пятница, 5 января 2018 г.

text for the 2 nd course

The Nightingale and the Rose. Part 2 (for
Слова для понимания:
  • like a shadow — как тень
  • build it out of my song — создать из мелодии своей песни
  • crimson — окрасить в темно-красный цвет
  • fell asleep — заснул
  • appeared — появилась
  • I have never seen — Я никогда еще не видел
So she flew into the air. She flew over the garden like a shadow and like a shadow she flew through the wood.
The young student was still lying on the grass where she left him, and his beautiful eyes were still full of tears.
«Be happy,» cried the Nightingale, «be happy. You will have your red rose. I will build it out of my song by moonlight, and crimson it with my own heart’s blood. I only ask you to be a true lover, for love is wiser than philosophy.»
The student looked up and lis­tened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him.
But the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who lived in his branches. «Sing me one last song,» he whispered, «I will feel lonely without you.» So the Nightingale sang to the oak-tree.
When she finished her song, the student stood up and went through the wood to the house, lay down on his bed, and began to think of his love: «She is so beautiful,» he said to himself, «but has she got feeling? I must say that sometimes she has some selfish notes in her voice.» And then he fell asleep.
When the moon was in the sky, the Night­ingale flew to the rose-tree, and pressed her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast and her blood flowed out.
She sang of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top of the rose-tree appeared a beautiful rose. Pale it was at first. But the rose-tree cried to the Nightingale, «Press closer, little Nightingale, or the day will come be­fore the rose is finished.»
So the Nightingale pressed closer and closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maiden.
The leaves of the rose became faintly pink. But the thorn had not yet reached the Nightingale’s heart, so the rose’s heart was white, for only a Nightingale’s blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and she felt a sharp pain. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang about the love that never dies.
And the beautiful rose became crimson. But the Nightingale’s voice grew weaker and her little wings began to beat. She gave one last burst of mu­sic. The red rose heard it and opened to the cold morning air.
«Look, look!» cried the rose-tree. «The rose is fin­ished now!» But the Nightingale did not answer for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the student opened his window and looked out. «How wonderful!» he cried. «Here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like this in all my life. It is so beautiful,» and he picked it with joy in his heart. Then he ran to the Profes­sor’s house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway and her little dog was lying at her feet. «Will you dance with me? Because I brought you a red rose,» cried the student. «Here is the red­dest rose in all the world. You will wear it on your dress next to your heart. We will dance together and I will tell you how I love you.»
But the girl answered, «I am afraid it will not go with my dress, and, be­sides, another man sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels are better than flowers.»
«Well, you are very ungrateful,» said the young student angrily and he threw the rose into the street.
«Ungrateful!» said the girl. «I’ll tell you what, you are rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a poor student!» and she stood up from her chair and went into the house.
«What a silly thing love is,» said the student as he went away. «It is about things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical. In this age to be practical is everything, so I will go back and study philosophy.»
Нe came back to his room, took out a dusty book, and began to read.


