66 "A negro has a soul, your honour!" said and if it escaped the fiery ordeal, it was well. Corporal Trim, putting the right foot of his But who shall control the strong desires of postulate forward, but in an undecided atti- youth! I remember, too, the candle secretly tude, as if he doubted whether his position purchased out of my limited penny of pocketwere tenable. My uncle Toby ran through money; the early stealing to bed; the stealthy in his memory all the regimental orders from lighting of the flaming minister' to my midthe siege of Troy to that of Namur, and re- night vigil; the unseen and undisturbed readmembering nothing therein to the contrary, ing of this very book deep into the hours of came to the Christian conclusion, that a negro night and the late waking, and pallid look, had a soul. And why not an innkeeper- the effects of my untimely watching. I reespecially if a woman? My prejudice is to member, too, how nearly my secret was discolet against that abused class of hosts and hos-vered; for laughing too loudly over the merry tesses to be sure, it was formed on an ac- miseries of poor parson Adams, the thin wainquaintance with those only on the Bath road: scot betrayed me; I remember, ere I had they may not require souls, as their guests are breathed thrice, the sound of a stealing foot chiefly fashionable people. Here is a woman heard approaching my bed-room door-the 'with a tall man's height,' humbly stationed light out in an instant-the book thrust deep beside one of the highways of life-and stunned down under the bed-clothes, and how I was and distracted with the stir and bustle of the heard snoring so somnolently, that I should goers to and the comers from the shrine of the have deceived Somnus himself." great Baal, who has yet contrived to keep her "Ecod, you did'm capital !" heart from hardening, and her soul in whiter "Eh? what!-what, have you been eavessimplicity, in a common inn, than the shrink-dropping at my elbow all this time, you Titus ing and secluded nun shut up from the world Oates of a traitor ?" in a convent! There is indeed a soul of goodness in things evil!-an inborn grace, which the world cannot give, and cannot take away. Else how should this poor woman have that which so many minds, so much safer placed to preserve their freshness and native worth, have altogether lost and live without ?-One haif the vices of the world are only acts of conformity with the prejudices of the world. Give a man an ill name, and he wears it as if it were a virtue and proper to him, and keeps up the tone of his depravity with a due sense of its decorum-its keeping, and colour, and costume. When will the world learn better? Oh, thou worst and vilest weed in the beautiful fields of human thought-Prejudice,-grow not in any path of mine, for I will trample thee down to the earth which thou disgracest and must defile!-But Thinking is an idle waste of thought.' Waiter.'" "Zur." "What, Cyclops again! But that's a prejudice too. Have you an entertaining book in the house?" "Missuz have, I dare to zay, zur." "Bring it then, my good fellow. A change of thought to the mind, like a change of air to the body, refreshes, invigorates, and cheers." "Here be one, zur." "Aye, this will do nothing so well. Joseph Andrews! Good, good! Blessings be on thee, inimitable Fielding ! -for many a lingering hour hast thou shortened, and many a heavy heart hast thou lightened. See, the book opens of itself at a page which a man must be fathoms five in the Slough of Despond if he read it with a grave face and a lack-lustre eye! World, I bid you good den!-for here will I forget you as you are, and re-peruse you as you were ... Ah! I remember well my first acquaintance with Joseph Andrews. I was then a very serious yet very happy boy, -any book was a treasure, but a stolen perusal of one like this was a pleasure beyond all price, and worth all risks; for works like this were among the profanities from which I was carefully debarred :-mistaken zeal! If discovered in my hands, it was snatched away; 66 Yeez, zur, you didn't tell I to go." "Vanish, then, good bottle imp!-And Who knocks? "Do you mean to sleep here to night, "I thought you did, as it is so late." long?" Have I been reading so "It is very true, sir." that a slight attack of it is to be subdued by four of those communicative monuments taken in the morning before breakfast, and four at night following supper; a severe one, by twenty ditto, in two portions or potions, washed down by three pints of sherry, and kept down by two mutton chops and shalots, and two volumes of Joseph Andrews,-a prescription of more virtue than all which have been written from old Paracelsus's days to Dr. Paris's." Well, sir, you certainly are not the gentleman you came in, and I am glad to see it. Here is your bill, and if you will run the risks of the road at this late hour, I can only wish you safe home, and a long continuance of your present good spirits." "Thank you, Mrs. Furlong, thank you! And if I come this way again, I shall certainly, as the poet says, " Stop at the widow's to drink." So good night, madam. Once more, good night Blessings be on every foot of Mrs. Furlong-that best of physicians; for SHE HAS CURED ME OF MYSELF!" OR, LOVE'S A. B. C. The work will be produced in a very superior manner, and on its conclusion will form the most elegant Christmas Annual art can produce. Full particulars will be announced next week, and specimens issued immediately. Glover, publisher, London. Published for JAMES GLOVER, at Water-lane, John Cunningham, Printer, Crowa-court, 72, Fleet-street. "UBI MEL, IBI MUSCA." No. 27-NEW SERIES.] SATURDAY, JULY 6. [TWOPENCE. Every purchaser of this number of "THE FLY," is entitled to an exquisitely-executed Lithographic PRINT, "Going to Service," which is presented gratuitously.