reprinted pieces-第42部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



kept　themselves　at　a　great　distance　from　the　rest；　'And　who　are

YOU；　my　pretty　pets；　and　how　do　YOU　do？'　　And　they　answered；　'We…

aw…are…the…aw…Staff…aw…Department；　godmother；　and　we　are　very　well

indeed。'　…　'I　am　delighted　to　see　you　all；　my　beauties；'　says　this

wicked　old　Fairy；　'　…　Tape！'　　Upon　that；　the　houses；　clothes；　and

provisions；　all　mouldered　away；　and　the　soldiers　who　were　sound；

fell　sick；　and　the　soldiers　who　were　sick；　died　miserably：　and　the

noble　army　of　Prince　Bull　perished。



When　the　dismal　news　of　his　great　loss　was　carried　to　the　Prince；

he　suspected　his　godmother　very　much　indeed；　but；　he　knew　that　his

servants　must　have　kept　company　with　the　malicious　beldame；　and

must　have　given　way　to　her；　and　therefore　he　resolved　to　turn　those

servants　out　of　their　places。　　So；　he　called　to　him　a　Roebuck　who

had　the　gift　of　speech；　and　he　said；　'Good　Roebuck；　tell　them　they

must　go。'　　So；　the　good　Roebuck　delivered　his　message；　so　like　a

man　that　you　might　have　supposed　him　to　be　nothing　but　a　man；　and

they　were　turned　out　…　but；　not　without　warning；　for　that　they　had

had　a　long　time。



And　now　comes　the　most　extraordinary　part　of　the　history　of　this

Prince。　　When　he　had　turned　out　those　servants；　of　course　he　wanted

others。　　What　was　his　astonishment　to　find　that　in　all　his

dominions；　which　contained　no　less　than　twenty…seven　millions　of

people；　there　were　not　above　five…and…twenty　servants　altogether！

They　were　so　lofty　about　it；　too；　that　instead　of　discussing

whether　they　should　hire　themselves　as　servants　to　Prince　Bull；

they　turned　things　topsy…turvy；　and　considered　whether　as　a　favour

they　should　hire　Prince　Bull　to　be　their　master！　　While　they　were

arguing　this　point　among　themselves　quite　at　their　leisure；　the

wicked　old　red　Fairy　was　incessantly　going　up　and　down；　knocking　at

the　doors　of　twelve　of　the　oldest　of　the　five…and…twenty；　who　were

the　oldest　inhabitants　in　all　that　country；　and　whose　united　ages

amounted　to　one　thousand；　saying；　'Will　YOU　hire　Prince　Bull　for

your　master？　…　Will　YOU　hire　Prince　Bull　for　your　master？'　　To

which　one　answered；　'I　will　if　next　door　will；'　and　another；　'I

won't　if　over　the　way　does；'　and　another；　'I　can't　if　he；　she；　or

they；　might；　could；　would；　or　should。'　　And　all　this　time　Prince

Bull's　affairs　were　going　to　rack　and　ruin。



At　last；　Prince　Bull　in　the　height　of　his　perplexity　assumed　a

thoughtful　face；　as　if　he　were　struck　by　an　entirely　new　idea。　　The

wicked　old　Fairy；　seeing　this；　was　at　his　elbow　directly；　and　said；

'How　do　you　do；　my　Prince；　and　what　are　you　thinking　of？'　…　'I　am

thinking；　godmother；'　says　he；　'that　among　all　the　seven…and…twenty

millions　of　my　subjects　who　have　never　been　in　service；　there　are

men　of　intellect　and　business　who　have　made　me　very　famous　both

among　my　friends　and　enemies。'　…　'Aye；　truly？'　says　the　Fairy。　…

'Aye；　truly；'　says　the　Prince。　…　'And　what　then？'　says　the　Fairy。　…

'Why；　then；'　says　he；　'since　the　regular　old　class　of　servants　do

so　ill；　are　so　hard　to　get；　and　carry　it　with　so　high　a　hand；

perhaps　I　might　try　to　make　good　servants　of　some　of　these。'　　The

words　had　no　sooner　passed　his　lips　than　she　returned；　chuckling；

'You　think　so；　do　you？　　Indeed；　my　Prince？　…　Tape！'　　Thereupon　he

directly　forgot　what　he　was　thinking　of；　and　cried　out　lamentably

to　the　old　servants；　'O；　do　come　and　hire　your　poor　old　master！

Pray　do！　　On　any　terms！'