Text for home-reading for the 2nd course

The Nightingale and the Rose. Part 1 (for beginners)
Слова для понимания:
  • depends so much on — так сильно зависит
  • whis­pered- прошептал
  • suffer from love- страдать от любви
  • like a shadow -как тень (like — в данном случае предлог «как», а не глагол «нравится»)
  • shook its head — покачало головой
  • the storm has broken my branches — буря обломала мои ветки
  • Is there no way? — Разве нет способа?
  • There is a way! — Есть способ!
  • compared to — по сравнению с
«She will dance with me if I bring her a red rose,» cried the young student, «but there is not a red rose in all my gar­den.»
In the oak-tree the Nightingale heard him, and looked out through the leaves.
«Not a red rose in all my garden!» cried the student, and his beautiful eyes were full of tears. «Happiness depends so much on such little things! I read a lot of books, I know all the secrets of philosophy, but my life is unhappy because I have no red rose.»
«At last here is a true lover,» said the Nightin­gale. «Night after night I sang about him, and now I see him.»
«The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,» whis­pered the young student, «and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose, I will dance with her and she will put her head on my shoul­der. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I will sit alone, and she will go past me, and my heart will break.»
«Indeed he is a true lover,» said the Nightin­gale. «I sing about love. But hesuffers from love. It is joy to me. But to him it is pain.»
«The musicians will play, and my love will dance,» said the young student. «She will dance but not with me, for I have no red rose to give her,» and he lay on the grass and cried.
«Why is he crying?» asked a little green lizard, as he ran past him.
«He is crying for a red rose,» said the Nightin­gale.
«For a red rose? How funny.» The little lizard laughed.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about love.
Suddenly she flew up into the air. She flew through the wood like a shadow, and like a shadow she flew over the gar­den.
In the centre of the garden there was a beauti­ful rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it and said, «Give me a red rose and I will sing you my sweetest song.»
But the rose-tree shook its head.»My roses are white,» it answered, «whiter than the snow upon the mountains. But go to my broth­er who grows near the old house, and perhaps he will give you what you want.»
So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing near the old house.
«Give me a red rose,» she cried, «and I will sing you my sweetest song.»
But the rose-tree shook its head. «My roses are yellow,» it answered. «But go to my brother who grows under the student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.»
So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing under the student’s window.
But the rose-tree shook its head. «My roses are red,» it answered. «But the storm has broken my branches, and I will have no roses at all this year.»
«One red rose is all I want,» cried the Nightin­gale, «only one red rose! Is there no way how to get it?»
«There is a way,» answered the rose-tree, «but it is so terrible that I am afraid to tell you about it.»
«Tell me,» said the Nightingale, «I am not afraid.»
«If you want a red rose,» said the tree, «You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night you must sing to me, and the thorn must run through your heart and your blood must flow into my branches and become mine.»

«Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,» cried the Nightingale, «Yet Love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?»

четверг, 4 января 2018 г.

For the 2nd year students

Jerome K. Jerome. We declined to drink the river ( in the original)
We found ourselves short of water at Hambledon Lock; so we took our jar and went up to the lock-keeper’s house to beg for some.
George was our spokesman. He put on a winning smile, and said: “Oh, please could you spare us a little water?”
“Certainly,” replied the old gentleman; “take as much as you want, and leave the rest.”
“Thank you so much,” murmured George, looking about him. “Where – where do you keep it?”
“It’s always in the same place my boy,” was the stolid reply: “just behind you.”
“I don’t see it,” said George, turning round.
“Why, bless us, where’s your eyes?” was the man’s comment, as he twisted George round and pointed up and down the stream. “There’s enough of it to see, ain’t there?”
“Oh!” exclaimed George, grasping the idea; “but we can’t drink the river, you know!”
“No; but you can drink SOME of it,” replied the old fellow. “It’s what I’ve drunk for the last fifteen years.”
George told him that his appearance, after the course, did not seem a sufficiently good advertisement for the brand; and that he would prefer it out of a pump.
We got some from a cottage a little higher up. I daresay THAT was only river water, if we had known. But we did not know, so it was all right. What the eye does not see, the stomach does not get upset over.
What the eye does not see, the stomach does not get upset over.
* * *
Jerome K. Jerome. A Peaceful Dog ( in the original)
We tried river water once, later on in the season, but it was not a success. We were coming down stream, and had pulled up to have tea in a backwater near Windsor. Our jar was empty, and it was a case of going without our tea or taking water from the river. Harris was for chancing it. He said it must be all right if we boiled the water. He said that the various germs of poison present in the water would be killed by the boiling. So we filled our kettle with Thames backwater, and boiled it; and very careful we were to see that it did boil.
We had made the tea, and were just settling down comfortably to drink it, when George, with his cup half-way to his lips, paused and exclaimed:
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Harris and I.
“Why that!” said George, looking westward.
Harris and I followed his gaze, and saw, coming down towards us on the sluggish current, a dog. It was one of the quietest and peacefullest dogs I have ever seen. I never met a dog who seemed more contented – more easy in its mind. It was floating dreamily on its back, with its four legs stuck up straight into the air. It was what I should call a full-bodied dog, with a well-developed chest. On he came, serene, dignified, and calm, until he was abreast of our boat, and there, among the rushes, he eased up, and settled down cosily for the evening.
George said he didn’t want any tea, and emptied his cup into the water. Harris did not feel thirsty, either, and followed suit. I had drunk half mine, but I wished I had not.
I asked George if he thought I was likely to have typhoid.
He said: “Oh, no;” he thought I had a very good chance indeed of escaping it. Anyhow, I should know in about a fortnight, whether I had or had not.


