Chapter 25 (4)

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no
whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as
the person just described, she had no right to complain of his
unnatural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a
dropsy; and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon
of October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by
her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly
round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of
peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before
mentioned in the case of the president—that is to say, only one
feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a
separate characterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately
observed that the same remark might have applied to each
individual person of the party; every one of whom seemed to
possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy.
With the lady in question this portion proved to be the mouth.
Commencing at the right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to
the left—the short pendants which she wore in either auricle
continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every
exertion to keep her mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress
consisting of a newly starched and ironed shroud coming up close
under her chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin.

At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared
to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of
her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the
slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion,
gave evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of
extreme _haut ton_, however, pervaded her whole appearance; she
wore in a graceful and _dégagé_ manner, a large and beautiful
winding-sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets
over her neck; a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose,
extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down
far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in
which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her
tongue, gave to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression.

Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was
seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks
reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders
of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg
deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to
some consideration. He evidently prided himself much upon every
inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial delight
in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say
the truth, must have cost him no little money, and was made to
fit him exceedingly well—being fashioned from one of the
curiously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those
glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are
customarily hung up, in some conspicuous place, upon the
dwellings of departed aristocracy.

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a
gentleman in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook,
in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called “the
horrors.” His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly
tied up by a bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in a
similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself too
freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution rendered
necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and
wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears,
nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine,
towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were
occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing
of a cork.

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly
stiff-looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis,
must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his
unaccommodating habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely,
in a new and handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece
pressed upon the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the
fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of
indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for
the sake not more of elegance than of convenience; but the dress,
nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from sitting as erect as
his associates; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at
an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle eyes rolled
up their awful whites towards the ceiling in absolute amazement
at their own enormity.

Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was used
as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by
means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring
in the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck
off from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and
rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of every
occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apartment.
In the cranium of this hideous thing lay quantity of ignited
charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire
scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of
an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against
the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street.

At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more
extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct
themselves with that degree of decorum which might have been
expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened
to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and
spread open his eyes to their fullest extent: while Hugh
Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a level
with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst
into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and
immoderate laughter.

Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively
rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the
intruders—nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of
sable plumes—and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a
seat which some others of the company had placed in the meantime
for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest
resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while the gallant
Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head
of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in
the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and
pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better
acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the
coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and serious consequences might
have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with
his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the
following speech:

“It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion—”

“Avast there!” interrupted Legs, looking very serious, “avast
there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and
what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and
swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my
honest shipmate, Will Wimble, the undertaker!”

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original
company half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid
succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the
attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to
recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great
dignity, recommenced:

“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the
part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then
that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with
undivided empire under the title of ‘King Pest the First.’

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the
shop of Will Wimble the undertaker—a man whom we know not, and
whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted
our royal ears—this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our
Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other
sacred and lofty purposes.

“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene
Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of
our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the
respective titles of ‘His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’—‘His
Grace the Duke Pest-Ilential’—‘His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest’—and
‘Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’

“As regards,” continued he, “your demand of the business upon
which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying
that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and regal
interest, and is in no manner important to any other than
ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests
and strangers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will
furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep
research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and
thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit—the incomprehensible
qualities and nature—of those inestimable treasures of the
palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis:
by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true
welfare of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all,
whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death’.”

“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the
lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second
for himself.

“Profane varlet!” said the president, now turning his attention
to the worthy Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch!—we have said,
that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy
person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended
to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We
nevertheless, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils,
believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a
gallon of Black Strap—having imbibed which to the prosperity of
our kingdom—at a single draught—and upon your bended knees—ye
shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or
remain and be admitted to the privileges of our table, according
to your respective and individual pleasures.”

“It would be a matter of utter impossibility,” replied Legs, whom
the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently
inspired some feelings of respect, and who arose and steadied
himself by the table as he spoke—“it would, please your majesty,
be a matter of utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even
one-fourth part of the same liquor which your majesty has just
mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on board in the
forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales
and liqueurs shipped this evening at different sea-ports, I have,
at present, a full cargo of ‘humming-stuff’ taken in and duly
paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly Tar.’ You will, therefore,
please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the
deed—for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow
another drop—least of all a drop of that villainous bilge-water
that answers to the name of ‘Black Strap.’”

“Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the
length of his companion’s speech than at the nature of his
refusal—“Belay that you lubber!—and I say, Legs, none of your
palaver! _My_ hull is still light, although I confess you
yourself seem to be a little top-heavy; and as for the matter of
your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would
find stowage-room for it myself, but—”

“This proceeding,” interposed the president, “is by no means in
accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in
its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The
conditions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and
that without a moment’s hesitation—in failure of which fulfilment
we decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and
duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer!”

“A sentence!—a sentence!—a righteous and just sentence!—a
glorious decree!—a most worthy and upright, and holy
condemnation!” shouted the Pest family altogether. The king
elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little
old man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding
sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton
drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a
dying fish; and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his
eyes.

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general
excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was
saying,” said he, “I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his
marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more
or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like
myself not overstowed—but when it comes to drinking the health of
the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow
bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I
know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but
Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player!—why! it’s quite another guess
sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my
comprehension.”

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the
name Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their name
seats.

“Treason!” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First.

“Treason!” said the little man with the gout.

“Treason!” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

“Treason!” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up.

“Treason!” growled he of the coffin.

“Treason! treason!” shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and,
seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate
Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull
of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall
without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale.
Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl
of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool
of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles
easily succeeded in creating.

Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture
of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the
valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and
strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the
skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so
much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light
died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the
brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with
all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and
Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out
burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so
overwhelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the
loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their
backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into
hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs,
pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the _mêlée_, and
wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The
man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff
gentleman floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs,
seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with
her into the street, and made a bee-line for the _Free and Easy_,
followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who,
having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him
with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK

“You hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand
uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my fist at him in imagination.

Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy _did_
exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the
courage to say—between what I did and what I had half a mind to
do.

The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting
with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his
paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.

Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!

“My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and
approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so
very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in
so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest
this little point to you once more to make sure of your full
acquiescence.”

“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”

“I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal!), that
you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with
Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very
pleasant you are at times.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”

“To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all
that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us
with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short,
when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding
shall—shall—come off, you know?”

“Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait
till it goes on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh,
that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want
just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time
precisely.”

“Ah!—precisely?”

“Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some
time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?”

“_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.”

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t
you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige
you for once.”

“Dear uncle!”

“Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You
shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the
plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it?
Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now
mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear
me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and
her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not
_till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for
it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he
swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in
despair.

A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my grand-uncle
Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points.
He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular
somebody, with a red nose, a thick skull, a long purse, and a
strong sense of his own consequence. With the best heart in the
world, he contrived, through a predominant whim of contradiction,
to earn for himself, among those who only knew him superficially,
the character of a curmudgeon. Like many excellent people, he
seemed possessed with a spirit of tantalization, which might
easily, at a casual glance, have been mistaken for malevolence.
To every request, a positive “No!” was his immediate answer; but
in the end—in the long, long end—there were exceedingly few
requests which he refused. Against all attacks upon his purse he
made the most sturdy defence; but the amount extorted from him,
at last, was generally in direct ratio with the length of the
siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one
gave more liberally or with a worse grace.

For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he
entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired
by Casimir Perier, whose pert little query “A quoi un poete est
il bon?” he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll
pronunciation, as the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own
inkling for the Muses had excited his entire displeasure. He
assured me one day, when I asked him for a new copy of Horace,
that the translation of “Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty
poet for nothing fit”—a remark which I took in high dudgeon. His
repugnance to “the humanities” had, also, much increased of late,
by an accidental bias in favor of what he supposed to be natural
science. Somebody had accosted him in the street, mistaking him
for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer
upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent; and just at
the epoch of this story—for story it is getting to be after
all—my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific only
upon points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the
hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and
legs, and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He
thought, with Horsley, that “the people have nothing to do with
the laws but to obey them.”

I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in
dying, had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the
old villain loved me as his own child—nearly if not quite as well
as he loved Kate—but it was a dog’s existence that he led me,
after all. From my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with
very regular floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me,
hourly, with the House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, not
a day passed in which he did not promise to cut me off with a
shilling. I was a sad dog, it is true—but then it was a part of
my nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm
friend, and I knew it. She was a good girl, and told me very
sweetly that I might have her (plum and all) whenever I could
badger my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the necessary consent.
Poor girl!—she was barely fifteen, and without this consent, her
little amount in the funds was not come-at-able until five
immeasurable summers had “dragged their slow length along.” What,
then, to do? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for I had now
passed my fifth olympiad) five years in prospect are very much
the same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman
with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs
Ude and Careme would say) which suited his perverse fancy to a T.
It would have stiffed the indignation of Job himself, to see how
much like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched little
mice. In his heart he wished for nothing more ardently than our
union. He had made up his mind to this all along. In fact, he
would have given ten thousand pounds from his own pocket (Kate’s
plum was her own) if he could have invented any thing like an
excuse for complying with our very natural wishes. But then we
had been so imprudent as to broach the subject ourselves. Not to
oppose it under such circumstances, I sincerely believe, was not
in his power.

