POPPING THE QUESTION.
MY friend Walker is a great story-teller. He reminds me of the professional tale-bearers in the East, who, without being particularly requested by the company, begin reciting the adventures of Sinbad, or the life, death, and resurrection of Little Hunchback. No sooner does conversation flag for a few minutes, than W. strikes up, with some such prelude as, “I told you about the Flying Fish affair before,—but as you wish me to refresh your memory, you shall have it again.” He then deliberately fills his glass, and furnishes himself with a cork, a bit of orange-peel, or an apple-paring, to be shredded and sub-shredded during the course of narration. Many Scotchmen, by-the-way, and most Canadians, are given to the same manual propensity. A lady located towards the Back Settlements informed me, that at a party she gave, the mantelshelf, chairs, tables, and every wooden article of furniture, was nicked and notched by the knives of her guests, like the tallies of our Exchequer. It is most probably an Indian peculiarity, and derived by intercourse or intermixture with the Chipaways—but to return to W. The other day, after dinner, with a select few of my friends, there occurred one of those sudden silences, those verbal armistices, or suspensions of words, which frequently provoke at irresistible allusion to a Quaker’s meeting. Of this pause W. of course availed himself.
FISHING—A RISE.
“You were going, Sir,” addressing the gentleman opposite, “to ask me about the Pop business,—but I ought first to tell you how I came to be carrying ginger-beer in my pocket.”
The gentleman thus appealed to, a straightforward old drysalter, who had never seen W. in his life before, naturally stared at such a bold anticipation of his thoughts; but before he could find words to reply, W. had helped himself to a dozen almonds, which he began mincing, while he set off at a steady pace in his story.
“The way I came to have ginger-beer in my pocket, was this. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with Hopkins, Sir, of the Queen’s Arms in the Poultry,” the drysalter shook his head; “it’s the house I frequent, and a very civil obliging sort of fellow he is—that is to say, was, two summers ago. The season was very sultry, and says I, Hopkins, I wonder you don’t keep ginger pop—it’s a pleasant refreshing beverage at this season, and particularly wholesome. Well, Hopkins was very thankful for the hint, for he likes to have everything that can be called for, and he was for sending off an order at once to the ginger-beer manufactory, but I persuaded him better. None of their wholesale trash, said I, but make your own. I’ll give you a recipe for it—the best ever bottled. But I couldn’t gain my point. Hopkins hum’d and haw’d, and thought nobody could make it but the makers. There was no setting him right, so at last I determined to put him to the proof. I’ll tell you what, Hopkins, said I, you don’t like the trouble, or I’d soon convince you that a man who isn’t a maker can make it as well as anyone—perhaps better. You shall have a sample of mine—I’ve got a few bottles at my counting-house, and it’s only a step. Of course, Hopkins was very much obliged, and off I went. In confidence between you and me, Sir,—though I never had the pleasure of seeing you before—I wanted to introduce ginger-beer at the Queen’s Arms as a public benefit.”
“I am sure, Sir—I’m very much obliged,” stammered the drysalter, at a loss what to say. “Ginger-beer, I’ve no doubt, is very efficacious, and particularly after fruit or lobsters, for I observe you always see them at the same shops.”
“The best drink in the dog-days all to nothing,” returned W., “but ought to be amazingly well corked and wired down—and I’ll tell you why—it will get vapid and maybe worse. Well, I’d got it in my coat pocket, and was walking back, just by Bow Church, no more thinking of green silk pelisses than you are, Sir, at this moment—upon my honour I wasn’t—when something gave a pop and a splash, and I heard a female scream. I was afraid to look round and when I did, you might have knocked me down with a straw. You know, Tom (addressing me,) I’m not made of brass,—for the minute I felt more like melted lead—heavy and hot. Two full kettles seemed poured over me—one warm within, and the other cold without. You never saw such an object! There she stood, winking and gasping, and all over froth and foam, like a lady just emerged out of the sea only they don’t bathe in green silk pelisses and satin bonnets. You might have knocked me down with a hair. What I did or said at first I don’t know; I only remember that I attempted to wipe her face with my handkerchief, but she preferred her own. To make things worse, the passengers made a ring round us, as if we had been going to fight about it, and a good many of ’em set up a laugh. I would rather have been surrounded by banditti. I don’t tell a lie if I say I would gladly have been tossed out of the circle by a mad bull. How I longed to jump like a Harlequin into a twopenny post-box, or to slip down a plug like an eel!”