For reading, for the 2nd year students

Lost love by Jan Carew
These things happened to me nearly ten years ago. I lived in a city, but the city was hot in summer. I wanted to see the country. I wanted to walk in the woods and see green trees.
I had a little red car and I had a map, too. I drove all night out into the country. I was happy in my car. We had a very good summer that year. The country was very pretty in the early morning. The sun was hot, and the sky was blue. I heard the birds in the trees.
And then my car stopped suddenly.
‘What’s wrong?’ I thought. ‘Oh dear, I haven’t got any petrol. Now I’ll have to walk. I’ll have to find a town and buy some petrol. But where am I?’
I looked at the map. I wasn’t near a town. I was lost in the country.
And then I saw the girl. She walked down the road, with flowers in her hand. She wore a long dress, and her hair was long, too. It was long and black, and it shone in the sun. She was very pretty. I wanted to speak to her, so I got out of the car.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m lost. Where am I?’
She looked afraid, so I spoke quietly.
‘I haven’t got any petrol,’ I said. ‘Where can I find some?’
Her blue eyes looked at me, and she smiled.
‘She’s a very pretty girl!’ I thought.
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Come with me to the village. Perhaps we can help you.’
I went with her happily, and we walked a long way.
‘There isn’t a village on the map,’ I thought. ‘Perhaps it’s a very small village.’
There was a village, and it was old and pretty. The houses were black and white and very small. There were a lot of animals. The girl stopped at a house and smiled at me. ‘Come in, please,’ she said.
I went in. The house was very clean, but it was strange, too. There was a fire and some food above it. I felt hungry then.
‘That’s strange,’ I thought. ‘They cook their food over a wood fire! Perhaps they have no money.’
I met her father and mother, and I liked them. They were nice people, but their clothes were strange.
‘Sit down,’ said the old man. ‘Are you thirsty after your walk?’
He gave me a drink, and I said, ‘Thank you.’ But the drink was strange, too. It was dark brown and very strong. I didn’t understand. But I was happy there.
I asked about petrol, but the old man didn’t understand.
‘Petrol?’ he asked. ‘What is that?’
‘This is strange,’ I thought. Then I asked, ‘Do you walk everywhere?’
The old man smiled. ‘Oh, no, we use horses,’ he said.
‘Horses!’ I thought. ‘Horses are very slow. Why don’t they have cars?’
But I didn’t say that to the old man.
I felt happy there. I stayed all day, and I ate dinner with them that evening. Then the girl and I went out into the garden. The girl’s name was Mary.
‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘We like having visitors. We do not see many people here.’
We spoke happily. She was very beautiful. But after a time, she began to talk quietly, and her face was sad.
‘I cannot tell you,’ she said. ‘You are only a visitor here. We have to say goodbye tonight. You have to go now.’
I didn’t understand. I loved her. I knew that. And I wanted to help her. Why did 1 have to go? But Mary said again in a sad voice, ‘You have to go. It is dangerous here.’
So I said, ‘I’ll go to the next town and find some petrol. Then I’ll come back.’
She didn’t speak.
‘I love you, Mary,’ I said. ‘And I’ll come back to you. You won’t stop me.’
She said goodbye to me at the door. Her face was very sad, and I was sad, too. I didn’t want to go.
It was midnight. The night was very dark, but I walked and walked. I was very tired when I saw the lights of a town. I found some petrol, and then I asked the name of the village. But the man at the garage gave me a strange look.
‘What village?’ he asked.
I told him about the village. I told him about the old houses and the people with strange clothes.
Again he gave me a strange look. He thought, and then he said, ‘There was a village there, but it isn’t there now. There are stories about it — strange stories.’
‘What do people say about it?’ I asked.
He didn’t want to tell me, but then he said, ‘There was a big fire in the village. Everybody died. There aren’t any people or houses there now.’
‘How did it happen?’ I asked. ‘And why?’
‘Oliver Cromwell killed them; he said. ‘He was angry with the villagers because they helped the king in the war.’
‘This isn’t right,’ I thought. ‘That war happened 350 years ago!’
Then I remembered the strange clothes, the long hair, the food over the fire, and the old houses. And I remembered, too, about the horses.
‘But I don’t understand,’ I cried. ‘I saw the people and the village. I spoke to some people there!’
The man looked quickly at me, and then he spoke.
‘There’s an interesting story about the village. For one day every ten years, it lives again – but only for one day. Then it goes away again for another ten years. On that one day, you can find the village. But you have to leave before morning, or you will never leave.
‘Can this be right?’ I thought. Perhaps it was. Mary said, ‘You have to go.’ She loved me, but she said, «We have to say goodbye.’ She was afraid for me. ‘Now I understand,’ I thought.
I went back to the village, but it wasn’t there. I looked again and again, but I couldn’t find it. I saw only flowers and trees. I heard only the sound of the birds and the wind. I was very sad. I sat down on the ground and cried.
I will never forget that day. I remember Mary, and I will always love her.
Now, I only have to wait two months. The village will come back again. On the right day, I will go back. I will find her again, my love with the long, black hair. And this time, I will not leave before morning. I will stay with her.





