Marmaduke Mumbles was the son of a worthy butcher in the village town of Scrambles.

He was an only son, and as such, of course, petted by his father and spoiled by his mother.

Mrs. Mumbles had been in early life a lady's-maid, and, while in her waiting upon the Honourable Miss Languish, was employed not so much in millinery as novel reading, which she used to read to her young lady from morning till night, and from night till morning.

The tales which took the fancy of the Honourable Miss Languish, and which were echoed from the mouth and mind of Miss Squeamish were those of 'high romance,' as it is termed. Young, handsome, virtuous, and valiant heroes going through more wonderful adventures than our poor Mosette in her nine lives, and poor Neddy Bray in his, I do not know how many.

Then there must be, to please these novel readers, extraordinary situations, wonderful incidents, perplexing difficulties, overwhelming disasters, strange providences, and miraculous escapes, together with a proper assemblage of old castles, ruined tombs, yawning cloisters, grim[Pg 276] vaults, mouldering coffins, unearthly sounds, awful visitations, spiritual appearances; ghosts in white sheets, with bleeding bosoms: hobgoblins with saucer eyes, fierce claws, and long tails; and catastrophes so tremendous as to set the hair on end, and convulse the whole frame with the delight of tenor, and the tenor of delight.

Such was the food of Miss Squeamish, afterwards Mrs. Mumbles, in her early days.

And she used to read and read and read till she looked upon the world in which she had to get her living as no world of hers, but a sort of common sphere made on purpose for tradespeople, washer-women, and cart-driving. She revelled in a world of the romances, where everything was made as it ought to be, where the virtuous were always rewarded and the wicked always punished, where high and noble sentiments met with the reception they deserved, and disinterestedness was duly appreciated, where passion and impulse, unmixed with the care of consequences, were held as the glory of both sexes, and everything that was fair and bright and beautiful, and free and elegant and good, shone triumphantly to the glory of the heroes and heroines who figured always so splendidly in these romantic pages.

But at last all these bright visions were to end. Miss Languish died of a consumption brought on from lying in bed night and morning to read novels. And Miss Squeamish, afterwards Mrs. Mumbles, was forced to turn out into the world to seek her living—into that very world which was so odious to her. But there was no resource, and so the lady who had been identified with so many heroines was obliged to set up as a milliner and dressmaker in the little town of Scrambles.

But the poor young woman soon found out that[Pg 277] things were carried on in this world in a manner radically different from that in which the romances pictured. She soon found out that mutton was eightpence halfpenny a pound, and that if she did not look well after her butcher she would find her pound and a half of mutton chops weighing not quite a pound and a quarter; that bread was ten-pence a loaf, and that the baker was no more romantic than the butcher, and would, unless he was checked every day, find means to put down a 'dead one'; and that the milkman's chalk had got a notch in it, and would make two strokes instead of one. In short, that there was at the bottom of this best of all possible worlds a vast amount of sheer roguery.

The consequence of Miss Squeamish's want of a knowledge of all this was that she soon found out the impossibility of being able to make things come together—'to make ends meet'—as the saying is.

She floundered about in her business for a year or two, but grew poorer and poorer, got in debt largely with her grocer, baker, and butcher, and at last was obliged to stop for want of funds.

But it is an old proverb that 'when one door shuts another opens,' and this was the only part of Miss Squeamish's philosophy which had ever come true. No sooner was her shop shut up than the bills came in, and with Mrs. Shambles' bill the copy of a writ, so that Miss Squeamish was on the high road to a prison. But fortune sometimes favours those who will not favour themselves, and it somehow or other happened that Miss Squeamish pleaded so eloquently for herself and her destitute situation with Mr. Mumbles, the very fat butcher and her principal creditor, that he agreed to cancel his debt and pay the others on condition that Miss Squeamish would become Mrs. Mumbles.[Pg 278]

And Mrs. Mumbles she did become. For Mr. Mumbles was very rich, and although in person he was not very imposing he made up in quantity for what he wanted in quality, and the prospect of plenty of meat and a good name to one destitute of either had such an effect on Miss Squeamish as to put to flight all her visionary ideas of perfection—love in a cottage and platonic affection—and she settled down, in appearance at least, as a very spruce butcher's wife, and took to caps, aprons, and blue ribands.

Mr. Mumbles was a thrifty man, and had been so all his life. He was about fifty years of age, and not disposed to alter his habits, but he required Mrs. Mumbles to alter hers. He proceeded, therefore, to give his worthy spouse some initiatory instructions in the art of jointing a scrag of mutton, cutting out a pluck, or chinning a whole sheep upon an occasion. This was very different from novel reading. She had, indeed, read of knights cleaving their adversaries from the 'chaps to the chine,' and of 'sticking to the heart,' and sometimes fancied, as she made a blow upon some unfortunate leg of mutton, which required shanking, that this would she do to the Knight of the Black Visage, or the cruel Tyrant of the Bloody Tower, or the Renegades of the Cross, or any other anti-hero, so that it might be said romance was scotched in her, not killed, as we shall hear in the sequel.

