Chapter XXII: , and Last (5)

Was it necessary for that lout of a fellow that passed, to kick the unoffending brute (which did not belong to him) from our steps, it showing, however, no resentment, but simply sitting and shivering a foot or two farther on? Then Tickler (who is of patrician descent), whose eyes had been for some time fixed wistfully upon his plebeian brother, could hold his peace no longer, but gave a loud, fierce, little bark, jumped down from his chair, and fawned whiningly on me; and when I took two nice chicken-bones from his plate under the sofa, and called the forlorn victim of man’s chance brutality into the hall, and gave him the bones, which he was for a while too cold, and also timid, to eat for fear of another kick,—Tickler stood by, not only without growl or bark, though he knew the victuals were his, but very complacently wagging his tail. He had pity for his poor brother, who seemed such a wretched little outcast! And as for the poor voracious creature before him, crouching guiltily as if he had done wrong in enjoying himself, we could hardly find it in our hearts to put him out again into the street. If he could have carried away sixpence to a tripe-shop, he should have had it to get a complete feast for once in his life. I think the incident made a deep impression on Tickler; for when he returned into the dining-room, he went again to the window, and sate for some time looking through it wistfully, and whining; and then jumped down, went under the sofa, and lay there for upwards of two hours, sighing several times, and without touching his victuals.

But, on proper occasions, Tickler could show a proper spirit. We have a cat; and if there be any force in the new saying, the right cat in the right place, Tickler was the dog to insist on its being observed; for if ever poor Tom presumed to steal up-stairs out of the kitchen (which, it must be owned, was his proper place), there was no end of uproar on the part of Tickler; though Tom would sometimes turn round, on his way down stairs, and, curving up his back, and showing his teeth, glare at his little tyrant with an expression that was perfectly fiendish; and tended, moreover, effectually to keep the right dog in the right place, viz. the dining-room, to which he would on these occasions retreat in good order, perhaps, not without needless delay. Thus Tickler had a notion of fitness.

He was also of a very contemplative character, shown by his long sittings on the chair nearest one of the windows—in fact, always the lefthand side window. He would sit on the chair, with his fore-paws resting on the top of it, and his mouth between them, calmly surveying so much of human nature as passed before our windows. It would have been strange, indeed, if he could have lived so long with us,—growing up with our children, and growing old alas! with ourselves,—without having endeared himself to us all in a hundred different ways, and becoming thoroughly familiar with our ways and habits. Can any one persuade me that the little fellow did not know 6.30 P.M. o’clock, at which hour I pretty regularly returned to dinner, when he used always to take his seat on his chair a quarter of an hour before that time, with his jet-black nose and watchful eyes pointed in the direction in which I always came; and when I approached the steps, he would leap down and bark like mad, till the dining-room door was opened,—and then the front door? And how he jumped up against my legs, when I entered, and scampered wildly to and fro! I know he liked me, and “no mistake,” as the Great Duke said. But besides this, I am morally certain that he always knew the Sunday morning. Even as early as breakfast-time, he was grave and restrained, looking as though he knew that there was something or other in the wind; and when we severally went out, he made no indecent and clamorous attempts to accompany any of us, but lay looking solemnly at us, as we respectively took our departure—and as soon as we had all gone, he invariably went up to his bed, which was under our own, never stirring till we returned; and who shall tell what he was thinking of on such occasions? Did he sleep, dream? That he does dream, no one knows better than I; for he talks—I beg pardon, barks—in his sleep almost every night, often waking me from my own dreams. But what has particularly pleased me in Tickler is, that when I sit up after everybody else is gone to bed, he has, for years, voluntarily remained with me, however long I may remain. I wheel an easy-chair (my wife’s) towards the fire as soon as we are left alone, he waiting for it quite as a matter of course, and jumping into it, immediately turning round, slowly and thoughtfully, three or four times, and then settling down into what he at length, I presume, conceives to be a comfortable position—his mouth resting on his paws, and his eyes fixed on me, till he falls asleep, with one eye open. Bless his little soul (for _something_ of that sort he assuredly has)—how well I recollect one night, soon after Madame and the young ones had retired, taking out of my pocket a hard-hearted and insulting letter received during the day—laying it down after reading it, with a sigh, and then gazing affectionately at my faithful Tickler, whose watchful eyes were fixed all the while on me! Ay, my little friend! this would try _your_ temper; but dogs are mercifully spared such anxieties, although you have your own sensibilities! In a long series of years, I have sate up many hours engaged on my great work, in seventeen folio volumes, entitled, _The Essence of Everything from the Beginning_; and if it please Heaven to spare my life to finish it, I undertake that it shall finish the reader. Well, it has been such a comfort to me, night after night, every now and then to watch Tickler watching me, as I cannot describe; and I do believe he has contributed, whether consciously or unconsciously, to divers fine ideas of mine—at least I think them fine, and tranquilly await the judgment of the critics, or such of them as shall survive to see my great work, and, above all, survive the reading of it. How snug he has made me feel, with my huge easy-chair exactly opposite his smaller one (which is my wife’s till she goes to bed), my table and one or two chairs covered with books, the crimson curtain drawn close, and the fire crackling briskly; many and many a time have I been inwardly tickled by seeing and hear him dreaming, his breathing quickened, and his bark short and eager, but suppressed. I am certain that he sometimes has nightmare! How pleasantly we used thus to keep one another company in the winter nights! When my work was over, often not till two and even three o’clock in the morning, Tickler had notice thereof by the act of shutting up my desk, till which moment he never stirred; but that done, and before I had extinguished my candles, he descended from his chair in a leisurely way, and yawned and stretched himself; I often holding him up by his tail, just to let him feel that all was right, and that he was really awake. Then we both crept up-stairs to bed, as quietly as possible, lest we should disturb the sleeping folk. And if I should happen to have to go down stairs again to look at a book, or bring up my watch left on the table, Tickler seemed to feel it his duty to get out of his snug bed, and come pattering softly down stairs at my heels.