For the 2nd year students

Text  
A good lesson
Once a rich Englishwoman called Mrs Johnson decided to have a birthday party. She invited a lot of guests and a singer. The singer was poor, but he had a very good voice.
The singer got to Mrs Johnson’s house at exactly six o’clock as he had been asked to do, but when he went in, he saw through a door that the dining-room was already full of guests, who were sitting round a big table in the middle of the room. The guests were eating, joking, laughing, and talking loudly. Mrs Johnson came out to him, and he thought she was going to ask him to join them, when she said, «We’re glad, sir, that you have come. You will be singing after dinner, I’ll call you as soon as we’re ready to listen to you. Now will you go into the kitchen and have dinner, too, please?»
The singer was very angry, but said nothing. At first he wanted to leave Mrs Johnson’s house at once, but then he changed his mind and decided to stay and teach her and her rich guests a good lesson. When the singer went into the kitchen, the servants were having dinner, too. He joined them. After dinner, the singer thanked everybody and said, «Well, now I’m going to sing to you, my good friends.» And he sang them some beautiful songs.
Soon Mrs Johnson called the singer.
«Well, sir, we’re ready.»
«Ready?» asked the singer. «What are you ready for?»
«To listen to you,» said Mrs Johnson in an angry voice.
«Listen to me? But I have already sung, and I’m afraid I shan’t be able to sing any more tonight.»
«Where did you sing?»
«In the kitchen. I always sing for those I have dinner with.»


For the 4th year students.Text for summary

A Story Familiar Epistle from a Parent to a Child Aged Two Years and Two Months in English by  Dickens
My child,
To recount with what trouble I have brought you up--with what an anxious eye I have regarded your progress,--how late and how often I have sat up at night working for you,--and how many thousand letters I have received from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom have been of a querulous and irritable turn,--to dwell on the anxiety and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,--to dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any company by talking politics--always assuring you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew older,--to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair appearance--your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.
It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into another train--a mixed train--of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and disconsolate demeanour of the Post- Office Guard. We were stopping at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel (when they travel at all) INSIDE and in a portable stable invented for the purpose,--he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire--the glass of foaming ale--the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl- -his pride in days of yore--the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate practical joke.
As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of horse-flesh--when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a horse--when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have given place to coke. 'In those dawning times,' thought I, 'exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty's favourite engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his TRAINED ANIMALS in a mock mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!'
Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very subject of which I desire to treat.
In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in this respect, you have always been literally 'Bentley's' Miscellany, and never mine.
Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.
Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, YOUR guard is at home in his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you in loco parentis as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,
Gray.