And　this；　for　the　present；　finishes　the　story　of　Prince　Bull。　　I

wish　I　could　wind　it　up　by　saying　that　he　lived　happy　ever

afterwards；　but　I　cannot　in　my　conscience　do　so；　for；　with　Tape　at

his　elbow；　and　his　estranged　children　fatally　repelled　by　her　from

coming　near　him；　I　do　not；　to　tell　you　the　plain　truth；　believe　in

the　possibility　of　such　an　end　to　it。







A　PLATED　ARTICLE







PUTTING　up　for　the　night　in　one　of　the　chiefest　towns　of

Staffordshire；　I　find　it　to　be　by　no　means　a　lively　town。　　In　fact；

it　is　as　dull　and　dead　a　town　as　any　one　could　desire　not　to　see。

It　seems　as　if　its　whole　population　might　be　imprisoned　in　its

Railway　Station。　　The　Refreshment　Room　at　that　Station　is　a　vortex

of　dissipation　compared　with　the　extinct　town…inn；　the　Dodo；　in　the

dull　High　Street。



Why　High　Street？　　Why　not　rather　Low　Street；　Flat　Street；　Low…

Spirited　Street；　Used…up　Street？　　Where　are　the　people　who　belong

to　the　High　Street？　　Can　they　all　be　dispersed　over　the　face　of　the

country；　seeking　the　unfortunate　Strolling　Manager　who　decamped

from　the　mouldy　little　Theatre　last　week；　in　the　beginning　of　his

season　（as　his　play…bills　testify）；　repentantly　resolved　to　bring

him　back；　and　feed　him；　and　be　entertained？　　Or；　can　they　all　be

gathered　to　their　fathers　in　the　two　old　churchyards　near　to　the

High　Street　…　retirement　into　which　churchyards　appears　to　be　a

mere　ceremony；　there　is　so　very　little　life　outside　their　confines；

and　such　small　discernible　difference　between　being　buried　alive　in

the　town；　and　buried　dead　in　the　town　tombs？　　Over　the　way；

opposite　to　the　staring　blank　bow　windows　of　the　Dodo；　are　a　little

ironmonger's　shop；　a　little　tailor's　shop　（with　a　picture　of　the

Fashions　in　the　small　window　and　a　bandy…legged　baby　on　the

pavement　staring　at　it）　…　a　watchmakers　shop；　where　all　the　clocks

and　watches　must　be　stopped；　I　am　sure；　for　they　could　never　have

the　courage　to　go；　with　the　town　in　general；　and　the　Dodo　in

particular；　looking　at　them。　　Shade　of　Miss　Linwood；　erst　of

Leicester　Square；　London；　thou　art　welcome　here；　and　thy　retreat　is

fitly　chosen！　　I　myself　was　one　of　the　last　visitors　to　that　awful

storehouse　of　thy　life's　work；　where　an　anchorite　old　man　and　woman

took　my　shilling　with　a　solemn　wonder；　and　conducting　me　to　a

gloomy　sepulchre　of　needlework　dropping　to　pieces　with　dust　and　age

and　shrouded　in　twilight　at　high　noon；　left　me　there；　chilled；

frightened；　and　alone。　　And　now；　in　ghostly　letters　on　all　the　dead

walls　of　this　dead　town；　I　read　thy　honoured　name；　and　find　that

thy　Last　Supper；　worked　in　Berlin　Wool；　invites　inspection　as　a

powerful　excitement！



Where　are　the　people　who　are　bidden　with　so　much　cry　to　this　feast

of　little　wool？　　Where　are　they？　　Who　are　they？　　They　are　not　the

bandy…legged　baby　studying　the　fashions　in　the　tailor's　window。

They　are　not　the　two　earthy　ploughmen　lounging　outside　the

saddler's　shop；　in　the　stiff　square　where　the　Town　Hall　stands；

like　a　brick　and　mortar　private　on　parade。　　They　are　not　the

landlady　of　the　Dodo　in　the　empty　bar；　whose　eye　had　trouble　in　it

and　no　welcome；　when　I　asked　for　dinner。　　They　are　not　the　turnkeys

of　the　Town　Jail；　looking　out　of　the　gateway　in　their　uniforms；　as