He was almost as vivacious as ever, though twelve summers had passed over him at the period of that serious adventure which is presently to be laid before the admiring reader. But no amount of vitality has sufficed to prevent Mr Tickler’s face getting white; so that, when he is in his lively humours, he suggests to my mind the funny face of a frolicsome little elderly man, or a dog who had plunged his nose into a flour-bag. I took him with me last autumn to a place which I described, but without specifying, as may be seen in the October and November numbers of Maga,[12] and the trip did him a world of good. Do you recollect something that befell me there? viz., that I lost him for a while, to my grievous discomfiture and painful exertion—finding at last that the sweet little rogue was not lost at all, but squatting comfortably on our drawing-room sofa? How little I dreamed, however, that this might be deemed the shadow cast before, of a coming event—a loss of Tickler!! in right earnest? Only the very midnight before this startling occurrence he was sitting in his old place, about twelve o’clock, opposite to me and the table, whereon lay a portion of the stupendous accumulation of MSS., through which I was patiently distilling off _The Essence of Everything_. I got up from my seat and yawned with a sense of weariness, when he did the very same thing, and thereby attracted my attention to him. So I sate down beside him, and, tickling his ears, said, “Ah, you little runaway! A pretty wild-goose chase you led me at——!” on which he wagged his tail, and smiled: but no one can tell a dog’s smile that has not studied his countenance as I have Tickler’s. The next morning I lost him in right earnest—in dreary earnest! He left our house at 10 A.M. on Monday the 4th December, in company with a steady middle-aged servant, almost as much attached to him as we were ourselves, and who had come down on an errand to me—but having left with Tickler, he arrived at the place where I pass most of my day-time, without his better half. “I thought,” said I, on my arrival, and finding him sitting in the ante-room, “that you were to bring Tickler with you, for a walk?”

“So I did, sir, but I’ve lost un, sir, I’m afraid,” he replied stolidly.

“Lost Tickler!” I echoed in consternation.

“Yes, sir. Missed un in a moment, like, and couldn’t vind un anywhere!”

“Why, when did you leave our house, sir?”

“Just as the clock struck ten.”

“And now it’s not quite half-past!! What upon earth were you about not to stop and look for him?”—Suffice it to say, that he described himself as having suddenly missed Tickler, who had been following as usual close at his heels, when at only two streets’ distance from our house,—had consumed five minutes in looking for un—and then came quietly down without him, to me! He said he thought the dog might have returned home “of his-self! as he had done at ——!” I was disposed for a while to entertain a very particular view of this strange transaction, but in the mean time sternly despatched the delinquent back, at top speed, to acquaint our family with the loss of Tickler; and also sent a trusty messenger after him, in the forlorn hope that Tickler _might_ have returned home “of his-self.” Nothing of the kind; he was gone, poor little fellow, in earnest: and as he wore his collar, with my name and address in full engraved thereon, it was plain that unless he quickly made his appearance, he must have experienced the professional attentions of a very vigilant class of London practitioners. Every member of my family spent the rest of the day in scouring the neighbourhood, especially the more dubious (_i. e._, discreditable or suspicious) portions—but in vain. Our baker, whom Tickler used to visit on business every day, saw him walking past the shopwindow, alone, and at a leisurely pace, within about ten minutes of the time of my servant’s missing him—but supposed, as a matter of course, that he was in attendance upon some member of the family! Inquiries were made of all our tradespeople—only to be answered by exclamations—“What! Tickler gone? poor little thing, we loved him like a child!” “He can’t be far away—you’ll be sure to see him by nighttime, in particular as he had his collar with his master’s name;” “and, ma’am,” added one more sagacious than the rest, in a mysterious whisper—“if you don’t—why, in course! he’s been stole!” “He was the hamiablest of dogs—so petecler well bred!” “Oh, you see, Miss! he’ll be sure to come back!” Then we betook ourselves to the Police Station; where the courteous inspector, having listened to us, said, with a quiet oracular air, “He’s not far away; he’s taken of course for the reward, and as he had his collar on, they know where to find you when they choose. Is he an old or young dog?” “He’s in his thirteenth year!” “Oh, then, you’ll have him back very soon; the dog-stealers are knowing fellows, and he won’t do. But take my advice—advertise him in to-morrow’s _Times_, and offer only one pound reward, and be sure to add, no further reward will be offered.” This we did; and the next morning appeared the following public indication of our calamity, drawn up by my own masterly pen, and all out of my own head: “Dog Lost. One Sovereign Reward. On Monday the 4th inst., between —— and ——, a pepper-and-salt Skye terrier, answering to the name of Tickler. Collar round his neck with,” &c. “inscribed on it. To be brought to that address. No further reward will be offered.” Having dropped this our little line into the huge water of the _Times_ advertisement sheet, we awaited a nibble with such patience as we could command. But we got no nibble at all, and very dull our house seemed, without our merry and sagacious little Skye friend. Why, there was not a room in the house, or a chair or sofa in it, that did not remind us of him; and as for my wife’s little easy-chair opposite mine, when she had gone to bed, and was no longer succeeded by Tickler, I wheeled it into the corner of the room, and did not write at my _Essence_ with anything like my former satisfaction or spirit. The advertisement in the _Times_ had explained our disaster to all our friends; and no one called on us that did not ask, “Well, any news of Tickler?” or say, “Poor little fellow, how you must miss him!” At length an exceedingly knowing person came, and said, “Have you been to ——’s? You can’t do anything without him; he knows all the respectable dog-stealers in London, and enjoys their confidence.” So my wife and daughter went to him the next day; and following his advice (given after a minutely accurate description of Tickler), I inserted in the particular newspaper which he said was likely to be read by the parties concerned, the following advertisement, which no false modesty shall prevent my owning to be, in my opinion, a choice morsel of expressive pithiness: “TICKLER.—One sovereign reward, _and no more_, will be paid for the recovery of a pepper-and-salt Skye Terrier, answers to the above name, and lost near ——, on Monday the 4th instant. Had on a collar, with the words,” &c. &c. “In its 13th year, and many teeth gone. To be brought to the above address.” It grieved me thus to publish to the world poor Tickler’s age and infirmities; but needs must, when a certain Jehu drives:—and the way in which I vindicated my advertisement against the reclamations of all Tickler’s friends was the following: If I show the thieves that I am quite wide awake to the poor little dog’s age and infirmities, it may certainly be no news to those gentlemen, so experienced in those matters, but will, peradventure, add force to the three pregnant words in italics in the above advertisement, “_and no more_.” The more candid of my opponents said that there was something in this; but they held that I had, nevertheless, greatly hurt Tickler’s feelings, if ever he came to hear of it. The more long-headed of my friends went so far as to say, besides, that it was, after all, a toss-up whether I ever got him again!