понедельник, 1 января 2018 г.

Text for reading.

The Four Sisters story in English by Dickens
The row of houses in which the old lady and her troublesome neighbour reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, a greater number of characters within its circumscribed limits, than all the rest of the parish put together. As we cannot, consistently with our present plan, however, extend the number of our parochial sketches beyond six, it will be better perhaps, to select the most peculiar, and to introduce them at once without further preface.
The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish thirteen years ago. It is a melancholy reflection that the old adage, 'time and tide wait for no man,' applies with equal force to the fairer portion of the creation; and willingly would we conceal the fact, that even thirteen years ago the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. Our duty as faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is paramount to every other consideration, and we are bound to state, that thirteen years since, the authorities in matrimonial cases, considered the youngest Miss Willis in a very precarious state, while the eldest sister was positively given over, as being far beyond all human hope. Well, the Miss Willises took a lease of the house; it was fresh painted and papered from top to bottom: the paint inside was all wainscoted, the marble all cleaned, the old grates taken down, and register-stoves, you could see to dress by, put up; four trees were planted in the back garden, several small baskets of gravel sprinkled over the front one, vans of elegant furniture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the windows, carpenters who had been employed in the various preparations, alterations, and repairs, made confidential statements to the different maid-servants in the row, relative to the magnificent scale on which the Miss Willises were commencing; the maid-servants told their 'Missises,' the Missises told their friends, and vague rumours were circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in Gordon-place, had been taken by four maiden ladies of immense property.
At last, the Miss Willises moved in; and then the 'calling' began. The house was the perfection of neatness--so were the four Miss Willises. Everything was formal, stiff, and cold--so were the four Miss Willises. Not a single chair of the whole set was ever seen out of its place--not a single Miss Willis of the whole four was ever seen out of hers. There they always sat, in the same places, doing precisely the same things at the same hour. The eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the second to draw, the two others to play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no separate existence, but to have made up their minds just to winter through life together. They were three long graces in drapery, with the addition, like a school-dinner, of another long grace afterwards--the three fates with another sister--the Siamese twins multiplied by two. The eldest Miss Willis grew bilious--the four Miss Willises grew bilious immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew ill-tempered and religious--the four Miss Willises were ill-tempered and religious directly. Whatever the eldest did, the others did, and whatever anybody else did, they all disapproved of; and thus they vegetated- -living in Polar harmony among themselves, and, as they sometimes went out, or saw company 'in a quiet-way' at home, occasionally icing the neighbours. Three years passed over in this way, when an unlooked for and extraordinary phenomenon occurred. The Miss Willises showed symptoms of summer, the frost gradually broke up; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible? one of the four Miss Willises was going to be married!
Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what feelings the poor man could have been actuated, or by what process of reasoning the four Miss Willises succeeded in persuading themselves that it was possible for a man to marry one of them, without marrying them all, are questions too profound for us to resolve: certain it is, however, that the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman in a public office, with a good salary and a little property of his own, besides) were received--that the four Miss Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr Robinson--that the neighbours were perfectly frantic in their anxiety to discover which of the four Miss Willises was the fortunate fair, and that the difficulty they experienced in solving the problem was not at all lessened by the announcement of the eldest Miss Willis,--'WE are going to marry Mr. Robinson.'
It was very extraordinary. They were so completely identified, the one with the other, that the curiosity of the whole row--even of the old lady herself--was roused almost beyond endurance. The subject was discussed at every little card-table and tea-drinking. The old gentleman of silk-worm notoriety did not hesitate to express his decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern descent, and contemplated marrying the whole family at once; and the row, generally, shook their heads with considerable gravity, and declared the business to be very mysterious. They hoped it might all end well;--it certainly had a very singular appearance, but still it would be uncharitable to express any opinion without good grounds to go upon, and certainly the Miss Willises were QUITE old enough to judge for themselves, and to be sure people ought to know their own business best, and so forth.