-[A similar print with every number.] MARIANNE CHIMOT, (FOR THE "FLY.") The house of Master Capron, an old bachelor, retired from the practice of pharmacy some thirty years since, was, as he delighted to say with a sort of pride, the house best regalated in all Cambray. The reason was that the house of M. Capron found itself governed by the most perfect type of housekeepers, old Marianne Chimot. Nearly, but not quite, as old as her septagenarian master, the worthy spinster preserved together her active habits, and the necessity, as she deemed it, of everlasting cleaning-innate, I believe, among the Flemings. Marianne might be seen at daybreak, her arms bare to the elbows, a broom in one hand, and a pail of water in the other, copiously sluicing the floors of terra cota (of which for the most part the dwellings of Cambray are composed), giving them all their gay and primitive redness. By this operation, we must say, Marianne Chimot introduced a good deal of damp into the house, but in return she obliged the visitors to dry their feet three or four times on mats and rugs, spread at the entrance of each apartment; and when they omitted these important preliminaries, she would say to them with more or less politeness, according to their station, as it happened to be, " Pray wipe your feet, you please." After the red flags or pantiles came the furniture, which the indefatigable Marianne cleaned, waxed, coaxed, and made so shining as to tempt you to use certain pieces of it as a looking-glass. Then, when the window curtains were shook and put again into their plaits, when once the hearth was swept, the fire lighted, the carpet and drugget replaced, when once in fact all was in order, Marianne crossed her arms, and cast round her a look at once inquisitorial and satisfied. After being sure that nothing was at if A quarter of an hour after Marianne would descend, dressed in her bodice, decked up with a lively freshness and prim decorum. A cap of fine batiste, quilled in little plaits, covered her hair, carefully powdered, such being the mode of that period, and then she addressed herself without more ado to making the chocolate, which formed the daily breakfast of M. Capron. Nine o'clock usually struck by the village clock when Marianne, the cup of chocolate in her hand, entered the sleeping-room of her master. "Bon jour, M. Capron, have you slept well ?" said she, in the complaisant tone of a person content with herself, and the work she had got through since her rising. At these words the ex-apothecary partly rose from the bottom of the pillow, where he had been buried, a large figure redolent of fat and good humour. "I have slept well, Marianne-indeed, very well;" and his nostrils dilated with the exquisite perfume of the chocolate, and his hands, agitated by a slight emotion, were extended towards the enormous cup which Marianne Chimot presented to him. While he breakfasted, Marianne opened the window shutters, extinguished the night-lamp, blew up the smouldering embers, and laid at the foot of the bed a wadded robe de chambre, and his slippers of crimson velvet, which she had herself embroidered with gold. After his cup was empty, and Marianne standing near the bed had taken it from his hands, M. Capron quietly laid down his head upon the triple pillows at the bed's head, fetching a deep John Cunningham, Printer, Crown-court, Fleet-street. sigh, like a man who respires largely after eating a little too quickly. "What news in the village, Marianne ?" said he. Marianne, meanwhile, furbishing up, and smoothing, and brushing about the room, detailed the little gossip of the place, with which she much amused the old apothecary, This sort of prattle usually lasted till near ten o'clock. "Ah! mon doux Jesus! ten o'clock. Come, M. Capron, we must make haste and dress you, or there will be nothing left in the market." Then the old apothecary sighed again, but this time it was one of resignation, as if protesting against the tyranny of Marianne, who obliged him so cruelly to rouse himself up. Still he submitted to pass his hands into the sleeves of his gown, and thrust his large feet into the soft and warm slippers of which we have already made mention. This finished, and as if he had gone through a prodigious fatigue, he let himself easily down into a capacious arm-chair with side pillows, which the all-careful Marianne had well toasted by the fire. After being well satisfied that nothing more was wanting by her master during the short absence she was going to make, Marianne took her mantelet and departed. Marianne had made all her marketing, and by a quarter past eleven is returned in good time to skim her pot au feu, which now boils and bubbles with great impatience, and has been partner with the hob since seven in the morning. She mounts up to her room, undresses, puts on her kitchen habiliments, and prepares her master's dinner. During this time M. Capron, his feet resting on the andiron, reads a treatise on pharmacy, laying down his book from time to time to inhale the beatifying vapour which escaped from the kitchen, and made its way into his chamber. 