Now comes a remarkable occurrence, and the reader may depend upon its being told him exactly as it occurred, viz., that on my returning to dinner, one day, a strange Skye terrier presented himself to me, on entering our dining-room. He had followed home two young ladies in the neighbourhood, who took him to be our dog, of the loss of whom they had heard. So they brought him to us; and on our saying that it was not Tickler, they left, followed by the stranger, but refused to allow him to enter their house. Now it was a blighty December afternoon, and this poor _Waif and Stray_ sate outside their door shivering in the cold: so our servants got leave to bring the poor thing into our house, to be taken care of as a sort of _locum-tenens_ of poor Tickler. The Stranger behaved so well, and had so many nice little tricks, that we all were satisfied he was a gentleman’s or lady’s dog, and we began, in spite of ourselves, to like him very fast: for his face reminded us of Tickler a good deal; but on a more narrow investigation of Stranger’s pretensions to our affections, it was discovered that he was not thorough-bred, as testified by the mottled roof of his mouth; and also in respect of his configuration, he seemed not like a canine homogeneity, but as it were two dogs joined together—or rather a Skye terrier’s head stuck on a rolled-up door-mat. Still we liked him, and called him Snap, to which distinguished name he soon learned to answer, to our considerable satisfaction, especially in respect of the younger folk. Still, he was by no means Tickler; and besides this, suppose any of us took him out for a walk, and the owner should claim his or her own in a disagreeable kind of way? and threaten to do by us as we should have been quite ready to do by those whom we believed to have been unconscientiously possessed of Tickler? These were delicate matters; and as they impinged on the dividing line between civil and criminal responsibility, what more natural or praiseworthy than that we should have recourse to our old friends at the Police Station? Those to whom we appealed, however, in this our little quandary, seemed qualified to be Under-Secretaries of State, in respect of a prodigious apparent sense of responsibility, and a certain flatulent incertitude. They humm’d and ha’d, and finally said that we had better do as we thought best, for that we must be too respectable to be supposed to be dog-stealers; however, they said they would send some one to us in the evening “to give us directions.” But by that time the following state of things had come to pass.

“O, papa!” said one of my children, on my knocking at the door in the evening, “news of Tickler!” “News of Tickler? Pho!” I exclaimed, half hopefully, however. “But there really is!—A man came here at six o’clock, and says that he really thinks he has heard of a dog that must be ours!”

“Did he, indeed? Why?”

“He says that, from what people have told him, the dog he found some time ago wandering about the suburbs, must most likely be ours! But he’ll call again at half-past seven o’clock.” So, in short, and in due time, we sate down to dinner; I indulging in sundry surmises concerning the probability of our mysterious friend paying us his promised visit. And while we sate at table, the following titillating story was told us, as touching the subject of dogs, then uppermost in our thoughts.

