“Well,” said Blunderbore, taking him up on his vast hand, “giants in Blunderland don’t talk rubbish of that kind, and they are not such geese as to grind bones when they want to make bread.”
“Come in, Blunderbore; we will make room for you,” came in a surging ripple from hundreds of fair lips, while, with many a rustle of silk and velvet, they cleared a large space on one side of the amphitheatre, the seats of which rose in tiers one above the other.
BEETLE-CRUSHERS.
A GREAT SWELL.
“Well, but your ceiling is so low. However, perhaps old Blunderbore can cure that for you,” said the giant, as, pushing his head in below the ombrelle of flowers, he placed his forefinger in the centre of the white lily at the top, and, apparently without an effort, raised the canopy aloft. Showers of diamond drops fell thick and fast from between the fern-leaves as the gorgeous ceiling rose, faster and ever faster, till at every leaf there stood a glassy pillar, glittering and sparkling with wondrous lustre, and in a twinkling the bower became a crystal floral palace, to which that of Covent Garden is but a dingy, dull, depressing dungeon. Blunderbore then made his way through the crowd with great care, of which there was much need, his feet being nearly as big as the dingies of a ship of the line, and seated himself on the side of the hall that had been vacated for his accommodation. He certainly was very unlike the old kind of Blunderbore, from the top of his three-cornered hat down to the red heels of his buckled shoes. A magnificent single-breasted coat and long flap-waistcoat, with golden stripes, separated by lines of rich maroon-coloured velvet, took the place of the short armless blouse, and the great belt with a buckle like a wicket-gate, that are supposed generally to be the orthodox costume of gentlemen more than eight feet high. And instead of the gnarled club or grievous crab-tree cudgel of the story-books, our Blunderbore carried a most elegant cane with a golden top. It is true that the cane was as thick as an ordinary lamp-post, but still it looked quite neat and tiny, appearing slight enough in Blunderbore’s vast hand to suit the most foppish taste. His breeches were of yellow satin, below which were stockings of silk of the same colour, and his curly hair was of a golden tint. Altogether, he made a most presentable-looking giant, and seemed to be a special favourite with the ladies, to whom, as he sat down, he kissed his hand right gallantly. This done, he produced from his waistcoat-pocket a snuff-box, larger than a full-sized trunk, and took a pinch out of it, giving his hand an elegant shake—in fact, quite à la Cox-comme il faut of the last century, sending a shower of snuff from his fingers like the stream from the rose of a watering-pot. This, the boys expected, would set every one sneezing; but such snuff was not likely to get into any one’s nostril by accident, the particles being as large as ordinary peas, and no one seemed inclined intentionally to make his nose a pis aller for what the giant threw away. As what remained between his fingers would have stuffed an ordinary pillow, it proved that Blunderbore was anything but a bad fellow at a pinch, and completely allayed the fears of our little men, so that they were not the least alarmed when he gave a terrific sneeze, like a squall of a north-easterly gale—a perfect Blunder Boreas.
NOTES ON DEMAND.
“Now, then,” said he, “what can I do to promote the harmony of the meeting?”
“Give us some music; let’s have a Monstre Concert,” was the cry that rose on every side.
“All right,” said Blunderbore; “will you have the Jolly Waggoner?”