Mudfog and Other Sketches | Page 8

what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting
a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy
waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his
opinion that if Ned hadn't been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn't have
dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or
Nicholas's head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd

seemed to consider a very good notion.
It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when
Ned Twigger's wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle
before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and
form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just
as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the
present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to
carry HIM, they couldn't get on very well under the brass armour. So,
Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to
his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to
intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage
from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble
for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she
posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and
deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.
What a wailing and screaming Ned's children raised when he got home
at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and
then in another, but she couldn't manage it; so she tumbled Ned into
bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead
made, under Ned's weight in his new suit! It didn't break down though;
and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till
next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time
he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the
consolation Ned Twigger got.
Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to
the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had
suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr.
Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment
of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the
secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise
of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas
Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog
Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to
dinner.
But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were
such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as
long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the

very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the
deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the
party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him
Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of
anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London 'Nick!' He
should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the
recorder, or the toast- master, or any other of the great officers of the
city. They'd nick him.
But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble's doings. If they
had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked
till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got
philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him
into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.
At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the
river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed,
bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and
a large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working
men have congregated time out of mind on a winter's night, refreshed
by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle
and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the
Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine
from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to
the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on
crime, and parliamentary reports,--or had made the secretary read them
to him, which is the same thing in effect,--and he at once perceived that
this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog,
than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So