Glide on thy noiseless course, Like some majestic river to its shores, So may thy life flow on, and never cease GIPSY BALLAD. ZINDELLA, THE GIPSY QUEEN. BY MRS. CRAWFORD. COME, Zindella, come with me, Seek with me fair England's strand, Come, my lov'd Zindella, come, Weep not for thy mountain home; RICHARD BIDDULPH;1 OR, THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A SCHOOL-BOY. CHAPTER XXXVII. SOMETHING ABOUT AN OLD BONE, A PRISON CHILD, AND A PANTOMIME. WHY, what a curious amalgamation for a single lady, or a single chapter! Why, it's enough to make a walking gentleman sneeze outright, or to induce a Lord Chief Baron blow up a junior counsel-that it is. Now only fancy taking such a prescription to a druggist's wife, or a chemist's stern-looking apprentice; why they'd have to consult with one another, and wink at one another, and grin towards one another, previous to taking down the separate bottles which contain them. Still, for all that, I insist upon its being made up, so that it may operate through the various twistings of the body, until it sits down upon the human heart, to rest itself for a century or two, or longer than that if it feels inclined to do so. But first of all, the thread must go again into the eye of the needle, so as to trace some of those stitches which have been worked whilst we, dearest reader, have been dreaming of other chaps, who, though they may not appear to be necessary, are actually and positively essential towards the completion of that picture which wishes to get hold of your sympathy because of its natural actuality. Well then, the beggar died, or rather went out like the snuff of a candle, for want of marrow, or fat, or tallow, and left her little child as a legacy to the old bone, who really was glad when he found that it was so. Nay, he even said as much to Mrs. Harty as thus:-" Ma'am," he said, "ma'am, what does the world want of beggars? Nothing. Besides, because beggars have children, that isn't to say they ought to be beggars; so it is far better that beggars should jump out of beggary into well-planed deal coffins, if any one will-the state, for instance, ma'am will teach the little ones not to be beggars. And as to the little one-this Jerico that this beggar has left behind her-why she shan't be a beggar, that I can tell her; no, not even if she wishes it, she shan't." Mrs. Harty, of course, listened attentively to what fell from the old bone, just as though she were reading some old book, full of truth and goodness, and said yes to every three words that he uttered, because she knew that his withered old heart was the very fountain of charity, as well as universal philanthropy. Then she dangled about the child in her hands lustily, and returned its little smile affectionately, as did the old bone, as well as the whole Harty family. 1 Continued from page 229. So days passed on, and weeks, and months, during which time the old boy didn't forget the poor folks he had been kind to so long, but rather increased his attentions to the sick and weary wanderers about old London. He was out at all manner of hours, and in every direction, looking about for happiness; and he was fortunate enough to find it, hourly as well as daily, for the tear of gratitude was a happiness to him, as well as that smile of affection which toddled along with his aged body, lighting up his old dim eyes, and making his flannel waistcoat jump again. The old chap hadn't forgotten Richard Biddulph, not he; but then he was not to be blamed for not finding him, and he used search enough, in all conscience ;—still he wanted to see him again, and perhaps he did see him; nay, I may say at once that he did, but years will have to elapse prior to its being detailed to the reader. Richard Biddulph was only one of many-many poor devils who required the thought of old Mr. Howard, and as case came upon him after case, those which were nearest were in front, whilst those which, like his old protegé, had escaped out of his sight, were in the back. Yes, they were still at the back of the old fellow's picture. He would sit staring into the fire for a long time, when he would put on his spectacles, and look harder and harder into the dying embers, and say, "Oh," once or twice, just as though he saw a corrupted face he had seen before it was corrupted; then he would get up hastily and look out of the window into May's Buildings, and as sure as he did so he beheld a real living star shining out of the head of a beggar, right full upon him, which glad eye said, "Oh, you happy old bone, to have the poor man's honest blessing!" Then there was the old kitchen, with God looking through the cracks at the be-sored devils who were feasting upon scalding soup, cabbages, and potatoes. Then there was this, that, and the other, of a similar character, which are really too long to put down in this chapter. Yet amongst all these delightful sensations, the old bone was fidgetty, and peevish, and cross-nothing appeared to go right with him. There was a screw loose somewhere; and that was simply because the child didn't grow fast enough. To be sure the eyes lost that redness or soreness which tinges all beggars' children, and its cheeks swelled out more than a little, whilst to speak the honest truth, it actually did grow very fast indeed; but then it didn't grow fast enough for the old bone. He was continually asking Mrs. Harty when it would be old enough, and when she thought he might do it safely. Poor soul! Mrs. Harty wanted to give him pleasure, but she couldn't go against her own right conscience in the matter; so that she was obliged to say "Not yet, sir, but I hope very shortly." She knew what he wanted, bless you; oh yes, without asking; she was fully up to the secret, and knew full well that it was the old chap's intention to take the little darling to see a pantomime, as soon as it could stand it. There was the cry, the shout, and then-oh! blessed sound-for the old bone, there was the word daddy, and addressed to him too. There was the toddle, and afterwards the downright walk. There was the clapping of the little hands joyously, and there was the smack of affection, as well as of fond recognition. Still it didn't grow fast enough; for, Lord bless you, he would have liked to have done it on the instant, and without any more dreaming