goody’s stays—_an old woman who went +upon two crutches_! Faugh, the old witch! What? Violence amongst these +toothless, tottering, trembling, feeble ones? Robbery amongst the +penniless? Dogs coming and snatching Lazarus’s crumbs out of his lap? +Ah, how indignant Goody was as she told the story! To that pond at +Potsdam where the carps live for hundreds of hundreds of years, with +hunches of blue mould on their back, I daresay the little Prince and +Princess of Preussen-Britannien come sometimes with crumbs and cakes to +feed the mouldy ones. Those eyes may have goggled from beneath the weeds +at Napoleon’s jack-boots: they have seen Frederick’s lean shanks +reflected in their pool; and perhaps Monsieur de Voltaire has fed them, +and now for a crumb of biscuit they will fight, push, hustle, rob, +squabble, gobble, relapsing into their tranquillity when the ignoble +struggle is over. Sans souci, indeed! It is mighty well writing “Sans +souci” over the gate; but where is the gate through which Care has not +slipped? She perches on the shoulders of the sentry in the sentry-box: +she whispers the porter sleeping in his arm-chair: she glides up the +staircase, and lies down between the king and queen in their bed-royal: +this very night I daresay she will perch upon poor old Goody Twoshoes’ +meagre bolster, and whisper, “Will the gentleman and those ladies ask me +again! No, no; they will forget poor old Twoshoes.” Goody! For shame of +yourself! Do not be cynical. Do not mistrust your fellow-creatures. +What? Has the Christmas morning dawned upon thee ninety times? For +four-score and ten years has it been thy lot to totter on this earth, +hungry and obscure? Peace and goodwill to thee, let us say at this +Christmas season. Come, drink, eat, rest awhile at our hearth, thou poor +old pilgrim! And of the bread which God’s bounty gives us, I pray, +brother reader, we may not forget to set aside a part for those noble and +silent poor, from whose innocent hands war has torn the means of labour. +Enough! As I hope for beef at Christmas, I vow a note shall be sent to +Saint Lazarus Union House, in which Mr Roundabout requests the honour of +Mrs Twoshoes’ company on Friday, 26th December. + + + + +DE JUVENTUTE + + +WE who lived before railways, and survive out of the ancient world, are +like Father Noah and his family out of the Ark. The children will gather +round and say to us patriarchs, “Tell us, grandpapa, about the old +world.” And we shall mumble our old stories; and we shall drop off one +by one; and there will be fewer and fewer of us, and these very old and +feeble. There will be but ten præ-railroadites left: then three—then +two—then one—then 0! If the hippopotamus had the least sensibility (of +which I cannot trace any signs either in his hide or his face), I think +he would go down to the bottom of his tank, and never come up again. +Does he not see that he belongs to bygone ages, and that his great +hulking barrel of a body is out of place in these times? What has he in +common with the brisk young life surrounding him? In the watches of the +night, when the keepers are asleep, when the birds are on one leg, when +even the little armadillo is quiet, and the monkeys have ceased their +chatter, he—I mean the hippopotamus—and the elephant, and the long-necked +giraffe, perhaps may lay their heads together and have a colloquy about +the great silent antediluvian world which they remember, where mighty +monsters floundered through the ooze, crocodiles basked on the banks, and +dragons darted out of the caves and waters before men were made to slay +them. We who lived before railways are antediluvians—we must pass away. +We are growing scarcer every day; and old—old—very old relicts of the +times when George was still fighting the Dragon. + +Not long since, a company of horseriders paid a visit to our +watering-place. We went to see them, and I bethought me that young +Walter Juvenis, who was in the place, might like also to witness the +performance. A pantomime is not always amusing to persons who have +attained a certain age; but a boy at a pantomime is always amused and +amusing, and to see his pleasure is good for most hypochondriacs. + +We sent to Walter’s mother, requesting that he might join us, and the +kind lady replied that the boy had already been at the morning +performance of the equestrians, but was most eager to go in the evening +likewise. And go he did; and laughed at all Mr Merryman’s remarks, +though he remembered them with remarkable accuracy, and insisted upon +waiting to the very end of the fun, and was only induced to retire just +before its conclusion by representations that the ladies of the party +would be incommoded if they were to wait and undergo the rush and trample +of the crowd round about. When this fact was pointed out to him, he +yielded at once, though with a heavy heart, his eyes looking longingly +towards the ring as we retreated out of the booth. We were scarcely +clear of the place, when we heard “God save the Queen,” played by the +equestrian band, the signal that all was over. Our companion entertained +us with scraps of the dialogue on our way home—precious crumbs of wit +which he had brought away from that feast. He laughed over them again as +he walked under the stars. He has them now, and takes them out of the +pocket of his memory, and crunches