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That is why the smell and taste of these pungent substances are so much alike, as everybody must have noticed, a good sniff at a mustard-pot producing almost the same irritating effects as an incautious mouthful.
Meantime he threw some black balls up to the ceiling, which never came down again; and then he swallowed a mustard-pot, a salt-cellar, and a pepper-box; and then he took three cups and three balls, and made the balls pass under the cups, so that each cup had a ball under it, and then he brought them all together under one cup merely by waving his wand over them; and finally some twenty cups in succession appeared out of one of them.
I stick to the mustard-pot, but I entirely disclaim the little Duke of York in Richard III., which some one with a good memory stoutly insists he saw me play before I made my first appearance as Mamilius. Except for this abortive attempt at Glasgow, I was never on any stage even for a rehearsal until 1856, at the Princess's Theater, when I appeared with Charles Kean in "A Winter's Tale."
He moved off with dignity as his daughter, who had overheard the remark, came sidling up to the mate and smiled on him agreeably. "He's put another portrait there," she said softly. "You'll find the mustard-pot in the cruet," said the mate coldly. Miss Alsen turned and watched her father as he went forward, and then, to the mate's surprise, went below without another word.
A little disorder naturally, in this household equipped at hazard, as choice things could be picked up. The wonderful cruet-stand had lost its stoppers. The chipped salt-cellar allowed its contents to escape on the table-cloth, and at every moment you would hear, "Why! what is become of the mustard-pot?" "What has happened to this fork?"
Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a vinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy meantime. "Wood-house!" cried I, "which way to it?
Run for God's sake, and fetch something to pry open the door the axe! the axe! he's had a stroke; depend upon it!" and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance. "What's the matter with you, young man?" "Get the axe!
A knife and fork, which had not been worn out by overcleaning, flanked a cracked delf plate; a nearly empty mustard-pot, placed on one side of the table, balanced a salt-cellar, containing an article of a greyish, or rather a blackish, mixture, upon the other, both of stoneware, and bearing too obvious marks of recent service.
"Let me see; did you give me back the mustard-pot? This is its place here," piped Mrs. Peter. "Sorry. I put it down by the claret-jug," said Wilfrid, busy with another object. "Oh, just let me have the sugar-sifter again," asked Mrs. Peter, dogged determination showing through her nervousness; "I must label it who it comes from before I forget."
When they tried to put me into the mustard-pot, I yelled lustily and showed more lung-power than aptitude for the stage. "Pit your child into the mustard-pot, Mr. Terry," said the stage manager. "D n you and your mustard-pot, sir!" said my mortified father. "I won't frighten my child for you or anyone else!"
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