or pondering. Yes, the eccentric old dog yearned peevishly for the accomplishment of that one of his many kind intentions. The child was nearly three years old when Mrs. Harty gave her opinion that, with great caution, it might be attempted, when you might have knocked the old bone down with a sledge hammer-a feather would not have been heavy enough-he was so overcome, so taken off his guard, so fearfully electrified, at the welcome intelligence; so that he went out for a whole morning to gaze at the various play bills which hung up here and there and everywhere. Really I don't know how many shops he didn't stop at, to look at various hard names through his spectacles. As to which of the many to pitch upon he didn't know, because they were all more successful and thrilling, and gorgeous, and brilliantly stupendous than all the others put together, which were not to be mentioned, or thought of, or dreamt about, in connection with the one which there and then engaged the whole of his attention. Then each had the best pantomime that was ever witnessed, as well as the best clown, little dog, and columbine. The old bone went about half over London, and read the bills many times before he made up his mind to a particular theatre, when he toddled back to the old house in May's Buildings, so as to get rid of the time prior to the commencement. It so happened the pantomime was to be the first performance, in consequence of its being a "Children's night," so that that was most fortunate for all parties, except Mrs. Harty and her daughters, who imagined that they should not be able to finish the child's bran new pelise, as well as those other new things which were to go under it. Still they put themselves out of the way, and had her dressed and ready by five o'clock, although the curtain was not to get up or rise until seven. The old bone did not speak one word more than was necessary, but kept watching the old clock in the corner, which seemed determined not to go faster for the watching, although, in spite of its rules and regulations, it did at last strike six, when the old chap got up hastily, and taking the child out of the arms of the whole family of the smiling Hartys, he started off to the palace of fun and jovial merriment. First of all he walked very fast indeed, then equally as slowly, until at last, after meeting with many little adventures, he came up to the entrance of the theatre. The old fellow bought two play-bills, and apologized to many industrious people for not buying more. He purchased a whole hat full of oranges, and then-thrice worthy old bone-he entered into the pit of the theatre with the child he had rescued from beggary. He appeared to be surprised at nothing—not he—but took the whole effect quietly, lest he should burst; and after all it was for the child's sake that he was there. The third row of seats from the orchestra they sat upon, when the little darling's exteriors were taken off by the old man, so that others might witness the effect it had upon her. The theatre was crowded, and all around the boxes were little aristocratic fans, which belonged to the children of the rich, which, though young, had learnt not to laugh too much at anything. In the pit were fathers and mothers, and whole hosts of little ones, who were prepared for real, unaffected enjoyment; whilst above in the high gallery were radiant faces, which were determined to laugh at everything, let it be a tragedian or a clown. By the side of the gallery there were other seats, filled with satins, silks, and velvets, which covered very poor and very miserable creatures, who performed nightly moral tragedies, although it was not every one that saw the point of them; no, for judging by the giggling, as well as the boisterous laughter which emanated from these daughters of misfortune, an outside observer would have taken them to be so many living comedies, or farces, or even pantomimes, not being acquainted with those gigantic sorrows which were hid behind the laugh. But any further considerations of this sort must pass away for a time, at least out of this chapter; so that those joyous sounds, those merry voices, those cat-calls, those whistles, those coughs, and really happy amalgamations of noises which meet the ear prior to the commencement of the play, and more especially when additional light is thrust upon the audience all of a sudden, Oh! there was such a tumult of happy exclamations of impatience, that the fiddlers, as well as the chaps who intended to thrash the kettle-drums, actually took their places and rattled away a brilliantly funny medley, which nearly took away the breath of the old bone, as well as that of the little darling who sat beside him. Now at this time-stop a moment, take courage, my friend, and if you have any heart in the centre of your great coat, when it is upon you, read the next chapter. CHAPTER XXXVIII. AT LAST THE CURTAIN RISES. WHAT IS IT? A PANTOMIME!!!! Lord bless you, reader, don't imagine for one instant that I don't know what the old bone was then and there thinking about, because, the fact is, I do. The old fellow had gone back many years of his life, and was sitting, not as an old bone, but simply as a young child, fully determined as a child to enter into and to enjoy everything. He had thrown off the miseries of the world, and had taken into his nature a portion of heaven, so that he might laugh right merrily at the scenes of merriment which were then behind the painted curtain, which said curtain was something like the dress of a young lady, whose whole modesty is sought after the more it is concealed. The old bone took out his pocket-handkerchief, and rubbed and rubbed at his spectacles until they were positively polished, when he fixed them over his old eyes and looked at the child again and again. While the overture was being played he was pleased to find she gave up her whole attention to the sounds, so that he expected great delight-the fine old chap-when the thing itself should present itself to her eyes for the very first time. But really it's a monstrous shame to cut the picture down to a mere gibbet without the four men hanging to it; so that if you please—ay, or if you don't please for the matter of that-you must go into the clown's dressing-room; and should you pass the columbine's I don't |