Читать книгу The Mummy! A Tale of the Twenty-Second Century - Mrs. Loudon - Страница 10

Edric hastily assented, and bidding Abelard an affectionate adieu, he and Father Morris easily climbed through the window that led to the adytum of Dr. Entwerfen, whilst Abelard, clasping his hands together, exclaimed as he retired, "God bless him! Well, he shall not want for pecuniary assistance at any rate, if Mr. Davis and I can help it; that is one comfort."

When Edric and Father Morris entered the study of Dr. Entwerfen, they found him engaged in what, certainly considering his age and station, seemed a very extraordinary amusement. He was apparently dancing a hornpipe, drawing his heels together, and alternately rising and sinking like a clown in a pantomime, twisting his face, in the mean time, into the most hideous grimaces.

"What is the matter?" cried Edric and Father Morris, both at the same instant, gazing at him with surprise.

"I—I—I am galvanized," cried the doctor, in a piteous tone; nodding his head with a sudden jerk, that seemed to threaten every instant to throw it out of its socket; and then, suddenly starting, he kicked out one leg horizontally, and twirled round upon the other with an air of an opera dancer.

"How did it happen?" cried Edric, excessively shocked at the unnatural contrast exhibited between the doctor's serious countenance, and involuntary antics.

"I can't—exactly—tell," replied the doctor, bolting forth his words with difficulty, and still swimming, grinning, and capering, to the inexpressible horror of his companions, till by degrees his grimaces subsided, and he was enabled at last to stand tolerably steady. He now informed his friends, that trying some experiments with his galvanic battery, he had unfortunately operated upon himself; and in his turn listened to their account of what had passed between Edric and Sir Ambrose. Instead of expressing sorrow, however, when he found his pupil had quarrelled with his father, the doctor's eyes sparkled with joy—"Then you must inevitably travel," exclaimed he. "We shall visit the pyramids, we shall animate the mummies, and we shall attain immortality."

There was something in this violent expression of the doctor's transports that did not quite harmonize with Edric's feelings, especially as he fancied he perceived a satirical smile lurking round the lips of Father Morris.

"When shall you be ready to set off?" asked he abruptly.

"To-morrow, if you will," replied the doctor. "I have foreseen this result some time, and I have been preparing every thing accordingly. I never knew a young Englishman in my life, Father Morris, who was not fond of travelling. The inhabitants of other countries travel for what they can get, or what they hope to learn; but an Englishman travels because he does not know what to do with himself. He spares neither time, trouble, nor money; he goes every where, sees every thing; after which, he returns—just as wise as when he set out. Not that I blame curiosity—no—I admire it above all things!—it is that which has led to all the great discoveries that have been made since the creation of the world, and it is that which now impels us to explore the pyramids."

Edric looked excessively annoyed at the conclusion of this speech, and, to change the subject, hastily asked the doctor, if he thought his galvanic battery powerful enough for the experiment they meant to try with it.

"Powerful!" exclaimed the doctor; "why I feel it even now tingling to my fingers' ends. I should think, Sir, the effect it has had upon me is a sufficient proof of the force of the machine."

"Undoubtedly!" replied Father Morris; "nay, if we are to judge by that, I only tremble lest you should animate the pyramids as well as the mummies, and you must allow it would be an awkward sight to see them come tumbling and slipping along the plain."

"Sir!" said the doctor, staring at him.

"Do you intend visiting any other country than Egypt?" asked Father Morris, fearful he had gone too far, and wishing, for reasons he did not openly avow, not to offend his companions.

"I should like to see India," said the doctor; "some black-letter pamphlets in my possession, allude to its being once governed by an old woman; and as the regular historians make no mention of the fact, I should like to see what traditions I could gather respecting it on the spot. The religion of the ancient Hindoos, before they were converted to Christianity, has been said to have resembled that of the ancient Egyptians; by comparing the monuments of both, one might be made to illustrate the other. I should also like, before we quit Africa, to see the celebrated court of Timbuctoo. I have long been in correspondence with a learned pundit there, who has communicated to me some of the most sublime discoveries."