a bit, and relishes it with a +sentimental tenderness, too, for he is, no doubt, back at school by this +time; the holidays are over; and Doctor Birch’s young friends have +reassembled. + +Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple mouths to grin! As the jaded +Merryman uttered them to the old gentleman with the whip, some of the old +folks in the audience, I daresay, indulged in reflections of their own. +There was one joke—I utterly forget it—but it began with Merryman saying +what he had for dinner. He had mutton for dinner, at one o’clock, after +which “he had to _come to business_.” And then came the point. Walter +Juvenis, Esq., Rev. Doctor Birch’s, Market Rodborough, if you read this, +will you please send me a line, and let me know what was the joke Mr +Merryman made about having his dinner? _You_ remember well enough. But +do I want to know? Suppose a boy takes a favourite, long-cherished lump +of cake out of his pocket, and offers you a bit? _Merci_! The fact is, +I _don’t_ care much about knowing that joke of Mr Merryman’s. + +But whilst he was talking about his dinner, and his mutton, and his +landlord, and his business, I felt a great interest about Mr M. in +private life—about his wife, lodgings, earnings, and general history, and +I daresay was forming a picture of those in my mind:—wife cooking the +mutton; children waiting for it; Merryman in his plain clothes, and so +forth; during which contemplation the joke was uttered and laughed at, +and Mr M., resuming his professional duties, was tumbling over head and +heels. Do not suppose I am going, _sicut est mos_, to indulge in +moralities about buffoons, paint, motley, and mountebanking. Nay, Prime +Ministers rehearse their jokes; Opposition leaders prepare and polish +them: Tabernacle preachers must arrange them in their minds before they +utter them. All I mean is, that I would like to know any one of these +performers thoroughly, and out of his uniform: that preacher, and why in +his travels this and that point struck him; wherein lies his power of +pathos, humour, eloquence;—that Minister of State, and what moves him, +and how his private heart is working;—I would only say that, at a certain +time of life certain things cease to interest: but about _some_ things +when we cease to care, what will be the use of life, sight, hearing? +Poems are written, and we cease to admire. Lady Jones invites us, and we +yawn; she ceases to invite us, and we are resigned. The last time I saw +a ballet at the opera—oh! it is many years ago—I fell asleep in the +stalls, wagging my head in insane dreams, and I hope affording amusement +to the company, while the feet of five hundred nymphs were cutting +flicflacs on the stage at a few paces distant. Ah, I remember a +different state of things! _Credite posteri_. To see these +nymphs—gracious powers, how beautiful they were! That leering, painted, +shrivelled, thin-armed, thick-ankled old thing, cutting dreary capers, +coming thumping down on her board out of time—_that_ an opera-dancer? +Pooh! My dear Walter, the great difference between my time and yours, +who will enter life some two or three years hence, is that, now, the +dancing women and singing women are ludicrously old, out of time, and out +of tune; the paint is so visible, and the dinge and wrinkles of their +wretched old cotton stockings, that I am surprised how anybody can like +to look at them. And as for laughing at me for falling asleep, I can’t +understand a man of sense doing otherwise. In my time, _à la bonne +heure_. In the reign of George IV., I give you my honour, all the +dancers at the opera were as beautiful as Houris. Even in William IV.’s +time, when I think of Duvernay prancing in as the Bayadère,—I say it was +a vision of loveliness such as mortal eyes can’t see nowadays. How well +I remember the tune to which she used to appear! Kaled used to say to +the Sultan, “My lord, a troop of those dancing and singing gurls called +Bayaderes approaches,” and, to the clash of cymbals, and the thumping of +my heart, in she used to dance! There has never been anything like +it—never. There never will be—I laugh to scorn old people who tell me +about your Noblet, your Montessu, your Vistris, your Parisot—pshaw, the +senile twaddlers! And the impudence of the young men, with their music +and their dancers of to-day! I tell you the women are dreary old +creatures. I tell you one air in an opera is just like another, and they +send all rational creatures to sleep. Ah, Ronzi de Begnis, thou lovely +one! Ah, Caradori, thou smiling angel! Ah, Malibran! Nay, I will come +to modern times, and acknowledge that Lablache was a very good singer +thirty years ago (though Porto was the boy for me): and they we had +Ambrogetti, and Curioni, and Donzelli, a rising young singer. + +But what is most certain and lamentable is the decay of stage beauty +since the days of George IV. Think of Sontag! I remember her in +_Otello_ and the _Donna del Lago_ in ’28. I remember being behind the +scenes at the opera (where numbers of us young fellows of fashion used to +go), and seeing Sontag let her hair fall down over her shoulders previous +to her murder by Donzelli. Young fellows have never seen beauty like +_that_, heard such a voice, seen such hair, such eyes. Don’t tell _me_! +A man who has been about town since the reign of George