THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX.
My aunt, Mrs. Cheeseman, is the very reverse of her husband. He is a plain, honest creature, such as we read of in full-length descriptions by some folks, but equally comprehensive, though shortly done by others, under the simple name of John Bull—as ungarnished in his dress, as in his speech and action; whereas Mrs. Cheeseman, as I have just told you, is the counterpart of plainness; she has trinkets out of number, brooches, backed with every kind of hair, from “the flaxen-headed cow-boy” to the deep-toned “Jim Crow.” Then her rings—they are the surprise of her staring acquaintances; she has them from the most delicate Oriental fabric to the massiveness of dog’s collars.
Uncle Cheeseman says Mrs. C. thinks of nothing else; no sporting gentleman, handsomely furnished, in the golden days of pugilism, ever looked upon a ring with more delightful emotions. At going to bed, she bestows the same affectionate gaze upon them that mothers do upon their slumbering progeny; nor is that care and affection diminished in the morning: her very imagination is a ring, seeing that it has neither beginning nor end—her tender ideas are encircled by the four magical letters R—I—N—G. Even at church, we are told, she divides her time between sleeping and secret polishing. It has just occurred to me, that I might have saved you and myself much trouble had I at once told you that aunt Cheeseman is a regular Ring-worm.
But, to my uncle—the only finery sported by him (and I hardly think it deserving that word), besides a silver watch, sound and true as the owner, and the very prototype of his bulk and serenity, was a gold snuff-box, a large and handsome one, which he did not esteem for its intrinsic weight; he had a “lusty pride” in showing that it was a prize gained in some skilful agricultural contest. I am sorry at not recollecting what was engraven on it; but being a thorough Cockney, and knowing nothing more of the plough and harrow than that I have somewhere observed it as a tavern sign, must plead for my ignorance in out-o’-town matters.
You can remember, no doubt, the day the Queen went to dine with the City Nabobs at Guildhall. Cheeseman hurried impatiently to London for the sole purpose of seeing the sight, and upon finding my liking for the spectacle as powerful as his own, declared I was the only sensible child my mother ever had, and adding that as he was well able to push his way through a Lunnon crowd, if my father and mother were willing, under his protection I should see this grand affair. Not the slightest objection was put in opposition to my uncle’s proposal, consequently the next day, November the 9th, 1837, uncle Cheeseman and I formed integral portions of the huge mass of spectators which reached from St. James’s to the City.
After slipping off the pavement a score of times (and in some instances opportunely enough to be shoulder-grazed by a passing coach-wheel), stunning numberless persons by explosions of oaths for clumsy collisions and unintentional performances upon his tenderest corn, we reached the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard.
Having secured by a two-shilling bargain about three feet of a form, which, I suppose, upon any other day than a general holiday like the present was the locus in quo for little dears whose young ideas were taught to shoot at threepence a week, uncle took breath, and a pinch of snuff together: he smiled as I observed, that he’d be sure to take a refresher when her Majesty passed; and though he shook his head and designated me a sly young rogue, I could clearly perceive that he was plotting to perform, as if by chance, what I had predicated as a certainty; and although nineteen persons out of twenty would have marked (in this instance) his puerility, I doubt not but that the same number are (at some periods of their existence) innocent victims to the like weakness, whether it be generated in a snuff-box or a royal diploma.
By-and-by, a murmur from the distance, which succeeded a restless motion among the crowd (like a leafy agitation of trees coming as a kind of courier en avant to announce the regular hurricane), broke gradually, and at last uproariously upon us; straining our necks and eyes in the attractive direction. Uncle grasped me by the arm, and though he spoke not a word, he fairly stared, “Here it comes.” Now the thick tide of the moving portion of the spectators began to sweep past us, as they hedged in the soldiery and carriages; then came the shouting, accompanied by various kinds of squeezing, tearing, and stumbling; some screaming compliments to her Majesty, and in the same breath dispensing more violent compliments in an opposite direction, and of a decidedly different tendency. Shoes were trodden off, and bonnets crushed out of all fashion; coats were curtailed; samples of their quality were either seen dangling at the heels of the wearer, or were ignominiously trodden under foot; and many superfine Saxony trousers were double-milled without mercy.