LADY EUREKA;
OR,
THE MYSTERY:
A PROPHECY OF THE FUTURE.

BY THE AUTHOR
OF
“MEPHISTOPHELES IN ENGLAND.”

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:

LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1840.

London;
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

EUREKA
A PROPHECY OF THE FUTURE.

CHAPTER I.

ROLY POLY’S SICKNESS AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

“Oh, massa, I so bad!” exclaimed the fat cook, as he waddled up to the surgeon, with a most woeful expression of countenance.

“What’s the matter with you, Roly Poly?” inquired Dr. Tourniquet.

“Sich a debble ob a pain, massa,” continued the black.

“But where is it, man? where is it? Can’t do you any good till I know what’s the matter with you, don’t you see,” said the surgeon.

“Debble ob a pain, massa, in my tomack,” replied his patient, rubbing his huge hand over his stomach, and heaving the most despairing of sighs.

“Put out your tongue,” exclaimed the doctor.

The fat cook extended a pair of enormous jaws, and protruded something which resembled a scorched brick-bat.

“Ah! derangement of the digestive functions,” remarked the practitioner, after a brief inspection of the misshapen lump of flesh his patient had exhibited. “What have you been eating?”

“Eatin, massa?” repeated Roly Poly, looking most ludicrously pathetic, “can’t eat nutting, massa, to tink of. Loss nappetite ’pletely. Breakfast, me only eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin big as my two fistes,” (which were the size of another person’s head), “two or tree red herrin—harp-a-dozen egg—lope o’ bread, and one, two quart o’ cocoa. Nuttin more, me ’sure you, massa. Yes, me loss nappetite ’pletely. Den for lunch, me eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin, big as my two fistes—two or tree red herrin—and drop o’ liquor wash it down, not more den harp a gallon, nutting to tink of, massa. Den for dinner me eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ hot puddin, big as my two fistes—plate or two o’ wedgeables—lope o’ bread—small bit o’ cheese, big as one o’ my two fistes—and drop o’ liquor wash it down, not more nor harp a gallon. Can’t eat nuttin. Den for tea me eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin, big as my two fistes—two or tree red herrin—harp-a-dozen egg—lope o’ bread, and one, two quart o’ cocoa. Nuttin to tink of. Den for supper, me eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin, big as my two fistes—two or tree red herrin, and two or tree roasted tatoroes—lope o’ bread—small bit o’ cheese, big as one o’ my two fistes—and drop o’ liquor wash it down, not more nor harp a gallon. Me eat nuttin, massa. Loss nappetite ’pletely.”

“Why, you eat enough to satisfy a regiment,” exclaimed Dr. Tourniquet.

“No, massa, me berry poor eater,” replied the fat cook in a doleful tone; “eat nuttin to sinnify. Ony pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin——”

“Yes, yes; I’ve heard all that,” said the doctor, impatiently interrupting him. “Your plethoric habit must be reduced, don’t you see. You must be bled and physicked, till we bring down that mountain of flesh into something like a healthy size. You must eat no beef, no pudding, no red herrings, no eggs, and no cheese; and drink neither liquor nor cocoa. You must drink nothing but barley water, and eat nothing but arrow-root; and run up and down the deck for half an hour, half-a-dozen times a-day.”

As the Doctor described the remedies he desired his patient to adopt, Roly Poly’s mouth gradually extended itself till it threatened to approach his ears; and his eyes kept winking and staring as if in complete consternation.

“Massa!” at last he loudly exclaimed, and seemed gradually becoming more indignant. “What, starve poor nigger! reduce poor Roly Poly to a natomy! No eat no pound and harp o’ beef, no berry little lump o’ cold puddin big as my two