into it; and in all human probability what he thus put into his glass, he immediately, or within a very short period, transferred to his stomach; but of its name, its quantity, and its strength, we must be contented to remain for ever profoundly ignorant. One hint alone, bearing upon the last of the three, we will venture to throw out: we would stake our existence upon the opinion, could it possibly admit of proof, that King Cole, to the day on which he "shuffled off this mortal coil," neither was, nor intended ever to become, a member of any Temperance Society whatsoever. We are convinced -we think nobody can fail of being convinced with us -that not even Mordecai at the king's gate could have been a greater evil in the eyes of Haman than was the blue, thin, lanky form of the parish pump in those of the thirsty and thirst-quenching Cole. Yet, Tories as we are, reverencing as we do things old for their antiquity, we are sorry here to feel it our duty to contradict and disprove a maxim universally acknowledged (as our old nurse used to say) "before we were either born or thought of." "In vino veritas," said some pitiful ancient who had not the spirit to get drunk; in the present inquiry it is very evident that there is nothing whatever to be gotten from the glass. We have yet one chance left: "He call'd for his fiddlers three!" Now might we, if we chose, fly off into abstruse and long-winded speculations concerning the various species of fiddles, and the various excellencies of various fiddlers; and now might we institute a learned discussion, whether from the nature of the case it is more probable that his Majesty of Cole-land (for so, for want of a better name, must we call his kingdom), delighted most to regale his royal ears with the care-dispelling strain of "a jolly full bottle," or with the equally con genial and inspiriting melody denominated "drops of brandy." But we must not suffer ourselves to be led astray by such "Delilahs of the imagination," while we have such serious business upon our hands. There is yet among the things undiscovered and (we fear) undiscoverable, the answer to the all-momentous question, "who was King Cole?" Seriously then, the three fiddlers, considered in conjunction with the glass, afford incontrovertible evidence of his having belonged to some civilised country; but to which? "ay, there's the rub." The circumstance of the three fiddles might at first sight incline us to suspect either Germany or Italy, (a wouldbe waggish friend at our elbow suggests that Bow-hemia would be more "German to the matter,") but we have only to look to the legend to refute the notion; he was evidently far too jolly for the phlegmatic German, and not half gloomy enough for the Italian whose soul disputes with his skin the palm of darkness. He would equally have held in sovereign contempt the solemn taciturnity of the one, and the impertinent loquacity of the other. His description is not altogether unlike that of the feasting, fiddling, frolicking, and penniless monarch of "sunny Provence." But then again we know the "joyous" Renè to have belonged to the kingdom of Lilliput rather than to that of Brobdignag; and we have no certain evidence that he was addicted to smoking; while we cannot read the four lines above-quoted without a mental vision of a "fair round belly with good capon lined," nay, almost of "a gross fat man," and of a breeches pocket in which no broad piece was ever hypochondriacal for lack of society. We have even an indistinct dreamy notion of certain boots, with tops of a decidedly mahogany tint, surmounted by a huge pair of drab cord-du-roy inexpressibles. Alas! we are no more in a condition than we were at starting to give any satisfactory reply to our self-proposed question, "Who was King Cole?" And now, "what men could do we've done." Sleep King Cole undiscovered through all eternity, no feelings more painful than those of curiosity will ever rankle in our breast. We have sounded our challenge, we have set up our banner, we have broken our lance with the false knight obscurity; we retire from the lists, if not with honour, at least without disgrace. Yet as we have observed that learned and laborious critics, when they arrive at any passage which baffles all their ingenuity to explain in a straight-forward way, do for the most part favour the studious with certain crotchets and conjectures of their own upon the matter; so we also should be unwilling to lay aside our pen without setting forth our own acumen in such matters, by a guess or two as to the habits and manner of life of the potentate under consideration. We should be inclined to surmise then that the venerable monarch had a red nose; that he had no great antipathy to a well-stuffed arm chair; and that he entertained a peculiar affection for a spacious chimney corner. We should say, if not too presumptuous, that he not unfrequently indulged in a nap in the course of a warm summer's afternoon; and we should be apt to express, by a noun of multitude, the flies which were wont to bask upon his nasal organ during the abovementioned relaxation of his faculties. We have an idea that he laughed often, sang sometimes, and swore now and then. Lastly, we feel morally certified that whenever his Majesty commenced those sittings at which he was accustomed to call for his pipe, his glass, and his fiddlers, he invariably had at his feet two unchanging attendants; the first of which most probably looked up to him, to the second of which he most undoubtedly looked down; we mean, without further circumlocution, a dog and a spitting pan. Gentle, patient, enduring, (we hope not weary) reader! buoyed up, as we cannot allow ourselves to doubt, by the inspiriting hope of acquiring some definite information concerning the venerable Cole, you have journeyed on with us thus far with the mind of expectation stretched upon the tenter hooks of anxiety. "Whether," (we quote the language of the inimitable and immortal "Boz,") "whether it's worth while going through so much to get so little, as the charity-boy said when he got to the end of the alphabet," we humbly leave with you to decide. out. THE GIPSIES. In the following lines no attempt has been made to pursue the long-agitated inquiry into the origin of the singular race who form their subject; although, perhaps, a slight leaning to the opinion which assigns to them an Egyptian origin may be discoverable throughTo the historian and the philosopher the duty of laborious and minute investigation belongs more properly than to the poet, to whom it must be more congenial to receive them as the wandering wreck of one of the mightiest nations of antiquity, than as the representatives of the most degraded class of a debased and contemptible people. For several parts of the Gipsy's speech the Author has to confess great obligations to Mr. G. P. R. James's admirable novel. Oh, Thou! who, careless of the outward frame, No Grant the high thought, and nerve the lofty line! |