if　they　had　locked　up　all　the　balance　（as　my　American　friends　would

say）　of　the　inhabitants；　and　could　now　rest　a　little。　　They　are　not

the　two　dusty　millers　in　the　white　mill　down　by　the　river；　where

the　great　water…wheel　goes　heavily　round　and　round；　like　the

monotonous　days　and　nights　in　this　forgotten　place。　　Then　who　are

they；　for　there　is　no　one　else？　　No；　this　deponent　maketh　oath　and

saith　that　there　is　no　one　else；　save　and　except　the　waiter　at　the

Dodo；　now　laying　the　cloth。　　I　have　paced　the　streets；　and　stared

at　the　houses；　and　am　come　back　to　the　blank　bow　window　of　the

Dodo；　and　the　town　clocks　strike　seven；　and　the　reluctant　echoes

seem　to　cry；　'Don't　wake　us！'　and　the　bandy…legged　baby　has　gone

home　to　bed。



If　the　Dodo　were　only　a　gregarious　bird　…　if　he　had　only　some

confused　idea　of　making　a　comfortable　nest　…　I　could　hope　to　get

through　the　hours　between　this　and　bed…time；　without　being　consumed

by　devouring　melancholy。　　But；　the　Dodo's　habits　are　all　wrong。　　It

provides　me　with　a　trackless　desert　of　sitting…room；　with　a　chair

for　every　day　in　the　year；　a　table　for　every　month；　and　a　waste　of

sideboard　where　a　lonely　China　vase　pines　in　a　corner　for　its　mate

long　departed；　and　will　never　make　a　match　with　the　candlestick　in

the　opposite　corner　if　it　live　till　Doomsday。　　The　Dodo　has　nothing

in　the　larder。　　Even　now；　I　behold　the　Boots　returning　with　my　sole

in　a　piece　of　paper；　and　with　that　portion　of　my　dinner；　the　Boots；

perceiving　me　at　the　blank　bow　window；　slaps　his　leg　as　he　comes

across　the　road；　pretending　it　is　something　else。　　The　Dodo

excludes　the　outer　air。　　When　I　mount　up　to　my　bedroom；　a　smell　of

closeness　and　flue　gets　lazily　up　my　nose　like　sleepy　snuff。　　The

loose　little　bits　of　carpet　writhe　under　my　tread；　and　take　wormy

shapes。　　I　don't　know　the　ridiculous　man　in　the　looking…glass；

beyond　having　met　him　once　or　twice　in　a　dish…cover　…　and　I　can

never　shave　HIM　to…morrow　morning！　　The　Dodo　is　narrow…minded　as　to

towels；　expects　me　to　wash　on　a　freemason's　apron　without　the

trimming：　when　I　asked　for　soap；　gives　me　a　stony…hearted　something

white；　with　no　more　lather　in　it　than　the　Elgin　marbles。　　The　Dodo

has　seen　better　days；　and　possesses　interminable　stables　at　the

back　…　silent；　grass…grown；　broken…windowed；　horseless。



This　mournful　bird　can　fry　a　sole；　however；　which　is　much。　　Can

cook　a　steak；　too；　which　is　more。　　I　wonder　where　it　gets　its

Sherry？　　If　I　were　to　send　my　pint　of　wine　to　some　famous　chemist

to　be　analysed；　what　would　it　turn　out　to　be　made　of？　　It　tastes　of

pepper；　sugar；　bitter…almonds；　vinegar；　warm　knives；　any　flat

drinks；　and　a　little　brandy。　　Would　it　unman　a　Spanish　exile　by

reminding　him　of　his　native　land　at　all？　　I　think　not。　　If　there

really　be　any　townspeople　out　of　the　churchyards；　and　if　a　caravan

of　them　ever　do　dine；　with　a　bottle　of　wine　per　man；　in　this　desert

of　the　Dodo；　it　must　make　good　for　the　doctor　next　day！



Where　was　the　waiter　born？　　How　did　he　come　here？　　Has　he　any　hope

of　getting　away　from　here？　　Does　he　ever　receive　a　letter；　or　take

a　ride　upon　the　railway；　or　see　anything　but　the　Dodo？　　Perhaps　he

has　seen　the　Berlin　Wool。　　He　appears　to　have　a　si