After Miss Squeamish became Mrs. Mumbles she determined to endeavour to 'civilize' her husband, as she called it. It did not follow because he was a butcher that he was to have butchering ideas for ever, or that he was to know nothing of 'literature,' as she termed it—that is, novels. Mr. Mumbles had read 'Puss in Boots,' 'Jack the Giant Killer,' 'Tom Thumb,' 'Jack and the[Pg 279] Bean Stalk,' 'Whittington and his Cat,' and 'Mother Goose' in his childhood. In his boyhood he had gone through 'Robinson Crusoe,' 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and 'The Seven Champions of Christendom,' and therefore knew there was something in the world besides scrags of mutton.

Having made these discoveries Mrs. Mumbles was determined to put her husband under regular training, to win him, by degrees, from his boorish estate to that of poetry and refinement. She looked at his unwieldy bulk—it was not exactly the size for a hero, but then she thought of bluff Harry the Eighth, who was both stout and romantic, and the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and so as Mr. Mumbles became romantic she made up her mind to put up with his stoutness.

Mr. Mumbles had no other relaxation on a summer's evening than a game of bowls, but as his fat increased so did his difficulty of playing this noble game. He used to think that once down it would require something more than the levers of his legs to lift him up again. So just as Mr. Mumbles had made up his mind within himself to leave off bowls did Mrs. Mumbles think of making him a hero outright. But she went cautiously about her work. She knew that to change the man she must first change the mind, and therefore she commenced her operations upon the mental part of Mr. Mumbles.

Her first thought was as to the kind of hero she was to train him into. She would not like him to be a 'Jack Sheppard,' for fear he might break into some lady's heart with a crowbar of his impudence. Nor would she like him to be a 'Eugene Aram,' for fear he should make a mistake and hang her some night instead of himself. He seemed fitter for a 'Jack Falstaff' than anything else. But Falstaff was too witty for a hero, and she thought,[Pg 280] perhaps, that if he laughed any more he would be only so much the fatter.

She therefore put into his hands the most sentimental exotics of the publishing firms. There was the 'Elegant Maniac; or, the Snuff-coloured Rose and the Field of Silver,' a beautiful romance. Then there was the 'Sentimental Footpad; or, Honour among Thieves.' And 'Syngenesia,' the last of the melancholies; with the 'Knight of the Snorting Palfrey; or, the Silken Fetlock.' These works she read to Mr. Mumbles on evenings instead of suffering him to repair to his bowls, and after a short time had the satisfaction to find him a ready and an eager listener. She read and read and read, and he became more and more interested, till at last he could scarcely find time to serve a customer if one happened to come in when the hero was in some 'interesting situation.'

And so Mr. Mumbles began to find his business decline, for at last he would have his novel in his hand on a Saturday night, and would ask his customers concerning this or that book, which he happened to have been reading during the week. He would forget to joint the loins of mutton, to pickle the stale beef, to send out his orders; in short, his customers were treated with such neglect that his trade, long vacillating between going on and going off, suddenly stopped.

Nor did Mr. Mumbles care a whit for it, as he was rich when his father died, had grown richer since, and was worth at least ten thousand pounds in houses, lands, and money. He would soon have given up his business had it not given up him, and therefore when somebody told him it was time to 'shut up shop,' he said: 'Yes, and I intend to do it.'

Suiting the action to the word he forthwith began to retire. All the beasts and beastesses were sold off with[Pg 281] the goodwill of the shop, the blocks, cleavers, hooks, and jemmies. And Mr. Mumbles planned out a house in a secluded spot about a mile from the town. It was to be called Mumbles Castle, and was to be built in the old English or baronial style, with turrets, low doors, battlements, arch windows, and gothic mouldings. The grand hall was twenty feet by fifteen, the armoury half the size, the refectory fourteen by fourteen. A long passage leading to the adjacent pigsties was called the corridor, and the bedchambers, four in number, were dignified with the names of the griffin room, the martlet, the rampant lion, and the wild boar, such being a part of the newly-formed armorial bearing of the Mumbles.

The adjacent grounds were also laid out in a style corresponding with the castle. There was, among other arrangements for the comfort and delight of visitors, a tournament court, an archery ground, and a hawking mound. Certainly they were not of very extraordinary dimensions, but they were rather beyond the general scale of the other parts of the building. Mrs. Mumbles had in contemplation to give a grand fête of some kind or other. Mumbles talked of the house-warming, but that was vulgar. But at last, to ease all difficulties on this score, Master Marmaduke Tristram St. George Mumbles was born.