At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o'clock, A.M., two glass-coaches drove up to the Miss Willises' door, at which Mr. Robinson had arrived in a cab ten minutes before, dressed in a light-blue coat and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white neckerchief, pumps, and dress-gloves, his manner denoting, as appeared from the evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, who was sweeping the door-steps at the time, a considerable degree of nervous excitement. It was also hastily reported on the same testimony, that the cook who opened the door, wore a large white bow of unusual dimensions, in a much smarter head-dress than the regulation cap to which the Miss Willises invariably restricted the somewhat excursive tastes of female servants in general.
The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. It was quite clear that the eventful morning had at length arrived; the whole row stationed themselves behind their first and second floor blinds, and waited the result in breathless expectation.
At last the Miss Willises' door opened; the door of the first glass-coach did the same. Two gentlemen, and a pair of ladies to correspond--friends of the family, no doubt; up went the steps, bang went the door, off went the first class-coach, and up came the second.
The street door opened again; the excitement of the whole row increased--Mr. Robinson and the eldest Miss Willis. 'I thought so,' said the lady at No. 19; 'I always said it was MISS Willis!'-- 'Well, I never!' ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady at No. 17.--'Did you ever, dear!' responded the young lady at No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. 'It's too ridiculous!' exclaimed a spinster of an UNcertain age, at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall portray the astonishment of Gordon- place, when Mr. Robinson handed in ALL the Miss Willises, one after the other, and then squeezed himself into an acute angle of the glass-coach, which forthwith proceeded at a brisk pace, after the other glass-coach, which other glass-coach had itself proceeded, at a brisk pace, in the direction of the parish church! Who shall depict the perplexity of the clergyman, when ALL the Miss Willises knelt down at the communion-table, and repeated the responses incidental to the marriage service in an audible voice--or who shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when--even after the difficulties thus occasioned had been adjusted--ALL the Miss Willises went into hysterics at the conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred edifice resounded with their united wailings!
As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to occupy the same house after this memorable occasion, and as the married sister, whoever she was, never appeared in public without the other three, we are not quite clear that the neighbours ever would have discovered the real Mrs. Robinson, but for a circumstance of the most gratifying description, which WILL happen occasionally in the best-regulated families. Three quarter-days elapsed, and the row, on whom a new light appeared to have been bursting for some time, began to speak with a sort of implied confidence on the subject, and to wonder how Mrs. Robinson--the youngest Miss Willis that was- -got on; and servants might be seen running up the steps, about nine or ten o'clock every morning, with 'Missis's compliments, and wishes to know how Mrs. Robinson finds herself this morning?' And the answer always was, 'Mrs. Robinson's compliments, and she's in very good spirits, and doesn't find herself any worse.' The piano was heard no longer, the knitting-needles were laid aside, drawing was neglected, and mantua-making and millinery, on the smallest scale imaginable, appeared to have become the favourite amusement of the whole family. The parlour wasn't quite as tidy as it used to be, and if you called in the morning, you would see lying on a table, with an old newspaper carelessly thrown over them, two or three particularly small caps, rather larger than if they had been made for a moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the shape of a horse-shoe, let in behind: or perhaps a white robe, not very large in circumference, but very much out of proportion in point of length, with a little tucker round the top, and a frill round the bottom; and once when we called, we saw a long white roller, with a kind of blue margin down each side, the probable use of which, we were at a loss to conjecture. Then we fancied that Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who displays a large lamp with a different colour in every pane of glass, at the corner of the row, began to be knocked up at night oftener than he used to be; and once we were very much alarmed by hearing a hackney-coach stop at Mrs. Robinson's door, at half-past two o'clock in the morning, out of which there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and night-cap, with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the other, who looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for some very special purpose.
When we got up in the morning we saw that the knocker was tied up in an old white kid glove; and we, in our innocence (we were in a state of bachelorship then), wondered what on earth it all meant, until we heard the eldest Miss Willis, in propria persona say, with great dignity, in answer to the next inquiry, 'MY compliments, and Mrs. Robinson's doing as well as can be expected, and the little girl thrives wonderfully.' And then, in common with the rest of the row, our curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had never occurred to us what the matter was, before.