“Is't Love's unhallow'd flame invites to roam, And bids you from your pillow creep? Or say, why thus disturb my peaceful home, Like Macbeth, who doth murder sleep.”
Tallyho was unable to reply: he looked down over the banister—he looked up at the risible features of Tom Dashall, who was almost bursting at the ludicrous situation in which he found his friend and his servants. “Come,” said Tom, “there are no thieves—all's right”—to the servants, “you may quiet your minds and go to business. Bob, I'll be down with you presently.” Upon this, the stair-case was cleared in an instant of all but the unfortunate Tallyho; and peace appeared to be restored in the family, but not to Bob's mind, conceiving he had committed a gross violation of good breeding, and shewn but a bad specimen of his aptitude to become a learner of London manners. It must be confessed, it was rather an awkward commencement; however, in a few minutes, recovering himself from the fright, he crawled gently down the stairs, and took a survey of the devastation he had made—cursed the lamp, d——d the portmanteau—then snatching it from the ruin before him, and again placing his luggage on his shoulder, he quietly walked up stairs to his bed-room.
It is much to be lamented in this wonderful age of discovery and continual improvement, that our philosophers have not yet found out a mode of supplying the place of glass (as almost every thing else) with cast-iron. The substitution of gas for oil has long been talked of, as one of national importance, even so much so, that one man, whose ideas were as brilliant as his own experiments, has endeavoured to shew that its produce would in a short time pay off the national debt!{1}
“A consummation devoutly to be wished;” and experience has taught the world at large there is nothing impossible, nor is there any one in existence more credulous than honest John Bull. But we are
1 Mr. Winsor, the original lecturer on the powers of gas, in Pall Mall.
digressing from the adventure of the lamp, however it was occasioned, by clearly proving it was not a patent safety-lamp: and that among the luxuries of the Hon. Tom Dashall's habitation, gas had not yet been introduced, will speedily be discovered.
Upon arriving in his bed-room, wondering within himself how he should repair the blundering mistake, of which he had so unluckily been the unwilling and unconscious author, he found himself in a new dilemma, as the receptacle of the oil had fallen with the lamp, and plentifully bedewed the portmanteau with its contents, so that he had now transferred the savoury fluid to his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt. What was to be done in such a case? He could not make his appearance in that state; but his mortifications were not yet at an end—
“Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arise.”
The key of his portmanteau was missing; he rummaged all his pockets in vain—he turned them inside out—it was not here—it was not there; enraged at the multiplicity of disappointments to which he was subjected, he cut open the leathern carriage of his wardrobe with a penknife; undressed, and re-dressed himself; by which time it was half-past eight o'clock. His Cousin Tom, who had hurried down according to promise, had in the mean time been making enquiry after him, and now entered the room, singing,
“And all with attention would eagerly mark: When he cheer'd up the pack—Hark! to Rockwood hark! hark!”