A certain celebrated painter of animals as they never were painted before, and may never be painted again, had painted the portrait of a splendid Newfoundland dog, but he strayed or was stolen as he was returning from his last sitting. His owner was inconsolable; but, knowing the distinguished artist’s large and intimate acquaintance with persons who confidentially concern themselves with other people’s dogs, repaired to him for advice, and authorised him of the magnificent palette to offer ten pounds reward for the recovery of the missing favourite. The artist soon put himself into communication with one of his private friends, who asked him what kind of dog it was? “Why,” says the artist, “look here; this is his picture: should you know him again?” The fellow gazed at the vividly faithful representation for a minute or two intently, and then said, “I thinks I’se got him now; I shall know him if I see him. But what’s the tip?” “Ten pounds.” “Werry ansome, indeed, and worth a little trouble; but such a prime hanimal as that ’ere will cost a deal of trouble to get hold on, such uncommon care is taked on ’em by them as has got ’em. Howse’er, I’ll do my best;” and again he glued his eyes on the pictured dog, and then withdrew. A month elapsed without tidings of the missing Ten Pounder; but at length, in the dusk of the evening, the great artist was summoned into his painting-room, and there found his confidential agent. “Well, Bill,” quoth the former, “any news about the dog? I have given it up.” “O no, don’t, sir,” was the reply, with a wink. “I do _rally_ b’lieve I’ve got him at last. But is the tip all safe still, and no mistake?” “Ay—have it anyway you like.” “It an’t a check” asked his astute companion. “No—a ten-pound note, two fives, or sovereigns.” “Well—and no questions an’t to be asked? lest I should get any friends into trouble?” “Only you bring the dog, my man, and you take the money, and all’s done for ever. Honour!” “Well, sir, where that word’s said by a gent, there’s an end of everything; so the dog will be here in half-an-hour’s time, and a pretty business I’ve had to find him.” Half-an-hour’s lapse saw this little stroke of business complete, and dog and cash exchanged. “Well now, my man,” said the artist, “and it’s all over, though I said I wouldn’t ask you a question, I can’t help it, merely out of curiosity. I give you my honour that I have no other motive, and will take no steps at all, in consequence of what you may tell me. Did I ever deceive you?” “No, sir, you never did.” “Well—do you know who stole him?” “Quite sure you won’t do nothing if I tell you?” “Honour—honour!” “Well, sir, I was the chap as prigg’d him.” “_You!_”—echoed the artist with expanded eyes, uplifted hands, and a great start. “Yes, me, sir. I took’d the dog, and no mistake.” “Whew!—Well—but now I’m more curious still to know why you chose to be so long out of your money—your ten pounds? Why not have brought him back in a few days and got your £10 at once?” “’Cos, sir, you see, I sold un to another party for seven pounds, who took such a liking to the creature, that I hadn’t the heart to steal un from him, till he’d had a week or two’s comfort out on him; but as soon as he had, I know’d how to prig the dog. I, as could do it once, could do it twice—and now you’ve got what you want; but it sartinly sounds coorious, don’t it?” “Why you consummate scamp,” quoth the artist, almost splitting with laughter—“you’ve got seventeen pounds out of the dog!!” “Yes, sir, that’s the figure, exact,” replied the stolid Man of Dogs. “Well, but, you impudent vagabond—if you could prig a dog, as you say, once, and twice, you may _thrice_——” “Well, sir, so I may—but this here dog will be looked arter unkimmin close _now_, and I shan’t run no risk.” “Well, honour among thieves—eh?” “Quite correct, sir,” quoth κυνοκλεπτης.

We were laughing at this story, as we sate at dinner, when a single knock came to the front door—and in a trice our servant, the unhappy cause of all our sorrows, whisked out of the room, opened the Hall door, and after a hasty colloquy returned. “He’s come, sir!—the man about Tickler, sir,” said he, re-entering the room, excitedly. In a trice I was in the Hall, followed by my two sons and the servant. My visitor stood, his cap squared in his hands, in the angle formed by the side of the Hall and the door.

“Well, my man, do you really know anything about my dog?”

“Why, sir,” he answered, very respectfully, “I think I do; it must be the same dog.”

“What sort of a dog is it?”

“A Hile of Skye terrier, sir—pepper-and-salt, and rather white about the mouth, and a many teeth gone.”

“Well; but does he answer to the name of Tickler?”

“Can’t say, sir, really. Haven’t seen him myself, sir; only my friend as found him wandering about, a good way off.”

“What! haven’t you seen the advertisement in which he’s called Tickler?” Here was a moment’s embarrassing pause.

“No, sir, can’t say I have; but maybe my friend has.”

“Why, do you mean to say that you’ve never heard him called Tickler?”

“I never see’d him, sir; and never heard the name Tickler.”

“What! not in the advertisement?” At this moment a heavy single knock at the door, against which I was leaning, made me start. I opened it, and a policeman stood there. “Is the inspector come, sir?” he asked. My friend in the corner was instantly aghast, and seemed in the act of squeezing himself into the wall (to avoid being seen by the grizzly visitor), his eyes fixed on me with an expression I shall not soon forget.

“No; and you may tell him he need not come now. I am much obliged to you both; but I now don’t want to part with the dog.” The policeman bowed, descended the steps, and I shut the door. This visit had been paid us in consequence of our application to the station-house for advice how to dispose of Snap. My visitor had grown considerably whiter than so much as was visible of his shirt!

“Don’t be under any apprehension, my man,” said I, with a smile; “it is certainly one of the oddest coincidences I ever saw; but I pledge my word to you that it is purely accidental, and in no way relates to you or my own dog.”

