which is his own variant of

If the heart of a man is depressed with care, The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.

But at the party given by the Wackleses d.i.c.k finds he is cut out by Mr. Cheggs, and so makes his escape saying, as he goes--

My boat is on the sh.o.r.e, and my bark is on the sea; but before I pa.s.s this door, I will say farewell to thee,

and he subsequently adds--

Miss Wackles, I believed you true, and I was blessed in so believing; but now I mourn that e'er I knew a girl so fair, yet so deceiving.

The _denouement_ occurs some time after, when, in the course of an interview with Quilp, he takes from his pocket

a small and very greasy parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum cake, extremely indigestible in appearance and bordered with a paste of sugar an inch and a half deep.

'What should you say this was?' demanded Mr. Swiveller.

'It looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning.

'And whose should you say it was?' inquired Mr. Swiveller, rubbing the pastry against his nose with dreadful calmness. 'Whose?'

'Not--'

'Yes,' said d.i.c.k, 'the same. You needn't mention her name. There's no such name now. Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet loved I as man never loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Sophy Cheggs.'

With this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing circ.u.mstances of his own case, Mr. Swiveller folded up the parcel again, beat it very flat upon the palms of his hands, thrust it into his breast, b.u.t.toned his coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole.

And then he signifies his grief by pinning a piece of c.r.a.pe on his hat, saying as he did so,

'Twas ever thus: from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower But 'twas the first to fade away; I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to marry a market gardener.

He is full of song when entertaining the Marchioness. 'Do they often go where glory waits 'em?' he asks, on hearing that Sampson and Sally Bra.s.s have gone out for the evening. He accepts the statement that Miss Bra.s.s thinks him a 'funny chap' by affirming that 'Old King Cole was a merry old soul'; and on taking his leave of the little slavey he says,

'Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for ever then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents.

Since life like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, While such purl on the bank still is growing, And such eyes light the waves as they run.'

On a later occasion, after enjoying some games of cards he retires to rest in a deeply contemplative mood.

'These rubbers,' said Mr. Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial fireside. Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings the changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her, to banish her regrets; and when they win a smile from her they think that she forgets--but she don't.'

Many of Mr. Swiveller's quotations are from Moore's _Irish Melodies_, though he has certainly omitted one which, coming from him, would not have been out of place, viz. 'The time I've lost in wooing'!

On another occasion Swiveller recalls some well-known lines when talking to Kit. 'An excellent woman, that mother of yours, Christopher,' said Mr. Swiveller; '"Who ran to catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to make it well? My mother."'

This is from Ann Taylor's nursery song, which has probably been more parodied than any other poem in existence. There is a French version by Madame a Taslie, and it has most likely been translated into other languages.

d.i.c.k gives us another touching reference to his mother. He is overcome with curiosity to know in what part of the Bra.s.s establishment the Marchioness has her abode.

My mother must have been a very inquisitive woman; I have no doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation somewhere. My feelings I smother, but thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my--

This last remark is a memory of T.H. Bayly's celebrated song 'We met,' which tells in somewhat incoherent language the story of a maiden who left her true love at the command of her mother, and married for money.

The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smother; Oh _thou_ hast been the cause Of this anguish--my mother.

T. Haynes Bayly was a prominent song-writer some seventy years ago (1797-1839). His most popular ballad was 'I'd be a b.u.t.terfly.' It came out with a coloured t.i.tle-page, and at once became the rage, in fact, as John Hullah said, 'half musical England was smitten with an overpowering, resistless rage for metempsychosis.' There were many imitations, such as 'I'd be a Nightingale' and 'I'd be an Antelope.'

_Teachers and Composers_

Although we read so much about singers, the singing-master is rarely introduced, in fact Mr. M'Choak.u.mchild (_H.T._), who 'could teach everything from vocal music to general cosmography,' almost stands alone. However, in view of the complaints of certain adjudicators about the facial distortions they beheld at musical compet.i.tions, it may be well to record Mrs. General's recipe for giving 'a pretty form to the lips'

(_L.D._).

Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips, especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable in the formation of a demeanour.

Nor do composers receive much attention, but amongst the characters we may mention Mr. Skimpole (_B.H._), who composed half an opera, and the lamp porter at Mugby Junction, who composed 'Little comic songs-like.' In this category we can scarcely include Mrs. Kenwigs, who 'invented and composed' her eldest daughter's name, the result being 'Morleena.' Mr. Skimpole, however, has a further claim upon our attention, as he 'played what he composed with taste,' and was also a performer on the violoncello. He had his lighter moments, too, as when he went to the piano one evening at 11 p.m. and rattled hilariously

That the best of all ways to lengthen our days Was to steal a few hours from Night, my dear!

It is evident that his song was 'The Young May Moon,' one of Moore's _Irish Melodies_.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake--the heavens look bright, my dear!

'Tis never too late for delight, my dear!

And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

_Silas Wegg's Effusions_

We first meet Silas Wegg in the fifth chapter of _Our Mutual Friend_, where he is introduced to us as a ballad-monger. His intercourse with his employer, Mr. Boffin, is a frequent cause of his dropping into poetry, and most of his efforts are adaptations of popular songs. His character is not one that arouses any sympathetic enthusiasm, and probably no one is sorry when towards the end of the story Sloppy seizes hold of the mean little creature, carries him out of the house, and deposits him in a scavenger's cart 'with a prodigious splash.'

The following are Wegg's poetical effusions, with their sources and original forms.

Book I, Ch. 5.

'Beside that cottage door, Mr. Boffin,' from 'The Soldier's Tear'

_Alexander Lee_

Beside that cottage porch A girl was on her knees; She held aloft a snowy scarf Which fluttered in the breeze.

She breath'd a prayer for him, A prayer he could not hear; But he paused to bless her as she knelt, And wip'd away a tear.

Book I, Ch. 15.

The gay, the gay and festive scene, I'll tell thee how the maiden wept, Mrs. Boffin.