The Rat; Its History & Destructive Character. James Rodwell
The Bloomers and the Rats.
In a retired spot in the neighbourhood of London there resides an elderly couple, who, in the downhill of life, are enjoying a comfortable independence. They have only one child, an amiable and interesting daughter, by the name of Eliza. They originally came from Yorkshire, and possess the peculiar qualities of the humbler class of that county to their fullest extent, namely, an unqualified respect for themselves and for good living. They keep no company, for two ostensible reasons: first, because they never learned to read or write, and consequently are utterly disqualified for superior society; and secondly, because their independent means have elevated their notions far above anything less than carriage acquaintance. In this retired establishment the daughter is the only one that can read, and is of course the oracle of the house. It happened that a few years back she read a great deal in the newspapers about Bloomerism, and the more she read and reflected, the more she became infatuated with the new American costume. At last she resolved upon adopting it, in order to cut a dash before her country cousins. The matter was soon broken to her parents, who as speedily fell into her views, being themselves naturally fond of anything showy and uncommon, and Bloomerism became the order of the day. A first-rate dressmaker was immediately sent for, by whom she was completely equipped, in the most costly style,—making altogether a sum total of £20. 11s. 6d. Thus the charming girl, to the delight of her parents, appeared a first-rate Bloomer; and when the feast of admiration was over, the old gentleman insisted upon her going directly to her uncle’s, and staying the night, when her mother should fetch her home in the morning. No sooner said than done! The Irish servant, in her enthusiasm, without either cap or bonnet, ran through the streets, to bring a cab; and as both residences lay close to the railroad-stations, one hour brought her to her uncle’s farmhouse. Her aunt and cousins, two amiable, healthy country girls, seemed perfectly paralyzed with astonishment; nor did their distended eyelids attempt to wink till she assured them, on the word of a lady, that she was their cousin, Eliza, from London. “Why, hang it, lass,” said her uncle, “beest it thee? Who has dressed thee in a jacket and breeks? Thee looks just like a player chap, as I seed in front of a show at Bartlemy Fair!” “O uncle,” said Eliza, “this is my new Bloomer dress; it’s all the fashion now among gentlefolks!” “Well, thank God,” said he, “we’re not gentlefolks! But come in, an’ let’s know how your father and mother are, and how Lunnun goes on.”
The evening was spent in sipping ale and cracking jokes, till bed-time was announced, when all retired to rest—Eliza, of course, to sleep with her cousins, as there was plenty of room, the bedstead being a large four-poster. After many a little conversation, and merriment, the light was put out, and in this retired spot all was dead silence. They had not been in bed many minutes, when there was a patter, patter, patter, followed by a bump,—after that came more patter, patters, when Eliza, in a subdued whisper, asked her cousins what it was; they told her it was only the “rots,” and that she was not to be afraid, for they wouldn’t hurt her! Now Eliza was terrified at the very name of them; so she quietly drew the clothes over her head, and crouching close up to her cousins, lay as if dead. The younger cousin, to satisfy her, put her hand out of bed, and picking up one of her boots, threw it in the direction of the noise, and, it is thought, knocked down the Bloomer hat; however, for a few minutes all was still again, which gave poor Eliza time to breathe. Presently the noise returned, followed by a second, and a third; after them came plenty more; and then there was a clatter, clatter, which preceded a hurry, scurry, interspersed with sundry lumps and bumps, which sounded as if they were playing with cobbler’s lapstones. Then came other hideous sounds, till at last you would have thought there were at least a dozen coach-horses dancing a polka. In the midst of all, then commenced a most terrific battle, which ultimately proved to be a contest for the Bloomers; and to such a pitch of desperation did they carry the conflict, that the two cousins, for the first time in their lives, were literally scared; and, like poor Eliza, tremblingly hid their heads beneath the clothes to shield them from these daring burglars. There they lay steaming and quaking, when their father, from the bottom of the stairs, called out to know what noise that was; and, not receiving an answer, he called out three times; but they were too terrified to answer, or even put their heads out, hence he concluded they were fast asleep, and returned to his bed. But his calling out startled all the rats; nor did they return, at least while the girls were awake; for there they lay listening and listening, till every sense grew dim and weary, when Morpheus, entwining them in his leaden arms, at length lulled them to sleep.