"The whole of the interior of Africa must be interesting," observed Father Morris, "particularly the rising states on the banks of the Niger. It is generally instructive as well as amusing to watch the birth and struggles of infant republics; and to remark first how fast the people encroach, and then the governors. Whilst the rulers are weak, they are always liberal; but their exalted sentiments in general decrease in exact proportion as they become powerful."

"In short," resumed the doctor, "I would willingly traverse the whole world; I know but one country that I should dislike to visit."

"And which is that?" asked Edric.

"America," replied the doctor. "I have no wish to have my throat cut, or my breath stopped by a bowstring. I have a perfect horror of despotic governments."

"Then how do you endure the one we live under?" asked Father Morris.

"The case is quite different," returned the doctor. "With us, the spur of despotism is scarcely felt; and the people, being permitted occasionally to think and act for themselves, are not debased and brutalized as the slaves of absolute power are in general. Despotism, with us, is like a rod which the schoolmaster keeps hung up in sight of his boys, but which he has very seldom any occasion to make use of. From such despotism as that of the Americans, however, Heaven defend us!"

"Amen!" said Edric; "for, as we are happy now, we should be idiots to desire a change."

"What an unphilosophical sentiment!" exclaimed the doctor: "I am really quite shocked that you, Edric, should utter such a speech. What an abominable doctrine! Remember, that if you once allow innovation to be dangerous, you instantly put a stop to all improvement—you absolutely shut and bolt your doors against it. Oh! it is horrible, that such a doctrine should be ever broached in a civilized country. You could not surely be aware of what you were saying?"

"To-morrow," said Father Morris, addressing Edric, and without noticing the indignation of the learned doctor, "you must proceed to town, where you can remain at the house of a friend of mine, till you are ready for your voyage to Egypt. I would not, however, advise you to stay long before you go there; for, as your father intends visiting London in a day or two, you might meet, and the consequences, be unpleasant. I have already dispatched a carrier-pigeon to advise my friend, Lord Gustavus De Montfort, of your arrival; he, I am sure, will give you a hearty welcome, and not only afford you the shelter of his house, but afford you all the assistance in his power, to enable you to make preparations for your journey; for which purpose, also, I will take care to supply you with money. No thanks," continued he, stopping Edric, who was about to speak, "I detest them. If you really feel obliged to me, you will prove it by remaining silent. I must leave you now, as my longer absence might create suspicion. Adieu! God bless you! A balloon will wait for you to-morrow morning, at the corner of the wood. The doctor will, of course, accompany you. I think you may safely rest here concealed till then. Once more, adieu!"

"Now Father Morris is gone," said Doctor Entwerfen to his pupil, "I have a treat for you. I will show you a curious collection of ballads, all of which are at least three hundred years old, which a friend of mine picked up in London for me the other day, and sent me down this morning by the stage-balloon. They are all of the genuine rag paper, a certain proof of their antiquity; for, you know, the asbestos paper we now use has not been invented more than two hundred years. But you shall see them: follow me."

So saying, the doctor trotted off to his library, that paradise of half-forgotten volumes, most of which had been accidentally saved from their well-merited destination of covering over butter, and wrapping up cheese, to be drawn from the dust and obscurity in which they had lain for centuries, to ornament the shelves of Doctor Entwerfen; and whose authors, if they could have taken a peep upon earth, and beheld them, would have been quite astonished to find themselves immortal. Entering this emporium of neglected learning, the doctor hastily advanced to a table, on which lay his newly acquired treasures, and holding them up, exclaimed, "Look, Edric, how beautifully dirty the paper is; no art could counterfeit this dingy hue. This sooty tinge is the genuine tint of antiquity. You know, Edric, in ancient times, the caloric employed in culinary purposes, and indeed for all the common usages of life, was produced by the combustion of wood, and of a black bituminous substance, or amphilites, drawn from the bowels of the earth, called coal, of which you may yet see specimens in the cabinets of the curious. As these substances decomposed, or rather expanded, by the force of heat, the attraction of cohesion was dissolved, and the component parts flew off in the shape of smoke or soot. This smoke, rising into the air, was dispersed by it, and the minute particles, or atoms, of which it was composed, falling and resting upon every thing that chanced to be in their way, produced that incomparable dusky hue, which the moderns have so often tried, though in vain, to imitate. I beg your pardon, Edric, for using such vulgar language to express what I wished to say, but really, treating upon such a subject, I did not know how to explain myself elegantly."