I have said already that he had his weak points; but in speaking
of these, I must not be understood as referring to his obstinacy:
which was one of his strong points—“assurement ce n’ etait pas sa
foible.” When I mention his weakness I have allusion to a bizarre
old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was great in
dreams, portents, et id genus omne of rigmarole. He was
excessively punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and,
after his own fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This
was, in fact, one of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made
no scruple of setting at naught, but the letter was a bond
inviolable. Now it was this latter peculiarity in his
disposition, of which Kate’s ingenuity enabled us one fine day,
not long after our interview in the dining-room, to take a very
unexpected advantage, and, having thus, in the fashion of all
modern bards and orators, exhausted in prolegomena, all the time
at my command, and nearly all the room at my disposal, I will sum
up in a few words what constitutes the whole pith of the story.

It happened then—so the Fates ordered it—that among the naval
acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who had just
set foot upon the shores of England, after a year’s absence,
each, in foreign travel. In company with these gentlemen, my
cousin and I, preconcertedly paid uncle Rumgudgeon a visit on the
afternoon of Sunday, October the tenth,—just three weeks after
the memorable decision which had so cruelly defeated our hopes.
For about half an hour the conversation ran upon ordinary topics,
but at last, we contrived, quite naturally, to give it the
following turn:

CAPT. PRATT. “Well I have been absent just one year.—Just one
year to-day, as I live—let me see! yes!—this is October the
tenth. You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year to
bid you good-bye. And by the way, it does seem something like a
coincidence, does it not—that our friend, Captain Smitherton,
here, has been absent exactly a year also—a year to-day!”

SMITHERTON. “Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will remember,
Mr. Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on this very day,
last year, to pay my parting respects.”

UNCLE. “Yes, yes, yes—I remember it very well—very queer indeed!
Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coincidence,
indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denominate an
extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub—”

KATE. (Interrupting.) “To be sure, papa, it is something strange;
but then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn’t go
altogether the same route, and that makes a difference, you
know.”

UNCLE. “I don’t know any such thing, you huzzy! How should I? I
think it only makes the matter more remarkable, Doctor Dubble L.
Dee—”

KATE. “Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, and Captain
Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.”

UNCLE. “Precisely!—the one went east and the other went west, you
jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. By the by,
Doctor Dubble L. Dee—”

MYSELF. (Hurriedly.) “Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the
evening with us to-morrow—you and Smitherton—you can tell us all
about your voyage, and we’ll have a game of whist and—”

PRATT. “Wist, my dear fellow—you forget. To-morrow will be
Sunday. Some other evening—”

KATE. “Oh, no, fie!—Robert’s not quite so bad as that. To-day’s
Sunday.”

PRATT. “I beg both your pardons—but I can’t be so much mistaken.
I know to-morrow’s Sunday, because-”

SMITHERTON. (Much surprised.) “What are you all thinking about?
Wasn’t yesterday, Sunday, I should like to know?”

ALL. “Yesterday indeed! you are out!”

UNCLE. “To-day’s Sunday, I say—don’t I know?”

PRATT. “Oh no!—to-morrow’s Sunday.”

SMITHERTON. “You are all mad—every one of you. I am as positive
that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I sit upon this chair.”

KATE. (Jumping up eagerly.) “I see it—I see it all. Papa, this is
a judgment upon you, about—about you know what. Let me alone, and
I’ll explain it all in a minute. It’s a very simple thing,
indeed. Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sunday: so it
was; he is right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I say that to-day
is Sunday: so it is; we are right. Captain Pratt maintains that
to-morrow will be Sunday: so it will; he is right, too. The fact
is, we are all right, and thus three Sundays have come together
in a week.”

SMITHERTON. (After a pause.) “By the by, Pratt, Kate has us
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter
stands thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles
in circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon its own
axis—revolves—spins round—these twenty-four thousand miles of
extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four hours.
Do you understand, Mr. Rumgudgeon?—”

UNCLE. “To be sure—to be sure—Doctor Dub—”

SMITHERTON. (Drowning his voice.) “Well, sir; that is at the rate
of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from
this position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the
rising of the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun
rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction,
yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two
hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and
so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this
spot, when, having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I
anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than
twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day in advance of your
time. Understand, eh?”