IV., ought he not +to know better than you young lads who have seen nothing? The +deterioration of women is lamentable; and the conceit of the young +fellows more lamentable still, that they won’t see this fact, but persist +in thinking their time as good as ours. + +Bless me! when I was a lad, the stage was covered with angels, who sang, +acted, and danced. When I remember the Adelphi, and the actresses there: +when I think of Miss Chester, and Miss Love, and Mrs Serle at Sadler’s +Wells, and her forty glorious pupils—of the Opera and Noblet, and the +exquisite young Taglioni, and Pauline Leroux, and a host more! One +much-admired being of those days I confess I never cared for, and that +was the chief _male_ dancer—a very important personage then, with a bare +neck, bare arms, a tunic, and a hat and feathers, who used to divide the +applause with the ladies, and who has now sunk down a trap-door for ever. +And this frank admission ought to show that I am not your mere twaddling +_laudator temporis acti_—your old fogey who can see no good except in his +own time. + +They say that claret is better nowadays, and cookery much improved since +the days of _my_ monarch—of George IV. _Pastry Cookery_ is certainly not +so good. I have often eaten half-a-crown’s worth (including, I trust, +ginger-beer) at our school pastrycook’s, and that is a proof that the +pastry must have been very good, for could I do as much now? I passed by +the pastrycook’s shop lately, having occasion to visit my old school. It +looked a very dingy old baker’s; misfortunes may have come over him—those +penny tarts certainly did not look so nice as I remember them: but he may +have grown careless as he has grown old (I should judge him to be now +about ninety-six years of age), and his hand may have lost its cunning. + +Not that we were not great epicures. I remember how we constantly +grumbled at the quantity of the food in our master’s house—which on my +conscience I believe was excellent and plentiful—and how we tried once or +twice to eat him out of house and home. At the pastrycook’s we may have +over-eaten ourselves (I have admitted half-a-crown’s worth for my own +part, but I don’t like to mention the _real_ figure for fear of +perverting the present generation of boys by my monstrous confession)—we +may have eaten too much, I say. We did; but what then? The school +apothecary was sent for: a couple of small globules at night, a trifling +preparation of senna in the morning, and we had not to go to school, so +that the draught was an actual pleasure. + +For our amusements, besides the games in vogue, which were pretty much in +old times as they are now (except cricket _par exemple_—and I wish the +present youth joy of their bowling, and suppose Armstrong and Whitworth +will bowl at them with light field-pieces next), there were novels—ah! I +trouble you to find such novels in the present day! O Scottish Chiefs, +didn’t we weep over you! O Mysteries of Udolpho, didn’t I and Briggs +Minor draw pictures out of you, as I have said? Efforts, feeble indeed, +but still giving pleasure to us and our friends. “I say, old boy, draw +us Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition,” or, “Draw us Don Quixote and the +windmills, you know,” amateurs would say, to boys who had a love of +drawing. “Peregrine Pickle” we liked, our fathers admiring it, and +telling us (the sly old boys) it was capital fun; but I think I was +rather bewildered by it, though “Roderick Random” was and remains +delightful. I don’t remember having Sterne in the school library, no +doubt because the works of that divine were not considered decent for +young people. Ah! not against thy genius, O father of Uncle Toby and +Trim, would I say a word in disrespect. But I am thankful to live in +times when men no longer have the temptation to write so as to call +blushes on women’s cheeks, and would shame to whisper wicked allusions to +honest boys. Then, above all, we had WALTER SCOTT, the kindly, the +generous, the pure—the companion of what countless delightful hours; the +purveyor of how much happiness; the friend whom we recall as the constant +benefactor of our youth! How well I remember the type and the brownish +paper of the old duodecimo “Tales of My Landlord!” I have never dared to +read the “Pirate,” and the “Bride of Lammermoor,” or “Kenilworth,” from +that day to this, because the finale is unhappy, and people die, and are +murdered at the end. But “Ivanhoe,” and “Quentin Durward”! Oh! for a +half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of those books again! Those +books, and perhaps those eyes with which we read them; and, it may be, +the brains behind the eyes! It may be the tart was good; but how fresh +the appetite was! If the gods would give me the desire of my heart, I +should be able to write a story which boys would relish for the next few +dozen of centuries. The boy-critic loves the story: grown up, he loves +the author who wrote the story. Hence the kindly tie is established +between writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearly for life. I meet +people now who don’t care of Walter Scott, or the “Arabian Nights”; I am +sorry for them, unless they in their time have found _their_ +romancer—their charming Scheherazade. By the way, Walter, when you are +writing, tell me who is the favourite novelist in the