"Oh! I understood you very well, Sir. After all, the only true use of language is to convey the ideas of one person to the understanding of another; and, provided that end be attained, I really do not see that it is of any consequence what words we make use of."

"True, Edric dear! you make very just observations sometimes. Well, but the ballads; I was going to show you my treasures—my jewels! as the Roman lady said of her children. Look what beautiful specimens these are! A little torn here and there, and with a few of the lines illegible—but genuine antiques. I'll warrant every one of them above three hundred years old. Look, it is real linen paper; you may tell it by the texture; and then the spelling, see what a number of letters they put into their words that were of no use. Look at the titles of them. Here is the 'Tragical end of poor Miss Bailey'—and here 'Cherry Ripe'—and 'I've been roaming.' Here is 'The loves of Captain Wattle and Miss Roe'—and here are 'Jessy the flower of Dumblane,' and 'Dunois the brave.' But this is my Phœnix—here is what will be the envy of collectors! here is my invaluable treasure. This, I believe, is absolutely unique, and that I am so blest as to possess the only copy extant. The date is wanting, but the manners it describes are so unpolished, that I should almost think it might be traced back to the times of the aboriginal Britons.—Thus it begins:—

'At Wednesbury there was a cocking,

A match between Newton and Scroggins;

The nailers and colliers left work,

And to Spittle's they all went jogging.

Tol de rol lol.'

I used to be very much puzzled at this burthen, which is one of frequent recurrence in ancient songs. At first, I thought it a relic of some language now irrevocably lost. Then it struck me, it might be an invocation to the deities of the aborigines. In short, I was quite perplexed, and knew not what to think, when a learned friend of mine hit upon an idea the other day, which seems completely to solve the difficulty. He suggests that it was an ancient manner of running up and down the scale; and that 'Tol de rol lol' had the same signification as 'Do re mi fa;'—which solution is at once so simple and ingenious, that I am sure you, as well as myself, must be struck by it. I here omit a few stanzas, in which the author enumerates his heroes exactly in the Homeric manner. The names are so barbarous, that I am afraid of loosening my teeth in pronouncing them:—

'There was plenty of beef at the dinner,

Of a bull that was baited to death;

Bunny Hyde got a lump in his throat,

Which had like to have stopt his breath.'

What a beautiful simplicity there is in that last line,

'Which had like to have stopt his breath.'

Oh, we moderns have nothing equal to it!—

'The company fell in confusion,

To see this poor Bunny Hyde choke,

So they hurried him down to the kitchen,

And held his head over the smoke.'

"This develops a curious practice of antiquity. You know, Edric, I explained to you just now the manner in which combustion was formerly effected, and the causes of the production of what was called smoke. I own, however, it seems a strange way of reviving a half-suffocated man, to hold his head over smoke, which, being loaded, as I said before, with innumerable atoms of all sorts and sizes, would, one might think be more likely to impede respiration than restore it. The fact, however, is undoubted; and it not only affords a curious illustration of the manner of the ancients, but is of itself a strong proof of the authenticity of the ballad; for such an idea never could have entered the head of a modern. To return to poor Hyde—

'One gave him a kick o' th' stomach,

And another a thump o' th' brow,

His wife cried throw him i' th' stable,

And he will be better just now.'

This unfeeling conduct of his wife does not say much in commendation of the ladies of those times. Here follows an hiatus of several stanzas: I find, however, by a word or two here and there, that they celebrated the exploits of two gallic heroes:—

'The best i' th' country bred;

The one was a brassy-wing black,

And the other a dusky-wing'd red.'