“O no,” he exclaimed, with yet a scared and distrustful look; “in coorse you knew it couldn’t consarn me anyhow, ’cause I an’t done nothing wrong, I know; but it sartinly looked werry peticlar funny, didn’t it now, sir?” wiping his forehead; “but when a gent gives his word, I believe him, sir.”

“Well, but about _my_ dog; you’ve never seen him?”

“Never set these blessed eyes on him yet, sir.”

“Come, come, my man,” I said, good-naturedly, “I have acted honourably by you, and do you so with me. I pledge my word that no harm shall come to you through me. Now tell me—you _have_ seen Tickler!” I added, so suddenly that I took him off his guard.

“Well, sir, you speak so werry ansome—I _have_ seen the dog, and I an’t no manner of doubt it’s your’n.”

“His collar on.”

“Oh, he han’t got any collar on _now_—least wise, when I picked him up.”

“Why, I thought you told me your friend picked him up?”

“Did I indeed? Well pra’ps he did—but there an’t no collar.”

“Well, as to the Reward—you saw the advertisement offered only a sovereign?”

“O, yes sir, that’s quite correct—” forgetting that he had _not_ seen it—“but I expect to be paid for my two walks up here to-night, sir, beside.”

“And what do you expect? I’ll give you half-a-crown.”

“O, no, _that_ won’t do,” he interrupted me peremptorily—“I always has a five-shilling tip.”

“Always!!”

“Yes, sir—quite regular—ahem!” he suddenly stopped, as though he had caught a glimmering of having committed himself.

“Let the dog die then, sir,” I said sternly, opening the door for him.

“Very well, poor thing!—if it’s your’n, which I’m sartin it is.”

“Well, I suppose I must pay it you!—That will be £1, 5s.?”

“Quite correct sir—and if you’ll let your man come with me, I’ll give him the dog, after he’s given me the money.”

“But the dog must be present before he gives you the money.”

“O, yes, sir—all right—but all’s quite _honour_ in such things as these.”

“How soon will the dog be here?”

“In less than an hour, sir.” With this I directed all three—my two sons and the servant, to put on their greatcoats, and accompany him; first whispering a hint to leave watches behind. After they had been gone five minutes, the servant returned, saying that the man had advised him not to go, as _three_ beside himself looked so suspicious-like, and might prevent us getting the dog. My two sons accompanied their honourable companion till he had got them into Drury Lane! And there he dodged them about, up and down, and in and out of court after court, and alley after alley, till they had reached a very little dirty public-house, into the parlour of which their guide conducted his two companions. Such a parlour! about six feet square, and reeking with odours of gin and tobacco smoke. Another gentleman was sitting there, who had just been discharged out of prison, he said—“And it wasn’t unlikely he might be in again soon, for something or other—for he _must_ live!” He was giving a very lively account of prison life, when my son’s companion returned—after a ten minutes’ absence—with—Tickler! the true identical dear old Tickler, and no mistake whatever about it! But—instead of rushing up to his former patrons and playfellows, he came into the room timidly, and, strange to say, seemed disposed to make the acquaintance of two cats who were in the room, and who seemed quite at home with a dog. When called by his name, he hardly noticed it, and seemed to have forgotten my sons, or to feel no particular interest in them! The money having been given, my sons took poor Tickler in their arms for safety’s sake, quitted the vilest neighbourhood they had ever been in, and carried him nearly all the way home—which he reached in half-an-hour’s time. We were on the look-out at the windows for the poor little fellow—and the moment we saw him, I rushed to the door and opened it, just as Tickler came up the steps; but there stood Snap also—having run up suddenly from the kitchen, whither he had been relegated by my orders, to prevent his encountering Tickler—who, however, immediately spoke to his _locum-tenens_ in a quiet friendly way. Then the latter was carried down bodily into the kitchen, and Tickler whisked into his old quarters in the dining-room. We resolved to take matters very quietly, having been told that dogs had been known to die of joyful excitement under such circumstances. So we all took our seats, eyeing his movements. He ran rapidly to and fro about the room—under the sofa, the tables, the sideboard, as if his scent were gradually reviving old recollections and associations. Then he began to moan, or whine, piteously, but in a very low tone; and finding a little bone which had been left by Snap, he seized on it ravenously. On this we ordered him up a little meat; and, in the mean time, he stood up against each of our chairs, moaning while he looked into our faces, and trembling. “Tickler! Tickler! dear old Tickler, how are you?” quoth I, gently; on which he trembled, looked sorrowfully in my face, and wagged his tail slowly. To aid him in recollecting himself, I resorted to one of my old habits with him—viz. lifting him up gently by his fore-paws; but I almost let him fall again, with concern; for the poor little fellow seemed not half his former weight! And when I felt his backbone, how sharp and bare it was!

“Poor Tickler! what have they been doing with you?” said I. His whine told of starvation. He seemed indeed perfectly blighted: and when we all went up to bed, I following after a little interval with Tickler, it gave me pain to observe the want of his old elasticity in going up-stairs. He was evidently thin and weak. The next day I was anxious to hear his adventures; but I knew that he felt embarrassed if required to speak in the presence of any one beside myself: so I waited till I had a favourable opportunity, which occurred on the next night but one. About an hour after all except myself had ascended to their respective dormitories, and when I was busy distilling off _The Essence of Everything_, Tickler, who had been lying curled round himself, so to speak, in his usual fashion, suddenly rose, shook himself, and in a sitting posture, thus addressed me.