“Very distressing, indeed,” said the drysalter.
“I don’t think,” resumed W., “I felt as much when my poor mother died—I don’t, upon my soul! She was expected for years, but the lady in green came like a thunderbolt!—When I saw the ginger-beer weltering down her, I would almost as soon have seen blood. I felt little short of a murderer. How I got her into Tweedie’s shop, Heaven knows! I suppose I pulled her in, for I cannot remember one word of persuasion. However, I got her into Tweedie’s, and had just sense enough to seat her in a chair, and to beg for a few dry cloths. To do the dear creature justice, she bore it all angelically,—but every smile, every syllable making light of her calamity, went to my heart. You don’t know my original old friend, Charles Mathews, do you, Sir?”
BANDITTI SEIZING BOOTY.
The drysalter signified dissent.
“No matter—his theory is right all over—it is as true as gospel!” exclaimed W., with an asseverating thump upon the table. “There is an infernal, malicious, aggravating little demon, hovers up aloft about us, wherever we go, ready to magnify any mischief, and deepen every disaster. Sure I am he hovered about me! The cloths came—but as soon as I began to wipe briskly, bang again went ‘t’other bottle,’ and uncorked itself before it was called for. I shall never forget the sound! Pop, whiz, fiz, whish—ish—slish—slosh—slush—guggle, guggle, guggle: I’d rather have been at the exploding of the Dartford Powder Mills! At the first report I turned hastily round, but by so doing, I only diverted the jet from the open cases on the counter, to the show-trays in the shop window, filled with Tweedie’s choicest cutlery; and as I completed the pirouette, I favoured Tweedie himself with the tail of the spout!”
“Very unpleasant, indeed,” said the drysalter, with a hard wink, as if the fussy fluid had flown in his own face.
“Unpleasant!” ejaculated W., “it was unendurable! I could have cut my throat with one of the wet razors—I could have stabbed myself with a pair of the splashed scissors! The mess was frightful—bright steel buckles, buttons, clasps, rings, all cut and polished—I saw Tweedie himself shake his head as he looked at the chains and some of the delicate articles. It wasn’t a time to stand upon words, and I believe I cursed and swore like a trooper. I know I stamped about, for I went on the lady’s foot, and that made me worse than ever. Tweedie says I raved; and I do remember I cursed myself for talking of ginger-beer, as well as Hopkins for not keeping it in his house. At last I got so rampant, that even the lady began to console me, and as she had a particularly sweet voice and manner, and Tweedie too, trying to make things comfortable, I began to hear reason: but if ever I carry ginger-beer again in my pocket, along Cheapside——”
“Till you’re a widower,” said I.
“I was coming to that, Sir,” continued W., still addressing the drysalter. “I insisted on putting the lady into a coach, and by that means obtained her address, and as common politeness dictated, I afterwards called and was well received. A new green silk dress was graciously accepted, and a white one afterwards met with the same kind indulgence, when the lady condescended to be Mrs. Walker. Our fortunes, Sir, in this world, hinge frequently on trifles. Through an explosion of pop I thus popped into a partner with a pretty fortune; but for all that, I would not have any man, like the Persian in Hajji Baba, mistake a mere accident for the custom of the country. For Cœlebs in Search of a Wife to walk up and down Cheapside with a bottle of ginger-beer in his pocket, would be Quixotic in the extreme.”
MILL’S HISTORY OF THE CRUSADES.