Page:The London Magazine, volume 7 (January–June 1823).djvu/675



The first thing Mr. Schnackenberger did was to draw his purse-strings, and indemnify the cook-maid. The next thing Mr. Schnackenberger did was to go into the public-room of the Gun, call for a common pipe, and seat himself growling in a corner.—Of all possible privileges conferred by the laws, the very least desirable is that of being created game: Juno was now invested with that “painful pre-eminence;” she was solemnly proclaimed game: and all qualified persons, i. e. every man, woman, and child, were legally authorised to sink—burn—or destroy her. “Now then,” said Mr. Schnackenberger to himself, “if such an event should happen—if any kind soul should blow out the frail light of Juno’s life, in what way am I to answer the matter to her purchaser, Mr. Fabian Sebastian?” Such were the thoughts which fumed away from the anxious mind of Mr. Schnackenberger in surging volumes of smoke.

Together with the usual evening visitors of the public-rooms at the Gun, were present also Mr. Von Pilsen, and his party. Inflamed with wine and insolence, Mr. Von Pilsen began by advancing the following proposition: That in this sublunary world there are marvellous fools. “Upon this hint” he spake: and “improving” his text into a large commentary, he passed in review various sketches from the life of Mr. Schnackenberger in not forgetting the hunting scene; and every where threw in such rich embellishments and artist-like touches, that at last the room rang with laughter.

Mr. Jeremiah alone sat moodily in his corner, and moved no muscle of his face; so that even those, who were previously unacquainted with the circumstances, easily divined at whose expense Mr. Von Pilsen’s witty performance proceeded.

At length Von Pilsen rose and said, “Gentlemen, you think, perhaps, that I am this day in the best of all possible humours. Quite the contrary, I assure you: pure fiction—mere counterfeit mirth—put on to disguise my private vexation; for vexed I am, and will be, that I can find nobody on whom to exercise my right arm. Ah! what a heavenly fate were mine, if any man would take it into his head to affront me; or if any other man would take it into his head to think that I had affronted him, and would come hither to demand satisfaction!” So saying, he planted himself in a chair in the very middle of the saloon; and ever and anon leered at Mr. Schnackenberger in so singular a manner, that no one could fail to see at whom his shafts were pointed.

Still it seemed as if our hero had neither ears nor eyes. For he continued doggedly to work away at his “cloud-compelling” pipe (νεφεληγερετα Σχνακενβεργερ), without ever looking at his challenger.

When at length he rose, every body supposed that probably he had had badgering enough by this time, and meant to decamp quietly. All present were making wry faces, in order to check their bursting laughter, until Mr. Schnackenberger were clear of the room; that done, each prepared to give free vent to his mirth and high compliments to Mr. Von Pilsen, upon the fine style in which he had “done execution upon Cawdor.” Decamping, however, entered not into Mr. Schnackenberger’s military plans; he rather meant to encamp over against Von Pilsen’s position: calmly, therefore, with a leisurely motion, and gradu militari, did he advance towards his witty antagonist. The latter looked somewhat paler than usual: but, as this was no time for retreating, and he saw the necessity of conducting the play with spirit to its denouement,—he started up, and exclaimed: “Ah! here is the very man I was wishing for! framed after my very heart’s longing. Come, dear friend, embrace me: let us have a fraternal hug.”

“Basta!” cried Mr. Jeremiah, attaching his shoulder, and squeezing him, with a right hand of “high pressure,” down into his chair—“This is a very good story, Mr. Von Pilsen, that you have told us: and pity it were that so good a story should want a proper termination. In future, therefore, my Pilsen,

be sure you do not forget the little sequel which I shall furnish: tell it to the end, my Pilsen: