Page:The London Magazine, volume 7 (January–June 1823).djvu/667

 larmed sentinel, coyly approaching the spot from which the noise issued.

“Nobody,” said the fugitive: and by way of answer to the challenge—“Speak, or I must fire”—which tremulously issued from the lips of the city hero, Mr. Schnackenberger, gathering up his dreadnought to his breast, said in a hollow voice, “Fellow, thou art a dead man.”

Straitway the armed man fell upon his knees before him, and cried out“ah! gracious Sir! have mercy upon me. I am a poor wig-maker; and a bad trade it is; and I petitioned his worship, and have done for this many a year, to be taken into the city guard; and yesterday I passed”

“Passed what?”

“Passed my examination, your honour:—his worship put me through the manual exercise: and I was ’triculated into the corps. It would be a sad thing, your honour, to lose my life the very next day after I was ’triculated.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jeremiah, who with much ado forbore laughing immoderately, “For this once I shall spare your life: but then remember—not a word, no sound or syllable.”

“Not one, your honour, I vow to heaven.”

“And down upon the spot deliver me your coat, side arms, and hat.”

But the martial wig-maker protested that, being already ill of a cold, he should, without all doubt, perish if he were to keep guard in his shirt-sleeves.

“Well, in that case, this dreadnought will be a capital article: allow me to prescribe it—it’s an excellent sudorific.”

Necessity has no law: and so, to save his life, the city hero, after some little struggle, submitted to this unusual exchange.

“Very good!” said Mr. Schnackenberger, as the warrior in the dreadnought, after mounting his round hat, again shouldered his musket:—“Now, good night;” and so saying, he hastened off to the residence of the Mayor.

“Saints in heaven! is this the messenger of the last day?” Screamed out a female voice, as the door-bell rang out a furious alarum—peal upon pealunder that able performer, Mr. Jeremiah Schnackenberger. She hastened to open the door; but, when she beheld a soldier in the state uniform, she assured him it was all over with him; for his worship was gone to bed; and, when that was the case, he never allowed of any disturbance without making an example.

“Aye, but I come upon state-business.”

“No matter,” said the old woman, “it’s all one: when his worship sleeps, business must sleep: that’s the law, I’ll assure you, and has been any time since I can think on. He always commits, at the least.”

“Very likely; but I must speak to him.”

“Well, then, take the consequences on yourself,” said she: “recollect, you’re a state soldier; you’ll be brought to a court-martial; you’ll be shot.

“Ah! well: that’s my concern.”

“Mighty well,” said the old woman: “one may as well speak to the wind. However, I’ll get out the way: I’ll not come near the hurricane. And don’t you say, I didn’t warn you.”

So saying, she let him up to her master’s bed-room door, and then trotted off as fast and as far as she could.

At this moment Mr. Mayor, already wakened and discomposed by the violent tintinnabulation, rushed out: “What!” said he, “am I awake? Is it a guardsman that has this audacity?”

“No guardsman, Mr. Mayor,” said our hero; in whose face his worship was vainly poring with the lamp to spell out the features of some one amongst the twelve members of the state-guard; “no guardsman, but a gentleman that was apprehended last night at the theatre.”

“Ah!” said the Mayor trembling in every limb, “a prisoner, and escaped? And perhaps has murdered the guard?What would you have of meme, a poor, helpless, unfortunate man?”