Short Fiction Herman Melville (best books to read fiction .TXT) 📖

beggars held up their dirty blue tickets, and were served with the plundered wreck of a pheasant, or the rim of a pasty⁠—like the detached crown of an old hat⁠—the solids and meats stolen out.

“What a noble charity,” whispered my guide. “See that pasty now, snatched by that pale girl; I dare say the Emperor of Russia ate of that last night.”

“Very probably,” murmured I; “it looks as though some omnivorous emperor or other had had a finger in that pie.”

“And see yon pheasant too⁠—there⁠—that one⁠—the boy in the torn shirt has it now⁠—look! The Prince Regent might have dined off that.”

The two breasts were gouged ruthlessly out, exposing the bare bones, embellished with the untouched pinions and legs.

“Yes, who knows!” said my guide, “his Royal Highness the Prince Regent might have eaten of that identical pheasant.”

“I don’t doubt it,” murmured I, “he is said to be uncommonly fond of the breast. But where is Napoleon’s head in a charger? I should fancy that ought to have been the principal dish.”

“You are merry. Sir, even Cossacks are charitable here in Guildhall. Look! the famous Platoff, the Hetman himself⁠—(he was here last night with the rest)⁠—no doubt he thrust a lance into yon porkpie there. Look! the old shirtless man has it now. How he licks his chops over it, little thinking of or thanking the good, kind Cossack that left it him! Ah! another⁠—a stouter has grabbed it. It falls; bless my soul!⁠—the dish is quite empty⁠—only a bit of the hacked crust.”

“The Cossacks, my friend, are said to be immoderately fond of fat,” observed I. “The Hetman was hardly so charitable as you thought.”

“A noble charity, upon the whole, for all that. See, even Gog and Magog yonder, at the other end of the hall fairly laugh out their delight at the scene.”

“But don’t you think, though,” hinted I, “that the sculptor, whoever he was, carved the laugh too much into a grin⁠—a sort of sardonical grin?”

“Well, that’s as you take it, sir. But see⁠—now I’d wager a guinea the Lord Mayor’s lady dipped her golden spoon into yonder golden-hued jelly. See, the jelly-eyed old body has slipped it, in one broad gulp, down his throat.”

“Peace to that jelly!” breathed I.

“What a generous, noble, magnanimous charity this is! unheard of in any country but England, which feeds her very beggars with golden-hued jellies.”

“But not three times every day, my friend. And do you really think that jellies are the best sort of relief you can furnish to beggars? Would not plain beef and bread, with something to do, and be paid for, be better?”

“But plain beef and bread were not eaten here. Emperors, and prince-regents, and kings, and field marshals don’t often dine on plain beef and bread. So the leavings are according. Tell me, can you expect that the crumbs of kings can be like the crumbs of squirrels?”

“You! I mean you! stand aside, or else be served and away! Here, take this pasty, and be thankful that you taste of the same dish with her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire. Graceless ragamuffin, do you hear?”

These words were bellowed at me through the din by a red-gowned official nigh the board.

“Surely he does not mean me,” said I to my guide; “he has not confounded me with the rest.”

“One is known by the company he keeps,” smiled my guide. “See! not only stands your hat awry and bunged on your head, but your coat is fouled and torn. Nay,” he cried to the red-gown, “this is an unfortunate friend: a simple spectator, I assure you.”

“Ah! is that you, old lad?” responded the red-gown, in familiar recognition of my guide⁠—a personal friend as it seemed; “well, convey your friend out forthwith. Mind the grand crash; it will soon be coming; hark! now! away with him!”

Too late. The last dish had been seized. The yet unglutted mob raised a fierce yell, which wafted the banners like a strong gust, and filled the air with a reek as from sewers. They surged against the tables, broke through all barriers, and billowed over the hall⁠—their bare tossed arms like the dashed ribs of a wreck. It seemed to me as if a sudden impotent fury of fell envy possessed them. That one half-hour’s peep at the mere remnants of the glories of the Banquets of Kings; the unsatisfying mouthfuls of disemboweled pasties, plundered pheasants, and half-sucked jellies, served to remind them of the intrinsic contempt of the alms. In this sudden mood, or whatever mysterious thing it was that now seized them, these Lazaruses seemed ready to spew up in repentant scorn the contumelious crumbs of Dives.

“This way, this way! stick like a bee to my back,” intensely whispered my guide. “My friend there has answered my beck, and thrown open yon private door for us two. Wedge⁠—wedge in⁠—quick, there goes your bunged hat⁠—never stop for your coattail⁠—hit that man⁠—strike him down! hold! jam! now! wrench along for your life! ha! here we breathe freely; thank God! You faint. Ho!”

“Never mind. This fresh air revives me.”

I inhaled a few more breaths of it, and felt ready to proceed.

“And now conduct me, my good friend, by some front passage into Cheapside, forthwith. I must home.”

“Not by the sidewalk though. Look at your dress. I must get a hack for you.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said I, ruefully eyeing my tatters, and then glancing in envy at the close-buttoned coat and flat cap of my guide, which defied all tumblings and tearings.

“There, now, sir,” said the honest fellow, as he put me into the hack, and tucked in me and my rags, “when you get back to your own country, you can say you have witnessed the greatest of all England’s noble charities. Of course, you will make reasonable allowances for the unavoidable jam. Goodbye. Mind, Jehu”⁠—addressing the driver on the box⁠—“this is a gentleman you carry. He is just from the Guildhall Charity, which accounts for his appearance. Go on now. London Tavern, Fleet