PROPHETS IN THE PARLOUR—GYPSIES IN THE KITCHEN.
When Susan, maid-of-all-work in the regular and respectable family of Mr. Potts—small Cityman, with ambition under his waistcoat to be some day considerably bigger—when the aforesaid illiterate and superstitious Susan, wishing to better herself—(a vanity that is unconsciously shared with her even by Mr. and Mrs. Potts themselves)—gives ready ear to Eglantine Prigduck, gypsey from Barnes or Norwood—Eglantine dealing in husbands of every variety and at the shortest notice—and, giving ear to the prophetic gypsey, gives her at the same time an opportunity to draw into her Maelstrom pocket or wallet certain silver spoons, afterwards identified by Mr. Potts—his own initials lovingly intertwining with the initials of Mrs. Potts, with the family crest of a rampant lion licking his tongue at posterity indubitably marking them as his property—
When, we say, Susan weeps and knocks her knees together, in a paroxysm of terror before the worthy and respected Mr. Sixmunce—and the indomitable Eglantine looks callously innocent, calling all the stars to witness that "the gal giv her the spoons as her own goods and nobody's else's—"
When Susan is confronted with this alleged fact—the respectable part of society of which Mr. and Mrs. Potts are such very distinguished members, shakes its head, and wonders how ignorance at eight pounds a year, tea and sugar included, can be such a fool as to believe in a gypsey! However, the benevolent Mr. Sixmunce commits Eglantine to Tothill-Fields, and—with one of those paternal remonstrances that have won for him the proud designation of the Father of the Bench—dismisses the grateful Susan to her kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Potts, with a sudden benevolence, which causes them some after astonishment and self-congratulation on their goodness, consenting to give the creature another trial.
Now at the very time that Susan was opening her homely hand, that gypsey Eglantine might read in its hard page the marriage lines of the hopeful maiden (who is to give sixpence at most for the glad tidings; the spoons being purely an after-thought of the gypsey's own)—at the very time Mrs. Potts in her parlour is reading Raphael's Prophetic Messenger; for the which she—the educated, finished Mrs. Potts; for was she not beautifully finished at Athens House, Wandsworth?—for the which she has, in the best faith and best current silver, disbursed two-and-sixpence! Ignorance crieth out in the streets, and everybody gives ear to her. Our Messenger has, to be sure, a more winning introduction than even the smiles and musical cajolery of Eglantine Prigduck. For it has a beautiful picture in which the events of 1854 are brought out in bold red, and blue, and orange-tawney. Louis Naploleon is engaged chatting with Britannia—(who is asking him to run across and take a cup of tea in London, the British Lion at her side manifesting no objection whatever)—the while a very hairy savage has a dagger upraised at the Emperor's back, and is evidently screwing himself up to "the sticking place." There are mourning-coaches going to "take up" at Windsor Castle, with other graphic amenities significant of what must happen in the year 1854. And for this the enlightened Mrs. Potts (that gypsey is still with Susan in the kitchen) has given two-and-sixpence; and that too with the mighty resolution of getting her good half-crown's worth out of it. Well, Mrs. Potts begins with January, turning very pale as she learns this fact:—
"The square of Venus and Saturn denotes severe affliction to a lady of the highest rank. The tranquillity of France is disturbed; much excitement reigns in Paris, Lyons, Toulouse, and Rome. Turkey and the regions of the Tigris and Euphrates are sorely afflicted."
This lady—whoever she may be—has very sore afflictions throughout twelvemonth; but then Raphael must earn his half-crown's worth.
In February, Mrs. Potts is informed—(and thinks with a shiver of little Wilhelmina who has not yet had the scarlet fever)—in February:
"Mars retrogrades to the opposition of the Moon in the radix of the Princess Alice, and indicates a liability to feverish complaint or accident."
