L'oyd. Damn gratitude! Line. given. I'll not be insulted. Yes, you will, by forgiveness. You'll insult others, and be for Lloyd. No, I won't. Nobody shall forgive Roderick Lloyd. I should like to see 'em. (Standing still, putting his hand on his sword, and trying to speak very loudly.) Who forgives me? Who forgives Lloyd, I say? Come into the court, you rascal. Lane. (Laughing.) Come along. Nonsense. Lane. Lloyd. Who forgives Roderick Lloyd, - Promontory, Pro-thonotary of — Of North Wales, Marshal to Baron Price, and so forth. Come along, and don't be an ass. Lloyd. Fire and fury! A what? (Drawing his sword, and coming on.) A prothonotary called - (He stumbles against the Pump.) Who the devil are you? Get out of the way. Lane. (Aside.) A good thing, faith. He shall have it out. Lloyd. (To the Pump.) Who are you, I say? Why don't you speak? Lane. He says you may go to the devil. Lloyd. The devil he does! Draw, you scoundrel, or you're a dead man. Lane. He stands as stiff as a post. Lloyd. (Furiously.) Draw, you infernal fool. Lane. He says he defies your toasting-fork, and your Welsh-rabbit to boot. Lloyd. Blood and thunder! (He runs the Pump through the body.) Lane. Good Heavens, Lloyd! what have you done? We must be off. Lloyd. Pink'd an infernal Welsh-rabbit-I mean a toasting, damnation prothonotary. Who's afraid? Lane. Come along, man. This way, this way. Here, down the lane. The constables are coming, and you've done it at last, by Heavens ! [Exeunt down Chancery Lane. SCENE II. Daylight in a cellar. LLOYD and LANE discovered listening. Lane. It's nobody, depend on't. It's too early. Nobody is stirring yet. Don't be down-hearted, Rory. You're a brave man, you know; and the worse the luck, the greater the lion. Lloyd. But I've left my sword in him. Lane. No, have you though? That's unlucky. Lloyd. Oh, that punch, that punch! and that cursed fool poor fool, I should say, Progers. I shall come to shame, George. Oh, I shall. To Lane. No, no. The sword had no name on it? shame and to suffering. (He walks to and fro.) Lloyd. Yes, it had. Lane. But only initials. Lloyd. No. Full length. Lane. What, titles and all? Roderick Lloyd, Prothono- Lloyd. No, no. But name and address. Oh, wouldn't it be better if you would go out and see how matters are going on? Lane. What, the crowd, and all that? No, I think best not. well known hereabouts. Lloyd. Then why didn't you go further? We are too Lane. You were too far gone already, Rory. I don't mean to jest. You can't suppose me guilty of that. But it's a phrase, you know. You were very drunk, and to say the truth, very wilful. Lloyd. Oh, I was, I was. Lane. You wouldn't be guided at all. Lloyd. Too true, too true. Lane. I was twenty minutes getting you away from that apple-woman, and half an hour, I'm sure, in persuading you to rise from the door-way. (Lloyd groans.) Then you wouldn't let me take your sword (for I was afraid of some mischief), and you must have stood, I think, ten minutes against that shopwindow, damning us all round-all the friends you had been disputing with. Lloyd. Oh, don't tell me all that again. It's cruel of you, George. Listen! great Heavens, listen! Lloyd. Only a milkman! How do you know? Besides, what do you mean by "only a milkman?" Can't a milkman hang me? Can't a milkman be furious? furious about a man that's killed? Lane. Pray, sit down, and be easy. Sir John, 'tis true, doesn't appear ; but that's his way. He never stands by a friend, you know; that is to say, openly. But secretly he can do any thing; and he will. I tell you again, that I woke him directly we came into the house, and he gave me his solemn oath that he would smuggle you into Wales, in the boot of his carriage. It is not a very big boot, but it's better than nothing. Lloyd. Oh, a paradise, a paradise, if I were but in it. But repeat to me, George. What sort of a man was it that I had the misfortune to-to-. Tell me he was a bad fellow at any rate-a mohawk-a gallows bird, or something of that sort. Lane. I wish I could. But he was a young gentleman, plainly in liquor himself. Lloyd. Didn't he carry himself very stiffly? Lane. Wonderfully, but with a sort of innocence too. Lloyd. But he said insulting things. Lane. Not he. That was your fancy. Lloyd. What, didn't he tell me to go to the devil, and all that? Lane. Not a bit. He was quite silent, and, in fact, evidently did not hear a word you uttered. Lloyd. How strange, how horribly strange! and that I should have had all those drunken fancies! Lane. That's your way, you know, owing to your confounded temper. I beg your pardon. Lloyd. Oh, I beg yours - everybody's-his. Lane. You do? Roderick Lloyd beg pardon! Is it positively come to that? to that, which you have sworn a thousand times you would never do to any man living, be the circumstances what they might. Well, this is a change. Ah, ha! (Laughing.) A change and a lesson, eh, Rory? And you'll be a good boy, and never do the like again, I suppose? Lloyd. (Astonished.) What has come to you? Is this kindness? Is this humanity? Lane. Yes, Rory, very good kindness indeed, and very good humanity; for I have now a piece of news to tell you, that will pay you for all you have suffered, and me for all that you have ever made me suffer; for what with frights for you, and perils of fights for you, and some three or four flounderings in the gutter, there has been no mean balance, let me tell you, on the side of your old friend. So, mark me, you didn't leave your sword in the man, for I've got it; and you didn't do him any mischief at all, for you couldn't; and he was no man whatsoever, Rory, for he was a Pump. Lloyd. A Pump?