“you can play no part but pyramus; for pyramus is a sweet-faced man—a proper man as one shall see on a summer’s day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore, you must needs play pyramus.”
“take care i don’t play the devil with your physiognomy, mr western,” retorted winterbottom.
here caliban, in the third boat, began playing the fiddle and singing to it—
“gaffer, gaffer’s son, and his little jackass,
were trotting along the road.”
the chorus of which ditty was “ee-aw, ee-aw!” like the braying of a jackass.
“bless thee, bottom, bless thee; thou art translated,” cried quince, looking at winterbottom.
“very well—very well, mr western. i don’t want to upset the wherry, and therefore you’re safe at present, but the reckoning will come—so i give you warning.”
“slaves of my lamp, do my bidding. i will have no quarrelling here. you, quince, shut your mouth; you, winterbottom, draw in your lips, and i, your queen, will charm you with a song,” said titania, waving her little hand. the fiddler ceased playing, and the voice of the fair actress rivetted all our attention.
“wilt thou waken, bride of may,
while flowers are fresh, and sweet bells chime,
listen and learn from my roundelay
how all life’s pilot boats sailed one day
a match with time!
“love sat on a lotus-leaf aloft,
and saw old time in his loaded boat,
slowly he crossed life’s narrow tide,
while love sat clapping his wings, and cried,
‘who will pass time?’
“patience came first, but soon was gone,
with helm and sail to help time on;
care and grief could not lend an oar,
and prudence said (while he staid on shore),
‘i wait for time.’
“hope filled with flowers her cork-tree bark,
and lighted its helm with a glow-worm’s spark;
then love, when he saw his bark fly past,
said, ‘lingering time will soon be passed,
hope outspeeds time.’
“wit went nearest old time to pass,
with his diamond oar and boat of glass
a feathery dart from his store he drew,
and shouted, while far and swift it flew,
‘o mirth kills time!’
“but time sent the feathery arrow back,
hope’s boat of amaranthus miss’d its track;
then love bade its butterfly pilots move,
and laughing, said ‘they shall see how love
can conquer time.’”
i need hardly say that the song was rapturously applauded, and most deservedly so. several others were demanded from the ladies and gentlemen of the party, and given without hesitation; but i cannot now recall them to my memory. the bugle and flute played between whiles, and all was laughter and merriment.
“there’s a sweet place,” said tinfoil, pointing to a villa on the thames; “now, with the fair titania and ten thousand a-year, one could there live happy.”
“i’m afraid the fair titania must go to market without the latter encumbrance,” replied the lady; “the gentleman must find the ten thousand a-year, and i must bring as my dowry—”
“ten thousand charms,” interrupted tinfoil—“that’s most true, and pity ’tis ’tis true. did your fairyship ever hear my epigram on the subject?
“let the lads of the east love the maids of cash-meer,
nor affection with interests clash;
far other idolatry pleases us here,
we adore but the maids of mere cash.”
“excellent, good puck! have you any more?”
“not of my own, but you have heard what winterbottom wrote under the bust of shakespeare last jubilee?”
“i knew not that apollo had ever visited him.”
“you shall hear:—
“in this here place the bones of shakespeare lie,
but that ere form of his shall never die;
a speedy end and soon this world may have,
but shakespeare’s name shall bloom beyond the grave.”
“i’ll trouble you, mr tinfoil, not to be so very witty at my expense,” growled out winterbottom. “i never wrote a line of poetry in my life.”
“no one said you did, winterbottom; but you won’t deny that you wrote those lines.”
mr winterbottom disdained a reply. gaily did we pass the variegated banks of the river, swept up with a strong flood-tide, and at last arrived at a little island agreed upon as the site of the pic-nic. the company disembarked, and were busy looking for a convenient spot for their entertainment, quince making a rapid escape from winterbottom, the latter remaining on the bank. “jenkins,” said he to the man christened caliban, “you did not forget the salad?”
“no, sir, i brought it myself. it’s on the top of the little hamper.”
mr winterbottom, who, it appears, was extremely partial to salad, was satisfied with the reply, and walked slowly away.
“well,” said tom to me, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, “i wouldn’t have missed this for anything. i only wish father had been here. i hope that young lady will sing again before we part.”
“i think it very likely, and that the fun is only begun,” replied i. “but come, let’s lend a hand to get the prog out of the boat.”
“pat! pat! and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. this green plot shall be our stage,” cried quince, addressing the others of the party.
the locality was approved of, and now all were busy in preparation. the hampers were unpacked, and cold meats, poultry, pies of various kinds, pastry, etcetera, appeared in abundance.
