Читать книгу The Pedestrian's Guide through North Wales - G. J. Bennett - Страница 10

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It was a foggy morning when Triptolemus,—for so I shall designate my new acquaintance,—who had unfortunately been deeply bitten by a mad actor, arose, feverish from his sleepless pillow, to awaken the cocks of the surrounding neighbourhood with the loud rattle of his histrionic tongue. He had, with some difficulty, prevailed upon the manager of the theatre to permit him to make his appearance on the stage, and the character selected for his attempt was Richmond—the gallant Richmond!

In the centre of the filthy town of — stands an ancient castle, situated upon a lofty hill, which is now turned into a county jail. There was around it formerly a deep moat, which having for many years been dried up, is now converted into pleasure gardens for the corporation. From the top of the hill there was, at this time, an opening, much like a trap door, where commenced a descent by winding steps, leading to the gardens beneath, and to some gates made in the iron railings that encompassed the moat upon the other side.

Upon the summit of the hill, Triptolemus walked with all the dignity of an English baron. The ancient fortress, that frowned above him, gave additional fire to his excited imagination; and, as he spoke of knights and fellows in arms, and mused of war, banners, and crop ear’d steeds, the present peaceful times were dead to him, and nothing lived within his gallant thoughts but those whose bones have long since whitened in the dust.

Triptolemus had walked round, and round again, about the distance of half a mile, spouting Shakespeare to “the unconscious wind,” when, as he was about to take “round the third,” instead of looking at the earth, his inspired glance was directed to the sky; and at the instant he exclaimed, “thus far into the bowels of the land,” he vanished into the earth through the before mentioned trap door! and awakening from his surprize, he found himself half smothered in a bed of manure, at the bottom of the steps.—When he had in some degree recovered from his alarm, and ascertained that his person had escaped injury, his first reflection was upon the fall of Lucifer,

“From night to morn—from morn to dewy eve,

A summer’s day!”

He then looked round him and fancied himself in Johnson’s happy valley, himself the prince, and, like him, discontented with his lot, when he was suddenly aroused to a sense of his real situation by the pointed application of a pitchfork, unceremoniously handled by a sturdy boor, who saluted him with, “Where the devil didst thee come from?” His indignant spirit now gave vent to its uncontrollable fury, in a torrent of blank verse! He felt that, like Hamlet, he could

“Do such deeds

As hell itself would quake to look upon.”

But, like Posthumous, he was doubtful which to select. His soul was in arms!—and the thrice valiant embryo Richmond exclaimed,

“Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just;

And he but naked, tho’ lock’d up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.”

“I fell into this damned place through your neglect in leaving the trap door open, you bloody and devouring boar,”—eyeing him all the while with a glance that seemed to say, “If I thought you wholesome, I’d turn cannibal.”

The bumkin, however, took no further notice of it than to assure him, if he did not presently take to his heels, he would toss him out on the prongs of his fork.

O! what a field for fancy did this threat open to his susceptible mind! The tattered hat of the unceremonious gardener was converted into a coronet of snakes that reared their threatening crests and hissed furiously at the astonished hero. His ruddy face assumed the Gorgon’s look, turning him almost into stone. The weapon in his hand grew fiery red, and for a foot there seemed a cloven hoof.

An attempted application of the torturing steel however, gave motion to his limbs;—away he scampered up the steep ascent, not daring to turn a solitary glance behind, until he reached the spot from whence he fell.

This accident conjured up a train of reflections upon the vanity of human wishes! “Alas!” exclaimed he, “it is but a few minutes since I fancied myself a hero at the head of a victorious army, before which thousands would turn and fly, or grimly bite the dust; and now I find myself a wretched thing! routed by a base born hind with a muck fork in his hand! Oh! vile disgrace! I only wish that fellow may see me on the boards to-morrow night—I’ll frown him into a liquid.”

Upon the night of this eventful morning the stage-struck Triptolemus had very unquiet dreams; his head was filled, he said, with a chaotic mass of indistinct and indescribable objects. The last thought he had while awake was how he should look when dressed as the gallant Richmond;—and having settled that point to his own satisfaction, he resigned himself to

“Sweet Nature’s second course.”

He waves aloft his glittering steel—he spurs his coal black charger to the field.—Forward! he cries—and the hostile ranks advance in terrible array, inspired by their heroic leader! All then becomes hubbub, turmoil and confusion, higglety pigglety, up and down, slash away work. He meets the tyrant king—fiercely they struggle for the mastery—slap bang go their battle axes; when suddenly a number of shadowy forms, with blood-red cabbage-heads, encircle the enfuriated pair, yelling and dancing at the white-rose king;—the gallant Richmond staggers beneath the prowess of his vigorous opponent, and half believes the field is lost, when through the spectre group a headless horseman breaks with furious speed.—’Tis Buckingham!—he waves his gory head aloft in his red hand, and as Tydides whirled the fragment of a rock upon his foe, even with such fury flung the shade his head, full upon the visage of his fated Richard;—he falls—the shadows vanish with loud cries of joy! when suddenly a dreadful blow is dealt upon the temples of the conquering Richmond;—the chains of sleep are broken, and Triptolemus lies stretched upon the floor.

He arose confused; he pondered upon his dream, rubbed his bruised forehead, and began conclusions from the visions of the night. These proving satisfactory, he descended to the breakfast parlour, inwardly exclaiming,

“May good digestion wait on appetite.”