—But his adventures (for I had asked him to tell them to me) were far too interesting and affecting for me to give them to the world at large, before affording him an opportunity of hearing me read them to him for his correction. That I shall do, and then let the reader form his own judgment—next month:—but I feel it a point of honour to impress upon the reader that he is to make no attempt to identify persons or localities!

[_To be concluded in our next._]

THE DRAMA.

Sir Andrew Agnew may have been a very good man, but he never said more than one good thing—if even that is original. In one of his letters he characterises the wit of the three kingdoms as follows: The Scotch play upon the feelings, the Irish play upon ideas, the English play upon words. The distribution is clever and very plausible, if not altogether true. It is correct enough, we believe, as far as regards the Scotch. There is little wit, but a great deal of humour in their fun; and wherever there is wit, almost always it manifests itself in union with strong feeling of some kind—is at one time sarcastic, at another time profane. A Scotchman seldom indulges in pure wit—takes no especial interest in a purely intellectual, or a purely auricular surprise. His logical habits unfit him for that confusion of ideas which Sir Andrew attributes to the Irish, and disincline him for that confusion of words which he attributes to the English jesters. It is with reference to these last that his division is most at fault, and it is also at fault with regard to the Irish. An immense number of Hibernian witticisms, it is true, are to be classed with those Yankee and negro sayings, of which the point depends on a singular confusion of ideas, and of which the following may be taken as typical examples: “Pompey and Cæsar very much like, ’specially Pompey;”—“Uncle was so tall that he had to mount a ladder every day to put on his hat.” A practical instance of the same kind is the story of the Irishman who cut a great hole in his door for the sow to pass through, and a little one beside it for the sucking-pigs. But this very confusion of ideas is so apt to express itself in a contradiction of terms, that the wit for which Paddy is celebrated all over the world is known as an Irish bull; and an Irish bull is as much a verbal play as an English pun. The difference between them may be stated thus loosely: In a bull, the double meanings are incompatible and contradictory; in a pun, they blend together, and do not interfere with each other, except in the way of curious comparison or odd contrast. Now, although perhaps no people have such an inveterate habit of punning and quibbling as the English, it is not true that this is the great characteristic of their wit. With all the reputation which they have on the Continent for melancholy, with all that tone of sadness which pervades their poetry, no people have ever displayed such a hearty enjoyment of fun as the English, and no other comedy has such a wide range as theirs. It contains every variety of humour and every variety of wit. And however much we may despise puns, they have often been used as the expression of profoundest feeling by men of the largest grasp. Shakespeare is an example; his range of comicality is greater than that of any other writer in the language, and he puts puns into the mouths of his heroes and heroines, even in the moment of maddest passion. Thomas Fuller is another instance of a man of deep sympathies and earnest views, who gave expression to these sentiments in what we are accustomed to regard as the most trivial and equivocal of forms.

But while Sir Andrew Agnew’s definition of English wit is extremely partial, it has certainly at this season of the year the appearance of conveying the whole truth. The puns are as thick in a Christmas pantomime as plums in a Christmas pudding. They come out at this time of the year as naturally as berries on the holly; and whoever means to enjoy the season must accept it all, quips and quibbles, puns and buns, the light fantastic toe at night, and the headache next morning. Of what avail is it to shake one’s head over the mince-pies, to tell that young savage, Mr Tommy, that he has eaten too many raisins, to look dismal over another glass of champagne? It is all right; digestion will come in its own good time; and what is the use of Christmas if one cannot once in a year dismiss all thoughts of the doctor and his senna? What is the use of Christmas, too, if theatrical managers cannot for once in a year snap their fingers at the critic and his nauseous doses? On boxing-night comes the pantomime, all paint and spangles, scenery and machinery, fooling and pulling about; it is the reign of good-humour; clown grins from ear to ear; pantaloon takes all the buffets he gets with the greatest pleasure; while the manager is as obstreperous as the one, and the critics are as delighted with his hard hits as the other. The fact is, and there is no denying it, that the pantomime, and all that it includes of burlesque and extravaganza, is at present the great glory of the British drama. The drama has all gone to pot (the paint-pot), and out of it has arisen rollicking pantomime, even as out of the caldron of Medea, what went in an old ram came out a young lamb. That this young lamb is the pride of the British stage at the present time, will be evident to any one who enters a theatre. No chance of getting a seat, even in the larger houses, if you happen to be half-an-hour late. And not only are the houses crammed, the audience is different from the usual audiences. There is a prim old lady, with a pursed-up mouth, in the boxes, whose presence is accounted for by the fact that there are two fairies at her side, who are as much in love with Clown as ever Titania was with Bottom. Everybody who looks at the stalls knows that the bald-headed old gentleman with the capacious waistcoat is “the father of a family,” even were there no long lines of children on either side of him. And will it be believed that through the curtain of the private box there is peering, with his ivory opera-glass to his eyes, that long-faced Grimshaw, who never enters a theatre—never—and who never perpetrated a joke but once, when he quite seriously compared the pit to the pit of Acheron, and wondered that when people saw written up, “The way to the pit,” they did not take fright, and vow never again to enter a playhouse? Everybody goes to the pantomime. It is the only successful effort of the British drama. Tragedy has become so very tragic that she has cut her own throat; comedy has been so very comical that she has choked herself with laughing; and burlesque comes up like a demon through the trap to supply the place of the one, pantomime comes tumbling in head-over-heels to supply the place of the other. Every one has his day: Shakespeare has gone out; Planché has come in. Let no one accuse us of treason to “the divine William,” as Dumas calls him, when we say that Planché is a kind of Shakespeare. He is precisely such a Shakespeare as entered into Dr Johnson’s imagination when he said, “A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it.”