“this is no manager’s feast,” said tinfoil; “the fowls are not made of wood, nor is small beer substituted for wine. don juan’s banquet to the commendador is a farce to it.”
“all the manager’s stage banquets are farces, and very sorry jokes into the bargain,” replied another.
“i wish old morris had to eat his own suppers.”
“he must get a new set of teeth, or they’ll prove a deal too tough.”
“hiss! turn him out! he’s made a pun.”
the hampers were now empty; some laid the cloth upon the grass, and arranged the plates, and knives and forks. the ladies were as busy as the gentlemen—some were wiping the glasses, others putting salt into the salt-cellars. titania was preparing the salad. mr winterbottom, who was doing nothing, accosted her; “may i beg as a favour that you do not cut the salad too small? it loses much of its crispness.”
“why, what a nebuchadnezzar you are! however, sir, you shall be obeyed.”
“who can fry fish?” cried tinfoil. “here are two pairs of soles and some eels. where’s caliban?”
“here i am, sir,” replied the man on his knees, blowing up a fire which he had kindled. “i have got the soup to mind.”
“where’s stephano?”
“cooling the wine, sir.”
“who, then, can fry fish, i ask?”
“i can, sir,” replied tom; “but not without butter.”
“butter shalt thou have, thou disturber of the element. have we not hiren here?”
“i wasn’t hired as a cook, at all events,” replied tom: “but i’m rather a dab at it.”
“then shalt thou have the place,” replied the actor.
“with all my heart and soul,” cried tom, taking out his knife, and commencing the necessary operation of skinning the fish.
in half-an-hour all was ready: the fair titania did me the honour to seat herself upon my jacket, to ward off any damp from the ground. the other ladies had also taken their respective seats, as allotted by the mistress of the revels; the tables were covered by many of the good things of this life; the soup was ready in a tureen at one end, and tom had just placed the fish on the table, while mr quince and winterbottom, by the commands of titania, were despatched for the wine and other varieties of potations. when they returned, eyeing one another askance, winterbottom looking daggers at his opponent, and quince not quite easy even under the protection of titania, tom had just removed the frying-pan from the fire with its residuary grease still bubbling. quince having deposited his load, was about to sit down, when a freak came into tom’s head, which, however, he dared not put into execution himself; but “a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” says the proverb. winterbottom stood before tom, and quince with his back to them. tom looked at winterbottom, pointing slily to the frying-pan, and then to the hinder parts of quince. winterbottom snatched the hint and the frying-pan at the same moment. quince squatted himself down with a serge, as they say at sea, quoting at the time—“marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy”—but putting his hands behind him, to soften his fall, they were received into the hot frying-pan, inserted behind him by winterbottom.
“oh, lord! oh! oh!” shrieked mr quince, springing up like lightning, bounding in the air with the pain, his hands behind him still adhering to the frying-pan.
at the first scream of mr quince, the whole party had been terrified; the idea was that a snake had bitten him, and the greatest alarm prevailed; but when they perceived the cause of the disaster, even his expressions of pain could not prevent their mirth. it was too ludicrous. still the gentlemen and ladies condoled with him, but mr quince was not to be reasoned with. he walked away to the river-side, mr winterbottom slily enjoying his revenge, for no one but tom had an idea that it was anything but an accident. mr quince’s party of pleasure was spoiled, but the others did not think it necessary that theirs should be also. a “really very sorry for poor western,” and a half-dozen “poor fellows!” intermingled with tittering, was all that his misfortunes called forth after his departure; and then they set to like french falconers. the soup was swallowed, the fish disappeared, joints were cut up, pies delivered up their hidden treasures, fowls were dismembered like rotten boroughs, corks were drawn, others flew without the trouble, and they did eat and were filled. mr winterbottom kept his eye upon the salad, his favourite condiment, mixed it himself, offered it to all, and was glad to find that no one would spare time to eat it; but mr winterbottom could eat for everybody, and he did eat. the fragments were cleared away, and handed over to us. we were very busy, doing as ample justice to them as the party had done before us, when mr winterbottom was observed to turn very pale, and appeared very uneasy.
“what’s the matter?” inquired mr tinfoil.
“i’m—i’m not very well—i—i’m afraid something has disagreed with me. i’m very ill,” exclaimed mr winterbottom, turning as white as a sheet, and screwing up his mouth.
“it must be the salad,” said one of the ladies; “no one has eaten it but yourself, and we are all well.”
“i—rather think—it must be—oh—i do recollect that i thought the oil had a queer taste.”
