Oldal 106 [106]
70
and white in a side of streaky, well-cured
bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw
bed, weighed down by fetters and misfor¬
tunes; and, in the next scene, his faithful
but unconscious squire regales the au¬
dience with a comic song. We behold
with throbbing bosoms the heroine in the
erasp of a proud and ruthless baron, her
virtue and her life alike in danger, draw¬
ing forth her dagger to preserve the one
at the cost of the other; and, just as our
expectations are wrought up to the high¬
est pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are
straightway transported to the hall of the
castle, where a grey-headed seneschal
sings a funny chorus with a funnier body
of vassals, who are free of all sorts of
places from church vaults to palaces, and
roam about in company, carolling perpe¬
tually.
Such changes appear absurd; but they
are by no means unnatural. "The transi¬
tions in real life from well-spread boards
to death-beds, and from mourning weeds
to holiday garments, are not a whit less
startling, only there we are busy actors
instead of passive lookers-on, which makes
a vast difference ; the actors in the mimic
life of the theatre are blind to violent
transitions and abrupt impulses of passion
or feeling, which, presented before the
eyes of mere spectators, are at once con¬
demned as outrageous and preposterous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene, and
rapid changes of time and place, are not
only sanctioned in books by long usage,
but are by many considered as the great
art of authorship,—an author’s skill. in
his craft being by such critics chiefly esti¬
mated with relation to the dilemmas in
which he leaves his characters at the end
of almost every chapter,—this brief intro¬
duction to the present one may perhaps
be deemed unnecessary. But I have set
it in this place because I am anxious to
disclaim at once the slightest desire to
tantalise my readers by leaving young
Oliver Twist in situations of doubt and
difficulty, and then flying off at a tangent
to impertinent matters, which have no¬
thing to do with him. My sole desire is
to proceed straight through this history
with all convenient despatch, carrying my
reader along with me if I can, and, if not,
leaving him to take some more pleasant
rian it is essentially necessary that perfec¬
faith should be kept, and a good under¬
standing preserved. "The advantage of
this amicable explanation is, that vohens I
say, as I do now, that I am going back
directly to the town in which Oliver
Twist was born, the reader will at once
take it for granted that I have good and
ney, or | would not ask him to accompany
me on any account.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning
from the workhouse gate, and walked,
with portly carriage and commanding
steps, up the High-street. He was in
the full bloom and pride of beadleism ;
his cocked-hat and coat were dazzling in
the morning sun, and he clutched his cane
with all the vigorous tenacity of health
and power. Mr. Bumble always carried
his head high, but this morning it was
higher than usual; there was an abstrac¬
tion in his eye, and an elevation in his
air, which might have warned an obser¬
vant stranger that thoughts were passing
in the beadle’s mind, too great for utter¬
ance. | |
Mr. Bumble stooped not to converse
with the small shopkeepers and others who
spoke to him deferentially as he passed
along. He merely returned their saluta¬
tions with a wave of his hand, and relaxed
not in his dignified pace until he reached
the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the
infant paupers with a parish care.
c Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann,
hearing the well-known impatient shaking
at the garden gate. “If it isn’t him at
this time in the morning 1 TLauk, Mr.
Bumble, only think of its being you!
Well, dear me, it zs a pleasure this is!
Come into the parlour, Sir, please.”
The first sentence was addressed to
Susan, and the exclamations of delight
were spoken to Mr. Bumble as the good
lady unlocked the garden gate, and showed
him with great attention and respect into
the house.
‘ Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble,—not
sitting upon, or dropping himself into a
seat, as any common jackanapes would,
but letting himself gradually and slowly
down into a chair,—* Mrs. Mann, ma’am,
good morning !”
** Well, and good morning to you, sir,”
again afterwards if he will. Indeed,
there is so much to do, that I have no
room for digressions, even if I possessed
the inclination; and I merely make this
one In order to set myself quite right with
fhe render, between whom and the histo.
‘¢and hoping you find yourself well, sir???
**So-so, Mrs. Mann," replied the bea¬
dle. ‘*A parochial life is not a bed of
roses, Mrs. Mann."
66 Ah, that itisn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,”
rejoined the lady. And all the infant