The following morning, the dame was up betimes to get her husband’s breakfast ready, and put everything in prim order for the comfort of her guest. Hour after hour rolled on, till the clock struck ten, when the good man returned for his luncheon.—“What! the girls not stirring yet, dame?” “No, she had heard nothing of them; but she supposed they were tired!” “Well, just get us a jug of ale, an’ then go an’ wake ’em up, or they’ll sleep all day, mon.” The ale was soon on the table, and up to their bedroom she went and knocked, but received no answer; for, what with their being kept awake with rats, and the nervous terror they had experienced, assisted by the narcotic effects of the carbonic acid gas they were inhaling beneath the clothes, there they lay, enfolded in each other’s arms, like sleeping graces in a group of statuary! Dame knocked again, when a faint voice said, “Come in.” In she went, and oh, what a picture of horrors presented itself! She shrieked out. “Oh, look’ee here! whatever shall we do?” The three girls shot up like a Jack-in-the-box, and sat bolt upright in bed, with their eyes and mouths wide open. “Dear, dear, dear!” said dame, “whatever shall we do? Here’s this beautiful velvet jacket on the ground, and covered all over with dirt—we shall all go mad—an’ there’s the beautiful petticoat just as bad. I never saw anything so cruel in all my life—an’ there’s the beautiful hat thrust into the corner without its feather—but where are the Bloomers gone?”
Here the two daughters, assisted by their mother, sent forth such shrieks of lamentation and horror, that it aroused the good man from his luncheon; and as for poor Eliza, she fell back in hysterics. In came master: “Why, what i’ the world’s the matter?” “Matter, John,” said dame, “just look’ee here;—I’ll lay my life on’t, ’tis those cursed rats!” John scratched his head, and with a vacant gaze, said, “Very like, very like.”
Till now, they had not noticed poor Eliza in hysterics! “Dear, dear,” said dame, “here’s a peck o’ trouble; the poor child’s fainted away.” Downstairs she ran for some little antidote, and met Eliza’s mother at the bottom, who had just arrived from London. John, in the interim, went to pick up the hat, and saw in it a large rat and a number of young ones. He roared out for his dog Boxer, and at the same time kicked at the hat with all his might, and knocked it into all manner of shapes; when in rushed Boxer, “Rat, rat! boy!” said master, urging on the dog. But it would appear that he had killed the old one and some of its young with his kicks. The dog thrust his muzzle into the hat, and killed the remainder, and then became so excited, that he seized the hat in his jaws, and shook it till it rattled again, when out flew all the dead rats and pieces of ostrich-feather; for the old rat had bit the feather in pieces to make a soft nest for her young. At last Boxer finished his work by fixing his fore feet upon the hat, and tearing it all to pieces, just as the two mothers entered.
To describe the old lady’s horror and indignation at the scene were a thing impossible. Besides, always when she came down to the farm, it was her invariable custom to put on her utmost dignity, because master was her younger brother, with whom she always exercised the right of quarrelling; consequently they never met without a row.
By this time Eliza had somewhat recovered; and John, to evade his sister’s glances, as well as to find out where the rats had their retreats, went groping into all the corners, and lastly into an old cupboard. “Holloa,” said he, “why, what’s this down the rat-holes?” at the same time dragging it forth, and holding it up to view,—“Why, dang my buttons,” he roared out, “if ’tisn’t the gal’s Bloomers!”
It would appear that, in the contention overnight, the rats had slit them up to the waistband; and, in their retreat, each party had dragged a leg down their respective holes. You may easily imagine what state the Bloomers were in. The old lady, in a towering passion, rushed at John, and snatching