fourth form now? +Have you got anything so good and kindly as dear Miss Edgeworth’s +_Frank_? It used to belong to a fellow’s sisters generally; but though +he pretended to despise it, and said, “Oh, stuff for girls!” he read it; +and I think there were one or two passages which would try my eyes now, +were I to meet with the little book. + +As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is only my witty way of calling Tom and +Jerry), I went to the British Museum the other day on purpose to get it; +but somehow, if you will press the question so closely, on reperusal, Tom +and Jerry is not so brilliant as I had supposed it to be. The pictures +are just as fine as ever; and I shook hands with broad-backed Jerry +Hawthorn and Corinthian Tom with delight, after many year’s absence. But +the style of the writing, I own, was not pleasing to me; I even thought +it a little vulgar—well! well! other writers have been considered +vulgar—and as a description of the sports and amusements of London in the +ancient times, more curious than amusing. + +But the pictures!—oh! the pictures are noble still! First, there is +Jerry arriving from the country, in a green coat and leather gaiters, and +being measured for a fashionable suit at Corinthian House, by Corinthian +Tom’s tailor. Then away for the career of pleasure and fashion. The +park! delicious excitement! The theatre! the saloon!! the green-room!!! +Rapturous bliss—the opera itself! and then perhaps to Temple Bar, to +_knock down a Charley_ there! There are Jerry and Tom, with their tights +and little cocked hats, coming from the opera—very much as gentlemen in +waiting on royalty are habited now. There they are at Almack’s itself, +amidst a crowd of high-bred personages, with the Duke of Clarence himself +looking at them dancing. Now, strange change, they are in Tom Cribb’s +parlour, where they don’t seem to be a whit less at home than in +fashion’s gilded halls; and now they are at Newgate, seeing the irons +knocked off the malefactors’ legs previous to execution. What hardened +ferocity in the countenance of the desperado in yellow breeches! What +compunction in the face of the gentleman in black (who, I suppose, has +been forging), and who clasps his hands, and listens to the chaplain! +Now we haste away to merrier scenes: to Tattersall’s (ah gracious powers! +what a funny fellow that actor was who performed Dicky Green in that +scene in the play!); and now we are at a private party, at which +Corinthian Tom is waltzing (and very gracefully too, as you must confess) +with Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob Logic, the Oxonian, is playing on the +piano! + +“After,” the text says, “_the Oxonian_ had played several pieces of +lively music, he requested as a favour that Kate and his friend Tom would +perform a waltz. Kate without any hesitation immediately stood up. Tom +offered his hand to his fascinating partner, and the dance took place. +The plate conveys a correct representation of the ‘gay scene’ at that +precise moment. The anxiety of the _Oxonian_ to witness the attitudes of +the elegant pair had nearly put a stop to their movements. On turning +round from the pianoforte and presenting his comical _mug_, Kate could +scarcely suppress a laugh.” + +And no wonder; just look at it now (as I have copied it to the best of my +humble ability), and compare Master Logic’s countenance and attitude with +the splendid elegance of Tom! Now every London man is weary and _blasé_. +There is an enjoyment of life in these young bucks of 1823 which +contrasts strangely with our feelings of 1860. Here, for instance, is a +specimen of their talk and walk, “If,’ says LOGIC—‘if _enjoyment_ is your +_motto_, you may make the most of an evening at Vauxhall, more than at +any other place in the metropolis. It is all free and easy. Stay as +long as you like, and depart when you think proper.’—‘Your description is +so flattering,’ replied JERRY, ‘that I do not care how soon the time +arrives for us to start.’ LOGIC proposed a ‘_bit of a stroll_’ in order +to get rid of an hour or two, which was immediately accepted by Tom and +Jerry. A _turn_ or two in Bond Street, a _stroll_ through Piccadilly, a +_look in_ at TATTERSALL’s, a _ramble_ through Pall Mall, and a _strut_ on +the Corinthian path, fully occupied the time of our heroes until the hour +for dinner arrived, when a few glasses of TOM’s rich wines soon put them +on the _qui vive_. VAUXHALL was then the object in view, and the TRIO +started, bent upon enjoying the pleasures which this place so amply +affords.” + +How nobly those inverted commas, those italics, those capitals, bring out +the writer’s wit and relieve the eye! They are as good as jokes, though +you mayn’t quite preceive the point. Mark the varieties of lounge in +which the young men indulge—now a _stroll_, then a _look in_, then a +_ramble_, and presently a _strut_. When George, Prince of Wales, was +twenty, I have read in an old Magazine, “the Prince’s lounge” was a +peculiar manner of walking which the young bucks imitated. At Windsor +George III. had a _cat’s path_—a sly early walk which the good old king +took in the grey morning before his household was astir. What was the +Corinthian path here recorded? Does any antiquary know? And what were +the rich wines which our friends took, and which enable them to enjoy +Vauxhall? Vauxhall is gone, but the wines which could occasion such a +delightful perversion of the intellect as to enable it to enjoy ample +pleasures there, what were they? + +So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry Hawthorn, the rustic, is fairly +knocked up by all this excitement and is forced to go home, and the last +picture represents him getting into the coach at the “White Horse +Cellar,” he being one of six inside; whilst his friends shake him by the +hand; whilst the sailor mounts on the roof; whilst the Jews hang round +with oranges, knives, and sealing-wax: whilst the guard is closing the +door. Where are they now, those sealing-wax vendors? where are the +guards? where are the jolly teams? where are the coaches? and where the +youth that climbed inside and out of them; that heard the merry horn +which sounds no more; that saw the sun rise over Stonehenge; that rubbed +away the bitter tears at night after parting as the coach sped on the +journey to school and London; that looked out with beating heart as the +milestones flew by, for the welcome corner where began home and holidays. + +It is night now: and here is home. Gathered under the quiet roof elders +and children lie alike at rest. In the midst of a great peace and calm, +the stars look out from the heavens. The silence is peopled with the +past; sorrowful remorses for sins and shortcomings—memories of passionate +joys and griefs rise out of their graves, both now alike calm and sad. +Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me, that have long ceased to shine. The +town and the fair landscape sleep under the starlight, wreathed in the +autumn mists. Twinkling among the houses a light keeps watch here and +there, in what may be a sick chamber or two. The clock tolls sweetly in +the silent air. Here is night and rest. An awful sense of thanks makes +the heart swell, and the head bow, as I pass to my room through the +sleeping house, and feel as though a hushed blessing were upon it. + + + + +ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS TREE + + +THE kindly Christmas tree, from which I trust every gentle reader has +pulled out a bonbon or two, is yet all aflame whilst I am writing, and +sparkles with the sweet fruits of its season. You young ladies, may you +have plucked pretty giftlings from it; and out of the cracker sugar-plum +which you have split with the captain or the sweet young curate may you +have read one of those delicious conundrums which the confectioners +introduce into the sweetmeats, and which apply to the cunning passion of +love. Those riddles are to be read at _your_ age, when I daresay they +are amusing. As for Dolly, Merry, and Bell, who are standing at the +tree, they don’t care about the love-riddle part, but understand the +sweet-almoned portion very well. They are four, five, six years old. +Patience, little people! A dozen merry Christmases more, and you will be +reading those wonderful love-conundrums, too. As for us elderly folks, +we watch the babies at their sport, and the young people pulling at the +branches: and instead of finding bonbons or sweeties in the packets which +we pluck off the boughs, we find enclosed Mr Carnifex’s review of the +quarter’s meat; Mr Sartor’s compliments, and little statement for self +and the young gentlemen; and Madame de Sainte-Crinoline’s respects to the +young ladies, who encloses her account, and will sent on Saturday, +please; or we stretch our hand out to the educational branch of the +Christmas tree, and there find a lively and amusing article from the Rev. +Henry Holyshade, containing our dear Tommy’s exceedingly moderate account +for the last term’s school expenses. + +The tree yet sparkles, I say. I am writing on the day before Twelfth +Day, if you must know; but already ever so many of the fruits have been +pulled, and the Christmas lights have gone out. Bobby Miseltow, who has +been staying with us for a week (and who has been sleeping mysteriously +in the bath-room), comes to say he is going away to spend the rest of the +holidays with his grandmother—and I brush away the manly tear of regret +as I part with the dear child. “Well, Bob, good-bye, since you _will_ +go. Compliments to grandmamma. Thank her for the turkey. Here’s —” +(_A slight pecuniary transaction takes place at this juncture_, _and Bob +nods and winks_, _and puts his hand in his waistcoat pocket_.) “You have +had a pleasant week?” + +BOB.—“Haven’t I!” (_And exit_, _anxious to know the amount of the coin +which has just changed hands_.) + +He is gone, and as the dear boy vanishes through the door (behind which I +see him perfectly), I too cast up a little account of our past Christmas +week. When Bob’s holidays are over, and the printer has sent me back +this manuscript, I know Christmas will be an old story. All the fruit +will be off the Christmas tree then; the crackers will have cracked off; +the almonds will have been crunched; and the sweet-bitter riddles will +have been read; the lights will have perished off the dark green boughs; +the toys growing on them will have been distributed, fought for, +cherished, neglected, broken. Ferdinand and Fidelia will each keep out +of it (be still, my gushing heart!) the remembrance of a riddle read +together, of a double almond munched together, and of the moiety of an +exploded cracker. . . . The maids, I