Murillo; or, at least, an excellent example of the school of Murillo. Poor thing! I’m sure I’m very sorry for her. I came here for amusement, and this is what I get.”
It was, of course, Mr. Isaac Phillimore, picture-dealer of Freer Street, Soho.
A shabby-looking man was with him. A man with no shirt-collar, a red nose, a broken hat (with crape on it), and very watery eyes. His lips had a tremulous movement about them, as though they were always talking.
“What is it you’re saying, Loafe?” Mr. Phillimore asked. “My poor fellow. You’ve got into such a way of muttering, there is no hearing a word you say.”
Mr. Loafe whispered into Mr. Phillimore’s ear.
“O, well!” said Mr. Phillimore, “if you want to go, why of course you must go—and here’s the half-crown you ask for—I should have to pay it for your supper, so you’re welcome to it.”
“I’ll pay you back,” said Mr. Loafe, with breathless earnestness. “’Pon my soul, I’ll pay you back. I shall get twelve and sixpence, if I’m lucky. I did not see any one doing it, and I dare say I can plant a paragraph on two, or three of the morning papers. Only I must go and get particulars, and do it at once.” And Mr. Loafe disappeared.
“Well, I’m sure I never saw a man that looked more as though he wanted twelve and sixpence. I suppose it comes of being a literary man! Why Loafe’s got to be a mere drunken boor by Ostade! Then, he added: “Well, my recreation is over, and I go back to my dismal home a more miserable man than I came from it. I suppose that comes of being a picture-dealer and an appreciator of the Fine Arts. Stay! I won’t go home yet. I’ll try a devilled oyster. Perhaps that will cheer me.”
Mr. Loafe’s paragraph was as follows:
“Serious Accident at the Theatre Royal, Long Acre.—We regret to have to state that a serious accident occurred at this favourite establishment last evening, during the performance of the new and successful ballet, “L’Aérolithe.” Towards the conclusion of the performance, as our readers are probably aware, a full description having so recently appeared in our columns, the eminent danseuse, Mademoiselle Stephanie Boisfleury who sustains the character of Fiametta, the Fille du Firmament (from whence the name of the piece is derived), is required to swing for some time over the stage suspended by a wire, the strength of which it is the rule of the theatre to test every morning, so that no precaution may be spared to render the feat a comparatively harmless one, the actress finally disappearing from the gaze of the enraptured audience down a trap-door at the back of the stage. From some cause, with the particulars of which we are unacquainted, and indeed it appears to be a mystery to all concerned, in spite of our ceaseless endeavours to obtain explicit information at the late hour last evening at which we went to press, the rope broke, or became detached from the dress of Mademoiselle Boisfleury, the accident has been explained to us in both ways, but its exact manner does not appear to be sufficiently accounted for, and she was precipitated from a great height of some twelve feet or more with considerable violence on to the stage. A scene of extraordinary alarm, consternation, and excitement ensued in the theatre, and the curtain was at once lowered. Mr. Tacker, the admirable stage-manager (whose benefit, we observe by our advertising columns, is fixed for Tuesday week, when we trust that he will receive the support so delightful an actor, and excellent a public servant, fully deserves), endeavoured in a short speech, capitally delivered, to allay the fears of the audience, among the female portion of whom considerable fear had been manifested. Mr. Grimshaw has been indefatigable in his attention to the sufferer, and the best medical skill in the metropolis has been called in to her assistance. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Boisfleury lies in a state, which we fear we must call precarious. Perhaps it is a fitting time to ask how long entertainments of a dangerous character, &c., &c. When will our senators give us an Act of Parliament to remedy a state of things which &c., &c.?”
There was a good deal more of it.
Perhaps, it is fair to state, however, that Mr. Loafe’s paragraph did not appear exactly as he had written it.
MOBILE.
The steamboat route from New Orleans to Mobile is one of the most delightful on the Gulf of Mexico. The distance is about 150 miles, through Lake Ponchartrain and along the coast of Mississippi, while a chain of islands, extending the whole distance, gives a wonderful variety to the prospect, and makes a continuous harbour or safe shelter from the Gulf typhoons.
We start from New Orleans by a short railroad, traversed in ten minutes, through a swamp. But this swamp is picturesque and interesting. Long streamers of moss hang from the gloomy cypress-trees. The undergrowth is of stunted palms. Birds of bright plumage and unrivalled song are seen and heard among the flowering shrubs. We pass through a fishing-village, out to the end of a long pier, and walk on board the long, light, low-pressure steamer, built strong enough for this sheltered sea navigation, and fleet and powerful enough to run off eighteen or twenty miles an hour without perceptible exertion.
The negro porters, probably the property of the company, place my luggage on board, and I step to the clerk’s office, pay my five dollars, and receive the key of my state-room. In a few moments we are careering across the blue waters of the lake, whose low shores are scarcely visible. The spires of New Orleans are fading in the sunset.
Then comes a supper, set out for 200 people, with great elegance and a greater profusion. The strange and delicious fish of these Southern waters and the wonderful oysters are among the choicest luxuries, but nothing is wanting necessary to a substantial and elegant repast. The sun is down, and up rises the yellow moon. The blue southern sky is full of stars, and the constellations which