Punch or The London charivari (4.1843)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

THE STORY OF A FEATHER.

CHAPTER VIII.—A FUNERAL. — ST. JAMES'S PALACE.—THE PRINCE OF
WALES.
" We gire Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleased Thee to deliver
this our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world—"
Thus, in measured metallic note, spoke the curate of St. Martin's-
in-the-Fields—whilst the daughter Patty could have screamed in
anguish at the thanksgiving. A few more words—another and
another look—yet another—now the piling earth has hidden all—
and the forlorn creature stands alone in the world. The last few
moments have struck apart the last link that still held her to a heloved
object—and now indeed she feels it is in eternity. Two or three
women press about her—turn her from the grave—and, garrulously
kind, preach to her deaf ears that " all is for the best," and that " to
mourn is a folly."
All this I gathered from the gossips who brought back Patty to
her dreary, empty home. There, after brief and common consolation,
they quitted her—and there, for a time, the reader must leave the
stricken, meek-hearted feather-dresser.

Early the next morning, I found myself in the hands of Mr. Fla-
mingo. The slight disorder—in truth, more imaginary than real—I
had suffered in the round-house, had, in the eyes of the tradesman,
been amply remedied by Patty, and my owner turned me reverently
between his thumb and finger—and gazed and gazed at me as though,
for his especial profit only, I had dropt from the wing of an angel.
Great was the stir throughout the household of Flamingo—and
great the cause thereof. He had received an order from the palace
of St. James's : his very soul was plumed—for he should get off his
feathers.
This I heard and saw, and—I confess it—with the trepidation of
expectant vanity, beheld the feather-merchant make selection from
his stock. At length, with melting looks, and a short, self-compla-
cent sigh, he placed me—I was sure of it—as the crowning glory, the
feather of feathers, among my kind. I was to wave my snowy purity
in St. James's !
And for this, thought I, was I drest—prepared by the lean fingers
of want in an unwholesome garret! Alas ! I have since felt—ay,
a thousand times—that if dim-eyed Vanity would but use the specta- |
cles of truth, she would see blood on her satins—blood on her brocades
—blood on her lace—on every rich and glistening thread that hangs
about her—blood. She would see herself a grim idol, worshipped by
the world's unjust necessities—and so beholding, would feel a quicker
throb of heart, a larger compassion for her forced idolaters.
" To the palace," cried Flamingo to the hackney-coachman, sum-
moned to bear myself and companions on our glorious mission. " To
the palace," cried the feather-merchant, with new lustre in his eyes,
harmony in his voice, and a delicious tingling of every nerve that
filled his whole anatomy with music. " To the palace," were real'y
the words uttered by Flamingo ; yet in very truth, he believed he
said—" To Paradise."
Not that St. James's was terra incognita to Mr. Flamingo; a
Marco Polo's domain filled with golden dreams. Certainly not : Mr.
Flamingo knew exactly the number of steps composing that private
way to heaven,—the back-staircase. He had smiled, and trembled,
and bowed and wriggled, and smirked and cringed his way to the
patronage of Queen Charlotte (of blessed memory). This exalting
truth Mr. Flamingo had several times tested ; and that in a matter
peculiarly flattering to himself. For instance, a very fine cockatoo
had been thrown into the tradesman among a lot of foreign feathers:
this cockatoo Mr. Flamingo submitted to the inspection of her
Majesty, who was graciously pleased to say to it " Pretty Poll." On
another occasion, Flamingo took a Java tom-tit to the palace ; which
. bird was graciously permitted by the Queen to perch upon her little
finger, her Majesty still further condescending to cry—" Swee-e-e-t!"
These circumstances were at the time totally overlooked by the Court
historian ; but they are recorded, written in very fine round-hand, in
the " Flamingo Papers."
I had scarcely been an hour in the Palace, ere my memory begaD
to fail me. Yes, all the previous scenes of my existence, that an hour
before lived most vividly in my recollection, began to fade and grow
dim, and take the mingled extravagance and obscurity of a dream.
Was it possible that I had ever been a thing of barter between a
savage and a sailor for pig-tail ? Could I have ever known a Jack
Lipscombe ? Had I crossed the seas in the dungeon of a ship ? Was
it possible that I could detect the odour of bilge-water I Was there

such a haunt for human kind as the Minories ? And that old Jew-_
surely he was a spectre—a part of night-mare! His large-lipped,,
globe-eyed daughter, too, she—with all her plumpness—wasnoruoic
substantial. And then, that dim garret in the alley—the death and:
enduring innocence—the heaviness and misery of human days—the
suffering that made of mortal breath a wearying disease—all the
worst penalty of life—had I known and witnessed it ? Could it be
possible ? And was there really a Patty Butler looking with meek
face upon a frowning world, and smiling down misfortune into pity ?
I confess that—having delighted in the atmosphere of a palace for
scarcely an hour—all these realities seemed waning into visions of
a fevered sleep. It was only by a strong effort—by a determination to-
analyse my past emotions—that I could convince myself of the exist-
ence of a world of wretchedness without—of want, and suffering, and
all the sad and wicked inequalities of human life. Sudden prosperity
ever mingles Lethe in its nectar.
I pass by moments of tumultuous anxiety—of hope, painful in its
sweet intensity—of the delirium of assured aggrandisement. It is
now the remnant of my former self that speaks, and, therefore, be
the utterance calm and philosophic.
It was my fate to be chosen one of the three plumes—be it
remembered, the middle and the noblest one—to nod above the baby
Prince of Wales, all royally slumbering in his royal cradle.
It was my destiny, in 17o'2, to commemorate the conquest and.
bloodshed of 1345—to represent an ancestral plume whereof poor ;
John of Bohemia was plucked that he of the black mail might be j
nobly feathered : yes, it was my happy duty to wave above Ich Dieii' I
in 17G2.
Ich Dlen—" I serve." Such is the Prince of Wales's motto ; and-
looking down upon the Princelet's face—upon his velvet cheek
brought into the world for the world's incense—viewing the fleshly idol
in its weak babyhood,—I repeated for it " I serve ! " and then, in the
spirit of the future, asked—What \ Bacchus—Venus—or what
nobler deity ?


The Prince of Wales—a six weeks' youngling—sleeps, and Cere-
mony, with stinted breath, waits at the cradle. How glorious that
young one's destiny! How moulded and marked — expressly"
fashioned for the high delights of earth—the chosen one of millions
for millions' homage ! The terrible beauty of a crown shall clasp
those baby temples—that rose-bud mouth shall speak the iron law—
that little pulpy hand shall hold the sceptre and the ball. But now,
asleep in the sweet mystery of babyhood, the little brain already busy
with the things that meet us at the vestibule of life—for even then
we are not alone, but surely have about us the hum and echo of the |
coming world,—but now thus, and now upon a giddying throne !
What grandeur—what intensity of bliss—what an almighty heritage
to be born to—to be sent upon this earth, accompanied by invisible
angels, to take possession of !
The baby king cooes in his sleep, whilst a thousand spirits meet
upon the palace floor—sport in the palace air—hover about the
cradle—and with looks divine and loving as those that watched tha