It must be confessed that although most of Mr Planché’s extravaganzas are published, there is not one of them that is readable. They are meant to be acted, not read. Effervescing from the mouth of the performers, and eked out with look and gesture, scenic effect and musical rubadub, the galleries make a vociferous noise, and the boxes make a magnificent show of teeth. Now it is some pun which has been lying in wait from the beginning of the scene, now some extraordinary rhyme which seemed as difficult to match as Cinderella’s glass slipper, now an allusion to the events of the day, now the sudden falling into slang in the midst of some high-flown language.

“But Cupid is a downy cove
Wot it takes a deal to hinder;
For if you shuts him out o’ the door,
Vy, he’ll valk in at the vinder.”

Nobody cares to read such verse, but, sung by Robson, it brings down the House. As a specimen of the wit, it is difficult to make a selection worthy of Planché from his latest pieces at the Olympic; but take the following from the _Prince of Happy Land_, which he has repeated in a weaker form in the _Yellow Dwarf_. The princess is to choose a husband out of ten suitors.

“_Duchess._ ——You’d not refuse
Ten sovereigns in succession?

_Princess._ Yes, indeed,
If they’re bad sovereigns, madam.

_Duchess._ Bad ones!—Read,
Grand duke, the list of their illustrious names,
Sent in with all their portraits—

_Duke._ In such frames!—
It is impossible to find ten finer!
First, here’s the Emperor of Chelsea China.

_Princess._ A China husband!

_Floretta._ Off with him, I’d break.

_Duke._ The King of Chess.

_Princess._ A king one cannot take.

_Duke._ The Doge of Tennis.

_Floretta._ A sly doge, no doubt.

_Princess._ And much too prone to racket, sir, about.

_Duke._ The Dey of All-jeers.

_Princess._ Hey-day! that’s all joke.

_Duke._ The Sultan Meer-schaum.

_Princess._ Meer-shams end in smoke.

_Duke._ The Rajah Ram Jam Juggle Jib a hoy.

_Princess._ The name’s enough—

_Floretta._ I wish his lady joy.

_Duke._ Ali Kampain, the Shah of—

_Princess._ Pshaw! pooh! pooh!

_Duke._ The Khan of Creamo Tartar.

_Princess._ Cannot do.

_Duke._ The Prince of Orange Marmalade.

_Princess._ Too sweet.

_Duke._ The Duke of Mangel Wurzel.

_Princess._ Must be Beet.”

What a riot of words! what an amount of subtlety is here expended to no purpose in stultifying the dictionary, and giving to words every possible meaning but the right one. In this noble art, however, Mr Planché is excelled by some of his disciples, and in the parody of _Shylock_—the _Jerusalem Harty-Joke_—written by Mr Talfourd for Robson, the system of punning has been carried to the limit of endurance. Let any one read the following address of Gratiano to Nerissa, and attempt if he can to make any meaning out of the puns, or see the fun of continually violating the rules of the language merely to help a failing rhyme.

“The pangs of Cupid I the first time knows-em;
His bows and arrows pierced my harrowed bo-sum.
Let’s off to-night—there’s no chance of diskivery.
With me, dear, _put up_, and don’t _stand at livery_.
Blush not that I’m a flunky, I implores;
Let not my plushes be the cause of yours.
_You_ to the eyes—but, though more difficulter,
_I_ to the knees plush as the _knee plush ultra_.”

Take another specimen, and then, as Mr Talfourd says, we shall bid “a-Jew” to _Shylock_. Remember, too, that we are quoting the best bits.

“_Shylock._ Jessica! my own flesh and blood revolted?
I locked her in.

_Tubal._ And she herself has bolted!

_Shylock._ I always wondered why she eyed the men so!
What’s the dog’s Christian name?

_Tubal._ I think Lorenzo.
She’s got the start of us, and bolted right off.

_Shylock._ _Heavy_ the day that first the sun the _light_ off!
Offer rewards! Use every means to save her.
Let be but catch—I’ll _lather_ the young _shaver_.
My only _heiress_ folks will say in mock,
Fled like the _timid hair_ from a _Shy lock_.
Take with you, though, unthinking girl, my curse.

_Tubal._ She’s taken something more.

_Shylock._ What’s that?

_Tubal._ Your purse.

_Shylock._ You cannot mean she’s robbed her poor old father?

_Tubal._ I hate strong language, but I fancy—rather.

_Shylock._ Unfeeling child! who’s left her _sire_ to _sigh_
Without or _tie_ or _prop_, or _property_.”