66 Marianne, child, what have we got for dinner ?" said M. Capron, raising his voice. 66 What, snipes! Indeed, Marianne," replied the apothecary, his mouth watering as if already he was devouring them in imagination. "Aye, snipes, M. Capron, snipes as big as one's thumb-and fat and tender too." "And what have we besides, my child ?" "A slice of fresh salmon." "Fresh salmon! did you say fresh salmon, Marianne ?" repeated the old gourmand, laughing and almost crying with joy. And for dessert an almond cake, for I know you are fond of an almond cake." "You are a brave and worthy girl, Marianne; you are a faithful and well-tried servant, the joy and comfort of my life in this nether world. And at what o'clock shall we dine, Marianne ?" "You well know, M. Capron-at the usual hour; at one precisely," replied Marianne, a little disconcerted, and with a sort of wounded pride. (To be continued.) LINES. Adieu to the sports of the green, Which no longer have charms in my sight, Now my Ella has fled from the scene, And with her all joy and delight. See the jessamine bower which I made, And the floweret which she planted there, How they wither and hang down their heads, With grief for the loss of my fair. On the moss-covered banks of yon rill, She would sing of true love, and would sigh, And would blush with confusion replete, When I caught a soft glance from her eye. The maid, sure, possessed every charm, Which the heart could express or desire, ON A CHILD. Adieu, sweet innocent, adieu ! Thou'rt gone 'tis doubtless whither, Thy artless charms still I must mourn Though lost to me for ever. In silent adoration oft, When in thy lamblike play, I've viewed parentally, and thought When time should make me grey, Thou'dst be the comfort of my age, And all I wished to see; But hopeless now am I dear maid, All-all is fled with thee. WATERLOO BANQUET SONG.* (FROM THE 66 BRITANNIA.") And war-crown'd Wellington to-night That crown the feast to night! The banquet board! It's massive gold The meanest trifles there are of The world's most precious things; The right! Old England ever fought The right against the wrong! Now for their feast of conquest! lo! Spreads forth her golden wings! And, oh! what thrilling tumult fills A toast goes round; their iron lungs "Hurrah! we are the happy men Britannia brightens all her soul, And perfects here her bliss! When war-crown'd Wellington in pride The feast of Waterloo ! * Suggested by a sight of Mr. Salter's imposing picture of this splendid feast, in progress of publication by Mr. Moon. The superb service of Dresden porcelain on which the battles are painted. JACK GRAB AND THE PIG. Before entering upon his new speculation, he spent much time in ascertaining the price of pork and bacon; reckoned to a farthing what he should gain by selling it out and out to the butcher, or curing it himself, and disposing of a ham here and a flitch there; nor did he ever dream of putting a morsel to his own lips. Day after day, and week after week, did he scour the country in search of a cheap pig; hoarding up, in the mean time, rubbish enough to feed it for a month. He wandered as far as the next town every market-day, and was once or twice within a shilling of making a bargain; and one morning he saw a farmer purchase a whole litter of pigs saving one, and, to the amazement of Grab, it was the largest that he left behind. Grab took a close survey of the grunter before he ventured to ask the price, and also looked narrowly into the face of the man, for he had before been threatened with divers kickings for bidding so much below the sum named. "What may you be asking for that little thin pig?" inquired he at length. "Do you want to buy?" said the pig. jobber, in his turn eyeing Jack from head to foot, as if he doubted whether such a "thing of shreds and patches" possessed a sum of money sufficient for the purchase. "That all depends upon what you may ask," answered the ever-cautious Grab. "I have had some thoughts of keeping one, you see, when I could meet with it cheap; but I'm in no hurry-no hurry; only I thought, as it was the last, you might ask very reasonable for it. What is the very lowest you mean to take now-at a word ?"" "Well, then, at a word, twelve shillings," replied the pig-jobber; "and, if you understand pigs at all, you must know that's very cheap." Grab looked at the man, then at the pig, then at the ground; he saw a rusty nail, but did not stoop to pick it up; he could afford to miss a nail for once, for he knew that the pig was very cheap; he had been asked eighteen shillings for one much less, and had even bid fifteen. "Will he eat well ?" was the next inquiry "Eat!" exclaimed the countryman. "Ay, any manner of thing; there isn't a pig in the country with a better appetite. Bless you! when he was among the other pigs he used to root out all the tit-bits into one corner of the And shed heart, hope, and blood with those trough, and have them to himself-he's a Who fought in his command, And help'd to fight his famous fight, And officer'd his band! Battled the foes; the banners bore, To charge, defeat, pursue, Who won at Waterloo !" deep pig." |