say, will have taken down all that +holly stuff and nonsense about the clocks, lamps, and looking-glasses, +the dear boys will be back at school, fondly thinking of the pantomime +fairies whom they have seen; whose gaudy gossamer wings are battered by +this time; and whose pink cotton (or silk is it?) lower extremities are +all dingy and dusty. Yet but a few days, Bob, and flakes of paint will +have cracked off the fairy flower-bowers, and the revolving temples of +adamantine lustre will be as shabby as the city of Pekin. When you read +this, will Clown still be going on lolling his tongue out of his mouth, +and saying, “How are you to-morrow?” To-morrow, indeed! He must be +almost ashamed of himself (if that cheek is still capable of the blush of +shame) for asking the absurd question. To-morrow, indeed! To-morrow the +diffugient snows will give place to spring; the snowdrops will lift their +heads; Ladyday may be expected, and the pecuniary duties peculiar to that +feast; in place of bonbons, trees will have an eruption of light green +knobs; the whitebait season will bloom . . . as if one need go on +describing these vernal phenomena, when Christmas is still here, though +ending, and the subject of my discourse! + +We have all admired the illustrated papers, and noted how boisterously +jolly they become at Christmas time. What wassail-bowls, +robin-redbreasts, waits, snow landscapes, bursts of Christmas song! And +then to think that these festivities are prepared months before—that +these Christmas pieces are prophetic! How kind of artists and poets to +devise the festivities beforehand, and serve them pat at the proper time! +We ought to be grateful to them, as to the cook who gets up at midnight +and sets the pudding a-boiling, which is to feast us at six o’clock. I +often think with gratitude of the famous Mr Nelson Lee—the author of I +don’t know how many hundred glorious pantomimes—walking by the summer +wave at Margate, or Brighton perhaps, revolving in his mind the idea of +some new gorgeous spectacle of faëry, which the winter shall see +complete. He is like cook at midnight (_si parva licet_). He watches +and thinks. He pounds the sparkling sugar of benevolence, the plums of +fancy, the sweetmeats of fun, the figs of—well, the figs of fairy +fiction, let us say, and pops the whole in the seething cauldron of +imagination, and at due season serves up the PANTOMIME. + +Very few men in the course of nature can expect to see _all_ the +pantomimes in one season, but I hope to the end of my life I shall never +forego reading about them in that delicious sheet of _The Times_ which +appears on the morning after Boxing-day. Perhaps reading is even better +than seeing. The best way, I think, is to say you are ill, lie in bed, +and have the paper for two hours, reading all the way down from Drury +Lane to the Britannia at Hoxton. Bob and I went to two pantomimes. One +was at the Theatre of Fancy, and the other at the Fairy Opera, and I +don’t know which we liked the best. + +At the Fancy, we saw “Harlequin Hamlet, or Daddy’s Ghost and Nunky’s +Pison,” which is all very well—but, gentlemen, if you don’t respect +Shakspeare, to whom will you be civil? The palace and ramparts of +Elsinore by moon and snowlight is one of Loutherbourg’s finest efforts. +The banqueting hall of the palace is illuminated: the peaks and gables +glitter with the snow: the sentinels march blowing their fingers with the +cold—the freezing of the nose of one of them is very neatly and +dexterously arranged: the snow storm rises: the winds howl awfully along +the battlements: the waves come curling, leaping, foaming to shore. +Hamlet’s umbrella is whirled away in the storm. He and his two friends +stamp on each other’s toes to keep them warm. The storm-spirits rise in +the air, and are whirled howling round the palace and the rocks. My +eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots fly hurtling through the air! As the +storm reaches its height (here the wind instruments come in with +prodigious effect, and I compliment Mr Brumby and the violoncellos)—as +the snow storm rises (queek, queek, queek, go the fiddles, and then +thrumpty thrump comes a pizzicato movement in Bob Major, which sends a +shiver into your very boot-soles), the thunder-clouds deepen (bong, bong, +bong, from the violoncellos). The forked lightning quivers through the +clouds in a zig-zag scream of violins—and look, look, look! as the +frothing, roaring waves come rushing up the battlements, and over the +reeling parapet, each hissing wave becomes a ghost, sends the +gun-carriages rolling over the platform, and plunges into the water +again. + +Hamlet’s mother comes on to the battlements to look for her son. The +storm whips her umbrella out of her hands, and she retires screaming in +pattens. + +The cabs on the stand in the great market-place at Elsinore are seen to +drive off, and several people are drowned. The gas-lamps along the +street are wrenched from their foundations, and shoot through the +troubled air. Whist, rush, hish! how the rain roars and pours! The +darkness becomes awful, always deepened by the power of the music—and +see—in the midst of a rush, and whirl, and scream of spirits of air and +wave—what is that ghastly figure moving hither? It becomes bigger, +bigger, as it advances down the platform—more ghastly, more