“why there was no oil in the castors,” replied tinfoil. “i desired jenkins to get some.”
“so did i, particularly,” replied winterbottom. “oh!—oh, dear—oh, dear!”
“jenkins,” cried tinfoil, “where did you get the oil for the castors? what oil did you get?—are you sure it was right?”
“yes, sir, quite sure,” replied jenkins. “i brought it here in a bottle, and put it into the castors before dinner.”
“where did you buy it?”
“at the chemist’s, sir. here’s the bottle;” and jenkins produced a bottle with castor oil in large letters labelled on the side.
the murder was out. mr winterbottom groaned, rose from his seat, for he felt very sick indeed. the misfortunes of individuals generally add to the general quota of mirth, and mr winterbottom’s misfortune had the same effect as that of mr quince. but where was poor mr quince all this time? he had sent for the iron kettle in which the soup had been warmed up, and filling it full of thames water, had immersed the afflicted parts in the cooling element. there he sat with his hands plunged deep, when mr winterbottom made his appearance at the same spot and mr quince was comforted by witnessing the state of his enemy. indeed, the sight of winterbottom’s distress did more to soothe mr quince’s pain than all the thames water in the world. he rose, and leaving winterbottom, with his two hands to his head, leaning against a tree, joined the party, and pledged the ladies in succession, till he was more than half tipsy.
in the space of half-an-hour mr winterbottom returned, trembling and shivering as if he had been suffering under an ague. a bumper or two of brandy restored him, and before the day closed in, both winterbottom and quince, one applying stimulants to his stomach, and the other drowning his sense of pain in repeated libations, were in a state (to say the least of it) of incipient intoxication. but there is a time for all things, and it was time to return. the evening had passed freely; song had followed song. tinfoil had tried his bugle, and played not a little out of tune; the flute also neglected the flats and sharps as of no consequence; the ladies thought the gentlemen rather too forward, and, in short, it was time to break up the party. the hampers were repacked, and handed half-empty, into the boat. of wine there was a little left; and by the direction of titania, the plates, dishes, etcetera, only were to be returned, and the fragments divided among the boatmen. the company re-embarked in high spirits, and we had the ebb-tide to return with. just as we were shoving off, it was remembered that the ice-pail had been left under the tree, besides a basket with sundries. the other wherries had shoved off, and they were in consequence brought into our boat, in which we had the same company as before, with the exception of mr western, alias quince, who preferred the boat which carried the hampers, that he might loll over the side, with his hands in the water. mr winterbottom soon showed the effects of the remedy he had taken against the effects of the castor oil. he was uproarious, and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to sit still in the boat, much to the alarm of titania and the other ladies. he would make violent love to the fairy queen; and as he constantly shifted his position to address her and throw himself at her feet, there was some danger of the boat being upset. at last tom proposed to him to sit on the pail before her, as then he could address her with safety; and winterbottom staggered up to take the seat. as he was seating himself, tom took off the cover, so that he was plunged into the half-liquid ice; but mr winterbottom was too drunk to perceive it. he continued to rant and to rave, and protest and vow, and even spout for some time, when suddenly the quantity of caloric extracted from him produced its effect.
“i—i—really believe that the night is damp—the dew falls—the seat is damp, fair titania.”
“it’s only fancy, mr winterbottom,” replied titania who was delighted with his situation. “jean trousers are cool in the evening; it’s only an excuse to get away from me, and i never will speak again to you if you quit your seat.”
“the fair titania, the mistress of my soul, and body too, if she pleases—has—but to command—and her slave obeys.”
“i rather think it is a little damp,” said tinfoil; “allow me to throw a little sand upon your seat;” and tinfoil pulled out a large paper bag full of salt, which he strewed over the ice.
winterbottom was satisfied, and remained; but by the time we had reached vauxhall bridge, the refrigeration had become so complete that he was fixed on the ice, which the application of the salt had made solid. he complained of cold, shivered, attempted to rise, but could not extricate himself; at last his teeth chattered, and he became almost sober; but he was helpless from the effects of the castor oil, his intermediate intoxication, and his present state of numbness. he spoke less and less; at last he was silent, and when we arrived at whitehall stairs he was firmly fixed in the ice. when released he could not walk, and he was sent home in a hackney-coach.
“it was cruel to punish him so, mr tinfoil,” said titania.
“cruel punishment! why, yes; a sort of impailment,” replied mr tinfoil, offering his arm.
the remainder of the party landed and walked home, followed by the two assistants, who took charge of the crockery; and thus ended the pic-nic party, which, as tom said, was the very funniest day he had ever spent in his life.