When it was ascertained that provision for a baby was necessary Mr. Mumbles determined that everything should be conducted according to the established laws of chivalry. But having searched in vain among romances to find how such matters were managed, he gave up the matter in despair. He found that all romances having come to a marriage suddenly stopped. This was very perplexing, but there was no help for it, and as Master Marmaduke was in a hurry to come into the world he was[Pg 282] born before his father and mother could arrange the solemn order of the proceedings.

But both Mr. and Mrs. Mumbles were determined that the christening should be conducted upon a scale of all conceivable splendour. There was no precedent for it, but then there was less likelihood of any mistake or more room for the fancy. But a gothic christening it was to be—a gothic christening it should be—a gothic christening it must be.

And what would redound to the glory of so mighty an event? This was the consideration, this was the feat to be achieved. Mr. and Mrs. Mumbles had many a discourse upon the subject at breakfast, dinner, and supper, at morning, noon, and night, but still the happy idea was too good to strike them suddenly.

At last Mrs. Mumbles had a dream. She dreamed of a tournament, and of all the glory of such an event. Polished helms, furbished arms, clang of trumpets, waving of banners and plumes, clouds of dust, clash of swords, unhorsing of knights, and outcry of heralds. When she awoke, she said emphatically to Mr. Mumbles, as he was beginning to take his morning yawn: 'I've hit it'; and gave him a sharp stroke on his wigless pate.

'I think you have,' said Mr. Mumbles, 'and I would thank you not to hit quite so hard. But what do you mean, my dear Celestia?'

'Mean,' replied the delighted spouse—'mean that I have hit upon a plan for doing honour to the birth of our son and heir, of the propagator of the glory of our house, and of the renowned name of Mumbles.'

'Have you, by gowls?' said Mr. Mumbles. 'What is it?'

'A tournament,' said she, 'a tournament, that glory of the chivalric ages; will it not be gloriously delightful to[Pg 283] see once more "the light of other days" upon us? To see those battlements decked with the banners of the house of Mumbles, to hear the clarion ring, to listen to the strains of martial music, to see the lounge and thrust and anvil blow, knights unhorsed, armour riven, helms cloven.'

'It would be a good go,' said Mr. Mumbles.

'A good go; it would be a go and three-quarters—at least, according to your own phraseology. I think myself truly happy at having been blessed with such a revelation, and pray that I may be strengthened to perform my part of the ceremony.'

'And what may that be?' said Mr. Mumbles.

'Why of course I must be the queen of beauty, and you must be my king consort. The knights, having arranged themselves, must, first of all, pay their respects to me, and then the victor must kneel before me, and receive from my hands the richly-embroidered scarf and the crowning garland.'

'Well, it will be a grand day—an epoch in my existence—a sort of hera. I think they call it a hera. And if we could get the band of the Scrambles Volunteer Company it would be excellent; if not, I think I know some music that would suit.'

'What is that?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles.

'The marrow-bones and cleavers; they are very pretty music, and I should like them, band or no band.'

'The marrow-bones and cleavers,' said Mrs. Mumbles in astonishment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Mumbles, 'it was my glory when I was a boy, and we used to have them all rung at christenings and weddings. I have heard say that at my christening and at my mother's marriage they rang a treble bob-major.'[Pg 284]

'And pray, what is a bob-major?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles. 'I have heard of a serjeant-major and a drum-major, but never heard of a bob-major.'

'A bob-major,' rejoined the elated butcher, 'is a long tune, that puzzles you to know when you will get to the end of it, and so you stand and wait and wait, till at last, all of a sudden, it stops.'

'And how does it go, my dear? Is it a pretty tune?'

'I should think it was a pretty tune—like the church bells, only more cutting, as it might be expected, from its coming from cleavers. It has made me cry like a child, Mrs. Mumbles.'

'I hope it won't make baby cry.'

'I hope not; but, cry or no cry, we must have it, and any other music you like.'

This point being settled the ardent pair began to prepare, with the greatest alacrity, for the forthcoming fête.

Mrs. Mumbles declared that no expense should be spared to make the proceedings go off with éclat, and Mr. Mumbles began to fidget himself concerning the tournament laws, rules, and regulations.

The principal difficulty was, however, in inducing others to take a part in this strange whim. Had it been bull-baiting or badger-drawing or cock-throwing or horse and donkey racing, hundreds would have been found ready to engage in the sport. But for a tournament! Most people did not even know the name of it, and Mr. Mumbles' description was in no way calculated to elucidate its mysteries, so that few seemed to care about lending themselves to the fête.

There was, however, in the town of Scrambles a sharp dapper lawyer's clerk, who saw at once into the affair and what a frolic it might be made. He therefore[Pg 285] wrote a civil note to Mr. Mumbles, in which he expressed his delight at the forthcoming novelty, and ............