-Swear it. Shout it. Make me sure of it somehow or other, and I'm in heaven. Lane. (Tenderly.) Do you think I'd play with you, Rory, any longer, and in a way like this? (Here Mr. RODERICK LLOYD, Prothonotary of North Wales, after embracing his friend, jumps and dances in ecstasy about the cellar.) Lloyd. By Heaven, it's almost worth going through misery, in order to taste of such happiness. Lane. That's one of the very points I have so often insisted on in our disputes. Hail to your new metaphysics, Rory;— to your enlightened theosophy. Lloyd. Come; let's to breakfast then somewhere, out of this infernal cellar. I own my lesson, George. You might have let me off too, a little sooner, I think, eh? Spared me a few sharp sentences. (They prepare to go.) I'm afraid you're growing a little disconcerted, Rory. No, I ain't; but Lane. Lloyd. Lane. A little contradictory again. Lloyd. No, I ain't; but Lane. You contradict me, however, as usual. Lloyd. No, I don't. Oh, damn it, come along. (Looking red, and laughing with his companion.) You won't tell anybody, will you, George? Haven't I the blood of the Lloyds in me. Am I not a gentleman, Lane. Rory? Lloyd. You are, you are. So we will drink gallons of tea to settle that confounded punch; and, I think, I'll never say "No, I don't" as long as I live; at least not to you, my boy; that is to say, if you behave yourself. Lane. Ah, you feel a little angry with me still. Lloyd. No, I—(LANE laughs.) Damn it. Well, I do; but not half so angry as happy, either. So, come along. [Exeunt. CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS DAY. F the three great annual holidays, Christmas day is, for many reasons, the greatest; and one reason among others is, that it stands out of the winter-time, the first and warmest of them. It is the eye and fire of the season, as the fire is of Christmas and of one's room. We have always loved it, and ever shall; first (to give a child's reason, and a very good one, too, in this instance), because Christmas day is Christmas day; second (which is included in that reason, or rather includes it, for it is the greatest), because of a high argument, which will more properly stand by itself at the close of this article; third, because of the hollies and other evergreens which people conspire to bring into cities and houses on this day, making a kind of summer in winter, and reminding us that "The poetry of earth is never dead ;" fourth, because we were brought up in a cloistered school,* where carols had not gone out of fashion, and used to sit in circles round huge fires, fit to roast an ox, making inconceivable bliss out of cakes and sour oranges; fifth, because of the fine things which the poets and others have * Christ's Hospital. said of it; sixth, because there is no business going on, "Mammon" is suspended; and seventh, because NewYear's-day and Twelfth-day come after it; that is to say, because it is the leader of a set of holidays, and the spirit is not beaten down into commonplace the moment it is over. It closes and begins the year with cheerfulness. We have collected, under the head of "The Week,"* some notices of the other principal points connected with Christmas. Most of them are now losing their old lustre, only to give way, we trust, by and by, to better evidences of rejoicing. The beadle we can dispense with, and even the Christmasboxes; especially as we hope nobody will then want them. And the "Bellman's Verses" shall turn to something nobler, albeit we have a liking for him; ay, for his very absurdities; there is something in them so old, so unpretending, and so reminiscent about him. As long as the bellman is alive, one's grandfather does not seem dead, and his cocked hat lives with him. Good "Bellman's Verses" will not do at all. There have been some such things of late, "most tolerable and not to be endured." We have even seen them witty, which is a great mistake. Warton and Cowper unthinkingly set the way to them. You may be childlike at Christmas; you may be merry; you may be absurd,—in the worldly sense of the term; but you must write with a faith, and so redeem your old Christmas reputation somehow. Belief in something great and good preserves a respectability, even in the most childish mistakes; but it feels that the company of banter is unworthy of it. The very absurdity of the "Bellman's Verses" is only bearable, nay, only pleasant, when we sup * A column of original and selected miscellany published under this caption in the "London Journal.". ED. |