This is what the fast young men of London call brilliant writing. All this meaningless clatter of words, to produce which requires little more skill than to clash the cymbals in the orchestra, there are crowds of young fellows about the theatres who would give a great deal if they had the brains to emulate. It is out of such slender materials that Robson works up his effects, making the glitter pass for gold, the trash for truth, the bad grammar for good sense, and the abortive pun for pointed wit. Give us good puns by all means, if there is nothing better to be had, and we shall laugh at them; but save us from word-torture as incomprehensible, dull, and valueless as the anagrams which used to puzzle and amuse our ancestors.

Cease your funning;
Force of punning
Ne’er shall Maga’s laugh trepan;

at least such punning as we have quoted. If we are asked to define legitimate punning, take an example from _Punch_, who sums up his metaphysics in the following queries and answers:—“What is matter? Never mind.—What is mind? No matter.”

If any one wishes a defence of punning, we must refer him to the Germans, and especially to Herman Ulrici, who thus discourses on the quibbles of our great English dramatist: “If, then, we go back to the origin of this verbal play, and further reflect that Shakespeare never kept up this game of rejoinder and antithesis emptily and unmeaningly, but that with him it has always some meaning, and _not unfrequently a most profound significance_, we shall see good reason for the whole representation being pervaded by it. For in this discrepancy between the indicated matter and its indication, and the appropriateness of the same or similar words to express wholly different objects, we have the revelation of the deep fundamental and original disagreement between human life and its true idea; as well as the inadequacy of human cognition and knowledge of which language is the expression, for the wide range of objective truth and reality, and consequently of the weakness entailed upon man’s noblest intellectual power by the Fall and the first lie.” So that puns are the result of the Fall, and the fruit of the forbidden tree. Horrible thought for Mr ‘A Beckett—puns impossible in paradise! Without, however, going to the profundities of Ulrici, we have to point out the propriety of this style of wit in the peculiar species of drama which it adorns. A pun is on a small scale what parody is on a large. Accept the burlesque drama wholesale, and there is no reason why one should object to the quibbling in detail. It is consistent throughout.

The Olympic is the theatre in which Planché appears to the greatest advantage—the intensity of which Robson is capable, giving a force to the representation with which all the brilliance and gaiety of the old Lyceum spectacle are not to be compared. It is one of the two best theatres in London, in which one is always sure of good and finished acting—the wayward humours of Robson being in fine contrast with the sustained art of Wigan. Than the latter there is not a more accomplished actor on the stage; he really acts; and it is a high intellectual treat, which one does not often nowadays enjoy, to see how with successive touches he works out a character, or graduates a passion with a delicacy of detail that is not more marvellous than the consistency of tone throughout. As Wigan satisfies the lover of intellectual enjoyment, Robson satisfies the craving for excitement; the one is perfect art, the other perfect nature. Perfect nature in burlesque—impossible! It is possible, however, with Robson. Usually burlesque acting is the most unnatural thing in the world; no single passion or state is represented truly; every word, every tone, every look is false. With Robson, however, every tone is true, every look is nature; it is in the jumble and juxtaposition of details that his burlesque consists, in suddenly passing from the extreme of anger or fear to the extreme of humorous ease, in suddenly relapsing into vulgar slang in mid-volley of the most passionate speech, and all with the most marvellous flexibility of voice and feature. Presto! faster than we can follow him, he has changed from grave to gay, from lively to severe. The _Yellow Dwarf_ of last year was probably his greatest effort, although _Prince Richcraft_ of the present season is not far behind. It has a mad scene which is equal to anything he has ever personated. The story it is needless to recapitulate—it is taken from the collection of _Mother Goose_. They are all nearly alike. There is sure to be a prince or princess in disguise; a good fairy and a bad one; an army extravagantly armed, murders by the score, magical fruit or something else, a strange discovery, and the prince and princess married at last, in spite of the villain, all his wiles and all his passion. A strange life it is, that pictured in the fairy tales which are worked up into these extravaganzas,—a life in which trap-doors and invisible springs are as essential as patent-leather boots and gibus hats are to us, in which there is always a gutta-percha eagle that comes flying with a necessary key in its claw, and fish are poking their gills out of still lakes with lost rings in their mouths, a purse of gold lies on the ground just when it is wanted, beautiful witches in red-heeled shoes come hobbling down to the footlights; and in the last tableau of all, there are all the fairies in their fairy palace standing pyramidally one above the other. As in the _Arabian Nights_ the characters are always asking each other to tell tales—lives are saved by stories well told—and one gathers that the thread of Arabian existence is one long yarn; so, in the extravaganzas, songs are all the rage,—the enchanter sings his victim to sleep, the princess wins her lover by the charm of her voice,—the lover serenades his mistress; the king must be amused, and his only amusement is “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter.” Music is not only the food of love, but the blue-pill also; and it is the food and the blue-pill of every other feeling as well. There is another characteristic feature of the _Arabian Nights_ which is prominently exhibited in the extravaganzas—the disregard of life. Murder is a mild word for the destructiveness of the kings—they literally massacre all around: it is the dance of death. But let no one confound all this murder and massacre with the similar tendencies in the low gallows-literature of the present time. All the murdering of the fairy tales is counterbalanced by the effect of the slaughter. The victims are scarcely ever killed outright—they are instantly transformed, they start up and fly away in some new shape. The idea of death as annihilation never enters into the fairy tales; all is immortal: murder is but the plucking of a flower that will grow again; the massacre of a village is only a series of dissolving views.