These unfortunate victims of the cruelty of man seem both to have perished. There is a stanza, however, before this catastrophe, which seems to relate to the combat.

'The conflict was hard upon each,

Till glossy-wing'd blacky was choked,

The colliers were nationally vex'd,

And the nailers were all provoked.'

This passage seems very obscure: 'Nationally' is evidently a sign of comparison, but I cannot say I ever saw it employed before. It is, however, another proof of the amazing antiquity of the ballad. After this, it appears that the people broke in upon the ring, and both cocks were crushed to atoms. I don't know whether you are acquainted with the manner in which these gallic combats were conducted, Edric. A kind of amphitheatre was formed, upon which the birds were pitted one against the other, whence the name cock-pit. The combatants were armed with large iron spurs, and the victor generally left his rival dead upon the field. The ballad proceeds:—

'The cock-pit was near to the church,

As an ornament to the town;

One side was an old coal-pit,

And the other was well gorsed round.'

Gorse was a kind of heath or furze.

'Peter Hadley peep'd through the gorse,

In order to see the cocks fight;

Spittle jobb'd his eye out with a fork,

And said, "Blast you, it sarves you right."'

This is very spirited and expressive, though the false quantities render it difficult to read.

'Some folks may think this is strange,

Who Wednesbury never knew,

But those who have ever been there,

Won't have the least doubt but it's true.

For they are all savage by nature,

And guilty of deeds that are shocking,

Jack Baker he whack'd his own feyther,

And so ended the Wednesbury cocking.'"

"It is very fine certainly," said Edric, who was half asleep.

"Upon my word," returned the doctor, "I don't think you have heard a single word I have been saying."

"Oh! yes, I have," replied Edric, "every syllable. It was about a man killing his own father, and putting his eyes out with a fork."

"Eh?" cried the doctor, somewhat annoyed at this unequivocal proof that though his words might have struck upon the auricular organs of his pupil, they had not reached his brains. The exclamation of the doctor restored Edric to his senses, and he began to apologize.

"I am really very sorry," said he, "but you must excuse my inattention. Sometimes, you know, the mind is not in tune for literary discussions, even when proceeding from the most eloquent lips. This is my case at the present moment. My mind is so occupied by the important change that has just taken place in my affairs, that, I own, even your learning and eloquence were thrown away upon me."

"If that be the state of your mind," replied the doctor, with chagrin, "it is of no use to show you any more of my literary treasures; else I have some of matchless excellence. Here is a letter addressed to Sheridan, a witty writer of comedies, in the eighteenth century, which has never been opened—and here is a tailor's bill of the immortal Byron, which may possibly never have been looked at. But here is the most inestimable of my relics. Look, at least, at this. This piece of paper, covered carelessly with irregular strokes and lines, was once in the possession of that enchanting, that inimitable novelist of the nineteenth century, generally distinguished in the works of contemporary writers by the mysterious title of 'The Great Unknown!' See, here is half the word 'Waverley,' written upon it, and doubtless all these other irregular marks and scratches proceeded directly from his pen. I confess, Edric, I never contemplate this relic of genius without a feeling of reverence, and almost of awe. 'Perhaps,' say I to myself, when I look at it, 'when these letters were formed, the first idea had but just arisen in the mind of the author of those immortal works, which were afterwards destined to improve and delight mankind. Perhaps, at that very moment gigantic thoughts were rushing through his brain, and a variety of new ideas opening their treasures to his imagination.' Oh, there is something in the mere random stroke of the pen of a celebrated character, inexpressibly affecting to the mind;—it carries one back to the very time when he lived—it seems to make one acquainted with him, and to let us into the secrets of his inmost thoughts. But I see you are not attending to me, Edric!"

"I am very sorry—another time I should be happy—but now—I cannot. However, when we return, perhaps—"

"It may be then too late," said the doctor, with solemnity; and locking up his cabinet, he led the way back to his common sitting-room, in high dudgeon.