UNCLE. “But Double L. Dee—”

SMITHERTON. (Speaking very loud.) “Captain Pratt, on the
contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this
position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four
thousand miles west, was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind
the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus,
with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will
be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively
clear that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical
reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference
over that of the other.”

UNCLE. “My eyes!—well, Kate—well, Bobby!—this is a judgment upon
me, as you say. But I am a man of my word—mark that! you shall
have her, boy, (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove!
Three Sundays all in a row! I’ll go, and take Dubble L. Dee’s
opinion upon that.”

VOLUME 4.

THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY

What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.

Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the
world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of
Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the
main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there
are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.
For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only
proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is
indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public
sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a
history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred
within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty
thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,
with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination
into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should
ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.

By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am
enabled to say, positively, that the borough of
Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely
the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of
this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that
species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at
times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The
date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its
antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
whatsoever.

Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I
confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude
of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,
some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which
ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege
Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro
Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the
summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not
choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,
and must refer the reader desirous of information to the
“Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,
also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,
Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;
wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of
Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,
there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always
existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the
borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion
of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the
village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a
mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,
over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For
this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe
there is anything at all on the other side.

Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved
throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty
little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,
of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards
from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small
garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and
twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely
alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.
Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is
somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,
red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board
upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there
are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves
and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with
very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,
is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a
trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of
Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two
objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly
well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever
they find room for the chisel.

The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture
is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs
and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy
feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only
time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real
time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the
time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach
with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the
dial-plate of a watch.

The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking
fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot
over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of
the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old
lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a
sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress
is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and
very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,
not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,
and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings
to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In
her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right
she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there
stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its
tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.

The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden
attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have
three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to
their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes
with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of
mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and
then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is
occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the
cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,
which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him
look as handsome as the cat.

Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed
chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is
seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly
puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge
double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is
somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like
them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To
say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch
to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits
with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,
and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon
a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.

This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town
Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,
intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and
have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger
than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my
sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,
and have adopted these three important resolutions:

“That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:”

“That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”
and—

“That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages.”

Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the
steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of
mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the
borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which
the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the
leather-bottomed arm-chairs.

The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of
the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its
faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There
is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty
is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the
matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a
thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of
antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have
been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the
borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When
the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its
obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and
responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond
of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.

All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less
respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the
most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of
any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,
and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.
His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other
old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only
double, but triple.

I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:
alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!

There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that
“no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that
the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It
wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when
there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the
ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a
leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of
dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the
clock in the steeple.

By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll
object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive
foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great
rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was
really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark
snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide
mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed
anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What
with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his
face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done
up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed
black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of
white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black
stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black
satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge
_chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times
as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from
which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of
fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the
greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a
sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!

To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an
audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right
into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited
no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day
would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric
handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous
indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a
fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the
remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his
steps.

The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to
get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a
minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the
midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and
then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged
himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town
Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a
state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at
once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big
_chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it
so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so
fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that
there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the
devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.

There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for
the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.
The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his
watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business
to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had
any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count
the strokes of the bell as it sounded.

“One!” said the clock.

“Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every
leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said
his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”
said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on
the tails of the cat and pig.

“Two!” continued the big bell; and

“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.

“Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell.

“Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the
others.

“Eleven!” said the big one.

“Eleben!” assented the little ones.

“Twelve!” said the bell.

“Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their
voices.

“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.

“Thirteen!” said he.

“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,
dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from
over their left knees.

“Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is
Dirteen o’clock!!”

Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of
uproar.

“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been
ongry for dis hour!”

“Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has
been done to rags for this hour!”

“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,
“Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and
they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in
their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the
whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.

Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it
seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing
in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture
took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the
mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and
kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking
and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.
But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up
any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to
their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,
scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and
running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is
possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters
still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the
steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now
and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the
smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was
lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the
bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising
such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On
his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all
time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the
nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”

Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in
disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and
fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore
the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting
that little fellow from the steeple.

LIONIZING

—— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.

I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
mastered before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
a half dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
with him into his study.

“My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
your existence?”

“My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”

“And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”

“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”

“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
nose?”

“A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”

“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]
“Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God
bless you!”

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.

“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.

“Great man!” said Bentley.

“Divine soul!” said Fraser.

“One of us!” said Blackwood.

“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

“What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.

“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.

“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.

“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

“What will you take for it?” asked the artist.

“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.

“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.

“A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.

“I do,” said I, blowing it well.

“Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.

“Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.

“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.

“None,” said I, turning it up.

“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
beauty of the manœuvre.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Precisely,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Just so,” said I.