horrible, +enormous! It is as tall as the whole stage. It seems to be advancing on +the stalls and pit, and the whole house screams with terror, as the Ghost +of THE LATE HAMLET comes in, and begins to speak. Several people faint, +and the light-fingered gentry pick pockets furiously in the darkness. + +In the pitchy darkness, this awful figure throwing his eyes about, the +gas in the boxes shuddering out of sight, and the wind-instruments +bugling the most horrible wails, the boldest spectator must have felt +frightened. But hark! what is that silver shimmer of the fiddles? Is +it—can it be—the grey dawn peeping in the stormy east? The ghost’s eyes +look blankly towards it, and roll a ghastly agony. Quicker, quicker ply +the violins of Phoebus Apollo. Redder, redder grow the orient clouds. +Cockadoodledoo! crows that great cock which has just come out on the roof +of the palace. And now the round sun himself pops up from behind the +waves of night. Where is the ghost? He is gone! Purple shadows of morn +“slant o’er the snowy sward,” the city wakes up in life and sunshine, and +we confess we are very much relieved at the disappearance of the ghost. +We don’t like those dark scenes in pantomimes. + +After the usual business, that Ophelia should be turned into Columbine +was to be expected; but I confess I was a little shocked when Hamlet’s +mother became Pantaloon, and was instantly knocked down by Clown +Claudius. Grimaldi is getting a little old now, but for real humour +there are few clowns like him. Mr Shuter, as the gravedigger, was chaste +and comic, as he always is, and the scene-painters surpassed themselves. + +“Harlequin Conqueror and the Field of Hastings,” at the other house, is +very pleasant too. The irascible William is acted with great vigour by +Snoxall, and the battle of Hastings is a good piece of burlesque. Some +trifling liberties are taken with history, but what liberties will not +the merry genius of pantomime permit himself? At the battle of Hastings, +William is on the point of being defeated by the Sussex volunteers, very +elegantly led by the always pretty Miss Waddy (as Haco Sharpshooter), +when a shot from the Normans kills Harold. The Fairy Edith hereupon +comes forward, and finds his body, which straightway leaps up a live +harlequin, whilst the Conqueror makes an excellent clown, and the +Archbishop of Bayeux a diverting pantaloon, &c. &c. &c. + +Perhaps these are not the pantomimes we really saw; but one description +will do as well as another. The plots, you see, are a little intricate +and difficult to understand in pantomimes; and I may have mixed up one +with another. That I was at the theatre on Boxing-night is certain—but +the pit was so full that I could only see fairy legs glittering in the +distance, as I stood at the door. And if I was badly off, I think there +was a young gentleman behind me worse off still. I own that he has good +reason (though others have not) to speak ill of me behind my back, and +hereby beg his pardon. + +Likewise to the gentleman who picked up a party in Piccadilly, who had +slipped and fallen in the snow, and was there on his back, uttering +energetic expressions: that party begs to offer thanks, and compliments +of the season. + +Bob’s behaviour on New Year’s day, I can assure Dr Holyshade, was highly +creditable to the boy. He had expressed a determination to partake of +every dish which was put on the table; but after soup, fish, roast-beef, +and roast-goose, he retired from active business until the pudding and +mince-pies made their appearance, of which he partook liberally, but not +too freely. And he greatly advanced in my good opinion by praising the +punch, which was of my own manufacture, and which some gentlemen present +(Mr O’M—g—n, amongst others) pronounced to be too weak. Too weak! A +bottle of rum, a bottle of Madeira, half a bottle of brandy, and two +bottles and a half of water—_can_ this mixture be said to be too weak for +any mortal? Our young friend amused the company during the evening, by +exhibiting a two-shilling magic-lantern, which he had purchased, and +likewise by singing “Sally, come up!” a quaint, but rather monotonous +melody, which I am told is sung by the poor negro on the banks of the +broad Mississippi. + +What other enjoyments did we proffer for the child’s amusement during the +Christmas week? A great philosopher was giving a lecture to young folks +at the British Institution. But when this diversion was proposed to our +young friend Bob, he said, “Lecture? No, thank you. Not as I knows on,” +and made sarcastic signals on his nose. Perhaps he is of Dr Johnson’s +opinion about lectures: “Lectures, sir! what man would go to hear that +imperfectly at a lecture, which he can read at leisure in a book?” _I_ +never went, of my own choice, to a lecture; that I can vow. As for +sermons, they are different; I delight in them, and they cannot, of +course, be too long. + +Well, we partook of yet other Christmas delights besides pantomime, +pudding, and pie. One glorious, one delightful, one most unlucky and +pleasant day, we drove in a brougham, with a famous horse, which carried +us more quickly and briskly than any of your vulgar railways, over +Battersea Bridge, on which the horse’s hoofs rung as if it had been iron; +through suburban villages, plum-caked with snow; under a leaden sky, in +which