Mrs. Potts has conjugal fears for the health of Potts, and resolves to insist upon gutta percha soles. In March—
"The retrogradation of Mars in Virgo in opposition to Venus, also retrogade in Pisces, will stir up civil broils in Portugal; treachery and conspiracies amongst the priesthood are directed against the Queen and Government of that country."
Already, the poor Queen of Portugal sleeps in the tomb of the Braganzas; but even Raphael cannot be always infallible; not even for half-a-crown!
April is big with events; or rather with one event that must swallow up every other. Mrs. Potts is a playgoer, and with the sensibility of her sex, would "ten to one rather see the Corsican Brothers than Hamlet." Therefore she reads the subjoined with corresponding perturbation.
"Scandal or death awaits one renowned in the theatrical world."
This is in April! Perhaps on the first of April? It cannot be Barry, the deathless Clown, who shall be snatched from us? If, then, it should be the—the—the "renowned"—but no! we will not, we cannot think of it! Ha! ha! ha! Sardanapalus is himself again!
May is full of danger as of hawthorn. What can the loyal Mrs. Potts think of this?
"Mars hastens, as it were, to apply the torch to the train of evil he has previously laid. The highest power in the land is grievously afflicted. It is the earnest prayer of Raphael, that the direful influence of Saturn on the ascending degree and radical place of the luminaries in our beloved Sovereign's horoscope may be averted."
But this is nothing. "The highest power" is continually threatened; a prediction that, in the days of Queen Bess, would—we doubt not—have helped Raphael to the highest gibbet. Again Raphael turns the penny upon "our beloved Sovereign." In June, he says—
"I dare not fully enter into ALL the important significations of these positions and configurations. I sincerely pray that the health of our beloved Sovereign may be preserved, in which I am assured her subjects will universally join."
(Do we not behold Raphael on his bended knees, "sincerely praying," with the half-crown in his mouth?) In July, however, our prophet makes merchandize of the Queen's children.
"Saturn transits the place of the Sun in the nativity of the Princess Helena, producing a tendency to disease in the chest, &c., at the end of June and beginning of July. The 7th and 8th are evil days for the Prince of Wales, and the 19th for the Prince Arthur. Their attendants should carefully avoid accident."
These would have made very "evil days" for our prophet; evil as pillory and cart-whip could have shaped them. But we live in liberal times, and the Astrologer may turn his half-crown upon the probable diseased chest of the little Princess Helena, and the threatened dangers of Princes Albert and Arthur!
Mrs. Potts reads in August that "the King of Naples should beware of female intrigue, poison, or the assassin;" and—controlling her emotion—turns over to September, where she learns among other not impossible events that "great cruelty is displayed towards some female about the 27th." Mrs. Potts thinks October a little slow. "Public writers and scientific men are unsuccessful:" and what of that? "The fine arts prosper!" Bother the fine arts: and straightway Mrs. Potts passes to November, when
"Much excitement reigns throughout the land; the long talked of invading army may, under these influences, make its appearance, and ere many months 'the wolf will come.'"
With the intuitive calculation of woman, Mrs. Potts wonders where on earth she and Potts are to sleep, if the Russians—which, of course, is meant by the wolf—is quartered upon 'em?
But this is nothing to what is threatened in December. Mrs. Potts continues to read with—very naturally—increasing fear and amazement. Fear for Her Majesty the Queen, and amazement at things in general! "Heaven preserve!"—cries the prophet in ominous tones—"Heaven preserve the health of our Sovereign, and also of her people!"—ending with the new version of a Dead March, set after this fashion:—
"Dark and gloomy clouds hover over us; and I regret to add that during the year 1855 the significations are still fearfully evil. I cannot at present discover one ray of hope."
What? Not for half-a-crown? Suppose, then, we make it three-and-sixpence!
Now, whilst the Pottses continue to read the Prophetic Raphael—(it is the vagabond's "thirty-fourth year")—in the parlour—should they wonder at, should they punish poor Susan with the gypsey in the kitchen?
Take care—oh, ye masters and mistresses!—of the half-crowns, and in good time the spoons will take care of themselves.