the sun hung like a red-hot warming-pan; by pond after pond, where +not only men and boys, but scores after scores of women and girls, were +sliding, and roaring, and clapping their lean old sides with laughter, as +they tumbled down, and their hobnailed shoes flew up in the air; the air +frosty with a lilac haze, through which villas, and commons, and +churches, and plantations glimmered. We drive up the hill, Bob and I; we +make the last two miles in eleven minutes; we pass that poor, armless man +who sits there in the cold, following you with his eyes. I don’t give +anything, and Bob looks disappointed. We are set down neatly at the +gate, and a horse-holder opens the brougham door. I don’t give anything; +again disappointment on Bob’s part. I pay a shilling apiece, and we +enter into the glorious building, which is decorated for Christmas, and +straightway forgetfulness on Bob’s part of everything but that +magnificent scene. The enormous edifice is all decorated for Bob and +Christmas. The stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts, statues, +splendours, are all crowned for Christmas. The delicious negro is +singing his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob. He has scarcely +done, when, Tootarootatoo! Mr Punch is performing his surprising +actions, and hanging the beadle. The stalls are decorated. The +refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains “MULLED +CLARET” is written up in appetizing capitals. “Mulled Claret—oh, jolly! +How cold it is!” says Bob; I pass on. “It’s only three o’clock,” says +Bob. “No, only three,” I say meekly. “We dine at seven,” sighs Bob, +“and it’s so-o-o coo-old.” I still would take no hints. No claret, no +refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for Bob. At last I am +obliged to tell him all. Just before we left home, a little Christmas +bill popped in at the door and emptied my purse at the threshold. I +forgot all about the transaction, and had to borrow half-a-crown from +John Coachman to pay for our entrance into the palace of delight. _Now_ +you see, Bob, why I could not treat you on that second of January when we +drove to the palace together; when the girls and boys were sliding on the +ponds at Dulwich; when the darkling river was full of floating ice, and +the sun was like a warming-pan in the leaden sky. + +One more Christmas sight we had, of course; and that sight I think I like +as well as Bob himself at Christmas, and at all seasons. We went to a +certain garden of delight, where, whatever your cares are, I think you +can manage to forget some of them, and muse, and be not unhappy; to a +garden beginning with a Z, which is as lively as Noah’s ark; where the +fox has brought his brush, and the cock has brought his comb, and the +elephant has brought his trunk, and the kangaroo has brought his bag, and +the condor his old white wig and black satin hood. On this day it was so +cold that the white bears winked their pink eyes, as they plapped up and +down by their pool, and seemed to say, “Aha, this weather reminds us of +dear home!” “Cold! bah! I have got such a warm coat,” says brother +Bruin, “I don’t mind”; and he laughs on his pole, and clucks down a bun. +The squealing hyænas gnashed their teeth and laughed at us quite +refreshingly at their window; and, cold as it was, Tiger, Tiger, burning +bright, glared at us red-hot through his bars, and snorted blasts of +hell. The woolly camel leered at us quite kindly as he paced round his +ring on his silent pads. We went to our favourite places. Our dear +wambat came up, and had himself scratched very affably. Our +fellow-creatures in the monkey room held out their little black hands, +and piteously asked us for Christmas alms. Those darling alligators on +their rock winked at us in the most friendly way. The solemn eagles sat +alone, and scowled at us from their peaks; whilst little Tom Ratel +tumbled over head and heels for us in his usual diverting manner. If I +have cares in my mind, I come to the Zoo, and fancy they don’t pass the +gate. I recognise my friends, my enemies, in countless cages. I +entertained the eagle, the vulture, the old billy-goat, and the +black-pated, crimson-necked, blear-eyed, baggy, hook-beaked old marabou +stork yesterday at dinner; and when Bob’s aunt came to tea in the +evening, and asked him what he had seen, he stepped up to her gravely, +and said— + + “First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black, + Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back. + + _Chorus of Children_. + + Then I saw the camel with a HUMP upon his back! + + Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw; + Then I saw the wambat waddle in the straw; + Then I saw the elephant with his waving trunk, + Then I saw the monkeys—mercy, how unpleasantly they—smelt!” + +There. No one can beat that piece of wit, can he Bob? And so it is +over; but we had a jolly time, whilst you were with us, hadn’t we? +Present my respects to the doctor; and I hope, my boy, we may spend +another merry Christmas next year. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME ROUNDABOUT PAPERS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1462-0.txt or 1462-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/1462 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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